Chuckling, he picked her up and carried her to their bedroom.
Céline leaned her head against his chest.
And smiled.
The Chateauneuf-du-Pape was delicious.
Sex between older people is not quite the same as when they were young. Older bodies require more tenderness, more patience. Arousal is slower, but no less intense. Bodies are, perhaps, a bit more fragile, but no less needy, no less hungry. And if the physical act of love is somewhat less gymnastic than it used to be, it is no less satisfying.
And the emotional rivers and pools are much deeper, drawing on a wellspring of care and love crafted by decades of shared trials and joys. Old people make love to each other’s minds as well as bodies.
Afterwards, Céline poured two more glasses of the excellent wine and carried them back to bed. Luc lay on his back, hands behind his head, looking happy and relaxed. She handed him his glass of wine. As she knew he would, he swallowed half the glass, then lay back with a sigh. She took a sip from her glass.
“That was lovely,” she said.
“Very, very…adequate,” he teased, which earned him an elbow in the ribs from Céline.
“Keep it up,” she said, contentedly snuggling into his chest. “It will be a cold day in hell before you take advantage of this body again,” she threatened cheerfully.
He reached over and gently stroked her back, which he knew she liked. “Do the kids think we still make love?” he asked.
Céline giggled. “I doubt it. Danielle probably thinks we’re too old, and Paul probably never thinks about it at all. Anyway, children never like to think about their parents having sex. Too icky! Each generation likes to think they invented it. We certainly did.”
“Hmmm,” he said drowsily. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe we should take a selfie and ‘accidentally’ send it to them.”
“It would be the last thing you’d ever do,” she warned.
He yawned, eyes drooping. “Be…worth…it.” He yawned again. “Love…you.”
His eyes closed and his breathing deepened as the Ambien she’d put into his wine took him in its embrace and carried him off to a dark night and a deep sleep.
She waited several minutes to be sure, then slid quietly from the bed, got dressed and went to the kitchen pantry. There, behind the jars of peaches she’d put up last fall, she withdrew the jar of wood ash and a fine haired, Number 6 paint brush.
Three minutes later, she was in her husband’s art studio, standing beside the block of marble. Part of her wanted to rail against it, to curse it, to strike it. But in the end, it was just a piece of rock. Lifeless. Blameless. The flaw, if there was a flaw, lay within her husband. But in this he was as blameless as this chunk of stone. Blame was not the answer.
She turned to the work table, where Luc kept his notes and preliminary drawings. She riffled through the notes, seeking the critical measurements of how far from the top, front edge and center the location of the Indian’s face was. Then she looked for notes on the location of the horse’s head as well.
She knew what to look for. After all, she had done this five other times over the course of their marriage. Luc was a brilliant sculptor, but even brilliant artists get stuck sometimes.
Céline was simply helping him to get unstuck.
Moving quickly, she set the step ladder near the front of the marble block, then made three quick measurements to get the right location. She swapped the tape measure for the jar of ash and the Number 6 paintbrush. Dabbing into the jar, she located the right spot on the marble and was just about to make her first brush stroke when she heard a smothered giggle behind her.
Whirling around, she came face to face with Stanley. He stood there, holding a broom, his face blushing a deep red, his other hand covering his mouth to stifle his laughter. She had forgotten that he would be by to clean the studio.
“Stanley, what is it?” Céline asked tartly.
Stanley looked embarrassed. “Mrs. Céline, you’re looking right at the horse’s butt!” If anything, his blush grew more pronounced, and he was overcome with another fit of giggles.
Céline turned slowly and looked at the face of the marble block she had started to shadow. It was smooth and unmarked and looked nothing more than, well, a big chunk of marble. She turned back to Stanley, who was now hopping nervously from foot to foot and looking abashed.
“Stanley,” she said slowly. “Show me where the horse’s butt is.”
Squirming with embarrassment, Stanley pointed to the spot she had begun to shadow. “Right there, where you were sticking your brush.”
“Not a very good place to stick a paintbrush, is it?” she asked dryly.
