After I hung up with Kit I poured myself a large glass of wine from an open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the dining room sideboard. I took it into the library, along with Leland’s .45, and set them both on the coffee table next to the sofa. The next thing I knew someone was pounding on my front door.
I picked up the gun next to my untouched glass of wine and walked slowly into the foyer.
“Lucie! Open up in there. Are you okay? Answer the door, and for God’s sake, don’t shoot me if you’ve got that damn gun!”
Quinn. I lowered my arm, dizzy with relief, and flung open the door.
“What are you doing here? You scared the wits out of me!”
He was holding a couple of white bags. The appealing aroma of Chinese food filled the air. He’d gone to the new place in Leesburg.
“How come you didn’t answer my calls? Next time pick up, will you? And you could have told me you started locking your front door.”
“What calls?” I let him in. The food smelled wonderful. “And I’m fine.”
He pointed to the gun. “Yeah, I can see everything’s just great. You forgot to charge your phone again, didn’t you? Bet you didn’t eat yet, either. Your face has funny creases on it. I woke you up.”
I brushed my fingers across my cheeks and felt for creases. “Who are you, my mother? And my phone is”—I felt in my pocket—“somewhere.”
“Where somewhere? Carry it with you, okay? That’s what it’s for.”
It drove him nuts when I forgot my phone, which I often did, but the level of anxiety in his voice made me uneasy. He was right. It was dumb not to have the phone with me at all times, under the circumstances.
“It’s probably in my car. And I think it needs to be charged,” I said, as he looked exasperated. “What’s in the bags?”
“Shrimp with snow peas for you.” He handed it to me and I peered inside. “Kung Pao chicken for me. Bon appétit.”
“Wait. You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I was gonna check things in the barrel room.”
“And eat by yourself?”
“You, uh, want to eat together?”
Why are men so dense about these things?
“We could make a fire in the parlor. I think there’s a really good Saint-Estèphe in Leland’s wine cellar.”
Quinn handed me his bag. “I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the carriage house to get some firewood,” he said. “Where’d you think?”
He was gone a long time, longer than it took to get a few logs. Our dinner was growing cold and my heart started up like war drums.
He met me at the front door, arms full of firewood, his eyes traveling to the .45, which I again held in my hand.
“Put that thing away before you shoot somebody,” he said.
“That’s the general idea of guns.”
“And your phone was in your car. Dead as a doornail. Plug it in and charge it, okay?”
I attached the phone to the charger and put the gun in the cabinet. When I walked into the parlor, he was on his knees in front of the fireplace, sticking fatwood and newspaper between the logs on the grate.
“Do you have any idea how to shoot that gun?” he asked. “I mean, so you hit what you’re aiming at? What made you get it just now? That fox crying? Jeez, Lucie, you’re jumpier than a june bug.”
I sat on the floor next to him and, out of habit, tucked my bad foot underneath me where he wouldn’t see it. “I didn’t hear the fox. You were gone a long time just to get an armful of firewood.”
He got the fire starter from the mantel and lit the newspaper. Without looking at me he said, “I figured I’d check around the house. Antonio’s patrolling the grounds.”
“He is?”
“Yeah.” He hesitated. “We’ve got a couple of guys babysitting the entrance to the vineyard. They’re armed. We’re gonna rotate people on security duty. Days and nights. Figured you’d okay the overtime pay.”
Security guards at the gate? No one had said a word to me.
I swallowed. “Sure. Thanks.”
“How about if I get that bottle of Saint-Estèphe and decant it? And yes, I’m going to check the door in your basement, too. Make sure the dead bolt’s in place.”
When he came back he said, “I forgot what a fabulous wine cellar your old man had. You sure you want to drink this with takeout? Maybe you should save it for a special occasion, you know? Something to celebrate.”
How could I tell him I thought dinner with him was something to celebrate?
“I’m sure.”
He looked at me for a long moment and I held my breath.
