He did. There was a light on up there.
7
The drinks were gone and midnight passed; the moon was nearly out of sight. They had made some light conversation, and then she said into a pause:
‘I like you, Ben. Very much.’
‘I like you, too. And I’m surprised… no, I don ‘t mean it that way. Do you remember that stupid crack I made in the park? This all seems too fortuitous.’
‘I want to see you again, if you want to see me.’
‘I do.’
‘But go slow, Remember, I’m just a small-town girl.’
He smiled. ‘It seems so Hollywood. But Hollywood good. Am I supposed to kiss you now?’
‘Yes,’ she said seriously, ‘I think that comes next.’
He was sitting in the rocker next to her, and without stopping its slow movement forth and back, he leaned over and pressed his mouth on hers, with no attempt to draw her tongue or to touch her. His lips were firm with the pressure of his square teeth, and there was a faint taste-odor of rum and tobacco.
She began to rock also, and the movement made the kiss into something new. It waxed and waned, light and then firm. She thought: He’s tasting me. The thought wakened a secret, clean excitement in her, and she broke the kiss before it could take her further.
‘Wow,’ he said.
‘Would you like to come to dinner at my house tomorrow night?’ she asked. ‘My folks would love to meet you, I bet.’ In the pleasure and serenity of this moment, she could throw that sop to her mother.
‘Home cooking?’
‘The homiest.’
‘I’d love it. I’ve been living on TV dinners since I moved in.’
‘Six o’clock? We eat early in Sticksville.’
‘Sure. Fine. And speaking of home, I better get you there. Come on.’
They didn’t speak on the ride back until she could see the night light twinkling on top of the hill, the one her mother always left on when she was out.
‘I wonder who’s up there tonight?’ she asked, looking toward the Marsten House.
‘The new owner, probably,’ he said noncommittally.
‘It didn’t look like electricity, that light,’ she mused. ‘Too yellow, too faint. Kerosene lamp, maybe.’
‘They probably haven’t had a chance to have the power turned on yet.’
‘Maybe. But almost anyone with a little foresight would call up the power company before they moved in.’ He didn’t reply. They had come to her driveway.
‘Ben,’ she said suddenly, ‘is your new book about the Marsten House?’
He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘It’s late.’
She smiled at him. ‘I don’t mean to snoop.’
‘It’s all right. But maybe another time… in daylight.’
‘Okay.’
‘You better get in, girly. Six tomorrow?’
She looked at her watch. ‘Six today.’
‘Night, Susan.’
‘Night.’
She got out and ran lightly up the path to the side door, then turned and waved as he drove away. Before she went in, she added sour cream to the milkman’s order. With baked potatoes, that would add a little class to supper.
She paused a minute longer before going in, looking up at the Marsten House.
8
In his small, boxlike room he undressed with the light off and crawled into bed naked. She was a nice girl, the first nice one since Miranda had died. He hoped he wasn’t trying to turn her into a new Miranda; that would be painful for him and horribly unfair to her.
He lay down and let himself drift. Shortly before sleep took him, he hooked himself up on one elbow, looked past the square shadow of his typewriter and the thin sheaf of manuscript beside it, and out the window. He had asked Eva Miller specifically for this room after looking at several, because it faced the Marsten House directly.
The lights up there were still on.
