CHAPTER SIXTEEN

In the morning she awoke very early, put on her bathing suit and, over it, slacks and a T-shirt. She packed a change of clothes, put on her makeup, then slipped out of the apartment before Jackie was awake. She had brooded over the confrontation with her daughter the night before. It was very worrisome. She made an effort to tuck it into the back of her mind as she looked forward to her next meeting with Sam. Nothing must spoil that. Nothing.

Parked in front of the apartment was the little yellow Honda, quite cute really, but obviously old, and she was certain on further inspection that it was painted over. She looked inside, saw the wear of the years and tried to glimpse the odometer, which she couldn't see, although she was certain it had been moved back.

Last night, before she fell asleep, she had tried to imagine how it was possible that Jackie could claim ownership of the car based on the manner in which she had taken physical possession of it. Darryl was obviously exercising a sinister influence over her. He was scary and dangerous, but Grace knew there was no point in trying to talk Jackie out of her relationship with him. She was brainwashed. Protesting would only drive her closer to him, perhaps even out of the apartment. The prospect was frightening, and she suddenly felt weak with worry.

Maybe it was best to let this thing with the car play itself out. Although there was a risk in the process, it might illustrate to Jackie the truth about Darryl.

The hard reality, considering the wonderful snapshot she had created of Jackie for Sam Goodwin's benefit, depressed her. Not to mention the résumé she had created for herself, a tissue of lies, one false fact piled on another. How could she, if she were found out, possibly explain away such blatant, self-serving, outrageous lies? Worse, how could she explain the manner in which she had expressed them, so cool and smooth, with such absolute surety and confidence.

There was no point in dwelling on it, she decided. It was too late. The lies were stitched irrevocably into her false history. How could she justify them? She could charge that a mysterious force had inserted these ideas into her mind, that she had been merely the medium, an evil conduit. Hardly a logical excuse, she concluded, pushing such absurdities out of her thoughts. Her more immediate worry was getting the facts straight when they were needed again.

Stopping at McDonald's, she had an Egg McMuffin and a cup of coffee. It was a long way from her terrace meal with Sam Goodwin. She smiled at the memory, recalling the cold tang of the Dom Perignon on her tongue, the view of the white beach melding into the azure sea, Sam's eyes searching her face.

Lingering over the coffee, she also recalled yesterday's modeling experience. Was she replicating Anne for him, recreating in his imagination some sexual episode with her? The idea encouraged her. After all, she was exploring ways to replace Anne. So was he, for that matter. And she hadn't felt demeaned or cheapened or even insulted by participating in this fantasy of a reincarnated Anne. And it had excited him. She smiled at the memory. It was exciting and sexually stirring for her as well.

When she left McDonald's she headed for the supermarket and bought a package of large plastic garden bags. In the parking lot, she emptied her car of Anne's clothes and stuffed them into the bags. The process brought back the memory of Jackie's suspicions about the source of the clothes and her wild accusations about Grace's motives.

It angered her to believe that her own daughter could practically characterize her mother as a scheming, greedy thief. Yet Grace knew that she was partly to blame, keeping the real situation a secret. From a phone booth she called the Salvation Army, where someone instructed her to bring the offering to a collection station in downtown West Palm Beach. At this point, considering how she had bungled the pickup at her own apartment, she was too embarrassed to call the Jewish Welfare League.

A middle-aged lady at the collection station looked into the plastic bags and nodded her head in gratitude.

"Bless you," she said. "We really appreciate these. This is exactly the kind of clothing we need."

Grace smiled in acknowledgment and, in response to the woman's request, gave her name and telephone number and was given a receipt.

"There's a place where you can fill in the value of the contribution and get an income tax deduction."

"Thank you," Grace said, having no intention of claiming the deduction, as if that too would be a violation of her promise, a betrayal of the private pact with Sam Goodwin and, of course, her own integrity. Besides, her income tax obligation at this moment was nil. She tossed the receipt into a trash can, got into her car and headed over the bridge to Palm Beach, then north on Ocean Drive to Sam's house.

