voice, but decided to ignore it.
"Sam," she said, "I have a proposition for you."
He raised his eyebrows suggestively, and she discovered that the eyes that could burn could also shine with fun. "My mother always told me that if I waited long enough, this fairy princess in a frog suit would come along and kiss me . . . Where's your frog suit?"
She laughed, at ease with him for the first time. "Well listen, I mean, gee gosh . . ." She pretended to stumble. He laughed too, balancing on the ladder, his body lithe and alive. This was Karin's Sam: easy, likeable, eager. Suddenly, the decision seemed simple.
"My proposition is—you can have the cottage rent-free if you'll take care of the grounds and be a sort of 'handy man' around the place," she said.
Deliberately, he turned back to his chore and made a few cuts before he said, "It isn't enough."
She watched the muscles move as he continued clipping, and she had a sudden urge to pull the ladder out from under him, to see if that beautiful tight body would be so graceful flying through the air. Anger rose in her throat; she could feel her face grow hot. "What do you think would be 'enough'?" she asked, forcing her voice to go cold. She would hear him out before she told him to go to hell.
"The rains start next month," he said, "and there'll be very little yard work then. As for a handy man, this house is in such good shape it won't require more than an occasional lightbulb to change, or a toilet to unplug. I wouldn't be doing enough to earn my keep."
He had been clipping all the while, but now he stopped and looked at her. "I could help with the housework. Do all the vacuuming, maybe, and the floor scrubbing—the heavy stuff. I know how. If you want, I could do the grocery shopping." All of this had
been said in a soft, measured voice with only the slightest rasp on the edges. Then, as if he couldn't help himself, he added, "You could think of me as your Japanese houseboy."
She held his eyes for a long moment. He didn't back off. "Okay," she finally said, calling his bluff, "I'll talk to Karin and we'll decide what would work out best."
Sam returned to his clipping, leaving her to watch the muscles of his back, straining as he pulled at the branches, glistening as if oiled by sweat. She felt as if she could see how hard it was for him, how terribly much he wanted, needed; the struggle within was written there in the tight muscle coil of his back.
THREE
THEY ARRIVED TOGETHER, May and Karin and Sam, bumping and jostling, laughing and joking. Sam opened his arms to me in an expansive gesture. "Faith," he said dramatically, just as Karin slipped between us to warn, half in earnest, "we told him he could come if he promised to behave."
"You certainly look as if you're dressed to behave," I said, admiring his perfectly pressed slacks, tattersall shirt, and tweed jacket. The girls were in jeans and sweatshirts.
"Mr. Ivy League West here," May jibed as she headed for the kitchen, "aims to impress."
"Impress whom?" I laughed, "these are pretty casual affairs."
"I'm never casual about affairs," Sam joked.
Ignoring him, May called back, "Kit. He finally gets to meet the illustrious Mrs. McCord."
Every other Friday evening, May and Karin and Kit would come to my cottage for cracked crab and sourdough bread, salad, and wine: During crab season the menu never varied, but the guest list always did. Others were invited to liven the conversation—
some of the young photographers who had discovered the work I had done in the twenties and thirties, and had found their way to my door, or people May and Karin had met at the University.
It was an exciting time, those weeks and months that led from the summer of 1967 through the first of the year, but it was a fearful time as well. The ghettos of Newark and Detroit burst into flame during that
"Sam," she said, "I have a proposition for you."
He raised his eyebrows suggestively, and she discovered that the eyes that could burn could also shine with fun. "My mother always told me that if I waited long enough, this fairy princess in a frog suit would come along and kiss me . . . Where's your frog suit?"
She laughed, at ease with him for the first time. "Well listen, I mean, gee gosh . . ." She pretended to stumble. He laughed too, balancing on the ladder, his body lithe and alive. This was Karin's Sam: easy, likeable, eager. Suddenly, the decision seemed simple.
"My proposition is—you can have the cottage rent-free if you'll take care of the grounds and be a sort of 'handy man' around the place," she said.
Deliberately, he turned back to his chore and made a few cuts before he said, "It isn't enough."
She watched the muscles move as he continued clipping, and she had a sudden urge to pull the ladder out from under him, to see if that beautiful tight body would be so graceful flying through the air. Anger rose in her throat; she could feel her face grow hot. "What do you think would be 'enough'?" she asked, forcing her voice to go cold. She would hear him out before she told him to go to hell.
"The rains start next month," he said, "and there'll be very little yard work then. As for a handy man, this house is in such good shape it won't require more than an occasional lightbulb to change, or a toilet to unplug. I wouldn't be doing enough to earn my keep."
He had been clipping all the while, but now he stopped and looked at her. "I could help with the housework. Do all the vacuuming, maybe, and the floor scrubbing—the heavy stuff. I know how. If you want, I could do the grocery shopping." All of this had
been said in a soft, measured voice with only the slightest rasp on the edges. Then, as if he couldn't help himself, he added, "You could think of me as your Japanese houseboy."
She held his eyes for a long moment. He didn't back off. "Okay," she finally said, calling his bluff, "I'll talk to Karin and we'll decide what would work out best."
Sam returned to his clipping, leaving her to watch the muscles of his back, straining as he pulled at the branches, glistening as if oiled by sweat. She felt as if she could see how hard it was for him, how terribly much he wanted, needed; the struggle within was written there in the tight muscle coil of his back.
THREE
THEY ARRIVED TOGETHER, May and Karin and Sam, bumping and jostling, laughing and joking. Sam opened his arms to me in an expansive gesture. "Faith," he said dramatically, just as Karin slipped between us to warn, half in earnest, "we told him he could come if he promised to behave."
"You certainly look as if you're dressed to behave," I said, admiring his perfectly pressed slacks, tattersall shirt, and tweed jacket. The girls were in jeans and sweatshirts.
"Mr. Ivy League West here," May jibed as she headed for the kitchen, "aims to impress."
"Impress whom?" I laughed, "these are pretty casual affairs."
"I'm never casual about affairs," Sam joked.
Ignoring him, May called back, "Kit. He finally gets to meet the illustrious Mrs. McCord."
Every other Friday evening, May and Karin and Kit would come to my cottage for cracked crab and sourdough bread, salad, and wine: During crab season the menu never varied, but the guest list always did. Others were invited to liven the conversation—
some of the young photographers who had discovered the work I had done in the twenties and thirties, and had found their way to my door, or people May and Karin had met at the University.
It was an exciting time, those weeks and months that led from the summer of 1967 through the first of the year, but it was a fearful time as well. The ghettos of Newark and Detroit burst into flame during that
Similar Books
