Random Hearts (2 page)

"We're lucky," said one of the men who wore a
colonel's insignia. "The Eastern plane was delayed up north."

"We're lucky, too," Lily whispered.

"The luckiest two people on earth."

"God, I'm happy." She tucked her arm under his
and pressed closer.

The agent announced that the plane was ready for boarding,
and the passengers who were still seated stood up and joined the line near the
passageway.

"It's in the eighties in Miami," a woman said.
People within earshot smiled, as if the remark had allayed their apprehension.

"No sense getting up until the line thins out,"
Orson said.

"You're so practical and brilliant," she teased.
"That's why I fell in love with you. Your razor-sharp mind."

"I thought it was my body."

"I never noticed."

She slid her hand downward under his raincoat and caressed
him there.

"Do you suppose we could figure out a way?" she
giggled.

"We've been very resourceful before."

She looked around the lounge as though she were assessing
the conditions.

"You're crazy," he said.

"Crazy for you."

She sighed and removed her hand as her eyes roved through
the lounge.

"Sometimes I think someone is following us,
watching." He followed her gaze, but the lounge was emptying. In their
circumstances, she knew, paranoia was a natural condition. "Even though I
know I haven't given Edward a single hint, not a moment's insecurity."

"He could pick up vibes. Sometimes I truly believe
that Vivien knows."

"But you said you were a good actor."

"It's not an easy part to play."

"Especially in bed."

His forehead wrinkled, but the frown was brief. "We
agreed not to talk about that."

"I'm sorry. Sometimes I think about it. You and
her."

"And you and Edward."

"I'm not made for all this intrigue, the lies, the
dissimulation. It's damned hard work."

"You think I am? You think it's easy being with Vivien
and thinking only about you? So far it's been a miracle."

"We keep them secure, that's why."

"And we've been awfully careful." He paused.
"Almost."

"It can't go on. Not now."

"No." He shook his head. She could tell he was
getting anxious.

"You'd think they'd have gotten suspicious by
now."

"That would have been the worst thing that could
happen. Not until we're ready to make the final break. Both of us at the same
time. Flat-out honest. Cold turkey. We are dealing with two good people, people
we once chose to spend our lives with, decent, sensitive people. We agreed that
we would not draw out the pain—"

"No matter what, it will hurt." She thought of
Edward again and sighed.

"We'd better go," Orson said, getting up,
clutching her hand as they walked to the desk and then through the passageway
into the plane. Most of the others had already settled into their seats. They
chose two, midway in the aircraft. Although the row had three seats, she took
the middle seat, leaving the aisle seat empty. She could not bear to be that
far away from him.

"The stewardess will think I'm foolish."

"Who cares what she thinks?" he said. He was
still edgy from their discussion, and she stroked his thigh while he looked out
of the plane's window at the wall of falling snow. In her other hand she still
clutched the stem of the little pink rose.

"We met just like this," she said cheerfully.
Always, when they discussed the others, it dredged up sadness and guilt.
Recalling how they met always cheered them.

The plane lurched slightly as it backed off from the
passenger chute. Then the pilot made an announcement.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." The
pilot's drawl had an air of sarcasm. "It's not like this in Miami, folks. This is no way to live. There'll be at least a thirty-minute delay as we go
through de-icing procedures. I'm shutting off the No Smoking sign. I really
feel sorry for you Yankees." A wave of laughter passed through the cabin.

"Just get us the hell out of here," a man piped,
causing another ripple of laughter.

They could hear the jet's glow lumbering whine and see the
backdraft scattering the snow as the plane taxied forward for a long time,
finally stopping near one of the large hangars. Outside, men with hoses sprayed
the wings with de-icing liquid.

Unfastening her seat belt, Lily stood up, opened the
overhead rack, and took out a blanket and two pillows.

"Might as well get cozy," she said, placing the
pillows behind them and covering them both with a blanket. "How do you get
rid of this damned thing?" she said, referring to the armrest. He fiddled
with it and slid it out, leaving no space between them. Turning slightly
sideways, she ran her hand over his chest while his hand stroked her earlobe.

"I don't need any de-icing," she giggled.

"Me neither."

"Four days of you. I warn you, I'll give you no
rest."

"Idle threats."

"Not so idle." She slid her hand down and
caressed his thigh.

The stewardess came by, and Lily closed her eyes, feigning
sleep.

"She should see what I have," she whispered.

"You're incorrigible."

"I adore you."

"Just adore?"

"Beyond adore."

"Like love?"

"Beyond even that."

"Beyond that?"

