Gift of the Golden Mountain (73 page)

     She could see the outline of his face in the starlight. "Do you mean you feel numb, that you haven't been able to accept her absence?"

     "No," he said, and waited. "No, I think I was the one who was absent. I think I left a long time ago, I think we seemed to be married, to be living together . . . we ate at the same table, we slept in the same bed . . . but if I'd been there, I should be able to remember what she said, what she looked like when she was a girl, I should feel some terrible loss . . ." his voice cracked with misery, "I think I must have left a long time ago, and . . . I don't know where I've been."

     The words collided in her brain.
Lost, you've been lost, we've been lost
. . .
wandering, looking, lost
. . . She could not speak, no word was enough. Her fingertips touched the back of his hand. He looked at her hand on his, looked at her, not knowing, not certain. She moved into his arms, was clinging hard to him. She found his mouth, felt the catch in his body, moved into him. They gave themselves to the heat and the pull and the inevitability of it, the sea gathered them in, rocking them together, letting the hot flush rise.

     Her ears rang with wanting, her head filled with light, exploded
with color. She rose to meet him, and she cried out and heard her voice echo over the water and come to rest on the shore, with the waves that lapped rhythmically on the way to the silver place where their worlds met.

     When she could speak she said, "Now I know."

     He pressed his mouth into the place behind her ear and murmured, "Yes."

When the sun was still behind the mountain and the light was a cool morning gold, they slipped into the ocean together, their flesh white in the clear water. He touched her face, kissed her, moved his hands to her breasts. There was no denying now, they gave themselves to the sexual field that enveloped them, reveled in it, gloried in it. She wrapped her legs around him and took a deep breath and pulled him under with her. They swam to the beach, letting the waves wash them to the shore where they walked, touching, holding. As the sun reached the beach she lay back on the warm sand and felt herself opening, like a flower, like a morning glory. He lay on top of her, entered her, they rocked together as the waves washed in. A wild rhythm overtook them, carried them. They fell into the sand and laughed and came together as the sea seemed to rise, tempting them, caressing them.

As they sailed out of the cove he said, "I want to be with you. Whenever I can, however I can."

     She smiled and touched his face and moved her hand close on his stomach as she said, very simply, "I have a husband."

     Then she leaned into him and refused to think of anything but the long, sweet swell of the sea and the touch of the man who had given her what she thought she could never have.

KIT WAS EARLY, but Philip was already at the typewriter when she arrived.

     "I hope that's the outline for the new novel—your agent called again yesterday, he's pushing hard . . ." She touched his shoulder as she leaned over to see what he had written.

     
Karin
, he had typed,
It is time we talked.

     She sat in a chair facing him.

     "That's why I'm early," she said, "Karin called this morning. She is flying in tomorrow. Thea has agreed to let Annie come stay with her for a few days . . . Karin sounded, well, distraught. She said she didn't know what she was doing, staying away for so long . . . she kept apologizing to me for not doing what she called 'her share.' There just wasn't any calming her, Philip. I think she has to come, for her own peace of mind. She talked about getting the Berkeley house ready for your return, arranging to have a carpenter build wheelchair ramps so you can get around. She is going on the assumption that when you leave the hospital next month you'll go home, and she'll be taking care of you. I didn't say anything to her,
or try to dissuade her from coming. I didn't think I should."

     She waited for his answer. Laboriously, he placed his hands on the keyboard and typed:
You were right. Better in person. Harder but better.

     "What will you say to her?"

     He typed:
Groan

     "I know," Kit said, "I've been rehearsing speeches myself. I can't bear to hurt her, and in the long run I know, from what you've told me, that what we have planned will be better for her, too. She has been so wonderful with Thea, but it doesn't seem to have assuaged her guilt about you."

     His hands moved slowly over the keyboard:
Are you worried what people will say ?

     She took his hand, held it between both of hers: "I'm only worried about Karin and your children. I can count on May and Faith and Emilie's family to understand. The rest of the world can go to hell."

     Philip typed:
At the Malibu we shut them out.

     "No," she said, vehemently, "that's not why we're going to the ranch. We're going there to be together, to work together. I don't want to shut the world out, I just thought it would be a wonderful place for you to write and for me to remove myself from most of my business responsibilities."