She was surprised when Sam himself opened the door before she could ring the bell. Marilyn shot out of the door, but instead of growling and bearing her teeth she came forward and licked Grace's hand.

"Now there's a welcome for you," Sam said, chuckling. "I guess she likes you after all."

"And I like her," Grace said, tickling Marilyn behind the ears.

"Where's..."

"Carmen? I gave her the day off. She was working too hard."

"With only one person to take care of?"

"All right, then," Sam said. "She was having an attitude problem."

"About me?"

"I didn't inquire," Sam said, leading her through the house to the beachside door.

The wind was up along the beach, making the surf pound and foam in angry bursts. To hear each other, they walked closer together than they had yesterday. Marilyn bounded beside them.

"I had one of those eerie experiences last night," Sam said. "Anne's voice awakened me. I thought I heard her call my name. I woke up, then answered her. Of course, when I put my arm out to her side of the bed there was nothing but empty space. It's happened before, but this time it took awhile for me to orient myself. I tell you, Grace, it was very real to me."

"Maybe there is something to this ghost business," Grace said.

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

Grace hadn't expected the question. But she considered it carefully.

"I don't think I do," she said tentatively.

"That means your mind isn't closed to the idea," Sam said.

"Maybe not," she said, wondering where he was going with this.

"Okay, suppose it is true. Anne's ghostly spirit, watching. Watching us right now, walking the beach side by side."

"And yesterday. Watching me trying on her clothes."

"You think that would bother her?" Sam asked.

"Do you?"

He shook his head.

"No. Actually, I think she would be delighted to see a lovely person like you wearing her clothes. You know that Anne was a very magnanimous person. You saw that yourself. Open and honest." He paused. "Like you."

"Me?" Grace said, her voice rising, as if in protest.

He nodded; then, in a surprise gesture, he took her hand, and she made no effort to pull away. They continued to walk in silence. Marilyn played tag with the breaking waves.

"I'm not what I seem," he said suddenly. She wondered if the ocean's din had garbled his speech.

"I don't understand."

She shot him a mock skeptical look.

"I'm not what I seem," he said. It was what she'd thought he'd said, and it confused her.

"You mean to me?" Grace asked.

"To you ... and, when she was alive, to Anne."

Grace was puzzled by his assertion, especially since she was the one who had falsified her history, while his seemed an open book. It was impossible for her to believe that he was something other than he appeared to be.

From the evidence based on her own observation, he could not deny his wealth or the respect shown him by others, and especially the sincerity of his devotion to his late wife. As for the details of his inner life, she admitted that she was not clairvoyant, but he certainly appeared to be a decent, honest man. Certainly, like everyone he had problems specific to his situation. He was a businessman, which, by definition meant that he had to be shrewd, cunning, disciplined, perhaps somewhat ruthless, but not blatantly deceptive.

Was it inconceivable that he was not what he seemed? Because of her own culpability she pushed it out of her mind. It was a subject she chose not to pursue.

"Feel like a run," he shouted, pulling her along as they jogged on the water's edge for a short distance. It relieved her to know that he, too, was inclined to drop the subject.

Marilyn shot forward, then chased a sandpiper. A high wave broke and she scurried back. Sam slowed down to a walk. Grace felt her heart pounding in her rib cage.

"I'm not in great shape," Grace said breathlessly.

"That's debatable," Sam said, winking at her. He seemed mildly flirtatious, and she reacted with a smile and shrug.

"You are," Grace said, her breathing subsiding.

"Not bad for an old man, right?"

"There you go, fishing for compliments again," Grace said, chuckling.

"Just as long as you don't give me that you're-as-young-as-you-feel baloney."

"Well, aren't you?"

"Today I feel a lot younger than yesterday."

"That's an encouraging sign."

"Keep young company, stay young."

"You think I'm young? That's a laugh. Sometimes I think of myself as being over the hill."

