by Warren Adler
These activities were confined to places he visited on business or, when he was home, assignations in other towns like Fort Lauderdale or Miami. Eventually it became a way of life for him, and he accepted her lack of suspicion as evidence that either she was equally uninterested in sex or she had accepted the idea that he went elsewhere for his sexual gratification. He had never been certain, nor did he ever raise the subject.
He followed a routine of complete caution and secrecy. Never would he put Anne in a position that would embarrass her or cause her the slightest twinge of pain. During all their life together, he had been extraordinarily lucky. Not a single one of the dozens of women he had bedded outside of the marriage bond had caused trouble.
Of course, he had taken extreme precautions. He did wonder how she might have reacted to a discovery of his affairs, even one of the many, but he always aborted the prospect in his imagination. It was too painful to contemplate, both as to her disappointment in him and his own sense of humiliation.
He would never, ever, compromise himself with someone in their circle or in the geographical proximity. He had had women everywhere that he traveled, wherever he had businesses. With some he had become infatuated, always a sign of danger requiring immediate extraction. Money usually accomplished his purpose. He had also made a point of making it clear that he was married irrevocably, that there was no chance of anything but a transitory relationship.
The fact was that the more his libido was repressed at home, the more it exploded outside. He pursued whatever fantasy seized his imagination and found no end of participants for every variation that might satisfy his starving libido.
With the onset of the AIDS epidemic, he became more cautious, more selective and, eventually, too frightened to be promiscuous. So far he had been lucky about contracting a venereal disease. Now it was different. Not only did he fear for his life, but, by then, his fear of exposure, which meant discovery by Anne, had reached a level of morbidity that bordered on paranoia. It wasn't guilt. He had never felt guilt. Necessity, he assured himself, had given him permission to live this secret life. He wasn't proud of it.
Despite this deviation, he devoted his life to building his credibility and portraying himself to her as a person of the highest moral standards, faithful to a fault, a dedicated and loving husband, helpmate and father, a man of sterling principles. Indeed, he had often thought, he had accomplished the impossible. He had compartmentalized his life, mind and body.
The onset of Anne's illness, a form of bone cancer, forced him to temper his desires, although he once again took up his practice of secret therapeutic masturbation. It was more occasional than it had been early in his marriage.
Once or twice, as he sat beside Anne's bed, he had contemplated the idea of confession, but he had decided finally that what he had done, his secret life, had hardly touched her. Why contribute to her pain? he decided.
It was a revelation to him that her death did not elicit any feeling of regret for what he had done. His secret life had remained just that, secret, and irrelevant to his marriage. He grieved sincerely for her loss and missed her terribly. Despite the withholding and his lack of total honesty, she had been, undeniably and irrevocably, the anchor of his life. Her death had set him adrift.
Grace came out of the dressing room in Anne's beige dress and stepped immediately into Anne's closet. When she came out she was wearing high heels. She had also applied some makeup.
"You look lovely," Sam said.
"Do I?"
"May I watch you walk around a bit?" Sam asked. "You know, like a model."
Grace laughed.
"Really, Sam. It's sort of embarrassing."
"Go on. Walk across the room."
She did as he asked, moving with a self-conscious swagger, exaggerating her walk like a model.
"It gives me great pleasure to see you walk," Sam said.
"I suppose I remind you of Anne."
"In a way."
"I hope it doesn't make you feel too sad," Grace said.
"A little," he admitted. "But I do appreciate this, Grace." He sighed. "Go on. Walk some more."
She walked across the room and back. He felt his erection throb against his pants and crossed his legs to hide it from her. He noted that her legs were not bare.
"I guess you found her panty hose," Sam said.
"It wouldn't have looked very well with bare legs."
"I believe she had drawers full of underwear, lingerie and panty hose."
"Yes, she did."
He felt an odd sense of elation rising along his spine. Looking at his crotch, he saw the telltale signs of arousal. He moved in his chair in such a way so that she would not see what was happening.
"Tell me, Grace, do you feel uncomfortable in that dress?"
"Honestly?"
"Of course, honestly."
She put a hand on her hip in a kind of pose.
"Good. I feel good." She smiled, and they exchanged glances. "Honestly."
"I'd like you to keep it, Grace. It becomes you."
"Sam, I told you before, I don't think it would be ... well ... appropriate."
"Who will know?" He looked around the room. "It's just between us."
"I couldn't."
He wanted to argue the point, but he feared that she might misread his motives, although, at this stage, he wasn't quite sure what they were. Above all, he didn't want to scare her away. In fact, what he really wanted was for her to try on more of Anne's clothes.
"I'll tell you what, Grace," he said. It was a sentence he used commonly in his business dealings. "Let's not rush this. Look through the closet. There must be certain types of clothes, like jeans, T-shirts, sneakers. Things that might look ordinary to the charity folks. Easily disposed of things. Why not get rid of those first?" He was being the dealmaker now, engaging his negotiating skills.
She grew thoughtful for a moment, studying him. He noted her hesitancy and suspected that her decision might seem as if she was crossing some kind of a line. It was not unlike the feeling he was having.
