“But what are you going to do in New Orleans?” Aunt Viv asked plaintively. Her small blue eyes looked watery, sore. She straightened the lapels of his khaki jacket with her thin, gnarled hands. “Are you sure you don’t need a heavier coat?”
“Aunt Viv, it’s New Orleans in August.” He kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m doing great.”
“Michael, I don’t understand why … ”
“Aunt Viv, I am going to call you when I get there, I swear. And you’ve got the number of the Pontchartrain if you want to call and leave a message before that.”
He had asked for that very suite she had had years ago, when he’d been an eleven-year-old boy and he and his mother had gone to see her-that big suite over St. Charles Avenue with the baby grand piano in it. Yes, they knew the suite he wanted. And yes, he could have it. And yes, the baby grand piano was still there.
Then the airline had confirmed him in first class, with an aisle seat, at six A.M. No problem. Just one thing after another falling into place.
And all of it thanks to Dr. Morris, and this mysterious Dr. Mayfair, who was on her way now.
He’d been furious when he first heard she was a doctor. “So that’s why the secrecy,” he’d said to Morris. “We don’t disturb other doctors, do we? We don’t give out their home numbers. You know this ought to be a matter of public record, I ought to-”
But Morris had silenced him quickly enough.
“Michael, the lady is driving over to pick you up. She knows you’re drunk and she knows you’re crazy. Yet she is taking you home with her to Tiburon, and she’s going to let you crawl around on her boat.”
“All right,” he’d said. “I’m grateful, you know I am.”
“Then get out of bed, take a shower and shave.”
Done! And now nothing was going to stop him from making this journey, that’s why he was leaving the lady’s house in Tiburon and going straight to the airport where he’d doze in a plastic chair, if he had to, till the plane for New Orleans left.
“But Michael, what is the reason for all this?” Aunt Viv persisted. “That is what I simply cannot understand.” She seemed to float against the light from the hallway, a tiny woman in sagging blue silk, her gray hair nothing but wisps now in spite of the neat curls and the pins in it, insubstantial as that spun glass they would put on the Christmas trees in the old days, what they had called angel hair.
“I won’t stay long, I promise,” he said tenderly. But a sense of foreboding caught him suddenly. He had the distinct awareness-that free-floating telepathy-that he was never going to live in this house again. No, couldn’t be accurate. Just the alcohol simmering inside him, making him crazy, and months of pure isolation-why, that was enough to drive anyone insane. He kissed her on her soft cheek.
“I have to check my suitcase,” he said. He took another swallow of coffee. He was getting better. He polished his horn-rimmed glasses carefully, put them back on, and checked for the extra pair in his jacket pocket.
“I packed everything,” Aunt Viv said, with a little shake of her head. She stood beside him over the open suitcase, one gnarled finger pointing to the neatly folded garments. “Your lightweight suits, both of them, your shaving kit. It’s all there. Oh, and your raincoat. Don’t forget your raincoat, Michael. It’s always raining in New Orleans.”
“Got it, Aunt Viv, don’t worry.” He closed the suitcase and snapped the locks. Didn’t bother to tell her the raincoat had been ruined because he drowned in it. The famous Burberry had been made for the wartime trenches, perhaps, but not for drowning. Wool lining a total loss.
He ran his comb through his hair, hating the feel of his gloves. He didn’t look drunk, unless of course he was too drunk to see it. He looked at the coffee. Drink the rest of it, you idiot. This woman is making a house call just to humor a crackpot. The least you can do is not fall down your own front steps.
“Was that the doorbell?” He picked up the suitcase. Yes, ready, quite ready to leave here.
And then that foreboding again. What was it, a premonition? He looked at the room-the striped wallpaper, the gleaming woodwork that he had so patiently stripped and then painted, the small fireplace in which he had laid the Spanish tiles himself. He was never going to enjoy any of it again. He would never again lie in that brass bed. Or look out through the pongee curtains on the distant phantom lights of downtown.
He felt a leaden sadness, as if he were in mourning. In fact, it was the very same sadness he had felt after the deaths of those he loved.
Aunt Viv hurried down the hallway, ankles painfully swollen, hand wandering, then catching the button of the intercom and holding it fast.
“May I help you, please.”
“This is Dr. Rowan Mayfair. I’m here to see Michael Curry?”
God, it was happening. He was rising from the dead again. “I’ll be right there,” he said.
“Don’t come all the way down with me, Aunt Viv.” Once again he kissed her. If only he could shake this foreboding. What would become of her if something happened to him? “I’ll be back soon, I promise you.” Impulsively he held her tight to him for a long moment before letting her go.
Then he was rushing down the two flights, whistling a little, so good it felt to be moving, to be on his way. He almost opened the door without checking for reporters; then he stopped and peered through a small round faceted crystal set in the middle of the rectangle of stained glass.
A tall gazelle of a woman stood at the foot of the stairway, her profile to him, as she looked off down the street. She had long blue-jean legs and wavy blond pageboy hair blowing softly against the hollow of her cheek.
Young and fresh she looked, and effortlessly seductive in a tightly fitted and tapering navy blue peacoat, the collar of her cable-knit sweater rolled at the neck.
Nobody had to tell him she was Dr. Mayfair. And a sudden warmth rose in his loins and coursed through him, causing his face to burn. He would have found her alluring and interesting to look at, no matter where or when he saw her. But to know she was the one overpowered him. He was thankful she wasn’t looking up at the door and would not see his shadow perhaps against the glass.
This is the woman who brought me back, he thought, quite literally, vaguely thrilled by the warmth building, by the raw feeling of submissiveness mingling in him with an almost brutal desire to touch, to know, perhaps to possess. The mechanics of the rescue had been described to him numerous times-mouth-to-mouth, alternating with heart massage. He thought of her hands on him now, of her mouth on his mouth. It seemed brutal suddenly that after such intimacy they had been separated for so long. He felt resentment again. But that didn’t matter now.
Even in her profile he could see dimly the face he remembered, a face of taut skin and subtle prettiness, with deep-set, faintly luminous gray eyes. And how beguiling her posture seemed, so frankly casual and downright masculine-the way she leaned on the banister, with one foot on the bottom step.
The feeling of helplessness in him grew oddly and surprisingly sharper, and just as strong came the inevitable drive to conquer. No time to analyze it, and frankly he didn’t want to. He knew that he was happy suddenly, happy for the first time since the accident.
The searing wind of the sea came back to him, the lights flashing in his face. Coast Guard men coming down the ladder like angels from fog heaven. No, don’t let them take me! And her voice next to him. “You’re going to be all right.”
Yes, go out. Talk to her. This is the closest you’ll ever get to that moment; this is your chance. And how delicious to be so physically drawn to her, so laid bare by her presence. It was as if an invisible hand were unzipping his pants.