“It was wonderful,” she said. He waited for her to look up and smile. Instead, she opened his book and read the dedication. “You’re wrong, you know. You’ve more than repaid me.”
“You mean the mink, the diamonds, the Mercedes?” He waved a hand. “Keep ’em.”
A woman passed them, eyeing Louey; the two smiled at each other, then quickly looked away. Louey stole a glance at him, blushing. “Anyone we know?” he teased.
“You might say that.” She blushed again. “Clay—” She grabbed his arm. “I nearly cried the day I found your book in the stores—and I did cry when I opened it.” She put her hand on his knee. “It’s magical.” He flushed with pleasure. “I was wondering how you were going to end it.”
She flipped to the back of the book and read: And when they’d been sitting together for several hours, he at the piano, she reading on his couch, he realized that the simple fact of having her there, his friend, made him happy. He’d felt none of the jealousy or sweeping moods with her that he did with the women he’d thought he loved; she was only his best friend, whose affection he had never doubted, whom he trusted implicitly. As he turned to face her, something of his surprise must have shown on his face, for she laughed and asked what great truth he’d just stumbled upon.
“That you make me happy and that you’re my best friend in the world.”
“What a relief; the tumor must have dissolved,” she said, returning to her book. He rose from the piano and sat next to her, feeling he would burst from the urgency of what he had to convince her. “Yes?” she asked indulgently, not looking up.
“Do you love me?”
“Isn’t that what you pay me for?” She closed her book. “What’s the matter? Had another fight with your latest boopsie?”
“How about going away with me somewhere for the weekend?” he said, impatient. She didn’t have the slightest clue.
“What has gotten into you?” She poked him in the stomach. “Has that vixen gotten you in trouble?” He took her hand and she frowned, puzzled by his earnestness.
How had he thought he could find with some woman whose appearance intoxicated him what he’d had all along with the woman sitting on his couch? He couldn’t believe he’d nearly passed up love merely because they had taken the trouble to win each other’s loyalty and friendship and never once considered romance. Love wasn’t the heady attraction of chemistry but a bond tested over time and deepened by the terrors of living and changing, sharing pain and silly trifling pleasures.
She called him her little pal but she would always be there when he needed her; if that wasn’t love, what was? Well, perhaps theirs was too familiar a bond to encourage passion; they would find that out soon enough. Yet when she studied his face, he thought he’d burst from wanting her.
“What is going on in that tiny head of yours?” she said fondly, and he couldn’t stand the suspense, pulling her to him fiercely and kissing her. She started, only to relax in his arms and return his kiss as naturally as if they’d been doing this all along. This was so different from everything he’d known, this was something that was going to make him delirious with happiness. Finally he let her go, looking at a face so familiar he was surprised to see it was the same face he’d known before he’d kissed it.
“Feel better now?” she asked. “Or is there more silliness you need to get out of your system?”
“More.” He took her hand, raising her to her feet. “Much more silliness. Sorry. Won’t take but a decade of your time.”
“We’ll see about that.” She laughed, and put her arms around him.
Louey closed the book.
“Wishful thinking.” He smiled, rueful.
“Nobody’s perfect.” She smiled back, patting the cover of the book. “And you?” she asked. “Found a new one yet?”
He listened to her own unspoken answer, the calm resolution in her voice reverberating as she waited to hear about his life. Why did he feel, sitting here with her, as if no time had passed? “Was it wrong of me to want you?”
“I thought so.” She regarded him so tenderly he couldn’t feel offended. “At the time I thought if I loved you I was betraying everything I cared about.”
“And weren’t you?”
“How could it be a betrayal to love someone? That’s what we’re for.” She touched his arm. “Nothing’s that black-and-white. You don’t turn into a completely different person just because you love a boy—a homely, dull-witted boy.”
He felt a flush of pleasure. “I see a certain logic in your thinking,” he mentioned shyly.
“So what is your agenda here in London?”
He studied her face. For no reason, his heart was hammering; he concentrated all his energies on slowing it to normal. “Rest and relaxation,” he said. “Got to store up all I can to work on my next book.” He grinned. “Can’t have them saying I’m some one-shot flavor of the month.”
“And how are your accommodations?”
The smile she gave him was so lewd he had to laugh. “Adequate,” he said, “though not nearly as luxurious as yours, I’m sure.”
“No?” She brushed the hair from his face.
“So.” He swallowed, clearing his throat. “What’s happening in November?”
“I’m coming to New York.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m trying to put together a show of paintings, and I think I’ll be ready by then.”
“Paintings?” he said, mouth agape. “Yours?”
She grinned unabashedly, as if she’d been caught doing something embarrassingly childish. “I know. Who would have figured it?”
“Louey.”
“Yeah.” She blushed, shrugging.
He stared.
“So”—she faltered—“do you think …” She raised her eyes to his. “While you’re here, uh, would you like to—”
It occurred to Clay that nothing would be simpler than taking her in his arms. If there were some weakness in such a desire, he couldn’t see it. “What if someone more homely and dull-witted comes along?”
“Hell”—she shrugged—“let ’em join us. More the merrier.” She began to laugh. “I’m open-minded.” He started to exclaim, but before he knew it she had reached up and kissed him, her lips lingering. “I loved you,” she said, as if it were so obvious it was a wonder she had to say it. “I got over it, of course.” She smiled at him.
Startled, he laughed. “You”—he shook a finger at her—“are a tawdry human being. In fact, I don’t think I care to stand for another minute of such—”
She put a hand over his mouth, then drew an arm around him, pressing a warm cheek to his. “You only live once,” she whispered, her eyes shimmering. She lay her head on his shoulder, not quite over his heart.
Acknowledgments
I’m grateful to Jonathan Galassi for ushering this novel into the world and to Open Road, particularly Philip Rappaport, for Loonglow 2.0.
About the Author
Helen Eisenbach writes comedies for both screen and stage and has published two books, the novel Loonglow and the slyly optimistic how-to Lesbianism Made Easy. Her essays, reviews, and interviews may be read at the Huffington Post and 429 Magazine and have appeared in New York magazine, the New York Times, Salon, Newsday, Time Out New York, Interview, the New York Daily News, and other tasteful publications. She has been a book and magazine editor at several outlets that no longer exist, and now works at a mainstream publication whose fate remains uncertain. She is currently developing several screenplays and a new novel.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by Helen Eisenbach
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5922-3
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Loonglow Page 21