The One in My Heart

by Sherry Thomas

  A private elevator ferried us directly to the penthouse. The elevator door opened and I stepped into an entry hall that could have been used as a movie set for The Age of Innocence. The walls were papered in a soft, faded gold, the furniture American antiques of the Federal style. Pots of pale narcissus bloomed everywhere, delicately fragrant and delicately beautiful.

  The only splash of color came from a huge portrait that hung over the fireplace. The subject was a woman in a gown of bold carmine, with a king’s ransom of rubies glittering over her throat and breast. The signature belonged to John Singer Sargent. A small plaque on the frame of the painting said, Her Ladyship the Marchioness of Tremaine, 1894.

  “My great-great-grandmother,” said Bennett, noticing the direction of my gaze.

  “She was pretty hot,” I said, unbuttoning my coat.

  “She was also pretty scandalous back in the day. Almost divorced my great-great-grandfather.”

  “What stopped her?”

  “I’m not sure. Rumor had it he was too good in bed.”

  I laughed—because it was funny, and because I was more than a little jittery.

  “Hey, I must have inherited it from somewhere.”

  All I could think of was the sensation of him inside me, driving me to one brink after another. “Don’t look at me. I’ve never been to bed with you. Now, where’s my vermouth?”

  He led me into the living room, which was less Gilded Age than the entry, and cooler in feel. The floor was bamboo. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows were blue with a subtle undertone of grey. A pair of antique chairs upholstered in pale rose flanked a sizable blue-grey leather chaise.

  Bennett poured vermouth for me and tonic water for himself. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked as he handed me my glass. “I have enough food on hand to feed two.”

  I supposed we might as well talk about whatever it was he wanted to talk about over dinner. “Sure.”

  He went to the kitchen and came back a minute later. “The soup needs to warm up in the oven for half an hour. Want to see the view?”

  “It’s just the skyline, right?” I said, setting down my drink.

  “It is. But I’ve been away long enough that I still get excited about it.”

  He flicked a switch; the lights turned off. Another switch and the curtains rose on the Manhattan skyline. I gazed at the silhouette of my great city, a blaze of luminosity against a pitch-black night. Bennett’s footsteps, soft and sure, came up behind me. His fingers were gentle as they brushed against my jaw. Then he lifted my hair and kissed me underneath my ear.

  Our first encounter had been incredibly hot, but it had also been one of those things that happened largely because of a random intersection of circumstances. This time I was not a rain-soaked woman at her most vulnerable in years; this time I was put-together and poised; this time I would know how to handle myself.

  The ferocity of the sensation that hurtled through me dwarfed anything I’d ever experienced, a pleasure so sharp and vivid…it was as if months of simmering, unspoken desires had become a magnifier that turned the slightest touch to chaos and upheaval.

  I clenched my fingers so I wouldn’t gasp out loud.

  He kissed a different spot. I shivered.

  This was coming to resemble my fantasy too closely. In real life I was supposed to slip out of reach, and maybe laugh a little while wagging a finger with playful reproach. In real life I wasn’t supposed to be swept away by raging needs, like a canoe dragged over the edge of a powerful cataract.

  “I thought…I thought you were going to discuss something that had nothing to do with this.”

  “We’ll discuss it over dinner, which isn’t for at least another twenty-five minutes.” He punctuated his answer with a nip at my shoulder.

  I swallowed a whimper. “I told you, I’m saving myself for marriage.”

  “Then why do you keep leading me astray?” He kissed me on my earlobe. “I think about you every time I masturbate.”

  Did my knees buckle? I wouldn’t know, because he picked me up at that exact moment.

  “You see this?” he asked as he laid me down on the chaise. “When I come back from thirty hours in the hospital, I don’t even bother going up to the bedroom. I just sleep right here. But before I go to sleep I masturbate, and I think about you—under me, over me, and maybe bent over the armrest. Every time, without fail.”

