She rolled over onto her side, her breasts pressed together to create a narrow valley between them. He thought of losing himself in that valley, of sliding in between the heavy softness of those breasts, nestling there forever like a small, furry animal. Her nipples were deep red, almost brown.
'Is it the sadness?' she asked. The question was so unexpected he was caught off guard. She smiled and leaned up on one elbow, her breasts brushing against her arm. 'Do you get it too-the sadness that comes afterward?'
He looked away. He had never discussed this with anyone. 'Sometimes, I guess.'
She reached over and traced a straight line down his forearm with her little finger. It made him shiver. 'I've often thought that this might be why the French called orgasm 'a little death.''
He couldn't think of anything to say. He had always believed his reaction to be peculiar to him alone. Talking about it felt more intimate than sex itself.
She retraced the line on his arm in the other direction. 'It's probably a biochemical reaction of some kind. I wouldn't worry about it.'
Her scientific bluntness made him laugh.
'That's a relief. I'll call off the existential angst patrol.'
She laughed and flopped over onto her back. Her breasts were the whitest part of her body, but they were still darker than his skin.
'I just didn't know anyone else felt it.'
'You never talked about it with anyone?'
'No.' He didn't want to know whether or not she had.
'It's really an odd thing, when you look at it-sex, I mean,' she said.
'How so?'
'Well, I suppose nature has made it arduous and difficult for the male for a reason-another form of natural selection, I guess.'
'So how is making it hard for computer geeks to get laid good for the species?'
She punched his arm. 'That's not what I'm talking about. I mean that it requires a certain amount of… stamina. If it weren't a fairly athletic activity, then anyone could mate, and that would be bad for the species.'
'I just love it when you talk science.' He ran his tongue over the outer rim of her ear, tasting the mixture of sweat, ear wax, and lavender.
After the third time he slipped into a deep, stuporous sleep. Murky images drifted in and out of his dreams, sluggish and bulky as whales, sinking just beneath the reach of his conscious mind. He awoke to a bright dawn seeping through the white curtains and the comforting sounds of pans clattering in the kitchen. For a few minutes he lay there on his back, eyes closed, listening to the city coming to life around him. The sound of traffic was picking up momentum on Amsterdam Avenue, and he separated the various sounds in his head: the low diesel rumble of the M11 bus, the rattle of delivery vans as they lurched from one pothole to another, the clatter of metal security gates being raised as shopkeepers opened their stores for the day.
The two gray kittens entered the room and attacked his feet under the covers. The cats waged a continuous campaign of attacks and counterattacks, flinging themselves upon each other in a series of short leaps and hops, and then went instantly from full battle mode to licking themselves.
Contentment crested over him like a wave. The kitchen sounds were replaced with footsteps. Already, he thought, he could identify her walk, light and quick. She appeared at the doorway, wearing a green terry cloth robe knotted loosely around her waist, so that the upper part of her inner thighs was visible, dark and inviting where the robe came together. The smell of coffee floated in through the open door.
As she entered the room, the cats skittered out of it, brushing her ankles as they dashed off after each other.
Kathy laughed. 'Those two-they're like teenagers cruising down Main Street. They're just looking for action, and pretty much anything will do.'
Lee smiled. 'They put on a pretty good show. But then, so do you.'
She cocked her head to one side. The black curls, uncombed, grazed her shoulder.
'Coffee?'
He stretched his arms out to her.
Chapter Forty
The next day Lee took a long-promised trip to drive to his mother's house to pick up his niece and bring her back to town with him for a visit. Chuck had insisted he take the weekend off, and he even though he disagreed with his friend, he had no choice but to obey.
Fiona Campbell lived in the same house where Lee and Laura were born, in a tiny village nestled deep in the Delaware valley. She had lived there since the first day of her ill-fated marriage, and she intended-or so she often claimed-'to die there, by God,'-which was more of an oath than an appeal directly to the divine.
When Lee arrived to pick up his niece, Kylie was on the front lawn waiting for him, standing on Turtle Rock, the big round boulder he and Laura used to pretend was a giant tortoise. Sometimes it was a whale, a pirate ship, or even a magic carpet, but most often it was a turtle. The boulder rose from the earth in a single graceful arc, its smooth gray hump of a back perfect for straddling, or standing on, or jumping from. Once, years ago, his mother had contemplated having the boulder removed from her lawn, but Lee and Laura made such a fuss that she'd dropped the idea.
His niece was dressed in a pink and white snow parka, with matching pink sneakers and a pink ribbon tied around her blond hair. Pink was Kylie's favorite color, followed by purple. Unlike his mother, with her stern Scottish Presbyterian spine, Kylie was all girl, soft and sweet, but with a streak of mischief.
Lee got out of the car. 'Hi, there, pastel girl.'
Kylie made a face and balanced on one foot. 'Why are you calling me that?'
'Is today a No Teasing Day?' Lee asked, scooping her up off the boulder and putting her on his shoulders. He managed to keep her from seeing his face-at least for now.
'Maybe,' she said, putting her hands over his eyes. Her fingers smelled of lemons.
'Guess who!'
'Uh, let me see. Pastel girl?'
'Ugh!' Kylie gave a grunt of mock frustration. It was a sound Laura used to make when she was faking exasperation.
'Where's your grandma?' he asked, holding on to her ankles so she wouldn't fall as he walked toward the house.
The house was built in 1748, the large, irregular river stones held together by white masonry. Most of the wide, hand-hewn floorboards and ceiling beams were original, and the ceilings were low-only about eight feet high-and always made Lee feel a little like stooping.
'Mom?' he called, as he pushed open the heavy oak front door. The front hall smelled of eucalyptus and apples and ancient wooden beams. The walls were painted a creamy off-white, adorned with rather masculine hunting prints.
'Hello, Mom!' he called again.
'Fiona!' Kylie shouted.
'You don't have to shout-I'm right here,' his mother said, coming around the corner from the dining room. She had perfectly good hearing, but some of her friends had bought hearing aids, and she was sensitive on the subject. Physical weakness would not be tolerated when you were a Campbell.
'Uncle Lee's here!' Kylie cried, rushing to wrap herself around her grandmother's legs.
Fiona Campbell gave Kylie's head a perfunctory pat before extracting herself from her granddaughter's embrace, like a cat stepping over a wet spot on the floor.
Fiona Campbell had the kind of square, strong-jawed good looks that were not exactly pretty, but her high, firm cheekbones, as she put it, 'held age well.' Her skin had a healthy, ruddy glow, and with her clear blue eyes, straight nose, and firm, determined mouth, she was a handsome woman. Lee had once suggested to her that she
