THEY LAY AS THEY always did in the afterglow, her body finding the full length of his, the fit that had never failed. It was the prelude to pillow talk, for Bernhardt the most meaningful moments.
And it was now, in these moments, sooner rather than later, that he must ask her to move in with him. “You’re here all weekend,” he would begin. “So why shouldn’t we—”
No.
More than mere logic was required. This overture must come from the heart: “The more we’re together, the more I want us to be together. So why don’t we—”
He’d done it again, lapsed into logic, mere argumentation.
He’d written plays, one good enough to be produced off Broadway. But he couldn’t find the words to begin.
Had it been this way with Jennie? They’d been walking from the town up to campus, he and Jennie. The distance had been less than a mile. It had been early in May, only a month before graduation. Before them, life had spread out with infinite promise, a magic tapestry woven just for them. Of course, they would go to New York. He’d already had a play produced at the Yellow Springs Area Theater. And an off-Broadway company was interested. So they would go to New York, the two of them. His mother, who’d lived in the Village and who’d taught modern dance in her loft, would help them find a place to live. Then, full of hope, they would begin making the rounds. Of course, they would expect rejection at first. But they would sustain each other until their turns came: bit parts for Jennie, an off-Broadway production of Victims, the play he’d begun writing while he was still a senior at Antioch.
And, incredibly, hope had burgeoned, become reality. Jennie began getting small parts. And, yes, Victims had run for three solid, successful weeks at the Bransten Theater.
But they hadn’t known it would happen like that, not when they were walking up to the campus on that soft, warm night in May. Then, that night, they could only hope—and plan.
And part of the plan, it turned out, had been marriage.
They’d seen Two Women at the movie theater in town. As they’d walked up the gentle hill from the town to the theater, talk about the film had turned to talk of the future—their future, in New York. Together they would pursue their dreams, hers to act, his to write and direct.
And so, by the time they got to the campus, they’d agreed that they would be married. There’d been no proposal, no acceptance. There’d only been a few quiet words spoken between them. They’d—
“Hey.” With one finger, Paula was poking him in the ribs. “Hey, you’re off somewhere.”
It was a standing joke between them. If he was uncertain about a business decision or searching for a line of dialogue that would illuminate a scene, he often drifted off. In the light of day, Paula could clearly see the preoccupation in his eyes. In bed, in the darkness, she could feel the change in his body, their flesh in intimate contact.
He drew her closer, kissed the point of her chin, then lightly kissed her lips.
“Sorry.”
“It’s those ladies, isn’t it—those ladies in distress.”
He knew where the conversation would go. Paula was determined to work with him, doing investigations. He needed help, she reasoned, and she needed something to do. She was very quiet about it, very patient—but very determined. Meaning that now, in the afterglow, she would persist. “I have the feeling,” she said, “that you’ll take them on.”
He considered. Then, somewhat to his own surprise, he heard himself say, “There’d be money in it. A lot of money.”
“Like, five figures?”
He calculated. “At least.”
Now she was calculating, too. “After five figures, you realize, comes six figures. As in a hundred thousand dollars.”
“I know …”
“You sound a little—” She broke off, searched for the word. “You sound a little apprehensive. But maybe a little tempted, too.”
“My car needs a new set of tires.”
“Alan …” Now she traced a light line with a forefinger that began at the base of his throat and then ventured down. Meaning that, this time—this six-figure time—Paula would stop at nothing to get the story from him. Thank God.