"It's only a word," she said. She hugged him
closer. "Will it be like this when we're together?" she asked.

"We are together."

"I mean permanently."

"If not, we'll have gone through a lot of hell for
nothing."

He looked down at her. She raised her lips to his, parted
them, and they kissed deeply.

"Why you?" she asked.

"Why you?"

It was now the central fact of Orson's life, a phenomenon
that defied all the laws of logic that normally ruled his cool, analytical
lawyer's mind. Lily had become a part of him, an overwhelming need greater than
physical hunger, greater than himself. It was impossible to fathom, and
endlessly fascinating to contemplate and discuss. How? Why?

"Why you?"

His eyes drifted again to the activity outside the
aircraft. A man in a kind of plastic uniform held the nozzle of a large hose,
looked upward, and raised his hand, vapor curling from his mouth.

"Because you were there waiting for me," she said
again, surely for the thousandth time.

"I was minding my own business. I had just won my
biggest case. I was content, happy, a good family man with a devoted wife, a
beautiful little boy. I had security, self-worth, substance,
self-containment."

"Me, too," she said, "except for the little
boy."

"Then why?"

"Because it wasn't true."

Perhaps, just at that moment when she had asked the banal
question, Is this seat taken? he had been making inquiries of himself. Is this
it? Is this all there is or will ever be? Had he glimpsed the future at that
precise point in time?

"I lifted my eyes, and there you were. Everything that
I was before self-destructed, and when the parts came together again, I was a
different person. And from that mini-second of time all that mattered was
you."

"Yes. Yes. Exactly. Everything changed."

"I love you more than life," he said, feeling the
pressure of her intimate caress as he returned the gesture in kind.

The plane began a bumping taxi as the pilot's voice told
them they were heading for the runway, taking their place in line.

"Won't be long, folks," he said. His tone
revealed a faint hint of exasperation. Again, the stewardess passed their
seats, and Lily closed her eyes.

The cool and logical part of Orson's mind acknowledged the
ridiculousness of the situation. He had always thought of himself as a
self-discipline, civilized man, under control, not foolhardy in his actions. A
pragmatic man. A clever man who anticipated events. Then came Lily.

"What is it that you do to me?" he asked.

"All I can."

They could never get enough of each other. It was like
peeling away the skin of an onion—there was always another layer underneath.
They could never be satiated. It had not been that way with Vivien. Lovely,
trusting, good, dependent Viv, the quintessential wife. Sweet Viv. She would
have to suffer for his actions. She and Ben.

"A man peaks at seventeen," he often told Lily,
marveling at his own capacity. "I'm double that. I should be
sliding." With Viv, he could barely find desire. Even at the beginning,
that side of his life with Viv seemed tepid, passionless. Never having
experienced it, he did not even know it was missing. Nor had he been, as he had
come to learn, in love. What he had felt was more like affection—comfortable,
bland, without surprises.

They decided finally that what was happening to them could
not be explained but simply experienced. Others had felt it—from the beginning
of recorded time. Still, they both distrusted its durability. Perhaps it was an
aberration that would pass, leaving them sated and sending them running back to
their legal spouses, back to real life. But it had not happened, and here they
were. Another complication had intruded. In his heart he welcomed it. Wasn't it
time?

"Tell me again, my love," she whispered.

"That I love you?"

"That, too. I mean about its being time."

"It's time. No sense postponing the inevitable.
Probably next week we'll have to do it."

"It will be the worst moment of my life, up to
now."

"For me as well."

"I hope I have the courage. Edward and I planned a
whole life. There isn't the tiniest blip on his screen. Maybe it was wrong to
do it this way. Maybe he should have been prepared. You know—if I had been
nasty, moody, a bitch."

"That's the problem. We're all nice people."
Betrayal did not quite fit with his definition, but hadn't he covered that by
telling himself that it was impossible to resist?

"Are we really nice? Was it nice doing this? Getting
involved?" That, too, needed to be said, if only to admonish. Surely they
could not convince themselves absolutely that what they were doing was morally
right.

"We couldn't help it."

"But we could have." She paused. "Couldn't
we?"

The first time was etched forever in his memory. How could
it not be? They had agreed, after sharing only forty minutes of intimacy on the
trip from New York to Washington, to meet the next day. Lunch, they both knew,
was a euphemism. They were reacting to the power of magnetism, either animal or
psychic.

It was late fall, and they drove down George Washington
Parkway almost to Mount Vernon. After parking the car, they walked the trail
along the river. The day was cloudy, the air slightly chilled. A light fog
drifted in from the river, making it seem that they were alone in the world.

