No need for television, lawyers, Playboy, toupees, Doonesbury, war, or Dr. Ruth Westheimer. The end of competition and contrivances: A good dose of natural selection, that's what the world needed. Jessica's brass bed was on the second floor. A quarter moon floated above the bay and the window was swollen with filtered light. Jessica lay naked on the sheets. Her hair was wild upon the pillow, lean legs as if carved from marble, nipples still erect, breasts pale white, full, rounded beneath their own weight, pubic hair iridescent in the moonglow, an amber tangle as if illuminated by internal light. Bioluminescence, it made him think of that.
Ford had his head upon her chest, looking toward her toes, toward the window. He could feel her breathing, feel her heart beat. He was looking down the soft curvature of her stomach, seeing muscle cordage and ribs flex with each breath, and he was thinking there was a finite number of times he would be with this woman and there ought to be a way to lock onto a moment such as this, to preserve it, but there wasn't. Never would be.
"My stomach's growling. But I don't feel hungry. Can you hear it growling?" Whispering, her eyes closed, Jessica had her fingers in his hair.
"Uh-huh. Like a mariachi band. Keeps playing the same song." Her voice was deeper, huskier in the quiet after-time, and he thought of Pilar Balserio. It had been like that with her, the change in voice. He'd admired Pilar for years, wanted her the whole time, but was in bed with her only once and then back to the States. Something that intimate, and no way to hold on. It left a yearning. . . .
"Did I scratch you? You don't need any more scratch marks, Ford."
"Minor cuts and abrasions, that's all. Well worth it."
"Didn't bite too hard?"
"Um . . . nope . . . everything intact."
"It's just that ... it was the first time it ever happened with me. That release, like they write about. I used to think they were lying ... or I was frigid. God, I thought my heart was going to stop. Like in Cosmopolitan."
"You're not frigid. I'll sign papers."
"You believe me . . . that it was my first? It really was."
Ford answered, "Of course I believe you," not sure that he did, but it didn't matter.
She was silent for a time, stroking his head. "You were mad at me last night for going to the party."
"No. I did some work. Tomlinson came over. I went to bed early. I wasn't mad. "
"You haven't asked me anything about it, being with Benny. Are you sure you weren't upset?"
"That's your business, Jess, not mine."
She touched his jaw until he turned his head to look at her. "Sometimes I don't know when you're serious or when you're not. You're the warmest listener I've ever met. But then you talk, and it's that cold act of yours. I'll tell you anything you want to know, Ford. Anything. " And sounded as if she meant it; as if she wanted him to ask her things.
Ford said, "Tell me how Benny tried to get you in bed," not because he wanted to know, but because it seemed like a safe question.
"You're so sure he did. I was surprised."
"He's a former lover. He came more than a thousand miles to see you. You live alone, he was alone. Tropical night with moon. And you were surprised?"
"Your logical mind, I forgot. We left the party early, about eleven, and he wanted to take me to his place. He just invested in a condo and he was all excited, said he wanted my opinion on how it should be decorated. I insisted he bring me home. Then he said he'd pulled a shoulder muscle or something. Executive boxing is the current fad in Manhattan; the ex-Ivy Leaguers go down to the club and slug it out over lunch. He's supposedly very good; it was an excuse for him to say he was, anyway. He wanted a massage; a rubdown, he called it. His shoulder hurt. But he had to take off his clothes to do it properly, and that's when I told him to leave. He got huffy, then he thought the he-man approach might work, force me a little. I threatened to slap him, I really did." She giggled, an odd sound of delight. "That really got him. He had already unbuttoned his shirt, and he looked so silly. He left right after that. Benny likes to show off those muscles. You two are such opposites; you and those baggy clothes. You, I had to picture in my mind; imagine. It was nice."
Ford was thinking about Jessica's porch light, but he said, "You're talking about the painting."
"Yes. Painting . . . from what I imagined. I hope you don't mind, Doc. I think it's the best thing I've done in a long time. But I'd do it differently now. Your back's wider, your body hair is lighter. You're nicer in real life."
Her hands were on his back now, sliding down, searching, and Ford rolled to his side. "Are we talking about the same painting?"
"Well . . . you have to allow me some creative latitude. Not much, though." Smiling as she found him, inspecting. "I've decided to call the piece Sanibel Flats. I thought about Littoral Zone, one of those marine biology terms. Doc—" The touching stopped now, but she was still holding him. "There's something else I need to tell you." An edge in her voice, as if she had put it off long enough.
"Umm . . . it's getting tough to concentrate." But listening carefully.
"I'm leaving for New York day after tomorrow. It was Benny's idea, but I think he's right. I need to circulate more. People don't just buy art, they buy the artist. There's a big show and an auction on Wednesday. It's a private show, but they'll let anyone in who looks like they have lots and lots of money. A few of my pieces are going to be included. I'll be back by Friday. Benny flew out this morning, made the reservations. I insisted on a Friday return. I just don't want you to worry about Benny and me. There's nothing there. Do you believe me?"
Ford said, "You have no reason to lie to me, Jessi," looking for a reaction that didn't materialize. Jessica kissed him and they didn't talk anymore.
Her nose touching the cool glass of the upstairs window, Jessica McClure watched Ford go down the porch steps, across the dark yard to the dock where moonlight broke free of the trees and showed him plainly. She liked the look of him, the shape of him and the way he moved, and when he stepped into his boat she could almost feel the weight of him on her; a good feeling both comforting and sensual, and she cultivated the feeling, reluctant to let it go, as she watched the little skiff carry him away.
"Why don't you stay the night, Doc?" asking even though she knew his mind was made up; could tell by the methodical way he buckled his belt and found his shoes, but interested in what his excuse would be.
"Because ... I don't want to."
That simple. It made her smile, the honesty of it. Maybe that's what she loved in him most—his honesty, or at least his frankness; and just thinking that surprised her a little.
What I love in him most. . . .
She was in love with him, though she hadn't said it to him, or even admitted it to herself. In love with him . . . the way he looked, the way he felt, the way his hard hands touched softly, softly, and the way he settled onto her couch, his distant, driven expression slowly replaced by a look of contentment as she lighted the candles and put on music. He was becoming home to her, and maybe she was becoming home to him—and perhaps that's what love was.
Jessica pulled jeans on over her panties, a baggy T-shirt, and went downstairs thinking about what it would be like to live with Ford, thinking she wasn't getting any younger, thinking of the way it might be: him out in his lab (a new lab in an old house they would buy and she would decorate) while she finished her own work, and they would take turns with the cooking (he was a good cook, that she already knew); two professionals with different work but one life, and she needed to start having children soon . . . and that was part of this new realization, that she was in love with Ford. Her biological clock was ticking away, and she needed to get started. She needed a husband. Ford liked children—he'd said so. The way he talked about those poor Indian kids in . . . Guatemala, was it? . . . hunting in the garbage dumps for food. The memory had hurt him; she could see it in his eyes. He was a strange man in a way, and his coldness sometimes frightened her, but he would be a good father. And at night, when the kids were in bed, they could sit together outside on the porch, talking about future things, things they would do together, and about their past. . . .