by Nancy Thayer
“It’s pretty mild out tonight,” Gideon told her, opening the front door.
“I often find the air-conditioning in the theaters too cold,” she explained.
He held her hand as they walked through the city to the sumptuous new movie theaters near the new Ritz. As they passed an older woman with white hair, a hunched back, and a cane, Alice experienced a surge of pity mixed with fear—she was seeing the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and reminded that she wasn’t there yet. She straightened her shoulders and let the shawl slip, just a bit.
At the theater, Alice inaugurated her new Pee-Panic-Prevention Policy and refused refreshments. Gideon bought himself a big bag of popcorn and a Coke, and as the previews flashed before the screen, he munched away happily. Men don’t worry about being unattractive when they’re stuffing their faces, Alice thought wryly. Gideon was really chowing down.
Maybe he was nervous.
Maybe he was nervous because he was going to try to get her in bed later. After all, he’d brought her flamboyant flowers, he’d called her beautiful, and, walking over, he’d been uncharacteristically quiet. Come to think of it, he had planned to take her to another jazz club, but had phoned that morning to say he wanted to see a movie. True, it was a new thriller starring Denzel Washington, but still . . . The movie flickered across the screen while her thoughts wrestled with options. Did Gideon consider a movie more romantic? They were sitting there in the dark together. At the jazz club they’d not been able to talk very much, and when they did speak, they had to yell over the crowd. She’d come home hoarse and exhausted. Perhaps he had, too. Perhaps he needed to conserve his energy. Perhaps he was fueling up on popcorn for later exertions.
As if reading her thoughts, Gideon set his popcorn box on the floor, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, and reached for her hand. The warmth and size of his hand around hers took her breath away. When had she last held hands with a man in a movie? It was so romantic!
Alice relaxed in her chair, inclining toward Gideon. He leaned toward her until their shoulders touched. Electricity zapped through her. Wow, Alice thought. Maybe there really was something going on between them. Her shoulder was suddenly as sensitive as the tips of her fingers.
Am I crazy? Am I desirable? An actress with a waist the size of Alice’s ankle sauntered across the screen, nearly vanishing when she turned sideways. I’ll never look like that again in my life, Alice mentally berated herself. Hell, I never looked like that before in my life. Gideon’s arm lay partly on the armrest between them and partly against her ample abdomen, which also supported her breasts in their valiant bra. Sitting in the dark theater, she flushed, then rallied, and accidentally on purpose let the pashmina shawl slip way down. Now, in the silver light from the movie screen, the tops of her breasts rose like dolphins in the sea, sleek and rounded, while the wrinkles remained hidden in the dimness. She shifted her angle, giving them a little more exposure.
Ever since her conversation with Marilyn, Alice had thought of nothing but sex. How amazing that Marilyn, who had all the self-confidence of a dead chicken, had gone to bed so easily with Barton Baker and more amazingly, enjoyed herself! Of course, Marilyn didn’t have to worry about being fat, plus she was only fifty-two.
Alice had tried, over the past few days, to diet, wanting to see just how much effort it took to lose five pounds. She didn’t need to read diet books. Over the past thirty years, she’d tried every diet imaginable. She just stocked her refrigerator with diet drinks, fruit, lettuces, and lean meats and forced herself to take a long walk every day.
In five nights she went from hungry and hopeful to starving and stark-raving mad. Thank God Alan had moved into his own place. He didn’t have to hear her sobbing her heart out at the kitchen table, calling herself a failure, a big fat flop, a woman who’d lost her job and, worse, had been such a terrible mother that her son lost his job and his wife. For a few grisly moments, she’d considered killing her pathetic self. But she didn’t have the energy. Besides, she wouldn’t give those assholes at TransWorld the satisfaction.
So she’d dragged her sorry self down to a twenty-four-hour market, bought ham, cheese, bread, mayo, chips, ice cream, eggs, all the stuff the doctors promised would kill you. Back in her kitchen, she concocted a feast, remembering her mama, who had been a big woman, and her father, who’d been a huge man. Neither had died young. They’d been active until their eighties. That would be good enough for her. Especially, she decided as she ate, and the delicious taste and smells filled her senses and refreshed her soul, if she could figure out what to do with the next couple of decades.
