"Undo": A Novel

by Joe Hutsko

Chapter 9

"Hey, you ready yet?" Kate said, appearing in the bathroom doorway.

Peter stood leaning over the sink, cautiously dragging a razor across his face.

"Hallelujah!" Kate shouted, watching as the beard that had grown long and scraggy over the past few months disappear into the sink. Peter paused for a moment and winked at her in the mirror, his face white and foamy, then returned his concentration to the razor.

She leaned a shoulder against the edge of the door frame and stood watching him. "I like your face smooth, it feels better on me."

"Ouch!" Peter said, jerking the razor from his face. A dot of red instantly formed on his chin.

"So, Lancelot," Kate said, hanging her robe on the door hook, "what do I wear?"

"Whatever you want , it's just a neighborly thing." Peter rinsed his face, then pulled the skin on his neck taut and inspected his work. He saw that she was still watching him, and he took in her full naked reflection before turning to face her.

"I think it's more than that," she said.

"What's more?"

"The dinner. I think this Mr. Holmes is probably excited that he's met you, and wants to get to know your better."

"Well, me too. I could use a friend here. I only see you for two or three days at a time." He crossed his arms, resting his rear against the sink, and studied her up and down with a playful, approving grin. "You know, for a forty-year-old lady, you're still quite a knockout."

"Oh yeah? Well for a thirty-something boy, you're not so bad yourself." She came over to him and slid her fingertips beneath the waistband of his jockey shorts at the small of his back, rubbed her cheek softly against his. "Mmm, this does feel better." They stood there for a while, holding one another.

He pulled away from her a little so he could look into her eyes.
"What is it about us?" he said. "What makes it work?"

She considered for a moment. "Well, we're a lot alike," she said, lightly kissing his nose. "And a lot unalike."

He nodded and bowed his head, focusing on their touching hips.
"Do you think maybe we should be together more?"

"Maybe."

"More permanently?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" His eyes widened a little as they sought hers.

"Petey, we work because we both have things in our lives that we believe in."

"Had," he mumbled.

"Have," she said, lifting his chin with her hand. "You're just a little dry right now. You have to give yourself some time to let things happen inside here." She knocked his head lightly with her knuckles. "It doesn't all just suddenly change overnight, Petey."

"I know. But I've been thinking." He hesitated for an instant. "What about maybe if I were to settle down a little, split some time between here and California, take it easy."

Her expression was full of attention and love, but not without a small and knowing frown. They had had the conversation before, usually when he was feeling depressed, and they both knew that neither was fully ready to settle down.

"And what if you and I, you know…" he said, his voice trailing off, his hands brushing her shoulders.

"No."

"But - "

"Petey," she said, pressing her fingertips to his lips. "You know that once you get something zipping around in that carnival-quick head of yours, you're going to be flying at a million miles an hour."

He smirked. "Okay, maybe not marriage, but how about…I don't know. I've been thinking more and more about the feeling I get when I remember back to the first time I saw a kid use a Mate computer." His voice became a whisper. "Maybe a child in my life, a baby, our baby." He stressed his grip on her waist and pulled her closer.

"You know I can't have a baby," she said. Her eyes were glistening. "I'm too old, and I told you I tried long before we met," she said. "You know that. And yet you suggest it." Taking his index finger, she lightly poked her taut belly in an attempt to make light of the situation. "Closed for business. Sorry." She trembled.

He pressed her head against his chest and rubbed the back of her neck. "Hey, I'm sorry." He kissed her eyelids. "That wasn't nice of me to bring up again. I'm really sorry. Okay?"

She nodded and he wiped his thumb under her eyes.

"Petey, trust me. You just need a little time to think. You're thinking right now about what is today, and you're not giving yourself a chance to just take it easy."

Now it was he who nodded and lowered his head to hers, and she hugged him. "It'll come, Petey, I know it will. It will come again."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart. Now put some clothes on," she said, slapping his rear. "I'm getting cold and hungry, and we don't want to be late for your new friend." She turned and strolled to the bedroom.