"Which makes me over the mountain. Hell, I was over twenty-one when you were born. I could drive, drink and vote." She had given him her real age, perhaps concerned that he might take a peek at her driver's license.

"I'm catching up fast, Sam."

"When you're my age, I'll be eighty-nine. If I make it."

"You seem to be hung up on the subject, Sam."

"Maybe so. I guess I'm just resentful."

"About what?"

"Getting to this point, confronting my disappointments, knowing it might not get any better than it was."

For her this was a troubling attitude.

"Does this mean you're foreclosing on any future possibilities?"

She wondered if her remark was really as transparent as it sounded.

"'Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be,'" he snickered. "I remember that from school. I'm inclined to believe it's bullshit."

"I wouldn't bet on that. There might be lots of surprises still to come."

She was conscious of her own flirtatious reaction. He smiled and continued on their walk. When they reached the halfway point, they turned and headed back toward the house. Sam was silent for a long time, as if reflecting on something deep within his mind.

As they walked, he continued to hold her hand, squeezing it at times to acknowledge her. She assumed it meant that he was enjoying her company. She returned the squeeze, feeling much the same way.

At his customary swimming location, he stopped.

"Too rough for you?" he asked.

It was, but she refused to admit it, slipping off her slacks and T-shirt. He took her hand and they ran into the water. He released her only when they had to dive into a breaker. The agitated water was both scary and exciting. Suddenly a wave knocked her over and she was upended, went down, then fought her way to the surface. Suddenly, she felt his hard body against hers.

"It can get hairy," he shouted above the din of the waves.

"Not when I have my private lifeguard."

She let him hold her for a few moments, then they coasted in on a wave, Marilyn beside them. She noted that Marilyn kept a watchful eye over her.

"That was fun," she said, proud that she was able to keep up with him and had conquered her fear.

"Anne hated the water," Sam said.

"Everybody's different," she said. She wished she could be more profound.

Sam helped her up and, hand in hand, they walked toward the house.

As she had done yesterday, she went into Anne's bathroom, showered and changed, while Sam showered and dressed in his bathroom. It was odd, but in one short day it already seemed like a routine.

"Hungry?" Sam asked.

"Not really. I stopped at McDonald's. I got up early. I dropped yesterday's batch at the Salvation Army."

It seemed important to tell him that she was on the job, doing what she had set out to do.

"Great," Sam said. "Now I've got a job to do."

"And I'll start the day's work," she said.

Sam went downstairs and she entered Anne's closet. She had determined that it was essential to continue her work with Anne's clothes. She pressed the activating button and watched the racks pass by her in what seemed like an endless parade. It was hard to decide what clothes to dispose of next.

After awhile, she heard Sam call her name from the bedroom, and she came out of the closet. Beside him on a table was an opened bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket and two fluted glasses.

"Now that's a real surprise, Sam," Grace said as he poured her a glassful, then filled his own. Against the sunlight in the room she saw the bubbles rise from the top of the glass. He handed her a glass and took his own, raising it.

"What should we drink to?" he asked.

She thought of saying "To Anne," but wondered whether she might be overdoing it. Hadn't they drunk to her yesterday?

"How about ... let's not brood about the past or worry about the future," Sam said, "which leaves the present."

"Yes, I like that. To the present, then. This moment."

They clinked glasses and sipped. She couldn't believe how delicious it tasted. The bubbles tickled her nose. When she looked up at him, his eyes seemed to be scanning the room. He shook his head.

"There is so much of Anne here in this room," he sighed.

"Ghosts again?" she asked, more as a rhetorical question. Anne again, she sighed. She supposed there was no escape from her, not ever.

"I always felt ... well ... more like a guest in this room."

"A guest!" Grace exclaimed. "This is your bedroom. Once shared with Anne. Now yours. Surely you can't think of yourself as a guest here. How long did you live here?"

He grew thoughtful, as if he were calculating.

"Nineteen years. Yes, nineteen years. That's when we moved in. Before that we lived in Westchester, outside of New York City."

