“We're in no rush,” she said in a soothing tone, and he kissed her again before he left. She thought it was a hopeful sign, and she was beginning to like him better and better. She liked what he stood for, and how he felt about his children, he had a lot of integrity, and a good heart. If they could just get Phyllis out of the way, maybe everything would be fine. But thus far, she seemed reluctant to leave. Or rather, Jim was reluctant to let her go. He was still hanging on tight. Though maybe, judging by the kiss he and Paris had exchanged, not quite as tight.
For the next several weeks, they continued to see each other, go to movies, and dinner. They even cooked dinner at her house, which Paris thought was easier for him. There were no memories of Phyllis there, and no hat hanging in the kitchen. There was just Paris. And things got rather heated between them late one night when they were first sitting, and then lying on the couch. It was early August by then. And she had put on a stack of CDs he liked. He seemed happy with her, happier than he'd been in a long time. But in the end they decided not to pursue their physical relationship any further that night.
Bix checked in with her later that week. “Are you still a virgin, or has it happened yet?”
“Don't be so nosy.” She felt protective of Jim, and was beginning to have stronger feelings for him. As they got to know each other better, she could even imagine falling in love with him. And it was a definite selling point that he was also a very sensual man. His senses had just been asleep for a long time.
“Are you falling for him?” Bix was intrigued.
“Maybe,” she said cryptically. “I think I could, with time.”
“That's pretty neat.” He looked pleased for her. And Meg was pleased too. She could tell from her mother's voice when she called that good things were happening. Sally had had the baby by then, and the two girls had talked and agreed that things were looking good. Sally said her father was crazy about Meg's mother, and couldn't stop talking about how beautiful she was. And if he wasn't in love yet, he had a major crush. And so did Paris, although she was keeping it quiet. But she liked everything he stood for.
And by mid-August, Meg had her own news, which she had been keeping under her hat. She had met someone over the Fourth of July weekend, and they had been seeing each other for five weeks. But she wasn't sure how her mother would feel about it. She was afraid she wouldn't like it. He was considerably older than Meg was, and a year older than her mother.
“What's he like?” Paris asked benevolently. Meg had not yet mentioned his age to her. She hadn't said anything about him for a month until she was sure they were at least minimally compatible with each other. He was a major departure for her.
“Nice, Mom. Very, very, very nice. He's an entertainment lawyer. A big one. He represents some pretty major stars.” And Meg had already met several of them, as she told her mother.
“How did you meet him?”
“At a Fourth of July party.” She didn't say that he was a friend's father. She was still afraid of her mother's reaction.
“Will I like him, or does he have spiked hair and wear earrings?”
“No earrings. He looks kind of like Dad. Sort of.”
And for no reason in particular Paris moved on to the next question. “How old is he?” She was expecting to hear twenty-four or twenty-five, Meg's usual range, or maybe a little younger, but not if he was an attorney. He was probably fresh out of law school, so maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. And then she remembered that he had important clients. There was silence at Meg's end. “Are you there?” Paris thought the cell phone had disconnected.
“I'm here. He's kind of older, Mom.”
“How kind of older? Work back from ninety,” Paris said, smiling. To Meg, “older” would be twenty-nine or thirty.
She took it at one gulp and spat it in her mother's lap. “Forty-eight. He's divorced, and has a daughter my age. That's how I know him.”
“Forty-eight?” Paris said in disbelief. “He's twice your age? What are you doing? He must feel like a father to you.” Paris sounded upset, and was.
“No, he doesn't. I just feel comfortable with him. And he doesn't play all those games and bullshit.”
“I should be dating him,” Paris said, still sounding shocked, and not sure what to make of it. He sounded like a player, like Chandler, if he was going out with a girl Meg's age. She was instantly inclined not to like him.
“Yes, you should, Mom,” Meg agreed. “You'd love him. He's a terrific person.”
“How terrific can he be if he's robbing the cradle and going out with children?” Worse yet, her children.