Suddenly his underwear whizzed past her head, grazing her hair before landing on the bed. She stopped in place and set her hands on her hips and turned around with a playful grin on her face.

"Isn't it fashionable to be late?"

* * *

"Dinner is ready," Greta said from Matthew's office door, just off the library.

"I'll just be a minute," he said, turning to acknowledge her, but she was already gone.

He finished typing his e-mail message to William Harrell, then clicked the send button. Piled on his desk were notes, charts, and schedules, each a vital facet of the overall ICP Strategic Alliance report he had been working on all day. Another Saturday devoted to work, but that was nothing new. Glancing at his watch he figured he could probably finish most of the outline by morning, so long as he hurried through dinner.

Leaving the light of his library office, he strolled through the uncharacteristically dark house. He padded down the long hallway and passed the closed dining room door, crossed the foyer, and rounded the corner to the family room and kitchen area. The room was dark and there were no plates, glasses or utensils on the table where they usually ate, just outside the kitchen and facing the family room with its big-screen television. Only the day's mail rested on the table, where he had left it several hours earlier.

"Greta?" he called, turning toward the kitchen. In the minimal illumination of the dimmed track lights he saw pots and pans resting with their lids ajar, a few gooey spoons. Having had a moment to adjust to the darkness, he caught the flickering glow coming from the dining room, which was accessed either by the foyer or through the doorway in the kitchen.

"In here," came his wife's voice softly.

He rounded the turn and was a little surprised to see Greta seated at the formal dining table, facing him. The room was dark except for the gentle radiance from two candles. Silverware shimmered and crystal glasses sparkled in the soft light. Poached vegetables and steaming new red potatoes in delicate china bowls sat beside a covered serving dish. Between the candles, in a large vase in the center of the table, were pussy willow branches, fuzzy and in full bloom. When he had walked in the door with them yesterday, she had thought for a moment that he had remembered. But then he explained that someone from the office had brought in bunches for everyone.

"Oh," was all he managed to say before he seated himself.

"I gave Marie the rest of the afternoon off," Greta said. "I fixed it myself."

"It smells wonderful," Matthew said, smiling but puzzled. They only ate in the dining room when entertaining guests. Why so formal all of the sudden?

She poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him, then lifted her own glass and held it out to him. But he had already taken a sip and was lifting the lid off of the covered dish. She hesitated, almost said something, and sighed instead. She tasted her wine and watched him for any sign of recollection, any hint of awareness.

Matthew placed the covered lid aside. "Wow, my favorite dinner," he said.

"I know," she said, clearing her throat.

He gestured for her plate and selected one delicate hen for her, two for himself. He ladled sauce over his birds and vegetables, took another sip of his wine, and dug in. Barely ten seconds into his meal, and Greta could see that his mind was already somewhere else.

No, she admitted to herself, he had not remembered. And with this knowledge came a strange aching feeling, a throbbing, in her left hand, where what had once symbolized their marriage used to be. The doctors had told her that that would sometimes happen. That at odd times it would feel as though everything were in its right place, like normal. The same was true, she thought in silent agony, of her marriage. At odd times it had felt as though it was all still there. But not now. Plain and painfully simple, he had forgotten.

After a minute or two, as if remembering that she was there,
Matthew looked up from his dinner.

She sat staring at him with shimmering eyes, her utensils still resting untouched beside her plate. Before he could say anything, she spoke.

"Happy anniversary, Matthew," she said. A weighty tear dropped down her face.

His body slackened. He set down his utensils. All at once he saw the brightness of her lips, the accents around her eyes, the fine, glimmering pattern in the silk dress. He became acutely aware of her perfume lingering among the aromas of the meal. Her tears were painting dark trails down her cheeks. He gazed down into his plate, their anniversary dinner, and let loose a guilty sigh.

