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21
Maxie called as David drove home. “Would you like to share dinner with us?”
“Sure. If you don’t mind that I’m hungry and tired.”
“Hungry we can fix. Tired I’m not sure.”
He stopped briefly at home and changed into casual clothes including clean black sweats. When he arrived at their apartment not long after, Tory offered him a glass of wine. They made small talk as she straightened some things and they drifted toward her bedroom. Her bedroom door was open and he waited in the doorway—the room seemed neat, but not too neat. Some books were out of place. Three bears sat on the bed, facing different ways. A hair brush, a cologne spray with the top beside it, a crushed tissue with lipstick on it, lay on the middle of her vanity. The bed was freshly and tightly made. An Army duffel bag peeked from a half-open closet, black padlock anything but feminine. The aquamarine-and-black checkered deck shoes she’d worn to his house sat against the wall, one toe overlapping another as though someone pigeon-toed had worn them. A row of dresses peeked from a closet, conveying dressy but comfortable.
David joined the two women for a light dinner. From a half-open patio door, the kitchen air cooled sweetly, smelling of leaves and grass. They were all tired and ate quietly. They felt comfortable together, bonded by the Army and a dozen less tangible realities. Maxie played hostess, passing dishes around. She’d made a salad with good things in it, tomatoes, bits of ham, cheeses, chickpeas, a light dressing. He’d kicked off his shoes, following the women’s cue, and wiggled stocking feet in the thick carpet.
Maxie broke the relaxed silence. “Must be the night for sweats.” She wore sweat pants and a loose white T-shirt that barely hinted at girlish breasts. Tory wore light blue sweats and an olive drab T-shirt; she was nearly as tall as David, and more statuesque than waifish Maxie. “Next time we can coordinate,” Tory said stifling a laugh, exchanging a look with Maxie. Then Tory’s dark, serious eyes focused on David. There is electricity in the air this evening, David thought, feeling its subtle and persistent charge invigorate him like a cleansing and exhilarating halo of good ions. If it was a conspiracy, it was a sweet one; if it was dark, it was velvety, meant to envelop in good feelings. He let the two women snare him in their plot. He remembered how at home Tory had felt a few days ago at his place, and returned the compliment. “You have a nice place here. I feel right at home.”
“Thanks,” Tory said. “Do you like to play Monopoly?”
Maxie rolled her eyes up. “Oh no, that’s like when I was a kid.”
“It’s not so bad. It’s cheap, you don’t have to go anywhere, and you don’t wake up with a hangover.”
David grinned. “It’s been a while since I played Monopoly, but I used to really like the game. I used to drive my sisters crazy because I’d put up all these hotels and they’d land on them—”
“That’s it,” Maxie said, “he feels at home because we’re his sisters.”
“Believe me,” he said, “one lifetime growing up with sisters is plenty. No, I don’t think of you that way.”
“Friends,” Maxie said, extending a hand. He shook her hand, then extended his hand to Tory. She shook, too, with a giggle. “Pals,” she said. Then she told Maxie: “Nice dinner.”
“Yes, nice dinner,” David said, taking his plate to the sink. Tory stretched wide, yawning long. He took that as a hint. “Well, I’d better be moseying along.”
“Oh no!” both women said at once. Maxie said: “I’ve got to run to the store. Won’t you stay with her and guard the house just that long?”
“I have enough energy for one game of Monopoly,” Tory said.
He shrugged. “Sure.” As the Monopoly board appeared on the table, he tried to remember if you had to buy three houses on each square of a color before you could buy a hotel. He wondered if they put $100 in the pot to start out. Maxie had her shoes and coat and was headed for the door, mittens in one hand and pocket book swinging on its long sling. “I’ll see you guys later!”
“Bye,” Tory chimed, closing the door. She turned to David. “How about a nice glass of wine?”
“Sure, but I’m tired and a glass of wine might just knock me out.”
“Why don’t you rest? Come in the living room and I’ll fix a few cushions for you.”
“Shall I bring the game?”
“If you wish.”
He didn’t hear a great enthusiasm in that reply, but he picked up the game, careful not to spill the pieces through its torn cover. He set the game down on the living room floor. She brought a wine bottle and two crystal glasses. She set a vase of red flowers on an end table and turned the lamp above the vase down low. He wondered how they would play the Monopoly game in fifteen watt light, but then again he still had that sixth sense of a velvet conspiracy. Tory lit a fire in the fireplace, using briquettes and small chunks of hardwood. Instantly the room took on a faint smoky aroma that reminded him of walks in the autumn woods long ago with his mother and father, and nights when the fireflies still glowed but the first hint of freshness was driving the summer laziness out of the early darkening air. He lay propped on a series of cushions facing her. She eased onto one elbow, facing him. Her eyes glittered with messages obscure and urgent. He would take his time, because she was giving him all night. It was a delicious stretching out of something wonderful, like—he smiled inwardly at a funny thought, and she must have seen him light up. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I was just remembering something, don’t know exactly why. When I was a kid, taking a long time to unwrap a candy bar, enjoying the thought of how good that candy bar was going to be, trying to stave off each bite as long as possible. Including the first bite.”
