The Last Book Party(34)
“And this?” Henry said. He lifted my hair and kissed my neck.
“I’m not a total novice,” I said, feeling my face flush as I remembered that the last person I’d kissed was his son. I was tempted to get up and leave, feeling how wrong this was, but Henry, misinterpreting my embarrassment, cupped my face in his hands and said, “It’s OK. We can take it slow.” The expression on his face was so kind and sincere, so uniquely his. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his, kissing him slowly at first, and then ravenously—until without thinking about it, I had climbed on top of him, wrapped my legs around his torso, and dug my fingers into his hair. The look on his face—surprised, amused, a little helpless—was thrilling.
Making love with Henry was something new for me. He was so relaxed and confident, so focused on my pleasure and with showing me what he liked, that I was able to let go in a way that was both more comfortable and exciting than anything I had known before. Afterward, sprawled across the sheets, the blanket kicked to the ground, my body hummed. I slept deeply until dusty beams of afternoon sun shooting through the blinds awakened me. I opened my eyes to see Henry watching me, his expression assuring me this would happen again and again.
With guys my own age, I had worried about being judged as immature or inexperienced. With Henry, I came to realize my youth was no longer a handicap. My youth was power. He loved my skin, my hair, my energy, and I loved his tenderness and generosity. His hands on me, his vision of me, unlocked in me the ability to play the wild young thing. I had never felt so reckless, or so bold. With him, I had a sense of abandon, exhilarated by his joy not only in my essential goodness, but in my willingness to be bad.
I didn’t think of Tillie often, and when I did, I convinced myself I was not guilty. I was critical of her. I told myself she had let this happen by neglecting Henry, by not seeming to care about what he said or wrote or how he spent his days. I held it against her that she didn’t notice how much laughter came from Henry’s office when we were both there, and how frequently we were not.
The more time I spent with Henry, the more I really liked him. We clicked, both physically and intellectually. We talked about books we loved, of course, but also articles he wanted to write. I told him about the stories I had written and the ones I was struggling to finish. He didn’t dismiss my difficulties as proof that I wasn’t destined to be a writer, but gently encouraged me not to give up.
We gossiped about people in Truro. He was surprised by my friendship with Alva, who he insisted was “a bit of a busybody” and “a tad too judgmental,” although he never explained why. Henry loved hearing about my parents and their Truro friends, many of whom were also friends from back home in Newton, a fact that Henry couldn’t fathom.
“So, let me get this straight,” he said one afternoon in his office, looking up from his typewriter. “The Truro Sapersteins with whom your parents dined at the Red Inn last night are one and the same as the Newton Sapersteins with whom they play bridge all winter?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Extraordinary. Baffling.”
It did seem absurd, and yet I came to my parents’ defense.
“C’mon, half the people who come by to play tennis with you are friends from Manhattan,” I said.
“But we rarely see them in New York!” Henry said. “In summer, we mix things up. Throw new people into the pot.” He smiled. “Looking further afield for entertainment makes things much more interesting.”
“You didn’t look far at all,” I said. “I practically fell into your lap.”
He glanced at his office door, which was closed.
“Speaking of laps…”
Henry liked when I teased him, and I never felt more his equal than when he teased me back. On a long walk one afternoon at High Head Beach, I suggested that for the book party he dress as Odysseus, to which he said, “Even I don’t have an ego that big.” I suggested Mr. Blandings, the city slicker who takes on a dilapidated country home. He looked at me with surprise and approval, and said, “Colossal idea, colossal,” which sounded so absurd that I gave him a playful shove and ended up wrestling him onto his back on the sand and straddling him. Squinting up at me, he said I should dress as Scheherazade.
“Because I tell stories?” I said, pinning his hands onto the sand.
He pressed up and flipped me over. “Because you tell stories—and because I want to see you in a harem outfit.”
I knew my affair with Henry was just a summer dalliance. I reveled in the attention and forbidden fun, aware that it would be fleeting. That I had spent the night with Franny, that I had pined for him so pathetically, even though we had hardly even had one meaningful conversation, seemed foolish now. I felt like a different person than the girl who had let Franny enchant her, kiss her, touch her, and leave, as if that was all she had wanted or deserved.
28
Lane was the first to be suspicious.
“What’s with the bounce in your step?” she asked, as I walked into the kitchen one morning. She was sitting on the counter by the sink, in a short skirt and bare legs, kicking her Doc Martens against the wooden cabinets as if she owned the place. Tillie was nowhere to be seen.
“I don’t know, just in a good mood,” I said. I turned away to pour myself some coffee, and then took a long time looking for milk in the refrigerator.