“SO WHAT’D YOU THINK?” Paula asked.
In the bedroom darkness, his naked body touching hers, both of them companionably sated—erotically sated, in passion’s afterglow—Bernhardt chuckled.
“What do I think about what?
“About Janice’s—” She hesitated. After their six months together, Bernhardt thought he could account for the hesitation. Paula was searching for a less dramatic word, to finish the sentence. Whenever possible, Paula opted for understatement. But the word she sought failed to materialize. So: “About her suspicions.”
“I’ve no idea. She’s right about Price. He’s a horse’s ass, no question. And Price definitely doesn’t want anybody questioning John. But whether there’s any more to it than that—” He moved closer to her, put his hand on her stomach, just below the rib cage. It was a good stomach, a flat stomach. Like everything he’d discovered about her body, he approved.
Had it only been six months since they’d first met?
“If there’s more to it than that”—he stroked her stomach, felt her navel beneath his fingertips, felt himself quickening—“I’ve got no idea.”
“Janice is pretty level-headed. Pretty smart. Very smart, in fact.” Unlike Bernhardt’s voice, lowered to a huskier, intimate note meant to suggest that, since it was Friday night, they might consider making love for a second time, her voice was clear and starchy. Paula wanted information.
“Janice doesn’t imagine things,” she said.
“I’m sure she doesn’t.”
“You sound—” Once more, she paused. Then: “You sound condescending.”
“That’s not true. Or, at least, I certainly don’t feel condescending. She’s obviously an intelligent, effective person. I’m surprised she never got married.”
“It’s a soap opera plot,” she answered. “Sad, but true.”
“How do you mean, ‘soap opera plot’?”
“Did she tell you about their parents—how they died?”
“It was a boating accident, she said. Connie survived—and felt guilty about it, ever since. A classic case of childhood guilt that never went away, apparently.”
“Their parents were wonderful people,” she answered, her voice softened by the recollection. “It was one of those—those perfect families. And then, in seconds, it all ended.”
In seconds …
Suddenly the images returned: the policeman’s knock at their door. Jennie’s body, on a stainless-steel tray, her shattered head wrapped in green cloth.
Perhaps because she sensed his sudden pain, Paula went quickly on: “Connie was ten years old when it happened, and Janice was sixteen. Connie was in the fourth grade, still a little girl. Janice was a junior in high school, just beginning to bloom, really. I used to spend a lot of time with them in the summers. Our families were friends, you know. Old, old friends. The Hales had a ranch, near San Ysidro. I was two years younger than Janice. And I can remember envying her so much. She was so—so assured. She was never beautiful, not really. But, every day during those summers, there were boys around. Wonderful-looking boys. They all seemed to have sports cars. And they all liked Janice. Everyone liked Janice. And, when you’re a teenager, that’s the most important thing of all—simply to have your contemporaries like you.” He heard her sigh. It was a soft, nostalgic sigh, filled with nameless regret.
“So Janice devoted her life to her young orphaned sister, and never married. Is that how it went?”
Another sigh. “That’s how it went.”
“And Connie turned into a beauty.”
“Connie turned into a beauty. An unhappy, neurotic beauty who was always—always—picking the wrong guy.”
“Including Dennis Price.”
“Definitely, including Dennis Price.” A moment of pensive silence passed. Then: “Connie was rich and she was beautiful. So she always thought men either wanted to get in her pants, or else her checkbook.” Paula moved closer, as if he could offer her solace from her own thoughts. Then, softly, she said, “Connie was a victim type, I guess you’d say. She had no sense of her own self-worth. None.”
“The dilemma of the beautiful woman …” A playful pause, for timing. “Present company excepted, of course.”
“Of course.” She chuckled—but stubbornly returned to her subject: “You’re right, though. Connie never had a chance. And Janice only had half a chance, really. Their only living relative was an aunt, and she went to live with Connie and Janice after their parents were drowned. But the aunt was always a semi-invalid. So it was up to Janice to raise Connie. And now—” She sighed. “And now Janice is thirty-six.”
“The numbers game.”
“We all play it, though. And for a woman—a thirty-six-year-old woman—the biological clock is ticking, too.”
“Mmmm …” It was a purposely disinterested response, signifying that, for him, for now, the subject of the Hale family’s soap opera problems was closed. The longer they talked, the less likely they were to make love. He moved his hand from her stomach to the curve of her thigh, then to the first swell of her buttocks. Yes, her breathing was deeper, responding. And, yes, he felt her hand on his thigh, an interested overture.
But, still, there was more. Perversely, more: “Janice is a good artist, you know. A very good artist. She even shows in New York galleries. Fifty-seventh Street, the big time.”
“Hmmm …” Then, curious in spite of the rising sexual heat they were generating, Bernhardt asked, “What does she paint? What kinds of things?”
“Landscapes, mostly. They’re sort of semiabstract. I’ve got one, in my living room. That landscape over the couch.”
“Ah!” The monosyllable registered recognition, and approval. Vividly, he could recall the painting. It was so compelling that he’d thought it was a print of a major artist’s work. Clearly, the lady could paint. Talented Janice Hale. Rich, intelligent Janice Hale.
Sad Janice Hale.
“So what’ll you do?” Paula was asking. “What happens now?”
“I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “Keep the pressure on Price, keep bugging him, probably. See which way he jumps—if he jumps at all.” A pause. Then, burlesquing a bad imitation of a French soldier leaving for the front in earlier, more romantic times, he said, “It may involve long hours away from you, Mademoiselle—days, weeks, even. And there will be danger, too. So perhaps this may be our last night together.” As he spoke, he took her head in his hands, kissing her fervently—until she sputtered, laughing.
“God, is this what it’ll be like, involved with an actor?”
“Actors have feelings, Mademoiselle. You must never forget that.”
“Well, then—” Suddenly, with surprising strength, she grasped his shoulder, turned him, pinned him with the full weight of her body and kissed him deeply, passionately. “Well, then, Gaston, let’s do it. Take me. I’m yours.”
“Aha!”