  I was unbelievably turned on.

  He yanked off my boots. Reaching under my skirt, he peeled away my tights and my underwear. Now he undressed, smoothed on a condom, and pushed my skirt up around my waist. Then, in one motion, he was all the way inside me.

  How did this happen? How did I lose control so quickly? Was it because in my heart I had never wanted any result but this?

  I shut my eyes tight and wrapped my legs around him. God, he was strong. When he drove into me, it felt as if I were making love to a race car. I had a death grip on the back of the chaise, so that he wouldn’t propel me clear off it.

  “Do you know why I think of you?” He spoke directly into my ear. “You make me come instantly. I put my hand on myself, picture you naked, and I come like a fourteen-year-old.”

  The pleasure of his body was volcanic. The pleasure of his words was a conflagration. I was already on the verge when he said, “I come so fast that sometimes I have to masturbate one more time. And when I do that, I imagine fucking you all night long.”

  My orgasm was a bullet to the head, a shocking starburst. His was similarly thorough and ferocious. But he didn’t stop. He kept going, kissing my face, my throat, my breasts, until I was trembling again.

  Until together we fell over the edge again.

  MY BREATH WAS IN TATTERS. So was something far more important: my composure. Fortunately the dazzle of nighttime Manhattan was only a shimmer on the walls, the room dark enough that I didn’t need to worry that he’d see my confusion—and the beginning of my distress.

  Bennett kissed me on the shoulder and asked, as if it were an afterthought, “When was the last time you got lucky?”

  Should I lie? It would be a good idea here. “You should know,” I said. “You were an eyewitness.”

  He kissed my cheek. “I’m busy. What’s your excuse?”

  I have closed myself off—and I prefer it that way. Who are you and how did you manage to strip me naked? “I’m incredibly incompetent at getting laid. I could stand in the middle of Times Square on a Saturday night, waving a ‘Free Pussy’ sign, and get no takers.”

  “Liar. I’ll bet I ruined you for other men.”

  I would have laughed if I could. “So says the man who can’t put his hand on himself without thinking of me.”

  He chortled softly. “Put me in my place, why don’t you?”

  And with that, he pushed off to get dressed. By the time I slowly sat up, pulled down my skirt, and straightened my top, he was already presentable. He gave me my panty-and-tights tangle, and then my boots. And when I had everything in place, he turned the lights back on and brought me the vermouth I hadn’t tasted yet.

  “We’ll have time to finish our drinks before dinner, like civilized people.”

  I wanted to ask him whether he really fantasized about me every time he masturbated. If it was true, then he was almost as sexually obsessed with me as I was with him—and that might be some consolation. But I had a feeling he would smirk at me and ask, What do you think?

  And other than laughing it off, what response could I give? If I said I believed it, I would come across as hopelessly naive. If I said I didn’t believe a word of it, then why did I bother to ask? Even laughing it off would at best be an awkward recovery from a full-blown faux pas.

  So I said instead, “Do you really sleep on the chaise when you come back from the hospital?”

  “When I’m on call.”

  “So you just sit here and…spank the monkey?”

  “You know what happened one time? I had two days off and slept the night in my bed
. The next morning I came down, grabbed some breakfast, and sat down to read the news, and ten minutes later I had an erection the size of the Empire State Building. I’ve turned myself into Pavlov’s dog.”

  “Now you have to stay away from the masturbation couch the rest of the time?”

  “I might have to move it somewhere else. Imagine if I had a party and accidentally sat down on it.”

  We were still laughing when the oven chimed to let us know that our soup was ready. But my laughter sounded a little brittle in my own ears.

  Bennett set the table and served a salad for the first course. “By the way, Zelda showed me the picture with you in a tiara. Pretty breathtaking.”

  “Thanks. I usually deny that I’m the one in the picture, since in person I look like a halfhearted knockoff.”

  “Really? The first time I saw you, you looked almost exactly like that.”

