For Ruth Ann
Thou art my own, my darling and my wife
And when we pass into another life
Still thou art mine
—A.J. Munby,
Marriage
They reached the cottage a little after four that afternoon. David parked the car in front of it and he and Ellen sat in silence, looking at its faded clapboard siding, its torn, rusty screens and grime-streaked windows. Finally, David said, "I wonder if Roderick and Madeline are expecting us."
Ellen responded with a faint noise but whether of amusement or distress—or both—David couldn't tell. He turned to her and smiled consolingly. "You want to try some other place?" he asked.
She faced him in surprise. "But the realtor told us there was no other place," she said.
"Not here, no."
Her expression deepened. "Not in Logan Beach?"
"I mean—" David gestured aimlessly "—rather than stay where it's unpleasant for you." He managed another smile. "It would only be for the nights," he said. "We'd spend the days here."
Ellen nodded vaguely, looking at the cottage again. They couldn't really spend the days here, David knew, if nothing else, it was too cold. Slumping back, he dropped his hands from the steering wheel and turned toward the muffled pounding of the surf. Odd that this place had survived when the other hadn't; it was just as close to the water.
"A pity the other cottage was destroyed," he said.
She answered quietly. "It is a pity."
David looked at her, trying to appraise her expression. There was sorrow in it, certainly; disappointment. Was there, also, resignation? Reaching out, he squeezed her hands where they lay, held together, on her lap.
"I'm not trying to change the plan," he said. "It's just that … well, we've come a long way. It would be a shame to stay in a place that depressed us."
She looked over worriedly. "Where would we go?" she asked.
"Oh—" He shrugged. "I'm sure there are places all along the Sound. We could—"
He stopped as Ellen shook her head determinedly. "No," she said. "I'm sure this one's all right. We haven't even checked inside and, already, we're condemning it." She smiled. "Come on, let's take a look."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." Ellen opened the door on her side and got out.
David pushed out the door and stood, wincing at the cramped stiffness of his legs. He stretched, then shivered as the icy wind bit through his jacket.
As they neared the back of the cottage, David noticed a bank of high windows on its second story. 'That must be the studio," he said.
Ellen glanced up at the heavily draped windows.
"Must be quite a view from there," David said. He shivered fitfully. "Wow, it's cold!"
"I know."
Something in her tone—defeat, despondence—made him look at her inquiringly. She noticed and forced a smile. "Don't mind me," she said. "A little terminal nostalgia, that's all." She looked around, attempting optimism. "Logan Beach hasn't changed that much."
"Except for our honeymoon haven being blown out to sea by a hurricane."
"That is a disappointment" Ellen said. "I'd looked forward to seeing it again."
"Maybe it's just as well," he said. He didn't look at her but, from the corners of his eyes, noted her questioning glance. "I mean—"
"What if it looked—different?" she supplied.
He nodded. "It's best that we always recall it as it was"—in 1960, his mind appended; dear God, twenty-one years ago. The thrust of pain was sudden, unanticipated. Momentarily, his veneer of pretense seemed to fall away. With dogged will, he forced it back. Taking the realtor's key from his jacket pocket, he slid it into the front door lock. The bottom of the door rubbed across frayed carpeting as he pushed it open.
"Shall I carry you across the threshold?"
"Can you?" She repressed a smile.
He glared at her in mock reproach. 'The gall," he said, "and me a two-hour-a-week weight lifter." Bending over, he pressed his left arm behind her knees, his right against her lower back. "Allez-oop," he said.
"No; honey." Ellen's smile grew, suddenly, awkward. I was only teasing." She pulled away from him. "You'll hurt your back."
David straightened up.
"You don't want to spend your second honeymoon in bed, do you?" she asked.
"That is exactly where I want to spend it."
"A hospital bed?"
"Touché," he said.
As they entered, David grimaced. "If possible," he said, "it's colder inside than out."
Ellen smiled. "I'm sure a nice, big blaze in that fireplace would take the chill off."
David nodded as he glanced around. "It's not too bad," he said. When Ellen didn't respond, he looked at her. "Is it?"
"No, it's nice," she answered, without conviction.
He slipped an arm around her waist. "Come on," he said. "We'll find another place." Ellen looked at him, confusedly. "You don't like it here," he told her.
"Yes, I do."
"No, you don't. Come on, we'll look for—"
"No." She cut him off with such intensity that David was startled. "I mean—" She smiled self-consciously. "—We planned to spend the week at Logan Beach. It wouldn't be the same if we didn't."
"I know, but—"
"I like it David; really. It's just the cold that—there." She pointed. "There's the gas heater the realtor mentioned. We get that going in addition to the fireplace and it'll be as cozy as—" She gestured undecidedly.
"Christmas at the morgue?" he said.
She made a reproving face and moved into the living room. David watched her for a few moments, then turned and shut the door, shivering. The air seemed to possess almost a tangible mass, he thought; he envisioned it seeping into his lungs like some sub-zero liquid. Clenching his teeth as though to set a barrier against it, he followed Ellen into the dim-lit, shadowy room.