     His mouth twitched in the flickering movement she knew to be a smile.
Got you going
, he typed.

     She laughed. "You did. Sometimes I think I should have left you trapped in that elegant body, sometimes I think I've unleashed a monster."

     
Too late . . . now Karin
, he typed.

     "Yes, we must talk about Karin," she sighed.

"What is a 'bouquet garni'?" Hayes wanted to know.

     "Haven't the foggiest," May said. "Check
The Joy of Cooking
, or
maybe Julia Child. If they don't know it probably doesn't matter."

     "Like your style," he said, rubbing his hands on the front of his apron, on which was printed in large letters: "Kiss the Cook," and pulling her to him.

     "No, no, you've got it wrong," she laughed, "I'm supposed to kiss the cook, and you're the cook . . . and the bechamel sauce is burning."

     He reached for a whisk and began to stir. "I'll never make a Washington hostess."

     "Oh yes we will," she told him, bumping him playfully with her hip. "You told your boss we were going to cook and we are. Come look at my table when you can—it's gorgeous."

     "Next time we send out for Chinese," he muttered.

     "Next time we send out for a cook," she answered, tiptoeing to bite him on the ear.

In bed that night he pulled her close and said, "You were good tonight."

     "You mean when I dropped the pickled mushrooms on the floor?"

     "That too." He shifted so he could hold her in his arms. "But mainly I meant, you were just easy and nice and made them feel comfortable."

     She burrowed in, rubbing her cheek against his chest. "What were they expecting?"

     "That's just it—they didn't know what to expect. Washington runs on rumors, and I think the rumors had you down as this exotic wild-woman who chases volcanoes, who is rich as sin, and is the sole progeny of Porter Reade. His name still evokes strong emotions in this town as you might have noticed. Weren't you a little surprised when old Jameson did that little testimonial about how your father's position on China has finally been vindicated?"

     She was content to lie in his arms. She turned her face so she could kiss his chest, and answered, "You know, it doesn't matter
any more, what they say. I loved my father, and I've forgiven him. I've forgiven my mother, too. They both made such sad mistakes . . . and I feel sorry that things weren't different for them, but it isn't churning around inside me anymore."

     "I know," he said, and the way he said it made her ask what was wrong.

     "Your talking about forgiveness, I guess. Eli. I haven't forgiven him and I don't know if I ever can. It's funny," he said, and fell silent, thinking.

     She closed her eyes, but the tensions in him would not let her drift off to sleep. "It isn't funny," she prompted.

     "No, it isn't." He sat up, turned on the light. She plumped the pillow behind her so she could lean against the headboard. It was coming now; he had been unable to talk about Eli, and now he could.

     He got up, began to pace. "He violated it," he said, "our friendship . . . he betrayed everything we believed in."

     She pulled the sheet over her bare arms and waited.

     "I could always talk to Eli, about everything. And one thing we talked about, from the beginning, was our friendship, what it was supposed to be. He had very specific ideas, you know . . . it was important to him that we understood, each of us . . . that we play by the rules. He had no use for what he called the
you make me feel good I make you feel good
school of friendship. He thought being a friend was a responsibility, that each of you had a larger commitment to the common good. These weren't new ideas, Aristotle and Cicero had written about them. You were supposed to enjoy each other's company, and you were supposed to be useful to each other. But there was a moral commitment there, too. By holding each other to that moral imperative, you would create a better society . . . he believed, we believed that that kind of friendship was at the very heart of the society we wanted to build."

     She ached for him. "And you feel he betrayed you," she said.

     Hayes was at the window, looking down at the shadows thrown
by the street lamp shining through the full leaves of the sycamore tree. With his back to her he said, "Maybe I failed him, I don't know. I'm sure he thinks my signing on with the State Department is a form of betrayal. What I do know is that he has thrown in with people who believe terrorism is an answer, and I can't accept that."

     "Still, he warned us," she said.

     He slapped his hand hard against the wall. "It was Eli who put us in jeopardy in the first place. The fact that he wouldn't go through with it doesn't mean he won't the next time, when the victim is someone he doesn't know. He's gone underground, May. I can't stay neutral, I've got to oppose him, and I wanted you to know the reason."