“Yes, you do. I’m involved too, Grace. Very involved, as a matter of fact.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I feel my heart start to pound softly. “We can’t do anything about it.”
“Yes, we can. Give me your hand.” He holds out his hand to me.
I look at it, suspended between us, at once a question and an answer. This situation is supposed to be black and white, but it doesn’t feel that way inside.
“Stop thinking. Take it.”
So I do, and it feels strong and warm. He pulls me in to him, as naturally as if we’ve done this a million times before, and in a second I feel myself in his arms and his kiss, gentle on my mouth. Suddenly I hear a noise outside the office and push myself away from his chest. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“There was a noise. Maybe the door?”
“Everything’s all right,” he says. He kisses me again and shifts his weight up underneath me but I press him away.
“Wait. Stop. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
There are rules, aren’t there? “You’re married, for starters.”
He smooths my hair back from my forehead and looks everywhere on my face. “Not anymore,” he says. “My marriage is over.”
It’s a shock. “What? How?”
“It was over a long time ago. Susan asked me to stay with her until the election was over, and I did. She’s coming in the morning to sign the papers. We file tomorrow.”
“For divorce?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true.” He touches my face. “So you’re not in love? Have I been reading you wrong?”
So much for hiding my emotions. “I don’t know. I mean, I think about you, but it’s been so long.”
“How long?”
“Too long to admit.”
“That’s long enough, don’t you think,” he says, kissing me deeply. Before I can object I find myself responding, and then I don’t want to object anymore. I lose myself in his kiss, in his warmth. His hands find their way to my breasts, caressing them as we kiss, arousing me. He begins to unfasten the buttons of my blouse, and I feel a skittishness rise, a sort of shame.
“You sure no one’s out there, in the office?” I say.
“No one.” He undoes the button above my breasts, exposing the string of pearls inside my blouse. I stop his hand and his eyes meet mine, uncomprehending. “I won’t hurt you, Grace,” he says softly. “Let me. Let me love you a little.”
“But I—”
“Shhh. I dream about this, about doing this with you.”
“Armen—”
“Let me. You have to.” He smiles and moves my hands away, placing each one on the armrests of the heavy chair. “Keep your hands there. We’re going to take this slow.”
I feel myself breathing hard, excited and scared. “We can’t do this, not here.”
“Hush.” He unfastens the next button, then the next. “Look at yourself, you’re so beautiful.”
I look down and see a flash of pearls tumbling between my breasts. The scalloped cup of a bra. My skirt hiked way up, past the opaque ivory at the top of my pantyhose. I can’t stand it, being undone like this. I look away, out the window. I expect to see the night sky, but the wall of plate glass reflects a dark-haired man and a lighter-haired woman astride him.
Strangely, it’s easier to bear this way, like in a mirror. I can watch it as if it were happening to someone else.
“It’s all right now,” he whispers.
I watch him slip the silk blouse from my shoulders, freeing one arm and the other, then reaching around and unhooking my bra. I feel my breath stop as he tugs my bra down slowly, as if he’s unveiling something precious and pure. He takes a breast in each hand and teases the nipples, and I feel an exquisite tingle as each one contracts under his thumbs. I encircle his head, this head of too-long hair that I know so well, and he burrows happily between my breasts, nuzzling one and then the other.
I hear myself moan and wrap my legs more tightly around him. He responds, rocking me against the hardness growing in his lap, sucking at one nipple and then the other. I feel wetness where he’s suckled and then a slight chill as he suddenly lifts me up and lays me gently back on his arms across the table. My legs lock around his waist and my hands reach for the edge of the table. My pearls fall to the side, the
Poised over me, he stops suddenly. “You’re not looking at me. Look at me, Grace.”
I watch him in the reflection. I can’t do what he’s asking.
He turns my face to his, and his expression mingles concern and pleasure. “Why won’t you look at me?”
“Is your marriage really over?”
“Yes.”
“You swear it?”
“On my life.” He bends over and kisses me gently, pressing between my legs. “Now let it go, Grace. Let go.”
I close my eyes as my body responds to him. And then my heart.
4
The ringing of a telephone shatters a deep, lovely slumber. I hear it, half in and half out of sleep, not sure whether it’s real.
I open my eyes a crack and peer at the clock. Its digital numbers read 7:26 A.M.; I’ve been asleep for two hours. I have four whole minutes left. The phone call is a bad dream.
It’s real, not a dream. Who the hell could be calling at this hour? Then I remember: Armen. I feel a rush of warmth and stumble to my bureau, cursing the fact that I don’t have an extension close to the bed like everybody else in America. I wish I could just roll over and hear his voice.
“Honey?” says the voice on the line. It’s not Armen, it’s my mother. “Are you up?”
“Of course not. You know how late I got in, you were baby-sitting. What do you want?”
“I’ve been watching the TV news.” I picture her parked in front of her ancient Zenith, with a glass mug of coffee in one hand and a skinny cigarette in the other.
“Mom, it’s seven-thirty. Did you call to chat?” I flop backward onto my quilt.
“I have news.”
I’m sure. You would not believe the things my mother considers news. Liz Taylor gained weight. Liz Taylor lost weight. “What, Ma?”
“Your boss, Judge Gregorian? He committed suicide this morning.”
I sit bolt upright, as if I’ve been electrocuted. I can’t speak.
“They found him at his townhouse in Society Hill. I didn’t know he lived in Society Hill. They said his house is on the National Register of Historic Places.”
I’m stunned.
“He was at his desk, reading papers in that death penalty case.”
“How—”
“He shot himself.”
