panties.
He rolled out of bed and reached for his own clothes.
“You don’t have to get up.”
He grunted. “You’re not going down to the parking lot by yourself.”
She smiled at him. “You’re very protective.”
He said nothing, just watched glumly as she fastened her bra and pulled up the straps. She’s really stunning, Jake thought. Trim as a racing yacht.
Once they were both dressed Jake led her down the concrete stairs to the building’s back door. It was chilly outside, and the sky had clouded over. He couldn’t see a single star.
Amy unlocked her BMW with a beep of the remote key, then turned and kissed Jake lightly on the lips.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “It was lovely.”
“Thank you ,” he said. And he watched her get into the car, gun the engine, and pull out of the parking lot.
Jake wearily climbed back to his apartment, fumbled with the key, then headed back to his thoroughly roiled bed. Lucky man, he told himself. As he undressed again he thought about Amy’s smooth, lithe body. Sitting on the bed, he realized that this was the first sex he’d had since Louise had died. He expected a pang of remorse, but instead he merely said to himself, Well, at least you haven’t forgotten how to do it.
But once he fell asleep he dreamed of Louise. He didn’t realize he was dreaming. He was sitting in the living room of their home, watching football on television. Louise sat on the big, comfortable sofa beside him, her feet tucked up beneath her, just as intent on the game as he was. A commercial break came on, and she got up and headed for the kitchen.
“Beer?” she asked, over her shoulder.
“Sure,” he said.
From the kitchen, Louise called, “Jake, can you come here a minute?”
He got up and went to the kitchen.
But it wasn’t the kitchen. It was the morgue where her battered body was laid out on a metal table and the police had taken him there to identify her body and it was her, Louise, her skull bashed in, her face caked with blood, her deep brown eyes open and staring sightlessly.
“They’ll have to perform an autopsy,” the policewoman was saying. “It’s mandatory in accident cases.”
Jake stepped to the edge of the table and reached out to close Louise’s eyes. The policewoman clasped his wrist.
“Sorry, sir. You’re not allowed to touch the body.”
“But she’s my wife.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
And Jake’s eyes snapped open. He was soaked with cold sweat. He sat up in the bed, his head hanging, and wished he could cry. He wanted to cry, wanted to let the tears burst out and wash away his grief. But the tears would not come. He was alone, without even tears to ease his agony.
PROFESSOR SINCLAIR’S OFFICE
“No,” said Professor Arlan Sinclair.
Jake blinked with surprise. “No?”
They were sitting around the circular table that took up one corner of Professor Sinclair’s spacious office. A corner office, with big windows that looked out on the distant blue-hazed mountains. Amy Wexler sat on Jake’s left, Bob Rogers on his right. Tim Younger sat next to Rogers and Glynis Colwyn sat between Younger and the professor.
It was two days after Amy had gone to bed with Jake. Two days in which their only contact had been a couple of very proper telephone conversations to set up this meeting with the head of the university’s MHD program. Two days in which Jake’s head spun with the memory of her blithely unrestrained acrobatics in bed. Despite his misery of guilt, his insides quivered at the thought of her, and now she was sitting primly beside him, as if nothing at all had happened, wearing a no-nonsense navy blue business suit.
Sinclair looked as fierce as a flowing-maned lion standing guard over his cubs.
“As I told you before, I will not have the MHD program turned into a political football,” he said, with a slight toss of his head. The gesture reminded Jake of films he had seen of President Roosevelt. Had Sinclair deliberately copied
He rolled out of bed and reached for his own clothes.
“You don’t have to get up.”
He grunted. “You’re not going down to the parking lot by yourself.”
She smiled at him. “You’re very protective.”
He said nothing, just watched glumly as she fastened her bra and pulled up the straps. She’s really stunning, Jake thought. Trim as a racing yacht.
Once they were both dressed Jake led her down the concrete stairs to the building’s back door. It was chilly outside, and the sky had clouded over. He couldn’t see a single star.
Amy unlocked her BMW with a beep of the remote key, then turned and kissed Jake lightly on the lips.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “It was lovely.”
“Thank you ,” he said. And he watched her get into the car, gun the engine, and pull out of the parking lot.
Jake wearily climbed back to his apartment, fumbled with the key, then headed back to his thoroughly roiled bed. Lucky man, he told himself. As he undressed again he thought about Amy’s smooth, lithe body. Sitting on the bed, he realized that this was the first sex he’d had since Louise had died. He expected a pang of remorse, but instead he merely said to himself, Well, at least you haven’t forgotten how to do it.
But once he fell asleep he dreamed of Louise. He didn’t realize he was dreaming. He was sitting in the living room of their home, watching football on television. Louise sat on the big, comfortable sofa beside him, her feet tucked up beneath her, just as intent on the game as he was. A commercial break came on, and she got up and headed for the kitchen.
“Beer?” she asked, over her shoulder.
“Sure,” he said.
From the kitchen, Louise called, “Jake, can you come here a minute?”
He got up and went to the kitchen.
But it wasn’t the kitchen. It was the morgue where her battered body was laid out on a metal table and the police had taken him there to identify her body and it was her, Louise, her skull bashed in, her face caked with blood, her deep brown eyes open and staring sightlessly.
“They’ll have to perform an autopsy,” the policewoman was saying. “It’s mandatory in accident cases.”
Jake stepped to the edge of the table and reached out to close Louise’s eyes. The policewoman clasped his wrist.
“Sorry, sir. You’re not allowed to touch the body.”
“But she’s my wife.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
And Jake’s eyes snapped open. He was soaked with cold sweat. He sat up in the bed, his head hanging, and wished he could cry. He wanted to cry, wanted to let the tears burst out and wash away his grief. But the tears would not come. He was alone, without even tears to ease his agony.
PROFESSOR SINCLAIR’S OFFICE
“No,” said Professor Arlan Sinclair.
Jake blinked with surprise. “No?”
They were sitting around the circular table that took up one corner of Professor Sinclair’s spacious office. A corner office, with big windows that looked out on the distant blue-hazed mountains. Amy Wexler sat on Jake’s left, Bob Rogers on his right. Tim Younger sat next to Rogers and Glynis Colwyn sat between Younger and the professor.
It was two days after Amy had gone to bed with Jake. Two days in which their only contact had been a couple of very proper telephone conversations to set up this meeting with the head of the university’s MHD program. Two days in which Jake’s head spun with the memory of her blithely unrestrained acrobatics in bed. Despite his misery of guilt, his insides quivered at the thought of her, and now she was sitting primly beside him, as if nothing at all had happened, wearing a no-nonsense navy blue business suit.
Sinclair looked as fierce as a flowing-maned lion standing guard over his cubs.
“As I told you before, I will not have the MHD program turned into a political football,” he said, with a slight toss of his head. The gesture reminded Jake of films he had seen of President Roosevelt. Had Sinclair deliberately copied
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