“Lovely,” she said. “Have a nice time, won’t you?”
“Yes. Don’t wait up.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. Good-bye, Matt.”
Rebecca put the receiver down without waiting to hear if he had anything further to say. She stood there stiffly, thinking: How many times have we played that same little scene? Fifty, a hundred? And such trite dialogue, like something written by a third-rate playwright. Rebecca Hughes: character in a pointless drama. Reciting her lines, going through the motions, while the unseen audience watches in boredom and suppresses snickers because the entire episode is so totally and ridiculously conventional.
She went to the main hall and along it into the kitchen. Earlier in the day she had gone down to the Mercantile to get coffee, and she had had the percolator on ever since she returned; she poured another cup-did that make ten for the day, or was it fifteen? — and stood drinking it by the table. Through the window over the sink, she could see white-flecked darkness: snowing again, a whipping veil of snow. Beginnings of a heavy storm. She could remember a time when she relished one of these mountain winter blizzards — curled up with Matt on the rug in front of the fireplace, insulated against the turbulence without, drinking hot eggnog and perhaps making a little love in the crackling glow of the fir-log fire. Soft, shared warmth and soft, shared love.
And wasn’t that, too, as trite as the rest of it?
I don’t want to be alone tonight, she thought. I don’t think I can stand being alone again tonight. But where could she go? The Valley Inn? No, there would be friendly, probing questions as to Matt’s whereabouts, and she would have to repeat his lie and then listen to them talk about what a fine, upstanding man he was, and all in all it would be worse than being alone. Ann Tribucci? Ann was her closest friend in the valley, though Rebecca had at no time been able to talk to her about personal matters; she had wanted to often enough, to purge herself woman to woman, but she could never quite manage the courage. Tonight would be no different. If anything, seeing Ann tonight would make things worse: the previous weekend, she and Johnny had moved temporarily from their home near Mule Deer Lake to Vince and Judy Tribucci’s house-Ann hadn’t wanted to be alone out there with the baby coming-and Rebecca would have to face all four of them; she would have to witness the solicitous way Johnny looked at his wife and the happiness that was theirs with the baby due so soon now…
Abruptly, Rebecca wondered if things might have been different if she and Matt had had a child. Well no, probably not, and anyway, the question was academic. He had told her during their brief engagement that he was sterile-their childless marriage was in no way responsible for his infidelity, either-and she had said then that it didn’t matter, they had each other and that was enough. There had been some talk at that time of adopting a baby later on, but neither of them had mentioned it again in the seven years they had been man and wife.
Her eyes strayed to the window again, and she could just make out the familiar, iridescent glow of light in the cabin above. And she found herself wondering about Zachary Cain again, wondering as she had on the previous night if he too was lonely. Would he welcome some company on this stormy night, the same as she? Would he be receptive to a visit from a young-old and cuckolded wife?
Oh, stop it, she told herself. The only thing you’d accomplish by going up there is to make a fool of yourself; remember Reno, remember that, and it doesn’t matter that it’s not the same thing. There’s nothing up there for you, nothing at all.
Rebecca finished the last of her coffee, put the cup down, and went back into the living room. She was cold again-odd how she couldn’t seem to keep warm lately. Picking up her book, she climbed the stairs and ran a hot bath and undressed and slipped into the tub. The steaming water helped a little; she could feel herself beginning to relax.
The book she was reading was one of those sex-and-big business best sellers-not really absorbing, just something to read-and she opened it again as she lay soaking. After two pages, she came to another in a long series of boudoir scenes; but this one, as coldly clinical in detail as all the others, had a curiously and intensely erotic effect on her. Her nipples grew erect beneath the warm bathwater; her hips moved featheringly against the smooth porcelain; her thighs opened and closed in a gentle, involuntary rhythm. God, it had been such a long time now! Dry-throated, she closed the book sharply and put it aside, shutting her eyes, willing her body still. After a time the sexual need began to ebb-but she was cold again, even in the warm bath she was cold again…
Half an hour later, fully dressed, she sat with a tasteless sandwich-she could not recall the last time she had taken a genuine pleasure in the consumption of food-and a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Seven o’clock now. Blizzard flinging snow at the window, wailing emptily. It was going to be such a long, long night-and I don’t want to be alone, she thought.