“No.” Stanley suppressed another fit of giggles with an effort.
“Okay, Stanley, and this is important. Do you know where the horse’s head is?”
Stanley looked confused for a moment and Céline’s heart sank.
“Well, yeah, Mrs. Céline, it’s on the other end.”
Céline nodded encouragingly. “Stanley, can you show me exactly where the horse’s head is?”
Stanley, relieved to have something to do that would not embarrass him any further, walked around to the “back” of the marble block and pointed up. “The horse’s head is right up there.”
Céline dragged the ladder around, positioned it where Stanley had pointed and climbed up, awkwardly carrying the jar of ash and her artist’s paintbrush. “Here?” she asked, pointing to a spot about two feet or more from the top of the block.
Stanley squinted, studying the expanse of marble, then pointed just to Céline’s right. “Over there a little, Mrs. Céline.” She moved the tip of the brush over several inches. Stanley nodded enthusiastically, and she carefully marked the spot.
“Thank you, Stanley,” she said. “Now, can you show me exactly where the Indian’s head will be?”
It took a bit longer, but finally Stanley nodded and she marked the second spot. “Stanley,” she asked gently. “Why didn’t you tell Mr. Dumas where the horse’s head is?”
“Oh,” said Stanley, abashed. “I wouldn’t do that. Mr. Dumas, he knows. He knows, more than anybody. I think sometimes he just doesn’t feel ready.”
Grunting a little with the effort, she gingerly climbed down the ladder and, taking Stanley’s face in her hands, kissed him on the cheek. “Stanley Curtis, you have helped me more than you will ever know.”
“Mr. Dumas, he showed me the drawings,” Stanley confided. “It’s gonna be real pretty, Mrs. Céline.”
Céline gave him a long, appraising look. “Stanley,” she asked gently, and pointed to the spot he had showed her. “How did you know the horse’s head is there?”
Stanley looked confused. “Because that’s where it is, Mrs. Céline. Where else would it be?”
Céline tried a different tact. “Stanley, what if Mr. Dumas wanted to make a sculpture of a large deer with antlers? Where would the head be then?”
Stanley frowned in concentration, glancing once or twice at the block of marble. “Um,” he said hesitantly. “Is it running or just standing there?”
Céline pursed her lips. “Running,” she said. “And jumping over a log.”
Stanley walked to the marble block, then ran his fingers over it. Finally, he pointed to an area on the narrow side of the marble. “There,” he said. “Right there.”
Céline smiled. “Stanley, you never cease to amaze me.”
When Stanley had gone and she had regained her composure, Céline laboriously climbed the step ladder again and carefully, delicately shadowed the area of the horse’s head and the Indian’s head with the faintest touch of ash. She carefully climbed down to the floor and stepped back several feet. The shadow was almost imperceptible, not something consciously seen so much as a suggestion of something there.
Good. She knew her husband. It would suffice.
She collected the ladder, the jar of ash and the brush and left the studio, thinking about Stanley.
; ______________
Wednesday morning, with the soft sound of rain against the window. Danielle and Frank Finley were sharing that most precious of adult pleasures parents can share: privacy. Calvin was off at school and Jacob was…somewhere. Outside, rain beat on the windows, but they lay under a warm comforter, arms and legs entwined, bathed in the soft afterglow of lovemaking.
“My God,” Danielle whispered. “The house all to ourselves. When’s the last time this happened?”
“Making love, or being alone in the house together, with no rambunctious boys clomping about like wild elephants?” Finley replied.
Danielle stretched luxuriously, rolling one leg over his hip and running her hand across his chest. “Take your pick. Either way, I like it.”
“Hmmm,” Finley murmured, rubbing the palm of his hand across her stomach, then a bit lower. “Even though we’ve both got work this afternoon, I feel like we’re playing hooky or something.” His hand reached a sensitive spot and he very gently traced circles on it with the tip of his forefinger. “That good?” he asked softly.