"Greta, I'm sorry. I'm, so, so sorry. With all the work and everything…" He lifted his hands a bit. "I just, well, I just forgot."

She reached her gloved hand across the table and touched his wrist. "It's all right, Matthew," she said with a resigned smile. She wiped her cheek with her napkin and lifted her fork.

"It is delicious," Matthew said enthusiastically.

She speared a few vegetables, chewed slowly, put down her fork, and took a long drink of wine, all the while watching her husband's hurried consumption.

"Matthew, can you slow down? Please, can't we enjoy our dinner together tonight?"

"I'm sorry, honey. It's just that, you see, I've got more work to do," he said, then tentatively added, "for the trip."

"What trip?"

"Tomorrow. New York. I told you I was meeting with Harrell on
Monday, didn't I?"

"No, Matthew, you did not."

"Hmm. Funny, I thought I said something. Sorry. See what I mean.
I'm so overwhelmed these days."

"Matthew, you're changing in unpleasant ways. And there's nothing funny about it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"However selfish you were before getting rid of Peter Jones, you were at least considerate and apologetic. Genuinely. Or so you seemed."

"I said I was sorry about forgetting. You're upset, and you're basing your criticism on that."

"No, Matthew. That's exactly what I'm talking about. This new way you're behaving. You say you are meeting with 'Harrell' - whatever happened to 'William,' your friend?"

"He's not my friend, Greta. He's a business partner."

"Oh, of course. Pardon me. And is that what we are too, Matthew?
Business partners?"

He shook his head as if to say he'd had enough. In fact, she thought, that was what was wrong, that he'd had enough of them, of the dead end that their marriage had turned into.

With an disgusted huff she poured herself more of the good French wine, held the glass beneath her nose and she gazed out the window at the reflecting pond beyond the foot of their estate.

"Maybe, Matthew, we should talk. Don't you think, especially since tonight is our anniversary, that we should talk? What's happened to us?"

"Dear, I can't," he said, pausing to wash down a mouthful of food with a swallow of wine. "I'm going to be up until six in the morning as it is. And I've got an early flight. I'll just be able to jog and shower."

He ate and she drank in silence for a few minutes, until she could stand it no more.

"Matthew, is it going to stop? Is it going to change? Ever?"

"What, honey? Will what stop?"

Any remorse he may have felt for forgetting their anniversary was obviously gone now she could see, forgotten with everything else, as if a switch had been thrown, his mind saturated once again with his work. "Matthew, do you understand that you are obsessed with Wallaby? Really, you are worse than Peter ever was."

"It's not an easy job," he said, wiping a piece of bread in the last smear of sauce on his plate. "Replacing him."

"We never see each other anymore. Even when you two had your falling-out, you saw him more than you see me now. Every morning you're up at five-thirty, then you're at work all day, and I never talk to you - "

"Meetings."

"Then you come home and gobble down your dinner, barely a word between us, or if you do have anything to say it's about that damn company, then you're off into your library until late at night until you come to bed and fall asleep." Her breathing had become panicky.

"Look, I've got to do my job," he said, irritated now.

She leaned forward with her hands flattened on either side of her full plate. She didn't care that her gloved left hand was there for him to contend with. Maybe that was the problem, that she had never really forced him to deal with it.

"Matthew, I'm all alone. You're all I've got. It's not that I mind being here all day, but when you come home, it's worse because then you're here but we're still not together, and on the weekends, like today, you work all day in the library."

She intended to force him into battle if that was what it took. But what he did next completely disarmed her: He placed a hand over hers, the left one, and met her eyes with compassion. She felt suddenly hopeful. She had finally gotten through to him.

"Greta," he said gently, "everything I'm doing is for us. The things I'm making happen at work are very complex and important, and these things will change our lives forever." He patted her hand and smiled. "Soon it will slow down a little," he said, tossing down the rest of his wine.

