by Robert Tine
She then stopped a passing waiter and grabbed two flutes filled with champagne. She handed one of the glasses to Jillian and they clinked glasses.
Jillian felt she had to make conversation. “This is an amazing building,” she said.
“It will be when it’s finished, but don’t let it fool you,” she said with a wink. “It’s made entirely of processed cheese.” Shelley McLaren sipped her champagne. “I can’t tell you how excited Jackson was to get your husband on his board of directors. Apparently there was a real little bidding war for brave Spencer Armacost. Jackson won of course. Because Jackson always gets what Jackson wants.”
She looked away from her husband and surveyed the vast space they were standing in and then looked over at Jillian, indicating the giant room with her chin.
“Seems pretty strange to you, I’ll bet,” said Shelley McLaren sympathetically.
Jillian nodded. “How ever did you guess?” she said laughing. “Does it show that much?”
“Don’t worry,” Shelley McLaren said warmly. “It happens to everyone. And a room like this. … it’s supposed to make you feel the way you do.”
“What way is that?” Jillian asked.
Shelley waved her hand vaguely at the high ceiling and the marble columns. “Qh, you know,” she said. “It’s all designed to make you feel insignificant. No woman would ever have built a place like this. Why do men always confuse size with power.” She sighed, as if contemplating the follies of the male species and then took a drink from her champagne glass. “So tell me, have you made any friends in the city yet? It can be difficult, I know…”
Jillian shook her head and smiled ruefully. “No… not really. Of course, I’ve made some friends at work, but I don’t know them well. It’s only been a couple of weeks… But there’s Spencer, of course. I guess we’re best friends.”
Shelley’s eyebrows shot up toward the vaulted ceiling—this rich, sophisticated woman looked genuinely surprised by Jillian’s startling admission.
“Spencer is your husband and your friend,” Shelley exclaimed. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let the other wives get wind of that little fact. If they do, they’ll be sure to haul you up on charges. Friendship and marriage aren’t supposed to mix in this class stratum. But I guess you can be forgiven for not knowing that yet. But believe me, in time, you’ll learn all the rules about that sort of thing.”
For the first time since she had arrived in New York City, Jillian threw back her head and laughed. She laughed loud and clear and without a whit of self-consciousness. It felt good to her. And it sounded good, too. People in that vast room looked at her as she laughed, and envied her. Very few people had the privilege of laughing like that. Not in polite society anyway.
Even a slightly jaded sophisticate like Shelley McLaren was taken in by Jillian’s honest laughter. “Now that,” she said, “I like.”
“Like what?” Jillian asked, genuinely mystified. “What do you mean?”
“Your laugh.” Shelley said.
“My Laugh?” Jillian looked at Shelley McLaren as if she had lost her mind. “What does my laugh have to do with anything?”
“It’s an honest laugh,” Shelley explained. “And let me tell you, it’s been a while since I heard one like that. You weren’t laughing because you thought you were supposed to—you were laughing because you heard something you found funny.”
“Isn’t that why people laugh?” Jillian was frankly surprised by Shelley McLaren’s reaction.
“Not in this town, Shelley replied. She drained her champagne glass. “You’d be surprised at the number of phonies you are going to run into in New York, Jillian. Sometimes it can be quite scary. No one means anything they say. The check is never in the mail. The best way to follow up a lie is with another lie.”
Jillian frowned. “That’s sort of cynical, isn’t it. Do people really live that way?”
“It’s a cynical town, sweetheart,” said Shelley McLaren, sounding like a hard-bitten chick from an old movie. “But you’ll get used to it in time. Believe me. I did.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” Jillian replied. Her voice was as honest as her laugh. “I don’t want to be so cynical about everything. Or anything, really.”
“Think of it as armor,” Shelley McLaren advised. “Kevlar body armor. My husband manufactures it, you know. He’s got a factory in North Carolina. Makes a fortune on it. And he sells it to the good guys and the bad guys. How do you rate that for cynical?”
