by Stone, Jean
Before Meg knew what was happening, she jumped from the bench and started to cross the street toward a hotel. She stepped off the curb. Horns blared at her. She dodged between cars, her pace quickened by her impulsiveness.
“Hey, lady! What the fuck are you doing?” a cabbie shouted. She gave him the finger and kept going.
Could she do this? Could she really do something so unpredictable, so irresponsible, so un-Meg-like? Could she? Yes. Could she? No.
She reached the other side and stood on the sidewalk. Why couldn’t she?
Outside the hotel Meg hesitated. She suddenly realized she had no luggage. They’ll think I’m planning a secret rendezvous, she thought, then laughed when she reminded herself that was exactly what she was doing. And not only could she do this, she would do this.
She marched inside and stood at the registration desk. The clerk smiled but seemed neither to notice nor care that she was without a suitcase.
“You’re in luck,” he said, “there’s a room available.”
Everything’s going too perfectly, Meg thought as she handed him a credit card. Something is bound to go wrong. She glanced at her watch. Three-fifteen. Suddenly seven o’clock no longer seemed days away. The minutes were ticking by rapidly. She’d have to act fast. Finally the clerk handed her a key.
She decided to shop before going to her room. She scanned the hotel lobby and quickly spotted an expensive-looking boutique. Within minutes Meg stood in a dressing room, a dozen “possibly perfect” dresses scattered around her. She peeled off her suit and pulled one on, ripped it off, pulled on another. She didn’t look at the price tags: She didn’t care. The right dress would be worth it.
The taupe silk was it: three inches over the knee and a wrap front that formed a drop-dead neckline. Plus, her shoes matched. On her way to the register Meg grabbed a pair of gold-and-clustered-pearl earrings and a necklace and tossed them onto the counter with her credit card. The salesperson took forever to ring up her purchases.
She snatched her bags and darted from the boutique and into the gift shop. She loaded her hands with toothpaste, a toothbrush, mouthwash, deodorant, a razor, shaving cream. She’d shaved her legs this morning, but they needed to be as smooth as possible, in case she got close to Steven, in case he touched her, caressed her. The thought made the shiver return.
She headed for the checkout when a display of aqua-colored bottles caught her eye. Shalimar. Steven’s favorite. He’d once told her the scent gave him an erection that lasted for days. It had been so out of character for him to say anything lustful, anything lewd. They laughed at the time, but Meg began wearing the fragrance. She wore it until the end of the semester. Until the end.
She picked up the cologne, the dusting powder, the body lotion. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right.
Why did she feel like a hooker preparing for a high-priced date?
She quickly signed for the items. Then she left the store, located the elevators, and started the agonizingly slow ascent to the twenty-sixth floor. She juggled her bags and checked her watch again. Four-twelve. Two more hours. And forty-eight minutes.
Meg let herself into her room and closed the door. The inside was dim; heavy drapes were tightly closed, and the air was flat and vacant, unlived in, with the transient odor of people only passing through, not pausing long enough to leave a trace of their presence, their warmth, behind. She stood, holding her purse, a shopping bag in each hand. Silence enveloped her, as her feet, once again, seemed planted to the floor. She gripped the thin rope handles of the bags, wondering what she was supposed to do now, how she would pass the next two hours and forty-eight—she checked her watch—forty-six minutes. Once Meg welcomed the anonymity of hotel rooms. Now she wished someone were there.
She finally moved. She set down the bags, flicked the wall switch, took the silk dress from the bag, and examined it. It didn’t need pressing. She hung it in the closet, then stood back and stared at it, as though its fibers could foresee, and would foretell, what would happen tonight.
She went to the bed and sat down. The mattress was hard.
It was too soon to get ready. Meg folded her hands in her lap. She thought about turning on the television but didn’t want the distraction. What she wanted was to think about Steven. To talk about him to someone. To share with someone the excitement within her, the anticipation, the anxiety.
It had to be someone she could trust. But not Danny.
She took the small address book from her purse and quickly flipped the pages—most of which were blank—until she reached the phone number of the one woman she could call, the one who was her friend: Zoe.
Moments later Zoe was on the line.
“Meg? God, I can’t believe it’s you. How are you? Where are you?”
Meg laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I got your note. I was afraid you’d left for Minnesota.”
There was a pause; then Zoe said, “I’m going the day after tomorrow. I’m terrified.”
“I know what you mean.” Meg twirled the phone cord. “But things might turn out better than you think.”
“That sounds very positive coming from you.”
“Maybe I’m changing my tune.”
Zoe gave a little gasp. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Meg smiled into the phone. She wanted to tell her—really, she did. If for no other reason than to taste the sound of his name on her lips.
“Come on, girl,” Zoe said, “spit it out. What’s going on?”
Meg took a deep breath. “I found him.”
“What?”
“I found him, Zoe. I saw him. I talked with him.”
“Oh, Meg …”
Meg stood up and walked as far as the phone cord would take her, then back again. “I’m meeting him tonight.”
“Oh, my God. How did it go?”
“Like I said, I’m meeting him tonight.”
There was silence; then Zoe said, “Wow.”
