by Warren Adler
"Swim?"
"Why not?"
He jumped into the water, Marilyn following. She removed her T-shirt and jumped into a wave. Looking back as she dived, he observed her figure, remarking to himself that she was in mighty good shape. He decided that she was somewhere in the middle thirties. Her bathing suit, he noted, was a modified bikini.
The water was calmer and they cavorted like porpoises for a while.
"Feels great," Sam said. He hadn't felt so good for months. Not since before Anne was first diagnosed. For a moment he felt a stab of guilt. Should I be feeling like this? he asked himself.
"Wonderful," Grace shouted, swimming parallel to the beach. She lifted her hand and waved. He waved back.
Then he signaled her to come in and they walked together back to the water's edge, then headed again on the beach toward the house. Grace's black hair glistened, catching the rays of the sun. Her body was tight and athletic, he noted, forcing himself, with difficulty, to be indifferent. His sensory perceptions surprised him. After all, he was in mourning.
As they moved toward the house, he looked at his wristwatch.
"I hadn't realized. It's nearly time for lunch. I hope you'll join me."
"Sure," she agreed. "I brought a change. And, remember, I've still got work to do."
He was very pleased. They walked in silence for awhile, getting closer to the house.
"Was the charity pleased with Anne's clothes?" he asked suddenly.
"Oh, yes," Grace answered, hesitating momentarily. "Very much so. It was something of a bonanza for them."
"Anne would have loved that. She took great pleasure in spreading happiness."
"Yes, she did."
They came close to the house. Grace picked up her sandals, which she had left sitting in the sand just outside the beachfront entrance, and followed him into the house. She hadn't rung the front door and Carmen seemed startled to see her come in with her boss.
"Two for lunch, Carmen."
He turned toward Grace. "How about omelets? Carmen makes great omelets."
Carmen scowled. Grace nodded, and she shuffled back to the kitchen.
"You can shower and change in Anne's bathroom," he said.
"Thank you. I know the way."
Sam went upstairs, took a shower and was quickly dressed. When he came down again, Grace was still upstairs. Carmen had set the table on the back patio, overlooking the beach and the ocean.
"How lovely," Grace said, coming out to the patio wearing white slacks and a pink blouse. Through the material he could see the outlines of her breasts and her nipples. She must have seen his glance and quickly crossed her arms over her chest.
"I'll be right back," Sam said as he went into the house, got a bottle of Dom Perignon from the refrigerator and two fluted glasses and brought them back to the patio.
"Remember, Sam," Grace said, "I still have work to do."
He wondered if she thought it inappropriate for him to be drinking champagne with a strange woman just weeks after his wife had died.
"Anne only drank Dom Perignon, Grace."
"Good. Then we'll drink to her."
He uncorked the bottle with a pop and carefully poured the two glasses. He noted that his fingers shook and realized he was uncommonly nervous. When he had finished pouring he lifted his glass and tapped hers.
"To Anne," Grace said.
"To Anne," Sam said. He felt a sudden sob rise in his chest. "The best of the best."
They drank. The champagne felt cool and tart on the tongue. He studied Grace as she drank.
"Lovely, isn't it, Grace?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Why afraid?" Sam asked.
"I feel ... well ... a little guilty. Sitting here in her place."
"Actually, we rarely ate out here," Sam said.
"Drinking her favorite drink."
"I'd like to feel that maybe she would approve," Sam said. He took a deep sip of the champagne. "We were very sensitive to each other's comfort levels. We were careful to provide each other with the things that made us happy. I think that Anne would be happy to see that I was not alone and brooding."
"With a strange woman," Grace said.
"Anne was not a jealous person."
They drank in silence for a few moments. Sam was attentive to his guest's glass and poured her another.
Carmen came out with the omelets. One of them was of lesser quality than the other. She placed that one in front of Grace.
"No, Carmen. Give this one to Mrs. Sorentino," Sam said.
