marriage that had dissolved was the breathlessness of moments like this one.
“I don’t know what to say.” This, the truth, from her.
He nodded. “I’m going to kiss you again. Okay?”
She nodded. He kissed her more deeply, for longer, a full second, then two. Her mouth opened. She tasted him. It was heaven. She was twelve years old. This was her first kiss.
It stayed innocent like that: just the kissing. No part of their bodies touched except for their lips, their tongues. It was sweet, and intoxicating. Claire ached for him. Did he ache for her? She had no idea. She knew enough about relationships, though, to pull back first.
“Is this wise?” she said. Now she sounded like the person she knew herself to be. “What if someone finds us up here in the dark?”
“Someone like who?” Lock said. He touched her face again. He held it with both his hands so that her face felt small and delicate, like a child’s face, a doll’s face.
Like Gavin Andrews, Claire thought. Or Daphne. Or Jason. Or Adams Fiske. But she didn’t speak; she was too rapt by Lock’s hands on her face and, in the next second, by his kissing her. They were kissing again. Claire’s mind was a tornado. Why was this happening? Why her, of all people? Had he had feelings for her for a while, or were his feelings newly hatched, like her own feelings? Would this go any further? Lock Dixon had an unquestionable authority, he was a leader, a commander, he knew what he was doing at all times. Claire didn’t have to be brave; he would be brave for both of them. She would be swept up behind him on horseback, and he would gallop them across the fields. And if he knew she was thinking all these preposterous things, he wouldn’t want to be kissing her anymore. At the same time that Claire’s mind was mowing down all her previous convictions and expectations, she was present in the physicality of the moment. She was kissing him, tasting him, feeling the heat of his palms on her face, then in her hair, then against her back. He pressed himself against her, and she took a stutter step backward and he caught her. She pulled away.
“What are we doing?” she said.
“Right,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Claire said, relieved. “Good.”
“Do you want to stop?” he said. He sounded concerned, almost scared. “Am I pressuring you into something you’d rather not be doing?”
“No, no, no . . .”
“I don’t have an explanation,” he said. “I am as stunned as you are. It’s like someone cast a spell on me. From the moment you set foot in here, for the first meeting.”
“The first meeting,” Claire said. “But not . . . before? Not at the lunch? Not two years ago or five years ago? I’ve known you awhile.”
“But not really,” Lock said. “Right?”
“Right,” Claire said. “I thought you hated me.” She remembered his eyes when she showed up at the front door with that basket for Daphne. That horrible look.
“Hated you?”
“Because of Daphne. The night of her accident, I bought her last drink. And then the cab. We asked her to join us, we begged her, but she refused.”
“And you thought I hated you?”
“Blamed me, yes. I blame myself.”
“Because you’re that kind of person. A caring person. You would worry. You would blame yourself for something that was, very clearly, not your fault.” Lock loosened his tie. His white shirt was turned back neatly at the cuffs; his watch glinted in the lamplight. “I’ve known for a long time that you’re a good person, good like the rest of us aspire to be. And I’ve admired your work. But then you walked in here and we spent time together and suddenly it dawned on me that I am a lonely man.”
Claire’s mind flickered to the half-eaten turkey and cranberry sandwich on white butcher paper. To the daughter, Heather, at Andover—studying, eating, playing field hockey, and sleeping, all under the supervision of people who were not her parents.
“I
“I don’t know what to say.” This, the truth, from her.
He nodded. “I’m going to kiss you again. Okay?”
She nodded. He kissed her more deeply, for longer, a full second, then two. Her mouth opened. She tasted him. It was heaven. She was twelve years old. This was her first kiss.
It stayed innocent like that: just the kissing. No part of their bodies touched except for their lips, their tongues. It was sweet, and intoxicating. Claire ached for him. Did he ache for her? She had no idea. She knew enough about relationships, though, to pull back first.
“Is this wise?” she said. Now she sounded like the person she knew herself to be. “What if someone finds us up here in the dark?”
“Someone like who?” Lock said. He touched her face again. He held it with both his hands so that her face felt small and delicate, like a child’s face, a doll’s face.
Like Gavin Andrews, Claire thought. Or Daphne. Or Jason. Or Adams Fiske. But she didn’t speak; she was too rapt by Lock’s hands on her face and, in the next second, by his kissing her. They were kissing again. Claire’s mind was a tornado. Why was this happening? Why her, of all people? Had he had feelings for her for a while, or were his feelings newly hatched, like her own feelings? Would this go any further? Lock Dixon had an unquestionable authority, he was a leader, a commander, he knew what he was doing at all times. Claire didn’t have to be brave; he would be brave for both of them. She would be swept up behind him on horseback, and he would gallop them across the fields. And if he knew she was thinking all these preposterous things, he wouldn’t want to be kissing her anymore. At the same time that Claire’s mind was mowing down all her previous convictions and expectations, she was present in the physicality of the moment. She was kissing him, tasting him, feeling the heat of his palms on her face, then in her hair, then against her back. He pressed himself against her, and she took a stutter step backward and he caught her. She pulled away.
“What are we doing?” she said.
“Right,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Claire said, relieved. “Good.”
“Do you want to stop?” he said. He sounded concerned, almost scared. “Am I pressuring you into something you’d rather not be doing?”
“No, no, no . . .”
“I don’t have an explanation,” he said. “I am as stunned as you are. It’s like someone cast a spell on me. From the moment you set foot in here, for the first meeting.”
“The first meeting,” Claire said. “But not . . . before? Not at the lunch? Not two years ago or five years ago? I’ve known you awhile.”
“But not really,” Lock said. “Right?”
“Right,” Claire said. “I thought you hated me.” She remembered his eyes when she showed up at the front door with that basket for Daphne. That horrible look.
“Hated you?”
“Because of Daphne. The night of her accident, I bought her last drink. And then the cab. We asked her to join us, we begged her, but she refused.”
“And you thought I hated you?”
“Blamed me, yes. I blame myself.”
“Because you’re that kind of person. A caring person. You would worry. You would blame yourself for something that was, very clearly, not your fault.” Lock loosened his tie. His white shirt was turned back neatly at the cuffs; his watch glinted in the lamplight. “I’ve known for a long time that you’re a good person, good like the rest of us aspire to be. And I’ve admired your work. But then you walked in here and we spent time together and suddenly it dawned on me that I am a lonely man.”
Claire’s mind flickered to the half-eaten turkey and cranberry sandwich on white butcher paper. To the daughter, Heather, at Andover—studying, eating, playing field hockey, and sleeping, all under the supervision of people who were not her parents.
“I
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