“Of course, Madame. Immediately, Madame.”
Billy and Sam walked across the courtyard, shaking with soundless laughter at the ritual of ordinary French politeness.
“You’re just lucky I didn’t introduce you,” Billy sputtered. “That would have made another round of ‘Madames’ and ‘Monsieurs’ and probably some obligatory mention of the weather.”
“Who was she?”
“The gatekeeper’s wife. Wait, before we go into the house, I want to show you something else.” Billy led the way to one of the long stone wings, higher by a few feet taller than the first floor of the house, selected another key, and opened the padlock on a set of wooden doors above which a splendid horse was prancing in an arched bas-relief. Lanterns, on graceful standards, stood on either side of the doors.
“Once these were the stables,” she explained as she turned on the lights she had ordered installed overhead, great banks of halogen lights that brilliantly illuminated every foot of the interior, all the way from one end to another.
“It looks like a giant warehouse,” Sam said, blinking.
“There are two dozen horse stalls, each one full of furniture waiting to be unpacked,”
“When do you think it was built?”
“Sometime in the 1720s or 1730s.”
“It’s … amazing,” Sam murmured, looking up at the distant ceiling.
“I think so,” Billy said, deciding to not yet tell him why she had had such powerful lights put up at a cost, her architect had informed her, of illuminating the operating room of a hospital. “Let’s go find that wine.”
Billy and Sam sat on the built-in seat of the winter garden, and opened the second bottle of wine that Madame Marie-Jeanne had deposited on a tray on the floor, the Bordeaux she kept for special occasions, a 1971 Beychevelles.
“I could never have imagined the interior of a house like this,” Sam said. “Unless you’ve been in one, even without any furniture, you don’t expect such charm. I understand why you wanted to own it.”
“Nobody else did, at the time, but then I didn’t ask any advice.”
No, he thought, you wouldn’t have asked advice, would you, you glorious girl I thought was insanely generous when you wanted to give me a tiny bottle from the flea market? You, you wild and hidden beauty, so shy that I thought you lacked any ability to demand what you wanted, until you asked me to show you my work and it turned out that you wanted my cock inside you just as badly as I wanted to put it there; you who threatened to make me hard again in that pizzeria, when I desperately needed to eat so I could fuck you for the third time in as many hours … and you could have done it too, just with your voice, your words, if I hadn’t stopped you … no, you wouldn’t have asked for advice on anything so unimportant as buying a mansion.
“Do you see that pine tree outside in the garden, the tallest one?” Billy asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“That’s where I thought we’d hang the Christmas tree lights. Christmas of 1981.”
“Oh.”
Jesus, why are you doing this to me, Honey? Don’t tell me to call you Billy, he thought rebelliously. Isn’t it enough to have brought me here, to this empty house, to be sitting here with me drinking wine, to be lying back against this window seat, far enough from me to keep a proper distance, but not so far that I can’t see the shape of your nipples under your sweater and remember what your breasts looked like when you got on top and hung over me so that I could try to take them both in my mouth at the same time, those deep pink nipples that I could never manage to suck at once because your breasts were too big and too firm, too full to be pressed together? But remember how I used to try, Honey? How I loved to be under you, on my stomach, with you inventing new tortures, like the time you licked me from the soles of my feet to the backs of my calves, up and down, never going any higher, licking and sucking while I got so hard that I was afraid that I’d go crazy, come all over the mattress, but you never said a word, just kept sucking on that soft place behind my knee until, just in time, you whispered, “turn over,” and stuck my cock in you with your hand and I came even before I was in you, Honey, before I shoved all the way … do you remember that?
“The trees in the garden are all evergreens,” Billy informed him. “It was my one gesture toward California, to have a green garden all year long.”
“Good thinking.”