"It's certainly a practical idea," she admitted. "But it doesn't mean I will accept any of her clothing."
"I wouldn't think of pressuring you about that ... although..." He hesitated, still cautious about going too far, now that he had gained a point.
"You won't think I'm being ridiculous, Grace?"
He knew what he wanted to say, but this time he grew hesitant and, for a time, he was silent.
"You've been through a traumatic experience, losing someone you cared about so much. How can I possibly think you could be ridiculous?"
"The fact is, it gives me pleasure to see you, someone alive, living and breathing, wearing her clothes."
"That doesn't sound ridiculous to me."
"Thank you, Grace. For your understanding. The truth is, I do feel slightly foolish. Above all, I don't want you to feel you have to do this."
She studied his face and smiled.
"Would you like me to continue?" she asked.
"Please."
She walked back and forth across the room, again with the model's swagger, as if to underline her comment. Her walk seemed more exaggerated than before, and he wondered if she knew what was going on inside him.
He had no illusions about what was happening to him. It was startling. He was turned on, his libido fully awakened.
He tried to keep his reaction hidden as she continued to strut the length of the room. Thankfully, she hadn't seemed to notice. If she had, she might think he was perverted in some way, or kinky, a dirty old man, which might strike her as far worse than appearing ridiculous. He hadn't expected this to happen and he was embarrassed.
"I appreciate this, Grace," he said, crossing his legs to hide the evidence as she stopped her model's walk and approached him.
"I've got a confession to make, Sam. I'm enjoying this."
Then she ducked into Anne's dressing room. He wondered what she meant, what degree of pleasure she was ind
icating. Was it possible that she was having a similar reaction?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was flushed, and when she removed Anne's dress she noted that the flush had spread all the way to her chest. Removing Anne's panty hose, she noted the profusion of moisture in the crotch. Letting the water run in the sink, she dropped the panty hose in and let them soak.
She felt giggly, slightly high and sexually charged. She was completely surprised by her own reaction, and she knew that the slightest help from herself would bring her to a climax, but she repressed the urge. She might get too carried away by the process, make noises that he would hear. She had expected the world of the rich to be different, but not this different.
She certainly had not banked on events taking this turn. In fact, she couldn't believe what had occurred. It was hardly in her lexicon of possibilities. And it did further expand her knowledge about the sexuality of older men. She had indeed seen the telltale signs of his arousal, despite his attempt at hiding his condition. It certainly seemed at odds with his grieving, and it confused her.
She slipped back into her slacks and T-shirt and wondered if it was she who had turned him on or some imagined fantasy about Anne for which she was a sort of substitute. Did he see her as herself, or as Anne? However he saw her, he was obviously engaged in a sexual way by her presence in Anne's clothes. Nevertheless, it did amaze her. But if that's what it took, she told herself, then she would be a willing participant. If that was his turn-on, so be it.
Grace was further confused about how to conduct herself now. Would he attempt to seduce her? Not that she needed much prodding. Above all, she didn't want to be perceived as an easy lay. On the other hand, she didn't want to appear standoffish and unavailable or merely a sex object, a role in which she had never seen herself. Actually, she had enjoyed modeling Anne's clothes for Sam, wiggling her fanny as she walked across the room, feeling his hot eyes watching her, getting a sexual charge out of it herself.
She had consented willingly. Had it been too willingly? She still needed to maintain her dignity. Sam, at least outwardly, seemed a dignified man. He had a distinguished presence and appeared kind and gentle, a man of caring and feeling. With such an attitude, she was surprised that he had accumulated a fortune. Captains of industry, entrepreneurs, bosses in general, were supposed to be ruthless, unfeeling, concerned only with the bottom line. Mrs. Burns was the embodiment of that attitude. We are here, Grace, to move merchandise, she remembered her saying.
Admittedly, she had never confronted a man like Sam Goodwin, a multimillionaire and a Jew, at such an intimate level. Nor had she ever had much contact with men over sixty. For that matter, she had never tasted Dom Perignon. The beige dress was a Geoffrey Beane, easily costing in the thousands. She had never worn such an expensive dress in her life. This barrage of "firsts" was heady stuff. She felt suddenly misplaced and contrived. Yet it was not unpleasant. Yes, she told herself, she could get used to this life.
She squeezed out the panty hose, hung it from a towel rack, then came out of the dressing room. Sam was nowhere to be seen, a good thing, since she was still flushed. She decided to concentrate on her original plan, the disposal of Anne's clothes. She mustn't lose sight of that chore. It was the umbilical cord of her relationship to Sam.
In keeping with his wishes to give away the so-called ordinary clothes, jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, she stopped the mechanical rack at that section of the closet reserved for them. She had never ceased to marvel at the way Anne had organized her clothes. Of course, the ordinary clothes were hardly ordinary—jeans by Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger. T-shirts were also expensive designer products. Sneakers as well.
