but the change was like nightfall. Neither knew exactly when it happened. They had been sitting apart, and now they found themselves in chairs pushed together. They had been talking, and now they touched instead, fingertips to wrists, and George could feel Jess’s quick pulse, and she could feel his.
“Are you in love with him?” George said.
She didn’t answer.
“Are you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“For the obvious reason.”
“Which is?”
“That I want to know.”
Lightly her fingertip glided over the back of his hand, tracing his scar up his arm.
“You’re tickling me.” He took her hand again.
“Did it hurt?” she asked him.
“Yes, it hurt,” he said.
“Who did that to you?”
“An old girlfriend.”
“You must have been nasty to her.”
“Why do you assume it was my fault?” he asked gently. “Even if it was—who goes after her lover with a paring knife? She was completely unbalanced. She did teach me how to cook.”
“Maybe you were such a slow learner she got frustrated.”
“I wasn’t a slow learner.”
“No?” she teased. Her eyes were much darker in the evening light.
“I’m a quick study,” he informed her. “I’m an excellent cook, but you’ll never know, because you don’t eat anything.”
“I eat lots of things,” she said.
“Judging from the peach, I’d say you eat a few things very well.”
“You were watching me?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you?”
His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist. “Because I wanted to.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“And because I never see you,” he added.
“You can see me whenever you like,” she told him. “You stay away.”
“Did you wish I would come home?”
She didn’t answer.
“Did you ever look around the house? Did you go upstairs?”
“No,” she said, although she had thought about it. Concepcion’s presence had prevented her. “I would never wander through your house without an invitation.”
“Come.” He took her hand.
She remembered climbing the stairs at the Tree House for the first time. “I think I
“We’ll go slow,” he promised as he led her up the stairs. “These are my nautical charts and surveyors’ plans.” He turned on the lights in the stairwell, and she saw the antique charts, the hand-drawn schemes of San Francisco Bay. “You can see I have plenty of maps. This is original stained glass here on the landing. You can’t tell at night, but I had it cleaned and restored. This place was a mess when I bought it. We copied these stair treads and spindles. This is my office.” He showed her a spacious room with a great desk in the center, and a computer and a photocopier. “These are guest rooms.” He opened one door after another.
“How many do you have?”
“Three. This is my room.” He switched on the lights, and when she blinked in the sudden glare, he turned them down again. His room was huge, with great windows above the bed, stacks of books on the smooth floor, a low music stand and chair, a cello in an open case.
“Of course.” He sat down in his chair, but he did not reach for his cello. He held out his arms for Jess instead.
She sat on his lap and tucked up her legs, and he felt her weight, and her warmth, and he held still; he nearly held his breath, as she relaxed into his arms.
“My mother wrote about music,” Jess said.
“Was she a critic?”
“I can hear your heartbeat,” she whispered, resting her head on his chest.
“Was she a musician?” he asked her, as he stroked her hair.
“I think she might have been, if she’d had the chance,” Jess said. “Or maybe not. She was an amazing baker too. That’s what everybody says.”
“You only know from hearsay? Don’t tell me you were vegan even then.”
“I wasn’t vegan. I was too young to remember.”
George’s hand stopped for a moment, resting lightly on her head.
“When will you play for me?” she asked him.
“Soon.”
“Did you learn as a child?”
“Mm-hmm.” His lips brushed her ear.
“I wish I’d kept playing the piano. Everybody says that, but of course you imagine you’d play well. You don’t imagine …”
“Do you miss her?”
“No.” She looked up at him quickly, as if to gauge his response. “I’ll tell you something terrible,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you a secret. I don’t even think about her. I’m sure Emily thinks about her all the time, but I don’t. I just …”
“Just what?”
“Don’t have her,” said Jess, muffled, burying her head again.
He continued stroking her long hair. She kept her head down, and listened to his steady heart.
“Jess?” he said at last.
“What?”
“Are you crying?”
“No.” She looked up at him and her eyes were bright, but no tears stained her face. “Don’t worry. I’m very cheerful.” She sat up straight to make the point. “I’m not a weepy person. I wouldn’t cry, even after too much wine.”
“You can cry. I don’t have rules. You can do anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Almost anything.”
“So you have
“I said ‘almost’ so you’d think I was less of an ancient libertine,” he said.
“Libertine? You mean old hippie.”
“I was never a hippie.”
“Right. You’re just a libertine from the ancien régime.”
He couldn’t help laughing at the playful way she turned on him.
“Am I so funny?” she asked, laughing with him. She rubbed her nose against his. “Am I?”
“Come here, you.” He pulled her closer.
“I’m here now,” she said, and her voice was so warm and low that for a moment he closed his eyes. “I’m here already.”
She caressed his cheek, and touched the tender skin under his eyes. His lips brushed her chin, her nose, her forehead, and finally her soft mouth, as they began to kiss.