Meg laughed and slumped onto the bed. “Yeah. Wow.”
“Is he there? In New York?”
She sat up. Now was the time to tell her. All she would have to do was say she was in Washington. Then she could tell her. Then she could say his name. And then—finally—someone would know.
“Meg?”
Meg cleared her throat. “I’m not in New York,” she began. “I’m out of town.” Say his name, dammit. What was stopping her?
“Oh,” Zoe said. But she didn’t ask where Meg was, she didn’t pry. It had been one of Zoe’s qualities that had first appealed to Meg, but now she could have used a little help, a little nudge.
Oh, for godsake, grow up.
Just as she opened her mouth for form the words “I’m in Washington,” Zoe spoke again.
“Meg, I understand that you don’t want to say more. And I respect that. You’re not ready. If you were, you wouldn’t hesitate. Maybe after you’ve seen him tonight, but not now, Meg. Tell me later.”
Meg closed her eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe after I’ve been with him, maybe if things progress …” Her words trailed off as she startled herself with their implication. If things progress. It was almost as though she were planning a future with Steven. A future beyond seven o’clock tonight.
“And you know,” Zoe continued, “sometimes things are best left unsaid.”
“I suppose.” She wondered if Zoe would be shocked to learn Steven’s identity. Probably not. After all, if anyone knew how tough it was to have a real life in the midst of fame, Zoe did.
“Anyway,” Zoe said, “I’ll be thinking of you tonight.” What time are you meeting him?”
“Seven o’clock,” Meg answered. “Four, your time.” Well, she’d at least admitted she was still on the East Coast.
“I’ll be thinking of you. And be thinking of me in Minnesota.”
“Day after tomorrow. I will. Alissa was right about one thing.”
“What?”
“Th
is is turning out to be fun.”
But after they said their good-byes and Meg headed into the bath, she wondered how long the fun would last, and when the reality of what she was doing would come crashing down upon her.
As she sat in the lounge of the Bridge of Flowers Inn, she glanced around the room, wondering if the other patrons were meeting clandestinely, too. It was a cozy atmosphere. Wide dark boards lined the walls, soft prints framed in colonial blue were scattered across them, candles in pewter sconces cast a soft, romantic glow. The tables and chairs were all of dark woods; the floor was rustic and uneven. It was a perfect atmosphere to fall in love. Again.
Meg looked at her watch. Seven-fifteen. From where she sat she could see the front door. Steven was late. As she slowly sipped from her wineglass, she caught the aroma of Shalimar on her wrist. Maybe he would never know that she’d remembered. Maybe he’d changed his mind.
The door opened. A dark figure stood silhouetted against the outside light. It was Steven. She’d know his stance, his outline, anywhere. He paused a moment, as though adjusting his vision to the darkness. Then he stepped forward, toward her. Meg started to perspire. A lump found its way into her throat.
“Meg,” he said as he leaned over and lightly kissed her cheek. The tingle of his lips remained, even after they’d left her skin, even after he sat across from her. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got tied up in a meeting.”
He ordered wine. He put his elbows on the table and set his chin in his hands. “You look wonderful,” he said.
Meg laughed a nervous little laugh, which made her sound like a schoolgirl. A college student. She wondered if it was true that when people reunite, they revert back to the way they acted when they had once been together—the way adults act like children when with their parents. “You said that this morning,” she said.
“Then it must be true.”
She sipped her wine again.
“You look different than you did in Harvard Square,” he said.
“You, too. Your hair’s shorter.”
“So’s yours.” He laughed. “And I must say that dress is more becoming than jeans and tie-dyed shirts.”
“You wouldn’t have thought so then.”
“Maybe not.”
There was silence. Meg felt enveloped with comfort, as though time had never passed, as though they were sitting in the coffee shop, safe in the knowledge of their love. “I wonder if the old coffee shop is still there,” she said.
Steven smiled. “Probably not. I’m sure it couldn’t have survived without our business.”
She lowered her eyes, pulling up the memories she’d thought were buried so deeply, so long ago.
“God, Meg, it’s been such a long time.”
She looked back at Steven.
“Tell me about your life,” he said.
“It’s not nearly as exciting as yours.” But don’t tell me about yours, she wanted to add. I don’t want to know about your wife. I don’t want to know about your children. I want to pretend that you and I are the only two people in the world. At least for now.
The waiter arrived with his glass. Steven leaned back in his chair and studied Meg. “The life of a senator isn’t as exciting as you might think,” he said after the waiter had left. “It’s tedious and intense and, actually, rather confusing. I want to hear about your life. About all the exciting cases you try. About the real world I’ve missed out on.”
Meg tried to smile. What did she know about the real world? Her life revolved not just around the small percentage of people with real money—not just around the small percentage of them who got into trouble—but around the even smaller percentage of them who got caught. Here, with Steven, she felt embarrassed about her career, about it’s superficiality. But talking would give her something to do. It would force her to think. It would keep her in control. She began by telling him about the Holly Davidson case. She talked; he listened. He nodded; he smiled. Meg wondered what had taken her so long to do this. She wondered why she’d ever let him go.
“Even though I never pictured you as a celebrity lawyer,” Steven said when she’d finished, “it seems to agree with you.”
