by Warren Adler
Lingering over the coffee, she also recalled yesterday's modeling experience. Was she replicating Anne for him, recreating in his imagination some sexual episode with her? The idea encouraged her. After all, she was exploring ways to replace Anne. So was he, for that matter. And she hadn't felt demeaned or cheapened or even insulted by participating in this fantasy of a reincarnated Anne. And it had excited him. She smiled at the memory. It was exciting and sexually stirring for her as well.
When she left McDonald's she headed for the supermarket and bought a package of large plastic garden bags. In the parking lot, she emptied her car of Anne's clothes and stuffed them into the bags. The process brought back the memory of Jackie's suspicions about the source of the clothes and her wild accusations about Grace's motives.
It angered her to believe that her own daughter could practically characterize her mother as a scheming, greedy thief. Yet Grace knew that she was partly to blame, keeping the real situation a secret. From a phone booth she called the Salvation Army, where someone instructed her to bring the offering to a collection station in downtown West Palm Beach. At this point, considering how she had bungled the pickup at her own apartment, she was too embarrassed to call the Jewish Welfare League.
A middle-aged lady at the collection station looked into the plastic bags and nodded her head in gratitude.
"Bless you," she said. "We really appreciate these. This is exactly the kind of clothing we need."
Grace smiled in acknowledgment and, in response to the woman's request, gave her name and telephone number and was given a receipt.
"There's a place where you can fill in the value of the contribution and get an income tax deduction."
"Thank you," Grace said, having no intention of claiming the deduction, as if that too would be a violation of her promise, a betrayal of the private pact with Sam Goodwin and, of course, her own integrity. Besides, her income tax obligation at this moment was nil. She tossed the receipt into a trash can, got into her car and headed over the bridge to Palm Beach, then north on Ocean Drive to Sam's house.
She was surprised when Sam himself opened the door before she could ring the bell. Marilyn shot out of the door, but instead of growling and bearing her teeth she came forward and licked Grace's hand.
"Now there's a welcome for you," Sam said, chuckling. "I guess she likes you after all."
"And I like her," Grace said, tickling Marilyn behind the ears.
"Where's..."
"Carmen? I gave her the day off. She was working too hard."
"With only one person to take care of?"
"All right, then," Sam said. "She was having an attitude problem."
"About me?"
"I didn't inquire," Sam said, leading her through the house to the beachside door.
The wind was up along the beach, making the surf pound and foam in angry bursts. To hear each other, they walked closer together than they had yesterday. Marilyn bounded beside them.
"I had one of those eerie experiences last night," Sam said. "Anne's voice awakened me. I thought I heard her call my name. I woke up, then answered her. Of course, when I put my arm out to her side of the bed there was nothing but empty space. It's happened before, but this time it took awhile for me to orient myself. I tell you, Grace, it was very real to me."
"Maybe there is something to this ghost business," Grace said.
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
Grace hadn't expected the question. But she considered it carefully.
"I don't think I do," she said tentatively.
"That means your mind isn't closed to the idea," Sam said.
"Maybe not," she said, wondering where he was going with this.
"Okay, suppose it is true. Anne's ghostly spirit, watching. Watching us right now, walking the beach side by side."
"And yesterday. Watching me trying on her clothes."
"You think that would bother her?" Sam asked.
"Do you?"
He shook his head.
"No. Actually, I think she would be delighted to see a lovely person like you wearing her clothes. You know that Anne was a very magnanimous person. You saw that yourself. Open and honest." He paused. "Like you."
"Me?" Grace said, her voice rising, as if in protest.
He nodded; then, in a surprise gesture, he took her hand, and she made no effort to pull away. They continued to walk in silence. Marilyn played tag with the breaking waves.
"I'm not what I seem," he said suddenly. She wondered if the ocean's din had garbled his speech.
"I don't understand."
She shot him a mock skeptical look.
"I'm not what I seem," he said. It was what she'd thought he'd said, and it confused her.
"You mean to me?" Grace asked.
"To you ... and, when she was alive, to Anne."
Grace was puzzled by his assertion, especially since she was the one who had falsified her history, while his seemed an open book. It was impossible for her to believe that he was something other than he appeared to be.
From the evidence based on her own observation, he could not deny his wealth or the respect shown him by others, and especially the sincerity of his devotion to his late wife. As for the details of his inner life, she admitted that she was not clairvoyant, but he certainly appeared to be a decent, honest man. Certainly, like everyone he had problems specific to his situation. He was a businessman, which, by definition meant that he had to be shrewd, cunning, disciplined, perhaps somewhat ruthless, but not blatantly deceptive.
Was it inconceivable that he was not what he seemed? Because of her own culpability she pushed it out of her mind. It was a subject she chose not to pursue.
"Feel like a run," he shouted, pulling her along as they jogged on the water's edge for a short distance. It relieved her to know that he, too, was inclined to drop the subject.
Marilyn shot forward, then chased a sandpiper. A high wave broke and she scurried back. Sam slowed down to a walk. Grace felt her heart pounding in her rib cage.
"I'm not in great shape," Grace said breathlessly.