“You know, it’s going to take that wine awhile to decant,” he said. “We could stay right here in your nice parlor and enjoy the fire while we wait. Or we could do something else.”
We did something else.
It had been months since the last time, but I no longer cared if he realized how much I’d missed his lovemaking. We began kissing and undressing each other right there in the parlor, dropping our clothes one by one on the grand spiral staircase like a couple of giddy kids. By the time we reached my bedroom we were panting and out of breath. He threw me on the bed and bit my shoulder as he climbed on top of me. I tangled my fingers through his hair and pulled him close. Usually he was tender, but tonight whatever fierce demon possessed him caught fire with me and we weren’t gentle. Tomorrow we’d both be sore and bruised.
I lost track of how many times we made love, except that the ache that gnawed inside me grew deeper each time, a melancholy void that threatened to swallow me up. Why couldn’t we continue what we had before he left for California? Why did things have to change?
After months of abstinence I’d given in without hesitating, thrown away any pride or pretense, like the recovering alcoholic who believes one little drink won’t hurt. But as some poet said, one crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name. I’d had my crowded hour. If I had to lose him, at least we’d had this one last night together.
Later he went downstairs to get the Saint-Estèphe, but it again seemed like a long time before he came back to bed with the decanter and two wineglasses. He’d found his clothes and gotten dressed, but he’d brought only a few of my things—which didn’t include my underwear.
“Everything all right?” I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest as he sat next to me and poured our wine. I touched my hand to his face. “You’re cold. How come you got dressed?”
“Just went outside for a little night air.”
I knew then why he was here. “You’re babysitting me, aren’t you? You and Antonio worked this out. Tonight your turn, tomorrow his. You were checking around the house again.”
“If I catch Antonio in bed with you …” He grinned.
“Don’t.”
He handed me a glass and kissed me. “It’s not what you think.”
“It is what I think. You’re here as my bodyguard, aren’t you?” I set my wine on the nightstand. “That’s the only reason you showed up tonight.”
He took my face in his hands and kissed me for a long time. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”
“I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Let me prove it,” he said, laying me back on the pillows, “so you won’t have any doubts.”
Afterward we lay next to each other in the dark.
“I’ve missed you,” I said.
“I’ve missed you, too.” He rolled over and sat up, turning on the light and reaching for our wineglasses. “Interested in some very cold Chinese food? I’m starved.”
Had he not wanted to continue that conversation, or had sex really made him ravenous?
“Sure.”
We drank in silence, and it was as though I could feel the filaments of the web we had woven together these last few years slowly begin to tear apart.
“What would it take for you to stay on here?” I said.
He stared into his wineglass.
“A partnership? Think about it. Please? I don’t want to lose you, Quinn.”
His smile was full of sadness and regret, but he still didn’t look at me. “This isn’t about you, Lucie. It never was. It’s about me, facing some things from my past that have finally come home to roost. I’ve got to work them out—”
“Work them out here!”
“I can’t.”
“But—”
He laid a finger across my lips. “Not tonight. Please.”
I nodded and he brushed a tear from under my eye.
“About that dinner,” he said.
Later he came back to bed with me, but this time we lay in each other’s arms.
“Get some sleep,” he said into my hair. “You look exhausted.”
I didn’t want to close my eyes. I wanted to remember everything that we did and said to each other and what it felt like to be in his arms again in bed. But wine and lack of sleep the night before and physical exhaustion from our lovemaking finally caught up with me.
I fell asleep and dreamed I was dropping into the abyss.
When I woke up the next morning, I was alone. I could still see the impression of Quinn’s head on my pillow and his body on the sheets, but his clothes were gone. The smell of coffee floated up the staircase. He always made coffee when we spent the night together. I sat up and pulled the wedding ring quilt I used as a bedspread around me.
He appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs. “Morning, sleepyhead. You all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I thought you’d left.” I took the coffee from him. “Then I heard someone on the stairs.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I already talked to Antonio. All quiet last night.”