  My brows shot up. “When I was out walking Biscuit in Cos Cob?”

  “No, I first saw you in Central Park last summer, at a wedding.”

  I looked at him in surprise—I’d indeed attended a wedding in Central Park the past summer.

  “I went for a run in the park and I was walking back when a wedding party came over the bridge. And when they all passed by, you were there at the other end of the bridge, looking down into the water.”

  “Oh,” I said, more than a little unnerved. “I didn’t notice anyone.”

  Weddings sometimes got to me. Despite the divorce rate, it was still even odds for the bride and groom to make it all the way, to become one of those white-haired, affectionate couples I envied and admired so much. And that day in Central Park was one of those occasions when I looked into my own future and saw nothing but loneliness.

  “No, I don’t expect you did,” he said softly. “The water under the bridge was exceptionally interesting.”

  We were quiet for some time. I worked diligently on my salad, though I didn’t taste much of anything. And then I asked, as much to fill the silence as out of curiosity, “And how’s work for you?”

  He took a sip of his water. “I feel like I can perform a lobectomy in my sleep these days.”

  “That’s the removal of a lobe of a lung, right?”

  “Uh-hmm. Between Thanksgiving and when I left for Guatemala, we had a string of patients who needed the procedure. There were a couple of cardiac procedures too, a valve replacement and a transmyocardial revascularization.”

  “I’m almost more impressed that you can say it than that you can do it.”

  “I told you, pinnacle of modern manhood.”

  This had me smiling again, despite myself.

  We made more small talk as we polished off bowls of leek-and-potato soup. Then, during a lull in the conversation, he cleared the table and brought out poached pear halves. I sensed we were about to get down to business.

  “So tell me why you’ve been stalking Zelda.”

  And why you’ve been Googling me so hard.

  Bennett poured me half a glass of dessert wine before sitting down again. “When you first called me about Biscuit, you said something like, ‘This is Evangeline Canterbury, Collette Woolworth’s house sitter.’ Your name rang a bell, but it was only when I was on the train Saturday morning, going back to the city, after we’d…”

  “Done it against a wall,” I offered.

  “Yes, that.” He looked at me with an expression that was almost a smile, but not quite.

  An expression that caused a flash of intense heat low in my abdomen.

  “Right,” I said briskly. “So that was when you finally figured out why my name was familiar. I’m surprised you were able to. When Zelda first brought you up as ‘the Somerset boy,’ I drew a complete blank.”

  “I might have done the same if my mom hadn’t kept repeating to herself, the last time we were all together in one place, ‘I can’t believe we left poor Evangeline Canterbury in the lurch.’”

  He had a faraway gaze, as if reliving the chaos, acrimony, and heartache of that day. Then he shook his head. “Anyway, after I moved back east I realized I didn’t have a strategy in place. When I left, I cut my ties pretty thoroughly. I don’t have anyone here who can serve as a liaison, to ease me back into my parents’ social circle. And I need someone like that before I can start the process.”

  I dipped a piece of pear in the pool of chocolate sauce at the center of the plate. “I hate to sound like a broken record. But if you are serious about reuniting with your family—and you must be to have moved three thousand miles—you can just pick up the phone.”

  For a long moment he said nothing. Then, “I can’t.”

  Something about those two words, a certain rawness, perhaps, made my chest constrict.

  But your mother is waiting for you to call, I almost answered. Then I remembered what Zelda had said: The real rupture is between the boy and his father. For all that Frances Somerset had been open about her own desire to hear from her prodigal son, she’d been resolutely silent on her husband’s sentiments.

  Now the purpose of the liaison was clear. “So you want a reconciliation, but you want it on your own terms—no apologies, no olive branches held out, no appearing at all as if you actually came to make amends.”

  He exhaled. “It’s scary how accurately you’re reading me, but yes, exactly. I want everything to seem organic.”

  “And that’s where Zelda comes in?”

  “No, that’s where you come in.”