"I don't know why I'm here," he told her, knowing
even then that he would rather not be anyplace else. "Things like this
don't happen in my world. I've been married for seven years. I don't
philander."

"Nor do I," she said, lifting her nose, which curved
in a slight arc from her high forehead. "I've never been with another man
since I met Edward. Before that, briefly, there was one other." His heart
pounded. He was certain it was an opening move, which frightened him.

"So we're a couple of innocents," he said
lightly.

"I am. I'm sure of that."

"And not so sure of me?"

"Now that you ask..."

"I swear to you," he said, hoping she would see
his sincerity, "that I've never even contemplated—" He checked
himself, not wanting to protest too strongly. Before Vivien there was little to
confess. Two, maybe three others.

"I want to believe you," she said.

"Then do."

"I'll try." Like him, she was trying to make
their being together unique, an event of significance.

It gave him the courage to open himself to her. He paused
in their walk and faced her.

"I don't know why I'm here"—he
hesitated—"except that you move me greatly. I've thought of nothing
else." A flush rose to her cheeks. There had been no subterfuge. Each knew
the other was married.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked
suddenly.

"It's important that I explain myself."

"You mean absolve yourself."

"That, too."

"So we can blame it on some cosmic force, something
compelling outside of ourselves. Like a spell."

"That's it," he said, exhilarated by her candor.
They had thrown caution away.

She averted her eyes, looking toward the river. "I'm
embarrassing myself."

"So am I."

"It's wrong," she said. "This."

"I know."

"Will you always tell me the truth?" she asked
suddenly, lifting her eyes to meet his. The "always" frightened him,
yet filled him with exquisite joy.

"Yes."

"Then tell me the truth now, the absolute
truth"—she cleared her throat—"about what you feel."

"I think I yearn for you."

"In a physical way only?"

"In every way."

"My God."

"What's wrong?"

"I yearn for you. I'm scared to death."

"So am I. It's like I found the other half of my ...
my soul."

"Yes. Like that."

When they touched, it was like being swallowed up by
quicksand. His arms engulfed her. Their lips parted, their tongues explored. He
was possessed of a physical urgency so compelling and overpowering that it
seemed to break into another realm of consciousness. Arms around each other's
waists, they went back to his car. Place was irrelevant. They did not make
love, they invented the process, he remembered thinking.

Afterward, still embracing him, her shoulders shook, and he
felt warm tears against his cheek.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I'm afraid to say it."

"Say what?"

"That I love you."

"Why be afraid to say that?"

"Because it doesn't fully describe what I feel, which
is more than that." She hesitated. "And because I don't want my life
to change."

"Maybe it won't." He knew immediately that what
he had said was not quite the truth, and he admitted it. "I don't want my
life to change either. But it's going to, and there's not a damned thing we can
do about it."

The aircraft fell in line behind a number of others.
Outside, the snow continued to fall and swirl about, sometimes completely
obscuring visibility through the windows. Leaning over him, she looked out.

"Are we really going to take off?"

"They know what they're doing," Orson said. A
plane's roar split the air. "Listen to that. We'll be in the sunshine two
minutes after takeoff."

"When I'm with you, there's always sunshine," she
said, caressing him.

The plane's speaker crackled. "The flight tower has
given us the go-ahead, folks. Sunny Florida, here we come."

The pilot's voice was followed by that of the stewardess
reminding them to fasten their safety belts and put the seats in an upright position.
They obeyed the instructions, although they kept the blanket over them.

"I wouldn't care if we just kept on flying to the end
of the world, forever," Lily said, entwining her fingers in his.

"That won't solve anything. We'd have to land
someday," he said, lifting her fingers to his lips and kissing them.

The aircraft lumbered forward and began to accelerate. Some
loose baggage bumped in the overhead racks. The great jets roared, and the
plane's body quivered as it charged ahead, flattening them against the seat
backs. For an inordinately long time, the plane did not lift.

"Hard getting this baby off the ground," someone
said behind them.

Orson felt Lily's fingers squeeze harder as their bodies
waited to sense the lift-off. When it happened, her fingers unclasped, and
Orson looked out the window into the mass of white. Lily leaned over him.

"Soon," he whispered.

She lifted the rose to her nostrils and breathed in its
delicate scent.

Then the plane began to buck and lose altitude. It became
deadly quiet; the sudden terror had paralyzed everyone into silence. Even when
the big plane sheared a railing off the Fourteenth Street Bridge along with the
tops of five cars, there were no screams. Then the plane crashed through the
ice with an enormous impact.