“Do you still do that?” She pulled a blanket over her legs.
“Which, the first or the last bite?”
“All of what you said.” She pulled another blanket over her back.
“I think so. Only with really good things.”
“Really, really good things?”
“Really, really, really good things.”
“Maybe you could explain a little more closely.”
“Do you mind if I sit close so I can explain better?”
“Oh, please do. I can’t wait to learn all about this.”
He nudged himself across the two or three feet of shag. “Well,” he said, setting his wine glass down on the brick footing of the fire place, “Maybe it would be best if we used a, you know, an example.” He took her hand.
“A ferinstance.” She held his hand, pulling lightly.
He nudged closer, heart pounding in his collar, mouth dry in sweet anticipation. “Yes, that’s it. Well said.” He smelled her hair, her faint perfume or soap.
Firelight flickered on her face. “I don’t think I’ve had one of those really, really, really good things in a long time, David, before I met you.”
“Here’s one now,” he said and bent down to kiss her. Her hands rose and he felt the coolness of her fingertips as she guided his cheeks close. Her mouth was ready for him, warm, wet, moving as her hands closed around the back of his head, as her fingertips dug hungrily into his hair. Her breath came in gasps. She half-turned, thrusting her hip against his. He sighed deeply and surrendered with fast-beating heart. “You didn’t offer me a blanket,” he said. “I was wondering if you wanted me to be cold.”
“Oh no,” she said sincerely, “I was planning how I could get you over here under the blankets with me.” She pushed him aside just an inch or two, enough to pull more blankets over.
“Did you plant those there?” he whispered, raking her cheek with kisses. He could see the pulse beating fast in her neck, and he kissed the throbbing little spot. She lay back. Her eyes glittered in firelight as she stole her free arm around his waist. Her expression was hungry, and she closed her eyes as he leaned forward to kiss her on the mouth again. His fingers stole about, feeling soft spots everywhere, playing up and down her curves. His fingertips found the border of her T-shirt and crawled underneath up the flat of her belly until they reached the firm strap of a sports bra and the sudden curve of one breast, then the other. They were delightful to the touch, firm, each a full handful, the cotton bra a flimsy thing barely in the way. She writhed against him, and her fingertips racing among his vetebrae as if searching for all the switches that would make him tingle.
And tingle he did, as all his cares fell away. He heard a distant car swish by, saw the movement of headlights on the ceiling, painting languid shapes of light that fled like manta rays. In this otherworldly, underwater fantasy of fleeting shapes and stopped time, David felt himself tempted by a rousing passion.
She threw the blankets back. “This candy bar is going to melt.”
“I got one that’s not melting at all,” he said, aware of himself.
“Come with me.” She rose and offered a hand.
“What about—”
“I think she went to Florida shopping,” Tory said.
He put his arm around her waist, and she put hers around his waist, as they went to her bedroom, each carrying a half empty glass of wine. She put on soft music; something classical, very Debussy, La Mer, its textures gliding over and around and through one another like the surfaces of a shifting sea. As she stepped to the window, tugging at a shade, he stepped behind her and put his hands on her waist. Gently, he turned her, and she turned in his arms. They resumed their kiss in a languid embrace, as if in a dance together. He held the long curves of her torso, felt her flat belly against his. His fingers explored the thick drawstring in her sweatpants. It was elastic, and gave as he tugged. He felt her fingers working on him. In a moment, he felt the cool night breeze on his buttocks. His hands roved down her back, glided around her rear. He groaned, turning up his face as her hands sensuously enveloped his most delicate parts. With a near-awkward dance, she stepped out of her panties, and they sank onto the bed together locked in an embrace.
He kissed her passionately, trying to prolong the suspense. Her tongue worked against his tongue and her ragged gasping began to become a rapid series of soft pleading moans. He reached down and pushed her long legs apart, gently massaging her in urgent circles. He felt warmth, jelly, moisture. The insides of her thighs were damp. She turned her head from side to side, eyes closed. Her hips pressed toward him as he entered. She breathed in rapid gasps as the first of many orgasms arrived. Seeing her at the edge, wanting to be there with her, he slapped rapidly against her soft skin until they both arrived, moaning in unison, and collapsed together exhausted but happy. Thus, they fell asleep.
Later in the night, they stirred in their sleep. David reached out for her. The bed felt cool, the sheets soft. Still mostly asleep, they rubbed their legs and thighs and bellies together, enjoying the friction of smooth skin on smooth skin under warm blankets. He kissed her nipples, alternating from one to the other. She pulled at him gently, cuddling and caressing him. He kissed her below, smelling the sweet clean fluid like a fog by the sea with just that tang of suggestion. “Hurry,” she whispered. With a cry of hunger, he entered. She turned her head sideways and pulled a pillow up to muffle the wail that escaped as he rocked in her. They were perfect for each other, he and she, rising toward the sun together, she sobbing, he thrusting hungrily but with a hand gently under her head lest she hurt herself against the headboard—until all the passion was spent and then they lay together, afraid to say I love you—just yet.
