The Book Club

by Mary Alice Monroe

  He’d obviously worked hard to prepare for the dinner. Beyond the arched entry to the dining room she spied a round table painstakingly set with heavy, thick white linen, bright-green china, old silver, thin crystal wineglasses and two tall, tapered white candles. Small white roses filled a glass bowl in the center. She released another sigh. The man certainly had style.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, please.” Casting him a sidelong glance, she said, “Surprise me.”

  He came back a moment later with a Campari and soda, a red-colored concoction on ice with a slice of lemon. It tasted a bit bitter, a bit tart and very foreign. After a second sip she thought she could get used to it.

  There were so many things she wanted to get used to tonight—like being alone with a man in his home. Her mother had always pounded into her brain that a good girl never went into a man’s apartment. You’d think at forty-five she’d be past that kind of thinking but damn if that warning didn’t play in her mind as she strolled through the house while Paul cooked in the kitchen. She felt all of sixteen again, tongue-tied and searching for breath mints.

  “Need a refill?” he asked coming out from the kitchen, drying his hands.

  She looked at her glass, surprised to find that the red drink was gone and all that was left was a chewed-up slice of lemon and a few lumps of ice. But ah, yes, her head was swimming. Through heavy eyes she saw Paul standing there in his black polo shirt, tan slacks and brown leather sandals, waiting for an answer. He looked so delicious she wanted to eat him up for supper and forget that savory aroma wafting from the kitchen. When he stepped closer, with a smile on his full lips and his eyes smoldering, she felt her insides go sloshy and her knees fill up with water so high she wasn’t sure she could stand.

  “No, thanks,” she replied returning the glass to him. “I think I’ve had enough.”

  “You don’t have to drive home.”

  She didn’t dare analyze that statement. “What are you cooking in there?” she asked, dragging her eyes off him and directing her gaze over his shoulder. “Smells wonderful.”

  “I thought we’d start with some bruschetta. I have some early tomatoes, just ripening. You’re in for a treat. They’re—” he kissed his fingers in the Italian manner “—molto bene. Then maybe a little prosciutto e melone, then my favorite risotto with a few grilled shrimp and vegetables—nothing too heavy. And for dessert...” He stopped short and shook his head, the devil in his eyes. “No. You need some surprises.”

  Slish-slosh went her insides.

  “Where did you learn to cook?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Back in the eighties I was one of the Mud Angels sent by the Newberry to help restore the historical books after the Arno overflowed. I lived in Italy for a year, then went back again to teach in Rome for four years. I go back whenever I can. I don’t know which I love more, the culture or the food. Speaking of which, are we going to talk here or cook dinner? Would you like to help? I need some basil and a few more tomatoes from the garden. Could you pick me some?”

  She passed through the well-stocked kitchen, where steam was rising from tall stainless steel pots. Bunches of chopped herbs, mostly basil, and chunks of fragrant cheese lay in waiting on the wooden cutting boards. As she moved out to the yard she saw that his garden was an extension of the house. The deck was decorated with terra-cotta pots filled with all kinds of herbs. How like a man, she thought, when he explained he couldn’t see the point of planting anything that he couldn’t eat. She had plunked flowers in every spare spot in the yard of her house. To her mind, there was never enough space for flowers. His garden, nonetheless, lured her out, and for the first time since she’d moved into the condo, she missed her old home, her garden especially.

  As with everything else, Paul Hammond chose things not for design or style but simply because he liked them. And when he liked something, he obviously went overboard. All the trees were in the front; not a one cast shade on the serious garden in back. In one corner were rows of raspberries, and in the far corner a trellis of peas climbed toward the sun. But smack in the center, dominating the yard, were rows and rows of tomato plants standing as erect as soldiers in bamboo tepees and robust bushes of basil of every variety imaginable. Eve expected to see an old crone in a black dress shelling peas.

  “I don’t see any flowers. Not even a single marigold.”

  “I can buy all that,” he said, as though it were obvious. “Here, taste one of these.”

  When she bit into the warm tomato, basil and garlic concoction spread on crisply toasted bread, the heady scent filled her cavities and she suddenly understood. She nodded, licking her lips. “It tastes like summer,” she said in a moan.

  “Exactly.”

  His smile never failed to disarm her. It was warm, sexy and full of promise. She felt the last vestige of her guard slip away with the evening sun.

  Paul led her indoors to the dining room where he lit the tapered candles, pulled out her chair, then fed her a meal fit for a queen, which was precisely how he made her feel. It was a cornucopia for her senses. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so thoroughly seduced. Or when she’d last looked into a man’s eyes over a candlelit dinner and felt she could drown in them. Or the last time she’d watched a man’s hands move unconsciously in the air as he talked, or absently caught a drop of condensation on a water goblet, or fed her a plump juicy raspberry, still warm from the garden. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt a fire of yearning for such hands on her body.