The raised-hearth, stone fireplace was to his left, centered on the west wall. Above the cobbled slab of its mantelpiece hung a painting of a sailboat yawing sharply in a turbulent sea. David squinted; it was an original in oils. He passed his gaze across the built-in bookcases on either side of the fireplace, the small, shade-covered windows above them. He looked at the furniture: the bulky sofa facing the fireplace, the armchairs, tables and lamps. They reminded him of furniture he'd seen illustrated in a 1937 Sears-Roebuck catalog borrowed from the research department of MGM.
"It isn't bad at all," Ellen said.
David glanced at her. "You really think so?"
She smiled at him. "I like it"
"All right," he said.
"Good, it's settled then. Let's look at the rest"
Something in her voice—a vestige of the eager, childlike quality he'd always loved—made him smile and put his arm around her. "Lead the way, Ellen Audrey," he said.
They moved across the faded carpeting, by-passed the narrow, wall-flanked staircase and moved into the dining alcove, the ceiling of which was only a few inches higher than the top of David's head. The niche-like room had a double window, nicely curtained; parquet flooring with a multicolored oval rug covering most of it; a circular maple table with four captain's chairs around it a tarnished, copper light fixture suspended overhead; sind, to the right of the kitchen door, a sideboard with a dust-filmed mirror hanging on the wall above it.
"This is kind of nice," Ellen said.
"Mmm-hmm."
David pushed open the swinging door and followed Ellen into the kitchen.
"Oh, well, it's nice and warm in here," he said, looking at the steam which clouded from his lips.
"Open the door and let the cold out," she suggested.
"Here's the trouble," David told her, crossing to the small refrigerator and pushing its door shut He saw the wire and plug coiled on top of it. "Drat" he said. "And, here, I wanted some ice cubes."
"You can use my toes and fingers," Ellen said.
Smiling, David twisted one of the stove knobs without effect. He turned it back into place and looked around at the sink and counters, the windows, above them, facing the Sound; the windowed, shade-drawn door, the yellow, wooden table-and-chair set in the center of the worn, linoleum-covered floor. "Let's face it," he said, "it's the kitchen."
"Or the freezer," Ellen answered, turning with a shudder and returning to the dining alcove.
He found that he couldn't move, a weight of enervation holding him immobile. They should never have come back to Logan Beach; it had been a vain fancy on his part. He wished that they were in Sherman Oaks, in their comfortable hillside home. It seemed absurd that Mark should be alone there, with them a continent away.
"Honey?"
Ellen had pushed the swinging door half open and was looking at him curiously. "Something wrong?" she asked.
"No, no I'm just—" he forced a smile and started toward her "—daydreaming." He mustn't ruin this for Ellen. "Hey, we haven't looked upstairs yet."
Ellen returned his smile. "Let's take a look," she said.
They crossed the dining alcove and made a right turn onto the shadowy staircase, Ellen going first As they started up the threadbare, carpeted steps, David looked at the assortment of small paintings hung along the stairwell, each of them a local coastal scene or seascape. 'These must have been done by the same artist who did that painting over the fireplace," he said. He stopped to examine one which depicted the beach around the cottage. He pointed at the upper left-hand corner of it. "There's that mansion," he said.
Ellen stopped and looked around. "What a view they must have, way up on the bluff like that," she said.
"I wonder if the same people still live there," David said. "Not that we'd know if we saw them."
Halfway to the second floor was a landing with a door on its right David twisted the icy, brass knob and stepped inside the darkened room. "God," he muttered. Ellen hissed and stopped beside him.
"This one is the worst of all," she said.
David crossed the wooden floor, his footsteps sounding thinly hollow. Drawing back an edge of drape, he looked out. "Quite a view," he said, impressed. "You can see—" He broke off as, in glancing back, he saw that Ellen was still by the doorway, arms crossed, teeth on edge. "Too cold?" he asked. She nodded jerkily.
The doughnut-sized curtain rings slid hissingly along their rod as David tugged the drape back, uncovering more than four feet of window. He looked around the huge room. It was empty except for a wooden work table standing near the east wall, its surface cross-hatched with palette knife scars and spangled by paint spots, plus a sagging couch pushed against the wall by which he stood; David glanced at the faded pine cone and needle design on its slipcover, the folded blanket at its foot. "I doubt if we'll get much use from this room," he said.
Ellen didn't answer and he looked around. She was waiting for him on the staircase landing. Walking back, he left the studio and pulled the door almost shut. He put an arm around her shoulders as they started up the stairs again and Ellen shuddered. "You are cold," David said.
"It caught up with me."
They reached the second story landing and David opened the door in front of them, twitching at the shadowy image of himself and Ellen in the bathroom cabinet mirror. "There they are, folks," he said, "that frolicsome duo—Gooseflesh and Shivers." Ellen grunted, smiling wanly as he steered her to the left and opened the bedroom door. "Here we go," he said.
