Jeffery Deaver - Praying for Sleep

Then she remembered Tom Wheeler.

How old had they been? Twelve or thirteen probably, both of them. One fall afternoon-maybe November, like tonight-the skinny red-haired boy had shown up in the yard. Portia strolled outside and they sat on the back steps. She managed simultaneously to both ignore and converse with him, teasing mercilessly. Finally he suggested that they go to the state park. “Why?” she asked. “I dunno,” he responded. “Hang out, you know. Got the new Jefferson Airplane.” He nodded lethargically at an eight-track-tape player at his feet. She told him no, she didn’t want to, but a moment later she disappeared into the house and returned with a blanket.

He started for the state park.

“Uh-uh,” Portia announced. “This way.”

And led him to the vegetable garden. Here she spread the blanket in partial view of the house and lay down, kicking off her Keds and stretching sumptuously. But somebody might see, he protested. Somebody could be watching right now! She placed his hand on her breast and he stopped worrying about voyeurs. Portia lay on her back, surrounded by slug-chewed pumpkins and short blond cornstalks. Tommy beside her, covering her hot mouth with his; she had to breathe for long stretches through her nose. She now recalled smelling this same scent of wet, late fall. Drowsy flies strafed them. Finally, confusing him by not protesting, she allowed his pale, freckled hand to pass the elastic barrier. He glanced at the windows of the house then jabbed with a shaking finger, leaving inside her a glow of pain and on her bare hip a large wet spot that matched the one spreading across the front of his dungarees.

They lay awkwardly, side by side, for a few minutes then he suddenly whispered, “I think there’s somebody there.”

Though he’d said that only to escape and he rose quickly and vanished down the driveway. Hearing the resonant guitar licks fade, Portia grew dizzy as she watched the thick clouds pass overhead and wondered about the mysteries of bodies. She spent a long time unsuccessfully trying to convince herself to feel bad that he’d fled.

Portia now realized, with a twist in her belly, that it was not this memory of speedy Tommy Wheeler at all that was so troubling. It was Indian Leap.

She had almost not accompanied her sister and brother-in-law on the picnic. She had no interest in the out-of-doors, no interest in state parks-especially the park to which she’d been dragged by teachers on tedious field trips and in which she later spent hours gazing at treetops, as she lay beneath boyfriends, or friends of boyfriends, or sometimes strangers.

No, it was essentially a decision by default. She was fed up with the quiet anxiety of solo life in Manhattan: The dinners of turkey sandwiches and coleslaw. The companionship of rented movies. The tired come-ons in bars and at parties, delivered as if the men actually thought she hadn’t heard it all a thousand times before. Socializing with lean, ponytailed girlfriends who’d discard you in an instant if doing so moved them an inch closer to a Better Job or an Available Man.

So, on that May 1, she’d reluctantly packed bagels and lox and cream cheese and magazines and bikini and sunscreen. She endured the surly rent-a-car clerk, she endured the traffic, she endured the tense company of the poor, shy Claire. She suffered through all the stress of a day in the country. Yet there was one aspect of the trip that didn’t require enduring. Robert Gillespie, Portia thought at first, was hardly a catch. As she sat in the back of his 4x4 with Lis and Claire, en route to Indian Leap, she reviewed his ledger and came up mostly with debits: only marginally cute, fifteen pounds overweight, too smooth, too pompous, too talkative, a wife who was a complete cipher.

There was, Portia realized, no logical basis for finding him irresistible. But irresistible he was. While Lis had dozed in the back of the truck and while dull Dorothy liberally applied her oh-puh-leaze red nail polish, Robert deluged Portia with questions. Where did she live, did she like the city, did she know this or that restaurant, did she like her job? It was all a come-on. Of course it was. But still… And his liquid eyes danced with excitement as they talked. Portia recalled thinking helplessly, Oh, it’s true: seduce my mind and my body will follow.

By the time they arrived at the park, Portia L’Auberget was his for the asking.

As they walked along the path from the parking lot to the car, he glanced at her running shoes and discreetly asked-in a way that was both intimate and lighthearted-if they might take a run together.

She responded, “Maybe.”

He took this to mean yes. “Let me leave before you,” he whispered. “Then I’ll meet you near the old cave. Give me ten minutes. Then follow me.”

“Maybe.”

When they got to the beach she appraised her power over him and decided not to abdicate a single bit of it. She did a few fast stretches then jogged away first, blatantly ignoring him. She ran a half mile to the secluded gully he’d mentioned. Past the cave was a stand of pine trees, beneath which was an inviting nest of soft needles, some green, some ruddy. Portia sat on a nearby rock, wondering if he’d join her. Maybe he’d retaliate for her defiance by remaining with his wife and Lis. She’d certainly have more respect for him if he did. Yet Portia L’Auberget had no particular desire, or need, to respect men, especially men like Robert Gillespie, and decided he fucking well better show; she’d make his day miserable if he didn’t. She examined the small clearing, which was gloomy and shadowed by the steep walls of pale rock rising on either side of the trees. Overhead the sky had turned heavily overcast. Much less romantic, she reflected, than a Club Med beach in Curaçao or Nassau. On the other hand there were no condoms littering the ground here.

She scooted from the rock to the needle bed, separated from sight of the clearing by a tall line of bushes and young hemlocks. A half hour passed, then forty minutes, and finally Robert came jogging toward her. He caught his breath and earned many points by not saying a word to Portia about disregarding his instructions. He was studying his chest, pouting.

She laughed. “What?”

“My wife says I’m getting tits.” Portia pulled off her T-shirt and sports bra. “Let’s compare.”

They rolled back under the pine trees. Robert kissed her firmly, stroking her bare nipples with the backs of his hands. He closed his fingers around hers and placed them on her breasts. She began fondling herself while his tongue slid down to her navel then continued to her thighs and knees. He remained there, teasing, until Portia finally seized his head in both hands and directed it firmly between her legs. Her thighs rose as her head pressed back hard into the pine bed, needles fixing themselves in her sweat-damp hair. Staring through half-closed lids at the speeding clouds she gasped for breath. He rolled on top of her, and their mouths met hard, brutally. He had just entwined her legs around his waist and was thrusting into her savagely when a branch snapped near their heads.

Claire walked out of a stand of trees and stopped, frozen, six feet from them. Her hand rose to her mouth in shock.

“Oh, my God,” Portia shouted.

“Claire, honey…” Robert began, as he rolled to his knees.

Claire, speechless, stared at his groin. Portia remembered thinking, My God, she’s eighteen. This can’t be her first hard-on.

It took a moment for Robert to recover some wits and he looked frantically for his shirt or shorts. As the girl’s eyes remained fixed on him, Portia watched the young blonde. This curious à trois voyeurism aroused her all the more. Robert grabbed his shirt and wrapped the knit garment about his waist, abashed and grinning. Portia didn’t move. Then Claire choked a sob and turned, running past the cave and back up the path.