“Don’t pretend. It’s a small county. I hear things.”
“A dalliance. She means nothing.”
“Not to me.”
Like hers, his voice now took on an edge of ice. “Every night, I know you’re sharing another man’s bed.”
“That’s different. It’s not because of love. It’s duty.”
“How can you stay with him? He treats you like one of his prize mares. Like one of his acreages of tobacco. A possession.”
“I am, in a way.” Her face changed again, the cold melting. “But not all of me.” His hand had not left her breast, and now she put both her own hands over his, pressing his palm desperately against her bosom. “Not my heart. What if...?”
Through the satin of her dress, he could feel the rapid pulsing deep within her. “What if what?”
“What if I really did leave him and we ran away together?”
“Every time I ask, your answer is the same.”
“What if I told you I’ve finally left him?”
“You’ve teased me this way before.”
“I mean it this time.”
“You would really come away with me?”
“Tonight. Right now.”
“In that dress?”
“I’ll shed the dress. You can buy me traveling clothes.”
“With what? You know I have nothing. We’d live as paupers. Is that what you want?”
“Every time we meet you beg me to leave him,” she said, the cold descending once more. “Now, when I finally say I’m willing, you show me all the backbone of a scarecrow.” Moonlight glinted off her eyes in arrows of ice. “I can see exactly what’s in your heart.”
“Can you?” He dropped his voice to a soft croon, and once more took her hand. “Then what you must see there is a love so burning, I know it would consume us both. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“A burning love? There’s a fire in your heart, yes, but not for love.” She lifted the hem of her dress and led his hand beneath. “As long as you have that and no responsibility, you’re happy.”
“It’s more,” he insisted. But his hand remained where she’d placed it.
She closed her eyes. The moonlight pressed against her lids, and she let his expert fingers ignite the familiar fire inside her.
“It’s true this time. I have left him. I’m yours now. Forever,” she whispered. “We’ll be together for all eternity.”
He quickly drew back, and she opened her eyes and saw his look of terror.
“You’re joking,” he said.
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“In God’s name, what are you thinking?”
“That I can’t live anymore with a man who equates me with his horses and his tobacco fields.”
“He’s the most powerful man in the county. Do you really think he’ll let me take his wife? He’ll have me strung up from the nearest oak tree.”
“You’ve had his wife many times already.”
“Not like this.”
“You mean not forever. There’s no turning back. I left a note. Come morning, he’ll know.”
“You wrote a note? You told him?”
“Everything. I wanted him to know how vile his touch is. How I can’t look upon his face without feeling wretched. How every moment of every hour of every day feels like a long, slow descent into hell.”
“Are you mad?” He took two steps back, distancing himself from her. “I have to get away.”
“We have to get away.”
“I can’t take you. I don’t have the means to care for you.”
“I’ve brought money, lots of it.” She held up a knitted handbag that had hung from the crook in her arm.
“What good will it do me if I’m dead? He’ll kill me if he catches me, and you’ll only slow me down.”
“He’ll kill me if you leave me behind.”
“I doubt that. A good beating, maybe.”
“Like one of his rebellious horses? And you’d leave me to that?”
The winter look descended on her again, even colder this time, as if her heart had frozen entirely.
“I thought you were my way out,” she said.
“Ah, I see now.” His tone became every bit as icy as hers. “That’s all I’ve been to you this whole time, the possibility of a way out of a loveless marriage.”
“And what have I been for you but an elegant sheath for that sword between your legs?”
“You must be desperate, to choose a poor gambler as your hope for escape.”
“Do you want to know what hell is? It’s lying in bed every night, repulsed by the man next to you. Yes, I chose you. At least you’re handsome. And I do love your touch.”
“Which you’ll feel no more. Madam, I wish you luck.”
He started to turn, but she said, “I have something for you.”
She reached into her knitted handbag and drew out a little pistol.
When he saw it, he tried to smile. “You won’t shoot me. I’m the man who makes your heart beat like the wings of a butterfly.”
“Your words have always been so smooth, always kept you out of real trouble, I imagine. I suppose I always knew that beneath that beautiful skin beat the heart of a coward.” She raised the gun level with his chest, the barrel gleaming blue in the moonlight. “The note I left him was not exactly as I described it to you. It was more in the line of a ransom demand.”
“Ransom?”
“It will simply look as if you’ve kidnapped me. In case he caught up with us, I thought it best to give myself a way out.”
“And now you plan to shoot me?”
“If need be, to save my reputation and to save me from that beating you were so willing to have me suffer.”
“He’ll never believe it.”
“He will if I shoot you, and if I pledge my love to him in the same way I pledged it to you.”
“Wait.” He raised his hands as if to shield himself from the bullet. “I’ll take you with me, I swear it.”
“Another promise you would never keep.”
She let out a long, exasperated sigh and pulled the trigger. But nothing happened.
“Misfire,” he cried, and lurched for her throat.
