Read Online All He Ever Wanted by Anita Shreve - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anita Shreve
Tags: Fiction
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Etna; she had
a marvelous appetite for a woman.)
We spoke, we spoke of… what? I cannot remember now. How I wish I could recall every word of that afternoon, that afternoon
of childlike conspiracy and warmth and good food and wine. Perhaps we talked of books, but I don’t think so. That day felt
different from all of the others.
We lingered long after one might reasonably have left the table. I was light-headed with possibilities. I, who could invent
a lifetime in an instant, had visions of Etna having to spend the night in college rooms, of an embrace she would allow me
before she entered those rooms, perhaps even a kiss snatched in a dark corridor. I imagined sleeping in the same building
as she and fetching her for breakfast, a meal we had never taken together. (Delicious intimacies, erotic in their content,
and how strange, for we were to take nearly five thousand breakfasts together, none of which ever produced comparable sensations.)
As the meal drew to a close and the staff was compelled to remove the linens and silver from the other tables and I saw the
lovely afternoon slipping away (and perhaps because of my bold fantasies, which I later had to remind myself Etna could not
have known about and certainly did not share), I reached across the table and seized her hand. She stopped her sentence before
she had finished it. I could see that she was holding her breath. I laced my fingers into hers.
“Etna,” I said. “You are so very beautiful.” It was a joy simply to say the words aloud. I had not done so yet.
“Professor,” she said.
“You have promised to call me Nicholas.”
“There are others in the room.”
“Who envy me,” I said.
Her fingers were frozen in my own. I don’t know if she tried to withdraw them; perhaps she saw that for the moment she could
not. The stillness I had observed before in her crept over her body and her features like an incoming tide saturating the
sand beneath it. She began to breathe slowly, and her face lost its flush. I had the distinct impression (God forgive me)
of an animal in a woods standing absolutely still to make itself invisible. She would not look at me.
But on that day, I chose, in my besotted state, to take her demeanor to be only feminine modesty and physical shyness, both
of which were, I thought then, endearing and charming qualities in a woman. I wondered as well if this fear in physical matters
was testament that she had not had other lovers before me, a question that had vexed me no end since the day I had first visited
her uncle’s house.
I released her hand, which she immediately tucked into her lap. “This has been the most wonderful afternoon of my life,” I
said truthfully.
She raised her eyes to mine. “Thank you for the dinner.”
“It will be a dreadful walk back,” I said. “The storm does not appear to have abated much.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said, looking out the massive windows of the college dining hall.
“You could spend the night here,” I ventured. “There are rooms for college guests. And then I could take you back in the morning.
We could send a messenger to your uncle and aunt so that they won’t worry. A boy will have an easier time of it in the snow
than we.”
“I would not send a boy out in this blizzard on my account,” she said. “No, I must go. I don’t have my things.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, reluctantly standing with her.
Our cloaks and mufflers had been dried next to the fire by a college servant. I tipped the fellow and inquired about a sleigh,
and one was fetched for us. During the journey to her uncle’s house, Etna and I held a blanket above our heads, wrapping ourselves
in a kind of tent. I could feel warm breath all about my face. At her door, she invited me in, but I had sympathy for the
boy and the horses with the sleigh, and could now see what I had not been able to before: there were large drifts in which
even a sleigh
a marvelous appetite for a woman.)
We spoke, we spoke of… what? I cannot remember now. How I wish I could recall every word of that afternoon, that afternoon
of childlike conspiracy and warmth and good food and wine. Perhaps we talked of books, but I don’t think so. That day felt
different from all of the others.
We lingered long after one might reasonably have left the table. I was light-headed with possibilities. I, who could invent
a lifetime in an instant, had visions of Etna having to spend the night in college rooms, of an embrace she would allow me
before she entered those rooms, perhaps even a kiss snatched in a dark corridor. I imagined sleeping in the same building
as she and fetching her for breakfast, a meal we had never taken together. (Delicious intimacies, erotic in their content,
and how strange, for we were to take nearly five thousand breakfasts together, none of which ever produced comparable sensations.)
As the meal drew to a close and the staff was compelled to remove the linens and silver from the other tables and I saw the
lovely afternoon slipping away (and perhaps because of my bold fantasies, which I later had to remind myself Etna could not
have known about and certainly did not share), I reached across the table and seized her hand. She stopped her sentence before
she had finished it. I could see that she was holding her breath. I laced my fingers into hers.
“Etna,” I said. “You are so very beautiful.” It was a joy simply to say the words aloud. I had not done so yet.
“Professor,” she said.
“You have promised to call me Nicholas.”
“There are others in the room.”
“Who envy me,” I said.
Her fingers were frozen in my own. I don’t know if she tried to withdraw them; perhaps she saw that for the moment she could
not. The stillness I had observed before in her crept over her body and her features like an incoming tide saturating the
sand beneath it. She began to breathe slowly, and her face lost its flush. I had the distinct impression (God forgive me)
of an animal in a woods standing absolutely still to make itself invisible. She would not look at me.
But on that day, I chose, in my besotted state, to take her demeanor to be only feminine modesty and physical shyness, both
of which were, I thought then, endearing and charming qualities in a woman. I wondered as well if this fear in physical matters
was testament that she had not had other lovers before me, a question that had vexed me no end since the day I had first visited
her uncle’s house.
I released her hand, which she immediately tucked into her lap. “This has been the most wonderful afternoon of my life,” I
said truthfully.
She raised her eyes to mine. “Thank you for the dinner.”
“It will be a dreadful walk back,” I said. “The storm does not appear to have abated much.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said, looking out the massive windows of the college dining hall.
“You could spend the night here,” I ventured. “There are rooms for college guests. And then I could take you back in the morning.
We could send a messenger to your uncle and aunt so that they won’t worry. A boy will have an easier time of it in the snow
than we.”
“I would not send a boy out in this blizzard on my account,” she said. “No, I must go. I don’t have my things.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, reluctantly standing with her.
Our cloaks and mufflers had been dried next to the fire by a college servant. I tipped the fellow and inquired about a sleigh,
and one was fetched for us. During the journey to her uncle’s house, Etna and I held a blanket above our heads, wrapping ourselves
in a kind of tent. I could feel warm breath all about my face. At her door, she invited me in, but I had sympathy for the
boy and the horses with the sleigh, and could now see what I had not been able to before: there were large drifts in which
even a sleigh
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