I nodded. Already our torrid night in bed seemed like it had happened to other people. And Quinn looked ill at ease, a warning sign that maybe he had regrets about what we’d done. I could take anything but his remorse.
“Speaking of talking to people, your cell was ringing when I came downstairs. I brought it with me.” He pulled it out of his jeans pocket. “I wasn’t trying to pry, but you’ve got a missed call from Mick and a message. Kind of early to be calling, so I thought it might be important.” He said it without emotion.
“I have no idea why he’s calling at this hour.”
“Call him back and find out.”
“I’m sure it’s business. Probably something about his vines.” I set the phone on the bedside table and sipped my coffee. As usual he’d made sludge that tasted like rocket fuel. “Good coffee.”
“I didn’t want to make it too strong since I know you prefer that dishwater you drink.”
“It’s not dishwater!”
My phone rang and we both glanced at it at the same time. Mick, calling again. Did he have radar or a hidden camera so he knew to call only when Quinn was around? Quinn picked up the phone and gave it to me.
“Don’t keep the man waiting.”
For the past few months I’d lived a life of total celibacy—not by choice. All of a sudden, one ex-lover spends the night in my bed and the other calls on the phone while he’s there. What are the odds?
“Do you mind?” I hoped Quinn would take the hint and leave.
He had the unfair advantage of being fully dressed while I was naked underneath the quilt. Last night it was erotic. This morning it felt awkward. I was stuck where I was unless I wanted to drag my quilt and my dignity elsewhere.
He crossed his legs. “Not at all. Go right ahead.”
I glared at him, answering the phone in my most brisk, businesslike vineyard owner manner.
“Morning, Mick. You’re calling awfully early. What’s up?”
“Wanted to hear your voice, love. I know you’re an early riser.”
Quinn grinned and I shoved him with my foot. He didn’t budge.
“It’s seven thirty.”
“I know. I’m just off to the stables.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “Do you want to tell me what this is about? You didn’t really call just to hear my voice.”
He laughed and Quinn smirked.
“Lucie.” He sounded reproachful. “So suspicious when my intentions are honorable. I found out that you’re invited to the opening of the Asher Collection at the Library of Congress tomorrow. I thought we might go together.”
Fortunately I hadn’t been in the middle of drinking my coffee. He was calling at this hour about a date?
“How did you know I was invited?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Who told you, Mick?” I wasn’t kidding around.
“Simon. We were talking about it when he came over for dinner last night and your name came up. He wondered if you planned to attend since you never formally replied. I took the liberty of saying yes.” He paused. “Told him I was bringing you.”
I felt a chill pass through me. “Why did he specifically ask about me?”
“We were talking about your cousin,” he said. “So naturally your name came up. How about if I pick you up at half-five tomorrow?”
“Mick …”
“Come on, love. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“What?”
“Tell you tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong with right now? Especially since I’m wide awake.”
“I’d rather do it in person.” He paused. “So, five thirty okay?”
He wasn’t going to give up.
“Sure,” I said. “Five thirty.”
When Quinn was upset a muscle worked in his jaw like he was chewing something. He got up off the bed and went over to the window, but not before I saw that muscle twitch.
I hung up. “Well, that was strange.”
“At least I know you’ll be okay Saturday night,” he said. “Mick’ll take care of you. Maybe even all night.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t say that.”
“You’re right. That was out of line.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Guess I’d better get home and shower and change. Boss’ll expect me at work as usual, no excuses.”
“You could always shower here.” I let the quilt drop away. “With me.”
He caressed my cheek. “Tempting offer, but no thanks. I gotta talk to Antonio and figure out what we’re going to do today.”
“You mean about the vineyard?” My cheeks burned as I gathered the quilt around me again.
“I mean about you.” He walked to the door and turned around. “See you later.”
His work boots clattered on the stairs. The front door opened and closed, followed by the noise of a car starting.
I lay back against my pillows. More filaments in that web were breaking, and soon it would become unmoored from everything we’d built together.
I was losing Quinn. And I had no idea how to stop it from happening.