holding the door open.
“I wish I could see you home,” Rand whispered, “but you’ll be safe with Tom.” Rand practically lowered me bodily onto the seat, his last quick kiss on my lips leaving my knees even more shaky, and grateful for his incredible tenderness.
The car took me home in silent luxury, and though I wantedto cry, I felt drained, wanting the sleep that we should have shared after he had built me up to that crashing pleasure. When I got to my bed, I barely got my clothes off, got under the coverlet, crawled to the center of the bed, and fell into the deepest sleep I had ever known.
IV
When I woke, for the first time in my life I was a creature rumpled from lovemaking, yesterday’s clothing all askew around my body.
My normal waking time, when my body roused itself with no alarm, was generally at dawn, even before dawn in winter months. My mother had laughed that I was the only adolescent who naturally rose early. The other side of this was that I also tended to get sleepy early, which did not help my patchy social life. When galas were held, opera openings, ballet festivals, anything lasting into the night, when I attended with my family and was expected to be part of the social display, it was a challenge for me. I would drink several cups of coffee over the course of the day, to charge my body awake at least until midnight. It helped that I was so young, able to coax myself to later hours. I often was going home, or already home, while my peers were madly partying in their after-hours times together. It must have been some sort of relief for my parents, but they did not make a great deal out of it, perhaps afraid to jinx it. They liked what one of my friends called my “lady monk” ways. I was never at a late party. My peers often teased that I was a sleepyhead, but gave up trying to change my stubbornly daylight-oriented body clock. They named me “Cinderella,” and called to me that my midnight hour was fast approaching. This would start around ten PM, which was about how late I could hold out before getting into the family car to be driven home. Our driver was the envy of the other drivers, who had to wait all hours for their young charges to make their raucous ways back to their cars.
One time, when I was talking about my friends’ exasperation with my inability to stay up late, my mother had said that as I got older, “when you are as old as I am,” she had laughed, earlynights would be a delicious blessing. Her eyes had been filled with mischief, sympathy for my childish sleeping hours, happiness that I was safely home when others my age were who-knew-where. My mother’s eyes shone that way now in my memory. How I missed her, the familiar involuntary sob at the memory of her face, the tears gathering and burning my eyelids, oh, my mother.
I waited to gather myself to some calmer state, and turned to look at the clock. It said eight AM. I was stunned. How late had I returned? And why was I so slow in getting out of bed? Generally, I was totally awake the minute my eyes opened. What had last night done to me? I smiled to myself at my question, suddenly aware of the most gorgeous scent of roses wafting about me. On my desk in the alcove beyond my bed was a vase of red roses, so heavily, headily wonderful, they were like the roses I had seen and adored in India. I had not smelled such roses since, though I always tried to recapture their beauty with my rose perfumes.
A knock at the door, and a little bell. It was Marilisa, the “upstairs concierge” as we called her, the organizer for a cluster of apartments, getting cleaners in and out, accepting deliveries, sending out orders, smoothing life in ways too numerous to list. I managed to say “Come in,” and ran into my closet-dressing room, trying to get out of my rumpled clothes and into a robe.
“Good morning,” she said cheerily after letting herself in. “The roses smell wonderful.”
“Did you…?” Of course she had, her
“I wish I could see you home,” Rand whispered, “but you’ll be safe with Tom.” Rand practically lowered me bodily onto the seat, his last quick kiss on my lips leaving my knees even more shaky, and grateful for his incredible tenderness.
The car took me home in silent luxury, and though I wantedto cry, I felt drained, wanting the sleep that we should have shared after he had built me up to that crashing pleasure. When I got to my bed, I barely got my clothes off, got under the coverlet, crawled to the center of the bed, and fell into the deepest sleep I had ever known.
IV
When I woke, for the first time in my life I was a creature rumpled from lovemaking, yesterday’s clothing all askew around my body.
My normal waking time, when my body roused itself with no alarm, was generally at dawn, even before dawn in winter months. My mother had laughed that I was the only adolescent who naturally rose early. The other side of this was that I also tended to get sleepy early, which did not help my patchy social life. When galas were held, opera openings, ballet festivals, anything lasting into the night, when I attended with my family and was expected to be part of the social display, it was a challenge for me. I would drink several cups of coffee over the course of the day, to charge my body awake at least until midnight. It helped that I was so young, able to coax myself to later hours. I often was going home, or already home, while my peers were madly partying in their after-hours times together. It must have been some sort of relief for my parents, but they did not make a great deal out of it, perhaps afraid to jinx it. They liked what one of my friends called my “lady monk” ways. I was never at a late party. My peers often teased that I was a sleepyhead, but gave up trying to change my stubbornly daylight-oriented body clock. They named me “Cinderella,” and called to me that my midnight hour was fast approaching. This would start around ten PM, which was about how late I could hold out before getting into the family car to be driven home. Our driver was the envy of the other drivers, who had to wait all hours for their young charges to make their raucous ways back to their cars.
One time, when I was talking about my friends’ exasperation with my inability to stay up late, my mother had said that as I got older, “when you are as old as I am,” she had laughed, earlynights would be a delicious blessing. Her eyes had been filled with mischief, sympathy for my childish sleeping hours, happiness that I was safely home when others my age were who-knew-where. My mother’s eyes shone that way now in my memory. How I missed her, the familiar involuntary sob at the memory of her face, the tears gathering and burning my eyelids, oh, my mother.
I waited to gather myself to some calmer state, and turned to look at the clock. It said eight AM. I was stunned. How late had I returned? And why was I so slow in getting out of bed? Generally, I was totally awake the minute my eyes opened. What had last night done to me? I smiled to myself at my question, suddenly aware of the most gorgeous scent of roses wafting about me. On my desk in the alcove beyond my bed was a vase of red roses, so heavily, headily wonderful, they were like the roses I had seen and adored in India. I had not smelled such roses since, though I always tried to recapture their beauty with my rose perfumes.
A knock at the door, and a little bell. It was Marilisa, the “upstairs concierge” as we called her, the organizer for a cluster of apartments, getting cleaners in and out, accepting deliveries, sending out orders, smoothing life in ways too numerous to list. I managed to say “Come in,” and ran into my closet-dressing room, trying to get out of my rumpled clothes and into a robe.
“Good morning,” she said cheerily after letting herself in. “The roses smell wonderful.”
“Did you…?” Of course she had, her
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