The Kiss (34 page)

Cynthia looked at him carefully. “Is that why you wanted a divorce?” She was horrified at the thought.

“In part,” he answered honestly, “but we have other
reasons too. I did it for myself. And I'm going to stay away from her, for her sake. Unless they can work a miracle here.”

“You know what they told you in London,” she chided him, “that's not going to happen. You're not going to walk out of here on Rollerblades, Bill. Don't do that to yourself. Don't expect too much.”

“I'm not. I figure whatever I get will be an improvement. I'm just saying that as long as I am like this, I'm out of her life.”

“Does she know that?” Cynthia looked upset for him. It was a terrible reason to leave someone you loved, worse by far than the reasons why he wanted a divorce. And in some ways, she thought he was right to want a divorce, although she wouldn't have admitted it to him. If he'd have been willing to come back to her, she'd have taken him in a flash. But she knew only too well how indifferent she'd been to him for years. She only realized now fully what a great deal she'd had. And it was too late for them. “Does she know why you're ending it?” She felt sorry for them.

Bill shook his head. “She doesn't even know I am ending it. But you can only keep something alive at this distance, without seeing each other, for so long. We'll drift apart eventually. I'm going to be here for a long time. She has her own life. She'll get over it.”

“I'm not so sure. It sounds like she doesn't have much else in her life. And more importantly, will you get over it? And why should you? If she's half the human being I suspect she is if you're so crazy about her, she's not going to give a damn what state you're in. You're better than most guys standing on two feet.” It
was exactly what Helena had said to him. “That's not what love is all about.”

“Maybe not. But it's who I am. I will never do that to her. She's not leaving Forrester anyway. She can't.” It didn't sound like a happy situation to Cynthia, and Bill was quiet for a long time after she left. Why was it that everyone was so insistent that it didn't matter if he was in a wheelchair permanently? It mattered to him. And he knew that, in the long run, it would matter to Isabelle. He refused to go down that path, with her or anyone else, no matter what Cynthia said. She had no idea what it was like. And he knew damn well that she could never have put up with it. She would have wound up hating him in the end for all that he wasn't and could no longer be or do. And he would never do that to Isabelle, not even if it meant lying to her and telling her he no longer cared. He was determined not to go back to see her in Paris if he couldn't walk off the plane. And as Cynthia had reminded him, there was almost no hope of that. If he had wanted that, he should have gone to Lourdes.

As time went on, the weeks at the rehab center went incredibly quickly for Bill. He was so busy, so tired, working so hard at all his therapies, that he hardly had time to come up for air.

Bill liked most of the therapists he worked with, they were bright and energetic and young, for the most part, and cared deeply about their patients. He was impressed with them right from the first. There was only one that he was unsure about, and he was unhappy when he was assigned to her. She was a sex therapist named Linda Harcourt, and he told her the
first time they met that he had no interest in discussing therapy with her.

“Why not?” she asked, looking at him calmly from across her desk. She was a striking-looking woman, with good looks and an intelligent face, about his age. “Are you planning to give up sex?” she asked with a smile. “Or is everything okay?” He thought about lying to her, but something about the honesty in her eyes stopped him. He didn't want to talk to her about his nonexistent sex life, but something about the way she watched him told him she would think less of him if he ran away. And he couldn't think of a single reason why he should care what she thought of him, but for some unknown reason, he did. She was a person who commanded attention and respect. She seemed like a no-nonsense kind of woman, and at the same time, like the other therapists at the hospital, she seemed caring and warm. “I see on your chart that you're married,” she said easily, “do you think your wife would like to speak to me?” She was almost certain that his sexual function had been affected by his injuries, and if he didn't want to discuss it with her, maybe his wife would. It was not unusual for men to feel cautious about speaking to her about their sexual issues at first. Sometimes talking to their wives, when they had them, was a gentler way in. But Bill was quick to shake his head.

“I'm getting a divorce,” he said simply, closing that door firmly in her face.

“That's interesting. Was the accident part of that decision?” Bill looked away, didn't answer for a minute, and then shook his head again.

“Not really. We should have done it years ago. The accident just kind of brought things to a head.”