None too happy, Carmen switched plates.
"I think she resents me being here," Grace said after the woman had gone back to the kitchen.
"Perfectly understandable," Sam said. "She'll get over it."
"Are your children taking it well?" Grace asked.
"Yes. Very well. But then, they live far from here. It's been years since we all lived under one roof. Oh, I'm sure they all miss the telephone calls, the family holidays, although even those had petered out. Grown children have a different agenda." He thought of those agendas. "It's money now. The estate. This is not to say they didn't love Anne. I suppose they think they did, in their way. They might even think they love me, a sort of obligatory love, an expected love. Nothing really compelling. Rooted in nostalgia. But then, what would they be expected to do?"
He sensed that he had said too much, but looking at her interest in it, he felt comfortable.
"I'm sure you love your daughter, Grace. Do you think she loves you as much?"
Grace sipped her champagne and seemed to be contemplating the question.
"As you say, perhaps obligatory love."
"It's an odd thing how money becomes paramount. They want to be sure that my arrangements maximize their personal inheritances. They seem to be worried that I'll make some stupid moves and fritter away my fortune."
"Will you?"
He wanted to tell her what Bruce really thought, that he would be vulnerable to some bimbo who would find a way to get his money, but he held back.
"Maybe." He laughed, pouring the remnants of the champagne into both their glasses.
"But then," he said, "why should I have to think about that? I'm sixty-four years old. I've made mostly good judgments in my life. Why should I make bad ones now? It's too ingrained in my psyche. Maybe they think I'm a doddering, senile idiot. To them, sixty-four might seem ancient."
"It doesn't seem so from here, Sam," Grace said.
"I appreciate your diplomacy, Grace. I'll bet I've got thirty years on you," Sam said.
"You're close."
"I'm not afraid of dying," Sam confessed. "It's the constant noise about the estate that bugs me. My son Bruce, the lawyer, that's all he seems to care about. As for Carol, that's a hopeless case."
He upended his glass.
"Look at me," he said. "I'm whining about my problems with my children. When Anne was alive, she was the one who bore the brunt of it. She was supposed to be the survivor and deal with this. Now I'm stuck with the job and I hate it."
"Don't dwell on it, Sam," Grace said.
"You're right, Grace. Little children, little problems. Big children, big problems."
They finished their omelets and Carmen, still scowling, took the plates away.
"Here I am," Sam said, "monopolizing your time."
"Well, I should get on with the clothes."
"The clothes. Yes."
He watched as she rose from the table and brushed bread crumbs from her slacks. He liked her looks and, despite himself, admitted the beginnings of sexual stirrings. Yet he did not want her to think that was his motive for extending the hand of friendship. It had nothing to do with that, he assured himself. Nothing.
"I'll be upstairs, Sam," Grace said.
Sam watched her rise on the stairway. It felt good to watch the sway of her hips, the graceful movement of her legs. She had good legs, a wonderfully proportioned rump. But when she was out of sight, he turned suddenly and saw Ca
rmen watching him as if he were committing some great crime.
"I'm still alive, Carmen," he muttered.
He went into his study and made a series of phone calls to his various money managers. The acquisition of more wealth seemed a pointless endeavor, and, considering the pressure he was getting from his children, a needless burden. Nevertheless he continued his routine by rote.
Up until Anne became ill, he had traveled throughout the world, liquidating those businesses that required his personal attention. Earlier, he had deliberately set up various businesses in other parts of the country and in Europe and Asia, not only considering profit potential but also to ply his secret life, his carnal game. He had even lost interest in that.
He came out of his study and moved upstairs to his bedroom. The doors to Anne's closet were open and the bed was already piled high with Anne's clothes. He heard Grace rustling about in the closet's interior. She appeared with another handful of clothes and piled them on the bed.
"It seems endless," Grace said. "It's the sorting that takes the time. I want to be sure the various charities get their fair share."
