temple to himself. On the other hand, it is very beautiful—as he is. Richard Fallon is an exceptionally handsome man, and if he is somewhat vain about his looks, so what?
Thinking such thoughts, Stella walks through the brilliant false-green, false-spring woods in the Presidio, near her house. In November, after one more month of drought. She is struck by the blackness of the trees, and the bright clear blue of the afternoon, and she thinks, I would like to be in love with someone again.
That is the night that he calls her. The phone rings just as she gets in from her walk, as though he knew just when that would be.
“It’s me—Richard,” he says, as though he knew that she would be more or less waiting for his call. “I know it’s late, but I’ve been away, and I really want to see you before I have to go away again. Tonight. Could we possibly have dinner?”
Stella’s plan for that night was soup and a bath and early to bed with some magazines. She has already made the soup, Serena’s recipe, a meatball soup, and so, without much thought, she says to Richard, “I’ve made a sort of Mexican soup. It’s good if you like cilantro. And some salad. Would that be enough?”
“Sounds great. I love cilantro. You really cook?” He laughs. “Actually I do too. But my wives never cooked.”
I’m not your wife, and I have no plans along those lines, Stella thinks of pointing out. She is suddenly tired of him and wishes that she had not asked him to dinner. A drink would have been sufficient. But she only says, “I sometimes cook.”
“Great,” he repeats. “I’ll bring some wine, okay? Anything else?”
Again, without calculation, Stella tells him what is true. “I need some scallions for the salad. If you could.”
“Of course, nothing easier than scallions. Or lighter, for that matter.” Again the laugh—deep, almost theatrical.
And so he arrives, with a small domestic-looking paper bag, scallion tops just prettily showing (arranged to show?), two bottles of wine in another bag. A small sheaf of purple irises.
He comes in and puts the things down without kissing her, Stella notes. He only smiles. They could have been married for years.
He looks very odd in her surroundings, Stella thinks, over their pre-dinner glasses of wine. So fair, so composed, in his perfect just-shabby old tweed jacket and trim gray flannels, he seems another order of physical presence, as though the molecules and atoms that make up his being have no connection with anything else in the room. (With her.)
But their conversation at dinner seems ordinary enough. Divorced-man talk, of the sort that Stella has heard before, with variants. Several times.
“I was totally knocked out,” he says, speaking of the time when his first wife, Marina, asked him for a divorce. “You know, the old saw: I thought it couldn’t happen to me. I thought Marina and I were forever, no matter what. I thought I could talk her out of it, and so I suggested a weekend in La Jolla, where we used to go on vacations sometimes, and she said that was just like me, appealing to her weakness. Sex.”
Saying that last word, “sex,” Richard’s eyes flick up at Stella: is he asking how she feels about it? She gives him the tiniest frown, thinking all this a little obvious, and very bluntly she asks him, “Did Marina know about Claudia?”
His frown is deeper than hers. “You really get right at it, don’t you. Well, she sort of knew. Strongly suspected. Jesus, she wasn’t blind. But she could have been wrong, you know what I mean? And that wouldn’t have made any difference to her. She’s a really punitive woman. Eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth.”
Stella does see what he means, but she finds his logic a little skewed.
He gets up and brings in another bottle of wine. Admiring his walk, and his deft hands and the grace of his wrists, Stella also thinks, This is too much wine, but it tastes marvelous, such fun to have so much. She tells him,
Thinking such thoughts, Stella walks through the brilliant false-green, false-spring woods in the Presidio, near her house. In November, after one more month of drought. She is struck by the blackness of the trees, and the bright clear blue of the afternoon, and she thinks, I would like to be in love with someone again.
That is the night that he calls her. The phone rings just as she gets in from her walk, as though he knew just when that would be.
“It’s me—Richard,” he says, as though he knew that she would be more or less waiting for his call. “I know it’s late, but I’ve been away, and I really want to see you before I have to go away again. Tonight. Could we possibly have dinner?”
Stella’s plan for that night was soup and a bath and early to bed with some magazines. She has already made the soup, Serena’s recipe, a meatball soup, and so, without much thought, she says to Richard, “I’ve made a sort of Mexican soup. It’s good if you like cilantro. And some salad. Would that be enough?”
“Sounds great. I love cilantro. You really cook?” He laughs. “Actually I do too. But my wives never cooked.”
I’m not your wife, and I have no plans along those lines, Stella thinks of pointing out. She is suddenly tired of him and wishes that she had not asked him to dinner. A drink would have been sufficient. But she only says, “I sometimes cook.”
“Great,” he repeats. “I’ll bring some wine, okay? Anything else?”
Again, without calculation, Stella tells him what is true. “I need some scallions for the salad. If you could.”
“Of course, nothing easier than scallions. Or lighter, for that matter.” Again the laugh—deep, almost theatrical.
And so he arrives, with a small domestic-looking paper bag, scallion tops just prettily showing (arranged to show?), two bottles of wine in another bag. A small sheaf of purple irises.
He comes in and puts the things down without kissing her, Stella notes. He only smiles. They could have been married for years.
He looks very odd in her surroundings, Stella thinks, over their pre-dinner glasses of wine. So fair, so composed, in his perfect just-shabby old tweed jacket and trim gray flannels, he seems another order of physical presence, as though the molecules and atoms that make up his being have no connection with anything else in the room. (With her.)
But their conversation at dinner seems ordinary enough. Divorced-man talk, of the sort that Stella has heard before, with variants. Several times.
“I was totally knocked out,” he says, speaking of the time when his first wife, Marina, asked him for a divorce. “You know, the old saw: I thought it couldn’t happen to me. I thought Marina and I were forever, no matter what. I thought I could talk her out of it, and so I suggested a weekend in La Jolla, where we used to go on vacations sometimes, and she said that was just like me, appealing to her weakness. Sex.”
Saying that last word, “sex,” Richard’s eyes flick up at Stella: is he asking how she feels about it? She gives him the tiniest frown, thinking all this a little obvious, and very bluntly she asks him, “Did Marina know about Claudia?”
His frown is deeper than hers. “You really get right at it, don’t you. Well, she sort of knew. Strongly suspected. Jesus, she wasn’t blind. But she could have been wrong, you know what I mean? And that wouldn’t have made any difference to her. She’s a really punitive woman. Eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth.”
Stella does see what he means, but she finds his logic a little skewed.
He gets up and brings in another bottle of wine. Admiring his walk, and his deft hands and the grace of his wrists, Stella also thinks, This is too much wine, but it tastes marvelous, such fun to have so much. She tells him,
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