So if Gideon Banks wanted a relationship with her, he’d better like her the way she was, and so far it seemed he did. Besides, he was a hefty boy himself. That belly of his—how would they manage to make love? Several images shot through her mind, making her giggle. Gideon turned his head her way, frowning. Up on the screen, someone had just been killed. Alice shifted in her seat and forced her attention on the movie.
When it ended, Gideon asked, “Would you like to stop somewhere for a late-night snack?”
“Why don’t we just go back to my place,” Alice suggested, hoping she didn’t sound too brazen or imperious. Having spent her life barking out orders, she had to concentrate to talk normally. “My son brought over some strawberry angel food cake Jennifer D’Annucio made.” Remembering he was diabetic, she added, “Not too much sugar.”
“Sounds good.”
The air of the May night was soft and full of fragrances. Everyone they passed was laughing or holding hands, and Gideon took Alice’s as if it were a natural thing to do. At her condo, she slid the glass doors open and took their desserts out to the balcony. They sat together in a companionable silence, eating and watching the lights of all the boats sparkle on the water.
In the mellow night, Gideon spoke of his dead wife, their early years together, the love he carried for her, even now. Alice told Gideon about Mack and his charm and his infidelities, and then she told him about her long-term affair with Bill Weaver. Boldly, she added, “I haven’t slept with a man for many, many years.” That, she thought, should take care of any questions about AIDS and other STDs.
“Nor have I slept with a woman for a long time,” Gideon quietly confessed. Reaching out, he took her hand in his. “Haven’t wanted to. Until now.”
Have mercy! Alice thought. Her pulse did the jitterbug up and down her arteries. Here it was, The Moment. Damn, she thought, why did she bring him out here, where they were sitting in separate chairs? If they were on the sofa, it would be so easy to turn to each other . . .
Like an answer to her prayers, a breeze came up from the water, lifting the edges of their napkins and the hem of Alice’s loose silk trousers. Goose bumps sprouted across Alice’s exposed cleavage, and she hoped Gideon assumed they were caused by the external touch of the chilly air and not the internal mechanisms of her own body.
Gideon said nothing. He seemed to have gone into a trance, staring at the water.
All right, then, Alice thought. He got us this far; I can nudge us along. “Let’s go in.” She stood, hugging herself. “It’s gotten too cool out here.”
She carried their empty plates to the kitchen. Gideon carried their cups of decaf to the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. Alice sat down next to him. Close. She turned toward him, her clothes making silky slithering noises as she moved. She imagined him lifting off her coral tunic, exposing her breasts in their new lace bra. She imagined . . .
“You’re so beautiful, Alice,” Gideon said. He put his arms around her and drew her to him. He kissed her mouth so softly it was like feathers brushing her skin. “Your breasts—” he whispered. “My God.”
Alice took his hand in hers and laid it on her breast. Boing went her nipples. Her body lighted up like a pinball machine, lights flashing, bells ringing, flippers flapping, oh, heavenly days, she’d forgotten she could feel like this. Jackpot! she wanted to whoop.
But Gideon’s face a
ltered, he pulled away from her mouth, he removed his hand from her breast. He said, “Sorry, Alice. I think I’d better go.” He stood up.
Alice stared up at him, stunned. “Go? Now? Why?”
Gideon walked toward the door. “I’ll call you.”
Alice jumped up. “But Gideon! My body’s been asleep for twenty years, and you just woke it up. And you’re leaving?”
“Well, now, Alice,” Gideon mumbled, shoving his hands down into his pockets like a boy. “No need to get angry. No need to rush things, either. We scarcely know each other, after all.”
Alice felt like he’d punched her in the stomach. “I didn’t mean to rush things—”
“I’ll call you,” Gideon said again, and left.
