He closed the door to Cynthia’s house quietly behind him and crunched across the gravel driveway to his car. He’d expected to stay the night but he didn’t want to argue any longer and he doubted they’d be able to talk civilly to each other until they’d had some time apart. His headlights picked up the Jersey pines across the street as he pulled onto the deserted road.
What was he going to do about Cynthia? They’d never agree on sex. And sex was not the real problem—it was just where their differences were most blatantly apparent. He’d been pretty ugly tonight, comparing her to Estelle, disparaging her as a lover. He’d even threatened to end it with her, knowing that would hurt her far more than it would him. He’d been cruel. When would he learn to think before he spoke?
He’d been in a bad mood to begin with, ever since seeing that baby in the elevator. He’d started to tell her about it, then changed his mind. She wouldn’t have understood.
He spotted a pay phone at an isolated gas station and pulled over, feeling in his pocket for a quarter. Cynthia’s phone rang ten times before she answered.
He ran his hand through his hair. “I wanted to apologize for the things I said.”
She was still crying. She cried like Estelle, with no loss of her beauty to the tears. She didn’t answer him.
“I don’t know how we can ever resolve the problems between us, but I know getting ugly about it doesn’t help and I’m really very sorry.”
“Cole, I love you, but I can’t be everything you want me to be.”
“I know. It’s okay. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?”
“Cole? It would help me so much if you’d tell me you love me.”
She was asking him to lie.
“I can’t say that.”
“Because it’s hard for you to say or because you don’t?”
“I don’t love you now, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t at some point.” He was kidding himself as well as her.
In the Chapel House, he knocked on Kit’s door and opened it when there was no answer. A splash of moonlight lit up the white crocheted bedspread. He walked glumly to the bay window. He wished he could talk with her. She would scold him and then say something to make him feel better. He looked at his watch. One o’clock. She was probably staying over at Orrin’s. Damn. He was beginning to need her more than she needed him. It was a little too late for that.
She’d looked so pretty tonight in that black jersey dress cut high on her shoulders. Very sexy, too sexy for Orrin.
How could she leave? He could never do it, leave the Chapel House, leave her. He admired her for it, for knowing what was best for her. Certainly he had done her no good, and the house could only hold memories of this last unhappy year for her. She was wise to get away. He loved her too much to try to block her path.
He walked back to her bed and sat down, close to the night table. He switched on the lamp and squinted against the light as he pulled out the drawer. Alison’s picture was where he thought it would be, on top of the box of tissues, next to the little bowl of smoothed glass Kit had collected from the beach. He took it out and held it under the light.
My own daughter. A tragic little thing. She should never have been conceived.
He looked up, startled by the sound of Kit stepping into the room. He hadn’t heard her car. He was caught redhanded, snooping and intrusive. But she smiled at him.
“I look at her picture at least ten times a night,” she said, making everything all right. She sat next to him and draped her arm around his shoulders. “It’s getting a little frayed around the edges.” She gently touched the border. It was all that was left of his child, this much-handled photograph.
“Her hair would have been just like yours,” he said.
“Do you think so?”
He nodded.
They were quiet for a moment, staring at Alison’s picture as if they’d never seen it before.
“I think I’m having a delayed reaction to losing her,” he said. “It took me so long to realize she was mine. I had to adjust to that before I could adjust to the fact that she died.”
“I know, babe. You were gypped.”
“Something happened today.”
“What?”
“It’s going to sound silly.”
“Come on.”
He sighed. “Well, I was in the elevator and this guy got on. He was carrying a baby, six months old or so. He was holding her like this.” He pulled one of Kit’s pillows out from under the spread and set it upright in his arms. “Her ear was right against his lips.” He laughed, feeling ridiculous. “It drove me crazy. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. She was this little black baby with a pink bow in her hair. Every once in a while he’d kiss her ear. I kept thinking about how wonderful it would feel to kiss my daughter’s ear.”
“Oh, Cole.” She knelt next to him on the bed, her arms around him, and to his horror he began to cry. He clung to her, remembering how he’d followed the father and his baby off the elevator and into the gift shop, how he’d bought a roll of mints he didn’t want just so he could watch them longer.
“You need a friend to sleep with.” Kit took the picture from his hand and set it on the night table. Then she stretched out on top of the bedspread, still in that black jersey dress, and pulled him down next to her. He nestled his head against her breasts, feeling content for the first time all day.
She smoothed his hair. “I’ll make you a copy of Alison’s picture before I leave,” she said.