Before Jillian could say anything in reply a waiter scurried up next to Shelley and whispered something in her ear. She nodded a number of times and her countenance darkened. “Okay,” she said to the waiter. “You tell Andre I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”
The waiter bowed from the waist. “Very good, madame. I’ll tell him now.”
“You do that,” Shelley McLaren snapped. Then she turned to Jillian, smiling as if nothing had upset her. “I have to go,” she said. “It seems that there has been some minor disaster in the kitchen. Something concerning burning rum balls and no one on earth, it seems, can take care of it but me and me alone.”
Jillian looked surprised. “This is your party? I though that the bank was throwing it.”
“Absolutely correct, madame,” said Shelley laughing. “But Jackson is a majority shareholder in the bank. Hence they want to invest in his company… and the party is up to me.”
“Oh,” said Jillian, feeling like a naive fool. She should have known that. Spencer should have told her about their host and the multi-layered complexities of the evening. “Of course. If you’re needed in the kitchen you should go.” She paused for a moment or two, then asked, “I could help out, if you need me.”
Shelley McLaren waved her off. “Don’t be ridiculous. I shouldn’t be bothered with it so why should you be? Have another glass of Kristal and forget about the rum balls. That champagne is costing my husband a hundred dollars a bottle. Drink as much as you can—I will, I’m trying to bankrupt him from inside. You know, like an undercover agent or something.”
Jillian laughed again. “No you’re not. I can tell. You love your husband.”
This time Shelley laughed. “I am going to call you and we are going to go out and listen to that wonderful laugh of yours. Yes? Am I right, Jillian?”
“Okay,” she replied. She felt as if she had really made a friend, her first one in New York City.
“Good,” said Shelley. “I’ll hold you to that. Now… if you’ll excuse me…” It was exactly the same thing that the dried-up socialite had said when she had wanted to dump Jillian. When she heard the words her face fell. Maybe she had been wrong about Shelley McLaren. Maybe New York was only interested in her husband.
But it turned out that she was wrong. Shelley walked a few feet, then turned on her high heel and walked back to Jillian Armacost. She looked’ at her for a moment, then spoke, and Jillian could tell she was speaking from the heart.
“Jillian-can I call you Jillian?”
“Of course,” Jillian replied.
“I don’t want you to worry…”
“Worry? Worry about what?”
Shelley waved her arms, as if gathering the entire vast room up and clutching it to her slim body. “About all of this. Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry if you never get used to this whole New York society thing. I never did.”
Jillian was completely calm. “I’m not worried about it, I’m here because my husband needed to be here.”
And Shelley McLaren smiled. “Just remember, AIDS is overcrowded with the wrong people.”
Jillian looked right back at her, her gaze not wandering, not even a centimeter. “But hunger is hot.”
Shelley laughed and touched her cheek lightly. “You’re learning so fast. You are going to be just fine…”
Then she walked away, leaving Jillian alone in that strange and alien crowd. Jillian took her slim flute of champagne into a corner of the vast room and sat down on a black velvet sofa. She t
ook a sip of her drink and thought about how much her life had changed in the space of a few months. It had all been put into motion by that terrible accident that had befallen Spencer a few months before. If it had not been for those few terrifying minutes in space Alex Streck would still be alive, Natalie Streck would not have gone through with her bizarre suicide. She and Spencer would still be in Florida, he would be preparing for the next Victory mission, she would still be with her old second grade class… Calvin and Sarah under her charge… instead of being a neophyte socialite in the big, impersonal social capital of the world, New York City.
It was enough to make her mind whirl. So much had happened so quickly. She was almost scared to think about what would happen to her next.
As she sat on the little velvet sofa, musing on her immediate past and the chances for her immediate future, Spencer walked up to her. He held a flute of champagne in each hand and he swayed slightly on his feet as he looked down at her. It was apparent he had been drinking, but he did not appear to be drunk.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, looking down at the small patch of black velvet next to her.