“Those things happen. I don't think age matters. All that matters are the people.”
“When you're forty-five, he'll be nearly seventy, if it gets to that. That's something to think about.”
“We're not there yet,” Meg said softly. But they had talked about it.
“I certainly hope not. Maybe I should come down and meet him.”
“We've been talking about coming up for Labor Day weekend.”
“I think you should. I want this man to know that you're not an orphan, and you have a mother who's keeping an eye on him. What's his name?”
“Richard. Richard Bolen.” Paris was stunned into silence. Her daughter was dating a forty-eight-year-old man. And she didn't like it. But she tried not to get too excited about it when she talked to Meg. She didn't want to push her into it any deeper in order to defend him. And she talked to Jim about it that night. He was concerned too, but willing to concede that major age differences weren't always a bad thing, if he was a responsible, decent person.
“See what you think when you meet him,” Jim said reasonably.
“I'd like you to meet him,” she said, and he was flattered. Other than that piece of somewhat distressing news, they had a nice time that night, and Jim asked her if she'd like to go away for a weekend with him, to the Napa Valley. Given what had been happening between them, it was a major invitation. They had been dating for two months, and hadn't gone to bed yet. A weekend in Napa might make a difference. And Paris looked at him mischievously as he kissed her.
“Two rooms or one, Mr. Thompson?” It was a very bold question.
“What would you like?” he asked gently. She'd been ready for weeks, but she didn't want to scare him.
“Would you be comfortable with one, Jim?” she asked, as she snuggled against him. The one thing she didn't want was to take Phyllis with them. Or Peter. She was ready for Peter to go back in the closet, where he belonged now, with Rachel. Phyllis was a far different matter. And Jim had to put her in his own closet, when he was ready, and so far he still wasn't. She dropped into their midst like a Murphy bed, as often as he let her. Which was often.
“I think I'd be happy with one room,” he said, smiling at Paris. “Shall I make a reservation?” She thought he looked handsome and sexy as he asked her.
“I'd love it.” Paris beamed at him.
Two days later they were on their way to Rutherford, in the Napa Valley, to stay at the Auberge du Soleil. What he didn't tell Paris till they got there was that he had spent his last anniversary there, with Phyllis, only months before she died.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Paris looked disappointed when he finally shared that with her. “We could have stayed somewhere else.” And should have. She was afraid of their single room now, with the huge king-size bed and the cozy fireplace. There was something sexy and subtle about the room, and she would have had a good time there, minus Phyllis. But she had already joined them, and was settling in as Paris unpacked.
He told Paris all about the final anniversary, where they'd gone, what they'd done, what they'd eaten. It was as though he did it to protect himself from his feelings for Paris. Phyllis was the shield he was using against his own emotions. His guilt was stronger than his libido. He poured Paris a glass of champagne, and drank three himself before they went to dinner. And when they got back, he lit the fire, and turned to Paris, just as two and a h
alf years before, he had turned to Phyllis. He could still see it, although for once he didn't say it. But Phyllis's presence was palpable in the room.
“Tired?” he asked quietly, and she nodded. In fact, she wasn't. She was extremely nervous. And it was hard to tell how he felt. He had seemed nostalgic and quiet all evening. Maybe he was getting ready to let Phyllis go, Paris hoped. Maybe this was going to be the epiphany he needed. She was praying it would be. It was time.
Paris put on the simple white satin nightgown she had brought, which dropped easily over her lithe figure, and clung to it enticingly as she emerged from the bathroom. He was already in bed, wearing crisp linen pajamas. His hair was combed, and he had shaved for her. She felt like a bride and groom on a wedding night, fraught with all the same tensions as old-fashioned couples who had never slept with each other. And she was beginning to wonder if they should have made less of a fuss of it, and just climbed into bed one night at her house. But they were here now, and there was no turning back.
