I wouldn't change any of you, darling, so
don't get silly, please don't get silly again. It ... it doesn't matter to me, can you understand that? You're more than any other woman, so much more, so please marry me."
She looked up at him, wishing she could speak because she could not trust her eyes now, wondering why someone as beautiful as Steve Carella, as wonderful as Steve Carella, as brave and as strong and as marvelous as Steve Carella would went to marry a girl like her, a girl who could never say, "I love you, darling. I adore you." But he had asked her again, and now, close in the circle of his arms, now she could believe that it didn't really matter to him, that to him she was as whole as any woman, "more than any other woman," he had said.
"Okay?" he asked. "Will you let me make you honest?" She nodded. The nod was a very small one. "You mean it this time?"
She did not nod again. She lifted her mouth, and she put her answer into her lips, and his arms tightened around her, and she knew that he understood her. She broke away from him, and he said, "Hey!" but she trotted away from his reach and went to the kitchen.
When she brought back the champagne, he said, "I'll be damned!"
She sighed, agreeing that he undoubtedly would be damned, and he slapped her playfully on the fanny.
She handed him the bottle, did a deep curtsy which was ludicrous in the prisoner pajamas and then sat on the floor cross-legged while he struggled with the cork.
The champagne exploded with an enormous pop, and though she did not hear the sound, she saw the cork leave the neck of the bottle and ricochet off the ceiling, and she saw the bubbly white fluid overspilling the lip and running over his hands.
She began to clap, and then she got to her feet and went for glasses, and he poured first a little of the wine into his, saying, "That's the way it's done, you know. It's supposed to take off the skim and the bugs and everything," and then filling her glass, and then going back to pour his to the brim.
"To us," he toasted.
She opened her arms slowly, wider and wider and wider.
"A long, long, happy love," he supplied.
She nodded happily.
"And our marriage in August" They clinked glasses, and then sipped at the wine, and she opened her eyes wide in pleasure and cocked her head appreciatively.
"Did you mean what you said before?"
"Are you happy?" he asked.
Yes, her eyes said, yes, yes.
She raised one brow inquisitively.
"About... missing me?"
Yes, yes, yes, yes, her eyes said.
"You're beautiful."
She curtsied again.
"Everything about you. I love you, Teddy. Jesus, how I love you."
She put down the wine glass and then took his hand. She kissed the palm of the hand, and the back, and then she led him into the bedroom, and she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it out of his trousers, her hands moving gently. He lay down on the bed, and she turned off the light and then, unselfconsciously, unembarrassedly, she took off the pajamas and went to him.
And while they made gentle love in a small room in a big apartment house, a man named David Foster walked toward his own apartment, an apartment he shared with his mother.
And while their love grew fierce and then gentle again, a man named David Foster thought about his partner Mike Reardon, and so immersed in his thoughts was he that he did not hear the footsteps behind him, and when he finally did hear them, it was too late.
He started to turn, but a .45 automatic spat orange flame into the night, once, twice, again, again, and David Foster clutched at his chest, and the red blood burst through his brown fingers, and then he hit the concrete—dead.
Chapter SEVEN
there is not much you can say to a man's mother when the man is dead. There is not much you can say at all.
Carella sat in the doilied easy chair and looked across at Mrs. Foster. The early afternoon sunlight seeped through the drawn blinds in the small, neat living room, narrow razor-edge bands of
don't get silly, please don't get silly again. It ... it doesn't matter to me, can you understand that? You're more than any other woman, so much more, so please marry me."
She looked up at him, wishing she could speak because she could not trust her eyes now, wondering why someone as beautiful as Steve Carella, as wonderful as Steve Carella, as brave and as strong and as marvelous as Steve Carella would went to marry a girl like her, a girl who could never say, "I love you, darling. I adore you." But he had asked her again, and now, close in the circle of his arms, now she could believe that it didn't really matter to him, that to him she was as whole as any woman, "more than any other woman," he had said.
"Okay?" he asked. "Will you let me make you honest?" She nodded. The nod was a very small one. "You mean it this time?"
She did not nod again. She lifted her mouth, and she put her answer into her lips, and his arms tightened around her, and she knew that he understood her. She broke away from him, and he said, "Hey!" but she trotted away from his reach and went to the kitchen.
When she brought back the champagne, he said, "I'll be damned!"
She sighed, agreeing that he undoubtedly would be damned, and he slapped her playfully on the fanny.
She handed him the bottle, did a deep curtsy which was ludicrous in the prisoner pajamas and then sat on the floor cross-legged while he struggled with the cork.
The champagne exploded with an enormous pop, and though she did not hear the sound, she saw the cork leave the neck of the bottle and ricochet off the ceiling, and she saw the bubbly white fluid overspilling the lip and running over his hands.
She began to clap, and then she got to her feet and went for glasses, and he poured first a little of the wine into his, saying, "That's the way it's done, you know. It's supposed to take off the skim and the bugs and everything," and then filling her glass, and then going back to pour his to the brim.
"To us," he toasted.
She opened her arms slowly, wider and wider and wider.
"A long, long, happy love," he supplied.
She nodded happily.
"And our marriage in August" They clinked glasses, and then sipped at the wine, and she opened her eyes wide in pleasure and cocked her head appreciatively.
"Did you mean what you said before?"
"Are you happy?" he asked.
Yes, her eyes said, yes, yes.
She raised one brow inquisitively.
"About... missing me?"
Yes, yes, yes, yes, her eyes said.
"You're beautiful."
She curtsied again.
"Everything about you. I love you, Teddy. Jesus, how I love you."
She put down the wine glass and then took his hand. She kissed the palm of the hand, and the back, and then she led him into the bedroom, and she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it out of his trousers, her hands moving gently. He lay down on the bed, and she turned off the light and then, unselfconsciously, unembarrassedly, she took off the pajamas and went to him.
And while they made gentle love in a small room in a big apartment house, a man named David Foster walked toward his own apartment, an apartment he shared with his mother.
And while their love grew fierce and then gentle again, a man named David Foster thought about his partner Mike Reardon, and so immersed in his thoughts was he that he did not hear the footsteps behind him, and when he finally did hear them, it was too late.
He started to turn, but a .45 automatic spat orange flame into the night, once, twice, again, again, and David Foster clutched at his chest, and the red blood burst through his brown fingers, and then he hit the concrete—dead.
Chapter SEVEN
there is not much you can say to a man's mother when the man is dead. There is not much you can say at all.
Carella sat in the doilied easy chair and looked across at Mrs. Foster. The early afternoon sunlight seeped through the drawn blinds in the small, neat living room, narrow razor-edge bands of
Similar Books
