He remembered Leslie telling him about an instance when she was being chauffeured in her husband’s Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith on the way home from a long weekend at his place in Bedford Hills, unable just to be luxuriously taken, to sink in all that plush and smell the freesia that was placed fresh daily in the tiny crystal vase attached to the window post. She’d had the chauffeur stop and exchange places with her. Made the Saw Mill River Parkway her Le Mans. The engine of the Rolls, she rationalized, was in need of a blowing out. A hundred and twenty miles per hour would do more for it than any thousand dollar tune-up. Over the short distance from Mount Kisco to the Elms-ford toll station she got three speeding tickets, and was damned aggravated by those interruptions. The chauffeur quit that evening. Rodger, her husband, was amused. What else?
Now, on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, she had just driven through North Tisbury Village at a speed that for her was quite humane, whipping grass and top-heavy Queen Anne’s lace around the nearly ninety degree curve at Priester’s Pond.
Gainer took a quiet, deep breath and slackened his neck and shoulders. He began humming any song to convey how loose he was. “So the mosquitoes really got to you?” he said.
“In unlikely places.”
“For instance.”
“You’ll see. Did you go to Zabar’s?”
“I forgot.”
She didn’t believe him for a second. “All I had for breakfast was some sprouts.”
Gainer reached to the rear seat for the orange printed Zabar’s bag with the unsliced loaf of raisin pumpernickel in it. The bread, as usual, was crusted hard, wouldn’t be easily torn. Gainer managed to get his fingernails into it, broke off a hunk larger than he had intended, nearly a third of the loaf. She took it from him, didn’t say it was too much, went right at gnawing on it.
A raisin had fallen onto his lap. It eluded him. He dug at his crotch for it, lifted and felt and finally got it. Tossed it in his mouth and went to humming again as she was doing a one-handed eighty-five.
It was easier for Gainer if he kept his eyes off the road and on her. She was, he thought, his perfect distraction. Wearing hardly anything at the moment—white shorts of a soft cotton and a matching drawstring blouse that had an extremely deep-cut neckline and no way to keep it closed. Gainer stole glimpses of her left breast all the way to its nipple, pink and firm like the tip of a baby’s finger.
Leslie caught him at it.
His shrug said he couldn’t help himself.
She was the most beautiful woman to have ever shared anything with him, Gainer believed. He would never tire of looking at her. Such as now, her profile. He noticed she lifted her chin slightly to lengthen the line of her throat and knew she wasn’t actually all intent on the road ahead. It was for him, he thought, generous of her, allowing him to appreciate. He could do that with his eyes closed, often did.
Knew her by heart.
Her hair, baby fine but abundant, a soft parenthesis for her face. She wore it most often not quite shoulder length, full and choppy with strands that seemed wayward, not intentionally mussed. Her nose was straight as could be, narrow and perfectly related to her mouth and eyes. Her mouth had a natural moué to it, so it was never slack or without expression. Her eyes were particularly special, a variegated blue, like polished lapis, encircled by a fine line of black. As though the black was needed to contain such liveliness.
She was born and reared in Wales, far out on the westernmost tip in the town of Milford Haven, where the damp weather was like an atomizer. Which accounted for her complexion, its incredible fine texture all the way to her toes. Her nutmeg-colored hair was another matter. Both her parents and their parents and everyone else in her family, for as many generations as could be remembered, had hair as black as the coal of Carmarthenshire. The only acceptable explanation for Leslie’s hair was that it was a throwback from centuries ago when the Norsemen had come down the west coast of Britain, grabbing up everything, enjoying the women.
“Two miles more,” Gainer thought aloud.
A large summer bug was killed by the windshield.
“Been taking your Remedy?” Leslie asked.
Gainer, with the tolerance of a true lover, had constantly put up with her so-called flower remedies. It was one of her holistic beliefs—that the essences of certain flowers could alter the mental outlook and thereby help keep the body in a healing state.