And as she got into bed and he turned off the light, he kissed her, and all the passion they had felt for each other suddenly rushed to the surface. He was instantly aroused and so was she, and they seemed to be starving for each other. It was far more heated than she had hoped for, and she felt relief wash over her along with passion. She dropped her nightgown to the floor, and he peeled off his pajamas and they disappeared somewhere, as they entangled in each other's arms, and their hands and lips discovered each other. And then just as he was about to enter her, she felt everything stop, and everything but the essential part of him went rigid.
“Are you okay?” she whispered in the dark. He had pulled away from her, and she was frightened.
“I was about to call you Phyllis.” He sounded as though he was nearly crying, and Paris suspected he was, or would be in a minute.
“It's all right, sweetheart … I love you … don't worry … everything is going to be fine.…” Shestroked him gently as she said it, but he was slowly backing away, and even in the half light, she could see that he was panicked. She didn't know what to do, she wanted to make this better for him. She cared about him, as a man, and as a person.
“I can't do this to her,” he said hoarsely. “She would never forgive me.”
“I think she'd want you to be happy,” Paris said, rubbing his back gently, and trying to relax him. “Why don't you let me give you a backrub, and not worry about this. We don't have to make love tonight. There's no hurry.” And no need for pressure. But all he wanted suddenly was to get away from her. To be as far from Paris as he could get, and as close to Phyllis. It was as though he wanted to crawl back into the womb of time and be with her, and Paris could feel it.
Instead of letting her rub his back, he got up, and walked across the room naked. She could see he had a remarkable body for a man his age, but it did her no good, if he wouldn't share it with her. And he wouldn't. He locked himself in the bathroom without a word to her, and stayed there for half an hour, and when he came out, he was wearing what he had worn to dinner. Paris was shocked, but tried to conceal it. He stood looking down at her in bed with a tragic expression.
“I hate to do this to you, Paris. But I can't be here. I want to go back to the city.” He looked as though something in him had died. He had given up.
“Now?” She sat up in bed and looked at him, and the glow of her skin shimmered like pearls in the moonlight. She was every bit as beautiful as he had thought she would be. But he still couldn't do it. To his late wife. He honestly believed Phyllis would never forgive him.
“I know you must think I'm crazy, and I guess I am. I'm just not ready, and I don't think I ever will be. I loved her too much for too long, and we went through too much together. I can't leave her, or betray her.”
“She left you,” Paris said gently, leaning back against the headboard. “She didn't mean to, and I'm sure she never wanted to, but she had no choice. She's gone, Jim. You can't die with her.”
“I think I did. I think I died in her arms that night. I just didn't know it. I'm sorry to do this to you. I can't have a relationship. Now or ever.” It was what she had feared from the beginning and had begun to think was all right, but clearly it wasn't. He wasn't willing to recover. He didn't want to. He had opted for death instead of life. And nothing Paris could do would change that.
“Why don't we just spend the night together, and hold each other? We don't need to make love. Let's just be here. You'll feel better in the morning.” She patted the bed for him to come closer to her.
“No, I won't.” He looked panicked. “I'll walk back to the city if I have to.” He didn't want to take the car and leave her stranded, but all he wanted now was to go home. He didn't even want to look at her. And if he had, all he would have seen was his late wife's face. He had blocked Paris out completely.
“I'll get dressed,” she said quietly, trying not to think of what was happening. She felt immensely sad, and the rejection was overwhelming for her. She wasn't angry at him, and she knew it had nothing to do with her, but it hurt anyway. She was disappointed that their weekend, not to mention their relationship, had turned out as it had.
Ten minutes later she followed him to the car in blue jeans and a sweater she had brought with her, and her suitcase hastily repacked. Jim put it in the back of his car without a word, as she slid into the passenger seat. And five minutes later they drove away. The hotel had an imprint of his credit card, so he didn't need to settle accounts with them. Only with himself. They were halfway to the city before he spoke to Paris, and all he could say was that he was sorry. He was stone-faced the rest of the way. And when she tried to put a hand on his, he didn't react. She wondered if he'd had too much to drink, and that increased his panic somehow. It was as though he was in the grip of a powerful demon. Or perhaps more simply, and more benignly, Phyllis had simply reclaimed him.
