They sat there until late in the afternoon asking each other questions and answering them; talking about things they had done or that had happened to them. There seemed so much to find out but now they had the rest of their lives to do it. He held her hand and stroked it and sometimes kissed it, marveling at her skin – ‘like a peach’ he said.
‘What a pity we didn’t meet years ago,’ she said.
‘We’re just going to have to make up for all the time we didn’t have.’
‘We should have been childhood sweethearts.’
‘I feel as if we were. As if I’ve always known you. Or even as if I’ve known you in a previous life.’
They talked about religion. Neither of them was religious in the traditional, church-going sense. They both loved nature – maybe nature was God. And as for an afterlife, she didn’t know; he liked the idea of reincarnation.
With his fingertips he traced the line of her nose, underneath her eyes, her cheekbones, her cheeks, her chin, her lips. While he did, she closed her eyes and lifted her head slightly so that more of it caught the sun. When he had finished, she leaned forward, still with her eyes closed and they kissed. Her lips were soft and their tongues played gently together. She reached a hand out and pushed her fingers through his hair. Then she ran her open palm down his cheek, holding it there as they kissed.
He turned more towards her, putting his hand on her side under her arm and near her breast. She made the faintest whimper. Then he ran his hand down her side, feeling the curve of her hip where it became her buttock. The kiss ended and they pulled away from each other. Just slightly. They held each other’s eyes and the kiss restarted.
Eventually, they had to leave. She couldn’t meet the next day because she had arranged to have lunch with a lady friend. They agreed to meet here at the same spot again the following Wednesday, her afternoon off. ‘And maybe afterwards,’ she said, ‘Would you like to come and eat dinner at my home?’
Her house was a two-storey, red-brick house with white shutters in Foggy Bottom. It was late afternoon as they stood on the steps while she unlocked it. They had cut short their time in the Smithsonian gardens. They both knew.
As soon as they got inside, they seemed to forget all thought of food. He kissed her in the hallway and she dropped her parasol and bag. She took his hand and it was as though some sort of bolt of energy passed between them. They went upstairs.
Her bedroom was at the front of the house. It was warm from the heat of the day. She pulled the curtains and lit a lamp on a little stand beside the bed. Then she turned to face him.
‘Have you ever undressed a woman before?’ she asked.
He hadn’t.
‘I suppose you’ve been undressed by a man before.’
‘Strangely enough, I haven’t,’ she said, with a tiny shake of her head. ‘The house we lived in had a separate dressing room. So I would undress there and he would undress in the bedroom. Then when I came into the bedroom, he would be off washing, brushing his teeth and all that. I’d be in bed when he returned. He liked routine.’
‘So what’s the answer to my question?’ she said.
‘No. Never.’
‘Well, now’s your chance to learn. Here, I’ll get you started.’
She put one foot on a chair that stood in front of a dressing table and hitched up her skirt a little. Beneath the blue skirt was a froth of white. She untied the lace and eased off the shoe, dropping it on the floor. She wore white stockings. She took off the other shoe and put it down. One shoe stood up while the other lay on its side. She undid her hair and shook it out. She looked at him and smiled.
‘Over to you, Mister Owens,’ she said. ‘It’s all yours.’
He came to her and kissed her again, holding his lips against hers. Reaching down with both hands, he searched for the fastening of her skirt. He eventually found a button on her left hand side and undid it. She drew her face back from his a fraction.
‘My, the skirt first Mister Owens. You are eager. And one handed too.’
He eased the skirt down, eventually kneeling down and pushing it to the floor so that she could step out of it. He put it over the back of the chair. Then he undid her blouse and took it off, followed by her bodice, all the while gazing into her eyes. He kissed her white shoulders and neck and the tops of her arms.
‘How long does it take you to get dressed in the morning?’ he asked as he undid her camisole.
‘A good deal longer than you, I dare say.’
‘And at night – to get undressed?’
‘It’s very tiring, Mister Owens. That’s why I asked you to do it.’
He removed her two petticoats. Beneath these, she had on a chemise, underpants that came down to her knees and white stockings.
‘You’re nearly home, Mister Owens,’ she said. He unbuttoned the chemise and opened it to reveal her breasts. They were small and he held them in his hands. Then he stooped to kiss them. First one, then the other. Then he returned to the first one and when he sucked the nipple, she gasped. He did the same with the other one.
He knelt before her and kissed her crotch through the linen fabric. Then reaching up and catching the waistband of the underpants, he pulled them down slowly. He held his lips to her until he had to remove them to make way for the fabric. Then he saw the little mound of hair and smelt her real fragrance. He pushed the underpants down and she stepped out of them. Now there were just the stockings, held up with garters.
‘You can leave them on for now, if you wish, Mister Owens.’
Later, after he had climaxed inside her, she said simply, ‘I love you.’
13
‘And now what about you, Miss Reynolds?’ he asked.
Gilbert lay beside her sunk in the deep luxurious pile of her bed. A few minutes earlier he had climaxed and now he felt more sleepy than he had ever felt in his life. Part of him was relieved when she answered, ‘I don’t think so. Not today.’