Oh, Honey, he cried to himself, what do I care about trees when all I can think about are those nights in my studio when we’d be sleeping in my bed and I’d wake up slowly, ever so slowly, discovering I had a hard-on and you’d have your hand on my cock, except that you’d be pretending to be asleep, and you’d be lying on your side, with your back toward me, with your legs gently scissored apart so that I could slide my cock into you from behind ever so slowly, as if I were afraid to wake you up, and I’d pretend that I didn’t hear you breathing harder, and I’d move as gently as I possibly could, only pushing it in an inch at a time, until I was all the way up, with my balls pressed against your incredible flamboyant ass and then I knew that it was safe to reach around your hip and somehow happen to put my fingers between your thighs as if I didn’t know what I was doing, and then … Honey … then I’d go straight for that fat swollen waiting bud, like a ripe berry, between your legs and, still pretending, I’d press my fingers up into your wet pussy, just to be sure you were filled with me, and then I’d keep them there, two or three at a time, and use my thumb on your bud and push into you from behind, faster and faster but never too fast, drawing it out as much as I could until I felt you come in my hand and around my fingers … oh, Christ, it was so good … and neither of us would ever say a word … not a word, not even the next day. We’d pretend it hadn’t happened. That’s what you’re doing to me now, aren’t you, Honey, pretending that you can’t see that I’m sitting here as hard as I’ve ever been in my life, just waiting for you to make a move? That’s what you’re doing … I know you too well, Honey, not to know that.
“Billy, did you ever get married?” Sam asked roughly.
“Yes.”
“Happily?”
“I thought so,” she said briefly.
“You thought so? What does that mean?”
“I’m … not sure.”
That’s as lame an answer as I’ve ever given, she thought, that’s almost an invitation. Not sure? If you’re not sure, you shouldn’t be here with this man you once loved, should you? You should be out in some decent little bistro, eating a good dinner and reading your tame little mystery story at the same time, one act canceling out the other, just as you’ve done all week, waiting for illumination to strike, waiting to see into the future, but you certainly shouldn’t be here in this half-light with Sam Jamison. What would Spider think if he could see me now? What would Spider do if he knew I was here in this house whose existence I may … or may not … have mentioned to him years ago, this house that could be anywhere in the world, for all he knows about it? And what would he do if I had decided to take Sam up and show him the second floor? But I didn’t, did I? If Sam ever realized that I’d brought him back to a house with only one bed … my bed … he’d … who’s kidding who here? I could go on my knees to have him this minute, I could fling myself on him and open his fly and take out that stiff jutting prick of his, that big cock I know as well as my own hand, and plunge it into … oh, Christ, I want his mouth on mine, I want his cock in me, I must have been insane to let myself be here alone with him, I could rip off my clothes and spread my legs, right here on the window seat, right this minute, and let him touch me and suck me and open me up the way he used to, let him put it into me … he wants to so badly … does he think I can’t see it? He’s got to know there’s enough light for me to see how swollen he is, how ready, how crazy eager, but he won’t move unless I let him, unless I give him a sign, just the smallest signal would be enough and then the future would be known, the die would be cast, I’d be out of my misery and I’d never look back. Never ever! O
h, this man still loves me, even without his telling me, over and over, I saw it in his blush, hours ago, and in his eyes, I know him too well to doubt it …
“Is that why you’re here, in Paris, all alone?” Sam asked her. “Because you don’t know?”
“Yes.”
“Have you come to any conclusions?”
“Not yet. In fact I can’t even think about it. Not sensibly.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“To prove to you that what I said in my letter was true, that I had been planning to tell you who I was as soon as the exhibition opened, that I’d been getting this house ready for us. I wanted to show you that the reason I refused to marry you was never that I didn’t trust you.”
“And the stables?”
“I thought they’d be your studio.”
“But there aren’t any skylights.”
“The Beaux Arts doesn’t allow any major structural changes in a building, even a private house, once they’ve classified it as a historical monument, like this one. That’s why I had it so well lit.”
“I see. And if I asked you to come home with me now and spend the night with me, what would you say?”