“I'm not going to call you again,” Jim said woodenly as he stopped in front of her house at two-thirty in the morning. “There's no point, Paris, I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry I wasted your time.” He was angry at himself, but sounded as though he was angry at her.
“You didn't waste my time,” she said gently. “I'm disappointed for both of us. I hope one day you work this out, for your sake. You deserve not to be alone for the rest of your life.”
“I'm not. I have Phyllis and all our memories. That's enough for me.” And then he turned to her, and what she saw in his eyes broke her heart. They were two pools of pain that looked like burning embers. In the white heat of his misery, there was nothing left of him but ash. “And you have Peter,” he said, as though to let himself off the hook and draw her into the swamp of despair with him. But Paris shook her head.
“No, I don't, Jim,” Paris said clearly. “Rachel does. I have myself.” And with that she got out of the car quietly, took her bag, and walked up her front steps. She unlocked the door, and before she could turn to look at him or wave, Jim Thompson drove away. She never heard from him again.
Chapter 23
Just as she had said they might, Meg brought Richard Bolen up to San Francisco for the Labor Day weekend. Richard took a room at the Ritz-Carlton, and although she would have preferred to stay with him, she decided to stay with her mother in the end. Richard thought it would make for a smoother introduction to him than if he was in competition with Paris for her little girl. And it proved to be a wise move, although it was clear from the moment they met that Paris was suspicious of him. She circled him like a dog around a tree, asking questions, looking long and hard, and talking to him about everything from his childhood to his job. After three days in his company, she hated to admit it, but she liked him very much.
And she couldn't help but think that he was exactly the sort of man that she should have been going out with, but he was dating a woman half her age, who in this case happened to be Meg. It was a very odd thought. But she didn't hold it against him, and they were sitting alone in her garden while Meg went upstairs for a few
minutes, when Paris turned to him with a concerned expression.
“I don't want to be intrusive, Richard, but do you worry about the age difference between you?” He was twenty-four years older than Meg, exactly twice her age. And a year older than Paris.
“I try not to,” he said honestly. “The last woman in my life was older than I am, she was fifty-four. Generally, I've always gone out with women my own age. My ex-wife was, we were college sweethearts. But your daughter is a very special young woman, as you know.” He was handsome and rugged and looked younger than his years. And oddly enough, he looked very much like Meg and Paris, with green eyes and sandy blond hair. He looked almost more like Paris than Meg. And the two seemed extremely well suited to each other. In his company, Meg seemed to flourish and relax. She looked as though she felt totally safe with him. They had been dating for exactly two months, and Paris had the feeling it might be getting serious between them, from everything he said.
“I don't want to be terribly old-fashioned,” Paris said apologetically, feeling foolish, particularly given the closeness of their age. “It's too soon for either of you to know what your intentions are, but don't play with her, Richard. I don't want a man your age coming along and breaking her heart. She doesn't deserve that.” She was thinking about Chandler Freeman as she said it. He would have made mincemeat of a young girl. But Richard didn't look to be cut of the same cloth. And wasn't. “You're a lot older and wiser than she is, and stronger. If you're not serious about her, don't play with her, and don't hurt her.”
“I promise you, Paris,” he said intently, “I won't. And if I am serious?” He asked the question pointedly, and held his breath. “Would you object?”
“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I'd have to think about it. You're a lot older than she is. All I want is for her to be happy.”
“Happiness doesn't always respect the boundaries of age,” he said wisely. “In fact it often doesn't. Age has nothing to do with this. She is the woman I love,” he said simply. “I've never felt like this about any woman, except my ex-wife.” What he said rang a bell with her, and she frowned as she looked at him.
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