If he noticed that she hadn’t called him ‘Mister Owens’ in that playful way that she did, he thought nothing of it. He wanted so much to sleep but he was aware of her wide awake beside him. His eyes were heavy and several times he had to snap them open as they seemed to close of their own accord.
At length she said, ‘Well, you’ve manipulated yourself very cleverly into my bed, haven’t you?’
Gilbert was about to make a joking reply but there was something in her voice that caused him to turn his head on the pillow. She was staring at him and her face had a cold, almost frightening look about it.
‘Have I done something to upset you?’ he asked.
He was still half-thinking that this might be a joke, but that thought was quickly draining away.
She didn’t answer but turned away from him, her bare shoulder showing above the bedclothes and her dark hair splashed on the pillow with its lacy edges.
‘You should go now,’ she said.
‘But ––’
‘Just go,’ she said.
Slowly, Gilbert got up from the bed and began to retrieve his clothes. He was still waiting for her to say something, to say that all of this was a joke, but when he looked at her, she was still turned away from him, staring at the wall.
By the time he was dressed and ready to go she had still not moved.
‘Can we meet tomorrow?’ he asked.
He stood in the doorway addressing the words to her naked back. She said nothing. After a long pause, he turned away, stunned, uncomprehending. Then he heard her say, ‘Come back with a better offer.’
He turned back into the bedroom.
‘What do you mean? I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t understand … what have I done?’
She turned round and sat up in the bed, pulling the bedclothes up over her breasts. Her tossed hair gave her a wild look.
‘I’m not just some slut to be bedded and then discarded. If you want me you’re going to have to do better than this.’
‘But what have I … what do yo
u mean? I love you.’
There – he had said it.
‘I love you – just as you said you loved me a few minutes ago.’
‘Go on,’ she said, dismissing him with a movement of her head. ‘Go.’
‘Not until you tell me what you mean.’
‘I told you. I’m not just here to be ridden and then dropped. I might want to get married – that’s where I might be heading. Are you prepared for that?’
‘Of course I’m prepared for that. That’s what I want too.’
‘Sure,’ she said, mockingly. ‘Go. You know where I am if you want me.’
‘But I do want you.’
‘So you’re going to have to prove it, Mister Owens,’ she smiled unpleasantly. ‘Aren’t you?’
Gilbert spent the next few days in turmoil and desolation. He kept going over the events of that evening in his head. What had he done that had caused her to react like she had? How could she have seen what they had done as anything other than an act of pure love? Sure he had wanted to go to bed with her – he had been immensely attracted to her – but it wasn’t just for one night of sex. It hadn’t even been one night, he remembered bitterly. He was in love with her. He did want to marry her. He could think of nothing that would have made him happier. Where had she gotten the idea that it could be anything else?
The only thing he could think of was that he had been selfish as a lover. He had climaxed and she hadn’t. But he had thought that their night’s lovemaking had only begun – that there would be plenty of time. Instead there had been no time.
The next day he went back to her house. It was during the day, her surgery hours. And yet, when he knocked on the door there was no answer. He had come prepared for such an eventuality. He had written a note apologizing for whatever he might have done and asking that he meet her again. He dropped it in the letter box and waited. By the third day he knew he wasn’t going to get a reply.
He was desolate. She had been in his life. They had seemed so matched and so perfect together in every way. The future had looked so wonderful. Now, after hardly any time, she was gone. Dear sweet God – this had been love – real love. The thought of facing the future without her filled him with despair. The vista of the years ahead looked empty without her in them.
He tried to forget about her by throwing himself into his work. The studio was busy but he went about his work mechanically. Every time the door opened he looked towards it hoping it might be her – the smiling face, the distinctive clothes – but it never was. He found he was on the verge of tears all of the time. Several times he thought he was going to vomit. He wandered the streets hoping he would bump into her. He even wandered around Foggy Bottom. Several times he thought he saw her on the street. He thought of going to her house again or writing her another letter, but he didn’t know what to say. Apologize? For what? He didn’t know what he was supposed to have done.
Even at night he couldn’t get her out of his head. He tried to tire himself out during the day and would go to bed late when he could hardly keep his eyes open. He would fall into a dead sleep but within a couple of hours he would be awake again and that would be it until he finally dragged himself out of the bed at dawn.
Finally, he decided he couldn’t carry on like this any longer. He would write her a letter. But it wouldn’t be an apology. Rather he would tell her what she could expect if they got back together again. He spent the next several days composing it, crafting it. He would wake in the morning with new phrases to go into the letter, different inflections, subtle changes of meaning and emphasis. Finally, when he could read it through and not feel like changing anything, he reckoned he was done.
The letter said that he was sorry that the evening had ended the way it had. He said that he wanted her to understand that he loved her. She should know that these were not empty words. They had a very explicit meaning and he listed what they meant.
‘I will try to make this year the best year of your life. I will be faithful and cherish you above all others. I will try to bring some magic into your life every day. If there are days when I’m not going to be able to see you, I will write. I would like us to find a place where we could live and be together. I want nothing else but to marry you and be with you.’