And then the doctor became a little more direct. “Have you had intercourse since the accident, or tried to?” she asked so noncommittally that he was surprised himself when he answered her.

“Yes.” There was no hint of how it had gone in the single word.

Her voice was gentle but not overly sympathetic. She was practical and down to earth, and there was nothing to suggest pity in her face. “How was it?”

“How was it for me?” He laughed at the old saw, and she smiled. It was what men usually said, particularly when it hadn't worked. She knew then what he would say next. “It wasn't, actually.”

“No erection, or no ejaculation, or both?” she asked matter-of-factly, as though asking if he wanted cream or sugar in his coffee or both. It made it easier to answer her than he would have thought.

“Both. We never got that far.”

“Was there sensation?” He nodded again. “Muted or distinct?”

“Distinct, actually. But I never got an erection, I could feel everything … well, almost everything. But it still didn't work.”

“Often that takes time. Even with what you're telling me, it's still possible for things to improve to the point that you could have a relatively normal sex life later on. A lot of it is in how you feel about it. Success in this area can be a very creative thing.” Just listening to her made him feel depressed. He didn't want to be “creative” or redefine his definition
of “success.” In fact, he didn't even want to try again. And who would he have tried with? Isabelle? She was in Paris, he wouldn't have been willing to inflict another fiasco on her, and he had no desire to ever sleep with Cindy again. It would have been even more humiliating to try it with her. He was no longer in love with her. “Do you have a partner?” Dr. Harcourt asked simply.

“No, I don't.”

“That's all right. We can talk about it, and you can do some experimenting on your own. A lot of this is how you feel about it, and how you deal with it, not just what you feel physically, or how you perform.”

“I don't want to deal with it at all,” he said bluntly, making a mental note to tell his doctor he didn't want to see the sex therapist again. “I don't think it's relevant for me at this point.”

“Or ever?” Her eyes met his squarely, and he nodded.

“That's right, Doctor. I'm not going to make a fool of myself, knowing it won't work.”

“What if it did? That's an important part of life to give up at your age.”

“Sometimes things work out that way. I'm very involved in my work.”

“So am I,” she smiled at him, and handed him a book across her desk. It looked sensible and very medically oriented, he hesitated and then took it from her. “Required reading. There will be a quiz next week.” He looked panicked at what she said, and she laughed. “Not really. But you might find it interesting.”

She brought the meeting to a close then, they had
gone far enough for the first day. She knew what his outlook was, what his experience had been the one time he tried it after the accident, and he had something worthwhile to read. She had time in the coming months to work with him, and she was far more optimistic than he was when he went back to his room. He tossed the book onto his bed with an angry expression, and sat staring out the window for a long time. He didn't want sex therapy, or to learn how to be “creative.” He wanted to be a man, and if he wasn't going to be one, he had every intention of turning his back on everything he held dear, or Isabelle at least. And he certainly wasn't going to start dating, and experimenting to see if he could achieve and maintain an erection. He was determined to preserve his dignity, if nothing else.

He didn't tell Isabelle about meeting with Linda Harcourt the next time he spoke to her, it was the only facet of the rehab hospital that he did not share or describe to her. But he was still upset about his meeting with the sex therapist, and it was days later when he finally picked up the book, and was surprised at how informative it was. According to what he read, his first experience had not been atypical, and might still lead to considerable improvement as his injuries continued to heal. But he was still skeptical when he finished the book. He still believed he could turn out to be one of the vast category of men who had sensation but inadequate control, and erections that easily disappeared. And he had no desire to check for improvement, either with a partner or alone. It was easier for him, he insisted when he saw Linda Harcourt again a week later, to simply
close the door on that part of his life. He also told her he didn't want to meet with her again, and after giving him two more books, she suggested they meet just once more. She said she wanted his feedback on the books, they were new to her. She was a very clever woman, and had an easy, open way. He actually liked her, he just didn't want to discuss his potential sex life with her. As far as Bill was concerned, he had become a eunuch, and he intended to stay that way. Humiliation, failure, and disappointment were of no interest to him. He preferred to stay celibate, and alone.