“I couldn’t, Sam.”
“Why not? Why the hell not? Christ, Billy, I love you, I’ve never stopped. Why can’t you give me a chance? I want you … and don’t try to tell me you don’t want me, because I’d never believe you.”
“I do want you … but I can’t.”
I really can’t, Billy thought incredulously. I’m going mad just thinking about it but I can’t move in your direction, damn it to hell, because I’m not the person I used to be … I’ve lost her … but I’ve found someone else … who needs her? … Someone who realizes that this is the first time we’ve ever been alone together in any honest way, someone who knows that some of the thrill is gone, now that Sam knows who I really am, and I know he knows. Would I … could I … do the things that Honey would have done? Or would I be worrying about Spider? Would Sam stop me from thinking about Spider Elliott? Could I ever possibly love him that much?
“You can’t? Is that because you still love your husband?”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“How far away is that lucky bastard?”
“Six thousand miles.”
“I guess that gives me my answer. We’re here, just you and me, here alone, across a continent and an ocean. He’d never know anything about it, would he? You’d never tell him … you’re the world’s best liar … but you can’t. Because you can’t—no other reason. Because, basically, you don’t want to enough.”
“That’s the way it goes.”
“Just my luck.” Sam stood up to go.
“I’ll let you out,” Billy said. “The gate’s tricky unless you know how.”
“Just keep your distance, lady.”
“Sam—I’m sorry.”
“We’re both sorry, but the timing’s wrong. Our timing always was.”
As they crossed the courtyard, Sam looked down at Billy walking several paces away from him. He’d never get over her, not completely, but now … at least he had a fighting chance. At least he knew she loved her husband.
“Billy, one thing, did it ever once occur to you that I could never have worked without natural light? That those magnificent stables would have been like a dark, gloomy prison cell to me, that I actually love walking up five flights to get to a loft where the daylight’s pouring in?”
“I never thought … I was an idiot! But you could have kept your old studio—”
“Don’t you remember how I used to get up in the morning and start working as soon as it was light, before breakfast, often for hours at a time? I still work that way, all I have to do is throw on overalls and walk around the corner.”
“I certainly took too much for granted.”
“Only that. No big deal.”
“Actually it was a big deal … it was incredibly thoughtless of me.”
“Don’t waste any time on it—it never happened anyhow. Will you kiss me good-bye? Billy, Honey, love of my life?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ve been called a lot of things in my day, but not utterly stupid, Sam darling. At least not recently, not … in the last week.” Billy laughed softly and closed the gate behind her.
16
As soon as the Gulfstream had reached cruising altitude on its return trip to California, Gigi lay back in her seat and closed her eyes, her mind returning to the actual plans of the Winthrop Emerald, which she had learned to read and understand during the past week under the tutelage of Renzo Montegardini. It had been agreed that in order for her to know what copy points were the most important, she should be thoroughly conversant with the entire layout of the ship.
“The lowest deck a passenger will ever see is the Capricorn Deck, where they board,” Montegardini informed her. “This formerly was the top deck of the ship when it was a freighter. Now it is mainly given to officers’ accommodations, the galley, and the restaurant, so that diners will have the impression of eating as close to the ocean as possible. Also, since it is low and central, there is the added advantage of maximum stability.”
“How do people decide where they want to sit at dinner?” Gigi asked.
“They make their own arrangements during the day, depending on their mood. The maitre d’hotel will comply with any request, from a table for two to a table for twelve, and dinner reservations may be made anytime from seven-thirty until nine-thirty, so that the restaurant can close at eleven-thirty.”
“Is there a captain’s table?” Gigi asked.
