Read Online The Spirit Wood by Robert Masello - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Masello
Ads: Link
a golden dish shaped like a seashell. “Why don't you?” he said, and Meg laughed again. “No, really,” he insisted. “There are towels, soap, everything you'd need. It's almost as if you were expected to. And anyway, this is our house; we might as well enjoy it while we've got it.”
Meg smiled and bit her lower lip, like a child contemplating a raid on the cookie jar, and swished her hand through the frothing hot water. “Is there time, you think?”
“I think we're staying for dinner.”
“It's an awfully big tub,” she said, suggestively,without looking up at him. “Easily big enough for two people at once.”
Peter felt a tiny tingling sensation in his stomach; it was so funny, he thought, reacting this way to a harmless proposition from his own wife. And perplexing, too. How long was this going to go on, he wondered. How long was he going to want her, without feeling able to take her? He could already feel that tightening in his crotch, not of arousal, but of nervousness. He knew that the longer he let things go on like this, the harder it would be to get them back to normal again. But he couldn't face the possibility—not just now, not when they'd had such an otherwise successful day together—of blowing it; he wanted to hang onto the day and its small triumphs. Driving the car again. Holding hands in the gazebo. Exploring the grounds together, discovering the phallic mascot on the back lawn. It was so rare now that he felt this close to her, so much in sync, that he didn't want to risk disrupting it . . . even for something that he knew she needed so much. Something that he needed, too. She had kicked off her espadrilles and rolled back one sleeve of her shirt; the water was swirling just below her bared elbow now.
“I only thought it might be fun,” said Meg, almost apologetically. “I had no . . . other plans, honey. I only thought it might be fun.”
“You go ahead,” he said, more urgently than he'd intended. “I don't feel like getting all undressed. But you go ahead. I'll just do a little more exploring.” He left quickly, so he wouldn't have to see the disappointment in her face.
Five
T HEY PASSED THE remainder of the afternoon apart, Meg soaking in the tub, then, wrapped in a blanket she'd found in the closet, basking on the terrace in the last rays of the sun; Peter disappeared into the private study Leah had pointed out, where he found a worn, green leather armchair, a large desk whose drawers were filled with incomprehensible business papers and records, and two walls of built-in bookshelves. Most of the books were standard fare, from Sidney Sheldon to William Shirer, but beneath a darkened oil painting of a rustic landscape—it appeared to be very old, but Peter could find no date or signature on it—there was a smaller bookcase. Its latticed shutters covered dozens of leather-bound volumes and sets, some with gilt edges, some crumbling and held together with tape and string. This case, Peter discovered, was locked, and even after looking in all the likely hiding places—under the glass paperweight on the desk, in the thermidor on a nearby shelf, inside the copper vase on the windowsill—he couldn't find the key. Leah, he figured, would know where it was; which reminded him—he ought to find her and tell her they'd be staying for dinner, after all.
He'd found her downstairs, arranging cheese and fruit on a wide ceramic platter. When he said they'd be happy to accept her dinner invitation, if it still held,and mentioned that Meg in the meantime had been unable to resist trying out the sunken tub, she smiled and accepted both bits of news as if she'd never doubted either for a moment. Her fingers continued to nimbly wash and dry and arrange the fruits; Peter wasn't so much piqued as puzzled at her confidence in her own ability to predict the actions of what amounted to perfect strangers. He felt a little . . . transparent. When she asked what time they'd like to dine, his
Meg smiled and bit her lower lip, like a child contemplating a raid on the cookie jar, and swished her hand through the frothing hot water. “Is there time, you think?”
“I think we're staying for dinner.”
“It's an awfully big tub,” she said, suggestively,without looking up at him. “Easily big enough for two people at once.”
Peter felt a tiny tingling sensation in his stomach; it was so funny, he thought, reacting this way to a harmless proposition from his own wife. And perplexing, too. How long was this going to go on, he wondered. How long was he going to want her, without feeling able to take her? He could already feel that tightening in his crotch, not of arousal, but of nervousness. He knew that the longer he let things go on like this, the harder it would be to get them back to normal again. But he couldn't face the possibility—not just now, not when they'd had such an otherwise successful day together—of blowing it; he wanted to hang onto the day and its small triumphs. Driving the car again. Holding hands in the gazebo. Exploring the grounds together, discovering the phallic mascot on the back lawn. It was so rare now that he felt this close to her, so much in sync, that he didn't want to risk disrupting it . . . even for something that he knew she needed so much. Something that he needed, too. She had kicked off her espadrilles and rolled back one sleeve of her shirt; the water was swirling just below her bared elbow now.
“I only thought it might be fun,” said Meg, almost apologetically. “I had no . . . other plans, honey. I only thought it might be fun.”
“You go ahead,” he said, more urgently than he'd intended. “I don't feel like getting all undressed. But you go ahead. I'll just do a little more exploring.” He left quickly, so he wouldn't have to see the disappointment in her face.
Five
T HEY PASSED THE remainder of the afternoon apart, Meg soaking in the tub, then, wrapped in a blanket she'd found in the closet, basking on the terrace in the last rays of the sun; Peter disappeared into the private study Leah had pointed out, where he found a worn, green leather armchair, a large desk whose drawers were filled with incomprehensible business papers and records, and two walls of built-in bookshelves. Most of the books were standard fare, from Sidney Sheldon to William Shirer, but beneath a darkened oil painting of a rustic landscape—it appeared to be very old, but Peter could find no date or signature on it—there was a smaller bookcase. Its latticed shutters covered dozens of leather-bound volumes and sets, some with gilt edges, some crumbling and held together with tape and string. This case, Peter discovered, was locked, and even after looking in all the likely hiding places—under the glass paperweight on the desk, in the thermidor on a nearby shelf, inside the copper vase on the windowsill—he couldn't find the key. Leah, he figured, would know where it was; which reminded him—he ought to find her and tell her they'd be staying for dinner, after all.
He'd found her downstairs, arranging cheese and fruit on a wide ceramic platter. When he said they'd be happy to accept her dinner invitation, if it still held,and mentioned that Meg in the meantime had been unable to resist trying out the sunken tub, she smiled and accepted both bits of news as if she'd never doubted either for a moment. Her fingers continued to nimbly wash and dry and arrange the fruits; Peter wasn't so much piqued as puzzled at her confidence in her own ability to predict the actions of what amounted to perfect strangers. He felt a little . . . transparent. When she asked what time they'd like to dine, his