“Well?” she plied for his answer.
He nodded so it seemed less of a fib, asked, “How was it being alone?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh?”
“I seldom am. You know that.”
“Who was it this time, the Lady or the High Priest?”
“Lady Caroline.”
“Where was the Egyptian?”
“I’ve no idea. He hasn’t been around lately.”
“Maybe he got promoted—for doing so well with you.”
She liked that. “Think so?”
“That would explain it.”
“Are you sure you don’t have a guardian angel?”
“I’m sure.”
“How sure?”
His immediate mental figure was a hundred percent, then eighty-twenty in his favor. He stood fast on sixty-forty. “Anyway,” he said, mine is probably a guardian devil.”
“I doubt that. You have it too good.”
With her, he thought.
“It’s not impossible, you know,” she said. “Some people even have both, guardian angel and guardian devil.”
“Anyway, thank heaven for good old Lady Caroline,” he said.
“She’s not old.”
“Ninety. Over ninety.”
“She’s my age,” Leslie contended.
Gainer’s estimate of Lady Caroline’s years was based on the claim that she’d served as an ambulance driver in the First World War. That was, of course, according to what he got from Leslie. Her Lady Caroline, she said, was a lovely person from Devonshire, somewhat severe but in a feminine sort of way, who had wheeled all round no man’s land in the thickest thick of it. Until a day during the Battle of Belleau Wood when the largest of German shells had blown her to irretrievable pieces. The good Lady’s spiritual self remained intact, however, and, instead of merely ascending, it chose to hang around and be both there and here. Leslie couldn’t say exactly when in her life she’d come under Lady Caroline’s influence. She thought most likely it was soon after she married Rodger because since then she’d been so much more able to cope, and like Lady Caroline, unafraid of anything except boredom.
Leslie’s greatest interest, close second only to Gainer, was what she called the super sensible. That included everything from iridology to Tantra. She’d read extensively on psychic healing, mysticism, Zen, transcendental meditation, I Ching, the works. Even an entire book devoted to pargaritomancy, a way of predicting the future by means of pearls. Leslie didn’t believe pearls could do anything more than be pearls, but she didn’t put the book down until she’d taken in its last word. She had read all of William Blake and Edgar Cayce and Madame Blavatsky, as well as Carlos Casteneda, and every month read every page of Prevention magazine. She accepted a little from this and some from that and what got synthesized was a personal sort of orthodoxy that gave the body and the spirit a lot more combined credit than did any of the organized religions. No doubt many of Leslie’s concepts were inherited from her Druid ancestors, who felt there was more of God in a tree than in a cathedral.
Regarding life after death, Leslie believed in it religiously, and to avoid crediting death with as little importance as possible, she called it life after life. In line with that, she was sure everyone had lived previous lives. She considered her relationship with Gainer a vital aspect of their mutual destinies. They had, according to her, chosen one another while in spiritual limbo, and the ten-year difference in their ages was explained by Gainer having been confused. He’d hung back for that long, which in the ethereal dimension was no more than a blink, really.
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Gainer never ridiculed her beliefs. He himself had never experienced a spiritual presence, an invisible someone like Lady Caroline, whose single purpose in afterlife was to hover around watching out for his well-being. But, he was wise enough to know he didn’t know what was true. Besides, he had no better philosophy to offer. At times he envied Leslie’s faith, wished he could believe as strongly in anything. Because he seldom challenged and never denounced her convictions, she tended to assume they thought mostly alike.
Concerning Lady Caroline’s age, however, Gainer decided not to let the point go by. “What you’re saying is those on the other side stay the same age they were when they died.”
“Some do, some don’t.”
He should have expected the ambiguity. He leaned forward and looked out the window on her side, to the southern horizon that had a roll of blue-gray clouds all along it. “It’s going to rain,” he said for a different topic.
“That’ll be nice.” And after hardly a pause: “You haven’t really been taking your remedy, have you?”
