Arthur Hailey - Wheels

He had still not told Barbara of his own decision, made in Los Angeles, or spoken of his future plans. Brett knew that if he did, they would talk until morning, and talk was not what he wanted most tonight.

Then urgent desire, reciprocated, wiped out all other thoughts.

Afterward, again lying quietly, contentedly, beside each other, Barbara said, "If you like, I'll tell you something."

"Go ahead."

She sighed. "If I'd known it was as wonderful as this, I wouldn't have waited so long."

Erica Trenton's affair with Pierre Flodenhale had begun early in June. It started shortly after their first encounter, when the young race driver accompanied Adam Trenton home, following the weekend cottage party at Higgins Lake.

A few days after that Sunday night, Pierre telephoned Erica and suggested lunch. She accepted. They met next day at an out-of-the-way restaurant in Sterling Heights.

A week later they met again and this time, after lunch, drove to a motel where Pierre had already checked in. With a minimum of fuss, they got into bed where Pierre proved an entirely satisfactory sex partner, so that when she went home, late that afternoon, Erica felt better, physically and mentally, than she had in months.

Through the remainder of June, and well into July, they continued to meet at every opportunity, both in daytime and during evenings, the latter when Adam had told Erica in advance that he would be working late.

For Erica the occasions were blissful sexual fulfillments of which she had been deprived far too long. She also relished Pierre's youth and freshness, as well as being excited herself by his lusty pleasure in her body.

Their meetings were sharply in contrast with the single assignation she had had, months earlier, with the salesman, Ollie. When Erica thought about that experience - though she preferred not to - it was with disgust at herself for letting it happen, even though she had been physically frustrated, to the point of desperation, at the time.

There was no desperation now. Erica had no idea how long the affair between herself and Pierre would last, though she knew it would never be more than an affair for either of them, and someday would inevitably end. But for the moment she was enjoying herself uninhibitedly and so, it seemed, was Pierre.

The enjoyment gave each of them a sense of confidence which led, in turn, to a carelessness about being seen together in public.

One of their favorite evening meeting places was in the pleasant colonial surroundings of the Dearborn Inn, where the service was friendly and good. Another attraction at the Dearborn Inn was a cottage - one of several on the grounds - a faithful replica of the one-time home of Edgar Allan Poe. Downstairs, the Poe cottage had two cozy rooms and a kitchen; upstairs, a tiny bedroom under the roof. The upstairs and downstairs portions were self-contained, and rented separately to Inn guests.

On two occasions when Adam was away from Detroit, Pierre Flodenhale occupied the lower portion of the Poe cottage, while Erica checked in upstairs. When the main outside door was locked, it was nobody's business who went up or down the inside staircase.

Erica so loved the historic little cottage, with its antique furnishings, that once she lay back in bed and exclaimed, "What a perfect place for lovers! It ought not to be used for anything else."

"Uh, huh," had been all that Pierre had said, which pointed up his lack of conversation and, in fact, a general absence of interest in anything not connected with motor racing or directly involving sex. About racing, Pierre could, and did converse animatedly and at length. But other subjects bored him. Confronted with current affairs, politics, the arts - which Erica tried to talk about sometimes - he either yawned or fidgeted like a restless boy whose attention could not be held for more than seconds at a time. Occasionally, and despite all the satisfying sex, Erica wished their relationship could be more rounded.

Around the time that the wish was developing into a mild irritation with Pierre, an item linking their names appeared in the Detroit News.

It was in the daily column of Society Editor Eleanor Breitmeyer, whom many considered the best society writer in North American newspaperdom.

Almost nothing which went on in the Motor City's social echelons escaped Miss Breitmeyer's intelligence, and her comment read:

Handsome, debonair race driver Pierre Flodenhale and young and beautiful Erica Trenton - wife of auto product planner Adam - continue to relish each other's company. Last Friday, lunching tete-a-tete at the Steering Wheel, neither, as usual, had as much as a glance for anyone else.

The words on the printed page were a startling jolt to Erica. Her first flustered thought as she read them was of the thousands of people in Greater Detroit - including friends of herself and Adam - who would also see and talk about the column item before the day was out. Suddenly, Erica wanted to run into a closet and hide. She realized how incredibly careless she and Pierre had been, as if they were courting exposure, but now it had happened she wished desperately they hadn't.

The News items appeared in late July - a week or so before the Trentons' dinner with Hank Kreisel and their visit to his Grosse Pointe home.

The evening the item was published, Adam had brought the Detroit News home, as he usually did, and the two of them shared it, in sections, while having martinis before dinner.

While Erica had the women's section, which included Society, Adam was leafing through the front news portion. But Adam invariably looked over the entire paper systematically, and Erica dreaded his attention turning to the section she was holding.

She decided it would be a mistake to remove any part of the newspaper from the living room because, however casually she did it, Adam would probably notice.

Instead, Erica went to the kitchen and served dinner immediately, taking a chance that the vegetables were done. They weren't, but when Adam came to the table he still hadn't opened any of the newspaper's back sections.

After dinner, returning to the living room, Adam opened his briefcase as usual and began work. When Erica had cleared the dining room, she came in, collected Adam's coffee cup, straightened some magazines and picked up the pieces of newspaper, putting them together to take out.

Adam had looked up. "Leave the paper. I haven't finished,"

She spent the remainder of the evening on a knife edge of suspense.

Pretending to read a book, Erica watched covertly each move which Adam made. When at last he snapped his briefcase closed, her tension mounted until, to Erica's unbelievable relief, he went upstairs to bed, apparently forgetting the newspaper entirely. She hid the paper then, and burned it next day.

But burning a single copy would not, she knew, prevent someone else showing the item to Adam or referring to it in conversation, which amounted to the same thing. Obviously, many on Adam's staff, and others he associated with, had read or been told about the juicy piece of gossip, so for the next few days Erica lived in nervous expectation that when Adam came home he would bring the subject up.

One thing she was sure of: If Adam learned of the item in the News, Erica would know. Adam never dodged an issue, nor was he the kind of husband who would form a judgment without giving his wife the chance to state her case. But nothing was said, and when a week had gone by Erica started to relax. Afterward, she suspected what happened was that everyone assumed Adam knew, and hence avoided the subject out of consideration or embarrassment. For whatever reason, she was grateful.