Leading Ellen across the dimlit bedroom, he sat her on the uncovered mattress of the maple four-poster. A checkered black and orange comforter was hung across the foot rail and he slid it off, coughing at the dust as he shook it open. "House is, obviously, in constant use," he said. He lay the comforter on Ellen's shoulders and tucked it around her body and underneath her legs. "There." Leaning over, he kissed the tip of her nose. "Like kissing a snowman," he said. He patted her shoulder and looked around. "Hey," he said, "just what you've always dreamed about—a fireplace in the bedroom."
"Put me in and light me," Ellen said, huddling, cringed, beneath the comforter.
David walked across the room and peered into the fireplace. "I do believe—" he said. He moved to the nearest window and raised its shade, returning to the fireplace to look inside again. "Yeah." He set aside the screen and, picking up a brown-edged newspaper from the raised hearth, crumpled several of its pages and stuffed them underneath the block of charred driftwood. There was an old book of matches on the mantel and lighting one, he held the flame against the paper which ignited instantly. He straightened from the flaring blaze and put the screen in place, then turned. "How does it look?" he asked.
"Like heaven," Ellen said.
Smiling, David moved back across the room and raised the shade of the dormer window. Looking down, he saw the car, the sight of it, suddenly, making him wish that they were in it, speeding back toward JFK where they could leave it at the rental agency and book passage on the first available flight to Los Angeles. He fought away the impulse, turned. Ellen was standing in front of the fireplace, the comforter held around her. David walked over and put an arm across her shoulders. "Better now?" he asked.
"Mm-hmm."
"Good."
They gazed into the crackling flames a while before David spoke. "It's going to work out fine, El," he told her.
She smiled but it was not convincing to him. He patted her back. "I'll get the luggage," he said.
"Want some help?"
"No, no, I can manage. Concentrate on getting warm."
She smiled. "All right."
David left the bedroom with the feeling of a prisoner in flight.
The wind had nearly stopped now. It was as cold as ever but without the cleaving wind, in no way as unpleasant as it had been that afternoon. David felt almost comfortable as he drew up the lid of the woodbox behind the house. He started reaching in, then drew back his hand and peered inside. Wouldn't do to die of a spider bite on our second honeymoon, he thought. Seeing nothing, he reached down into the box and hauled out several sawed-up lengths of driftwood.
Closing the kitchen door by leaning back against it, he crossed the dark room, shouldered open the swinging door and moved through the alcove to the living room. Ellen was burning empty cracker boxes in the fireplace. Like him, she was dressed in bulky camping clothes.
"Sure you had enough to eat?" she asked as he dumped the wood on the hearth.
"Plenty." David removed his jacket and tossed one of the driftwood sections on the fire, jabbing it into place with the poker. He left the screen off and they sat beside each other on the sofa, propping their feet on the hearth. He put his arm around Ellen's shoulders and she leaned against him.
It had been a pleasant evening. Originally, they'd planned to eat in Port Jefferson, making no attempt to housekeep until the gas and electricity were turned on tomorrow. The prospect of a fifty-four-mile round trip over dark, unfamiliar roads seemed untenable however, particularly when there were enough fruit and crackers left over from a snack stop that afternoon. They had made a simple meal of these, sitting in front of the fire and chatting.
"I bet Linda and Bill would enjoy it here," Ellen said.
"I'm sure they would," he grunted in amusement. "Though I doubt if Bill would much enjoy driving twenty-seven miles over back country roads to a hospital."
"No." After several moments, Ellen's smile faded. "I hope the baby isn't born while we're gone," she said.
"You told her to keep her legs crossed till we got back, didn't you?"
Ellen made no reply and, glancing over, David noted that her smile was one of wistful melancholy. He wondered if it troubled her to be the mother of a young woman shortly to become a mother herself. Not that Ellen ever indicated anything but pleasure at the thought; still, it was an unavoidable reminder of her age.
He settled back against the sofa cushion. The impetus of conversation seemed to have dissolved; probably, because of the silence and the somnific flickering of the fire. Fixing his gaze, he stared at the flames until darkness blotted in around him. It was as though he sat at one end of a long, black tunnel, at the other end of which the fire burned. Gradually, consciousness began to fade, the darkness penetrating to his mind. He hovered on the murky edge of sleep, doing nothing to avert the plunge. Weight suffused his eyelids, they started drooping.
"Honey?"
David's legs retracted jerkingly, he hitched around to look at her.
"You going to sleep?"
"No, no." He fought away a yawn. "What's on your mind?"
"I was just wondering if you'd care to take a little walk before we go to bed."
"Yeah," he said. "A good idea."
Five minutes later, they had left the house and walking toward the water, crunching sand beneath their high-top shoes. "Which way?" David asked.
"Well …" Ellen pointed speculatively toward the distant bluff. "That way?"
"I see nothing against it."
Ellen linked her arm with his. "Then that's the way we'll go," she said.
"We'll have to take a nice, long hike tomorrow, bring a picnic lunch along," he said.
"That would be fun."