"That's debatable," Sam said, winking at her. He seemed mildly flirtatious, and she reacted with a smile and shrug.
"You are," Grace said, her breathing subsiding.
"Not bad for an old man, right?"
"There you go, fishing for compliments again," Grace said, chuckling.
"Just as long as you don't give me that you're-as-young-as-you-feel baloney."
"Well, aren't you?"
"Today I feel a lot younger than yesterday."
"That's an encouraging sign."
"Keep young company, stay young."
"You think I'm young? That's a laugh. Sometimes I think of myself as being over the hill."
"Which makes me over the mountain. Hell, I was over twenty-one when you were born. I could drive, drink and vote." She had given him her real age, perhaps concerned that he might take a peek at her driver's license.
"I'm catching up fast, Sam."
"When you're my age, I'll be eighty-nine. If I make it."
"You seem to be hung up on the subject, Sam."
"Maybe so. I guess I'm just resentful."
"About what?"
"Getting to this point, confronting my disappointments, knowing it might not get any better than it was."
For her this was a troubling attitude.
"Does this mean you're foreclosing on any future possibilities?"
She wondered if her remark was really as transparent as it sounded.
"'Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be,'" he snickered. "I remember that from school. I'm inclined to believe it's bullshit."
"I wouldn't bet on that. There might be lots of surprises still to come."
She was conscious of her own flirtatious reaction. He smiled and continued on their walk. When they reached the halfway point, they turned and headed back toward the house. Sam was silent for a long time, as if reflecting on something deep within his mind.
/> As they walked, he continued to hold her hand, squeezing it at times to acknowledge her. She assumed it meant that he was enjoying her company. She returned the squeeze, feeling much the same way.
At his customary swimming location, he stopped.
"Too rough for you?" he asked.
It was, but she refused to admit it, slipping off her slacks and T-shirt. He took her hand and they ran into the water. He released her only when they had to dive into a breaker. The agitated water was both scary and exciting. Suddenly a wave knocked her over and she was upended, went down, then fought her way to the surface. Suddenly, she felt his hard body against hers.
"It can get hairy," he shouted above the din of the waves.
"Not when I have my private lifeguard."
She let him hold her for a few moments, then they coasted in on a wave, Marilyn beside them. She noted that Marilyn kept a watchful eye over her.
"That was fun," she said, proud that she was able to keep up with him and had conquered her fear.
"Anne hated the water," Sam said.
"Everybody's different," she said. She wished she could be more profound.
Sam helped her up and, hand in hand, they walked toward the house.
As she had done yesterday, she went into Anne's bathroom, showered and changed, while Sam showered and dressed in his bathroom. It was odd, but in one short day it already seemed like a routine.
"Hungry?" Sam asked.
"Not really. I stopped at McDonald's. I got up early. I dropped yesterday's batch at the Salvation Army."
It seemed important to tell him that she was on the job, doing what she had set out to do.
"Great," Sam said. "Now I've got a job to do."
"And I'll start the day's work," she said.
Sam went downstairs and she entered Anne's closet. She had determined that it was essential to continue her work with Anne's clothes. She pressed the activating button and watched the racks pass by her in what seemed like an endless parade. It was hard to decide what clothes to dispose of next.
After awhile, she heard Sam call her name from the bedroom, and she came out of the closet. Beside him on a table was an opened bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket and two fluted glasses.
"Now that's a real surprise, Sam," Grace said as he poured her a glassful, then filled his own. Against the sunlight in the room she saw the bubbles rise from the top of the glass. He handed her a glass and took his own, raising it.
"What should we drink to?" he asked.
She thought of saying "To Anne," but wondered whether she might be overdoing it. Hadn't they drunk to her yesterday?
"How about ... let's not brood about the past or worry about the future," Sam said, "which leaves the present."
"Yes, I like that. To the present, then. This moment."
They clinked glasses and sipped. She couldn't believe how delicious it tasted. The bubbles tickled her nose. When she looked up at him, his eyes seemed to be scanning the room. He shook his head.
"There is so much of Anne here in this room," he sighed.
"Ghosts again?" she asked, more as a rhetorical question. Anne again, she sighed. She supposed there was no escape from her, not ever.
"I always felt ... well ... more like a guest in this room."
"A guest!" Grace exclaimed. "This is your bedroom. Once shared with Anne. Now yours. Surely you can't think of yourself as a guest here. How long did you live here?"
He grew thoughtful, as if he were calculating.
"Nineteen years. Yes, nineteen years. That's when we moved in. Before that we lived in Westchester, outside of New York City."
"How could you feel like a guest if you lived here for nineteen years? This is your home," Grace said, reluctantly accepting the fact that the present, which included her, would always be haunted by his past. For her part, she would be ready and willing to scuttle her past, her reality-based past.
She sipped again and, as he had done before, scanned the lovely bedroom. By her standards it was huge, spanning the entire rear of the large house. In comparison, her little bedroom seemed no bigger than the bed on its pedestal.
"Yes," he sighed. "My home."
"Home is where the heart is," Grace said.