  The talk was seamless, flowing from one subject to the other as they each opened up and shared and mingled their histories together. When he offered her more wine, she noticed that he didn’t serve himself any. He was soft-spoken but brutally honest when she asked him why.

  “I don’t drink,” he replied readily. “I’m an alcoholic. I gave up drinking twenty-two years ago and though I wouldn’t say I’m cured—what alcoholic can ever say that?—I’ve got the demons under control.” His words spilled out in a torrent as he got caught up in the story. “I was a hard drinker. I spent much of my youth in a drunken haze, bombed out of my mind for months on end. My father was a drinker, and a tyrant, as was my grandfather before him,” he said ruefully. “I’m large like my father, I have hands like him,” he said, holding them up to the candlelight. His face was dark and glowering as he fought the demons in his memory. “But I hope the comparison ends there. I can be ruthless myself, I admit. And I was. The drinking coupled with youth... Well, I was ostracized from the family until after the accident.”

  He sighed and plucked a strip of wax from the candle. Eve waited breathlessly for him to continue, knowing he would.

  “Poor, sweet Caro. She was my drinking partner as much as my wife. We weren’t married very long. We were so young and so bloody foolish. She was an actress, a damn good one, and I, well, I was middling good but I didn’t really give a damn. It was an escape from the utter boredom that was my life, and, I suppose, a tweak at my father. Anyway, we were driving home from a party at the country house of a friend. She was driving. I’d passed out. The next thing I remember I woke up in hospital.” He spoke slowly now, deliberately. “It doesn’t matter who was driving, really. I killed her.”

  “Paul, you didn’t.”

  “My drinking did. Her drinking did. Our drinking did. His, hers, ours... It’s all semantics. She died and I’ve never touched another drop. I’ve spent most of my life alone since then. My body healed but there was this gaping inner wound that festered. I was angry.” He laughed bitterly and his eyes flashed with defiance. “God was I angry! I made not only my own life miserable but several others as well. I drove people away.” He shrugged. “But like most things, I mellowed in time. I like being alone now. I have my work. I love to travel. I don’t need anyone, really. I don’t make attachments to people easily and I have few friends.�
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  Paul looked up and studied her face, then reached out across the table to take her hand. She felt his heat spread up her arm to her heart.

  “And now, here you are. I’ve been in this city for ten years and one May morning you walk into my office like a breath of spring and everything seems different. I’m suddenly lonely.”

  The utter simplicity of the statement devastated her. She drew back, overwhelmed.

  Misunderstanding, he released her hand and leaned far back into his chair, staring at her with an intense study. “Why don’t you ever talk about your husband?”

  “It’s not easy to talk about him. Especially not to you.”

  “I’d like to hear about him. You obviously loved him very much.”

  “Yes. Very much. But why do you want to know about him?”

  “I have to in order to better know you. And I want to know everything about you, Eve Porter.”

  So Eve told him, haltingly at first, then in a rambling stream of consciousness, all about her own long, happy marriage, her children and the tragedy that changed their lives. It was difficult to explain to him, a man she was attracted to, how she still loved her husband. How she always would. How, in so many ways, she still felt married.

  She glanced up, sheepishly, to gauge his reaction. She expected him to be put off, to think that his attention, this divine seduction, was all for naught because she was some crazy widow with her light still burning for her dead husband.

  But his expression was filled with compassion. “I’ve never known that kind of love,” he said.

  It was a bittersweet admission, difficult to make. She leaned forward and allowed him to cup her cheek and chin with his palm, to trace the contours of her lips with the tip of his thumb. She closed her eyes and sighed again, willing him to understand that she was overflowing with light. And that there was a scorching torch, raging inside her—just for him.

  “I want to hold you in my arms, Eve,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve wanted to do just that since you walked into my office. The past few weeks have been torturous. I want to hold you more than I’ve wanted anything for a very long time.”

  She took a deep breath, sensing what those words meant, hearing his request, so subtle but so clear with intent. Then she nodded her head and laid her thick napkin on the table.

  They rose together but she just stood there, trapped by the chair and her memories. He came to her side and drew her out of the corner, into his arms. He held her close. She smelled basil on his shirt, felt his hand stroke her cheek. Then he moved his hands to her head and pulled slightly back.

  She looked in his eyes. They were Paul’s eyes, not Tom’s, and for a second she felt like she was about to do something wrong, illicit. He must have sensed her hesitation because he searched her face, concern etched across his own.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied honestly. “You should know that there’s only been one man in my life.”

  He took a deep breath, then bent to kiss her forehead. “We can wait. I don’t want you to feel hurried, or have any regrets.”

  He wrapped her in his arms again and pressed her close. She felt his arousal and it sparked her own.

  Why was she being so childish? How many times in her monogamous marriage had she wondered what it would be like to make love to another man? She’d heard the jokes about size. She’d heard the ladies talk about how one man was such a good lover and how another was a loser. She’d read books in which women went round after heady round of lovemaking all through the night, mewling with pleasure. Of course she was curious, desperately so. At least to kiss another man, just to go that far, to see if another pair of lips would taste different than Tom’s or feel harder, softer, wetter, drier.

