Mourning Glory (24 page)

"There is so much of Anne here in this room," he
sighed.

"Ghosts again?" she asked, more as a rhetorical
question. Anne again, she sighed. She supposed there was no escape from her,
not ever.

"I always felt ... well ... more like a guest in this
room."

"A guest!" Grace exclaimed. "This is your
bedroom. Once shared with Anne. Now yours. Surely you can't think of yourself
as a guest here. How long did you live here?"

He grew thoughtful, as if he were calculating.

"Nineteen years. Yes, nineteen years. That's when we
moved in. Before that we lived in Westchester, outside of New York City."

"How could you feel like a guest if you lived here for
nineteen years? This is your home," Grace said, reluctantly accepting the
fact that the present, which included her, would always be haunted by his past.
For her part, she would be ready and willing to scuttle her past, her
reality-based past.

She sipped again and, as he had done before, scanned the
lovely bedroom. By her standards it was huge, spanning the entire rear of the
large house. In comparison, her little bedroom seemed no bigger than the bed on
its pedestal.

"Yes," he sighed. "My home."

"Home is where the heart is," Grace said.

They exchanged glances in silence for a long moment, then
emptied their glasses. Sam poured two more.

"I enjoy your company, Grace."

"I'm glad, Sam. I enjoy yours."

He studied her, then shook his head.

"I hope you do, Grace."

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

It surprised her that he needed such reassurance.

"I feel very comfortable around you, Sam," Grace
said, reiterating her honest feeling.

"I enjoyed seeing you model Anne's clothes," Sam
said. "You were very kind to do that."

"Kindness had nothing to do with it. It was fun, Sam.
I felt like a little girl trying on Mommy's clothes." She hesitated for a
moment. "I suppose I reminded you of Anne."

"Yes, you did." He paused. "In a way."

"In a way? How so? I'm sure she looked a lot better in
them than I did."

"Now who's fishing for compliments?" He chuckled.
"Of course she always looked great. But so do you."

"Different, maybe. Great is debatable."

"Yes," he acknowledged. "Different ... and
great."

She felt his eyes inspecting her.

"Yesterday," he said, "you didn't think I
was being, you know ... kinky. Asking you to do that?"

"We've been there, Sam. I did it because I wanted to
do it. And, as I told you, I enjoyed it. It gave me great pleasure." She
felt a hot blush rise to her face.

"Really?"

"That was the truth, Sam," Grace said, suddenly
wary. Did her reply hint that she wasn't telling the truth in other matters?

Suddenly she grew silent, not knowing how to proceed.
Considering all the lies she had fed him, she felt an increasing uneasiness.
Did he think she was pandering to him? Blatantly ingratiating herself? She felt
uncertain about her reactions, psychologically clumsy. She wished she had the
intelligence and inner resources to be surer of herself, like Mrs. Burns.

He lifted his eyes and seemed to study her intently. Then
he smiled.

"You looked great in her clothes, Grace," he
said. Instinctively she knew what he was getting at.

"Thank you, kind sir. I'm flattered. And Anne's taste
in clothes was wonderful."

"Yes, it was."

He upended his glass and poured another, refilling hers.
Their eyes met. She felt the heat of their contact and knew what was coming
next.

"Would it be imposing, Grace, if..."

"Model again?" She giggled, feeling the effects
of the champagne.

"You don't think I'm a bit sick in the head about
this?"

"Not at all. It was fun for me. When you think about
it, it could be characterized as a tangible way to memorialize Anne."

"I suppose you have a point. You don't think it's an
indulgence?"

She stood up. Then, in a gesture of mock decision-making,
she tapped her teeth. If this was to be their common ground at the moment, she
thought, so be it.

"Maybe you're being too analytical, Sam. It was an
indulgence for me, too. What harm is there? Why not? What's your
pleasure?"

"How about..." He paused for a moment,
considering. "Something flowing, wispy."

"Flowing and wispy. Coming right up."

