THE NEXT TO DIE by Kevin O'Brien Page B

towel, shucked down his swim trunks, and scurried over to the diving board. He was already semierect.
    Joanne laughed, and covered her breasts from the cold. “Hurry up! I’m freezing!”
    Avery thumped his chest like Tarzan, then dove into the water. He quickly swam the length of the pool, pulled himself out of the water, and ran naked into the house. He left a trail of water as he raced up the stairs, where Joanne waited for him at the landing, her arms open.
     
    Lying with her legs up in the air after sex was supposed to increase her chances of conceiving. Joanne assumed this position at the foot of their bed. Avery’s body had been wet and slick with pool water, so they’d made love on the floor.
    Avery propped a pillow under Joanne’s back, and tucked the silk robe around her. He knew other couples who had problems conceiving, and for the husbands, the sex-on-a-schedule became a tiresome ordeal. But Joanne worked to make it fun. The only thing Avery didn’t like was having to produce on demand sperm samples for their fertility specialist.
    They had nearly a dozen specimens stored at a lab, just the answer for a bicoastal couple trying to conceive. It was Joanne’s idea—for when she was ovulating and out of town. His “little swimmers” were kept on ice, ready—if he wasn’t—at a day’s notice for shipment out to the East Coast. So far, she hadn’t dipped into that reservoir yet.
    Stepping into his undershorts, Avery figured he’d shower later in his trailer. He was due on the set in an hour. He kept picking up a bad odor in the room—someplace. “Do you smell something funny?” he asked.
    Joanne adjusted the pillow beneath her back. “Yeah, now that you mention it. It’s like spoiled food or something.”
    Avery went to the balcony doors and opened them again. Their bedroom had tall windows curved at the tops, mission-style furniture, and a thick, woven rug. Mexican tiles framed the small fireplace.
    “I had a call from Saul yesterday,” Joanne said. “That new play he sent, it’s pretty good. He wants me to fly out there next week for a reading.”
    Avery turned from the doors and frowned at her. “But you just got back from New York six days ago—”
    “Now, don’t flip out. It’s nothing definite. It’s just a reading—”
    “How can you expect us to make a baby when we’re hardly ever together? Do you really want to have a baby?”
    Joanne pointed to her legs in the air. “No, it’s just an excuse to lie here like this. I find it very comfortable.”
    With a sigh, Avery pulled on a T-shirt. Starting a family had been his idea. He’d originally talked with Joanne about it a year ago, when she’d returned home depressed over a Broadway show that had gone down in flames. She’d said she was ready, but when they’d run into difficulties conceiving, she’d retreated back to The Great White Way and another play. That one had been a hit, and she’d been gone eleven months.
    “I just wish we could be together—in the same place—for a while,” Avery grunted, zipping up his trousers. “I’m tired of all the flying back and forth. You know, for every trip you’ve taken out here, I’ve seen you in New York five times. Check my frequent flier points. I could fly first class to Jupiter on the mileage I’ve accrued.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t pick on me.” Joanne lowered her feet. “You know, I’m off the antidepressants while we try for junior here. It hasn’t been a picnic for me. How often have we had this argument anyway? I mean—”
    The telephone rang.
    Joanne sighed. “Ah, saved by the bell.”
    “It’s probably the studio.”
    Avery grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
    “Avery Cooper?” It sounded like a spaced-out teenage boy. “You’re a fucking asshole and your wife’s a pig.”
    Avery hung up, then glanced at Joanne, who started to sit up. “Don’t answer if it rings again.” He ran out of the room.
    “What? Was it a crank? Watch the water on the