“Delicious,” his wife said, thrusting her hips forward onto his hand. But then she suddenly stopped. “Do you think my parents still have sex?”
“What? Céline and Luc?” he asked, confused by this abrupt change in course. “Heck, I don’t know. How old is Luc, seventy-three? Seventy-four? I mean, they’re both healthy. No reason why they couldn’t still be sexually active.”
“I can’t imagine my mother still having sex,” Danielle declared firmly.
Finley rubbed his chin and considered the mine field he had been thrust into. “You know, someday you and I are going to be in our seventies. Won’t it be nice to still be able to make love with one another?”
“Not my parents,” she repeated, then rolled out of bed and put on a bathrobe.
“Okay,” her husband countered. “But-“
“Not having this conversation!” she said emphatically, heading for the bedroom door. “I’m going to go make breakfast.”
“You brought it up!” he protested.
“No, I didn’t!” she said emphatically.
Finley laughed. Danielle paused in the doorway. “What?” she demanded.
“I love you,” he said. “Every once in a while I suddenly remember how precious all this is.”
______________
Calvin had set out for school with nothing but good intentions. Then his phone rang.
“Did you know that school was just cancelled because of the storm?” Gabrielle asked him cheerfully.
Calvin stopped in his tracks. “Wait! Really? I’m not even there yet.”
“Yes, really,” she said. “But you know what? My mom and dad are both at work. Actually, Dad is on a business trip.” She paused for a moment. Calvin did not say anything. “In case you haven’t figured this out yet, it means that I am here all alone, by myself, for the next few hours. I figure Mom won’t even check in with me until noon. S-o-o-o-o, I was wondering if you’d like to swing by? I mean,” she added hastily, “if you aren’t already doing something. You know, if you’re free.”
“Gabs, I just learned that school is closed, what else could I be doing?”
“So, you’ll come, then?” He could hear the smile on her face.
“Well, I don’t know, maybe today will be a good day to get my shoes shined. Or get a haircut. Or weed the garden. Or –
“Get your skinny butt over here, Finley,” she said, and promptly hung up.
Gabrielle’s home was only three blocks from downtown North Harbor, four blocks from the high school. Calvin trotted through the rain, but he still got drenched. He thought ruefully that for a bright kid, he still hadn’t figured out when to take an umbrella with him. Gabrielle was waiting for him when he reached her house.
“Oh, Calvin, you’re soaked!” she exclaimed.
“Well, you know, the rain.”
She shook her head in dismay. “Okay, I’ll get some of my brother’s old clothes. Meanwhile, get out of that stuff and we’ll run it through the dryer.”
Calvin briefly experienced a hundred lurid fantasies, then shook them off. “Gabs, give me your brother’s clothes and I’ll change in the bathroom, then we can toss the wet stuff in the dryer.”
Gabrielle headed to her brother’s room. “I’m making tea. Want some?”
“Real tea, or that flowery, herbal stuff you usually drink?
She stuck her tongue out at him, then disappeared into her brother’s room. “You might be able to fit into Peter’s clothes,” she called out. “You want a button shirt or a pull-over?”
“Doesn’t matter, whatever is convenient.”
She returned with a pair of jeans that had a hole in one knee and a flannel shirt.
“Thanks,” Calvin said. And because he sort of thought where this might be going, he leaned over and kissed her. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back, then pulled away.
“God, you are soaked,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Go change and I’ll get your clothes into the dryer.”
By the time Calvin had peeled off his wet clothes and squirmed into Peter’s – they were a size too small for him – Gabrielle was knocking at the door and telling him the tea was ready. His wet clothes were dispatched to the dryer. But then Gabrielle took him by the hand and led him, not to the kitchen, but up the stairs to her bedroom.
“I’ve decided something,” she said. She glanced at him and when he did not say anything, she blushed, but continued. “We’ve got a little more than three months before I go off to Swarthmore and you either go to school yourself or work full time as a fisherman. Even if we stay together, we won’t be able to see each other every day like we do now.” She reached over and touched his hand. “I want this summer to be about you and me. I want…” she took a deep breath and her eyes suddenly shone with unshed tears. “I want…”
“I know,” Calvin said simply. He took her hands and very softly kissed her forehead, then her mouth. “Yes.”