They said no more and David lapsed into an almost thoughtless reverie, the rhythmic crunching of their shoes along the sand and the recurrent boom and hiss of the surf acting, on him, like a narcotic. Soon he was aware of no particular emotion, his mind suspended in an undiscerning void. When, finally, she spoke, he didn't hear the words and, starting, glanced at her. "Mmm?"
"This is what we did that first night," she repeated.
David registered the words but not their meaning. First night? Nearly fifteen seconds passed before it came to him that she was referring to their honeymoon. 'That's right," he said, "we did."
Silence again; with it, a burden of renewed despondency on David's mind. Was it really going to work? Could they make it work after what had happened?
'There's that mansion," Ellen said.
David blinked, refocusing, and tilted back his head to look at the summit of the bluff ahead. The upper stories of the house were visible against the sky, lamp light in one of its windows. "I wonder who does live there," he said.
"Whoever it is, they're probably in Europe now," she said. "Or Hawaii."
"Good God, you think it might be just their summer place?"
"It might." Ellen pulled up the collar of her jacket, shivering.
"Cold?" he asked.
"A little."
"Want to go back?"
"Let's walk a little further."
"Okay."
Shortly afterward, they reached the foot of the bluff to find themselves blocked because the tide was in. They stopped and David draped his arm across her shoulders as they watched the breakers. For a while, he tried to think of something they could talk about but finally, gave it up. There was no help for it he simply couldn't overcome this feeling of inert detachment But was it his or hers?
"I guess we both could use a good night's sleep," Ellen said, at last.
'We could at that," he heard himself reply. "We'll walk some more tomorrow."
While Ellen was washing and brushing her teeth—earlier, he'd managed to turn on the water—David kindled a fire in the bedroom, then stood before it, taking off his clothes as rapidly as possible and donning his pajamas; he was grateful, now, that Ellen had persuaded him to bring along a pair of woolen ones. Scuttling over the icy floorboards, he yanked back an edge of bedclothes and squeezed beneath them, hissing at the coldness of the sheets. He thrashed his legs to warm them, then sat, arms crossed, shivering fitfully as he looked around the quiet room.
He wondered when the house was built, deciding that it couldn't have been later than the early thirties. It was not too unattractive a place, really this room was rather nice, in fact. Like the dining alcove and, to a lesser degree, the living room, it had a quality of tasteful organization about it.
Reaching out, he pulled open the bedside table drawer and looked inside. It was empty except for a box of incense called Amour Exotica; the name made David smile. Lifting off the cover, he sniffed at one of the shriveled, umber cakes inside, grimacing at the odor.
He replaced the cover, dropped the box into its drawer and pushed the drawer shut. Twisting around, he started to prop one of the pillows against the headboard when he noticed a row of five, time-worn X's scratched on the wood. He wondered who had put them there. A woman, probably; men were not inclined toward this symbol for the kiss. A young woman—perhaps a girl; a honeymooner even. Turning back, David slumped against the pillow, visualizing her in this bed with her new husband. They had just made love and were lying, side by side, in cozy indolence, legs entwined, the man's arms wrapped around her warm, soft body. Now the woman reached back languidly and, with her fingernail—or a bobby pin or the stone of her engagement ring—scribed an X on the headboard, then another and another until all five were there. Done, she gave her husband a smile of drowsy contentment and, cuddling close to him, fell sound asleep.
In the fireplace, a chunk of wood broke loose and tumbled to the grate. David started and turned, starting again as he saw that Ellen stood, immobile, in the doorway, looking at him; he wondered how long she'd been there. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Nothing." Ellen smiled elusively and crossed the room. She set the candle holder on the bedside table and began removing her bathrobe. She wrinkled up her nostrils. "What's that smell?" she asked, grimacing.
"Amour Exotica," he answered.
"What?" Her smile was tentative.
"Incense." He pointed. "In the bedside table drawer."
"Oh." She draped her robe across the footrail, moved around the bed and shucked her slippers to crawl across the spread and get beneath the covers with him. "Oh, my God," she said, "it's like sliding in between two sheets of ice."
"It's warmer over here," he told her.
"I don't want to get you cold."
"Don't be silly."
"Well …" Ellen shifted toward him gingerly, the touch of her chilled feet against his ankles making him jump. "I'm sorry," she said.
He tried not to wince at the constant, icy pressure of her feet. Reaching up, he buttoned shut the neck of her blue and white ski pajamas, conscious of how boyish in appearance Ellen was, at that moment her small bust inconspicuous beneath the loose, woolen folds, her dark, blonde hair cropped short.
After she was warm, he drew aside the bedclothes and, standing, headed for the bathroom. "Brush my teeth," he said.
"Won't you need the candle?" Ellen asked.
"Oh; yeah." Turning back, David hurried to the table and picked up the candle holder. "God, this floor is cold!" He started toward the hall again, then sidetracked to the bureau and, shifting rapidly from foot to foot, fumbled through the contents of the suitcase, looking for his slippers. Finding them, he put them on and turned for the doorway. "Be back," he said. She didn't answer and he glanced across his shoulder at her. "You be here?"
