making her sick. For the first time in her life she had fallen in love at the same time that she had the experience necessary to know it would never work out. The fighter in her hated the necessity of giving up without a trial, and the lover in her feared imminent death.
Most of their days on the island were sunny and hot. They rose late in their airy suite with its ceiling fan revolving lazily overhead and were brought breakfast on the terrace. Fresh fruit and juice, toast, eggs and the local cheese. For days she gazed wearily out to sea. (She was wondering how they laid undersea telephone lines and how and whether they worked.) It was five days before she commented on the freshly cut flowers that appeared each day, magically, in their rooms. Seven before she admitted enjoying her swims, or drives and walks with John. They cuddled incessantly, as if they were both ill—and in effect they were—and when, in the second week, they began to make love again it was with the gentleness and tenderness and passion that made her smile during lovemaking the way she used to: her merry eyes closed, teeth just showing, skin glowing with delight, so that she reminded him of the little sun face one of his children had liked to draw when he was happy. By the third week she was nearly keeping up with him playing tennis, and her skin had cleared.
He continued to cuddle her, feed her interesting fruits and nuts from the market, order special treats from the kitchen, choose the colors of the daily cut flowers himself, and make love to her as if their lives depended on it. Because of course their life together might. Cuddling for long hours on their bed, seeing the waves of the ocean cresting from their open french doors,Everett Jordan—his look, his voice, his ignorance, his way of making her smile and groan, everything that had so entangled her feelings—faded. She began to see John again. His kindness and sensitivity. His stability and intelligence. His innate gentleness. She felt as if she’d been away from him on a very long, very bad and unnecessary vacation, and easily falling back in love with him on their remote island she wondered how and why. He was wonderful!
She felt like this all the way home. Even as she bounded up the stairs to her apartment, riffling frantically through her purse for her keys because through the door she could hear the phone, ringing and ringing.
Charms
There were days when John thought perhaps Orelia did not love him at all anymore. Sometimes when he kissed her and said “I love you,” she said nothing, or mumbled “I love you, too,” as if it were another language, foreign to her mouth. She said it, but he didn’t feel it. But this morning, for no reason he could think of, except she had slept well and it was a bright, optimistic day when they woke up, she turned to him, smiled, looked at him carefully, and said “You’re beautiful! And I love you.” John had taken her into his arms and buried his nose in her neck. “Do you? Do you really?” he’d asked. And she had laughed, squeezed him, and leapt out of bed to do her exercises and spray water on the plants.
Now, as he tinkered with the washing machine, which was leaking, he thought of how much he had missed her when she went away two years before. She had accepted, for six months, a consulting job halfway across the country; the timehad seemed endless to John. He had spent a lot of time in her apartment in the city, sitting in her bed and feeling like crying. Sometimes, watching TV from her big wooden bed, quilts pulled up to his chin, he’d fantasized her cheerful (or glum, it wouldn’t matter) face, poking into the room, and felt the vibration of her voice in the air. Several times a week he came simply to be in her apartment, to smell its faint scent of her, to see the stacks of letters that arrived regularly from her friends. Seeing her name, Orelia Moonsun, soothed him. Of course they talked on the phone, nearly every night, but
Most of their days on the island were sunny and hot. They rose late in their airy suite with its ceiling fan revolving lazily overhead and were brought breakfast on the terrace. Fresh fruit and juice, toast, eggs and the local cheese. For days she gazed wearily out to sea. (She was wondering how they laid undersea telephone lines and how and whether they worked.) It was five days before she commented on the freshly cut flowers that appeared each day, magically, in their rooms. Seven before she admitted enjoying her swims, or drives and walks with John. They cuddled incessantly, as if they were both ill—and in effect they were—and when, in the second week, they began to make love again it was with the gentleness and tenderness and passion that made her smile during lovemaking the way she used to: her merry eyes closed, teeth just showing, skin glowing with delight, so that she reminded him of the little sun face one of his children had liked to draw when he was happy. By the third week she was nearly keeping up with him playing tennis, and her skin had cleared.
He continued to cuddle her, feed her interesting fruits and nuts from the market, order special treats from the kitchen, choose the colors of the daily cut flowers himself, and make love to her as if their lives depended on it. Because of course their life together might. Cuddling for long hours on their bed, seeing the waves of the ocean cresting from their open french doors,Everett Jordan—his look, his voice, his ignorance, his way of making her smile and groan, everything that had so entangled her feelings—faded. She began to see John again. His kindness and sensitivity. His stability and intelligence. His innate gentleness. She felt as if she’d been away from him on a very long, very bad and unnecessary vacation, and easily falling back in love with him on their remote island she wondered how and why. He was wonderful!
She felt like this all the way home. Even as she bounded up the stairs to her apartment, riffling frantically through her purse for her keys because through the door she could hear the phone, ringing and ringing.
Charms
There were days when John thought perhaps Orelia did not love him at all anymore. Sometimes when he kissed her and said “I love you,” she said nothing, or mumbled “I love you, too,” as if it were another language, foreign to her mouth. She said it, but he didn’t feel it. But this morning, for no reason he could think of, except she had slept well and it was a bright, optimistic day when they woke up, she turned to him, smiled, looked at him carefully, and said “You’re beautiful! And I love you.” John had taken her into his arms and buried his nose in her neck. “Do you? Do you really?” he’d asked. And she had laughed, squeezed him, and leapt out of bed to do her exercises and spray water on the plants.
Now, as he tinkered with the washing machine, which was leaking, he thought of how much he had missed her when she went away two years before. She had accepted, for six months, a consulting job halfway across the country; the timehad seemed endless to John. He had spent a lot of time in her apartment in the city, sitting in her bed and feeling like crying. Sometimes, watching TV from her big wooden bed, quilts pulled up to his chin, he’d fantasized her cheerful (or glum, it wouldn’t matter) face, poking into the room, and felt the vibration of her voice in the air. Several times a week he came simply to be in her apartment, to smell its faint scent of her, to see the stacks of letters that arrived regularly from her friends. Seeing her name, Orelia Moonsun, soothed him. Of course they talked on the phone, nearly every night, but
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