She had writhed in his arms before but always with pleasure, never with the desperation she displayed now. They struggled only a few moments, locked in a fatal embrace, their black, moon-cast shadows entwined on the planks of the bridge beneath them. Then, with all the thoughtlessness the struggle engendered, he threw her against the low railing and she tumbled over. But as she fell, she grasped the sturdy material of his coat in a death grip and pulled him with her into the dark abyss below.
The night was silent once more, the blue moon high overhead, the place where they’d met once again for the last time brightly illuminated and tragically empty.
* * *
He parked the Harley near the bridge. They dismounted, and he removed his helmet.
“So, this is the place?”
She took off her own helmet and shook her gold hair free. “According to Mongo.”
He eyed the ancient planking and the gorge beneath that plunged into darkness. “You’re sure it’s safe, babe?”
“It’s old, but Mongo swears it’ll hold. Come on, Woody.”
She took his hand and led him to the middle of the bridge, where they stood with their shadows puddled under them in the brilliant light of the full, blue moon.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Awful quiet and isolated,” he noted.
“Mongo says that’s why they met here. She was married to a wealthy man who had a heart cold as ice. But her true love was a gambler. They knew if they tried to run away together, her rich old man wouldn’t rest until he caught them and strung her lover up from
an oak tree.”
“So they threw themselves off the bridge? Kinda drastic, you ask me.”
“Romantic, Woody. Tragically romantic. They did it so they could be together forever. They were found down there beside the river, locked in each other’s arms. A beautiful sacrifice.”
“Hell, I’d’ve just whacked her old man.”
She lifted her face to him in the moonlight, her eyes glistening. “I’d jump off this bridge for you. Would you jump off for me?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Or is it Doreen you’d jump for?”
Her eyes, he saw, were pale chips of ice. “How many times I gotta tell you, babe, she don’t mean anything. It was just, you know, a big mistake. You’re my lady. Always will be.”
She put her hand on the old railing. “Mongo says the legend is that they return to this bridge on the night of every blue moon.”
“You mean like ghosts? Like they’re doomed or something?”
“The anniversary of their sacrifice. He says if you listen real close, you can hear them swear their love.”
“Is that why we came? You didn’t have to bring me all the way out here for that. You know I love you, babe.”
“What about Doreen?”
“Hell, can’t you just forget about Doreen? What do you want from me?”
“I want to believe in the kind of love that would make two people sacrifice themselves the way those lovers did.”
“Fucking waste, you ask me.”
“Coming here?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, hearing the chill in her voice. “Killing themselves.”
“I want to believe in that kind of love, Woody. And I want you to believe in it, too. That’s why we’re here.” She took his hands in her own and said, “So, shut up and close your eyes and just listen.”
He started to tell her the whole thing was nuts but saw her lids flutter closed and figured he had no choice but to do the same.
And he heard. To his great amazement, he heard. When he opened his eyes, he saw a beautiful look of absolute amazement on her face.
“It’s true, Woody. You heard them, too, didn’t you? Like an echo or something. He told her the love in his heart was so burning it would consume them both.”
He spoke slowly, as if stunned. “She swore that she was his forever, that they would be together for all eternity.”
“There was more, but I couldn’t catch the rest. Did you, Woody?”
“No, that was all. But it was real, babe. Mongo wasn’t fooling.”
“They were with us, really here with us, for a moment anyway. And we heard what’s important, right, Woody? Exactly what I wanted to hear, what a couple of lovers like us need to hear.” Her eyes were huge and wondrous as she gazed at him.
“Jesus,” he said, feeling overwhelmed himself. “And I thought it was just bullshit.”
In that surreal moment in which two worlds connected, a moment repeated with every blue moon, these two hopeful lovers kissed long and passionately. When they separated, their faces were illuminated with promise.
“Mongo says according to the legend, if we swear our love here on the night of a blue moon, just like they did, we’ll be together forever. That’s the whole reason I brought us here. I love you, Woody,” she said.
“And I love you, babe.”
“Forever,” she said.
“Forever,” he echoed.
They kissed again, then turned and peered into the dark beneath the bridge, where far below a thread of water ran silver under the moon.
She gave a deep sigh of envy. “Oh, Woody, their love for each other must have been something terrible.”
“Yeah, babe,” he said with a grave nod of agreement. “Fucking terrible.”
* * *
AQUA VITA
BY PETER ROBINSON
It was when the waiter handed him the “Water Menu” that Gerald thought he might have made a mistake in taking Cheryl to Mystique for their fifth wedding anniversary. The choice had been based on the recommendations of friends—mostly Cheryl’s friends, and no doubt biased in terms of the kind of food and attention that she liked—so he realized that it would be best all round if he feigned a certain level of enjoyment and kept any negative comments to himself. Even so, he couldn’t help himself from responding, “Water’s water, isn’t it? Tap water will do just fine for me.”
