There she was, crouching down on the floor, feeling along the baseboard, frowning. Her tweed skirt rode up high on her thighs. In the cloudy moonlight, her legs looked pale. Didn’t you hear me calling you?
Strange, she said. It’s the only untouched place in the whole house. Wait until you see our room. Floors disintegrated. Anthony Moldano and company are guessing some chemical, nothing fancy, but they cut the power. One of them said they were amazed the place hadn’t ignited. But nothing in here.
He nodded. Lucky.
She wouldn’t look at him. She put her hands on her knees and balanced, watching the floor. In what way are we lucky? she asked, softly, as if curious to hear his answer.
Maybe he should get down on the floor too, pretend that was really why they were meeting in the dark. A surprising possibility. She turned toward him at last.
Her short hair was combed straight back from her face and her eyes were open wide like when he’d first known her. But when she stood up, arms hanging loose, she looked forsaken. He almost didn’t know what to say. All the furniture, he said. I can’t remember where anything went. Where was the bed?
Right here. Jean walked the shape and then stood where a pillow might have been, facing the corner window. The sky from there looked ruffled with snow clouds, tiny flakes began to spin down here and there. Nick came closer. You okay?
Yes. Yes, fine, she said, moving slightly away.
He touched her shoulder, then reached his arm all the way around, pulling her back against his chest. He kissed the top of her head. She waited a breath, then let herself be held.
Jean, sweetheart, he said, and just stayed holding her. Then finally he said, This is Lionel. I’m sure of it. And it’s me, too, in a way. No, wait. Wait. No, don’t move, and I’ll tell you.
She tried to turn to face him, but he held on to her. I don’t get it, she said. I don’t understand.
He wants something from me, something in London. Something new.
She shook her head. Oh god.
He sees an opportunity there, and I’ve been positioned to make it happen. Do you see?
Jean kept still for a very long while. And you said no.
I didn’t even say it. Or maybe I did. I did.
A quick bird lift of her chin. Well, why can’t you say yes?
He coughed hard, turning away to catch his breath.
You could say yes and then change your mind. Jean unwound herself to face him. Nick tried to smile. Come on.
You could do that, just the first step or two, and then, I don’t know, get a proxy? My father never did anything himself, she said.
Sweetheart, I am the proxy.
She watched his face, studied him closely, and her eyes lost the sweetness he’d seen before. Well, that’s ridiculous, she said. I don’t believe you.
He kept watching her eyes.
You’re just saying that because you’re stoned. I can’t listen to you like this. She shook him off.
She touched the window, ran her fingertips along panes feeling for cracks. The cold was beginning to clear his head.
This room has good morning light, did you know that?
Her face in profile. He loved the long shape of her mouth, the way it curled like a cat’s when she was thinking. Tell me, he said. What?
She turned and the curl vanished, and her head seemed a dark unknowable shape. Shifting cloud cover dulled the moonlight.
You know, she said. I think if you try, Lionel may just be receptive to reason.
Nick sighed. You don’t understand.
I do understand. Only you need to approach him in the right way. He hates to be ignored. Anything else, he can tolerate, she said. He just wants your attention.
That’s what Harry said.
Well, for once Harry and I agree. Just appease him a little.
And then what?
Jean felt along the windowsill. The satiny paint she’d used was still intact.
Aren’t you cold? he asked. Where the hell’s your coat?
What do you care?
Even in Lily’s room the smell of the chemical used to sear the floors seeped in and made his skin feel tight. The stink was twisting deeper now. All right, he said. I’ll talk to him. But I can’t do the London thing. I’m done with all that, Jean. You have to know that.
You just told me I don’t know anything, she said. And then, quieter, Out behind the garage? I can’t even begin there. Someone else will have to do it.
Nick nodded. I know.
You’ll talk to him?
I will. Yes.
Tonight?
Not tonight.
Let’s get this over with, okay?
And then just for a second he could see her eyes light on him as if she’d thought of something tender.
What? he said.
I’ll tell you later.
Tell me now.
I was remembering the honey dream.
He smiled. I don’t believe you.
Just the part about the honey dripping and I was going to take it in my hand. Remember? She lifted a cupped hand and waved it, smiling slightly.
He watched her. I can’t do what he wants, you know. I can’t anymore.
She sighed then leaned back against the wall. How about sweater over the head, she said. One pull.
He pulled the sweater up off of her lifted arms. She wore a blue stitched bra he always liked; he touched the strap and she bent to kiss his wrist. You can do anything, she said. You’re the king of new, right? Right? He covered her mouth with his to stop her talking, put his hand over her eyes, her throat, then undid the bra. One breast, both, his fingers resting on the cool of her skin. Then he found the zipper on her skirt, yanked on the hook and eye. She reached around and the skirt dropped. His knuckle brushed the scar that divided her belly, both babies born this way; maybe the next would be different. The back of his hand down to the top of her thighs and up again. Lace band bright in the dark, he caught the edge and pulled. Tipped into him, her skin soft, smelling of some ordinary soap, almond, and yes, maybe honey. He wanted to laugh and then remembered Cubbie’s odd compliment for his school friend Claudia. He’d drawn a picture of a perfect white square. She’s as beautiful as white soap, Cubbie said and now Nick thought finally, he finally got it.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Elisabeth Schmitz for her luminous and extraordinary editing. Thanks to brilliant Melanie Jackson. Thanks to my beloved aunt Claire Walcovy for her encouragement. Thanks to Katie Raissian, Deb Seager, Charles Rue Woods, Christian Potter Drury, Paula Cooper Hughes, Morgan Entrekin and all the gracious ones at Grove Atlantic. Thanks to Brigid Hughes and Elizabeth Gaffney for taking early looks and to Dick Howe for his essential expertise. Thanks to the Corporation of Yaddo, its wonderful artists and sustaining angels. Thanks to Dana Prescott and Charles Bock for the invitation to glorious Civitella Ranieri. Thanks and love to friends and family: Diana Colbert, Hampton Fancher, C.A.M., Anne Wade, the original loved ones, their devoted writers, the Reillys and the mighty Pod. Above all, deepest thanks, dearest love to Duke Beeson for his oceanic generosity and kindness.
Table of Contents
THE LOVED ONES
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
THE LOVED ONES
Part I
Chapter 1 Winter 1969
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5 Summer 1970
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part II
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part III
&n
bsp; Chapter 24 Winter 1971
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgments
The Loved Ones Page 24