She ducked into the closet. Earlier she had noted a
cinnamon-colored cocktail dress by Geoffrey Beane. Taking it off the rack, she
came out of the closet, stood before him and pressed it to her body.

"What do you think?"

"Perfect," he said.

"Do you remember Anne wearing it?"

"Funny, but I was never able to remember what Anne had
worn on a given occasion. But the dress does look vaguely familiar."

"Give me a few minutes. I need to accessorize
it."

"Take your time."

She noted that his face was flushed. Little red circles had
popped out on his cheekbones.

She went into the dressing room, searching through drawers
filled with underthings. In one drawer she found, to her surprise, a number of
suspenders and stockings, the kind she had often seen advertised as products
from Frederick's of Hollywood. Eschewing panties, she put on the suspenders,
attached the stockings, looked at herself in the mirror, declared herself
provocative, then put on high heels and posed as if she were a model for
Playboy,
feeling her own heightened sexual tension. Did Anne do this? she wondered,
feeling moist and hot.

She put on the dress, which was a hairsbreadth tighter than
she would have purchased if it were her decision to make. But it suited this
event admirably. Then she found appropriate cocktail jewelry, quickly made up
her face and hair to fit, piling it up like a Gibson Girl, then surveyed
herself in the mirror. She loved the way she looked. Would he think she was
sexy? She hoped so. To heighten the effect, she removed her brassiere. Her
nipples pressed against the material, erect with excitement and clearly
visible.

"Go for it," she whispered, taking a last look at
herself in the mirror. She was high from the champagne and knew it.

His face lit up with a broad, appreciative smile when he
saw her. She walked with exaggerated, hip-swinging movements a number of times
across the length of the room and back, so that the dress lifted with the
breeze of her walk and her bare breasts bounced under the flimsy silk.

"Do you like it, Sam?"

"Very much."

She noted the outline of his erection in his pants.
Imagining it, its size, shape and bulk, made her body react accordingly. He
crossed his legs and bent over slightly to hide it.

"Why don't you take it as a gift? You look fantastic
in it."

"We've been through that, Sam."

"I'm sure Anne wouldn't mind."

"It's me who would mind. It's just not appropriate and
would make me uncomfortable."

She wondered if he appreciated her gesture, seeing it,
hopefully, as a measure of her independence and integrity.

"Whatever you say," Sam said.

She again walked the length of the room, then back again.

"It's a pleasure to watch you, Grace."

"Would you like to see me in another?"

"Yes, please."

She moved toward him, but only to pick up her glass and
drain it. Proffering her empty glass, he poured champagne to the brim and she
carried it with her to the closet. Heated and flushed by the champagne, she
felt a growing sexual excitement. She removed the silk dress, re-hung it on the
rack and walked along the huge closet in suspenders and high heels,
bare-breasted. She looked for something ... she groped for the words ...
dashing, sexy and dangerous.

She found a slinky, long black gown with a low bodice and a
high cut to the thigh. Givenchy, she noted, putting it on. Moving again to the
dressing room, she studied herself in the large three-way mirror.

She was astonished at her transformation, marveling at how
the gown molded to her body. It's low cut and bra infrastructure pushed up her
breasts and made them seem larger. She felt wonderful, exciting. She removed
her previous makeup and redid herself in more severe tones, without lipstick
but with more eye shadow, parting her hair in the middle, hoping the outfit
made her look like a woman of mystery, a seductress, which was exactly what she
wanted to be. She giggled at her image in the mirror. She was drunk,
deliciously drunk, devil-may-care drunk.

When she came out she saw him sitting in the chair, legs
crossed. He had replaced the empty bottle of Dom Perignon with another and was
starting to pour again. But when she came out and slinked across the room he
stopped pouring and stared at her, mesmerized.

"Fantastic," he said.

"Thank you, dahling," she whispered throatily as
she moved around the room, loving the feeling and his attention.

She stopped suddenly and posed, draping herself against the
wall.