They exchanged glances in silence for a long moment, then emptied their glasses. Sam poured two more.
"I enjoy your company, Grace."
"I'm glad, Sam. I enjoy yours."
He studied her, then shook his head.
"I hope you do, Grace."
"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
It surprised her that he needed such reassurance.
"I feel very comfortable around you, Sam," Grace said, reiterating her honest feeling.
"I enjoyed seeing you model Anne's clothes," Sam said. "You were very kind to do that."
"Kindness had nothing to do with it. It was fun, Sam. I felt like a little girl trying on Mommy's clothes." She hesitated for a moment. "I suppose I reminded you of Anne."
"Yes, you did." He paused. "In a way."
"In a way? How so? I'm sure she looked a lot better in them than I did."
"Now who's fishing for compliments?" He chuckled. "Of course she always looked great. But so do you."
"Different, maybe. Great is debatable."
"Yes," he acknowledged. "Different ... and great."
She felt his eyes inspecting her.
"Yesterday," he said, "you didn't think I was being, you know ... kinky. Asking you to do that?"
"We've been there, Sam. I did it because I wanted to do it. And, as I told you, I enjoyed it. It gave me great pleasure." She felt a hot blush rise to her face.
"Really?"
"That was the truth, Sam," Grace said, suddenly wary. Did her reply hint that she wasn't telling the truth in other matters?
Suddenly she grew silent, not knowing how to proceed. Considering all the lies she had fed him, she felt an increasing uneasiness. Did he think she was pandering to him? Blatantly ingratiating herself? She felt uncertain about her reactions, psychologically clumsy. She wished she had the intelligence and inner resources to be surer of herself, like Mrs. Burns.
He lifted his eyes and seemed to study her intently. Then he smiled.
"You looked great in her clothes, Grace," he said. Instinctively she knew what he was getting at.
"Thank you, kind sir. I'm flattered. And Anne's taste in clothes was wonderful."
"Yes, it was."
He upended his glass and poured another, refilling hers. Their eyes met. She felt the heat of their contact and knew what was coming next.
"Would it be imposing, Grace, if..."
"Model again?" She giggled, feeling the effects of the champagne.
"You don't think I'm a bit sick in the head about this?"
"Not at all. It was fun for me. When you think about it, it could be characterized as a tangible way to memorialize Anne."
"I suppose you have a point. You don't think it's an indulgence?"
She stood up. Then, in a gesture of mock decision-making, she tapped her teeth. If this was to be their common ground at the moment, she thought, so be it.
"Maybe you're being too analytical, Sam. It was an indulgence for me, too. What harm is there? Why not? What's your pleasure?"
"How about..." He paused for a moment, considering. "Something flowing, wispy."
"Flowing and wispy. Coming right up."
She ducked into the closet. Earlier she had noted a cinnamon-colored cocktail dress by Geoffrey Beane. Taking it off the rack, she came out of the closet, stood before him and pressed it to her body.
"What do you think?"
"Perfect," he said.
"Do you remember Anne wearing it?"
"Funny, but I was never able to remember what Anne had worn on a given occasion. But the dress does look vaguely familiar."
"Give me a few minutes. I need to accessorize it."
"Take your time."
She noted that his face was flushed. Little r
ed circles had popped out on his cheekbones.
She went into the dressing room, searching through drawers filled with underthings. In one drawer she found, to her surprise, a number of suspenders and stockings, the kind she had often seen advertised as products from Frederick's of Hollywood. Eschewing panties, she put on the suspenders, attached the stockings, looked at herself in the mirror, declared herself provocative, then put on high heels and posed as if she were a model for Playboy, feeling her own heightened sexual tension. Did Anne do this? she wondered, feeling moist and hot.
She put on the dress, which was a hairsbreadth tighter than she would have purchased if it were her decision to make. But it suited this event admirably. Then she found appropriate cocktail jewelry, quickly made up her face and hair to fit, piling it up like a Gibson Girl, then surveyed herself in the mirror. She loved the way she looked. Would he think she was sexy? She hoped so. To heighten the effect, she removed her brassiere. Her nipples pressed against the material, erect with excitement and clearly visible.
"Go for it," she whispered, taking a last look at herself in the mirror. She was high from the champagne and knew it.
His face lit up with a broad, appreciative smile when he saw her. She walked with exaggerated, hip-swinging movements a number of times across the length of the room and back, so that the dress lifted with the breeze of her walk and her bare breasts bounced under the flimsy silk.
"Do you like it, Sam?"
"Very much."
She noted the outline of his erection in his pants. Imagining it, its size, shape and bulk, made her body react accordingly. He crossed his legs and bent over slightly to hide it.
"Why don't you take it as a gift? You look fantastic in it."
"We've been through that, Sam."
"I'm sure Anne wouldn't mind."
"It's me who would mind. It's just not appropriate and would make me uncomfortable."
She wondered if he appreciated her gesture, seeing it, hopefully, as a measure of her independence and integrity.
"Whatever you say," Sam said.
She again walked the length of the room, then back again.
"It's a pleasure to watch you, Grace."
