If the Fates Allow

by Zoe Kane

  “They went wine-tasting in Yamhill County on their third date,” she said, in a toneless voice. “This was their favorite place. The tasting room’s up on a hill, you can see miles of vineyards all around it. All golden and green. And the mountains in the distance. We all used to drive up there every year.”

  “Annie –“

  “This is a 2006,” she said. “I bought it for them. They were saving it for January. For their tenth anniversary.” Marcus looked up at her sharply. “But there’s not going to be a tenth anniversary,” she said, “is there.” And it wasn’t a question. “So we might as well drink it today. We might as well drink it at their funeral.”

  “Annie,” he said softly, and his hand on the table twitched a little, as though he’d been about to reach out to her and then changed his mind.

  "There's not going to be a ten-year anniversary," she said again. "No parents at their high school graduations. Or to walk them down the aisle. Their kids are never going to know their own grandparents."

  "I know."

  "She's never going to turn forty. There's never going to be any such thing as Grace at age forty. Grace as a grandmother. We just assumed there would be, you know, you just assume people stick around forever, but her whole life never got any farther than that patch of ice on that corner of the highway. That was always where it was going to end, we just didn't know. We just assumed there would be an after, but there wasn't. The kids don’t have Christmas presents, did you know that? They were in the car.” Her voice was barely audible. “They’d gone down to the outlet mall and bought all the kids’ presents. All the presents were in the car with them.”

  “Annie, don’t.”

  “The paramedics said everything was too burned to save.”

  “Annie –“

  “There was a bike for Isaac, I know that,” she said, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice, “but I don’t know what they got for the girls, I don’t know what was supposed to go in the stockings –“

  “We’ll figure it out. We’ll think of something.”

  “There wasn’t a list, people should make lists, if Grace had written it down I could have just gone back to the store and bought them all again, but she didn’t, I’ve been through every drawer in her desk, there’s no list, how am I supposed to buy Christmas presents for three children who can hardly stand to be in the same room with me if their mother never made a fucking list?”

  “You’re not alone anymore,” he said softly, and she turned to him, startled, as though she’d partially forgotten he was there. Her eyes were blank and confused. This time he did reach out to her, he took her hand in his for a moment, and suddenly Annie felt a surge of something shoot through her entire body and realized that, despite the peculiar intimacy they’d forged over the past week, this was the first time he had actually touched her.

  “You’re not alone,” he said again. “You don’t have to carry this all yourself. That’s why Danny sent me. That’s why I’m here. Remember? Because he didn’t want you to have to do all of this by yourself.” He squeezed her hand. “There are two of us now,” he said, and his smile was so comforting that she could feel it seep inside her, wrap its warm hands around the Dark Thing and lock it safely away, and something in Annie eased just a little. “I’m here,” he said gently. “I’m here for anything you need.”

  She looked at him then, really looked at him, as though for the first time. She saw his still-just-a-little-too-long hair, which he’d gotten cut before the funeral so he didn’t look quite so shaggy, and she thought about how soft it looked, what it would feel like beneath her hands. She saw his disheveled suit – jacket long since cast aside, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose, coming ever so slightly untucked, like James Bond at the end of a long day. She saw his warm, dark eyes, intently focused on her, heavy with something that looked like worry – and something else that looked like a very different thing altogether.

  “Anything I need?” she asked, her tone of voice almost unreadable, and he leaned in a little closer, swallowing hard.

  “What do you need, Annie?” he said in a voice with just the hint of a rasp in it, as though he wasn’t quite in control of his breath.

  What do I need? she thought to herself, as a heady brew of exhaustion and grief and panic and too much red wine and the fingerprints of Danny Walter and her sister all over this house began to swirl and bubble over inside her. What I need is to stop being Annie Walter. Just for one night.

  If I think about that patch of ice or Isaac's scorched bike or those two coffins or the winery I will lose it. That's what I need. I need those pictures out of my mind. I need to disappear into a place where their faces, their voices, can't follow me. Just for a minute, so I can breathe again. That's what I need.