Some of his political pals had discovered he was there by then. A couple of them flew up from Washington to see him, and several others drove up from New York. They seemed to disregard his physical situation entirely once they were there, and spent all their time asking for his advice. And by Christmas, he was getting constant calls. It was hard enough to concentrate on his varied forms of therapy, and he tried to keep the political issues down to a dull roar. But his old cohorts were determined to pull him back into politics again. If nothing else, it was flattering, and he loved hearing about what everyone was doing, their hopes, and strategies, and plans. What they wanted from him, as they always had, was his help to assure the results.

He had agreed to have Christmas at the mansion in Greenwich with Cynthia and the girls. He had arranged for a limousine to take him there on Christmas Eve, and he had promised the girls he'd spend the night. He felt a little odd about it, but Cynthia had said he could stay in one of the two guest rooms on the main floor. He had heard from the girls that she had a new man in her life.

Bill was happy for her, everything seemed to be going fine.

The car came for him at four o'clock, and an hour later, he was in Greenwich, pulling up the familiar drive to his old house. It was large and imposing, and he had always loved it, but it gave him a strange feeling being there, a nostalgia for times past. But as soon as Bill saw the girls, he felt better again.

They were decorating the tree when he rolled into the living room. There were Christmas carols on the stereo, and Cynthia looked better than he'd seen her in years. And when he turned to say hello to Olivia and Jane, his eyes grew wide as he saw Joe Andrews in the living room, in his chair.

“How did you get here?” Bill asked, looking amazed. He had seen him that afternoon in the dining hall, and Joe laughed and looked sheepish as Bill grinned. Joe was relieved that he didn't seem upset, and Jane came to stand next to Joe and held his hand.

“Jane picked me up on the way home from school,” Joe explained. “We wanted to surprise you.” The two of them were beaming, and Bill was intrigued. Joe hadn't said a word to him about Jane since the first time they'd met. He had no idea they'd been seeing each other, and things seemed to have advanced nicely in the last three months.

“Well, I am surprised.” Bill smiled at both of them, he was pleased too. He thought Joe was a great kid.

They all had dinner together that night, and went to church afterward, and the next morning he and Joe wheeled into the living room as the girls came downstairs. Cynthia had already made breakfast for them,
and her new friend joined them for lunch. He seemed like a very pleasant, intelligent man. He was a widower with four grown kids, and he seemed very fond of Cynthia, which pleased Bill. He was surprised himself to find that he felt neither jealous nor possessive about her, which confirmed to him once again that the divorce had been the right thing.

He and Joe rode back to the hospital together on Christmas night, and talked about what a wonderful holiday it had been. The only thing missing for Bill had been Isabelle. He had called her several times, and she said that everything was fine there, but he could hear in her voice that she was unhappy and stressed. Gordon had been very difficult with her for the past two months. He was still punishing her for the affair he was sure she'd had, as though the accident hadn't been punishment enough. And Teddy seemed to be slowly losing strength. Sophie had come home for the holidays, and the day after Christmas she was going skiing with friends in Courchevelle.

“You're not upset at me for seeing Jane?” Joe asked Bill cautiously on the ride home, and Bill smiled at him and shook his head.

“She deserves a nice guy like you, and you deserve a lot better than a girl who looks like a frog.” They both laughed at the memory of his blind date with Helena's sister. Helena had gone to New York for Christmas with her fiance. They had all exchanged small gifts before they left.

Bill was sure that neither Jane nor Joe was serious about their relationship, so he wasn't concerned. They were too young to even think about it, but they were
nice young people, and it was good to see them together. And Olivia had confessed that she had a new beau too. He was an assistant to a senator Bill knew. And it struck him on the way home that everyone had someone in their life, except him. He was still in love with Isabelle, but sitting in Paris with Gordon and her kids, she seemed light-years away. And for the first time in a long time, he felt lonely and sad when he got back to his room. Joe had gone off with friends as soon as he got back, and Jane was coming to see him the next day. Bill got into bed, and tried reading a book, but he couldn't keep his mind on it. And it was a relief when Jane called late that night.