by Warren Adler
"Hey, I'm talking your ear off and keeping you from your work."
"I don't mind," Grace said.
"Probably good for me. Maybe it will help stop the brooding."
"I've always been a good listener."
"And I've always been a good talker." He was surprised at the sudden compulsion to run from the mouth, but he had no wish to stop himself. "Maybe we should sit down."
There was a grouping of upholstered chairs in one corner of the room. A couch, an easy chair and a chaise longue.
"Take your pick."
She sat on the easy chair and crossed her legs primly. He sat on the chaise longue, stretching his slippered feet, which reached over the longue's edge.
"This was made for her. My legs were always too long for it."
"Would you prefer this chair?"
"No. It's all right." He shook his head. "Sometimes, when she was sick ... in those last days ... I carried her from the bed to this chair to give her a change of scenery." He grew silent. The shadows were lengthening in the room. "It's an awful thing to watch someone you love waste away. She was down under a hundred pounds when she died. You feel so helpless..." He raised his voice. "So damned helpless."
"I can imagine."
"Can you? I wonder. I don't mean to be insulting, and forgive me if I am. But this is something you can't know until you know. Do you understand?"
"I'm not insulted and I understand."
He observed a nerve palpitating in her cheek and hoped he hadn't upset her.
"It's something you can't escape from. Like being in a prison cell."
"I'm not looking forward to the experience," Grace said. She crossed her long legs and her dress hiked up. He noted that she pulled it down quickly. Suddenly he realized how she must feel, a strange woman in what was now a single man's bedroom. He pulled his mind away from such thoughts.
"It's so nice of you to listen to the ravings of an old man."
"I don't mind."
"You're being very tolerant. You don't have to be, you know." He shook his head again and felt his lips curl in a smile. "I look like hell, don't I?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Are you always so tolerant?"
He was sounding arrogant.
"I'm sorry," he added quickly.
"For what?"
"I sometimes get testy and arrogant. It's a side of me I don't like."
"These are special circumstances," Grace said.
He wished suddenly that she wouldn't be so understanding.
"Forgive me, I'm a grumpy old fart."
"Would you like me to leave?"
He shook his head.
"Just make allowances."
"I have."
"I'm old and grieving and bereft. Indulge me."
The woman remained silent.
"Do I seem old?" he asked suddenly.
"Do you seem old to yourself?"
"Questions with questions." He lifted his hand limply and waved it. "Sorry."
He was being obnoxious, he thought. The woman did not respond.
"Actually, I've had my satchels removed," he said, pointing to his eyes. "Anne called them that. She was always joking about something. One-liners. Lots of wisecracks. She kept me laughing." He looked up at her. "Maybe that's the secret of a long marriage. Humor. A sense of humor. That's it. I haven't laughed, really laughed, for days. Weeks, maybe."
"I'm not so hot at jokes."
He looked out of the window again. The sea was taking on the orange glow of dusk.
"It's getting dark and here I am keeping you from your work. So tell me, who will most likely be wearing my wife's clothes?"
"You'd be surprised how many women are desperate for clothing."
"Homeless women?"
"All kinds of women."
"I'll tell you this: They're going to look good in those clothes. Especially if they have the figure for it. She was ... a six ... I think. Yes, a six. Funny, I'm not sure. In an odd way size is a very private thing. Above all, I respected her privacy. What size are you?"
"At the moment, nearly an eight. At times I can fit in a six. Depends on the cut."
He inspected her figure, noting that she was larger-boned than Anne, taller and fuller.
"She watched her diet like a hawk. And worked out like crazy. We have a gym in the basement. I used to work out on the treadmill, but it's too damned boring. Instead, I take walks along the beach with my dog. He's been in the kennel since she died. I suppose I should take him out of there. I don't get aerobic, but who cares? Anne had a trainer come in three times a week. A lot of good it did her." He sighed. "Life's unfair."
"Yes, it is."
"Has it been unfair to you, Grace?"
He watched her grow thoughtful. The nerve that had palpitated in her cheek began again. She seemed to be searching for an answer.
"I try not to analyze things so closely."
"Ah, that means you think it's unfair."
"You go on and do the best you can. Period."
"You start at the beginning and go on until the end." He chuckled, finding the sensation illogically pleasant. "Alice in Wonderland."
Grace smiled.
"An interesting way to think about things."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, then Carmen's voice.
"Mister, you want supper?"
"Is it that late?" Sam said. "I really have kept you from what you came here for."
Carmen opened the door and inspected the two of them sitting in the bedroom. She seemed annoyed.
"I think I'm going to clean up and go downstairs," Sam said. "I can't stay up here forever. Life goes on."
"Good attitude, Mr. Goodwin," Grace said.
"Sam."
"Sam."
"Thanks for talking to me, was it Grace?" Sam said. She nodded. "Although apparently I did most of the talking."
"Probably a good thing for you."
"Probably."
He watched her uncross her legs and stand up. Carmen, too, watched her. She seemed none too happy.
"Make for Grace," Sam said
"No. I can't stay, Sam. I've got an appointment."
