The cabin’s darkness wore the red patina of the motel sign filtering through the cotton curtains, and with her atop me, flushed with passion and suffused neon, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as she panted, she remained in control, ever the pilot. She was like no woman before or since in my experience, tall, lean, muscular yet pliable, her skin satin-smooth except for her sweet freckled weather-punished face, her legs endless though sumptuously fleshed, her breasts perfect girlish handfuls, tipped with bullets. For being of such a modest, even prudish upbringing, she knew things; she had a contortionist’s limber frame, and an athlete’s stamina, and she took me new places.
But her co-pilot had flown before too, and when she finally arrived at our destination, back on top again after a world tour, she came with a shuddering intense glee and a final shower of tears before she collapsed into my arms.
Out of gas.
We were both still breathing hard, and she was snuggled against me and I was on my back, looking at the ceiling, which wore the reddish blush of motel neon.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I ventured. I was using a tissue from the nightstand to remove the lambskin.
“My goodness,” she said, “I think at this point you can risk it.”
“Do you like boys or girls?”
“Yes,” she said.
And I was trying to think of something to say in response to that when I realized she was asleep, gently snoring.
Perhaps an hour later, I heard something, woke and she wasn’t next to me. The red-tinged darkness was cut by a shaft of light from the bathroom where the water was running. Then she was in the bathroom doorway, in just Mantz’s pajama top, silhouetted there.
Sitting up, I said, “Hey, you.”
“Don’t look at me,” she said, though only her legs were showing, and hadn’t she been a stark-naked cowgirl riding me not so long before? She clicked off the bathroom light, ran to the bed, threw back the covers and scurried under them; we’d been sleeping atop the bedspread, so I got around under there with her and leaned on my elbow and looked at her. She was on her side, facing me, face half-hidden by the pillow.
“What brought on that sudden attack of ladylike reserve?” I asked.
“I hate my body.”
“Well, I love your body, and anyway all I could see was your legs.”
“I hate my legs.”
“I have fond memories of your legs.”
“I have fat thighs. I hate my thighs.”
“Well, let’s have a look, then….” I flipped the covers back.
She squealed and pulled the covers up and said, “I’ll hit you again.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “I like where that led last time….”
Then we were in each other’s arms, giggling, kissing, and then the giggling ceased and the kissing continued and this time around was not at all frantic, but the sort of luxurious, lingering lovemaking characteristic of a couple who know each other well.
Later, I was half-sitting up, two pillows behind me, and she was snuggled against me again, my arm gathering her near, her head resting against my chest.
“There will be no more scurrilous remarks about your thighs,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. She was leaning on her elbow, now, chin propped on her palm. Gazing right at me. “Nathan, there’s something you should know about those threatening notes—”
I cut her off: “Mantz told me about your husband’s history in that regard. Do you think G. P. sent them?”
“Not really,” she said, but not confidently. “Why would he?”
“Publicity, for one thing. To remind the world how important you are.”
“He hasn’t released anything about it to the press.”
“Yet…. Or maybe it’s to provide a cover for what he
Her eyes narrowed. “And what was that, Nathan?”
“He said he wanted me to find out if you were having an affair with Paul Mantz.”
Now the eyes widened, as if I’d just proposed something ridiculous. “With Paul?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Having an affair with Paul?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Don’t change the subject. Are you having an affair with him?”
“No! He’s not my type….”