The window seemed suddenly to develop a magnetic pull for her eyes. After a moment she stood from the table and went there and saw again the diffused yellow light in the cabin. She looked at it for a full minute, and then she thought: Well, I could go up there, I could go up and talk to him for a while; there’s nothing wrong in that. Just two people, landlord and tenant, talking together on a stormy, lonely winter night. And she was curious about him, there was that too.
She kept on standing there, thinking about it-and then she walked into the hall, to where the coat closet was located near the Dutch-doored front entrance. You’d better not do it, she told herself-and knew that she was going to do it anyway. She opened the closet and put on fur-lined snow parka and fur-lined ski boots (presents from Matt in one of his contrite and attentive moments); then she tied a scarf tightly around her head, put the parka’s hood over it, drew on a pair of wool mittens. And went out into the blizzard before she could change her mind.
The tails of her parka and the flared legs of her slacks slapped and ballooned in the chill white wind as she crossed the front yard to Lassen Drive. She started up the road, struggling through the dry shoulder drifts. The cold numbed her lips and her cheeks; the night and the snow pressed down on her, sealing her in a thrumming vacuum. Finally, she reached the cabin and stepped off the road, bracing herself against the heaving wind, moving toward the dull warm light in the facing window.
As she drew opposite, she could see beyond the ice-frosted glass, and Cain was there, sitting there in the window. He was smoking, looking down at the table: remote, grim-visaged in his thick grayish beard. Rebecca stopped abruptly, and she was less sure of herself now, less convinced that coming here was a good idea. What did she know about Zachary Cain, after all? He was a complete stranger, she hadn’t spoken twenty words to him since he’d arrived in Hidden Valley; what could she say to him tonight, where would she begin? She thought of retracing her steps to the road, leaving as quickly as she had come. But she did not move. Home to the big, empty house had no appeal; being alone tonight disturbed her more than the unknown qualities of Zachary Cain.
The wind slackened and began to gust, and the cold penetrated her clothing to chill her skin. Through the hazy window, she saw Cain rub one hand over his face and through his unkempt hair-a tired, despondent gesture that cemented her resolve. She moved forward again to the front door.
Rebecca knocked loudly several times. When there was no immediate response, she thought he hadn’t heard above the sound of the storm and reached up to knock again. And the door opened with a jerky suddenness, and Cain stood holding it against the force of the wind, peering out at her with red-flecked eyes. There was a surprise in his gaze, but it dulled and faded almost instantly. She saw pain there, too, and what might have been irritation. He did not look drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking.
She tried a tentative smile and felt the tightness of it on her mouth. He did not return it-except for his eyes, his face was totally impassive-and the doubts began to wash over Rebecca again. Her mind seemed to have gone blank; she could not think of anything to say. She had a foolish impulse to turn and run away into the snow-riddled night.
Cain said finally, “Yes, what is it, Mrs. Hughes?”
She found words then and pushed them out diffidently. “May I come inside? It’s terribly cold out here.”
He hesitated, and then shrugged and moved aside so that she could step in past him. The cabin was warm, fire in the hearth; but it smelled of liquor and stale cigarette smoke, and when he closed the door, cutting off the scream of the wind, it seemed too quiet. She was conscious of the snow that had blown into the room, that still fell fluttering from her parka; she wanted to say something apologetic about it, but the only words that came to her were acutely inane: I’m getting snow all over your floor.
Cain was standing with his back to the door, watching her, waiting silently for her to tell him why she was there. Instead, Rebecca said, “Quite a storm, isn’t it?” and those words seemed just as inane as the other, unspoken ones. She began to feel awkward and incredibly silly.
He said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Well-I hope I’m not intruding. I mean, you’re not… busy or anything, are you?”
