Brian Garfield - Necessity

Into the phone she says quietly, “By the way, do you remember Stan what-was-his-name, the one who published those fashion magazines?”

“I remember him.” Diane’s voice has gone chill. “What about him?”

“I just got a glimpse of somebody who looks just like him,” she lies. “Do you ever see him any more?”

“No.” Very curt now.

“Too bad. Must have been terrific while it lasted. They say he’s a real stud.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Sure you would. You used to meet him in the afternoons in that apartment he keeps on the floor above his offices. You had what they call a torrid affair with him for nearly a year. It always amazed me Jack never found out about it.”

Diane’s voice is nearly inaudible now. “How’d you know about that?”

“I did print work up there before we all met. I saw you in the building several times. You didn’t know me then-you wouldn’t have recognized me.”

“You never said anything …”

“I know how Jack is about that sort of thing.”

“He’d break my arms and legs. Just for openers.”

“You must have known that when you were seeing the guy.”

“Of course I did. But that was part of the fun of it. I mean, nothing’s fun if you don’t take a few chances, right? I mean, right now you’re taking a hell of a chance just calling me on the telephone-you know that.”

“I’m pretty sure you won’t tell anybody about it. You won’t mention I called. You haven’t heard from me at all.”

“Well of course, Matty. If that’s what you want.”

“If Bert finds me because of anything you might let drop-I hate to do this, dear, but you understand I might have to talk to Jack about you and Stan.”

There’s a beat of silence; an audible indrawn breath; finally Diane says, “I see.”

“I thought you’d understand. I’ll probably call again sometime.” She puts on a Texas drawl: “You have fun now, y’hear?” And hangs up.

Turning away from the phone she’s feeling bleak and angry with herself. All right: you were never truly friends; you never liked Diane. World’s largest aggregation of expensive make-up. Brings a whole new meaning to the word “shallow.” Always primping in mirrors. Flirting with anything in pants-including Bert-whenever she was out of Jack’s sight and thought she could get away with it.

All the same it’s a cheap shot: a shabby way to treat a woman who’s never done you any harm.

But it’ll keep her quiet. And you’ve accomplished what you came here to do: you’ve confirmed that Ellen is at the cabin.

She looks up at the airport clock. Forty minutes to spare before the flight to San Francisco.

She’s thinking: Charlie, you may not be a cop with three adorable kids but I do believe you’re big enough to dismantle Bert by hand. Question is, would you have the guts for it?

39The feel of his body is good. He’s as accomplished a lover as she might have expected: relaxed, confident.

She could close her eyes and imagine anyone. Replace Charlie in her fantasies with someone else. But she doesn’t want to. She covets no one but Charlie.

She knows it is a perilous way to feel. The danger signals are up; these qualms are sounding the alarm.

At the moment she just doesn’t care.

She watches him, watches everything he does. She wants his hands and his mouth to be all over her. It’s been so long since …

But finally there’s no more time for languid reflection. Accelerating sensation whirls her. She’s losing her bearings. Afraid at first; but she abandons herself to it and rising ardor becomes a hungering breathless impatience: she craves him with an unsuspected greedy voraciousness.

She hears herself cry out, full voice. It is an impetuous sound of vehement joy: the frenzied triumph of an escape to freedom.

Climax.

“Oh God, Charlie. Oh God.”

On the plane to Chicago he’s businesslike: plans, routes, timing. But then impulsively he seizes her hand, kisses her fingertips, gives her an astonishingly shy smile.

Christ, this is no good. What have I got myself into?

The steward comes by, topping up coffee cups, and the captain’s voice blares from what sounds like a torn speaker: “For you passengers on the right side of the plane, we’ve got Lake Tahoe coming up a few miles to the south in just about a minute here.”

She says, “Story of my life. I’m always on the wrong side of the plane to see anything.”

“I’ll fly you over Tahoe any time. After we get back.”

It makes her look away. Broken clouds below the window; the mountains are a deep green, almost black.

He says, “You still haven’t told me why you went and changed your hair. I liked it better before.”

She is thinking: what if I level with him? Why not tell him the truth? The whole truth and nothing but the truth. Charlie’ll listen. He’ll understand.

She turns to look at him. He’s got his nose in his coffee. She studies his face. Her scrutiny draws his attention, then his frown. He says, “What’s the matter, my pretty?”

She shakes her head in reply and looks out the window again.

I’ll tell him, she decides. But after Ellen’s free and safe.

Connections are not the best and it is after dark by the time they arrive in Plattsburgh. And it’s starting to rain.

They check into a Holiday Inn as Mr. and Mrs. Charles Reid. Her pulse is racing-not because of the deception at the registration desk but because Ellen is hardly thirty miles from here and by tomorrow night at this time with a little luck it all will be accomplished: reunited and the dangers behind them.

If all goes well.

He carries the bags into the room and kicks the door shut behind him. “We mustn’t keep meeting like this.” He sets the bags down. “Lovey dove, you want to get a drink and some dinner or do you just want to get laid?”

Sex ought to be the farthest thing from her mind right now. So many details to think about …

She reaches for his hand. “Undress me. We can eat and drink later.”

It’s an atavistic hunger. She can’t remember feeling this way before. She can’t get enough of him. They make love before dinner and again after dinner; and with the dawn she’s at him again, pestering him until he wakes up laughing and takes her in the massive circle of his arms.

But it’s subdued this time and as she lies beside him catching her breath she recognizes the thing that has been disturbing her: the rattle of a hard steady rain on the roof overhead.

He peels the blind back from the window. It’s sheeting down out there. Reaching for the phone he gives her a glance expressive of quizzical distaste.

He talks and listens, hangs it up and leaves his hand at rest on the cradled receiver. He glances at her. “Stationary low. The front’s stalled right here.”

“Then we can’t fly today.”

“Not even a balloon.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“God knows. What happens if we can’t fly until the weekend?”

“I don’t know. Probably Bert and his crowd will arrive from the city Thursday afternoon. For the long weekend.”

“So it’ll be harder to take Wendy out of there.”

Feeling absurdly unconcerned she says, “But it’s only Wednesday morning. It can’t rain forever. Come here.”

He doesn’t move. He sits on the edge of the bed with one hand propped stiff-arm against the phone; he’s looking down at her over his shoulder and he says, “I feel as if I’ve wandered into one of those one-act plays that nobody understands. It’s time for you to trust me.”

“What do you want me to do?”