was pâté, a chilled soup, duck with white peaches and skate wing braised in brown butter. Marcus ordered white wine to start with, then glasses of red, a spicy Rioja. He talked amusingly about his job as a corporate litigator—the crazy hours, the crazier clients—and Lizzie talked about her kids. Over port and cheese and walnuts, he asked, “Are you happy?” and she’d shrugged, lowering her eyes, saying, “Well, it’s hard.”
“It’s a good thing you’re doing.” He leaned forward, pale eyes intent. Lizzie nodded. It had taken her a long time and many sleepless nights to figure that out—that it truly wasn’t her, but him; it wasn’t that Marcus didn’t want to marry her, it was that Marcus, damaged by his own childhood, his own ruinous first marriage, didn’t want to marry anyone.
When she looked up again she saw that the restaurant was empty, the waiters hovering politely around the perimeter. Marcus insisted on paying and walked her to the elevator. There, on the tiled floor, beneath a dazzling chandelier, he took her in his arms and held her closer than was technically proper. “Elizabeth.”
She let herself relax in his arms. Will. Won’t. Marcus sighed. She felt his lips graze the side of her neck, but she knew that he wouldn’t push it, that it was up to her. Her call. Her move.
Lizzie tilted forward, pressing her breasts against his chest. She twined her arms around his neck, and rose on tiptoe, her lips brushing his ear. “Want to come up with me?” she whispered, and he hesitated for just an instant before he said, “Okay.”
The elevator doors slid open. They stepped into the mirrored chamber . . . and then Lizzie was in his arms, her hips pressing against his, and his tongue was in her mouth and his hands were on her breasts, molding them, caressing them, sighing, as if he’d been starving and now, finally, he had food.
The doors opened. Hand in hand, they hurried down the hallway. In the room, the bed was turned down, the television set standing proudly erect, having emerged from the sheath of its case. “It wasn’t like that when I left,” Lizzie said, and Marcus laughed. She closed her eyes, overcome, as the sound of it rippling through her.
Then they tumbled onto the bed, and there, rolling on the covers, with his mouth, hot and insistent, over hers, she was twenty-five again, twenty-five and just meeting a tall, sleekly blond attorney who’d slid a martini, her first martini, on the bar in front of her and said, Try this, you’ll like it. Two hours later, she’d gone home with him. She’d been in grad school, and he’d been out with friends, and she’d never done that, never met a guy in a bar and slept with him that same night, not before and not after.
On the hotel bed, Lizzie closed her eyes, running her hands down the smooth length of his back, hearing herself make sounds she hadn’t made since labor. Just this, she thought. Just kissing. Just this is all the sweetness I need to hold me, to get me through what’s coming . . . plus, he’s fifty. Maybe he can’t anymore. But then Marcus lay on top of her, and it was very evident that, even at fifty, he could.
He bent his bright head to her breasts. She felt his tongue working against her, and wondered if he sucked, whether there would be milk, and how it would taste. I love you, she thought, astonished at the sweetness of it, pulsing through her with her heartbeat. I’ll always love you. She felt him poised against her, breathing hard and trembling, the tip of his cock hot and slick but waiting, again, for it to be her choice. Lizzie twisted her hips and felt him slip inside of her.
Afterward, lying spent and flushed beside him, she said, That was lovely, and he smiled lazily, one hand still between her legs, saying, I want to watch you come again.
At three in the morning, when one or the other of the twins usually woke up, she pulled the crisp white cover up to his chin, and bent to deposit a gentle
“It’s a good thing you’re doing.” He leaned forward, pale eyes intent. Lizzie nodded. It had taken her a long time and many sleepless nights to figure that out—that it truly wasn’t her, but him; it wasn’t that Marcus didn’t want to marry her, it was that Marcus, damaged by his own childhood, his own ruinous first marriage, didn’t want to marry anyone.
When she looked up again she saw that the restaurant was empty, the waiters hovering politely around the perimeter. Marcus insisted on paying and walked her to the elevator. There, on the tiled floor, beneath a dazzling chandelier, he took her in his arms and held her closer than was technically proper. “Elizabeth.”
She let herself relax in his arms. Will. Won’t. Marcus sighed. She felt his lips graze the side of her neck, but she knew that he wouldn’t push it, that it was up to her. Her call. Her move.
Lizzie tilted forward, pressing her breasts against his chest. She twined her arms around his neck, and rose on tiptoe, her lips brushing his ear. “Want to come up with me?” she whispered, and he hesitated for just an instant before he said, “Okay.”
The elevator doors slid open. They stepped into the mirrored chamber . . . and then Lizzie was in his arms, her hips pressing against his, and his tongue was in her mouth and his hands were on her breasts, molding them, caressing them, sighing, as if he’d been starving and now, finally, he had food.
The doors opened. Hand in hand, they hurried down the hallway. In the room, the bed was turned down, the television set standing proudly erect, having emerged from the sheath of its case. “It wasn’t like that when I left,” Lizzie said, and Marcus laughed. She closed her eyes, overcome, as the sound of it rippling through her.
Then they tumbled onto the bed, and there, rolling on the covers, with his mouth, hot and insistent, over hers, she was twenty-five again, twenty-five and just meeting a tall, sleekly blond attorney who’d slid a martini, her first martini, on the bar in front of her and said, Try this, you’ll like it. Two hours later, she’d gone home with him. She’d been in grad school, and he’d been out with friends, and she’d never done that, never met a guy in a bar and slept with him that same night, not before and not after.
On the hotel bed, Lizzie closed her eyes, running her hands down the smooth length of his back, hearing herself make sounds she hadn’t made since labor. Just this, she thought. Just kissing. Just this is all the sweetness I need to hold me, to get me through what’s coming . . . plus, he’s fifty. Maybe he can’t anymore. But then Marcus lay on top of her, and it was very evident that, even at fifty, he could.
He bent his bright head to her breasts. She felt his tongue working against her, and wondered if he sucked, whether there would be milk, and how it would taste. I love you, she thought, astonished at the sweetness of it, pulsing through her with her heartbeat. I’ll always love you. She felt him poised against her, breathing hard and trembling, the tip of his cock hot and slick but waiting, again, for it to be her choice. Lizzie twisted her hips and felt him slip inside of her.
Afterward, lying spent and flushed beside him, she said, That was lovely, and he smiled lazily, one hand still between her legs, saying, I want to watch you come again.
At three in the morning, when one or the other of the twins usually woke up, she pulled the crisp white cover up to his chin, and bent to deposit a gentle
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