  Now she was free to find out—except that this cursed feeling of mindless guilt was holding her back. If she made love to this wonderful man, did she really think she would go blind or have her soul damned? The Catholic faith’s chastity belt was locked tight around her mind. She should have worked these questions out when she was young, before she was married. She should have had a little more fun.

  Except that she’d wanted to be pure for her husband and had married young. Even after all these years, that decision was one she’d never regretted. Her virginity was a treasure Tom had held dear.

  But now? After a lifetime of being a good girl? How unfair! She was burning inside, an inferno of desire held back by the constraints of a loony conscience. Surely only a Catholic girl would feel such guilt.

  “Come along,” he said, taking her hand. He led her to the sofa, then left the room for a moment, returning with a well-worn copy of The Divine Comedy. Settling into the cushions he brought her close to his chest. “I’ll have to be content to hold you like this.”

  There was no hint of resentment in his tone, only humor. She felt an immediate release of tension. Grateful, she rested her head against the crisp cotton of his shirt. The familiar, delicious ease she usually felt with him returned.

  “I promised you a reading of the Inferno and I intend to keep my promise. I wouldn’t want you to think I lured you here under false pretenses.”

  “I’ve just finished reading it. In English, of course,” she joked. “It wasn’t as difficult as I’d imagined it would be. It was very moving. Emotional. I loved every moment of it. But the part about poor Paolo and Francesca was so cruel,” she said, referring to the fifth canto where a woman named Francesca related to the traveler, Dante, how she was condemned for eternity in Hell for the unrepented sin of loving Paolo. “They fell in love and were punished for eternity.”

  “For adultery.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. That was what she felt at the moment. Condemned. Burning with desire, yet fearful that making love with Paul would be a sin.

  “Dante was moved by their love, moved to near death, because a love of that power was something he desired and had never experienced. A love so strong that it endured beyond death.”

  She knew that beneath his words he was speaking of himself and her marriage to Tom. He was probing her, and she felt the pinprick twist in her heart. Remembering how much she had loved Tom—at the very moment she was ready to love another—was a bewildering kind of misery.

  “It was just plain mean of Dante to keep the two together,” she continued. “Floating in a black whirlwind without hope, unable to speak.”

  He chuckled. “I feel like that at work, knowing you’re out there somewhere but unable to take you in my arms.”

  She leaned farther against him, slipping off her shoes and bringing up her knees on the sofa. “Yes, me too. Our own private Inferno.”

  He tightened his arms around her and rested his lips beside her temple. “For me, it’s a kind of Paradise. Just think. If you had not walked into my office, I’d never have known you. I’d be alone, never to have these feelings. So, in that light, perhaps for Francesca and Paolo, being together in Hell is better than being alone in Paradise.”

  Turning her body to rest her cheek and palm against his chest she asked, “Read the fifth canto to me? In Italian.”

  He reached for the book, opened it and settled her back upon his shoulder. Then in his deep, melodic voice that vibrated with emotion, he began to read.

  Eve closed her eyes and listened to the foreign words roll from his tongue in terza rima. Though she didn’t understand the words, she was moved by the power and cadence of the epic poem. She comprehended when Dante called to the spirit Francesca and asked her plaintively how they knew that they were in love. Francesca, grateful to tell her story, replied how one day she and Paolo were innocently reading together, as yet unaware that they were in love. During the reading their eyes met and they blushed.

  Quando leggemmo il disiato riso. When reading of the smile-long-waited-for. Then Paolo turned and k
issed Francesca upon the mouth. Tutto tremante.

  Paul stopped reading, closed the book and rested his lips on the softness of the fine hairs of her head.

  They sat together in a heavy silence. Both knew that this was their story also, that at some point in the library, while fingering through ancient vellum pages and reading countless tomes, they’d looked into each other’s eyes, smiled, blushed and knew that they were in love.

  All that remained was the kiss.

  Eve reached up with trembling fingers to wrap her hand around his neck, relishing the lush feel of his soft hair tangled in her fingers. His eyes shone with the blueness and intensity of an acetylene torch. She could feel the scorching heat of it straight through to her bones.

  “I warned you I could be ruthless when I want something,” he said, his breath hot upon her face. “And I want you.”

  Parting her lips and turning just so, she pulled his head down toward her, closing her eyes, holding her breath. When his lips met her open ones at last, she knew she was lost, swirling in a black whirlwind. Tutto tremante. There was an intensity in his kiss, a power that she’d expected. His strong arms were like steel bands clasping her tightly to his chest. She clung to him, wanting him, wanting this.

  There was no more reading, no more talk, no more doubt that night. He led her to his room where he removed her clothing with a care akin to devotion. And there upon his crisp linen sheets, she discovered that Dante was right after all. The way to Heaven is clearly marked and each of us has a chance to find it—if we want.