She nodded, smiling. "Brush 'em good," she told him.
When he returned, Ellen was lying with her back turned to him. David set the candle holder on the table, kicked off his slippers and slid beneath the bedclothes hastily; the intense chill of the bathroom had penetrated to his bones, it seemed. Lying down, he shuddered violently several times, then started warming. Shortly afterward, he drew his left hand from beneath the covers, licked the tips of his thumb and index finger and pinched the burning wick.
He lay still for almost half a minute, then pushed up onto his right elbow to lean over and kiss the side of Ellen's neck. "Good night," he said. The bedclothes rustled as she stirred; her palm stroked once across his hair.
"Night," she murmured.
For a while—to him, it seemed, at least an hour—David lay on his back, eyes closed, waiting for sleep to come. God knows I'm tired enough, he thought repeatedly. With all the details of preparing for the trip, the pace of the last three days had been frenetic. Now, all of it had reached fruition; they were here, the stimulation of incessant activity ended. It seemed logical to assume that he would sleep, having slept so meagerly in the past week. Oppressively enough, the opposite seemed true.
David opened his eyes and looked at the wavering reflection of fire on the ceiling. Outside, the breakers crashed resoundingly, more loudly with each passing minute, he imagined. Why had he always assumed that the sound of surf conduced relaxing? Obviously, it didn't. The booming of the waves was unsettling to him; as if he were attempting to rest while lying in the vicinity of periodically fired cannons. He twisted sluggishly onto his right side. Great if he didn't sleep all week, he thought; he'd make a fine companion.
"Can't you sleep either?" Ellen asked.
David started in surprise. "You're still awake?"
"Mm-hmm."
"What's wrong?"
She hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe I'm cold."
He hesitated several moments, then shifted over to her. "Here," he said. He put his left arm across her. "Lie against me."
"I don't want to keep you from sleeping."
"You won't"
"You're sure?"
"Yes," he said. "Come on."
"Okay." Ellen huddled back against him. Except for her feet she seemed almost hot to David. He smiled, thinking how uncanny it was that a woman could feel so warm and still be cold.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, then, as Ellen snuggled closer to him, realized that, from force of habit, he had cupped his hand over her right breast; he could feel, through her pajama top, the nipple hardening against his palm. Soon, the nape of her neck came in contact with his lips and he kissed it automatically. Ellen writhed a little, sighing. David felt his body tensing, and he pushed against her harder. Almost independently, it seemed, his fingers slid beneath the bottom edge of her pajama top, eased up across her ribs and gripped themselves around her breast again. Kneading tautly at the flesh, he began to roll her erected nipple between two fingers. Ellen drew in laboring breath.
"I'm going to try. I really am," she said.
A wave of coldness seemed to pass across David and he stopped caressing her.
"I told you it wouldn't be easy," she said.
He sighed. Be reasonable, he told himself. "I understand," he said.
"I'm still a little … shaky, David." She was silent for a few moments, then spoke again. "I'm going to try, that's all I can say."
David kissed her on the cheek. "Okay," he said. "I'll wait."
She put a hand on his and squeezed it. "Thank you," she murmured.
After a while, very slowly, she began to inch away from him. He pretended he was sleeping when it happened.
He thought he might have slept; he wasn't sure. Time had lost its continuity and he couldn't tell how long afterward it was that Ellen stirred. Perhaps it was her movement that awakened him. Opening his eyes, he watched her draw covertly from him, sitting up. "What's wrong?" he mumbled.
"Oh; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Why are you sitting up then?"
"Oh …" She looked unsure. "I thought I'd take a walk."
"Now?"
She didn't answer but, after several moments, stood, hissing at the coldness of the floorboards. As she felt around, located and put on her slippers, David pushed up on his right elbow, watching her groggily. Ellen glanced at him and he wondered if he saw, in the uncertain light, a smile flicker across her lips. "Go back to sleep," she told him.
"Don't you think you ought to get some rest yourself?"
"I will, in a while." Ellen gathered up her clothes and shoes and, lighting the candle, started for the hall.
"You want me to go with you?" he asked.
"No, no; rest," she answered.
He watched until she'd gone into the hall, then, as the bathroom door closed, slumped back on his pillow. He visualized her dressing in the chill silence of the bathroom, her shadow gelatinous on the walls and ceiling. Hell, he thought.
Sighing wearily, he turned onto his left side and stared at the fire. It was burning steadily, short yellow flames licking up around the chunk of driftwood like demon tongues. The idea occurred to him that actually, Ellen planned to take a drive. He smiled in rueful amusement envisioning her driving to the airport and flying back to Los Angeles without him. That'd be a merry prank, he thought.
His gaze shifted toward the doorway as Ellen left the bathroom and started down the stairs. You sure you don't want me to go with you? he imagined himself calling after her. Then: How long will you be gone? Finally: Be careful! By the time he had considered speaking each of them aloud, the front door had thumped shut and she was gone. David rolled onto his back with a sigh.