“But without fail. Unless there is a captain’s table, where would the captain eat? Each night he will invite a different group of people to sit with him, unlike the old days of tradition, when the same people dined at the captain’s table every night. Now look here, Graziella Giovanna, on the next deck up, the Gemini Deck, we have the first of the suites that make this ship different from all others. There are fourteen suites on each side of the central corridor of the ship, each one of them five hundred and sixty feet square. Suites are located on three of the five new decks, eighty-four of them in all, plus the owner’s suite. The Winthrop Emerald, when full, can carry a maximum—a maximum, mind you well—of only one hundred and seventy passengers, plus an additional hundred and forty in crew. Normally a ship this size would carry more than twice that many passengers, with perhaps a few suites.”
This girl disturbed him, Renzo Montegardini admitted to himself with the wryness of a man thirty years older than Gigi, a man of sophistication, a man to whom many opportunities had been offered by women, and many accepted with mutual pleasure. She took away his peace of mind, this girl who coiled herself over the blueprints with such a submissive desire to be instructed, her jeweled eyes alive with excitement through the black velvet fans of her lashes that were so deliciously artificial. As he outlined the floor plan of a suite with his architect’s precision, he imagined that her shoulder would be as burning to the touch as her small nose would be cool.
“Each suite,” he said with resignation, thinking of Ben Winthrop, “is made up of two rooms side by side. You walk in through a short hall, on each side of which is a pale pink marble bathroom and a walk-in closet with a safe for valuables. To cover the walls I used a combination of pale woods and tone-on-tone brocades in lighthearted pastels, which I specified should be quilted for extra soundproofing. I used inset strips of floor-to-ceiling mirrors extensively, to expand the space and reflect the sea.”
“What about the portholes?” Gigi asked.
“Cara colleague,” the naval architect said in shock, “in the crew’s quarters, yes, many portholes, but in the suites I have designed floor-to-ceiling windows over which, at the touch of a button, a lightproof shutter falls at night, so the late sleeper is not disturbed. Portholes!”
“Who knew?” Gigi asked mildly. “What’s the rest of the suite like?”
“Here, five feet beyo
nd the entrance hall, you can see where a wall is built to separate the rooms. In the bedroom you find a king-sized bed that can be divided into twin beds, built-in night tables, and a long dressing table opposite the bed. The other room is multipurpose, with a television and VCR that rises from its cabinet at the touch of a button, a built-in bar, a writing desk, and a round table that can be used for breakfast or games. Every object, every piece of furniture, was chosen by the design teams to give a feeling of a festive holiday.”
“Does that dividing wall stop here?” Gigi asked, putting her finger on the blueprint.
“Exactly, leaving the bedroom area private. When the two rooms are joined into one, all the space becomes a wide, comfortably furnished sitting room giving directly onto the sea, with room enough for thirty people to have cocktails—or for two people to be cozy together.”
Her mouth, the naval architect thought, in that cozy suite, would be perilously soft and nervously thirsty as she bent her head back for kisses; her breasts were set high and round and far apart, like those in certain old engravings that had tormented him as a boy. She would have impertinent hips and a maddeningly childish frizz of hair between her legs. He sighed and thought of her age. And his age.
“What’s on the rest of this deck, Renzo?” inquired Gigi impatiently.
“Boutiques and the port tour office, Graziella Giovanna. Above you will find all the necessary public rooms of any cruise ship, the ballroom, the big and little bars, the casino, the lending library, the spa, the beauty salon, the gym, a special bar called Rick’s Place, another intimate room for AA and OA meetings to be held during the day—essential amid the temptations of a cruise, and of course the pool, the deck chairs, and much space for the seriously athletic.”
“What do I do if I’m walking around this sun deck twenty times and I get hungry?”
“The sun deck, which we will call the Zodiac Deck, I beg you, has an open-air Sky Bar with fresh juices for the health-mad. Here, at the prow of the Zodiac Deck, in the Equator Lounge, high above the captain’s bridge, we serve snacks twenty-four hours a day, with an elaborate afternoon tea. If you find yourself still hungry, room service will be available all day and all night. You seem to have an excellent appetite, piccola signorina.”
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