"With your good efforts, I'm sure they will, Grace."
"What they'll probably do with the gowns and more expensive clothes is sell them." She paused and looked at him. "Do you mind?"
"Not at all," Sam said. "I wouldn't even mind if you took some for yourself."
"For me?" Grace said. "That would be unthinkable."
"It wouldn't matter," Sam said. "In fact, I wouldn't even mind if you tried some on. I'd like to see how you look in them."
"In your wife's clothes?"
"Does it sound ghoulish?"
"No. Just surprising. Wouldn't it depress you?"
"You've got a point. Maybe it would."
He looked at some of the clothes she had put on the bed. There was a beige dress on the pile. He picked it up and handed it to her.
"This might be nice. Hold it up."
She lifted the hanger with the garment on it, got the dress in position and pressed it against herself.
"It could be too small," she said, looking into the mirror. "I'm larger, almost a seven."
"Looks perfect to me," Sam said.
She held the dress at arm's length and inspected it, noting the label. Geoffrey Beane.
"It is lovely." She shook her head. "But I wouldn't feel comfortable wearing it, knowing that it was Anne's."
"Why? It's an inanimate object," Sam said, surprised at his own remark, remembering that the reason this woman was here was to take the sting out of the process of disposing of Anne's clothes.
"No, it's not, Sam," Grace said. "It's a reflection of Anne. A lot went into such a purchase, not just money. A wardrobe like this was not just about clothing. It was a way of life."
"I know that," Sam said. "Still, when you think about it, clothes are made to be worn. Really, Grace, try it on. I'd like to see it on you."
"To remind you of her?"
"Maybe. Go on. Try it on."
She hesitated, studying the dress.
"It's lovely, but it doesn't feel right somehow."
"Your call, Grace. Am I being awful to ask?"
"This is embarrassing, Sam," Grace said, scanning the room. "Is it that important to you?"
"Maybe it was a crazy idea," he said. "If it makes you uncomfortable, just forget about it. I might be out of line."
"You did suggest it," Grace said. "That's one clue to its importance." She paused for a moment. "Why not, Sam? What's the harm?"
"You think I'm being weird?"
Grace shrugged. She held the dress in front of her.
"I suppose you can change in Anne's dressing room," Sam said, pointing to a door that led to her dressing room and bathroom. "I'm sure you'll find everything you need there."
"Are you sure about this, Sam?"
"I'm not sure about anything, Grace," he said. "It might stir up memories that I don't want to deal with. Your call."
"If it doesn't fit, I won't show it to you."
"Fair enough."
She seemed to be studying him; then she shrugged and went off into the dressing room carrying the beige dress.
Sam was surprised at the course this was taking. It was as if, for the first time in months, perhaps years, his body was awakening from a long slumber. He felt a quickening in his crotch and discovered he had a steel-hard erection. It was an odd sensation, since he had rarely had any sexual stirring in this room.
Although he enjoyed being with his wife here, enjoyed being with her everywhere, for that matter, he had discovered early on that she had little interest in sex. It was an anomaly, since Anne had a sexy look. Others had commented on this, telling him how lucky he was to have such a sexy and attractive wife.
It was the one missing link in his marriage, perhaps the primary factor that propelled him into his secret life. Early on, he had given up any idea that she might change.
When they were young, in the first few months of their marriage, Sam had noted Anne's sexual unresponsiveness. She performed dutifully but without passion or interest. Before their marriage, while they did not, in the mores of the day, "go all the way," they masturbated each other to mutual orgasm. But when they married, it seemed that desire had simply disappeared from Anne's life.
Sam found it a difficult subject to think about, and he and Anne had rarely discussed it. Even his most oblique references to her sexuality always brought the same smiling answer.
"I intend to be a good and dutiful wife always," she would tell him. "Always available."
"But you don't seem to get a kick out of doing it."
"I love you being close to me."
"But it's the feedback..."