"I seem to have used up your time. Well, the clothes won't go away. Start when you can."
"What days would be convenient? Actually, it will probably take me awhile. Give me a time when I won't be intruding."
"Anytime, really. I'm not scheduled for anything. Not for awhile. Besides, you won't need me around."
"Can I start tomorrow?"
"If that's convenient for you. If I'm not around, which is unlikely, Carmen knows where everything is."
"I'll make for one," Carmen said, having listened to the conversation with interest. She shuffled out of the room, shaking her head. Sam smiled.
"She was very devoted to Ann," Sam said. "Everybody was very devoted to Anne."
"She was worthy of that devotion, Sam," Grace said.
"Yes."
He came closer and took her hand. It felt cool to his touch.
"Tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow."
CHAPTER SIX
She played the conversation over and over in her mind, trying to see herself as he saw her. From her point of view it was nothing short of a miracle, surpassing her wildest speculations. Once again, destiny had spoken.
She had spent the entire week planning for this event, thinking about it, staging it in her head, agonizing over her strategy, reacting to imaginary conversations, wondering if she would even be allowed into the house.
It had been, she supposed, like girding for battle, treating Sam like an objective, high ground to be captured. She decided that she needed to engage him in an unthreatening way, appearing low-key, a dedicated volunteer, sincere and, above all, someone who would look the part, dress the part, even talk the part and pass as his wife's social equal. That was essential.
She knew the physical image she needed to emulate. She had seen plenty of examples at Saks. Expensively attired, pampered
women whose self-esteem was buttressed by their pocketbooks, women who could afford to maximize their best attributes by emphasizing them with clothes, grooming and cosmetics. Her job at Saks was part of that system, enhancing the customer's best features and, more importantly, hiding their flaws.
She was far more confident about presenting the physical, the external view of herself, than the internal view. It was impossible to script in advance what she could say to him.
Certainly, she had to be cautious in her words, wary in her responses. She had to seem intelligent and strike just the right note of sincere sympathy. In effect, she had to tap all her resources and convey to him the first faint hint that she was someone worthy of his notice.
It was, she knew, a long shot motivated by desperation. It was one thing to plan and fantasize, quite another to make something happen that was far beyond her ability to manipulate and control. In fact, it was, by the laws of logic and reason, a ridiculous undertaking, a form of madness. What she needed most in this enterprise was blind luck.
Luck, she supposed, was a matter of timing, fate, Karma, the fickleness of the gods, being in the right place at the right time, saying the correct thing, placed in exactly the right atmosphere at the precisely perfect moment and striking exactly the right chord. If such conditions were the stuff of luck, she had never been blessed with it. She had never won a contest, had never come close in a lottery, had never been lucky at any form of gambling. The few times Jason had taken her to Atlantic City or to the local jai-alai games, she had always lost. Her horoscopes were never on target. Even her fortune cookies made only hapless predictions. Lady Luck had never given her a tumble.
She was a Sagittarius but had few of the vaunted attributes of that position in the Zodiac. Although she had been a committed Catholic, at least to the age of twelve, none of her prayers for her future had ever come true. She had prayed for a loving and prosperous husband and had gotten Jason. She had prayed for a boy and gotten a girl. She had prayed for good jobs, good wages, a nice home. Nada.
None of her wishes, hopes or ambitions had ever panned out. In truth, although she loved her, she was disappointed in her daughter: her performance in school, her values, her priorities, her aspirations, her morals, her choice of friends, especially that Nazi lover of hers. Worse, she blamed herself.
This was not to say that she felt totally luckless and devoid of hope and optimism. She was very healthy, almost never sick with colds or flu, had a good metabolism, white strong teeth, good posture, good skin and high energy.
The potential of a relationship with Sam Goodwin, although still in its embryonic phase, had forced her into a brutally honest self-evaluation. While her mental and emotional state might be considered shaky, her body, thankfully, was in excellent shape for a woman approaching her fortieth year.
Her figure, although fuller than when she was twenty years younger, was still reasonably muscular and youthful. She went sporadically to aerobics classes and rarely drank or overate. Her stomach hadn't pooched, her buttocks hadn't fallen, her breasts hadn't yielded to gravity and her gynecologist had commented that her vagina still held good tone and tightness. She was also quick to orgasm. Even Jason, at his worst, before he lost interest, could make her come.
Nevertheless, she believed that destiny required a bit of outside help to move it along the preordained track, which is why she took the long drive to North Miami to search out secondhand clothing stores that recycled designer clothes. It proved to be hard work, but she did find a silk blouse designed by Versace for fifty bucks, along with a complementary skirt designed by Donna Karan for another fifty. It took awhile, but she lucked out with a pair of shoes by Ferragamo, a bit pricey at seventy-five dollars but in fairly good condition.
With optimistic intent, and not without guilt, she went so far as to purchase a set of sexy underwear on sale at Victoria's Secret, in styles not quite Frederick's of Hollywood but close enough. Satiny and beautiful underwear, as every woman knew, gave one a sense of security in case of either accident or whatever unpredictable situation came up. Armored in this costume she felt comfortable, confident and strong enough to make her first sally into the alien territory of Sam Goodwin.