  I stared at him, a forkful of pear hovering before me.

  “For me to cultivate friendships that have been dormant for fifteen years would be both too obvious and too cynical. A girlfriend is a much better idea: A brand-new girlfriend is still a legitimate girlfriend.”

  I set down my fork and took a swig of the dessert wine. “I’m not your girlfriend.”

  But did he want me to be?

  He looked at me, his gaze clear yet…impersonal. It struck me just how much I’d deluded myself with my Munich fantasy. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know him at all.

  Then his expression softened—and something came over me, a sense of sweetness and wonder. But only for a fraction of a second. When he spoke again, he was all business.

  “We don’t need to apply labels if that’ll trip you up.”

  What did that even mean?

  He leaned forward an inch. “Don’t you see? There’s something remarkably perfect about how everything has come together. Zelda is my mom’s friend, so there’s an overlap between your social circle and my parents’. As your plus-one, I’m bound to bump into them at various events. And since we were neighbors for a whole summer, which is God’s truth, it wouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that we’ve hooked up.”

  He wanted me to be his pretend girlfriend. My disappointment was so sharp it took a second before I could respond. “I can see your logic. But you have to understand—no matter how much I might look like a socialite in my ‘princess’ picture, I’m not one, and I hardly ever attend events on the social calendar.”

  “But that’s part of what makes you such a good fit. My parents would be impressed by your accomplishments. It would also make our ‘relationship’ seem more genuine.”

  “That’s crazy. I’m not an actress either. I can’t keep pretending to be what I’m not.”

  “But together we don’t have to. When I’m standing next to you, anybody with eyes can tell that I want to sleep with you—and that you won’t mind. With that in place, how much more do we need to pretend? We’re two busy people with no plans for the long-term future. We’re just enjoying ourselves in the present tense.”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s insane.”

  “Explain to me why it’s insane.”

  “Because…”

  Because it would be like throwing someone with an alcohol problem into a sea of hard liquor.

  It was bad enough that I succumbed at his touch. Now, on top of our already ill-defined association, he wanted to add the complications of a fa
ke relationship. Maybe he’d be able to keep track of what was real and what wasn’t; I didn’t trust myself that much.

  But I couldn’t tell him I was turning him down because I was too into him. “Okay, how long would it take you to reconcile with your parents? Three months? Six months? A year? What if I meet someone I want to be with? What if you do? Are we stuck with each other because we have this crazy agreement?

  “Also, how often are we supposed to go to these social occasions? I spent my Christmas working. I don’t have that kind of time.

  “Not to mention, you may not know people in town, but I do. I’ve lived most of my life in Manhattan. What am I supposed to tell everyone? What am I supposed to tell Zelda? There are so many complications I can’t even begin to list them all.”

  Bennett was silent, his face turned to the window. I was again reminded of the night of our meeting. After he’d introduced himself, I’d thanked him coolly, wanting him gone. He’d glanced toward his car then, as if he wished he’d never come out in the rain to talk to me. As if he was the one who might leave our encounter bruised and battered.

  He looked back at me. “Except for the part about my parents, you can tell Zelda everything,” he said, his voice calm and even. “That we hooked up in August and again just now. That I’d like for us to continue to see each other. That you aren’t entirely sure yet. Same goes for your friends.

  “I’m busy too, so we won’t be out glad-handing every night—or even every weekend. As for time, three months is too short, but six will work. And if you meet someone you want to date while we’re at it, you can take your out anytime.”

  He made it sound so easy. So casual.

  I shook my head some more. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  Silence greeted my words. His face was shuttered. Realization burned in my chest: After my refusal, we wouldn’t see each other again.

  What was I thinking? Of course I would be his pretend girlfriend. Of course I would bask in his adoring gaze and giggle as he whispered snarky comments into my ear. And of course I would come back here with him afterward, still buzzing from the high of our public displays of affection, and let him take off my clothes and make love to me.