Among other things, Rory couldn’t help thinking. “Ah, yes,” he said. “We, um, we were driving home, you see, when we suffered a flat tire, and with the weather being so severe and all…”
He left the explanation unfinished. Not so much because he knew the policeman would be able to infer the rest of the story himself, but because Rory suddenly felt too fatigued to go on. As if he were completely physically spent. As if every cell in his body had just breathed a collective sigh of release and then decided to lie back and light up a cigarette.
It was the strangest sensation. He’d never experienced anything like it before. And he and Miriam hadn’t even done what they had done in the most ideal setting. They’d just made love in his car, for heaven’s sake. He hadn’t even done that when he was a teenager. Probably because he’d never had sex when he was a teenager, he couldn’t help thinking, but still.
And if he felt this spent after a quick interlude in his car—fiery and intense though that interlude might have been—then how would he fare with Miriam in a more intimately friendly situation? Like a bed, for example. Where they wouldn’t be confined by a steering column or bucket seats? Where they wouldn’t be interrupted by a police officer and could prolong their encounter for hours and hours and hours on end?
Good heavens, Rory thought. He might never be able to speak coherently or get around under his own speed again.
“Need any help changing the tire?” the police man asked, rousing Rory from his troubling thoughts.
He started to shake his head, then remembered that he did, in fact, need some help—at least to alert someone who could bring them a new tire. “Actually, the spare tire I have is useless,” he told the policeman. Then he gestured toward Miriam. “But my, um…my, uh…my…”
He turned his full attention to Miriam and found her sitting in the passenger seat staring straight ahead, clutching his jacket fiercely around herself and saying not a word. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was a mess, and her chest still rose and fell with her rapid respiration. She looked, Rory thought, like a woman who had just been thoroughly tumbled. Which, of course—all modesty aside, he thought modestly—was precisely what she was. And he wondered just how he should classify her to the police officer who was waiting for his reply.
Just what was Miriam now? he wondered. Well, let’s see now. She was his…his…his…
His friend, he told himself. That was what Miriam was. Wasn’t she? That was what he had considered her to be before. Before she’d lain prone atop him with her breast in his mouth and her bottom fitted lovingly into his palm. Before she’d taken him into her body and glided herself along his length, over and over and over and…
Okay, so perhaps friend wasn’t quite an appropriate term for her anymore. Because Rory had never done any of those things with any of his other friends.
Companion? he wondered. But no, that didn’t seem like a fitting label for her, either. It conjured up an image of one of them being old and frail and infirm, and as they’d just realized, that wasn’t the case with either of them at all.
Escort, too, seemed like an inappropriate designation for her, because it was too impersonal, too formal. And with Miriam wearing the dress that she was wearing—not to mention looking as if she’d just been thoroughly tumbled—a man of the law might very well misinterpret the word escort to be something that went way beyond inappropriate.
Significant other? Rory wondered further. Oh, absolutely not, he immediately told himself. That indicated that the two of them had the kind of relationship he wasn’t about to enter into again. Well, probably not, anyway, he amended reluctantly for some reason.
Lover? he asked himself. Although that was technically true after what had just happened—in the connotative sense, at least—Rory was uncomfortable applying that tag to her, as well. For one thing, it offered the policeman insight into their relationship that Rory had scarcely had time to consider himself. For another thing…Well, for another thing, he wasn’t sure just how much love actually entered into things.
So then what, exactly, he asked himself again, was Miriam to him now?
“My, um…” he began again, still gazing at her as he tried to find the right word to give the police officer. “My, uh…My, ah…”
“Your wife?” the policeman offered helpfully.
“Oh, God, no,” Rory replied vehemently, jerking his head back around to look at the police officer. “She’s not my wife.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” the policeman asked with a knowing nod.
Rory arrowed his eyebrows down in confusion. “Like what?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
The policeman shrugged carelessly. “You’re out with your girlfriend instead of your wife,” he said blandly. “You get a flat, you get home late, you get in big trouble…Hey, I know how it is. I got two ex-wives. And two ex-girlfriends.”
“No, no, no,” Rory said quickly, adamantly. “Absolutely not. She’s not my girlfriend, either.” Because that word, too, seemed utterly inadequate in describing what Miriam was to him. She was much more to Rory than a girlfriend. She was…she was…Hmmm…
He tried again to pinpoint her role in his life, aloud this time, for the policeman’s sake. “She’s my…She’s my…my…”
“I’m his librarian,” Miriam said softly from the other side of the car. “That’s all I am.”
And even though that, technically, was true, somehow Rory knew he was going to have a lot of trouble thinking about Miriam Thornbury as only that in the future.
The police officer dipped his head lower, looking past Rory this time, deeper into the car’s interior, at the woman seated beside him. And Rory could tell by the expression on the other man’s face that there was no way—no way—he would ever believe that all Miriam Thornbury was to Rory was his librarian.
Which was just as well, Rory supposed. Because that wasn’t all she felt like to him anymore, either.
“Yeah, well, whatever,” the policeman said as he straightened again. “So do you need a hand changing the tire or not?”
