sinews in her calves and thighs moved as if her skin were paper. Her eyes were deep, brilliant blue.
Gail saw him staring at her, and she smiled. “You deserve a reward,” she said. The tone of her voice was not extraordinary, but the way she spoke-with a breezy confidence-gave her words authority. “After all, you saved my life.”
Sanders laughed. “You weren’t in any real trouble.
If I hadn’t been there, you probably could’ve made it to the surface okay. There was only about fifty feet of water.”
“Not me,” she said. “I would’ve panicked. Held my breath or something. I don’t dive enough to know how to handle trouble. Anyway, I’ll buy you lunch. A deal?”
Sanders suddenly felt nervous. Never, not in high school or college or the years since, had a woman asked him for a date. He didn’t know what to say, so he said, “Sure.”
Her full name was Gail Sears. She was twenty-five, and she worked as an assistant editor at a small, prestigious New York publishing house that specialized in nonfiction books about social, economic, and political affairs.
She was a member of Common Cause and Zero Population Growth. For the first year after her graduation from college she had shared an apartment with a friend, but now she lived alone. She described herself as a private person-“I suppose you could say selfish.”
After lunch, they played tennis, and if Sanders hadn’t been at the top of his serve-and-volley game, she would have beaten him. She stood at the base line and slugged long, low ground strokes that landed deep in the corners. After tennis, they swam, had dinner, went for a walk on the beach, and then-as naturally as if the act were the next event in the day’s athletic schedule-made noisy, sweaty love in Gail’s bungalow.
When they had finished, that first time, Sanders raised himself on one elbow and looked at her. She smiled at him. Beads of perspiration glued strands of hair to her forehead. “I’m glad you saved my life,”
she said.
“So am I.” Then he added, without really knowing why, “Are you married?”
She frowned. “What kind of dumb question is that?”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to know.”
She said nothing for a long moment. “I almost was. But I came to my senses, thank God.”
“Why “thank God”?”
“I would have been a disaster as a wife. He wanted kids; I don’t, at least not yet. I’d resent them for strangling my life.”
Two days after he returned to New York, Sanders moved out of his apartment and filed for separation from his wife. He knew he would miss his children, and he did, but, gradually, his guilt faded and he was able to enjoy his afternoons with them without suffering such painful regret that they no longer lived with him.
He had neither sought nor been offered a commitment of any land from Gail. Though he knew he was in love with her, he also knew that to pursue her like a heartsick adolescent was to invite rejection. He took her to dinner twice before telling her he had left his wife, and when finally he did tell her, she didn’t ask why. All she wanted to know was how Gloria had taken the news. He said she had taken it well: after a short, teary scene, she had acknowledged knowing that Sanders was unhappy and that the marriage was a shell. In fact, once her lawyer had convinced her that Sanders’ offer of a one-time settlement was as generous as he had claimed-so generous that it left him without a single stock or bond-she hadn’t seemed upset at all.
For the next several months, Sanders saw Gail as often as she would permit. He knew she was seeing other men, and he tortured himself with wild fantasies about what she was doing with them. But he was careful never to ask her about them, and she never volunteered any information. Though he and Gail talked about the future, about things they wanted to do together, places they wanted to go, they never discussed marriage. Practically, there was little point: Sanders was still
Gail saw him staring at her, and she smiled. “You deserve a reward,” she said. The tone of her voice was not extraordinary, but the way she spoke-with a breezy confidence-gave her words authority. “After all, you saved my life.”
Sanders laughed. “You weren’t in any real trouble.
If I hadn’t been there, you probably could’ve made it to the surface okay. There was only about fifty feet of water.”
“Not me,” she said. “I would’ve panicked. Held my breath or something. I don’t dive enough to know how to handle trouble. Anyway, I’ll buy you lunch. A deal?”
Sanders suddenly felt nervous. Never, not in high school or college or the years since, had a woman asked him for a date. He didn’t know what to say, so he said, “Sure.”
Her full name was Gail Sears. She was twenty-five, and she worked as an assistant editor at a small, prestigious New York publishing house that specialized in nonfiction books about social, economic, and political affairs.
She was a member of Common Cause and Zero Population Growth. For the first year after her graduation from college she had shared an apartment with a friend, but now she lived alone. She described herself as a private person-“I suppose you could say selfish.”
After lunch, they played tennis, and if Sanders hadn’t been at the top of his serve-and-volley game, she would have beaten him. She stood at the base line and slugged long, low ground strokes that landed deep in the corners. After tennis, they swam, had dinner, went for a walk on the beach, and then-as naturally as if the act were the next event in the day’s athletic schedule-made noisy, sweaty love in Gail’s bungalow.
When they had finished, that first time, Sanders raised himself on one elbow and looked at her. She smiled at him. Beads of perspiration glued strands of hair to her forehead. “I’m glad you saved my life,”
she said.
“So am I.” Then he added, without really knowing why, “Are you married?”
She frowned. “What kind of dumb question is that?”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to know.”
She said nothing for a long moment. “I almost was. But I came to my senses, thank God.”
“Why “thank God”?”
“I would have been a disaster as a wife. He wanted kids; I don’t, at least not yet. I’d resent them for strangling my life.”
Two days after he returned to New York, Sanders moved out of his apartment and filed for separation from his wife. He knew he would miss his children, and he did, but, gradually, his guilt faded and he was able to enjoy his afternoons with them without suffering such painful regret that they no longer lived with him.
He had neither sought nor been offered a commitment of any land from Gail. Though he knew he was in love with her, he also knew that to pursue her like a heartsick adolescent was to invite rejection. He took her to dinner twice before telling her he had left his wife, and when finally he did tell her, she didn’t ask why. All she wanted to know was how Gloria had taken the news. He said she had taken it well: after a short, teary scene, she had acknowledged knowing that Sanders was unhappy and that the marriage was a shell. In fact, once her lawyer had convinced her that Sanders’ offer of a one-time settlement was as generous as he had claimed-so generous that it left him without a single stock or bond-she hadn’t seemed upset at all.
For the next several months, Sanders saw Gail as often as she would permit. He knew she was seeing other men, and he tortured himself with wild fantasies about what she was doing with them. But he was careful never to ask her about them, and she never volunteered any information. Though he and Gail talked about the future, about things they wanted to do together, places they wanted to go, they never discussed marriage. Practically, there was little point: Sanders was still
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