But his words sounded shallow and condescending. Her hopes of understanding disintegrated and the throb in her left hand returned with renewed force. She snatched her glass and finished her wine in one quick swallow. She poured another. Was there no way to get through to him? To make him see how close he was coming to destroying them? "Matthew, it's ruining us, and you're letting it happen." Nothing. She went for broke. "Don't you see, I'm trying not to let anything bad happen to us."

He seemed undaunted by her warning. Wiping his lips with his napkin, he got up, walked around behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Darling," he said, "I have to get back to work now. Nothing bad will happen to us. I won't let it." Then he kissed the top of her head and left the room.

She turned her head and looked out at the pond again, and whispered to her reflection in the window.

"Then I will."

* * *

"Poppyshit!" Byron shouted, waving his glass at Peter, who sat across the table. "The problem with kids today is their parents!" He set his glass down firmly as if challenging anyone to dispute his opinion.

"Dear," Grace interrupted, gently touching her napkin to her upper lip with raised eyebrows at her husband.

"What? Huh?" he mumbled, confused. "Oh," he exclaimed, dabbing his lips with his napkin, wiping away a small piece of sauerkraut.

Grace smiled and shook her head, her grin spreading wider when
Kate smiled back.

Peter had chosen the subject of children to start the table discussion. "I don't think that's a fair judgment, Byron," Peter said. "I think it's more than just what goes on in the home. It's everything, all of society. Kids are hardly given a good example by their parents, their friends. Movies. Television," he said. "It's like they've turned into MTV lemmings."

The foursome ate at an antique Shaker table, situated near the living room hearth. The home was decorated in simple and warm country style. A charming, homey combination. Like Byron and Grace Holmes themselves.

Kate and Peter had both felt instantly comfortable when they arrived a few minutes late wearing jeans and sweaters, which fit in nicely with Byron's work shirt and khakis, and Grace's simple cable-knit sweater and flannel slacks. Dock lamps dotted the inlet outside, and boats bobbed silently in the bay, glowing with a fuzzy luminescence in the moonlight. Peter and Kate's own vacation home was situated a few hundred yards down the inlet. Their dock was similar to the Holmes's, though they did not own a boat.

"We had primarily invented the Mate computer with no one in mind but ourselves, computer guys," Peter said. "But within a short time, parents were buying them like crazy for their kids.

"We want," he started, then paused for an instant to correct himself, "wanted computers to be especially great for kids, to lure them away from the TV set. When some of the software developers created really great learning games, it all took off from there." His eyes were shining with the clarity that comes when you talk about something you deeply care about.

They were silent for a moment then Byron looked up from his plate with a frown. "That's all well and good. And you're right about it, that children especially benefit from computers, and not by television. Now," he said, pointing to Peter's plate with his mustard-smeared knife, "how about you eat that bratwurst before it gets cold."

Grace broke the silence. "They have a computer at the foster home where I volunteer a few hours a week, one of yours I think," she said, smiling at Peter. "Those little kids, and the bigger ones too, they sit there for hours and play games on it, and do homework, and talk about all sorts of things I don't understand, in a language all their own. It's lovely how such a thing could bring these children together and give them a family of sorts."

The discussion carried on some more. Peter had not resumed eating, so Grace got up and began to clear the table.

"Let me help you," Kate said.

"You get no dessert if you don't finish your meal, boy," Byron said. He rubbed his hands across his chest in post-Thanksgiving dinner fashion.

"Everything was delicious, Grace," Peter said. "It's just that I haven't had a very good appetite lately."

"That's all right. You can take home leftovers if you'd like."

"Too late," Byron said, spearing the remaining half of sausage from Peter's plate.

When Kate and Grace were out of earshot, Byron leaned across the table. "You're a lucky fellow," he whispered. "She's a pretty lady." He dropped a big wink.

"I know it," Peter agreed, looking out at the water. There was a stirring in his chest, and he quickly turned his thoughts to other things.