His face, like hers, was flushed, and his eyes glistened.
She sensed that she was giving him pleasure and enjoyed the idea of it. It
struck her suddenly that they could spend days like this, weeks and months. Her
modeling Anne's endless wardrobe.

She wasn't much of a drinker and knew that the champagne
had made her feel high and uninhibited. Although she loved the sensation, she
worried that she might cross over some imaginary line and dampen his interest
by appearing whorish and undignified. Was she moving too fast, becoming too
brazen? This scene, her actions, was so far from anything she had ever
experienced or fantasized before.

She was hot, turned on.

Still, despite her uncommon surge of lust, she held back
from making that first crucial move, fearing the aftermath, revealing herself
as wanton and without modesty. What came next was up to him, she decided,
wishing it.
Come and get it,
she cried within herself, yearning for him
to act.

Despite her body's hunger, her mind would not let her be
careless. This was all part of the orchestration, she told herself. She had to
be, most of all, indispensable to his every need. A complete replacement for
Anne.
Help me, Anne,
she pleaded within herself.
Make him want me.

What she lacked in intellect or style she would compensate
for in other ways, she vowed. She was open to learning Anne's ways. Above all,
she did not want to suffer in comparison. She would be all things to this man,
as Anne had been, a lively companion, a good friend, a passionate, uninhibited
lover and a wife.
Give me that chance,
she begged Sam in her heart.

"More?" he asked, lifting the champagne bottle as
she swaggered past him. He poured the amber liquid into her glass and handed it
to her. Bending low to receive it, she felt the weight of her breasts against
the material of the dress. She saw his eyes watching them and felt her nipples
harden and react to his inspection.

Still he did not make any untoward move. Perhaps he was not
giving himself permission, as if Anne really would care that he would be
fornicating with another woman so soon after her death. She sensed he was
holding back, wanting but waiting. For what?

It struck her that what was happening might be a
re-creation of sex games he had played with Anne.
Am I doing it the way she
would?
Grace wondered. Setting the spark, the way she did? Was there such a
thing as a clothes fetish? She had heard of men being turned on by high-heel
shoes or cross-dressing or kinky things like that. She hoped she had found the
path to his libido. She was prepared to play whatever role was necessary.

They exchanged glances as she drank off the champagne in
one gulp. She felt oddly empowered, as if it was necessary for her to seduce
him now, before the moment passed, knowing it was her need as well. This was
one bridge that had to be crossed and crossed now. An idea popped into her
head.

"Just a sec," she said, ducking into the closet
again. She removed the gown and searched through the closet, where she had seen
the fur coats. Pulling a white ermine off the rack, she put it on. Underneath
she wore only the suspenders, stockings and high heels. The feel of the coat on
her body tingled her skin and covered her with goose bumps.

She went into the dressing room, found a lipstick and
painted her aureoles. She had never done such a thing in her life. In fact, she
had never experienced anything like what was happening to her now. It was like
an internal earthquake, unstoppable.

"Did Anne do this?" she wondered as she pulled
the collar of her coat up and walked out into the bedroom. She walked directly
in front of him.

"Do you like this, Sam?" she asked. "Am I
like her?"

He had been holding his champagne glass. Watching her, he
slowly put it down on the table beside him. She noted that his hand shook and
he spilled some of the champagne on the table's surface.

"Did she look like this?"

She opened the coat. Her body, she knew, simmered with
lustful sensations.
So he's leaving the first move to me,
she thought.

"May I?" she asked.

He nodded his head, and she knelt before him and unzippered
him, pulling his pants and shorts down to below his knees. He let her. Then she
straddled him, letting herself gently down on his erect penis, then kissed him
deeply on the mouth, her tongue caressing his.

"Was it like this with Anne?" she whispered,
feeling her heartbeat accelerate as she swiveled her hips in a rotating motion.
He did not answer.

"And this?" she said, increasing the tempo of her
rotations, feeling her orgasm gathering strength deep inside her. Waves of
pleasure exploded inside her.

"Oh, yes," he said repeatedly, indicating his own
pleasure. Then his lips found hers.