stare at her impossibly small feet. “I’ve made you an alcohol-free cocktail,” she said, holding it toward him. “I wasn’t sure you could face more tonic water.”
It was warm, even so far out in the harbor, and the waves were so gentle that the yacht barely moved beneath them. Behind her he could see the lights of the harbor, the occasional car making its way up the coast road. He thought of Congo and felt like someone airlifted out of hell to a heaven he might only have imagined.
She had poured herself another martini and tucked her feet neatly under her on the bench opposite.
“So,” he said, “how did you and your husband meet?”
“My husband? Are we still working?”
“No. I’m intrigued.”
“By what?”
“By how he—” He checked himself. “I’m interested in how people end up together.”
“We met at a ball. He was donating money to wounded servicemen. He was seated at my table, asked me out to dinner, and that was it.”
“That was it?”
“It was very straightforward. After a few months he asked me to marry him, and I agreed.”
“You were very young.”
“I was twenty-two. My parents were delighted.”
“Because he’s rich?”
“Because they thought he was a suitable match. He was a solid sort, and he had a good reputation.”
“And those things are important to you?”
“Aren’t they important to everyone?” She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, straightening and smoothing it. “Now I ask the questions. How long were you married for, Boot?”
“Three years.”
“Not very long.”
“I knew pretty quickly that we’d made a mistake.”
“And she didn’t mind you divorcing her?”
“She divorced me.” She eyed him, and he could see her assessing all the ways in which he might have deserved it. “I wasn’t a faithful husband,” he added, not sure, as he spoke, why he should tell her this.
“You must miss your son.”
“Yes,” he said. “I sometimes wonder whether I’d have done what I did if I’d known how much.”
“Is that why you drink?”
He raised a wry smile. “Don’t try to fix me, Mrs. Stirling. I’ve been the hobby of far too many well-meaning women.”
She looked down at her drink. “Who said I wanted to fix you?”
“You have that . . . charitable air about you. It makes me nervous.”
“You can’t hide sadness.”
“And you would know?”
“I’m not a fool. Nobody gets everything. I know that as well as you do.”
“Your husband did.”
“It’s nice of you to say so.”
“I’m not saying it nicely.”
Their eyes locked, and then she looked away, toward the shore. The mood had become almost combative, as if they were quietly furious with each other. Away from the constraints of real life on the shore, something had loosened between them. I want her, he thought, and was almost reassured that he could feel something so ordinary.
“How many married women have you slept with?” Her voice cut through the still air.
He almost choked on his drink. “It’s probably simpler to say that I’ve slept with few who weren’t married.”
She pondered this. “Are we a safer bet?”
“Yes.”
“And why do these women sleep with you?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps because they’re unhappy.”
“And you make them happy.”
“For a little while, I suppose.”
“Doesn’t that make you a gigolo?” That smile again, playing at the corners of her mouth.
“No, just someone who likes to make love to married women.”
This time the silence seemed to enter his bones. He would have broken it if he’d had the slightest idea what to say.
“I’m not going to make love to you, Mr. O’Hare.”
He played the words over twice in his head before he could be sure of what she’d said. He took another sip of his drink, recovering. “That’s fine.”
“Really?”
“No”—he forced a smile—“it’s not. But it’ll have to be.”
“I’m not unhappy enough to sleep with you.”
God, when she looked at
It was warm, even so far out in the harbor, and the waves were so gentle that the yacht barely moved beneath them. Behind her he could see the lights of the harbor, the occasional car making its way up the coast road. He thought of Congo and felt like someone airlifted out of hell to a heaven he might only have imagined.
She had poured herself another martini and tucked her feet neatly under her on the bench opposite.
“So,” he said, “how did you and your husband meet?”
“My husband? Are we still working?”
“No. I’m intrigued.”
“By what?”
“By how he—” He checked himself. “I’m interested in how people end up together.”
“We met at a ball. He was donating money to wounded servicemen. He was seated at my table, asked me out to dinner, and that was it.”
“That was it?”
“It was very straightforward. After a few months he asked me to marry him, and I agreed.”
“You were very young.”
“I was twenty-two. My parents were delighted.”
“Because he’s rich?”
“Because they thought he was a suitable match. He was a solid sort, and he had a good reputation.”
“And those things are important to you?”
“Aren’t they important to everyone?” She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, straightening and smoothing it. “Now I ask the questions. How long were you married for, Boot?”
“Three years.”
“Not very long.”
“I knew pretty quickly that we’d made a mistake.”
“And she didn’t mind you divorcing her?”
“She divorced me.” She eyed him, and he could see her assessing all the ways in which he might have deserved it. “I wasn’t a faithful husband,” he added, not sure, as he spoke, why he should tell her this.
“You must miss your son.”
“Yes,” he said. “I sometimes wonder whether I’d have done what I did if I’d known how much.”
“Is that why you drink?”
He raised a wry smile. “Don’t try to fix me, Mrs. Stirling. I’ve been the hobby of far too many well-meaning women.”
She looked down at her drink. “Who said I wanted to fix you?”
“You have that . . . charitable air about you. It makes me nervous.”
“You can’t hide sadness.”
“And you would know?”
“I’m not a fool. Nobody gets everything. I know that as well as you do.”
“Your husband did.”
“It’s nice of you to say so.”
“I’m not saying it nicely.”
Their eyes locked, and then she looked away, toward the shore. The mood had become almost combative, as if they were quietly furious with each other. Away from the constraints of real life on the shore, something had loosened between them. I want her, he thought, and was almost reassured that he could feel something so ordinary.
“How many married women have you slept with?” Her voice cut through the still air.
He almost choked on his drink. “It’s probably simpler to say that I’ve slept with few who weren’t married.”
She pondered this. “Are we a safer bet?”
“Yes.”
“And why do these women sleep with you?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps because they’re unhappy.”
“And you make them happy.”
“For a little while, I suppose.”
“Doesn’t that make you a gigolo?” That smile again, playing at the corners of her mouth.
“No, just someone who likes to make love to married women.”
This time the silence seemed to enter his bones. He would have broken it if he’d had the slightest idea what to say.
“I’m not going to make love to you, Mr. O’Hare.”
He played the words over twice in his head before he could be sure of what she’d said. He took another sip of his drink, recovering. “That’s fine.”
“Really?”
“No”—he forced a smile—“it’s not. But it’ll have to be.”
“I’m not unhappy enough to sleep with you.”
God, when she looked at
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