A short while later, he exhaled surrenderingly and, sitting up, threw aside the covers. For several moments he sat immobile, eyes closed, then with a mumbling groan, slipped his legs across the mattress edge, wincing as the soles of his feet touched the floorboards. Standing, he donned his robe and slippers, an idea presenting itself to mind: to go downstairs and make some coffee; be waiting, on her return, with a full, steaming pot of it plus a blazing fire in the living room. The notion vanished in an instant. That's a great idea, he thought, except there's no coffee and no way of making any.
He looked around. Well, he could have a fire waiting for her anyway, some toasted cracker crumbs, he thought, smiling to himself. He'd make the gesture anyway. He turned for the hall. Need a candle, he thought. No, he didn't; he could find his way without one.
Darkness pressed against his eyes as he left the bedroom, feeling to his right until he found the bannister rail. Brushing fingertips along the frigid surface of the wood, he scuffed his way to the stairs, turned right and started down. As he descended, he reached up with his left hand and held together the edges of his robe.
He was starting across the studio landing when a narrow bar of light suddenly appeared on the floor in front of him. Recoiling with a gasp, he stared at it obtusely for a few seconds before turning his head to see that he'd left the door enough ajar that afternoon to admit the light. Swallowing, he stepped to the door and pushed it open.
The light was from the moon; it must have left obscuring clouds precisely at the moment he had reached the landing. David looked across the broad expanse of floor which seemed to have been gilded with a coat of luminous paint After several moments, he walked across the studio to the windows.
The view was startling. The entire beach had the cast of faded silver and, even though the surf was more than a hundred yards distant the crash and frothing dissolution of each wave was astonishingly visible. David's gaze followed the sinuous line of moonlight reflected on the Sound until it receded into blackness.
He looked to the right and left, trying to see her—but she was out of sight That or his vision wasn't strong enough to pick her out at any substantial distance. He closed his eyes to rest them. Probably need glasses, he thought.
He wondered what he should really do. Remain here, staring emptily at sand and sea? Go downstairs to poke and feed the fire back to life? Or go back to bed? He remained immobile, unable to decide.
He never knew how long he had been under observation. All he knew was that abruptly, he was conscious of being watched and turned to see a figure standing in the doorway. "I thought you were going for a walk," he said.
There was no reply.
"Well?"
Still no reply. David frowned. "Aren't you even going to talk to me?" he asked.
The figure stood in silence.
"Ellen?" There was something else beside annoyance in his voice now, a tendril of disquiet. "What's the matter?"
His breath caught as a young woman took a step into the moonlight staring at him. As initial shock declined, David saw that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life, her shoulder-length hair jet black, her features perfect, carved as if from ivory. She wore a pale white skirt and sweater set, a chain and locket at her throat. Her feet were bare and flaked with sand.
David swallowed. "Can I help you?" he heard himself inquire.
The woman murmured. "Terry?"
David looked at her confusedly. When she spoke the name a second time, he answered, "No, I'm sorry. I'm—"
He broke off, shuddering, at the sound she made—part sob, part convulsive inhalation. For a moment, he thought she was going to cry.
"You … live around here?" he asked.
The woman's dark eyes held on his. She didn't answer.
"Miss?"
Her eyelids fell shut as though to block away the sight of him, her expression, now, one of bitter disappointment. For almost thirty seconds, she stood motionlessand still, enveloped by an obvious grief. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him again. "I live down the beach," she said, "around the bluff." She came a few steps closer to him, staring at his face as if to verify, to herself, that he was not the man she sought David grew uncomfortable beneath her intense surveillance.
Suddenly, she smiled and he caught his breath a second time, the effect was so startling. Since his early twenties, he had not reacted in such a way to sheer, physical beauty—with a binding at the throat a palpable stagger of the heart. The woman was exquisite, her beauty that of dreams.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to stare at you."
"And I'm—" He stopped in consternation, finding himself about to say: And I'm sorry that I'm not Terry. He cleared his throat. "—Wondering what you're doing here," he finished awkwardly.
"I saw firelight upstairs," the woman said, "and I thought—" For a moment, sorrow flickered on her face; then she smiled again. "I knew the artist who lived here last summer," she explained. "I was out walking and I saw the firelight and thought—he's back."
David nodded, staring. When she said no more, he twitched as if emerging from a reverie, feeling gauche for having gaped at her like a bedazzled school boy. "And his name was Terry," he said, speaking the first words that came to mind.
"Yes," she answered, 'Terry Lawrence."
"I see." He was beginning to nod vacantly again. Dear God, but she was beautiful. He twitched a second time, struggling for poise. "Is he the one who did those paintings downstairs?" he asked, deliberately. "The one over the mantel; the miniatures on the stairwell?"
The woman nodded. "Yes; aren't they good?"
"Very good. I was saying to my—" David hesitated for an instant, then, recognizing that it was reluctance to mention Ellen which motivated the pause, continued self-reprovingly, "—wife this afternoon how interesting they are."
