He sat down at the table next to Diane. "Look, Diane," he said as calmly, as rationally, as he could — even though he was emotionally wrought up inside, "Please listen to me for a moment. Before I… came home last night, Marc Cord and I had a long talk. He offered me one of the top managerial positions in his section of the company. It's maybe double my present salary — double! Do you realize what this means, honey? No more duplex living, no more scrimping and saving. We can buy that split-level down the peninsula we've always talked about, we can get you a new wardrobe, a car. We can live in solid comfort."
Diane said nothing, but she was looking at him now.
Roger took this as a positive sign. He went on quickly, "I've got the job, Diane, without reservations. But Marc is a funny sort, and if we don't show up at his place today he's liable to take it as a personal slight. That's the way he is. And he's just as liable to retract his offer, to give that position to someone else. Do you see now? We have to go. I… I regret what happened last night more than you can possibly believe, and I'm going to do everything I can to make it up to you. So please, honey, please don't let one terrible mistake spoil everything we've always wanted, everything we've built together. Don't let it spoil our marriage. Please, Diane."
There were tears forming in the corners of her eyes now, and he knew his pleading words had had a definite affect on her. She moistened her pale, unmade lips with the tip of her tongue. Then, almost spasmodically, she nodded.
Roger felt a certain elation. "You'll go?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered softly, averting her eyes again. "God knows why, but I'll go."
He stood and went to her and tentatively put his arm about her shoulders. She shrank away. "Don't touch me, Roger!" she said. "Please don't touch me! I'll go with you today, because you're my husband and because I'm not cruel enough to try to hurt you like you've hurt me, but don't expect me to be warm and responsive to you. Not now, not for a long time, maybe… maybe not ever again!"
She stood abruptly and pushed through the door, leaving Roger alone in the kitchen. He stood by the table, hearing her words in his brain. Don't expect me to be warm and responsive to you. Not now, not for a long time, maybe… maybe not ever again! He felt a resurgence of the anger he had known just before Cord's telephone call, and he clenched his fists tightly together.
When were you ever warm and responsive to me, you damned iceberg! he thought viciously. Again! That was the key words again! Christ, could she really believe she'd ever been a passionate, normal woman? Could she really put all of the blame for last night squarely on his shoulders?
He repressed the desire to rush in after her and put voice to these thoughts. There was the upcoming day with Marc and Cindy Cord to consider. In the interests of preserving as much harmony as possible, he had best leave well enough alone for now. It wouldn't do for Cord to sense any kind of rift between the two of them. Knowing that bastard, Roger thought, why, it wouldn't be surprising if… if he tried to move in on Diane!
That thought struck Roger as being rather funny, and he smiled. Wouldn't he be in for a surprise if he did? Wouldn't he, indeed? She'd slap him silly, that's what she'd do. Oh sure, there was that undeniable attraction she had exhibited for Cord's magnetic maleness on that single occasion of their meeting, but knowing Diane as he did, she would never allow — hell, would never even consider — any extramarital fun-and-games. Not with that ice-cold body and mind of hers.
Roger took four aspirin and an Alka-Seltzer for his hangover, and then went in to take a hot shower before dressing to leave for Marcus Cord's.
The Cord home was near the crest of a sloping, eucalyptus-bordered drive in Peacock Gap — one of Marin County's most affluent communities — just outside of San Rafael. It was constructed of heavy redwood, with a lot of glass and a field-stone facade; long and low and sprawling, it lay nestled back from the road some hundred yards, behind a tastefully landscaped yard that included bottlebrush and Joshua trees. The heady, redolent scent of the Burmese honeysuckle which grew abundantly over an arbored porch filled the warm, balmy afternoon air.
Diane sat with her body pressed tightly against the door on the passenger side of the Plymouth as Roger made the turn into the curving macadam drive. She hadn't spoken since they'd left San Francisco, had simply sat with her hands folded carefully in the lap of her flowery summer dress, staring out through the windshield and not looking at her husband at all. Her mind kept reverting back to the events of last night, to the unspeakable, cankerous indignities she had suffered at the hands of this man whom she had vowed to love and to honor and to cherish until death did them part. Why? she asked herself silently, for perhaps the thousandth time since it had happened. What had turned sweet, kind, gentle Roger Slater, the boy she had fallen in love with, into a savage creature of the primordial jungles? Was it, as he had screamed into her pain-deafened ears in that carnal kitchen, all her fault? No, no, how could he blame her? How could it be her fault? How could he expect her to throw off the shackles of her parentally instilled apprehensions at marital sex practically overnight? Learning to accept, to enjoy, to believe in, physical love took time; and it took patience, trust, love and gentle understanding. God knew, she wanted to be the kind of wife Roger expected her to be. She really did. At least she had until last night. Now… well, now she wasn't sure, she just wasn't sure. She didn't know what she wanted now at all. She was so confused, so mixed up, so hurt by his violent attack — the final, most outrageous attack in a long series which traced back to her wedding night, and even beyond that to Lookout Drive — that she was still unable to project her thoughts toward any rational conclusion…
Roger brought the car to a stop behind Cord's dark green Jaguar XKE, which was parked before the open doors of a large, separated two-car garage. No sooner had he shut off the engine than Marcus Cord walked around the rear of the house on a crushed shell path. He wore a pair of tight yellow swimming trunks, and his bronzed, hard-muscled body glistened with a recent application of sun oil. His salt-and-pepper hair was damp from swimming, and he carried a tall frosted glass in one hand. Looking at him, Diane felt a small, reflexive shudder of fascination move briefly along her spine. Lord, but he was a handsome, appealing man! She had thought so when she'd first met him that night in front of Roger's office building. He had a certain… allure which captivated her, which made her somehow want to blush girlishly and avert her eyes. She watched him approach the car, moving easily, with almost feline fluidity, the strong muscles rippling along his thighs and chest, the hard, bas relief outline of his manhood straining at the thin material of his swim trunks…
Diane did avert her eyes then. Self-deprecatingly, she thought: Oh, God, how can I think about Marcus Cord that way, think about his maleness, his attractiveness? How after last night can I ever harbor any physical thoughts about any man?
Cord reached the car just as Roger stepped out. The two men shook hands, and Diane heard Cord say, "Good to see you, Rog boy. How was the traffic coming over?"
"Not bad," Roger answered.
"Hey," Cord said, looking in through the wind-shield at where Diane sat primly on the front seat, "You're not going to leave that beautiful wife of yours sitting in there all by her lonesome, are you?"
"Oh… no, of course not." Roger came quickly around the car and opened the passenger door. He offered his hand. Diane had a fleeting urge to refuse the proffered assistance, but then she took it and allowed Roger to help her out of the car.
Standing on the macadam, she smoothed the thin cotton material of her dress along her waist and thighs and smiled politely at Cord. Roger said, "You remember my wife, don't you, Marc? Diane?"