“Well,” said Jillian, “I guess not. I was saving it for my husband, but I don’t think he’s going to show.”
Spencer looked at his wife from head to toe, his eyes traveling the length of her slim body. “Your husband, huh? I’d say he’s one very lucky man.” He sat down heavily and handed one of the glasses of champagne to her. “Some men don’t understand just how good they have things. They don’t understand just how wonderful their wives are. Your husband… I’m guessing he’s some kind of pig.”
Jillian smiled but shook her head. “No, not a pig exactly… but recently he’s been a bit negligent.”
“My apologies,” said Spencer. He sounded sincere, as if he really had not realized that he had been neglecting his wife. His brief time in their new adopted city had been even more hectic and disorienting than hers. Now it struck him that he might have been just a tiny bit selfish. “Drink your champagne and feel better,” he said.
Jillian put the glass down on the little table next to the couch. “I’m afraid I’ve hit my limit, Spencer,” she said.
“Oh come on,” he replied. “Have one more glass. With me. It’ll do you some good.”
Jillian looked around the room, watching the rich people drink expensive spirits. “You know,” she said, “I thought your flyboy buddies back at the base could drink. But it looks like these people have got a real love for the joy juice.”
Spencer did not answer. He was looking deep into his wife’s eyes, so deeply in fact and with such intensity, Jillian felt slightly uncomfortable and blushed noticeably. He raised his glass and tapped it lightly against Jillian’s in a quiet toast.
“To us, Jillian,” he said softly.
“To us,” Jillian replied, her voice barely rising above the level of a whisper.
They both drank. Spencer took a mouthful, but Jillian merely sipped, barely wetting her lips with the golden champagne. She lowered her glass and touched her brow, suddenly feeling the tiniest bit woozy. She was not much of a drinker, but nervousness in these social situations had made her take more than she was used to.
“Oh …”she said. “That’s the one that does it. Just one glass too many.”
Spencer was still staring at her, but his look had altered slightly, now he was looking at her as if he was searching for something in his wife’s face.
“What?” Jillian asked feeling self conscious under the intensity of his gaze. “What is it?”
He did not answer with words. Instead he leaned in and kissed her forehead softly, brushing his lips across her skin. It was the sort of gesture a parent might make if taking a child’s temperature. Jillian did not notice the oddness of the gesture.
“Mmmm,” she said, closing her eyes. “That’s nice.”
“Yes it is,” Spencer replied. Still looking into her eyes, Spencer let his fingertips brush across the skin of her neck, touching her lightly, as if taking her pulse. Jillian swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, her head whirling.
Spencer leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Maybe we should get you some air.”
There was a dark corner of the vast room, a niche some distance from the bulk of the crowd. The noise of the party echoed in the space like a far-off fair and no words could be clearly heard there. There was an occasional burst of laughter, nothing more. It felt very strange to be alone and yet so close to such a large throng of people.
Jillian and Spencer faced each other, very close together. Spencer put his hard, powerful hands up, resting them lightly on the soft bare skin on her shoulders.
“Feel better?” he asked.
Jillian took a deep breath. The air seemed cooler in this dark corner of the room and it cleared her head a little. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “A little better…”
Spencer held her gaze with his eyes, then allowed his hands to slide down her arms until his fingertips were touching her slim wrists. She did not notice that his index fingers touched her pulse for a moment or two before entwining his fingers with hers.
“Spencer…” Jillian whispered.
Her husband silenced her by putting his lips to hers and kissing her lightly. Then he moved his mouth close to his ear and whispered softly to her.
“There’s something I need to tell you. Jill,” he said quietly. “I have to tell you something about what happened back then. Something about those two minutes…”
Jillian was surprised and her eyes widened. “But… you never talk about it.”
“I want to now,” he replied. He smiled softly. “I guess I’ve had enough champagne to loosen my tongue.”