"Come on," Byron said, pushing away from the table. "Let's get some air while the ladies fuss and giggle."

Peter had to laugh at that one. The thought of Kate "fussing" about with Grace in the kitchen made Peter both happy and sad at the same time. It was what he wanted now, yet it was what she would not be for him. How could she be so sure they weren't ready to settle down? As far as children were concerned, they could adopt. Talking about kids, and knowing that there were none in his and Kate's near future, had turned his dark mood of late even darker.

As they headed out onto the deck, Byron pulled a small pouch from his pants pocket, and from his shirt pocket he produced a briar pipe. He filled the pipe in silence as they strolled along the dock. When they reached the end, Byron lit up. The glow of his match reflected back in the black water. That is just what I need, Peter thought, a spark to go off inside my head.

"You know, boy," Byron said, shaking out the match, "I like you."
He inhaled on the pipe, regarding Peter for a moment.

"Thanks," Peter said. "You're a good guy, too."

"That's what my wife tells me," Byron said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. "You and I ought to take a float out on this baby," he said, poking his pipe at his boat, the "Net Work." He sat down, dangling his feet above the low tide, and Peter sat down beside him. "Listen, I'm gonna tell you something, and I want you to promise me you'll think about it. Okay?"

"Sure."

"You're a bright fella. But you're walking around like a little boy who lost his old dog and hates the world for it," he said.

Peter exhaled, his breath forming a faint mist in the cool air, and looked down into the water.

"Son, everything dies. It's how life goes on. Your pooch, he's gone. It's time to go pick a new puppy, and train it, and love it, and make it great."

"That's easy for you to say. You've done it all and it lasted longer for you, most of your life, and you have a wife now and you're happy."

"Poppyshit!" Byron said. "Do you think the 990 was the only thing I ever did with ICP? No way. I did all sorts of things with them, but the difference is that I stayed on board, and times were different then. I was trained to do the things I did. You're different."

"How so?"

"You're a rebel. I was too, but in a different sort of way.
You're a real risk-taker, but not for the sake of taking risks.
You do it because it's the only way you know how to be."

Peter nodded.

"You've got to understand and accept that it just takes a little healing, over time. Time. I can tell you this because I've been through it myself. I almost died once, had that heart attack I mentioned to you the other day. Got it from not letting go. Almost lost my life. But worse, after I got out of the hospital, I almost lost my wife. Ah, I don't want to get into all that. Just understand something mister, that this isn't the last time it's going to happen to you. You have to know that now, while things are germinating up here." He tapped a finger to his head. "When the next thing comes, when you start out all clumsy and getting into it all over again, even if it's way back in the back of your heart, you have to accept that someday it's going to change, end, and then you start all over again. And again and again. You keep doing it. Over and over. And it gets better and better with age. Just like they say."

Peter felt choked up listening to Byron so candidly share his experience. "But," Peter started with a little more than a quiet puff from his lips. "But it hurts."

"Of course it hurts," Byron said. "But you pick up, dust yourself off, and go at it again. Where do you think all this age-old advice comes from? It's truth, friend, that's why you're hearing it from me. Sure thing."

"I don't know. It's not all the same, you've got more that matters," Peter said, hitching his thumb absently in the direction of Byron's home.

"Hah, boy's blind, too. I see a lady in there who looks at you with real fancy in her eye. She's standing by you strong, I know it."

Byron took his pipe from his mouth and looked thoughtfully into its bowl. "I'll give you something to think about, and you let it roll around in your head a bit." He sniffed. "Thing is, is I've been bored lately. Yeah, I love it here, and our home in Connecticut, and Gracie, and we've been talking about maybe traveling again this winter," he said, waving his pipe in the general direction of everywhere in the world, "but I've been feeling sort of itchy. Like I gotta do something. You ask me, I think there was a reason for us running into each other the way we did."

"How's that?"

