“FIRST THERE WAS THAT private detective,” Price said. “And now Janice. For all we know, Fowler’ll be next, poking around.” He shook his head, clenched his fist, lightly struck the arm of the sofa. The sofa had just been delivered yesterday, she’d said. The cost, fifteen hundred dollars. How long could he keep siphoning money from the winery’s receipts, to keep all of it going? The cars, the airplane, payrolls, the servants, now the hideaway apartment. All of it negative cash flow, covered by borrowing against his inheritance. How long would the creditors go along? When would someone discover that rental on this apartment was buried in the winery’s expense items as “rent on business property”? The winery had never made money. Without income from Connie’s investments, all those dividends, all that accrued interest, it could all come apart. Soon. Very soon.
“What Janice really wants,” he said, “is to see John. But the question is, why?”
Theo sat at the other end of the sofa, her back against the arm, her legs drawn up, facing him. At her crotch, skintight blue jeans revealed her cleft. Her expression was calm. As always, calm: the Nordic goddess of power, a Valkyrie. Never had she seemed more desirable—yet more remote. Theo was thinking. Calculating. Planning.
“From what you’ve been saying,” she said finally, “it sounds like the conversation blew up too soon. You should’ve let her talk. Maybe she’d’ve told you whether she’d hired the detective—whether she intended to talk to the sheriff. We’d know where we stand. This way—” She shook her head, shrugged. As her head moved, her thick, tawny hair came sinuously alive. God, how he craved that hair lying across the bare flesh of his chest. He needed that feeling. It had only been three months since they’d first met. But the touch of her—the sensations she generated—were never far from the core of his thoughts. He was addicted.
“Christ, I did let her talk. I couldn’t shut her up. And I’ll tell you, she’s not about to slink back to Santa Barbara. No way. The lady is out to get me.”
Holding her pose, she made no response. In the silence, each sitting at opposite ends of the long sofa—the fifteen-hundred-dollar sofa—they stared silently at each other. He couldn’t read her face. Had he ever been able to do it? Did he ever know what Theo was thinking? Was that part of the attraction—the obsession? In three months—three erotic months—they’d done it all, woman to man and man to woman. Everything. But the woman he faced now was a stranger. An inscrutable, desirable stranger.
Now, speaking slowly, her eyes shifting beyond him, plainly articulating the thoughts as they came to her, she said, “It sounds like she misses John. It sounds genuine. And it could be—” As the thoughts outdistanced the words, she broke off. Then: “It could be that you’re worrying too much. You’re assuming the worst, where John’s concerned. You’re assuming he was awake, and heard it all. Everything. But you never’ve talked to John about what he heard—or saw.”
“But—”
“Wait.” She raised an abrupt hand. Repeating: “Wait.” It was a short, harsh monosyllable. Her eyes were hard, her mouth set. She let a beat pass before she began speaking crisply, decisively. Her eyes had come alive now, locked with his, compelling his close attention. “What we could be doing,” she said, “is assuming the worst. Erroneously assuming the worst. We’re assuming that John knows what happened—or suspects, anyhow. And we’re assuming that Janice wants to talk to him because she’s suspicious. But that could be wrong. It could be completely wrong. So why don’t we assume the best, instead of the worst? Why don’t we assume that John didn’t hear or see a thing? And why don’t we assume that all Janice wants to do is spend some time with John? Why don’t we—”
“That could’ve been true, at first. But today, she sure as hell—”
“Wait. Let me finish.” Her voice rose, her eyes snapped. Was it anger? It was the first time he’d seen her eyes like this, the first time he’d heard this edge to her voice. In response, he shrugged, spread his hands, looked away. He’d let her have her way. Then he’d speak. Didn’t she know that they had to assume the worst? Didn’t she realize that—
“What about this—” Now she spoke calmly, earnestly. Her eyes, too, were earnest. Intense, but earnest. “What if you take John away for a few months? What if the two of you went to Europe, traveling around? No one would really know where you were—no one but me. Before you go, you call Janice. You apologize. You say she has to realize how disturbed you’ve been, these last couple of months. And John, too, of course. Emphasize that you’ve done it all for John. Then you tell her that when you get back from Europe she’s welcome to have John for as long as she wants. In fact, you’ll say, you like traveling so much that you’ve decided to live in Europe for a while. Spain, maybe in a small village. You’ll say that …”
As she continued to speak, his thoughts turned inward, overlaying her voice. She was right. God, she was right. He would stay in Europe, traveling, out of touch. Then he’d come back to San Francisco. No, he’d go first to Los Angeles, then up to Santa Barbara. He’d give John to Janice—give him to her. Then he’d go to San Francisco, and pick up the inheritance check from his lawyer. The winery, he’d leave for the creditors. The townhouse, one-third his, one-third John’s, he’d instruct his lawyer to sell, and send the check to him.
Then, back in Europe, he would send for Theo. Janice and John would live happily ever after.
Theo was no longer speaking. She was looking at him. Watching. Waiting.
“I wonder …” Suddenly he rose, walked to the view window, stood for a moment looking out at the Marin County vistas: Mount Tamalpais, shimmering in the afternoon heat. Because of the view, the rental was fifteen hundred, for a small three-room apartment. “I wonder, would it work?” Frowning, biting his lip, he turned to face her. Uncertainty clouded his eyes.
“Why wouldn’t it work?” As she spoke, she lowered her feet to the floor, and turned on the couch to face him. The urgency was gone from her voice now, the tension had gone out of her body. The message: having expressed her opinion she would abide by his decision. There was another message, too: a suggestion of sexual quickening.
“There’s the winery to run. And bills to pay,” he said.
“Couldn’t your lawyer handle that? What’ll it be, another three months, before the will’s probated?”
“Closer to four, I think. The whole process takes six months.”
“You could keep in contact with your lawyer through me.” As she spoke, she raised her arms over her head, stretched, then moved closer. Yes, her eyes were softening, the pattern of her movements invited his caress. Suddenly it suffused him: the aura of her, the promise of release, of abandon, of oblivion.