Alice stood there with her mouth hanging open. She couldn’t believe he’d gone. She couldn’t believe he’d kissed her like that, then walked away! What the hell had happened? It was as if he was attracted to her, but once she put his hand on her breast, he was repelled. Did she have bad breath? Was she that horrible a kisser? Were her lips chapped? Were her breasts too big? Was she just too damned fat? But then, why had he asked her out in the first place?
One thing for sure, he wouldn’t be asking her again. What had he said, no need for her to get so angry? Okay, so she’d shown him a bit of her bossy, angry side, but damn, he’d gotten her all riled up, he’d said he hadn’t wanted to sleep with a woman until now. How the hell was she supposed to take that kind of remark?
And if he thought that was angry, he was one mistaken man.
She was so confused she wanted to tear her hair out. She was furious, frustrated, and humiliated. Her company didn’t want her professionally, and now this really nice man didn’t want her sexually.
Thank heavens for small blessings. Alan had moved into his own place, so she could collapse on the sofa. She lifted her hands to her face and let the sobs and wails rip from her throat, tears streaming down her cheek, falling plop plop plop on what she had, until then, thought of as her beautiful breasts.
Faraday’s apartment was in a luxurious modern high-rise overlooking the Charles River. Marilyn didn’t know whether to gaze out the expansive windows at the Boston lights sparkling against the night sky or at the three walls of bookshelves in Faraday’s living room. So many fascinating books! Her former self would have selected a pile, stacked them on the coffee table, and curled up on the sofa to read.
Interspersed among the books, in misshapen globs like petrified gnomes, were the rocks Faraday had brought home from his hikes in the most distant places of the globe. Dense, and mute, the rocks were books, too, their fossils and minerals inscribing a hieroglyphic diary of the universe.
Faraday approached her, a brandy snifter in each hand. He wore a soft blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his massive forearms. “That,” he told her, handing her a glass, “is colonial coral from Greenland, proof that once it was much warmer there.”
“And this?” Marilyn asked, indicating a petrified black scarf of rock with iridescent purple tints.
“Pahoehoe,” Faraday told her. “From a lava flow in Hawaii.”
Marilyn sipped her brandy. Its amber heat made her whole body glow. “What’s this?” She pointed to a chunk of quartz veined with glittering crystals of transparent pale green.
“Apatite,” Faraday said. He smiled. “Named from the Greek word for ‘to deceive,’ because it’s so easily confused with a number of other minerals.”
“Apatite,” Marilyn mused. “So similar to appetite.”
“Appetite,” Faraday reminded her, “ is from the Latin appetitus, meaning an eager desire for something.”
“They sound the same.” Marilyn took another sip of brandy, loving the flicker of flame in her throat. “I wonder if there’s a kind of cosmic message there.”
“In my case, not,” Faraday said softly, moving closer to Marilyn. “I have no intention to deceive you about the fact that I eagerly desire you.”
Faraday set his glass on the bookshelf, took Marilyn’s from her, and put it there, too. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her to him. “It would be very gneiss to take you to bed,” he said softly, his breath warm against her cheek.
“I zinc I desire you, too,” Marilyn quipped, giggling nervously.
She turned her head and lifted her mouth to his. She’d never kissed a man with a beard before, so her first reaction was surprise at the rough texture of his wiry red-and-white whiskers against her chin and cheeks. The contrast between his soft lips and the spiky whiskers was amazingly sexy, as if her entire face and not just her lips were being caressed.
Keeping one hand on the small of her back, Faraday supported her head with the other as he pressed his mouth more fiercely against hers, forcing her lips open, thrusting in his tongue. Her knees went weak.
“Shale I lead you to my bed?” Faraday whispered in her ear.
“Of quartz,” Marilyn replied shakily.
Across the river, city lights twinkled, filling the bedroom with a gentle light that concealed as much as it revealed. The room was neat but cluttered with the treasures of a busy life, picture frames on the dresser, books and rocks on shelves. His closet door was open, revealing a tartan wool bathrobe on a hook.
He guided her toward his bed, then, keeping both hands on her hips, he sat down, turning her to face him.
“Undress for me,” he murmured.