"I don't know why. Not yet, anyway. I suspect it has something to do with our difference in thinking. I mean that in a good way. We come from different worlds, yet we we're not such different beings. If you and I put our heads together, I bet we could really show the rest of 'em a thing or two."

"Think so?"

Byron winked. "I know so," he said, patting Peter on the leg. "Now come on," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's go get us a slice of that apple pie."

* * *

She set the dirty dishes in the sink, wrapped the leftovers in foil. On the counter, there sat a cranberry and apple crumble she had made for dessert. The bourbon sauce, which was to be warmed and drizzled over the piping dessert, sat in a saucepan on the stove, a gloppy mess. She dumped it down the drain and left the dishes in the sink for Marie to deal with in the morning.

Matthew was back in his office working, and Greta stood with the last of the wine in her glass gazing out the kitchen window at the valley beyond.

When was it going to end, she had asked him. But she knew the answer to that question. There were two answers, really. The first was that it was never going to end, and the second was that it already had. She had tried - for the last time? - to break through the wall he had over the years erected between them. But she knew now, after tonight's dinner, that the wall would only grow higher, thicker. After Matthew turned Wallaby into what he wanted, then sold it to ICP, it would be no different when he was promoted to a higher rank within ICP, perched atop his ever-growing blockade. Maybe they would stay in California, but probably they would have to go back to New York, to ICP's headquarters. Though she sometimes missed New York, the thought or returning held little appeal. There her friends were all wives of the other International Foods executives, and out here, regardless of all she had heard about the nice people in California, the women were still the same, robots who yessed their husbands at social occasions and dinner parties, while behind their backs they, and their husbands, engaged in extramarital affairs.

That wasn't how Greta wanted to end up living her life. But would she?

She finished her wine and set the glass on the counter - a little too firmly. The crystal base shattered into little bits with a high resonating tinkle, yet the bowl of the glass remained intact in her hand.

"Shit," she cried, the sound breaking a dam in her, releasing a flood of tears. She tossed the unbroken half into the sink, which echoed the same tinkling sounds, even louder this time. She held her breath, wondering if he had heard, wondering if would come to see if she had injured herself. She waited, holding on to this fragile hope with all of her breath.

If he had heard, he wasn't letting her know. She let out a great sigh. Jesus, was that her life with Matthew? Shattered, broken beyond repair? It was too much to consider at this moment. She needed to get out of the house for a little while, to go for a walk in the pretty night and clear her head.

She snatched her windbreaker from the coat hook beside the door to the garage and stepped outside into the evening's coolness. She wandered down the sloping hill to the high, solid gate. She stepped through the gateway and hiked down the trail to the edge of the pond with its narrow dirt path.

Eventually, if she followed it, the path would lead her to the horse stables. Sometimes she rode Mighty Boy along here, circling the entire pond and back around to the stable, passing her own home on the way. Quickly and steadfastly she strode through the twisted, tree-lined path in the moonlight. The stables lay a half-mile ahead.

It was supposed to have been her night to celebrate the memories of her marriage, but now she found herself thinking about the scene that had taken place in Mighty Boy's stall the other day. For better or worse, she had stopped him. She had admitted to him that she and Matthew were having problems, but they were still married, and even though she had desperately wanted him to go on, she said she could not let herself be with him. He had released her, and assured her that it would not happen again. Unless, he said, she came to him. Since that day she had not gone back to the ranch.

She slowed for a moment, then stopped. She absently stroked her left hand with her right hand as she examined her present state of mind. What was she going to do, just knock on the door of his cottage? She turned and looked back up the hill to her home. A few lights glowed - Matthew's office. She swallowed, and her left hand throbbed some more.

Yes, she decided, that was exactly what she was going to do.

She moved on, her pace quickening, her heart pumping. Shortly the stables came into view, illuminated by both the light of the moon and by the floodlights surrounding the property. Trailing along the border of light, just beyond its edge, she grew excited and reckless, like an inexperienced burglar. Her brisk walk had warmed her and she unzipped her jacket as she stealthily slipped around the stable.

