"Look, China." Tom leaned forward and put his hand on my arm. His voice was taut, his eyes intent. ' 'You know I'm attracted to you. As much as before. No, more." His hand tightened. "Before, I was a young stud with a dozen deals in his pocket. I was easily distracted, and it was hard for me to know what I wanted. Now I know. I want you. I want us to go back where we were and start over again. Is that possible?''
I could feel the warmth of his grip through the sleeve of my flannel shirt. My heart bounced and my stomach tightened involuntarily. I pulled in my breath.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I see it is."
I took my arm back. "I don't think so," I said.
"What's holding you? Is it the guy you live with?"
McQuaid's face rose in front of me, curious and lively. What would he say if he could overhear this conversation, could feel the chaos inside me? The pause lengthened.
"Do you love him?"
Even if I'd been absolutely clear about my feelings for McQuaid, I'd feel awkward sharing them with Tom. "I'm living with him," I replied evasively. "We've lived together since last May." Only eight months-was that all? It felt like eight years.
"Well, hell, China," he said, exasperated. "People live together for all kinds of reasons. Because they enjoy sex, because two is cheaper than one, because they like the security. What kind of thing do you two have going? What does it mean to you?"
What does it mean to me? What does it mean? What are McQuaid and I to one another? Housemates who share a bed as well as board? Or something more? It's a question I've mostly managed to duck. McQuaid and I live together comfortably and companionably and with a minimum of fuss. We enjoy one another in the important ways. Maybe it isn't the stuff of romantic novels, but it works. It's been enough. Then again, confronted with the possibility of something more, was it still enough?
I looked down at my plate. I was talking more to myself than to Tom. "It's a good relationship," I said.
He made a scornful noise. "That's it? Just 'good'? You're kidding! 'Good' isn't good enough, and you know it, China." His voice softened. "We were a hell of a lot more than just 'good.' We were super, incredible, tremendous, fantastic…" He ran out of superlatives. "Remember how it was for us in the beginning?''
I remembered, and even after all the years, the memory was warm enough to melt stone. I remembered lying in each other's arms at 3 a.m., bodies joined, hearts hammering, breath like sweet fire. I remembered champagne dinners at romantic restaurants, an hour or two stolen from the evening's work at the office, dawn breakfasts and lingering kisses, with roses on the table.
That was the first six weeks. After that…
After that, there wasn't as much time for dinners at ro-
mantic restaurants, and the dawn breakfasts had been replaced by a 7 a.m. cup of coffee and a wave as we headed for our cars and the day's work. He accused me of being too busy, I accused him of being preoccupied.
He lifted his hand and touched my face. "We can go back and do it again, China. Only this time, we won't let our careers kill the romance. It'll be like before, only better. Super, fantastic, out of this world. Never just plain 'good.' "
And I knew it was possible. I felt the physical attraction tugging at me, the flame of remembered passion turning my insides soft. I heard the old laughter, tasted the old wine, and knew I could hear it, taste it again, and it would be even sweeter. Tom and I had been swept by desire once, and nearly swept away. It could happen again.
But between then and now, I had met McQuaid, I had lived with him and learned that sustainable love doesn't grow out of superheated physical passion, but out of simply holding hands and holding on, day in and day out. I'd learned that "good" really is enough, not because you're settling for something less, but because "fantastic" and "incredible" burn you out emotionally, just as life in the fast lane burns you out physically. And I thought now of McQuaid and Brian and Howard Cosell and Khat and was suddenly swept by a wave of affection for our ordinary, unromantic life, with its heaps of wet towels and clutter of dirty socks, its lizards in the closet and dead toads in the refrigerator. Our undeniably ordinary, utterly unromantic, inexplicably good life.
Tom put his hand over mine. "You can't deny that you're physically attracted to me."
We were into truth tonight. "You're right," I said. "I am attracted to you, Tom. Very much."
"Aha!" He was triumphant. "Well, now that we've established that, the rest is-"
He was interrupted by the cowgirl with the coffee, and then by another cowgirl who took away the plates, and then
by a couple of his customers, who'd just unloaded a truck of Beefmaster steers at the sale barn down the road and wanted to brag to their banker about the good deal they'd wangled. By the time they'd moved on, Tom Senior was back at the table. We talked for a few minutes, then I glanced at my watch and drained my coffee cup.
"It's getting late," I said. I looked at Tom. "I'll see you at the board meeting tomorrow."
Tom Senior frowned. "The foundation board? Those meetings are closed, except on the invitation of a-''
"Sadie asked me to come," I said.
The old man's face grew red and he half-rose. "Sadie Marsh? What the hell does she want you there for?"
Tom put a hand on his father's arm. "Take it easy," he said.
"I want to know what Sadie's got up her sleeve," the old man said, his voice rising. "What's that woman up to, anyway?" He glared at Tom, his breath coming harder. "You find out, boy. It's your bidness to know what's comin' down. You can't afford to be blindsided by nobody, not even Sadie. Especially not Sadie."
"Whatever it is," Tom said firmly, "I'll take care of it." He put his hand on the old man's shoulder. ''Simmer down, Pop. You know what Doc Townsend said about getting excited."
"Screw Doc Townsend," the old man spat out. He sank back in his chair. "Son of a bitch can't pour piss out of a boot with the heel up."
Tom's laugh was unconvincing. "Anyway, I think I know what Sadie's got up her sleeve. I'll handle it"
I glanced at him. Was that the truth? Did he know about the deed restrictions? Maybe he knew about the envelope too. Or was he telling a lie designed to quiet his father?
"Well, you're gonna have your hands full," the old man muttered, subsiding. He seemed to have forgotten me. "Sadie's got ten-pound brass balls and a mouth like an Arkan-
sas hog caller. I'll come to that meeting tomorrow and settle her hash. If I don't, she'll-"
"I said I'll take care of Sadie, Dad," Tom said sharply.
"And I said I'll be there." His father's mouth was set into a stubborn line. "I'm gettin' out of your way fast as I can, boy. Don't push."
I shrugged into my coat, embarrassed by the exchange. I gave the old man my hand and a smile. "Perhaps I'll see you again before I go back to Pecan Springs, Mr. Rowan."
With an effort, Tom Senior remembered his manners. "You comin' over to our place for a nightcap?"
I shook my head. "I don't want to keep Mother Winifred's truck out too late. She might worry about it."
Tom stood up. "I'd worry, too, if I were her. That old truck is practically an antique-worth as much dead as alive. I'll walk you out to the lot and make sure it starts."
As I said good night to Tom Senior, he pressed my hand between his dry, cool ones. "You mind what I say now, China. We'll be lookin' for you back here soon as you get things wound up in Pecan Springs."
I murmured something and pulled my hand away.
"You've got to give it to Dad," Tom said, holding the door open for me. "He just won't give up. Doc Townsend has told him to turn the business over to me. If he's got any energy, he's supposed to concentrate it on stuff like the Knights of Columbus-and stay out of the bank."