Finally, he asked if she would meet him next Sunday morning at ten o’clock in the lobby of Willard’s.
14
‘Now look at the mess you’ve gotten us into,’ said Gilbert, angrily.
Roberto ignored him and looked up and down the street. There were a couple of horses on the pike and a farm wagon, but nothing that looked remotely like theirs. Roberto took off his hat and scratched his head. He continued looking up and down the street.
‘Any more bright ideas, Leonardo?’
Roberto looked at him. The Italian’s eyes were suddenly blazing.
‘Roberto. Roberto! ’ow many times I ’ave to tell you? Eez fucking Roberto!’ he shrieked, stamping on the ground, his hands clenched into fists. ‘Why you always call me Leonardo?’
Gilbert was taken aback.
‘Leonardo? After Leonardo Da Vinci,’ he said meekly. ‘The greatest genius who ever lived. The greatest Italian ever. It’s intended as a compliment.’
Roberto considered this. Then he shrugged both shoulders and said, a bit tetchily, ‘Okay, well whatever.’
Roberto began to study the dusty ground. Gilbert decided he needed a drink. He patted his trouser pocket, confirmed that there was money in it and went back into the inn. He returned with a bottle of whisky from which he had already pulled the cork and taken a good swig. Roberto was looking intently at the ground a few feet from the veranda of the inn.
‘We follow them,’ he said. ‘There are the marks of the wheels, the feet of the ‘orse.’
Gilbert began to laugh.
‘Oh what do we have here then, the world’s first Italian scout?’
Roberto looked at him dismissively.
‘We follow them,’ he said again, grimly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Once we get onto the pike there’ll be dozens of wheel tracks, hundreds of hoof prints. We haven’t a hope.’
Gilbert took another swig from the bottle. Roberto ignored him and set off northwards in the direction they had been traveling. He walked slowly, his eyes fixed on the dusty road. He stopped every so often, looked ahead a little bit, looked around and then resumed walking. At first Gilbert sat down on the steps of the inn to drink his whisky, but as Roberto began to become a smaller shape up ahead, Gilbert got up and followed him at a distance.
‘We haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell of finding it,’ he called to Roberto. But the Italian paid no attention and continued his slow progress up the street.
‘You’re wasting your time.’
Roberto came to a cross street. He studied the ground, looked right, looked left, then looked right again. After a few moments he turned to the right.
‘You gotta be kidding me,’ said Gilbert, who was now starting to stagger slightly. He was falling further and further behind and was steadily raising his voice so that the Italian could hear him.
Roberto was a good hundred yards off when Gilbert saw him turn to the left at an intersection and disappear down the street. Since there was nobody now to shout at, Gilbert just continued unsteadily along the street until he came to the intersection. Roberto was nowhere to be seen. Gilbert felt a slight dart of panic. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to find his way back to the main road. And even if he could what would he do then?
He walked left, going the way that Roberto had gone, looking anxiously at the houses on either side. Since he was clearly a stranger – and one staggering and carrying a bottle of whisky – he attracted attention. People glanced up from what they were doing, stared at him and then obviously decided he was harmless.
Finally, on the right, the street opened out into a small square. There was a pump in the centre and some houses on two sides. On the third side facing him was a dry goods store and b
eside it some kind of inn or drinking establishment. There was an alley down one side and Roberto was standing at the top of it, looking down. Then he stepped to one side, moving towards the door of the inn, and Gilbert saw, pulled up in the lane and tied by the reins to an iron ring in the wall, the horse and the wagon.
‘Roberto! Wait!’ called Gilbert.
The Italian turned. He had a grim look on his face. Gilbert caught up with him.
‘Why are you heading in there?’ he asked.
Roberto spoke with some irritation. ‘To see who took our wagon, of course.’
‘But why don’t we just take it and go?’
‘They come after us. Suppose they ’ave guns?’
‘Exactly – s’pose they have guns.’ Gilbert was slurring his words.
‘Maybe we should go get the sheriff,’ he continued. ‘’S our wagon. We’re entitled to it back.’
‘No time,’ said Roberto.
‘But what are you going to do?’
Gilbert found he was scampering alongside Roberto now as the Italian went up the steps and inside. Roberto didn’t answer.
They went into the dark interior. After the bright sunlight it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust. There were two men standing at the bar with a third behind it. The bar consisted of three barrels with some planks spread across them. Gilbert saw a revolver in a holster on one man’s hip. He couldn’t see but assumed that the other had one too. There was a shotgun on the wall behind and above the barman’s head. A doorway led from the bar into the back where there appeared to be some sort of living area. Gilbert could hear a baby crying, and a woman soothing it, trying to get it to stop. There were the sounds of some other children playing noisily. The place smelled of smoke and cabbage and faintly of a toilet. The three men at the bar had been deep in conversation, but they looked up as soon as the strangers came in and were now staring at them.
‘You sit down, boss,’ murmured Roberto.
Almost like a child, Gilbert did as he was told.
Sunlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 2) Page 7