She passed the main house, where the ranch's owner lived alone. Purple-blue light flickered from an upstairs window. About fifty yards from where she stood were two small cottages. She had passed them many times while riding. Jean-Pierre lived in one of those cottages, and though she had never been invited inside, she knew which one was his because he had mentioned once that it afforded a beautiful view of the pond from his bedroom window, through which he could see her home and its rear upstairs light glowing late at night. Though her home was too high and far away for him to see inside, she was excited by the thought of him lying in his dark bedroom, fixated on her bedroom window. Had he ever glimpsed her passing the window, closing the curtains?

The sound of a car engine starting suddenly broke through the quiet evening. A second later a swath of light beamed just a foot beside her and beyond, as far as she could see, into the woods. She ducked behind a small wooden utility shed stationed alongside the drive. White light pierced through the tiny cracks and seams of the shed. Cautiously she peeked around its edge. A car appeared from between the cottages, its light sweeping past the shed as it steered onto the drive. Greta flattened herself against the side of the small building and crept around the corner once the car had completely passed.

Was he going out for the night? The sound of the engine grew distant, then came a high squealing noise when the car reached the end and turned onto the main road. Once more, the sounds of the night and her own pulse were all she could hear. She left her cover and pressed on.

No, she saw at once, it hadn't been Jean-Pierre because his MG was parked in front of the cottage. Avoiding the light cast by the lamp outside the front door, she circled around to the back of the small house. She peered into the bedroom window. The room was lit by a small lamp beside an empty bed with twisted sheets. The sight caused her breath to catch. She rushed to the back stoop and halted before the door, flexed her hands a few times. Feeling the night's coolness breezing through the silken material of her gloves, she absently wiped them on her dress and turned and faced the pond for a moment to collect her thoughts.

Could she really go through with this? Her eyes searched across the small shining lake, along to the narrow shore and the trail's edge, up the hill. Her home. She could see the very window where she had stood just minutes earlier, and she could see too the damned glow coming from Matthew's office, where, on their anniversary night, he was fondling his true love, Wallaby.

Yes, she could go through with this, and would. She turned and knocked three times on the Dutch door, so loudly that she startled herself. She heard the short, hollow tamp of footsteps, the clacking sound of the door latch. For an instant it felt as if her wedding band had tightened around her finger. Irrational.

The top half of the door swung open, and there he stood, wearing only jeans and wire-framed reading glasses. His expression bore no surprise. A knowing smile formed on his full lips. She started breathing again. Plumes of mist danced around her head as the warmth of the cottage bled outside into the chilly air. He removed his glasses and closed the top door for a moment, then the entire door opened and he stepped back, his arm extended. She quickly and nervously glanced around the room as she went inside, taking in at once its simple furnishings and his things. There were boots beside the front door, a black T-shirt tossed over the back of the couch, a beer bottle beneath the shaded lamp, a wineglass beside the bottle, a pair of brown leather gloves beside the glass. She heard her own blood pulse in her ears, felt dizzy and a little buzzed by the wine, the rush of activity, and now the stillness.

Following her gaze, Jean-Pierre quickly stepped into the tiny living room. He picked up the gloves. They were women's gloves, she could see that now. Everything was happening so fast.

His shoulders sagged. "You saw them," he said.

Her eyes quickly jumped to the bottle, to the glass, to the gloves, back to the glass. She thought of the car that had just gone. She looked into his eyes. "What?" she said, her voice not sounding like her own.

He held the gloves out to her. "I wanted to wrap them and surprise you."

She blinked. "For me?"

"Of course."

She accepted the gloves in her right hand. There were a few small, barely noticeable scratches on them, but the stitching was clean and new. She wanted to say something, but when she looked into his eyes again, whatever she had thought she wanted to say vanished, and in its place was desire, like what she had felt when he kissed her in the stall.