  But she didn’t say any of that.

  She didn’t say anything.

  Instead, she did the absolute last thing in the world he would ever have expected.

  She stood up from the kitchen table and she walked around to the other side, standing so near to him that he could smell the light floral fragrance of her perfume, and then her hands disappeared beneath her crisp black pencil skirt for just a moment. And then he stared blankly as she stepped out of the black cotton underwear that now lay discarded at her feet.

  “You said I could have whatever I wanted,” she said. “This is what I want, Marcus, I want to not think.”

  “Annie,” he began helplessly, but he couldn’t form words after that because her hands were on his belt buckle and in a heartbeat he was open before her – and yes, he was growing hard already, he couldn’t help it, it had come on fast, it was the perfume and then the underwear that had done it. Her hands gripped his shoulders and her legs pressed against his hips and his hands came around her waist, reflexively, to help her balance as she lowered herself onto his lap.

  “Annie –“

  “Don’t talk,” she said hoarsely, reaching down a hand to stroke him into readiness, angling herself above him and then in a heartbeat, sweet Jesus, he was inside her.

  It was such a bad idea. It was truly disastrously awful idea. To his credit, Marcus knew that. He opened his mouth, he took a breath, he meant to say, "Stop, Annie, we can't do this, this isn't going to help anything, we're drunk and it's been a horrible day and we should both just get some sleep."

  But then she arched her back and threw back her head and gasped as he slid inside of her, and as good of a man as he wanted to be, he couldn’t resist anymore. She felt so good, and she needed him so urgently, and he’d held out as long as he could, but he wasn't a saint.

  Keeping one hand firmly on her back for balance, he tore open her white blouse with the other hand so he could bury his mouth between her breasts. He heard the sound of a button flying off, but he didn’t care. Her breasts were perfect, and he tongued the soft swelling curves that rose up from the cups of her white bra and felt her shudder at his touch. Her nails dug into his flesh where her hands gripped his shoulders as she rode him, rising and falling, faster and faster. His hands found their way lower and lower, pushing up the prim pencil skirt until he could grip her ass with both hands, caressing the soft skin.

  It would have made him feel like a monster to be too aware, in that moment, of the way her eyes were squeezed shut and she made almost no sound. Her hips rocked against his almost violently as she pitched forward, bracing herself, and bent her face so close to his that their foreheads touched, but still she did not look at him. She was somewhere else.

  “Are you close?” he heard her murmur, her voice oddly hollow, and he croaked out a harsh "yes" in reply. "Take me with you," she said, guiding his hand down between their bodies so he could find her wetness with his fingers. He gently took her clit between his thumb and forefinger and began to caress it, which sent her whole body into spasms of trembling pleasure, though she still hardly made a sound and did not open her eyes. But his touch clearly stimulated her, because she moved against him faster and harder, harder and faster, until wi
th a vast echoing cry he emptied himself inside her and then a short moment later she moaned aloud and fell forward, sinking against him in the chair.

  They sat like that for a long moment, breathing heavily, before something in Annie collapsed. It was as though she pulled back suddenly and saw herself the way he must see her – skirt askew, blouse and underwear on the floor, hair disheveled, fucking a near-stranger on a kitchen chair in her dead sister’s house. Jesus Christ, you’re a train wreck, she thought to herself, overcome with despair and mortification. She felt Marcus’ hand slide up her back, holding her comfortably in place, and she pulled away from him suddenly, as though his touch was poisonous. She would not cry in front of him. Which meant she had to get out of that room.

  She left her clothes on the floor and bolted.

  He rose to go after her. “Annie,” he said gently, following her out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the front hall. "Annie, wait."

  “Marcus, if you tell me we need to talk about what just happened I swear to God I will stick a kitchen knife through your hand.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” he said, and it stopped her in her tracks.

  “You weren’t?”