The woman gazed at him fixedly, making him swallow. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry I keep staring at you. It's just that you remind me so of Terry."
He could neither rationalize nor overcome the surge of pleasure he experienced at her words. Instantly, his mind was jumbled with a chaos of jejune replies and he found himself torn between the habit of shunning any lapse in personal taste and the compulsion to voice the phrases nonetheless.
She spared him the necessity of decision by asking, "Don't you want to know my name?"
"Yes; of course." Was that really his voice he heard; so throaty, so affected?
The woman walked over to him, extending her right hand which, in the moonlight, looked almost opalescent. "I'm Marianna," she said.
As in a dream, David held the hand in his, so close to her now that he gave up trying to resist the urge to stare.
"What is it?" she asked.
"You're—"
"—what?"
He drew in halting breath. There seemed no way of avoiding the particular words. As near to him as she was, her skin and features were like flawless marble.
"You're very beautiful," he said.
Marianna's grip tightened slowly and he had the sensation of his fingers coalescing with hers. She spoke but it was only incoherent sound to him. "What?" he murmured.
"You haven't told me your name," she repeated.
"Oh." He winced embarrassedly. "I'm sorry. It's David." For some reason, it seemed extraneous to mention last names. David and Marianna were quite enough.
He realized that he was still holding her hand and, with a diffident smile, released it, scouring his mind for some appropriate remark. "So you … thought Terry Lawrence was back," he said.
She nodded. "I've been waiting for him."
"You're not in touch with him then," he said, hoping that his curiosity was not as obvious as it seemed.
Marianna shook her head.
Good, he thought; it startled him to note how instantly. He smiled as though to mitigate the flash of unwarranted reaction. Her returned smile made him shiver, it illumined her face with such a radiance. "Would you like to see a painting he did of me?" she asked.
He was just aware of nodding. "Yes," he said.
"Come along then."
He couldn't take his gaze away from her as she took his hand and started guiding him across the studio. There are certain human beings, he thought whom nature has created so consummately that they have been accorded the status of art objects. Marianna was one of these.
"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked.
David flinched, realizing that, somehow, he had deluded himself into thinking her unaware of his scrutiny. Momentarily, he tried to think of some politic lie, then gave it up. "Don't all men look at you like that?" he asked.
Her reaction was an unexpected one. Stopping, she turned to face him, grasping his other hand as well. "Look then," she said.
For a moment, he resisted, some dormant inhibition cautioning him; then surrendering, he looked at her without restraint, moving a candid gaze across the separate elements of her face—her forehead and her eyes, her nose and ears, her cheeks, her lips, her chin—then relishing the perfection of their blend. As moments passed, he started to acquire an almost irresistible craving to lean forward and press his face against her ebony hair, to kiss her cheek, even take her lips with forceful greed. Abruptly, he drew his hands away, just able to murmur, "I guess I'd better stop now."
"Why?"
"Because—" He blinked and shook himself. "Well, because—" The only phrase his mind could invoke was: Because I am a married man, and he rejected that as too baroquely corny even for consideration. "Just because," he settled for. "Show me your painting."
Marianna gazed at him with childlike curiosity, then returned his smile, bewitching him again. "All right" she said and led him to a wall.
David looked at her. 'This is it?"
"Mmm-hmm."
A fragmentary dread oppressed him; that she wasn't quite as rational as she seemed. Her teasing smile assuaged the doubt. David repressed his own smile and said, "I see a wall."
"Yes, so do I," she said. Looking at him with the impish smile, she felt along the paneling until something clicked and, where the wall had been unbroken, a door now stood ajar. "There," she said.
David peered inside. "What's in there?"
Marianna moved into the darkness. "Come and see," her voice invited.
Something in her tone reacted on his body like an excitant and, suddenly, he felt desire coursing through him like a fuming wine. He began to speak, realized that his throat was parched and swallowed, clearing it. "All right" he answered, following her.
Silence. Blackness pulsing at his eyes. David squinted, trying, in vain, to pick out Marianna's silhouette.
"Where are you?" he asked.
She didn't answer. David reached out with both his hands, groping for her like a blind man. "Marianna?"
"Here," she said.
David tightened as the words I want you flared across his mind. Watch it he thought; he was allowing himself to be misled by this quasi-romantic atmosphere. "Where?" he asked, a tinge of self-willed impatience in his voice.
Suddenly, her hand was grasping his, her presence engulfing him again, drawing at him with a magnetism he could, almost, feel. Part of him shrank from it in prudent apprehension but another part wanted to pull her to himself in savage wantonness, embrace her violently, take her lips, demand—
"What is it?" Marianna asked, as he shuddered.
He drew in stifled breath. "Where's the painting?" he asked.
"You really want to see it?"
It was, the way she said it, practically an invitation. He could see no other possible interpretation. Closing his eyes, David tried to disengage his hand from hers, appalled at the erratic flutter of his breathing. "Yes," he said. "Where is it?"
