“Those two sure don’t look like Carmelite nuns to me.”
Diana and Lane made it to the casino area before they burst into laughter.
Liz came up to them. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Chris doesn’t feel well. I think she’s just overtired, but I’d better get her back to the cabin. I can pick you up later if you want to give me a time.”
“Do you want to play more?” Lane asked Diana.
“I’m sure everyone’s tired,” Diana said. “Why don’t we go on back?”
The air was still, bitterly cold, and Diana shivered as they walked to the station wagon, her hands plunged deeply into her jacket pockets.
“One of us should have brought the car around,” Lane said, looking at her.
“I’m okay,” Diana said, annoyed with herself. “It’s just my thin Southern California blood.”
“The wagon heats up fast,” Liz said.
“I understand from Millie that you and Diana are a pair of high rollers,” Liz said. She and Lane chatted as Liz drove swiftly down Highway 50, Liz’s arm across the seat behind Lane. Chris, next to Lane, lay back, eyes closed, her face pale.
As Lane told Liz about the woman gambler, Diana watched her. Lane’s face was in profile, her beauty sharp-edged simplicity, her hair highlighted with gold by bright neon and headlights.
She thought over their conversation. Very clearly, Lane had told her she assigned no special significance to any behavior of Diana’s, or to their night together. Diana remembered Lane’s statements during the encounter games describing some relationships as butterfly interludes; and with an odd mixture of relief and depression she realized that Lane obviously thought of their night together as somewhat less than even a butterfly interlude.
“False alarm about the storm,” Liz said, peering up over her steering wheel as they wound their way up the mountain road.
“Yes,” Lane said. “All the stars are out.”
Chapter 8
Chris went immediately to bed. Liz poked the fire into vigorous life, and the cabin became quickly comfortable. The women began their preparations for bed.
Lane was standing by the window when Diana stepped into the room. Diana pulled up the ladder and lowered the trapdoor, deciding firmly that she would not go to her.
She got into bed and lay with an arm across her eyes, thinking that she did not want to talk, or think, or feel. She did not want to continue their interrupted conversation, to have Lane further diminish their night of tenderness and pleasure. She only wanted Lane to get into bed and say good night and fall asleep.
Lane turned from the window finally, and blew out the lamp. She got into bed, the silence between them stretching out with wire-drawn tension. There was the scent of perfume. Diana opened her eyes as Lane bent to her.
“Diana,” whispered Lane.
“Yes,” Diana answered, reaching for her, her hands and then her arms feeling the warmth of Lane’s body through the cool silk of her pajamas.
“Diana,” Lane whispered again, and her mouth was more meltingly tender than Diana had remembered, had been remembering all day.
Diana held Lane’s face between her hands and kissed across her forehead and into her hair; her lips brushed the curving line of eyebrow and moved very gently over delicate eyelids, her tongue touching long thick eyelashes. Diana’s lips explored the planes of Lane’s face as her fingertips traced the intricacy of her ears and the shape of her nose, feeling the warmth of Lane’s breath on her fingers. She felt her lips with her own, touching the corners with her tongue, and then felt them again, kissing slowly across them; soft, tender lips that did not answer hers, sensing her wish to simply feel their shape. Then she laid her face against Lane’s throat, and with her fingertips touching Lane’s face, she said in a muffled whisper, “Why must you be so very beautiful.”
After a moment Lane said, “For you,” and she kissed Diana’s
Diana and Lane made it to the casino area before they burst into laughter.
Liz came up to them. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Chris doesn’t feel well. I think she’s just overtired, but I’d better get her back to the cabin. I can pick you up later if you want to give me a time.”
“Do you want to play more?” Lane asked Diana.
“I’m sure everyone’s tired,” Diana said. “Why don’t we go on back?”
The air was still, bitterly cold, and Diana shivered as they walked to the station wagon, her hands plunged deeply into her jacket pockets.
“One of us should have brought the car around,” Lane said, looking at her.
“I’m okay,” Diana said, annoyed with herself. “It’s just my thin Southern California blood.”
“The wagon heats up fast,” Liz said.
“I understand from Millie that you and Diana are a pair of high rollers,” Liz said. She and Lane chatted as Liz drove swiftly down Highway 50, Liz’s arm across the seat behind Lane. Chris, next to Lane, lay back, eyes closed, her face pale.
As Lane told Liz about the woman gambler, Diana watched her. Lane’s face was in profile, her beauty sharp-edged simplicity, her hair highlighted with gold by bright neon and headlights.
She thought over their conversation. Very clearly, Lane had told her she assigned no special significance to any behavior of Diana’s, or to their night together. Diana remembered Lane’s statements during the encounter games describing some relationships as butterfly interludes; and with an odd mixture of relief and depression she realized that Lane obviously thought of their night together as somewhat less than even a butterfly interlude.
“False alarm about the storm,” Liz said, peering up over her steering wheel as they wound their way up the mountain road.
“Yes,” Lane said. “All the stars are out.”
Chapter 8
Chris went immediately to bed. Liz poked the fire into vigorous life, and the cabin became quickly comfortable. The women began their preparations for bed.
Lane was standing by the window when Diana stepped into the room. Diana pulled up the ladder and lowered the trapdoor, deciding firmly that she would not go to her.
She got into bed and lay with an arm across her eyes, thinking that she did not want to talk, or think, or feel. She did not want to continue their interrupted conversation, to have Lane further diminish their night of tenderness and pleasure. She only wanted Lane to get into bed and say good night and fall asleep.
Lane turned from the window finally, and blew out the lamp. She got into bed, the silence between them stretching out with wire-drawn tension. There was the scent of perfume. Diana opened her eyes as Lane bent to her.
“Diana,” whispered Lane.
“Yes,” Diana answered, reaching for her, her hands and then her arms feeling the warmth of Lane’s body through the cool silk of her pajamas.
“Diana,” Lane whispered again, and her mouth was more meltingly tender than Diana had remembered, had been remembering all day.
Diana held Lane’s face between her hands and kissed across her forehead and into her hair; her lips brushed the curving line of eyebrow and moved very gently over delicate eyelids, her tongue touching long thick eyelashes. Diana’s lips explored the planes of Lane’s face as her fingertips traced the intricacy of her ears and the shape of her nose, feeling the warmth of Lane’s breath on her fingers. She felt her lips with her own, touching the corners with her tongue, and then felt them again, kissing slowly across them; soft, tender lips that did not answer hers, sensing her wish to simply feel their shape. Then she laid her face against Lane’s throat, and with her fingertips touching Lane’s face, she said in a muffled whisper, “Why must you be so very beautiful.”
After a moment Lane said, “For you,” and she kissed Diana’s
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