  “No,” he said. “I wasn’t.” And he moved a little nearer. She eyed him warily, but didn’t back away, so he took a few more steps toward her. “If that’s what you wanted,” he said, in a gentle voice, “if you want to forget –“

  “You think I’m a terrible person,” she said defensively, and he shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “I was going to say, I think we can forget a little better than that.” And then before she could say anything else, he took two long steps, wrapped his arms around her back, and kissed her.

  All her shame and anger – at herself, at him, at everyone – evaporated completely at that kiss. He tasted like wine and his mouth was so warm and so urgent on hers that she felt shivery all over. He’d come already, after all, so he wasn’t kissing her as some perfunctory first step in the machinery of foreplay. He was just tasting her, savoring her. She’d never been kissed like this. He kissed with his whole body, and she found herself unexpectedly beginning to rouse to him again.

  “Let’s forget some more,” he murmured, pressing his mouth against her throat, his breath warm in her ear. “Let me do it right this time.” She could not speak, could only nod, pulling against his rumpled shirt until they were in the doorway of her room.

  He closed the door behind him as he entered, shutting out the bright kitchen light and leaving them alone in the dim lavender glow of a small bedside lamp. Annie stepped out of her heels, then turned her back to him and waited. After a moment, his hand trembling slightly, he realized what she wanted. He stepped in close and brushed tentative fingertips over the nape of her neck, then her shoulder blades, then down her back, where he unclasped the hooks of her bra and slipped it off her, brushing her nipples with his fingertips as he dropped the creamy fabric to the floor.

  Unable to resist, he ran his fingers down the smooth white skin of her back, tracing the ridges of her spine to the place where it met soft round curves, which made him think again about that pair of black cotton underwear she’d shed earlier in the kitchen. The bra was white satin and didn’t match, which caused his heart to constrict a little bit with worry. She had gotten dressed this morning for a funeral. She hadn’t dressed for anyone else to see what was underneath that black suit. Which meant she hadn’t decided she wanted to do this until she’d done it. After they’d killed nearly two bottles of wine.

  But oh Lord, he knew all about forgetting. Who was he to tell her she didn’t know what she really wanted? Who was he to tell her no? Maybe a better man than Marcus Rey would have turned her down and walked out the door, but Jesus Christ, her white skin and her dark hair and the soft swell of her breasts and the curve of her waist and how tiny she was with no high heels on and the way she was looking at him, confident and unafraid, saying yes with her eyes and her whole body. And so he said yes too.

  “Annie,” he said, and seized her in his arms – she was so tiny, how was it possible for that much strength, that much force and grit, to live inside the body of such a small woman? – and he buried his mouth in her throat, and something inside Annie Walter snapped.

  It had been fast and rough and desperate in the kitchen, and she’d only been half there. But this time, when he touched her, she felt things. She let herself feel things.

  It had never been like this with Malcolm, never, not once.

  Marcus’ mouth was hot and hungry and she could feel a whisper of roughness where his cheek touched her skin. She had a curious sensation of melting, as though she’d been frozen solid and everywhere that his warm breath touched her she began to thaw. She yanked off his tie and started on his buttons as he pulled off his slacks and kicked off his shoes. Together they frantically tore off his clothing until he was completely naked, and then he took her in his arms and carried her over to the bed.

  “I’m going to ask you again if you’re sure,” he said as he set her down and pulled back the covers to climb in with her. “I need to hear you say it.”

  “You told me I could have anything I wanted,” she said. “This is the only thing I want.”

  And because he wanted so badly, in that moment, as he moved beneath the covers to lie on top of her, for those words to be true, he decided to believe them. So he brushed the hair out of her eyes and he pressed his warm mouth against her bare skin and he let himself feel good about it, he let himself feel like he was rescuing her. Like some part of him had already begun to care for this unfathomable, impossible woman.

  And so he let himself pretend, just for tonight, that he was the good guy. That he was the hero. He was going to make Annie Walter feel good. He was going to help her forget.