The waiter seemed disappointed, and Cheryl gave Gerald a reproving glance. When it was her turn, she said, “I’ll try the black water, please.”
The waiter beamed. “Yes, madam,” he said. “Certainly. Black water. From Canada.” He then asked about food allergies, and they said they had none.
“What on earth is black water?” Gerald asked when the waiter was out of earshot. At close to ten quid a shot it ought to be something special. It was almost as expensive as the glasses of champagne the waiter had brought them without asking when they first sat down.
Cheryl smiled. “No idea,” she said. “But it sounds interesting. Live dangerously. That’s what I always say.”
Gerald grunted.
“I don’t know about yours,” she whispered, leaning forward over the table, “but my menu doesn’t have any prices listed.”
“Mine does, unfortunately,” said Gerald. “From what I can see, I should imagine they don’t want ladies fainting at the tables.”
Cheryl laughed and put her hand on his, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Oh, darling,” she said. “I know you’d prefer fish and chips, but put a brave face on it. We were lucky to get a table here.”
“I’ll try,” Gerald muttered, returning the squeeze. “For you.” He gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling windows beyond which the lights of the city skyline glittered like Christmas decorations, the Gherkin and the Cheesegrater standing out dramatically, side by side. “At least we can enjoy the view.”
“I think I’d like the tasting menu,” said Cheryl after a sip of champagne.
Gerald looked at the price and swallowed. “But it says we both have to have it.”
Cheryl pouted. “But you’ll do that for me, won’t you, darling?”
Gerald felt her foot brush his ankle and smiled. She was wearing his favorite black dress tonight, the one that showed off her graceful neck and shoulders to best advantage, with just enough cleavage to hint at the delights below. “Of course. How could I refuse?” At the age of sixty-five, he knew he was a lucky man to be married to a beautiful woman twenty-five years his junior. Certainly lucky enough to spring for two tasting menus.
When the waiter reappeared with their respective waters, Gerald saw that Cheryl’s really was black. “Can you tell me about the tasting menu?” he asked.
“It’s Chef’s choice,” the waiter said.
“Naturally. What are the courses?”
The waiter shrugged. “That depends on the ingredients available, on what Chef wishes to create.”
“And what ingredients are available today?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, sir.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Each dish is a surprise. That is part of the experience.”
“You can’t give us any idea?”
“I’m afraid not. It is different every day.”
“Let’s take a risk, darling,” said Cheryl.
“Very well. We’ll have the tasting menu.”
“Excellent,” said the waiter. “And the wine?”
“It’s a little difficult to choose the wine when we don’t know what we’ll be eating.”
“If I may suggest, sir, perhaps you might begin with a bottle of Chablis, then move on to a Bordeaux, shall we say? We have an excellent selection. If I may recommend—”
“I’ll choose myself.” Gerald scanned the list and picked two bottles from the mid�
��price range.
“Excellent choice, sir, if I may say so,” said the waiter.
Not long after he had disappeared, he was back again, this time with a trolley. “Your wine will be here momentarily,” he said. “But first, perhaps sir and madam would enjoy a little fresh bread?” He held out a basket and named the contents. Gerald got lost after sourdough and went for a straightforward mini baguette. Cheryl picked something yellow with dark seeds embedded in it.
Like a stage magician, the waiter then took a small squat bottle with a fitted blue glass top from his trolley, poured in a few drops of viscous gold liquid, then held it between his palms, gently rolling it back and forth. Finally, he lifted out the stopper with a flourish and stuck the bottle under first Cheryl’s nose, like a dose of smelling salts, then under Gerald’s. All Gerald could tell was that it was olive oil. The waiter didn’t seem much interested in their reactions, but quickly poured more from the bottle into the dainty little bowls beside their side dishes.
After the wine arrived—happily, Gerald thought, without a fanfare of brass—there followed numerous amuse-bouches: essence of scallops; finely shredded crab and lobster mousses; concentrated drops of gooseberry, lime, pear, and God only knew what else. All were excellent, Gerald had to admit. His palate wasn’t quite as bland as Cheryl liked to make out.
Cheryl seemed in her element, and he couldn’t help but feel a burning sense of pride as he watched her enjoying the little delicacies and the fussy attentions of the waiter. It was true that they had their problems—what couple didn’t—and sometimes Gerald felt he wasn’t dynamic or adventurous enough for her. Which was why he was careful to give her space. If she wanted her own room to be alone in, and even to sleep alone in sometimes, who was he to argue? If she liked to stay with old university friends up in Manchester for a night or two, where was the harm in that? It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough to keep him occupied at the bank. Sometimes he wondered why she had married him in the first place, but he tried his best not to dwell on it too much. Perhaps it was his kindness and gentleness that had attracted her, the very order and stability of their life that she sometimes found so dull. It certainly wasn’t his money or his looks, though he had enough to keep her in reasonable style and ensure that she didn’t have to go back to work.
Deadly Anniversaries Page 25