He unclasped his hands and held her palms in his. Their bodies were very close, but they were not touching. Jillian wondered what he would say next.
Spencer’s voice never raised above the level of a Whisper. “After the explosions, our suits began to shut down. The lights went off. The radio went out. It was black. Silent.” He sighed heavily and seemed to shiver. “All there was…, was the cold, Jill. A cold like you have never experienced. No one has, no one had before as far as I know and has lived to tell about it. Alex and me are the only two.”
His hands moved from her palms to her hips, as if looking for warmth.
“But I know. what that cold was, Jill,” he whispered. “It was death. Death had taken hold of me.”
Suddenly Jill had tears in her eyes. The thought of her husband actually dying was too horrible for her to contemplate. Dying out there, as Natalie Streck had said, alone…
“And then,” Spencer said, “it must have been after the first minute or so, the cold began to fade and I began to feel… warmth.” His hands slid down the hem of her dress, his fingers stroking the inside of her thighs. She put out her hands to stop him, grabbing him by the wrists and looking around worriedly as if someone might see them. But they were in the shadows and far from the crowd.
“I knew what that warmth was, Jillian,” Spencer whispered. “It was the warmth of you.” He slid one hand higher, working his way up her thigh. This time she let him do it. His other hand held hers, tight and intense, as if trying to telegraph something to her through their interlaced fingers.
“I felt the warmth of your body. I felt the warmth of your hands, Jillian…” His hand inched higher. “I felt the warmth of the inside of your mouth.” He leaned forward and kissed her. But it was not a paternal kiss on the forehead; this time he opened his mouth and thrust his tongue up against hers.
He moved his hand further up her leg, his fingers brushed the edge of her panties.
“I felt the warmth inside of you,” he said. He pushed aside the silky material and slipped his fingers into her, feeling the slick warmth between her legs. Jillian gasped and her mouth opened, her head tilted back, leaning against the cool marble.
“Oh, Spencer,” she said breathlessly.
Beneath her dress, Spencer’s hand moved slowly, work
ing in and out of her. “Your warmth. Jill, I felt it all around me.” They kissed again and she found herself giving in to the hot sensations that were washing through her. She let herself go in the moment and her legs opened and she pushed back against his hand. In rhythm with the thrusts of his fingers her hips swayed and rolled and she could feel the passion growing from somewhere deep inside her…
“Oh, Jillian,” Spencer whispered.
9
It was as if Spencer’s finally breaking down and talking about his brush with death had worked on him like an aphrodisiac. Their lovemaking that night in their big new bed started intensely and then gained in fervor.
Spencer lay between his wife’s legs, thrusting into her with a wild passion, grinding, penetrating her, his buttocks working hard like a machine, pumping into her without thought or tenderness. Jillian’s eyes were hazy and filmy as if she had been drugged. Her lips were dry, her mouth parched. She tried to raise her head but it fell back on the pillow, as if her neck was not strong enough to support it. As she slumped backward, Spencer’s thrusts increased, redoubling his efforts, as if the sex had taken over his brain and he was working on pure animal instinct, as if taking her as deeply as possible was the only thing on his mind, something he was driven to do.
Through her foggy brain, Jillian suddenly realized that this was the first time they had made love since the incident in space. And it was not the way they had done it before. Spencer had always been a tender, considerate lover and she had worshipped him for it.
“Spencer,” she said weakly, trying to slow him down. “Spencer, what…”
But Spencer bore down harder on her and put his lips to her ear. “Jillian,” he whispered even as he thrust into her even harder, “Jillian… Jillian…”
Jillian tried to speak through haze, but her throat was dry and the words were hard to form on her lips. “Spencer,” she managed to gasp, “I can’t…”
Spencer was whispering her name over and over but as he spoke the words in her ear became garbled and then changed to a meaningless gibberish. Jillian raised her arm—it felt like it was attached to lead weights—and put her hand to the side of his face. “Spencer,” she said, her voice even weaker now, “Please…”