29

“Oh, hey,” Lida said, examining her eyes in the bathroom mirror, “do you mind if I use your toothbrush?” She held it under the faucet and ran a stream of water over the bristles.

He had already brushed his teeth. He would buy another. “No,” he said, “go right ahead.” He walked back into the bedroom and finished dressing.

She came out, wiping the corners of her mouth with her fingers. She was naked but for the towel draped around her shoulders. She wore no makeup. She looked older than she had last night.

“I know,” she said, “I look awful.”

“Yes,” he said, darkening his voice, “awful.” He thought of one of his heroes who, in a similar circumstance, had said, “You’ve had me. Now, leave.” He reached for the ends of the towel and held them. “What will you do today?” he asked. He would think of her, later, doing whatever it was.

“Loaf,” she said.

No visual image came to mind. He tried again. “And tonight?”

“Oh, I’ll probably go to the theater. With Diana.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow the grind starts again. Not classes, but meetings. Oh, God, how I hate meetings.”

“Ah, yes, meetings. How well I remember.”

“What time is it?” she asked. “Do you know?”

“No.” He dropped the towel and kissed her lightly. “You smell of toothpaste,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“So do you.” She reached down and pressed her hands against his trousers.

“No, don’t,” he said, taking her hands. “I just wanted to kiss you.”

The hotel restaurant had not yet opened for breakfast. They went across the street to a Howard Johnson’s.

“What are you chuckling about?” he asked.

“The thought of the mighty Duvivier in a Howard Johnson’s.”

“That is a funny thought.” He sipped at his juice. He pushed it aside. “This is too sweet.”

“I’ll drink it,” Lida offered, reaching across for it.

“You’re very lucky,” he said, “to be able to loaf today. I wish I could loaf.” He italicized the word, played with it. It was one he had never used.

“Don’t you, ever?”

“I don’t think so. No. I don’t think I ever have. Does it require a bucolic setting?”

“No,” she said, sliding deep into the corner of the booth. “In fact, we’re loafing now.”

“We are?”

“Can’t you tell?” She closed her eyes. “What about you?” she asked. “What will you do today?”

“Fly to New York. Settle in. Get everything done as quickly as possible. And then go back abroad.”

“Sounds great,” she said sadly.

He narrowed his eyes, measuring her words, her manner. “I may have to stay a bit longer. To write another scene. I’m not sure.”

“A scene for the movie?”

“Yes.”

“And will it be a murder?” The life had returned to her voice. “I love your murders.”

He looked swiftly across the table at her. A stern look.

She didn’t seem to care. “My favorite,” she said, pausing to swallow, “was the one in Spain. The one with the kids and the costumes and the donkeys, remember?”

That one had been his agent’s idea. He had only complied. “Mmm,” he said, cutting the crust from his toast.

“Hey, tell me. How did you happen to come to Washington in the first place?” she asked, widening her eyes and sitting upright. “You never told me.”

“It was”—he shrugged—“just an extraordinary mix-up in my travel arrangements, that’s all.”

“God!” Lida said. “Which airline was it? No kidding, I’d like to send them a bouquet of roses!”

He smiled across at her. “You’ve never told me,” he said, “just what it was that prompted your letter.”

“I don’t remember,” Lida said, “and that’s the truth.”

He held her coat. “Is there a clock?” he asked, turning his head to see. Lida’s smile sagged. But then he said, “I have a bit of time.” Did he sound glad?

She slid her arms into the sleeves. He pulled at her collar, then let his hands rest on her shoulders. His breath brushed her neck. She felt her hair stir slightly. His hands drifted to her hips, pressing against the thick wool folds.

“God,” she said, “I’ve been liberated for so long, I’d forgotten what this was like.”

He laughed, guiding her toward the door, reaching past her to push it open. “Yes, it’s very sexy. And socially acceptable.”

“I’m serious,” Lida said.

“I am, too.”

They crossed the street and wandered through a complex of shops. Lida watched their reflection in every plate-glass window, as though she were watching a film.

“Do you approve of what you see?” he asked.

“Actually, no. I was wishing I were younger. With a cuter nose. And with long blond hair that would sweep along the pavement.”

He wished she hadn’t said that about her nose. Christine Rivers had had a cute nose. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Thirty-five,” she said, thinking that she should have lied.

“You’re a child. A mere child.”

“How old are you?”

Ronald Wendolyn would have been forty-six. But when he had assumed the Jackson R.W. Bishop identity, he had dropped two years. “I’m forty-four,” he said, “but I feel older.”

“How old do you feel?”

“Forty-six.”

They stood in front of a bookstore. Several volumes were propped up for display. “There’s your new book,” she said.

“Mmmm,” he said absently.

“Hey, did you read that?” She pointed to Blood and Money.

“I don’t read,” he said with a trace of irritation.

“We’re open now”—a woman leaned out at them—“if you’d like to come inside.”

Duvivier looked at Lida. “Yes,” Lida said, “let’s.”

He followed her through the doorway. The sales clerk stationed herself alongside some shelves to the right. She smiled at them approvingly. Lida walked to the remainder counter and began sifting through some battered hardcovers reduced to a dollar apiece.

“Oh, no,” Duvivier groaned. “You’re not one of those.”

“Now you know,” Lida said, laughing back at him.

He walked toward the back of the store. “Look,” he called, waving an oversized paperback, The Illustrated Manual of Sex Therapy.

Lida dropped the mystery she’d selected and came rushing toward him. “Is that one of those Sprinkle-coconut-on-your-nipples-and-toast-them-lightly-under-the-broiler jobs?”

“No,” he announced, flipping it open and reading aloud. “It’s one of those A-negative-response-of-sensate-focus-on-the-part-of-either-partner-is-an-obstacle-to-further-therapy jobs.”

“Of sensate focus? Is that what it says?” Lida asked.

He looked back at the page. “Oh, sorry, ‘A negative response to sensate focus.’”

“Can I help you?” The woman advanced on them, her tone scolding. She snatched the book away.

“Shall I buy it for you?” he asked Lida. “A sort of farewell present?”

The clerk mustered a smile. She stood, ready to relinquish the book.

“Do I need it?” Lida asked him.

He turned to the woman. “Thank you, madam,” he said, “but no.”