Gabrielle collapsed against him in a hug. Calvin suddenly felt embarrassed. “Ah, Gabs, listen, I don’t pretend to be any great, you know. What I mean is…” His voice faltered and he stumbled into silence.
Gabrielle laughed nervously. “It’s my first time, too.” She leaned forward and began pulling his shirt over his head. They had fooled around quite a lot in the first weeks they had dated, but they had never seen each other totally naked. But when his shirt and pants had dropped to the floor, there he was, in the flesh, bursting with youth and health, and obviously aroused. Gabrielle took in a deep breath. “Oh, God, you’re beautiful,” she blurted and kissed him hard.
When they came up for air, it took them no more than three seconds to shed her clothes and she stood there: proud, blushing, lusting, and suddenly shy. She was the most beautiful thing Calvin had ever seen, and he wanted her with every fiber of his being.
Which raised another issue.
“Uh, Gabs, I didn’t…I mean, I don’t have a condom.”
She giggled. “It’s okay, I got some birth control. You know, just in case…”
“You did?” he asked in surprise.
A red flush of embarrassment colored her neck and chest. “I had an IUD put in. I was thinking about you and me, and this summer, and going away in the fall, and…”
“Oh hush,” he said, kissing her, and they tumbled onto the bed. And it was fumbling and awkward…and utterly exquisite. And when they finished the first time, they took thirty seconds to recover, then did it again.
Afterwards, curled up against him with her head on his chest, she said shyly. “I’m so glad it was you.”
And Calvin, mind awhirl with everything that had just happened, did not know what to say, so he pulled her close to him and held her as if he would never let her go. Tears of happiness ran down both their cheeks, making them both laugh.
And later still, Gabrielle sat up on one elbow, her face unaccountably serious. “Calvin, can I tell you something? I th
ink my parents are going to get a divorce,” she said miserably.
Calvin roused himself out of post-coital torpor. “Why do you think that?”
Gabrielle pulled the blanket up to her chin. “They used to make love. I could hear them, you know, at night. But I don’t hear them anymore.” She smiled ruefully. “It used to embarrass me, but now I sorta miss it.”
“Gabs, it could be anything” Calvin tried to reassure her. “One of them might not feel well, or they might have had a fight, or, I don’t know, maybe they’re just getting older. Heck, your dad must be almost fifty. Do people that old even have sex?”
Gabrielle blinked in astonishment. “Of course people that old have sex! Don’t your parents have sex? And they’re older than mine. Geez, Calvin!”
Now it was Calvin’s turn to blink. He tried to imagine his parents together, but his mind shied away from the thought. Mom and Dad have sex? They used to, of course – he was here, after all, and his brother. But still? At their age?
“And lately Dad has been taking all sorts of business trips, so he’s gone a lot,” she continued. “And when he comes home, Mom isn’t overjoyed to see him. It’s just so different from how they used to be.”
“Have you asked your mom about it?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid to,” she confessed.
Calvin put his arms around her and she started crying. Not loudly, not big sobs, but he could feel her hot tears running down his bare chest and he tightened his arms around her to protect her from…he didn’t know what.
Anything. Everything.
______________
While Frank and Danielle ate a late breakfast and Calvin and Gabrielle reveled in their newfound intimacy, Bruno Banderas met with the four killers in their hotel room.
He passed out several photographs. “This first one is Frank Finley. He’s a cop with the North Harbor police, but he’s also working with either the DEA or the Maine DEA. He’s responsible for getting Mateo, Pablo and Arturo killed. He used to be a big-city cop, so don’t underestimate him.” Bruno pointed to two of the men. “You two are on Finley.” He explained how the hit was going to work. “I don’t care where you do it, but get it done.” He glared at them. “And make sure he’s fuckin’ dead. No screwups, no mistakes.”
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