Agree with me? Meg moved her eyes from him, down to the wide-board floor. No, she wanted to say. It doesn’t agree with me. It’s phony and empty and I hate it. What surprised Meg was that this revelation of her feelings came as no surprise.
They had three glasses of wine and a plate of fruits and cheeses and some kind of crackers. Meg was too nervous to eat. Finally Steven folded his hands and looked squarely into her eyes. “If I have to wait one more minute to touch you,” he said, “I think I’ll lose my mind.”
Upstairs at the Bridge of Flowers Inn were a few rooms for overnight guests. Meg followed Steven up the steps as if it were something she’d been doing for years, something she did every night.
Like the lounge, the room was a picture of early America. A four-poster bed was covered with a patchwork quilt; the walls were papered with a small floral design; lace doilies adorned the nightstand. It was quaint and cramped, but as far as Meg was concerned, somewhere larger, grander, more magnificent wouldn’t have made this night any closer to perfect. She was with Steven again. It was all that mattered.
Once the door was closed behind them, Steven took her into his arms. They embraced for a long, slow moment; then he pulled back and kissed her, with a tenderness Meg hadn’t remembered. With longing, with love. Tears spilled from her eyes.
“My God,” he said, “you smell wonderful.”
He noticed.
He took her hand and crossed the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and drew her toward him. He put his arms around her waist and nestled his face against her. She held his head and sank her hands into his hair. They didn’t speak.
Slowly Steven began to caress her back. He dropped his hands. He moved them down her legs. Then up, underneath her new silk dress. She felt the warmth of his touch against her panties.
“After you left me,” he whispered, “I thought I was going to die.”
She moaned a tiny moan.
He gently pulled her onto the bed. Meg released her feelings with a rush of love that had been pent up inside her for years. She gave herself over to his caresses; in turn, she caressed him. She was aware that he was taking off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt. She was aware, but more interested in feeling his body, in touching his skin. There was more hair on his chest than she’d remembered: it was now soft and thick and flecked with gray. She curled her fingers around it.
He raised her dress over her head, then lightly touched the tops of her breasts, which rose over her French-cut bra. He reached behind her and unclasped the hook, then slid the straps down her arms. He studied her breasts. She lay still, watching him watch her, the same way he’d watched her so many times, so long ago, with those same cobalt eyes, so filled with longing, so radiant with love.
He lowered his mouth and gently, wetly, sweetly, slowly encircled her nipples with his tongue. A flush of heat raced through her. She whimpered.
With his hands Steven slipped off her panty hose and rested his long, thick fingers low on her stomach, massaging her lightly, barely touching the skin. She reached around him and felt the taut muscles of his back, the lean, strong firmness of his legs. She pulled him closer. She felt his hardness.
Instinct guided her hand to him. She gently clasped his shaft and held it. Her head was dizzied by its throbbing; her mind grew manic with her need.
And then his fingers were inside her.
She raised her hips to meet his touch, as he probed her wetness, explored her smoldering fire. Those were his fingers. He was there. Steven was there. That was his touch. The touch she’d ached for. The touch she’d longed to feel again.
He smiled down at her. Her orgasm exploded into ecstasy, her hand still clinging to his penis, her eyes fixed upon his own, her heart flooding with joy.
He stroked her face. He kissed her hair until her soft sobs eased, until sh
e shivered for more. And then he was inside her, and it was as if the years apart had never been. He opened his mouth and bent his face to hers. She parted her lips. The tips of their outstretched tongues touched once, twice, three times. Passionate kisses. Like the ones Meg had tried so hard to forget.
They moved in frenzy, rocking, arcing, calling out to one another. And then his body tightened. She saw his face twist with want. She saw his eyes grow wide, the corners of his mouth curve up in pleasure. She felt the wave within her rise again, and together they cried out. And at last Meg was at peace. At last Meg felt at home. Here in his arms, safe in his bed. Safe. Loved. Complete.
He sagged upon her, then moved his weight aside. Meg lay quietly. Inside she felt his stickiness; inside she felt his love as it soaked into her still-trembling flesh. She stroked his chest and tried to stop the tears from coming. For it had been this same stickiness, this same love, that had once created life within her, that had once formed the child that could have been theirs. Their child. The one she had aborted. The child she had killed. She turned her head away, so he would not see her tears, so he would not know her pain.
“I’m not happy, you know,” Steven said quietly, breaking the silence within the room, within her heart. “With Candace. I never was.”
Meg heard his words but tried to shut them out. She pulled the white muslin sheet to her neck. She stared across the room, at the shadows that hung in the darkness. She made out a bureau, a mirror, a luggage rack. She wondered if her new silk dress lay in a twisted pile on the floor.
“I want us to be together again,” he said.
Together? How could she? How could she ever again face this man—the man she loved? How could she ever face him without telling him the truth about their baby? She had been wrong to find him again. She had been wrong. All wrong. She closed her eyes. “That’s not possible.”
“Isn’t it?” He raised himself up on one elbow and touched her cheeks, her mouth, her nose. “It’s almost the twenty-first century, Meg. It’s not as though a divorce would ruin my career now.”