When he woke, again, dawn was coming through the study window. He rose wearily and stood near the glass door that led to the rear yard. On the wet grass, the morning quietness lay like a blanket. In the house below, he saw the shadowed, stretching figure of a woman behind a drawn shade. She, too, was awake.
Coincidence? And the rest an illusion? He'd always been more or less conventional; it was difficult to accept the super-conventional without reserve or rationalization.
He climbed the stairs quietly, avoiding the fifth, which squeaked. In the bathroom, he studied his stubbled face as though it were the face of a stranger. Then he went into the bedroom and rumpled the bed clothes.
She'd never believe he slept in the study; she'd never believe he'd been to Venus. For a moment he stood there, looking at the rumpled bed.
Then he went quietly through the dressing room and into her room.
She lay partially on her back, partially on her left side, her dark hair like ink against the clean white pillow, one slender tanned arm flung along the pillow's upper edge, her other arm bent, her cheek resting against the back of that hand.
There was just the breath of a smile on her full lips. What did she dream of, his Ann? Of porridge and pottery and poinsettias? Of schedules, menus, rotary floor waxers and blight elimination? Or didn't she dream, at all?