so natural, so normal. For one entire night it was as though she didn’t even know Marc, as though she were married to Ben. She reached for a small photograph of Pilar in another silver frame and saw that her hand was shaking. Pilar was in tennis clothes; the photograph had been taken in the South of France. Deanna stared at it almost blindly. She didn’t even hear the persistent ringing of the bell. It was two or three minutes before she realized that there was someone at the door. She jumped up, startled, and put down the photograph of Pilar. Her mind raced as she walked to the door. Who was it? Who knew? And what if it was Ben? She didn’t feel ready to see him now. It was wrong what they had done. She had to tell him, she had to stop, now before it was too late, before her orderly life came apart at the seams… before…
“Who is it?”
A voice informed her that there was a package. Reluctantly, she opened the door and saw the delivery boy. “But I didn’t order…” Then she knew. They were flowers from Ben. For a moment she wanted to turn them away, send them back, pretend that the night before hadn’t happened and never would again. Instead, she held out her arms and took the bundle inside, where she pulled off the card and held it for a moment before reading what it said:
Hurry home, my darling. I’ll meet you at five.
I love you,
Ben
She ran upstairs to her room and packed a small bag. Then she went to the studio. That’s all she would take. Just one or two canvases, some paints, she’d make do for a while. She didn’t have to stay for more than a few days. That was all.
She left a number for Margaret and explained that she was staying with a friend. By five-thirty she was back at his house. She parked the Jaguar half a block away and walked hesitantly toward the door. What in hell was she doing? But he’d heard her on the front steps. Before she rang, he opened the door with a bow and a smile and a sweep of one arm.
“Come in. I’ve been waiting for hours.” He closed the door softly behind her. For a moment she stood there, her eyes tightly shut against tears. “Deanna? Are you all right, darling?” There was concern in his voice, but she nodded. Slowly, he put his arms around her. “Are you afraid?”
She opened her eyes and hesitantly nodded her head.
But Ben only smiled and held her very close as he whispered into her hair, “So am I.”
10
“O.K., kid, off your ass. It’s your turn.” Ben poked her gently in the small of her back, and Deanna groaned.
“It is not. I made breakfast yesterday.” She smiled into the pillow and hid her face.
“Do you know that I love you, even if you are a liar? I made breakfast yesterday and two days before that and for four days just before that. In fact I think you owe me three in a row.”
“That’s a lie!” She was giggling.
“The hell it is. I told you, this is a democracy!” He was laughing too and trying to turn the naked body he loved so that he could see her face.
“I don’t like democracy!”
“Tough. I want coffee and French toast and eggs.”
“What if I won’t do it?”
“Then tonight you sleep on the terrace.”
“I knew it. I should have brought Margaret.”
“A menage a trois? It sounds lovely. Can she cook?”
“Better than I can.”
“Good. We’ll have her move in today.” He rolled over in bed with a satisfied smile. “Meanwhile, get off your dead ass and feed me.”
“You’re spoiled rotten.”
“And I love it.”
“You’ll get fat.” She sat on the edge of the bed looking at his far-from-overweight body. “Besides, eggs aren’t good for you, they have carbohydrates or cholesterol or chromosomes or something, and…” He pointed toward the kitchen, a mock scowl lining his face, and Deanna stood up. “I hate you.”
“I know.”
Laughing, she vanished into the kitchen. They had been together for two weeks-a moment; a lifetime. They shared the cooking and the chores. A funny little old lady came in twice a week to clean, but Ben liked doing things for himself, and Deanna found that she enjoyed sharing those things with him. They went marketing, cooked dinners, polished the brass, and pulled weeds from among the flowers on the terrace. She watched him pore over catalogues of upcoming auctions, and he watched her sketch, or work in pastels or oils. He was the first person she had allowed to see her work in progress. They read mystery books and watched television and went for drives; they walked on the beach once at midnight, and twice went down for the night to his house in Carmel. She went to another opening at his gallery and on a visit to a new artist, masquerading as his wife. It was as though nothing had come before and nothing would come after-they had only the time and the life that they shared.
Deanna set down the tray with his breakfast and the paper. “You know something? I like you. I really do.”
“You sound surprised. Were you afraid democracy would wear you out?”
“Maybe.” She sat down with a small, happy shrug. “I haven’t taken care of myself or anyone else, in a practical way, in a long time. I’m responsible for everyone, but I don’t think I’ve made breakfast in years. Or done any of the things that we’ve done.”
“I don’t like being dependent on other people, like maids. Basically, I like a very simple life.”
She grinned to herself, remembering the three lavishly expensive paintings he had bought the day before in L.A., but she knew that what he was saying was true. Opulence wasn’t his style. He had seen too much of it as a child, in the home of his grandparents and then his father. He was happier with the little house on the hill in San Francisco and the unpretentious cottage in Carmel.
He leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose, then sat back against his pillows again with the breakfast she had made still waiting on the tray. “I love you, Deanna.” He was smiling wickedly. “Now when are you going to sign with the gallery?”
“Are you back at that again?
“Well? Did it work?”
“Of course not! You’ll have to do better than that!”
“Better?” He looked at her ominously and put aside the breakfast tray. “What exactly do you mean by ‘better,’ why I…” He closed his mouth over hers and reached for her body with his hands. “Better…?” They were both laughing now. It was half an hour later before they had untangled themselves and caught their breath. “Well, was that
“Much.”
“Good.” He looked up at her happily from where he lay on the bed. “Now will you sign?”
“Well…” She lay her head on his chest and looked at him with a small yawn. “Maybe if you’d just run through that again…”
“Deanna!” He rolled over and covered her body with his own, holding her throat menacingly in both hands. “I want you to sign with me!” His voice boomed.
She smiled sweetly, “O.K.”
“What?” He sat up, a look of astonishment on his face.
“I said O.K. O.K.?”