Suzanne Forster - The Arrangement

“Did you say something?” He knocked again.

Before she could answer, the door opened, and there he was, forcing her to turn away and quickly shimmy into her dress. She pulled the material up and tied the jeweled halter strings. No time to do up the back.

“What do you need?” she asked, tugging various things into place as she turned around.

He seemed amused at the speed with which she was moving, twisting and tying. “Can I help?” he asked.

“It would help if you’d respect my privacy.”

“I thought you said to come in.”

She heaved a sigh. “Just tell me what you want. I need to finish getting ready.”

“This.” He pointed to the onyx tie bar that hung lopsided on the diagonal pinstripes of his tan-and-white tie. “I’m going cross-eyed trying to get it straight.”

“You don’t look cross-eyed.” She gave herself a moment to look into his eyes and wonder about the soul that resided in those dark windows.

“Did I buy this tie for you?” she asked him.

“No, it was a gift, but not from you.”

“Good,” she murmured, “otherwise, I would have been questioning my taste.”

“What’s wrong with my tie?”

She stepped back, ignoring his mock indignation. “The tie bar is straight. Now, let me see the whole look.”

She twirled her finger, and he turned around, his smile sardonic. “Do I look fat?”

His sand-colored blazer and slacks looked fabulous, as always. He was a meticulous dresser no matter what he wore, but the dark shimmer of intrigue that resided in his eyes, and his windblown hair, banished any notion of fussiness. He could have been a blood-and-guts hooligan on a soccer field, except that his sport was sailing. Instead of scars, he had a year-round tan and a certain unkempt elegance.

She straightened her bare shoulders, trying to hold the dress in place. The halter ties had loosened, and the back of the dress was gaping open.

“Let me help you with that.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, a stern note to his voice. “Turn around.”

She did, and felt his fingers purling down her spine as he fastened the buttons. She steeled herself against any desire she might have to shiver—and prayed the splotches wouldn’t return. But the featherlight contact was wildly stimulating, and no amount of control could stop her pulse from becoming fast and thready.

Was this why he’d chosen the dress? So he could help her with it? If so, it must be part of the happily married couple act—and he was damn convincing. No one watching them would have known that before this trip he couldn’t stand to look at her, much less touch her.

The buttons went down to the small of her back. When he’d done them all, she turned and saw that he’d taken the gold mesh belt off the hanger.

She was still vibrating as she reached for it.

He didn’t release it. “You didn’t buy the tie, but I did buy this dress,” he said. “And I insist.”

“You bought the dress?” She knew nothing about that. He must be talking about before the accident. “I really am able to dress myself,” she said. “I can handle the belt and the rest of it, thanks.”

He touched her hair, and she froze. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he said.

“Don’t kiss me, don’t even think about it. It’s not happening.”

The look of disbelief on his face gradually transformed into a faint smile. “Actually, I was thinking about it.”

“Well, think about my knee kissing your balls. Think about that.”

The belt hit the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

She touched the sink to steady herself. For a moment it was hard to breathe. What was wrong with her? She just couldn’t do this. She couldn’t casually play this lover’s game, and she hated that he could. None of this was affecting him the way it was affecting her. He wasn’t vulnerable, wasn’t shaking inside the way she was.

“I came here with you,” she said. “I agreed to that, but I never agreed to make out with you.”

He nodded slowly, as if he was just coming to understand some things about her. “You don’t even want me close to you, do you?”

“I guess it must be hard for you to grasp that a woman exists who wouldn’t want you close.”

“Jesus, Alison, I’m just trying to get clear on what you want.”

“Don’t take it personally,” she said. “Let’s do what we came to do and leave this place. I don’t want to be here.”

There was a moment when she thought he was going to say something, do something besides pick up the belt and drop it on the counter.

“You’re calling the shots,” he said as he left the room.

She shut the door behind him, wondering why she couldn’t have talked to him in civil terms, why she’d had to be so cutting. And why she was so angry still. The solution was simple. If they had to act like lovers in public, that was one thing, but there was no reason to keep up the pretense in private. She didn’t want sham intimacy from a man who was pretending not to be repulsed by her.

It was five after seven when Alison and Andrew walked out onto the terrace off the living room. The slate deck swept out over the ocean, and in the distance the horizon was as silvery bright as the setting sun.

The terrace was beautiful, almost beyond Alison’s ability to describe. Billowing ferns and banana trees shaded the wrought-iron furniture and the ornamental arches. Fountains splashed from deep pools of mosaic tiles set in swirls of blue and green. But Alison had no idea whether she was supposed to remember it or whether it was part of her mother’s massive renovation.

Only Rebecca was there to greet them, and she seemed flustered as she rushed over. “Julia’s running a little late,” she explained. “Can I get you a pisco sour? We’re having Peruvian food tonight, and the sours are luscious. They’re made with grape brandy and lime juice.”

“Make mine a virgin,” Andrew said.

Rebecca looked surprised, but he didn’t explain.

“Make mine a double,” Alison said, surprising her again.

As Rebecca went over to the bar, she gestured toward a granite-topped sideboard laden with bowls of seviche, colorful salsas and platters of mussels and other seafood. “Help yourself.”

Andrew waited, letting Alison go to the sideboard by herself. They hadn’t spoken two words since their face-off in the bathroom. Silence was the norm in their relationship. She’d even thought of it as a conspiracy of silence, but they rarely fought, and that had put a different edge on things. She had no idea what to expect, but she wasn’t backing down.

She tried a chunk of braised grouper with some spicy salsa that brought tears to her eyes. Luckily, Rebecca returned quickly with a tray of drinks. She served Alison a foamy, pale yellow sour, and then gave Andrew his virgin. The sour tasted like limeade with a donkey’s kick.

“How do you like the terrace?” she asked Alison.

“Breathtaking.” Alison went to admire a graceful iron crane that was taller than she was. “This sculpture in particular. I wonder where my mother found it.”

Rebecca hesitated. A nervous smile surfaced. “Oh, but that piece isn’t actually new. It’s been in the family for years, I believe. It may even be an heirloom.”

Alison gasped. “Oh, of course. I must be conf—Everything’s so different.”

Andrew wandered over and looked at the sculpture from another angle. “Why does it remind me of the iron piece in the foyer?” he said. “Does Julia collect Oriental cranes?”

“Well, yes, she does.” Rebecca set down the tray of drinks and helped herself to one. “Her mother did, too, I believe.”