“Oh.” She’d never undressed for a man before, not while he watched, and her habitual shyness stalled her ardor. Theodore’s face reared up before her eyes, the pity in them as he begged her not to pretend she’d actually had an affair, not to be so unseemly.
“Get lost, Shorty,” a vision of Alice snapped, and Theodore’s face vanished. Marilyn thanked her clever neurons for chasing the older memories away.
“Marilyn,” Faraday whispered. He took her hands and kissed the center of each palm.
Alice and Faye had assured her they’d give their back molars to be as slender as she was. And during dinner, before the lecture on the Burgess Shale, Faraday had asked her to accompany him next weekend when he went to a conference in Montreal. She’d be interested in the lectures, and the city was fascinating. He told her he wanted to take her hiking with him in Scotland over the summer, and in New Mexico next winter. So as she stood in the quiet room, their breath all that stirred the air, Marilyn felt secure enough to be brave.
Also, she felt unbelievably sexy. In this light, with this man, who was, she knew, perhaps five years older, she experienced a kind of pride in her body. Faraday’s obvious desire provoked an unfamiliar inclination: She wanted to be flirtatious. She wanted to be saucy. She wished she were wearing that little French maid’s outfit from the yogurt ad, and with that in mind, she raised her hands and began to unbutton her silk blouse. She let it hang open just enough to show hints of her lacy red bra while she unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it, and slowly drew her blouse off one arm and then the other, then dropped it.
“God, Marilyn, you are so beautiful,” Faraday said, his voice thick with lust.
She stood there smiling, thrilled to be living a fantasy. She wore only silk hose fastened with a garter belt, high black heels, and a bra that lifted and flattered her small breasts. She’d worn no panties that night, and that fact alone had made her feel audaciously sensual during their meal.
Faraday pulled her to him, burying his face in her abdomen, the brush of his beard tickling her tender skin. She twisted in his embrace, trying not to giggle.
He moved slightly, bringing his head down to her thighs, and cupping her buttocks, he licked upward along her leg toward her crotch.
Marilyn nearly fell over backward. The moist touch of his tongue, the heat of his breath, the immediate cool tingle of air, sent a geyser of sensations shooting up inside. Then he raised his hands and grasped her breasts, pinching her nipples.
She groaned and leaned against him. So this, she thought, is the famous foreplay. Oh, my!
He unfastened her bra and released her from it, so she wore only the hose, garter belt, and high heels.
“Undress me,” he said.
She felt deliciously lewd as she knelt, nearly naked, to untie his wing-tipped shoes. She slipped them off, then tugged on his silk socks, releasing his bare feet, long and slim, to the air. She felt like a geisha. She felt like a sex object! She felt fabulous.
Rising, she bent over him to undo his tie, unbutton his shirt, and pull away his tweed jacket, its rough texture brushing her naked skin, making it tingle. He caressed her body with his eyes as she worked, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his trousers, then suddenly, he groaned and pulled her down on the bed. Impatiently he kicked off his pants.
“Hurry,” he gasped, reaching into his bedside table and bringing out a condom.
Faraday ripped the foil with his teeth and stroked the condom down over his penis, then, naked and hairy and thick and hot, brought his body down on top of hers, and shoved himself into her, and she cried out.
He thrust once, twice, moaned, and ejaculated.
Hey! Marilyn thought.
He collapsed heavily against her.
Wait! All her senses screamed. Don’t stop now! Every nerve in her body twanged with anticipation. It was as if she were perched on the end of a diving board, arms aimed in an arrow, body bent forward, pushing off with her toes, on the brink of diving into an ocean of delight, but all at once the ocean dried up into a pile of sand.
“You are amazing,” Faraday murmured. He rolled off her, but kept his arm around her, and pulled her back against his front, holding her close.
She could feel his penis shrinking against her bum.
“I’ll be right back.” Faraday stalked off to the bathroom, shutting the door between them.
Maybe he’d want to make love again right away, like Barton had, Marilyn thought frantically.
She heard the toilet flush. Water ran in the sink. Light gleamed as Faraday opened the bathroom door. He slipped back into bed, pulling the covers up over them both, and snuggled close to her.