Marianna's hand let go and the all but viable current ceased to flow between them; a tide of coldness seemed to cover David. "Right over here," she told him.
"I'd better light a match," he said.
"Is your wife angry with you?"
David started. "What?"
"When you thought I was her, you said: Aren't you even going to talk to me?"
He blinked, remembering. "Oh."
"Have you been arguing?"
"Well …" He felt inclined to snap: What business is it of yours? but couldn't bring himself to do so. He stood in hapless silence.
"Never mind," Marianna told him in a subdued voice, "you don't have to tell me."
Instinctively, he reached out in the dark to take her hand and reassure her, then, stiffening with reaction, checked the movement, pulled out the book of matches he'd found on the bedroom mantel and struck one. It didn't work and he had to use a second one. Marianna averted her face from the leap of flame, her expression one of momentary pain.
When she looked back at him, David felt the drawing tingle in his flesh again, stronger than ever now. It was almost unbelievable that any woman could be so lovely. He stared at her, imprisoned by her beauty.
"There's the painting," Marianna said, pointing. From the way she smiled, it was obvious that she knew his feeling and he turned away, resentful, yet, at the same time, reluctant to remove his eyes from her.
From what he could see in the imperfect light, the painting had not captured all her grace; but the essence was there, the—he stumbled briefly for the word—spirit David nodded slowly, unaware that he was doing so. He raised the match to see better. For an instant the singularity of it all struck him—standing in a musty storage room with this woman in the middle of the night gazing at her portrait by the flickering glow of a match flame—then, the notion vanished and, once more, he was isolated in wordless homage to her beauty.
"Do you like it?" Marianna asked.
"It's very good," he said. "When did he paint it?"
"Last summer."
He lit another match and kept looking at the portrait nodding. It showed only Marianna's head and shoulders. Did he ever paint you in the nude? the question sprang to mind. He restrained it, loathe to consider the thought; why, he had no idea. It was implausible that he should feel possessive toward a woman he had known no longer than ten to fifteen minutes. It was her beauty, of course, he realized then. To view it was to covet it.
He turned back. "Well, it certainly—"
He broke off, seeing that he was alone. Startled, he moved to the doorway in the wall and back into the studio. Marianna stood at the windows, looking out. David shook out the match. "Shall I close the door?" he asked.
"I guess," she answered, sounding vague and apathetic. David felt a pang of concern. Without knowing why, he was conscious of a need to please her. Keeping his gaze on her face, he reached back and pushed the wall door shut, then moved over to where she stood. She did not acknowledge his presence. David winced unconsciously. Her remoteness was unsettling to him. Several minutes ago, their rapport had been complete. Now she seemed withdrawn beyond reach. Impotently, he searched his mind for something which might bring her back. "That's a—pretty locket you're wearing," he said, finally.
She turned to face him and, although he strained to curb the reaction, her affectionate smile sent renewed pleasure through him. "Would you like to look at it?" she asked.
"Very much." Momentarily, he saw himself, a character in some improbable television drama, mouthing lines bestowed upon him by some unseen—and highly unaccomplished—writer. The vision was eclipsed as Marianna reached behind her neck with both hands and he noted, almost with a start, the imposing swell of her breasts. Swallowing, he took the circular locket from her hand and looked at it. In the moonlight, he could see that it was gold, with a jewel in its center. He looked at her. "Diamond?"
"Yes," she said. "Terry gave it to me."
He nodded, smiling, doing it, he sensed, as he had described in far too many scripts: bravely. "He must love you very much," he said.
Marianna turned from him abruptly. "He doesn't love me at all," she said. "If he did, he wouldn't have left."
David stared at her, as pleased as he was caught off balance; he'd expected anything but this. He started then as Marianna turned and headed for the door. "I have to leave," she said.
"But—" David broke off, strickenly, realizing that he had no right to voice the words which filled his mind: When will I see you again?
"Goodbye," she said.
Right hand raised impulsively, David started after her, then, once more, checked himself. He had no justification whatever to follow Marianna. The knowledge filled him with a sense of crippling loss as he watched her leave the studio and turn left to go down the staircase. In a while, still listening, motionless, he heard the front door shut and drew in sudden breath. Turning, he moved back to the windows, hoping to catch sight of her outside.
There was nothing. Time passed and there was only empty, moonlit beach before him. David's shoulders slumped. He stood there several minutes longer, then, with a weary sigh, trudged across the studio, closing the door behind him as he left. He felt depleted. The ascent to the bedroom seemed as arduous a labor as he'd ever undertaken.
It was not until he'd sat down heavily on the bed that he felt the locket in his hand. He stared at it a few minutes, dismally, then, on impulse, began to pry his thumbnail in between the halves, thinking that they might be separate; he flinched as they sprang ajar. Lighting another match, he looked at the right-hand photograph. He frowned. He didn't look, at all, like Terry. His gaze shifted to Marianna's face.
The sound he made appalled him. It was such a sound as youth might make when suffering the unexpected onslaught of love.