"Thank you," she managed as she absently watched him take back the gloves and carefully fold them over, then tuck them into her jacket pocket.

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her. Her eyes were still closed and lips slightly parted when he pulled his face away. She had come to him, and now she needed him to guide her.

He stepped aside and indicated the way to the bedroom. She moved and he trailed her holding one of her hands in his, the one she would let him hold. Had he figured it out yet, she wondered, about the other one. She stopped beside the bed, facing the pond. He switched off the lamp and placed his hands on her shoulders. She struggled to see clearly, but could not. He pressed his hard body against her back. The air was all made of his scent, musky, sexy, alive. She wanted to be tumbled and spun in the tangled sheets that lay before her, to move her hands between their softness and his firmness, to flop into the pillows, his weight hard on her, his mouth on hers. She closed her eyes. Yes, his mouth, which was now gently kissing the back of her neck, his lips pulling the small hairs at the base of her skull. She twisted her head into the warmth of his hot and chilling breath. A small sound escaped her as he slid her windbreaker from her shoulders. It fell to the ground with a soft rustle. She closed her eyes and reached her good hand to her left shoulder, placing it over his hand. She leaned back into his hardness and he pressed himself against her more firmly. The wine had helped to numb her feelings, and now the charged atmosphere of his bedroom melted her into yielding. Even her left hand felt normal.

I tried, God as my witness, I tried, she thought with a shudder as he wrapped his arms around her and across her breasts. He held her until her trembling subsided, then he began to unzip her dress, very slowly. She opened her eyes. Her vision had adjusted to the silvery light, which now sharpened the edges of everything and cast ambiguous shadows.

And there, across the pond, she saw Matthew's lamp.

"No," she said, reaching behind for her zipper.

He gripped her wrist.

"Yes," he breathed hotly in her ear.

She challenged his hold. Unable to resist, she yielded, spun fiercely, and sought his lips. He held her head between his hands and kissed her, pushing against her so intensely she felt she would burst into flames. Her hands slid up his chest and across his shoulders, his broad back. This hardness, I want this on me, was all she could think, I have to have this in me.

But again, as if burning into her back, Matthew's library lamp broke her, mocked her. With a cry, she twisted around. "No. I can't. Not with him right there."

"We'll pull the shade," Jean-Pierre said. He nuzzled his nose in her hair.

"No," she said, planting herself firmly. "Not now. Not with him this close."

"Then when, Greta? When?"

This had been a mistake. She had to get away. "Tomorrow," she said, pulling away from him. "Tomorrow, Jean-Pierre." She tugged at her dress, putting some more distance between them as she rearranged herself. Her expression was final, forbidding. She wanted to remember him just like this, standing before her with his arms at his sides, his bright white teeth and eyes, the silvery sharp edges of his muscled chest.

"Where?" he asked, taking her by the elbows.

"Matthew is going to New York. I'll call you." Afraid that the gentle yet firm and alluring touch of his powerful hands would stall her, she forced herself to pull away.

He handed her her jacket, and followed her into the light of the living room. She opened the door, turned around, and slipped on her jacket, zipping it firmly.

He clasped one hand on the door's edge. With the other he gripped her wrist and pulled her close. She gasped. He kissed her long and deeply. The cold night air chilled her back, while the heat of his mouth warmed her insides. She drew away with a frustrated moan.

He raised her good hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. The stubble of his beard on the silken material caused a sound that had an extraordinary effect on her lower regions. She pressed her upper thighs together.

"Tomorrow," he said, and released her.

She nodded, then was off and back into the night, back to her home.

Running through the chilly night she remembered the gloves in her pocket. She stopped and removed her silk gloves and put on the pair he had given her. They made her feel secure and warm, but not all the way. Perhaps they would feel right once she had the left one tailored to accommodate her shortcoming.

Whatever it takes, she solemnly vowed, whatever it takes.