"How could you feel like a guest if you lived here for nineteen years? This is your home," Grace said, reluctantly accepting the fact that the present, which included her, would always be haunted by his past. For her part, she would be ready and willing to scuttle her past, her reality-based past.

She sipped again and, as he had done before, scanned the lovely bedroom. By her standards it was huge, spanning the entire rear of the large house. In comparison, her little bedroom seemed no bigger than the bed on its pedestal.

"Yes," he sighed. "My home."

"Home is where the heart is," Grace said.

They exchanged glances in silence for a long moment, then emptied their glasses. Sam poured two more.

"I enjoy your company, Grace."

"I'm glad, Sam. I enjoy yours."

He studied her, then shook his head.

"I hope you do, Grace."

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

It surprised her that he needed such reassurance.

"I feel very comfortable around you, Sam," Grace said, reiterating her honest feeling.

"I enjoyed seeing you model Anne's clothes," Sam said. "You were very kind to do that."

"Kindness had nothing to do with it. It was fun, Sam. I felt like a little girl trying on Mommy's clothes." She hesitated for a moment. "I suppose I reminded you of Anne."

"Yes, you did." He paused. "In a way."

"In a way? How so? I'm sure she looked a lot better in them than I did."

"Now who's fishing for compliments?" He chuckled. "Of course she always looked great. But so do you."

"Different, maybe. Great is debatable."

"Yes," he acknowledged. "Different ... and great."

She felt his eyes inspecting her.

"Yesterday," he said, "you didn't think I was being, you know ... kinky. Asking you to do that?"

"We've been there, Sam. I did it because I wanted to do it. And, as I told you, I enjoyed it. It gave me great pleasure." She felt a hot blush rise to her face.

"Really?"

"That was the truth, Sam," Grace said, suddenly wary. Did her reply hint that she wasn't telling the truth in other matters?

Suddenly she grew silent, not knowing how to proceed. Considering all the lies she had fed him, she felt an increasing uneasiness. Did he think she was pandering to him? Blatantly ingratiating herself? She felt uncertain about her reactions, psychologically clumsy. She wished she had the intelligence and inner resources to be surer of herself, like Mrs. Burns.

He lifted his eyes and seemed to study her intently. Then he smiled.

"You looked great in her clothes, Grace," he said. Instinctively she knew what he was getting at.

"Thank you, kind sir. I'm flattered. And Anne's taste in clothes was wonderful."

"Yes, it was."

He upended his glass and poured another, refilling hers. Their eyes met. She felt the heat of their contact and knew what was coming next.

"Would it be imposing, Grace, if..."

"Model again?" She giggled, feeling the effects of the champagne.

"You don't think I'm a bit sick in the head about this?"

"Not at all. It was fun for me. When you think about it, it could be characterized as a tangible way to memorialize Anne."

"I suppose you have a point. You don't think it's an indulgence?"

She stood up. Then, in a gesture of mock decision-making, she tapped her teeth. If this was to be their common ground at the moment, she thought, so be it.

"Maybe you're being too analytical, Sam. It was an indulgence for me, too. What harm is there? Why not? What's your pleasure?"

"How about..." He paused for a moment, considering. "Something flowing, wispy."

"Flowing and wispy. Coming right up."

She ducked into the closet. Earlier she had noted a cinnamon-colored cocktail dress by Geoffrey Beane. Taking it off the rack, she came out of the closet, stood before him and pressed it to her body.

"What do you think?"

"Perfect," he said.

"Do you remember Anne wearing it?"

"Funny, but I was never able to remember what Anne had worn on a given occasion. But the dress does look vaguely familiar."

"Give me a few minutes. I need to accessorize it."

"Take your time."

She noted that his face was flushed. Little red circles had popped out on his cheekbones.

She went into the dressing room, searching through drawers filled with underthings. In one drawer she found, to her surprise, a number of suspenders and stockings, the kind she had often seen advertised as products from Frederick's of Hollywood. Eschewing panties, she put on the suspenders, attached the stockings, looked at herself in the mirror, declared herself provocative, then put on high heels and posed as if she were a model for Playboy, feeling her own heightened sexual tension. Did Anne do this? she wondered, feeling moist and hot.