  He was determined, this time, to go slow, to draw it out. She had come, on his lap in the kitchen, but he was pretty sure he could do a little better. So he started, first, with his hands and mouth all over her body. He kissed her breasts, her hands, her stomach. He grazed gentle fingers over the white skin of her forearms, sending shivers up and down her spine. He found the warm wetness between her thighs and he caressed it, lightly and gently, running his fingers back and forth in delicate strokes. And he kissed her mouth, over and over again, he kissed her until she began to feel the tiniest bit dizzy, he kissed her until she was ready again, desperate even – and he was ready too.

  He looked at her then, his eyes a silent question, and she nodded back, yes, and with his mouth pressed against her throat he wrapped his arms around her and he plunged inside.

  For the second time that evening, Annie was almost incapable of incoherent thought. Marcus filled her completely, warm and heavy and dizzyingly deep, and her entire body felt electric, almost faint. He pulled himself out, just a little, then dipped back in again, deeper this time, and she heard as if from a far-off distance the hoarse, wild, breathy moans coming from her throat, sounds she’d never heard herself make before. She heard herself calling his name, she felt her legs wrap around him to draw him deeper in, she felt her fingernails dig into his back as she writhed beneath him, but the sensations were so ferociously intense that she thought she might burst. She had not let herself feel anything in the kitchen, but she felt everything now.

  She felt her body begin to swell toward climax almost immediately, an alien sensation; sometimes with Malcolm, or with the men she’d dated in her younger years, she’d been able to come – businesslike, perfunctory little orgasms that mostly seemed to serve as a checkmark on a score sheet, like Malcolm could let himself do what he’d really wanted, pounding wildly away at her until he came, once he’d performed his due diligence and given her something first.

  But it wasn’t like that with Marcus. Marcus wasn’t stingy, Marcus wasn’t tracking whose turn it was, Marcus wasn’t waiting with bored and annoyed patience to try and come up with some way Annie could tolerate his touch. Marcus was enjoying himself. He was exploring h
er. Every time he looked down into her eyes, he was smiling.

  And so when he finally came, that’s where he was – his head bent over hers, foreheads nearly touching, staring deep into her wide-open eyes, mouth parted in a ragged gasp, but smiling, and she felt more warmly toward him than she had since the first day they’d met. And just when she was about to think, what the hell, I already came once tonight, let him just finish however he wants, his hand slipped down between her thighs and his thumb swept across her clit and the double sensation was too much for her. Her arms tightened around him and her back arched and her gasps turned into strangled cries that made them both desperately grateful to be alone in the house, as he brought thirty-eight-year-old Annie Walter to the first really good orgasm of her life.

  She stared at him, eyes wide, feeling lightheaded and woozy and tingly all over, as he followed her almost immediately after, groaning and trembling as he emptied himself deep inside her. She held him there for a long moment, held his body against hers, and felt their racing hearts slow, felt their breathing ease back down to normal.

  “Better?” he murmured into her shoulder, and against her will she almost laughed.

  “Are you going to say ‘I told you so?’”

  “It’s a matter of pride,” he said between kisses, his mouth tracing the soft skin of her collarbone and throat. “I just wanted to show you what I could do if you gave me a little heads-up first. So I was ready.”

  “You were ready pretty fast the first time,” she reminded him, and he had the good grace to blush a tiny bit. He kissed her mouth again, warm and gentle.

  “Did it help?” he asked. She said nothing, just sighed sleepily and closed her eyes. She was drunk, and she was tired – she was so, so tired – and her whole body felt warm and liquid and his arms around her were comfortingly solid, and she didn’t want to talk anymore. So he held her close and kissed her hair as her breathing tapered off from ragged post-coital panting into a smooth, even rhythm and she drifted off to sleep.

  She didn't notice the way Marcus looked at her as she slept. She could not see the look on his face. This was a good thing; if she had opened her eyes just then and looked at him, she would have seen things she was never meant to see.