Rory backpedaled to where they had been before in their conversation. “As I was saying, my, um, my librarian, is a member of Triple-A, but we don’t have access to a telephone at the moment, so—”
“You don’t have a cell phone?” the policeman asked. “But they’re so convenient. Especially in circumstances like these.”
Rory bit back a growl. “Yes, well, I’ll take it under advisement,” he said. “In the meantime, if you could be so good as to place a call to Triple-A for us, telling them we’ll need a new tire in addition to help changing it, we’d very much appreciate it.” He forced a smile and hoped it didn’t look as phony as it felt. “And then,” he told the policeman, “you could…carry on.”
Oh, Rory really wished he’d come up with a better phrase than that one to use. Because he knew right away that the policeman was going to respond with—
“And, hey, then you two could carry on, too.”
Somehow Rory managed to refrain from indulging in a knee-slapping guffaw and a riotously offered Oh, hardy-har-har-har.
“I’ll just go back to my car and make the call for you,” the policeman said as he turned and strode away. “I’ll get the emergency number off my own card. I’m a member, too, of course. You shouldn’t have to wait long. Just to be on the safe side, though, I’ll hang around until the wrecker shows up. Wouldn’t want you and your…librarian…getting home overdue,” he added with a wink. “Wives hate that.”
“But I’m not—” Rory began. But he halted when he saw that the police officer was out of earshot. And as grateful as he was for the other man’s departure, he realized with a silent, heavy sigh that now that the policeman was gone, Rory was once again all alone with Miriam. And he had no idea what to say to her.
Except maybe for “I apologize for my abominable behavior a few minutes ago.”
She nodded halfheartedly but said nothing.
“It really was unforgivable,” he
added.
“Yes,” she concurred quietly. “It was.”
He was surprised to hear her agree with him so readily. Although his behavior had been unforgivably careless—and at the risk of sounding like a tantrum-throwing child—Miriam had started it. Not that that gave Rory an excuse to go along with her so willingly—after all, if she jumped off a bridge, would he jump, too?—but he didn’t think he should be forced to shoulder the bulk of the responsibility for what had happened. She was the one who’d purred out such intimate suggestions about consenting adults in the first place. Just because he hadn’t done anything to stop what had happened—and just because he had enjoyed it so immensely—that didn’t let her off the hook.
In spite of his mental pep talk, however, he said, “Truly, Miriam. I am sorry for what I did.”
She lifted her shoulders and let them drop, a small shrug that seemed in no way careless. “It’s all right,” she told him softly. “It’s not like you said anything that was untrue. And I am your librarian, after all.”
He opened his mouth to say more, then realized how badly she had misunderstood him. She thought he was apologizing for something totally different from what he was actually apologizing for—though he wasn’t entirely sure what she thought he was apologizing for. In any case, her response suggested that she wasn’t upset by their sexual encounter, which was what Rory had actually been apologizing for.
“No, Miriam,” he said gently, “I meant I’m sorry for…for…for pouncing on you the way I did.” He dropped his voice to a softer pitch as he spoke, even though there was no one to overhear him. “For taking advantage of you the way I did. Sexually, I mean.”
She glanced over at him, her expression puzzled. “You didn’t pounce on me,” she said. Then, very matter-of-fact, she added, “I pounced on you.”
“Well, perhaps so,” he conceded, guarding his surprise that she would so freely admit her part in what had happened. “But I did nothing to stop you. I went right along with it.”
“And you’re apologizing for that?”
“Of course I am.”
She gaped at him in disbelief for a moment. Then, “Oh,” she said in a very small voice. “I see.”
“Well, don’t you think I should apologize?” he asked. After all, he thought, she certainly deserved better than a quick tumble in his car. She deserved satin sheets and candlelight and soft music and a man who took his time with her, loving every luscious inch of her body. Several times over, in fact.
“Are you sorry it happened?” she countered.
“Of course I’m sorry,” he told her again.
Their first time together should have been much nicer than what the two of them had just had, he thought. Though, mind you, what the two of them had just had had been very nice. Oh, yes. Very nice indeed.
“Oh. I see,” Miriam repeated in that same small voice.
“Well, aren’t you sorry it happened?” he asked.
She inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. “I wasn’t before,” she told him. “But I suppose I am now.”
Well, then, he thought triumphantly. Somehow, though, his triumph felt in no way victorious.
Miriam said nothing more in response—not that anything more seemed necessary—so Rory, too, remained silent. In a few moments the police officer returned to say that a wrecker was on the way to the scene with a new tire, and should be there shortly. And less than twenty—totally silent—minutes after that, the tumble of yellow lights in the darkness heralded its arrival.
The police officer left after a knowing smile and a casually offered, “Good luck to you both,” and then Rory and Miriam stood outside the car—in silence—as the mechanic deftly changed the tire, and recorded her AAA information, and said good-night.
And then, in what seemed like no time at all, Rory and Miriam were sitting alone—and silent—in his car once again.
“Well, I suppose it would be best to get home,” he finally said as he turned the key in the ignition.
She nodded slowly, but said nothing.
