want to?”
This posture of his was ridiculous. And a sudden recklessness, like that of a gambler risking his last, made her answer, “I don’t, but you do and I don’t want to stay here with somebody who doesn’t like being here, so let’s go.”
He stared at her with a look of instant shock. “Who said I don’t like being here?”
“You didn’t
say
it. You didn’t have to.”
Shock turned to remorse. “Oh Laura, I didn’t mean—” And he fumbled, he whose speech was so clear and fluent, saying, red-faced now, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, didn’t intend, you must know I couldn’t have, I was only—things on my mind. Please understand.” He seized her hand. “Please let’s stay. There’s a good lunch, and we’ll have a swim. Okay?”
She nodded, and he repeated, “Forgiven?”
“Forgiven.”
The accident gave them a way to begin a conversation. From tetanus shots and antibiotics the talk moved naturally to medicine or the lack of it in India and other places, exotic to Laura, where Francis had spent the last years. But she was hearing and responding only with the surface of her mind. Its sharp cutting edge wasseeing
him
, the sudden lights in his dark hair, his eyelashes as thick and curved as if they had been curled, his cotton sport shirt open at the throat showing a tawny arc against white. A trail of disconnected pictures—Francis carrying a tennis racket, Francis reading with his cheek resting on his hand—unwound and took her to the day when, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, she had resolved to think of him no more.
So they were to have this whole private afternoon, and she was perversely unsure how she felt; excitement and a certain queer anxiety tumbled together in her chest.
“You’re far away,” Francis said abruptly.
“No, I’ve heard every word.”
“Let’s get out of the sun. Your face is burning. Put our suits on and sit under a tree until you’ve digested this lunch.”
When they had rested and had a swim in cold water, they went back to the warm little sliver of beach. In her yellow bikini she half expected him to speak some compliment—men always did—but he did not and now remarked only upon the pendant that lay glittering above her cleavage.
“Does it open?” he asked.
She felt an awkwardness in the question, as if, having for some reason become ill at ease as they lay there, he was merely making conversation. Surely he could not care whether a gold trifle opened or not.
“Yes, there’s a picture inside. Do you want to see it?”
And she leaned forward so that the pendant dangled near enough for him to reach it. When he had seen the picture, he drew back and dropped his hand as if it had been stung.
“Me,” he said.
Well, tell him. Why not? Maybe it’s the sun that’s made me a little drunk, but anyway …
“When I was just a child, oh ten or twelve, I was in love with you. Didn’t you know?”
He sat up then with his arms around his knees and looked straight ahead across the lake. Then she sat up, too, for a sudden change in atmosphere had taken place, and she was afraid she had made a fool of herself.
“I hope you’re not angry,” she said, affecting a light tone as if really, this was all too amusing.
“No, of course not.”
But he did look angry with his face so tight, just staring across the lake, while seconds passed in silence.
Now there was nothing to do but continue the joke and laugh her way out. “It was about then, yes, I must have been eleven, when you told me that you’d marry me if I were older.”
At that Francis turned toward her with astonishing vehemence. His dilated pupils had turned his eyes black. “Did I? I don’t remember. But I shouldn’t have. It was wicked.”
Really alarmed now, she cried, “Wicked! It was only a teasing little compliment. I knew you didn’t mean a word of it and never would.”
“You knew nothing, and neither did I.”
She did not understand this, and said so; he did
This posture of his was ridiculous. And a sudden recklessness, like that of a gambler risking his last, made her answer, “I don’t, but you do and I don’t want to stay here with somebody who doesn’t like being here, so let’s go.”
He stared at her with a look of instant shock. “Who said I don’t like being here?”
“You didn’t
say
it. You didn’t have to.”
Shock turned to remorse. “Oh Laura, I didn’t mean—” And he fumbled, he whose speech was so clear and fluent, saying, red-faced now, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, didn’t intend, you must know I couldn’t have, I was only—things on my mind. Please understand.” He seized her hand. “Please let’s stay. There’s a good lunch, and we’ll have a swim. Okay?”
She nodded, and he repeated, “Forgiven?”
“Forgiven.”
The accident gave them a way to begin a conversation. From tetanus shots and antibiotics the talk moved naturally to medicine or the lack of it in India and other places, exotic to Laura, where Francis had spent the last years. But she was hearing and responding only with the surface of her mind. Its sharp cutting edge wasseeing
him
, the sudden lights in his dark hair, his eyelashes as thick and curved as if they had been curled, his cotton sport shirt open at the throat showing a tawny arc against white. A trail of disconnected pictures—Francis carrying a tennis racket, Francis reading with his cheek resting on his hand—unwound and took her to the day when, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, she had resolved to think of him no more.
So they were to have this whole private afternoon, and she was perversely unsure how she felt; excitement and a certain queer anxiety tumbled together in her chest.
“You’re far away,” Francis said abruptly.
“No, I’ve heard every word.”
“Let’s get out of the sun. Your face is burning. Put our suits on and sit under a tree until you’ve digested this lunch.”
When they had rested and had a swim in cold water, they went back to the warm little sliver of beach. In her yellow bikini she half expected him to speak some compliment—men always did—but he did not and now remarked only upon the pendant that lay glittering above her cleavage.
“Does it open?” he asked.
She felt an awkwardness in the question, as if, having for some reason become ill at ease as they lay there, he was merely making conversation. Surely he could not care whether a gold trifle opened or not.
“Yes, there’s a picture inside. Do you want to see it?”
And she leaned forward so that the pendant dangled near enough for him to reach it. When he had seen the picture, he drew back and dropped his hand as if it had been stung.
“Me,” he said.
Well, tell him. Why not? Maybe it’s the sun that’s made me a little drunk, but anyway …
“When I was just a child, oh ten or twelve, I was in love with you. Didn’t you know?”
He sat up then with his arms around his knees and looked straight ahead across the lake. Then she sat up, too, for a sudden change in atmosphere had taken place, and she was afraid she had made a fool of herself.
“I hope you’re not angry,” she said, affecting a light tone as if really, this was all too amusing.
“No, of course not.”
But he did look angry with his face so tight, just staring across the lake, while seconds passed in silence.
Now there was nothing to do but continue the joke and laugh her way out. “It was about then, yes, I must have been eleven, when you told me that you’d marry me if I were older.”
At that Francis turned toward her with astonishing vehemence. His dilated pupils had turned his eyes black. “Did I? I don’t remember. But I shouldn’t have. It was wicked.”
Really alarmed now, she cried, “Wicked! It was only a teasing little compliment. I knew you didn’t mean a word of it and never would.”
“You knew nothing, and neither did I.”
She did not understand this, and said so; he did
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