She put on the dress, which was a hairsbreadth tighter than she would have purchased if it were her decision to make. But it suited this event admirably. Then she found appropriate cocktail jewelry, quickly made up her face and hair to fit, piling it up like a Gibson Girl, then surveyed herself in the mirror. She loved the way she looked. Would he think she was sexy? She hoped so. To heighten the effect, she removed her brassiere. Her nipples pressed against the material, erect with excitement and clearly visible.

"Go for it," she whispered, taking a last look at herself in the mirror. She was high from the champagne and knew it.

His face lit up with a broad, appreciative smile when he saw her. She walked with exaggerated, hip-swinging movements a number of times across the length of the room and back, so that the dress lifted with the breeze of her walk and her bare breasts bounced under the flimsy silk.

"Do you like it, Sam?"

"Very much."

She noted the outline of his erection in his pants. Imagining it, its size, shape and bulk, made her body react accordingly. He crossed his legs and bent over slightly to hide it.

"Why don't you take it as a gift? You look fantastic in it."

"We've been through that, Sam."

"I'm sure Anne wouldn't mind."

"It's me who would mind. It's just not appropriate and would make me uncomfortable."

She wondered if he appreciated her gesture, seeing it, hopefully, as a measure of her independence and integrity.

"Whatever you say," Sam said.

She again walked the length of the room, then back again.

"It's a pleasure to watch you, Grace."

"Would you like to see me in another?"

"Yes, please."

She moved toward him, but only to pick up her glass and drain it. Proffering her empty glass, he poured champagne to the brim and she carried it with her to the closet. Heated and flushed by the champagne, she felt a growing sexual excitement. She removed the silk dress, re-hung it on the rack and walked along the huge closet in suspenders and high heels, bare-breasted. She looked for something ... she groped for the words ... dashing, sexy and dangerous.

She found a slinky, long black gown with a low bodice and a high cut to the thigh. Givenchy, she noted, putting it on. Moving again to the dressing room, she studied herself in the large three-way mirror.

She was astonished at her transformation, marveling at how the gown molded to her body. It's low cut and bra infrastructure pushed up her breasts and made them seem larger. She felt wonderful, exciting. She removed her previous makeup and redid herself in more severe tones, without lipstick but with more eye shadow, parting her hair in the middle, hoping the outfit made her look like a woman of mystery, a seductress, which was exactly what she wanted to be. She giggled at her image in the mirror. She was drunk, deliciously drunk, devil-may-care drunk.

When she came out she saw him sitting in the chair, legs crossed. He had replaced the empty bottle of Dom Perignon with another and was starting to pour again. But when she came out and slinked across the room he stopped pouring and stared at her, mesmerized.

"Fantastic," he said.

"Thank you, dahling," she whispered throatily as she moved around the room, loving the feeling and his attention.

She stopped suddenly and posed, draping herself against the wall.

His face, like hers, was flushed, and his eyes glistened. She sensed that she was giving him pleasure and enjoyed the idea of it. It struck her suddenly that they could spend days like this, weeks and months. Her modeling Anne's endless wardrobe.

She wasn't much of a drinker and knew that the champagne had made her feel high and uninhibited. Although she loved the sensation, she worried that she might cross over some imaginary line and dampen his interest by appearing whorish and undignified. Was she moving too fast, becoming too brazen? This scene, her actions, was so far from anything she had ever experienced or fantasized before.

She was hot, turned on.

Still, despite her uncommon surge of lust, she held back from making that first crucial move, fearing the aftermath, revealing herself as wanton and without modesty. What came next was up to him, she decided, wishing it. Come and get it, she cried within herself, yearning for him to act.

Despite her body's hunger, her mind would not let her be careless. This was all part of the orchestration, she told herself. She had to be, most of all, indispensable to his every need. A complete replacement for Anne. Help me, Anne, she pleaded within herself. Make him want me.

