to find himself another girlfriend.
Carol did something behind the counter that separated the table from the kitchen. It involved matches, as Tony could tell from the smell. He wondered whether she was going to add to the two candles already on the table. Then she lowered the lights, leaving the room lit mostly by the candles. She came back to the table, carrying a cake with birthday candles on it and singing “Happy Birthday.”
Tony was flabbergasted. He had completely forgotten that his birthday was only two days away. Carol placed the cake in front of him and gave him a light kiss on the lips.
“Make a wish and see if you still have enough wind in your ancient body to blow out the candles.”
Tony did. He didn’t count to see if she had gotten the number right. At some point, you had to stop counting. He cut the cake and they ate it in an atmosphere as amicable as that of the best day they had spent together, while drinking creme de menthe in miniature glasses with silver stems that Tony had given Carol for a Christmas present. Time stood still.
When they had finished, Carol broke the spell saying, “Okay, let’s see the poem. And move your chair back from the table. Will I hurt your knee if I sit on your lap? I think I can get the best perspective from there.”
God. What was she trying to do? She was temptation personified. How was he going to keep his hands off her blouse? Tony realized that he would be the sourpuss if he refused her, so he backed his chair up and guided her to a safe position on his lap. He put his arms carefully around her waist, that being the most innocuous place for them. Carol picked up the computer printout of the poem, which Tony had placed on the table when he arrived, and read it through, seemingly concentrating on the words to the exclusion of everything else.
Tony read the poem again over her shoulder:
She wears a summer dress, spaghetti straps to hold it up, or is this so? Perhaps it's gravity, the gravity of con- sequences should it fall. If she should don her dress one day but then forget to pull them up, those flimsy wisps of hope so full of her ripe beauty, do you think the weight of promises within, or hand of fate, would slide it down, revealing priceless treasures?
If so, would she invoke heroic measures to hide the truth, for fear this modest lapse would air the secret of spaghetti straps?
When she was finished, Carol said, “That poem was written by somebody who has written a lot of poems. It was not an amateur effort.”
“What else can you tell me about it?”
“There are not many people in the world who can write a poem like this. Technically, it rates an A. It has images, meter, enjambment, clever rhymes. As to the subject matter, my first inclination is to rate it a C minus and say it must have been written by a horny teenager.”
“Except that a horny teenager couldn’t write it.”
“Exactly. Unless he had previously written a few hundred poems and had some talent to boot. If that person exists, I never saw him in any of my classes. And, in addition, although the subject matter is suspect, the way it’s handled, in a poetic rather than a voyeuristic fashion, would probably prompt me to give it a higher grade than a C minus. I can imagine one of my students writing something like, ‘What if her boobs flopped out of her dress?’”
“Okay, we’ve settled the grading. I’m sure the author will be pleased. But who did write the poem?”
“Somebody with talent and a lot of poetic experience. Somebody who remembers what it’s like to be a horny teenager.”
“Or somebody who is a horny adult,” Tony said, his thoughts about Carol’s blouse still heavy on his mind.
Carol turned toward Tony so that her mouth was not more than two inches from his and said, “Do adults still get horny?”
Tony couldn’t say anything. She kissed him. At first he sat there, not responding, wondering what was going on. Then, before he could return her kiss, she jumped up from his lap and said, “This brings us to my present for you. Or perhaps it’s for me.”
“Present?” Tony said dumbly.
Carol brought Tony’s crutches to him and said, “We have to go into the bedroom.”
Tony slowly got up and followed her into the bedroom, still not clear about what was happening. He noticed that the bed was unmade, which wasn’t like Carol. The bedspread, the blanket, even the top sheet, all lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, leaving it covered by the bottom sheet.
“I didn’t figure on your injury,” Carol said. “I don’t suppose you can kneel on that knee.”
“No.”
“Well, turn around.” She turned him so that his back was to the bed and said, “Sit.”
He sat.
“Give me your crutches. Now lie down on your back.”
He lay down, partly as a result of a push from Carol. She helped him scoot his body up until he was completely on the bed.
“All right,” Carol said, unbuttoning her blouse. “I can do most of the work, but you have to help me some. For starters, how about unbuckling your belt and unzipping your pants.”
“Time for you to go,” Carol said, raising her head from Tony’s chest.
Her naked body was lying on top of his naked body, and Tony would just as soon stay like that forever. She rolled off him and sat up.
“How much help do you need getting into your clothes?”
“Oh, I think I can manage if you put them within arm’s length.” Tony was still in a euphoric daze and was having trouble coming back to reality. However, having no choice, he started putting on his clothes. Carol did the same.
“There are a couple of things I need to tell you,” Carol said. “I will be moving in with Horace next weekend.”
“You’re moving out of the apartment?”
“I won’t need it anymore. Horace has a beautiful house on the beach. Not only is he rich, he loves me to pieces. And he listens to me. Even better, he pretty much agrees with everything I have to say.”
Ouch. Well, Tony had not come here expecting anything different. Still, this was a quick reversal. “You said you needed to tell me a couple of things. What was the other?”
“If Horace is lacking in one thing, it’s…I guess you would call it, libido. Something you never lacked. I just wanted to experience what it was like between us one more time. But the upshot is, this was the last time. If I’m going to live with a man, I’m going to be faithful to him.”
“I wish you every happiness,” Tony said. “And thank you for a nice evening.” What else could he say?
CHAPTER 24
As Thursday afternoon advanced inexorably toward evening, Tony became more and more worried about Shahla. Although he had been upset with her on Monday for talking to Nathan about the possibility of attending a service at the Church of the Risen Lord, he hadn’t really believed she would do it. But the more he thought about it, the less sure he was of this conclusion.
Shahla was impetuous, and if she thought she could find out something about Joy’s murder by attending the service, she would go. In addition, Tony had seen her writing in a spiral notebook in the car while they were driving home from Las Vegas. When he had asked her whether she was writing poetry, she had said no, she was taking notes. For what? She said for the true-crime book she was going to write. So now she pictured herself as a reporter. And reporters went wherever there were stories. And the premise of this Church might be enough of a story to entice her to attend one its services.
Tony called Shahla’s cell phone number about 4:00. When she didn’t answer it, he didn’t leave a message, figuring that if she was planning to go to the service, she probably wouldn’t return his call. By 5:00 Tony had