“Don’t nudge.”
“It’s not nudging, it’s caring.”
“I couldn’t take my remedy.”
“Why?”
Think fast. “The bottle broke, fell and broke.” As soon as those words were out, he wished he had them back unsaid. The bottle containing his remedy was of glass so thick it would have taken a hard throw against a wall for it to break.
She knew that, of course. She drew in a breath so deep it made her breasts rise very noticeably. She sighed it out. “All right,” she said, “I’m not going to help you anymore. From now on I’m not even going to try.”
She sounded really irked. He hoped not. It had been four days and he didn’t want that kind of friction between them. He tried to think of the perfect mending thing to say.
Her carryall was on the seat beside her. She felt around in it, brought out a small brown bottle with a medicine dropper cap. It wasn’t a prescription or over-the-counter drug product. The self-adhesive label had Rescue Remedy on it in her printing. With one hand she unscrewed the cap and squeezed four clear drops into her mouth.
Gainer took the bottle from her.
He pretended to be replacing the cap. When he was sure she’d notice, he opened his mouth, wider than necessary, didn’t bother with measuring drops, just squirted in as much as the dropper could hold. Leslie remained unimpressed just long enough to worry him, then allowed a closed-mouth grin that surely had her wonderful smile behind it.
By then they had crossed the bridge over Nahaquitsa Pond. They turned off the main road and soon were on a dirt track with stubborn grass and a few cornflowers along its middle. For nearly a half mile it led round sandy humps and marshes to where it ended at the cottage.
Nothing else man-made in sight.
The cottage was situated on solid ground. Above the beach with a name that was fun to say: Squibnocket. No steps were needed to get from the cottage to the beach because the sand had formed an easy slope all the way up. The cottage was a saltbox in its fifty-third year. Like most beach cottages set out in the open, unaccessorized and battled by weather, it did not appear friendly. The bleached shingles of its siding were like the scales of old skin and the stark geometries of its white painted trim added to the impression.
At the moment, however, all that was being contradicted by three fat gulls perched contentedly on the peak of the roof. Leslie skidded the car to a stop, left the motor running, hurried inside. Gainer surmised she was urgently bound for the bathroom. He got his canvas bag and the other things from the back seat and carried them in.
The interior of the cottage was altogether amiable. It was six rather small-sized rooms, three down, three up. All the walls and ceilings were paneled in four-inch width tongue-in-groove cedar that was painted so high a gloss it looked to be porcelain. Not painted plain white, as might be expected, but white tinted just enough so those surfaces influenced the entire atmosphere in a subtle way. The living room, for example, enjoyed the congenial benefits of the merest hint of persimmon, the kitchen a pervasive suggestion of leaf green and, appropriately, the bedrooms had the faint cast of incarnadine. Throughout, the floors were of pine, wide boards that Gainer and Norma had stripped clean so they could be stenciled with Japan paints and other penetrating pigments. Not a rug on any floor. Just those huge created bouquets, the pastel to vermilion peonies arranged with pink nicotinia and windings of mauve morning glories. All on a transparent green-washed field bordered by leaves with their veins contrastingly detailed. The floors were by far the most intricate aspect of the cottage, all else in it gave way to them, simply stood aside. The chairs, and tables, the dresser bureaus and beds, all carefully chosen and carefully kept, but not allowed to be ornate. The paintings on the walls were watercolors, all sizes hung here or there without concern for alignment or spatial balance. Each painting had been put up practically anywhere the moment after it entered the cottage. Such impulsiveness suited them, their own spontaneity. There were watercolors to be found in unusual places—unframed and push-pinned up on the inside of a closet door; a very small, unfinished one fixed to a window frame; and, of course, others tucked along the edges of mirrors.
The cottage was inviting, pretty, comforting and comfortable. But above all, it was romantic.
For Gainer, a favorite place.