“Unless you’d like to stop somewhere for coffee,” he added, surprised to hear himself make the offer.
He was even more surprised to realize how much he wanted her to take him up on it. They really did need to talk, he thought. Then again, maybe now wasn’t the time. There was a definite awkwardness in the air. Perhaps once they both had time to reflect upon what had happened, they would be better able to figure out what was going on.
“No,” Miriam told him. “That’s all right. Thank you.” But the words were flat, mechanical, emotionless. She didn’t sound at all the way she usually did.
Still feeling as if he should say something—but having no idea what that something might be—Rory reluctantly guided the car back onto the road, and they continued on their way back to Marigold. In silence. Somehow, though, he didn’t quite feel as if they were going home. Because somehow he suspected that when they got there, nothing was going to be the same.
And when he pulled up to her apartment building a little while later, and turned off the engine to accompany her to the door, only to have her tell him in a very soft, very wounded voice, that it wouldn’t be necessary…As he watched her walk slowly and wearily up the walkway to her front door and enter her building alone…When he recalled how wilted and crushed had been the corsage still affixed to her wrist…
Well. Then Rory was sure nothing was going to be the same.
When Miriam unlocked the front doors to the library the morning following what was to have been a momentous date with Rory Monahan, she felt none of the usual zest or élan she normally experienced when she arrived at work. And not just because it was raining, either, although the rain did rather hamper her mood, because it only served to remind her what had happened the night before with Rory.
Oh, God, she thought as she entered the library with one explicit image after another replaying it self in her muddled brain. Her stomach pitched with a mix of anxiety and desire with each recollection. What had happened the night before with Rory? she wondered. In spite of her efforts to tempt him last night, at no time had Miriam intended for things to go as far as they had gone. Metropolitan magazine may have talked her into carrying a condom around, but not once had she honestly thought she would ever have cause to use the silly thing. Not until after she and Rory had gotten to know each other much better.
Then again, she told herself, she knew him as well as she knew anyone. Better than she knew most people, actually. At least, she knew all the things about him that were important. And she knew that the feelings she had for him were any thing but casual.
But she still couldn’t believe she and Rory had actually made love last night, in his car, no less, like two hormonally unstable teenagers. She still couldn’t imagine what had come over her to make her lose control the way she had. As much as she wished she could blame her Inner Temptress, Miriam knew that she alone was responsible for her behavior. Even if her behavior had been completely alien to her.
She simply had not been able to help herself. The moment Rory had kissed her so deeply, when he’d covered her bare breast with his hand…Something had exploded inside of her, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. She’d just been so overcome with wanting him, with needing him. She’d assumed that whatever it was that was building between them, it was unique, and it was special, and it was eternal. She had been so sure that he must feel the same thing for her that she felt for him. She had been so certain that he must…that he must…
She sighed deeply. That he must…love her the way she loved him. There was no way she could have stopped what had happened the night before with Rory. Because it had felt so natural, so perfect, so right.
But it wasn’t what had happened the night before with Rory that caused her to feel so melancholy today, she knew. No, the reason she felt so melancholy today was because of what she had learned after what had happened the night before with Rory. Because she had learned that he didn’t want her. Not the way s
he wanted him to want her, at any rate. Not the way she wanted him. She only wished now that she had learned it before things had gone too far.
Oh, certainly he had wanted her last night. In exactly the way Metropolitan magazine made clear that a man should want a woman. Why, what she and Rory had experienced together was exactly the stuff that Metropolitan headlines were made of: Roadside Attractions Your Mother Never Told You About! Or Finding His Gearshift When He Goes into Overdrive! Or Make-Out Blowouts: What to Do When the Tire’s Flat, but He’s Not!
Oh, yes, Miriam thought wryly, sadly. She would have to write a letter to the editor immediately and suggest that the next issue of Metropolitan magazine be the car and driver issue. She herself could be a major contributor.
So, yes Rory had wanted her last night, but only in a sexual sense. Not that it would normally bother Miriam to have him wanting her sexually—not in the least. Provided he wanted her in other, less tangible ways, as well.
Oh, God, no. She’s not my wife.
Absolutely not. She’s not my girlfriend, either.
But he didn’t want her in other, less tangible ways, she thought as the echo of his unmistakable aversion reverberated in her brain. Judging by the way Rory had spoken the night before, the prospect of having a wife, or even a girlfriend, was about as appealing as finding a dead slug in his dinner salad—after he had added a liberal amount of salt.
Only now did Miriam realize—too late—the difference between tempting a man and having him fall in love with her. Because she realized now that what she had really wanted all along—what this whole, silly Metro Girl fiasco was supposed to have achieved—was for Rory to fall in love with her. And although he certainly had been tempted and had certainly wanted her, loving her evidently wasn’t part of the bargain. Not to his way of thinking, anyway.
And just what was Metropolitan magazine going to do about that, hmmm? Miriam wondered as she strode behind the circulation desk and began flicking the rows of switches that would illuminate the first-floor lights. Because no matter how furiously she had searched the night before, sifting through the box of magazines that still occupied her bedroom, there hadn’t been a single headline on a single issue that had mentioned the word love.
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