What she lacked in intellect or style she would compensate for in other ways, she vowed. She was open to learning Anne's ways. Above all, she did not want to suffer in comparison. She would be all things to this man, as Anne had been, a lively companion, a good friend, a passionate, uninhibited lover and a wife. Give me that chance, she begged Sam in her heart.

"More?" he asked, lifting the champagne bottle as she swaggered past him. He poured the amber liquid into her glass and handed it to her. Bending low to receive it, she felt the weight of her breasts against the material of the dress. She saw his eyes watching them and felt her nipples harden and react to his inspection.

Still he did not make any untoward move. Perhaps he was not giving himself permission, as if Anne really would care that he would be fornicating with another woman so soon after her death. She sensed he was holding back, wanting but waiting. For what?

It struck her that what was happening might be a re-creation of sex games he had played with Anne. Am I doing it the way she would? Grace wondered. Setting the spark, the way she did? Was there such a thing as a clothes fetish? She had heard of men being turned on by high-heel shoes or cross-dressing or kinky things like that. She hoped she had found the path to his libido. She was prepared to play whatever role was necessary.

They exchanged glances as she drank off the champagne in one gulp. She felt oddly empowered, as if it was necessary for her to seduce him now, before the moment passed, knowing it was her need as well. This was one bridge that had to be crossed and crossed now. An idea popped into her head.

"Just a sec," she said, ducking into the closet again. She removed the gown and searched through the closet, where she had seen the fur coats. Pulling a white ermine off the rack, she put it on. Underneath she wore only the suspenders, stockings and high heels. The feel of the coat on her body tingled her skin and covered her with goose bumps.

She went into the dressing room, found a lipstick and painted her aureoles. She had never done such a thing in her life. In fact, she had never experienced anything like what was happening to her now. It was like an internal earthquake, unstoppable.

"Did Anne do this?" she wondered as she pulled the collar of her coat up and walked out into the bedroom. She walked directly in front of him.

"Do you like this, Sam?" she asked. "Am I like her?"

He had been holding his champagne glass. Watching her, he slowly put it down on the table beside him. She noted that his hand shook and he spilled some of the champagne on the table's surface.

"Did she look like this?"

She opened the coat. Her body, she knew, simmered with lustful sensations. So he's leaving the first move to me, she thought.

"May I?" she asked.

He nodded his head, and she knelt before him and unzippered him, pulling his pants and shorts down to below his knees. He let her. Then she straddled him, letting herself gently down on his erect penis, then kissed him deeply on the mouth, her tongue caressing his.

"Was it like this with Anne?" she whispered, feeling her heartbeat accelerate as she swiveled her hips in a rotating motion. He did not answer.

"And this?" she said, increasing the tempo of her rotations, feeling her orgasm gathering strength deep inside her. Waves of pleasure exploded inside her.

"Oh, yes," he said repeatedly, indicating his own pleasure. Then his lips found hers.

She straddled limply over him for a long moment as they calmed. Slowly, her mind found its reason again and she was able to reflect on her actions.

She had never done anything with such compulsion in her life. It worried her that somehow she might have crossed the line, destroyed her credibility, blown any chance of a permanent relationship. Had she acted too soon, gone too far? And more to the point, did he believe that her pleasure was real?

They stayed together in a tight embrace until she lifted herself off him. He held her for a moment, then edged her forward so that he could kiss her again on the lips.

"Back in a minute," she said, going to the dressing room.

She looked at herself in the mirror, hardly recognizing her face, blotchy and flushed, the obvious result of excitement and passion. Then she washed and came back into the bedroom. He had drawn the blinds in such a way that the light in the room was muted, but not dark. He was lying in the big bed, obviously waiting for her return. When she came into the room, he lifted the thin coverlet and beckoned her to join him.

She hesitated briefly, unsure, but knowing that there could be no turning back. Besides, she wanted to be in his embrace.

"I'm not Anne," she whispered as his arms folded around her.

"I know," he whispered.