David awoke hearing the sound of a trash truck somewhere. He was naked, and stuck to the sheet. As he peeled the sheet back, he saw Tory’s sleeping figure and marveled that she was really as long and beautiful as he had imagined. She stirred, yawning, and touched her fingertips to her eyes. She turned so he was in her peripheral vision, and said “Hi.” She turned fully to regard him, as though this were the moment of truth.
“Hi,” he said. He lay back and pulled her to him. “You are beautiful.”
She crawled on top of him and pulled the blankets up over her back. He felt himself growing erect, straining for her. She received him readily. They lay thus, in that soft gray light, that was timeless and underwater, and rocked unhurriedly in tiny motions, like two vessels drowsing at the docking post. Like a long, slow afternoon—
After making love, they lay looking into one another’s eyes. David saw the time and groaned as he sat up. “We can’t be late for work.”
Tory sat beside him and cupped his face in her hands like something precious. Her eyes gazed fearlessly into his and he read passion and sincerity in them.
“I feel swept away by you, Tory.”
“You better not hurt me, David.”
“I couldn’t.”
Her voice was low and fragile and dangerous. “I’ve been hurt before, as I am sure you have, and I’ve walked away and picked up the pieces, and in the last year or two I decided why is it worth that kinda hell, I’ll never fall in love again, and then I stumble over a guy like you, and maybe here I go again.”
He wanted to say I love you but he wasn’t ready to do that yet. It was coming, like a train, and the tracks were humming a mile up ahead, but that big old train had to take its time. He knew it and he hoped she knew it.
She continued in the same tone, hardly catching a breath. “I’m a pretty straight shooter and I expect the same of you.”
He gazed at the ovals of her cheeks, the seriousness of her lips, the lightning in her eyes, the resolve in her chin, and loved her already. “I’m falling for you, Tory, pretty heavy, and it’s a scary ride, but I’ll go it if you want.”
“I don’t want anything from you except you open the door for me and you hold the chair for me when I sit down and you don’t ever, ever yell at me or raise a hand to me, do you hear?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want from me?”
He thought for a moment. What could he say? He’d been hurt too, but he wasn’t going to make a speech.
She shook his head gently between her palms. Her face came close as if she wanted to kiss him or maybe peer into his skull. “What do you want?”
He held her, one hand on each side of her, his fingers feeling her ribs, as though she were a vase or an amphora or an urn containing all that would ever be his in life, free, just there for the taking, as long as he had the courage and the will just then, for she stared unflinchingly into his eyes. He felt the steady beat of her heart, the pulsing of her blood—or was it his? He felt the generosity in her open palms as she held his cheeks in her palms. She whispered one last time: “What do you want?”
“I—” He wanted to say, yes I’ll do those things and not do the other things you said; don’t go off with another man; maybe cook dinner once in a while or pat the pillows up or tell me to take my feet off the sofa or praise me if I remember to do the dishes. I want a corner to sit in and read and I don’t want you to rearrange my books, or throw out my newspaper, or close the magazine I leave open. All that came out was: “I want you.” But there was that little corner of uncertainty, and he heard her make her prophecy again in Arlington: “You’ll want children of your own, and then you’ll leave me.” He resolved to watch that little doubt carefully; if it grew, he would have to bail out, in fairness to her and to himself. Could she be wrong? Could it be doable? His heart raced at the thought.
Her eyes drooped briefly: “I can see the little doubt inside you. It’s okay.” She brightened, and kissed him a peck on the lips. “You said what I wanted to hear. C’mon, I’ll race you to the shower.”
A minute later, in the warmth and soapy steamy enclosure that was barely big enough for two people, their moment of gloom disappeared and she said: “Hint, big hint: I like romantic letters and cards. They don’t have to ramble on and on, but I like them.”
“Duh, where can I find one of them?”
As she shut the water off, she said: “David, this is like wartime. You’ve seen those old movies. When you’ve got something, you better reach out, grab it, and hang on. Who knows where this will end.”
“Those are the old movies,” he agreed. “Do you like to go for long rides in the countryside?”
“I sure do. All the way out to Tabitha Summers’s place, I kept looking at you while you were driving. You looked so strong and handsome.”
“Gawrsh, Lottie.”
She whacked him with the washcloth.
He examined her bottom. “Hey, you get pink all over when you’re wet, huh?”
“Just when it’s very warm.”
Breakfast was a blur of Maxie moving here and there as she made breakfast—hot oatmeal; milk, sugar, coffee, bacon. David and Tory sat contentedly at barstools around the service counter.
David was used to wearing a sidearm while on duty since this CON2 had begun; he thought nothing of seeing Tory armed, since she was an MP officer. But here was Maxie, 100 pounds soaking wet, casually holding a spoon of oatmeal in one hand and a piece of buttered toast in the other, while, over her white T-shirt that hinted of breasts, she wore a shoulder holster, and hanging in this apparatus was a huge 9 millimeter cannon. He was going to ask if it didn’t drag her down on one side, but some instinct told him he’d better not poke fun at her. Never poke fun at a person packing a piece, even if it’s Maxie, he sniggered inwardly. So he ate quietly, enjoying Tory’s nearness.
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