He set down his bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the kitchen. Everything, he noticed, was in place the way Norma liked, and there were some current touches by Leslie: red geranium petals floating in a shallow crystal dish on the table, a circle of fine old lace beneath the dish, sort of presenting it. A fat, new Boston fern hung in the kitchen. Fresh creamy candles around. Small light blue Tiffany boxes, several such birthday gifts placed where they couldn’t possibly miss being discovered by Norma.
Not thoughtful of Leslie, however, was her six carat diamond ring and her Buccelatti ruby and gold chain necklace left in an ordinary saucer on the kitchen counter by the sink. Gainer had often admired the ring. It was difficult not to, the way it flared at him and the way she so casually wore it. Once, by chance, he had seen its pedigree papers from the Gemological Institute of America certifying the diamond was a D color flawless round cut, worth well over three hundred thousand dollars. The ruby necklace was at least a fifty thousand dollar piece. Leslie had received both from her husband Rodger. Perhaps, Gainer thought, that wasn’t the reason she’d left them there with the back door wide open and not even the screen door hooked where anyone could just look in, reach in and snap them up. He let the water run from the kitchen tap until it was cooler, drank down a tall glassful without stopping. It crossed his mind that he was miles from crime. Told himself he should, could safely, adjust his outlook. Still, he put the ring and necklace in his pocket and hooked the screen door before he went upstairs.
Leslie was in the front bedroom.
“I was beginning to think you wanted me to come down,” she said.
She was standing on the other side of the bed, her back to the windows that overlooked the beach. The window shades were up and midday brightness was reflected in. It wrapped around her, came through her hair and between her bare legs. Gainer thought of telling her she had an aura.
“Are you honest to God sleepy?” she asked.
“It’s warm up here.”
“Not too.”
There was an electric fan on the dresser nearby. Gainer switched it on, and at once it began rotating back and forth sweeping the room, animating the pages of an open book on the nightstand by the bed. The bed was like a fresh envelope with its immaculate sheets precisely folded down. Four pillows were plumped and waiting. The bed seemed very dominant at that moment and Gainer imagined Leslie making it, tucking and smoothing and making it just so for when they would share the pleasure of messing it up.
She crossed the room and was within his reach when she opened his canvas bag. She quickly unpacked the few things he’d brought, hung and placed them beside hers,
and it occurred to Gainer that she was getting rid of loneliness. In the bathroom while she placed his personal necessities in the cabinet and on the window sill, Gainer sat on the covered commode and watched her every movement.
“Are you going to shave?” she asked.
“I thought I would.” He hadn’t since the morning of the day before.
She ran the palm of her hand over the thick beaver bristles of his shaving brush, asked herself if this wasn’t one of those times when she preferred impulsiveness, bypassing ritual and preparation. No bath or shave, no drink or music or applied fragrance. Not even the holding off for such minor interventions as closing the door or drawing the shades. An immediate heated course between them, taking them into one another, burrowing with sensation to where their creature furies lay caged. She had never been capable of that until him. Sex without a lot of hygiene, being aroused by odors that were normally offensive. Any initiative on his part of hers, no matter how abrupt, enough to wet and unfold her. Whether or not that was how it would be this time was up to her.
She placed the brush on the brow of the sink. “I’ll shave you.”
It was another of those things she had never done with anyone else. Early in their time together she had gone with him to a regular old barber shop on Fifth Avenue near Twenty-first Street. A place called Frank’s. She was supposed to wait and read but she couldn’t take her eyes off Gainer. So, while she waited, she watched, and it was evident to her that being shaved was something he greatly enjoyed. The next time she was there with him, she paid closer attention, stood by the chair at Frank’s elbow, taking in his professional techniques. Picked a lot of them right up and the first time Gainer let her try she only nicked him once, a tiny but quite bloody wound that she so regretted she couldn’t say enough how sorry she was and tried to make up for it by surprising him with six shirts from Andre Oliver.
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