"Don't be ridiculous, Sam. You always seem to enjoy it immensely."
"I do, but..."
"No buts. It shouldn't be so important to our happiness."
He loved her and there seemed no point in making either of them uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he tried to be both patient and imaginative in his lovemaking, but except for some minor variations of the missionary position, sex between them became boring and routine. He acknowledged that perhaps it was his fault, something inside him that froze her desire, or some fault in his technique that could not overcome her natural reluctance.
Sexual activity between them dwindled. It became the accepted condition of their marriage. He did not let it become a bone of contention between them.
He would often grapple with the question and wonder why he had not pursued the matter further. He did consider the possibility of therapy for both of them, had agonized over it, then rejected it, deciding that he did not wish to bring to her attention what she might consider a serious flaw in herself, a flaw she neither understood nor recognized. Or perhaps he lacked the courage to risk discovering some missing link in himself, some mysterious biological inability to arouse her, despite the usual patient textbook ministrations.
He knew, of course, that this issue flew in the face of marital intimacy and the common idea that total communication, body and soul, was necessary for a strong marriage. Weighing the pros and cons of keeping this subject dormant between them, he chose evasion and conscious repression and, from the evidence of their life together, the strategy had been reasonably successful.
But it became apparent to Sam that he could never have a totally rounded relationship with his wife. They had sex less and less as time went on, and apparently both of them got used to the idea of less sex, which eventually became no sex. Neither questioned the other about this phenomenon. They both enjoyed each other's company and they had many things in common. Except sex.
As time went on, he felt certain that she had interpreted his lack of sexual ardor as merely the inevitable result of familiarity and, possibly, the aging process, a highly unlikely idea, unless she believed that the sex drive diminished in men as they reached their thirties. Actually, he hoped she thought so. The fact was that, because she showed no interest in sex, she became less inter
esting as a sexual partner. He began to prefer secret masturbation and took some solace in an enriched fantasy life.
Frequency dwindled considerably, then became abstinence. It was as if that part of their lives together had been placed in cold storage in a locked compartment. What it meant, too, was that their lines of communication to each other were subject to a great deal of detouring. They avoided any reference to that side of their natures and, as a consequence, he knew that his relationship with Anne would be subject to much editing and evasion. Perhaps she thought him impotent. What did it matter?
As a businessman, Sam had learned the value of pragmatism and compromise. Always, he knew, something had to be left on the table for the other person. No one was supposed to have it all. Under those conditions no deal could be consummated. Perhaps it wasn't an ideal way to conduct a marriage, but it became workable and did not inhibit their respect for each other, their friendship or their general pursuit of happiness. They liked each other and, as time went on, they grew used to having each other around. It was comfortable. They had created a life together without rancor and with mutual respect.
Where was it written that communication between married couples, or between anyone, needed to be total? People, he supposed, were like icebergs, with most of what was really inside them hidden. He gave her that part of himself that she could accept without pain. Apparently, she gave him that part of herself as well. Other couples, he had noted, had fared much worse.
Anne had never, not once in their long marriage, confronted him with any suspicions about his fidelity. He had concluded that it just wasn't in her frame of reference, as if she thought the state of their sex life was somehow normal.
Respecting that and not wishing to agitate her or interfere with the tranquility of their relationship, he chose, after fathering two children a slow retreat from the act until total sexual withdrawal in their marriage, and his own resort to masturbation, had become a permanent part of their married life.
Her reaction to this retreat was, at first, inexplicable, leading him finally to conclude that she had neither insight nor knowledge of the power of the male sex drive. She made no comment about it, nor did it interfere with their outward show of affection and the other mostly positive aspects of their marriage. They still kissed, hugged, held hands and participated in all the obvious touching rituals of any devoted couple. Not long after his discovery of her condition, he began to seek sexual gratification elsewhere, choosing what to him seemed the least dangerous path, mostly paying for the privilege.