model, and New York was the best place for that." She nervously toyed with her hair, her cheeks noticeably drained of their color.
"We've been through that before." He leaned forward. "I want to know the real reason. There was something else. A reason why you had to leave home. Why for seven years you never visited your family. Why you refused to let me go home with you in July. Should I go on?"
"I wanted to become a model," she repeated hypnotically.
He sighed, frustrated. "Your father made your life miserable."
"Yes, you know that."
"And you left home because of it."
"If you insist." She turned away. "All right. That helped make my decision to leave easier. I've admitted that before."
"There's more. Something traumatic. And it's time you told me." He crumpled his napkin and threw it into the salad bowl. "Your father is dead now and there's no reason why you shouldn't." He paused, waiting for a response. She sat stone-faced, and he added, "Something made you frigid! We've been able to conquer the problem physically, but we've never really gotten at the source of the problem."
She bit hard into her lip. "For the thousandth time, I wanted to be a model," she replied with strained softness, not quite understanding why she didn't come out and tell him the real story; but then again, after lying for so long the lies assumed the status of truth. She winced; for the first time the inability to reveal hurt her. She owed him more after all he had done to break the psychological noose that had choked her ability to enjoy normal relations with a man.
"All right, if you won't, you won't," he said.
"I don't understand why you keep badgering me about this."
"Yes, you do. Until you can tell me what happened, there'll be something between us and there'll be that slight doubt in your own mind that you've completely beaten your past. But until you're ready, I'll accept the fact that you wanted to be a model, but with the proviso that I really don't accept it."
"Ever the lawyer," she said, restating what she had known for so long, that he rarely was able to engage in any conversation without becoming litigious.
"It's amazing that an attorney can look at a set of facts, put them together, add some salt and pepper and then deduce that the main ingredient, the key to the entire entree, is missing."
"Or invent something that isn't there." She lifted a stalk of celery and began to break it disgustedly into sections.
"Never," he sternly replied, sitting back in the chair and tapping his fingers on the tablecloth. "No speculation. Just pure deductive reasoning."
"And ninety per cent of the time overanalyzation."
"I don't overanalyze." He reached into his pocket, removed a thin filter-tipped cigar, placed it in his mouth, applied a match, and tilted back his chair. He stared at her, his right eyelid twitching, reflecting the tension, and then said, "I don't like to see you lie to yourself."
"Michael, I-"
"Yes? Say it."
"There's nothing to say." She countered defiantly. "Please, no more questions. No more pressure."
He sat back and stared again for several minutes. Then he grabbed her arm, his expression softening. "Forget I said anything," he pleaded. But his tone still seemed accusatory.
"Yes, Michael," she replied. She looked away.
"I mean it," he said. He picked up the bottle of wine, tipped it to see if anything remained, then, disappointed, pivoted and ambled down the hall to the kitchen. He returned with a new bottle of Bordeaux and a corkscrew. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked as he wrenched out the cork.
"No," she replied, refusing to glance at the grandfather clocks.
He poured the wine. "Three o'clock, according to the clock on the right." He grinned apologetically. "Approximately two fifty-nine and fifty-four seconds according to the one on the left." He drank from his glass and fell silent.
"I don't know why, but I love you," she whispered as she rose mechanically from her chair, walked to him, placed her
"We've been through that before." He leaned forward. "I want to know the real reason. There was something else. A reason why you had to leave home. Why for seven years you never visited your family. Why you refused to let me go home with you in July. Should I go on?"
"I wanted to become a model," she repeated hypnotically.
He sighed, frustrated. "Your father made your life miserable."
"Yes, you know that."
"And you left home because of it."
"If you insist." She turned away. "All right. That helped make my decision to leave easier. I've admitted that before."
"There's more. Something traumatic. And it's time you told me." He crumpled his napkin and threw it into the salad bowl. "Your father is dead now and there's no reason why you shouldn't." He paused, waiting for a response. She sat stone-faced, and he added, "Something made you frigid! We've been able to conquer the problem physically, but we've never really gotten at the source of the problem."
She bit hard into her lip. "For the thousandth time, I wanted to be a model," she replied with strained softness, not quite understanding why she didn't come out and tell him the real story; but then again, after lying for so long the lies assumed the status of truth. She winced; for the first time the inability to reveal hurt her. She owed him more after all he had done to break the psychological noose that had choked her ability to enjoy normal relations with a man.
"All right, if you won't, you won't," he said.
"I don't understand why you keep badgering me about this."
"Yes, you do. Until you can tell me what happened, there'll be something between us and there'll be that slight doubt in your own mind that you've completely beaten your past. But until you're ready, I'll accept the fact that you wanted to be a model, but with the proviso that I really don't accept it."
"Ever the lawyer," she said, restating what she had known for so long, that he rarely was able to engage in any conversation without becoming litigious.
"It's amazing that an attorney can look at a set of facts, put them together, add some salt and pepper and then deduce that the main ingredient, the key to the entire entree, is missing."
"Or invent something that isn't there." She lifted a stalk of celery and began to break it disgustedly into sections.
"Never," he sternly replied, sitting back in the chair and tapping his fingers on the tablecloth. "No speculation. Just pure deductive reasoning."
"And ninety per cent of the time overanalyzation."
"I don't overanalyze." He reached into his pocket, removed a thin filter-tipped cigar, placed it in his mouth, applied a match, and tilted back his chair. He stared at her, his right eyelid twitching, reflecting the tension, and then said, "I don't like to see you lie to yourself."
"Michael, I-"
"Yes? Say it."
"There's nothing to say." She countered defiantly. "Please, no more questions. No more pressure."
He sat back and stared again for several minutes. Then he grabbed her arm, his expression softening. "Forget I said anything," he pleaded. But his tone still seemed accusatory.
"Yes, Michael," she replied. She looked away.
"I mean it," he said. He picked up the bottle of wine, tipped it to see if anything remained, then, disappointed, pivoted and ambled down the hall to the kitchen. He returned with a new bottle of Bordeaux and a corkscrew. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked as he wrenched out the cork.
"No," she replied, refusing to glance at the grandfather clocks.
He poured the wine. "Three o'clock, according to the clock on the right." He grinned apologetically. "Approximately two fifty-nine and fifty-four seconds according to the one on the left." He drank from his glass and fell silent.
"I don't know why, but I love you," she whispered as she rose mechanically from her chair, walked to him, placed her
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