It was an agonizing decision, probably a wild gamble. She rationalized her expenditures by considering them an investment in her future. Besides, it helped keep her optimism in high gear. Her actions, she supposed, were like gambling, and she allowed herself to believe that perhaps her number, at last, was coming up in the big roulette wheel in the sky. Thinking about this made her giddy with enthusiasm and assuaged her guilt, at least for the moment. Would Jackie understand? She doubted that, although she assured herself that she was taking these steps for both of them.
What had actually happened in her first encounter with Sam Goodwin had exceeded her wildest expectations. He had even remembered her name. Not at first, but by the time she had left. And he asked her to call him Sam. At the beginning he had been indifferent to her presence. Then he had become a bit on the rude side, for which he apologized like a true gentleman. Then he seemed to have warmed up and, she thought, actually paid her some notice. She had been nervous at first, but then she had calmed down considerably and believed she had struck just the right note in conversation and demeanor.
She had no preconceived expectations, except to engage his interest in her as a woman. Beyond that she dared not speculate, except to wonder if Mrs. Burns would have approved of her technique.
She had certainly tried to display her wares in the best possible light, and apparently her choice of clothes was a grand success. Not that she wanted to remind him of the ill-fated Anne, but merely to illustrate that she came from the same high-class environment.
Sam did look awful, hardly the beautifully groomed, handsome man who appeared at the lectern to eulogize his dead wife. He needed a shave and his robe was creased and stained, as if he had slept in it. But she considered that allowing her to see him in this state had a sense of intimacy about it. Perhaps it even provided a bonding mechanism. She couldn't be certain.
She had been conscious of maintaining a certain level of propriety. Although her skirt was deliberately on the short side, she was demure in displaying much above the knee. If he had come on to her, despite her preparation, she had no idea how she would handle it. She dismissed the thought. Not so soon after his wife had died. She would definitely lose all respect for him if he had. She chuckled at the thought. Here she was, playing a role, a true hypocrite. What had respect got to do with it?
After awhile, her nervousness had receded and they had had a pleasant conversation about matters that were certainly not trivial. She could tell that the maid was not overjoyed at her presence and would probably be an obstacle. For that reason she had declined his invitation to dine. Above all, she didn't want to appear too pushy.
Nevertheless, despite the apparent success of this first encounter, she was uncomfortable about the lies she had told him. This business with Jason and the alimony, not to mention the original lie, that Anne had personally promised the gift of her clothing. One might argue that since the entire episode was one big lie, what did more lies matter? Call it desperate measures, the means justifying the ends. But then, her cause, she told herself, was just.
The visit itself was a charade. She had portrayed herself as someone she was not. Well not exactly that, she had conceded. But she had falsified her history. If he became attracted to her and they did form a relationship, would she ever be able to find the path back to truth? Probably not. She would have to pile on lie after lie and hope that he would be too involved emotionally with her to care. Or, if he did find out, she would hope that it would be too late for him to take any action, whatever that might be.
Anyway, she told herself, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. If she ever came to it. Honesty and expedience often conflicted. Didn't they? She was definitely jumping the gun on possibilities. Go with the flow, she admonished herself. Ignore all false hopes.
On her way back to her apartment, she decided to work out some of the finer points of tomorrow's visit. She couldn't possibly wear the outfit that she had worn today. Nor could she avoid the task of beginning to remove Anne Goodwin's clothes. Tomorrow, she decided, she would take a chance on tight jeans and high heels and a blouse open at the throat, showing just enough décolletage to broadly hint at the reality of her good tits.
She had done some preliminary research on what charities Anne Goodwin worked for and inquired which of them recycled clothes for the poor. The Jewish Welfare Society, the Salvation Army and the League for Homeless Women were three of them. Her objective, considering the sheer volume of Anne's clothes, was to make a major project out of it, slow things down, keep it going.
She decided that she would remove the clothes from Anne's closet in increments, pile them in the backseat of her car and bring them back to her apartment, which would be the site of the pickup by the various charities. There was no way of knowing how long it would take to empty the closet. It was huge, and she hoped it would take many trips and give Sam a chance to get to know her better and, she hoped, get used to her presence at the house.
Back at her apartment, she realized how much tension had built up inside her. To relieve it, she stepped into a hot bath and tried to calm herself. Her mind spun with scenarios. Above all, she needed to be brutally frank with herself.
She was, after all, one of many predatory females bent on Sam Goodwin. At least, she hoped, she might have gotten her oar in first. Obviously he was having a hard time accepting his wife's demise. She considered that a good sign. The more grieving the merrier.
She giggled suddenly. Perhaps that, too, was a reaction from the forced solemnity of the day. She was certain that, at least initially, if their conversations continued, she would have to hear long and loving recitations about his life with Anne—Anne the fabulous, Anne the wonderful, Anne the sainted, dear, beloved departed. She would force herself not to be resentful or jealous or mean-spirited about Anne. If necessary she would worship at the same shrine, pay tribute to the icon of recent memory. It would be one tough competition.