She removed them from the rack and replaced the expensive dresses, skirts and blouses that she had collected earlier. She was determined to keep within the boundaries of the deal he had set. Considering how she had lied her way into his presence, and continued to lie about her history and background, especially that extraordinary bit about her ex-husband being a homosexual, she did not want to compound the danger by showing him any sign of acquisitiveness.
Nor would she be tempted to do what Jackie had done, despite the fact that she was increasingly doubtful that the act would ever be discovered. She was not Millicent Farmer, she insisted to herself, although the commonality of their objectives was too similar for comfort.
She studied the bedroom, as if seeing it for the first time, the Goodwins' king-sized canopied bed, the thick carpeting, the antique mirrors and lovely oil paintings, the furniture, elegantly French provincial, the wonderful appointments and expensive knickknacks. This, too, seemed to reflect with amazing accuracy her earlier fantasies, although she had definitely not pictured the photographs of Anne in various poses and ages scattered around the room. Yet she felt no inhibition about speculating what changes she would make if she, by some miracle, would become the next Mrs. Goodwin.
While she admired Anne's taste, she knew she would have to put her own stamp on things. Her experience in design was rudimentary. Having never been exposed to such choices, she was not even sure what she liked in terms of period or furnishings. Baltimore's Italian ghetto was eons away from this. Naturally, she would have to hire the best decorators and designers. Thinking about that brought her to a new level of anxiety. She had no idea what she meant by her own stamp.
From her vantage everything in the area, including all of Anne's clothes in the closet, as well as the undergarments, panty hose and nightgowns that filled the cabinets in the dressing room, were excessive, beyond the needs of any individual. She supposed that this was what wealth meant: the ability to acquire more of everything, regardless of the waste.
Apparently Sam couldn't care less about what Anne had spent on all this. It boggled her mind to think of the money he must have. Was such generosity a manifestation of his love for her, his abject and unjudgmental devotion? God, how wonderful it must have been for Anne to revel in such worship.
She picked up an armful of jeans and started down the stairs. Carmen came out of the kitchen to peer up at her and scowl, but she said nothing and offered little help. You'd be history if I ever ran this house, Grace said to herself, annoyed at the woman's obvious rudeness.
It took two trips to put the jeans and other sports clothing in her car. In retrospect, she was satisfied that the day had gone very well. Perhaps she had needed the respite, needed the time away to assess the situation. Besides, destiny had intervened. His phoning her proved that.
When she came back into the house Carmen stood at the door, looking belligerent, as if she were guarding the entrance.
"Would you get Mr. Goodwin, Carmen? I'd like to say good-bye."
"I not know where he is," Carmen answered grudgingly.
"Has he left?"
"I tole you. I not know."
She started to move through the ground-floor level of the house.
"You can't do this," Carmen said, following her. She heard Sam's voice in the distance and started to follow it.
"I tole you," Carmen cried, stepping in front of her.
"Carmen, get the hell out of my way. I'm here at the invitation of Mr. Goodwin and you have no right to be rude to me."
"You got big eyes, woman. I see." She pointed a finger at her eyes to emphasize the point.
"Is that you, Grace?"
Sam came out of his den. He was wearing half-glasses, which he slipped off when he saw her.
"I'm going, Sam," Grace said. "As you suggested, jeans and sports stuff first. I'll drop them off today."
"Good," he said, hesitating. He looked toward the hallway, where Carmen was still standing, watching them. Meeting his glance, Grace noted, Carmen turned away indignantly and moved back to the kitchen. Freed from her surveillance, he seemed to loosen up. Smiling, he looked into her eyes, and she forced herself to meet his gaze.
"I hope you'll be here tomorrow," he said.
"There's still lots to do."
"We could take a walk first, go for a swim. Up for it?"
"I'll try, Sam. It was fun."
For the first time she was conscious of studying the details of his face. He had Wedgwood blue eyes, full lips, his square chin was slightly cleft. As a cosmetician, she knew faces. His face was well boned, tightly fleshed for his age, although it was impossible to hide the aging skin on his neck, around his Adam's apple.
At this distance she could see his teeth, which were even, too even, and glistening white. Implants, she decided, which brought her gaze back to his eyes, looking for the telltale signs of the surgeon's knife. In her line of work she had seen enough plastic surgery to tell at a glance. He had admitted that he'd had an eye job, but there were no signs of a face-lift. His steel-gray hair was razor cut and colored naturally. He was obviously vain about his appearance and had taken steps to hold back the disintegrating aging process as best he could. As a younger man, he might have been characterized as handsome, and age had made him distinguished in a very sexy way.
She knew his age. He did not look it, although she had no real frame of reference or comparison. Sixty-four, he had told her. She remembered the Beatles song about being sixty-four. In terms of chronology and by comparison with her own age, he was certainly old, although there was a proud aura about him of virility and strength.
Realizing that she was studying him too intently, she averted her eyes. Did he sense the intensity of her scrutiny? She wondered what was going through his mind. What did he see in her face? Did he see the insecure Italian girl from Baltimore who, with her life at least half over, had made a mess of it? Could he see through her deception?
