Best Friends (19 page)

“Who
is
it?” he asked in annoyance. She knew he disliked taking business calls without preparation.

“You'll want to talk to
her,
” said Mrs. F. “She's interested in that old Elvis of yours.”

“The
Al
vis,” he said, and not for the first time. He had almost given up correcting her defiant mispronunciation of the German sports car name as “Porsh,” because, as she had pointed out, the same was used on television by every showbiz celebrity who owned one.

When he answered his desk phone, it was Kristin's voice that said, “Mr. Courtright?”

“Yes.”

“Could I look at the car after six today?”

“By all means.”

“Would that be convenient?”

“That will be fine.”

“See you then.”

“Thank you.”

“That didn't take long,” Mrs. Forsythe said. “Short and, I hope, sweet.”

“She wants to take a test drive.”

“Say when?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“I really prefer specific appointments,” said Mrs. F., wrinkling her nose. “But at least that woman phoned on business. You got another call during the few minutes you were downstairs. Somebody named Michelle. She didn't say anything about cars.”

“I'm seeing her socially,” said Roy. “She may be a bit young for me—she's just finishing college—but she's single. She's a very level-headed young woman. She might make a fine wife and mother, but I want to know her better.”

Mrs. Forsythe was beaming at him. “I've never given up hope on you, Roy. Maybe you're finally on the right track. Now get back to your Michelle. She sounded awfully anxious.”

He actually pretended to comply, dialing his home phone and listening to himself on the answering machine. “I'll catch her later,” he told Mrs. F. “She was probably calling between classes.”

Mrs. Forsythe went home at five, reminding him not to forget about Michelle, the idea of whom apparently pleased her.

“‘Michelle, Ma Belle' has always been one of my favorite songs. I won't tell you how old I was when it first came out.”

“You were in kindergarten.”

Lingering in the doorway, she said, “If I were that young, you'd call me Margaret.”

“I call you Mrs. Forsythe to show respect. I'll be glad to call you Margaret.”

“I'd like that. Only not Maggie, please.”

Suddenly she did seem younger. She was not an unattractive woman, with a trim figure and large brown eyes. She was probably no more than fifteen years older than he. But thinking in personal terms of a female employee was distasteful to him.

After her departure he locked the showroom door and turned off all the lights except the one in the office ceiling that burned all night. He decided to wait for Kristin in one of the cars, so that he was not likely to be seen, in a twilit interior, from the street.

The obvious choice was the Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, with its generous back seat, the buttery-leather upholstery of which was so comfortable that he might have dozed off had he been waiting for anyone else. He had had many consecutive nights of normal sleep, which seemed a consequence of physical fitness, but had taken no rest from it lately. The sense of power that came with exercise was genuine but only muscle-deep, and relative to a given situation. That stronger men than he were extant did not bother him. He had never had reason to be an ardent competitor. In the few violent altercations in which he had participated, his purpose was to defend his friends, as in the case of Francine, not to score a victory or defeat an opponent.

Loving Kristin, he could not like Sam, but neither did he wish him ill. At the moment anyway, Roy had succeeded in not thinking, past that moment, of what was to come. He would not even anticipate becoming a better lover.

Eventually he saw Kristin as a silhouette against the light from the declining sun and hastened to the door to let her in.

She was uncharacteristically voluble, beginning to speak before he closed and locked the door. “It was all so sudden, Saturday. I didn't try to make sense of it. The weekend passed in a couple of hours, and there I was back at the bank, with a pile of work postponed or neglected because of Sam's illness, and I don't even remember saying goodbye to you. What kind of person would you think I was, but how and where could I get in touch with you to apologize? Because just saying ‘I'm sorry' would be an insult. Anyhow, I'm not really sorry, but the whole situation is just a fantastic mess and gets worse the more it's thought about. I really do have a demanding job that I worked hard to get and I can't jeopardize it. Then there's Sam. He—”

Roy had meanwhile led her to the Rolls-Royce. She had continued to speak as he joined her in the back seat but fell silent when he cupped her left breast in his hand. It was small as an avocado but of an exquisite shape even when felt through several layers of clothing. He must have seen it on Saturday but had no precise memory of so doing.

Disrobing no further than was necessary, they merged, making real that which for him until now had remained all but imaginary, never more so than after their first embrace three days before. The transition from polite friends to intimate lovers now had a history of seventy-two hours. It was no longer a shocking outrage. What had been shattered was replaced by that which was united. Roy had never suspected that this kind of feeling was available to him, unlocking a door that he had not been aware was closed or even there. He became so much a part of her that their identities were indistinguishable. It was being, not doing, but the climax was a long moment of soaring nonexistence, succeeded gradually by a miraculous serenity on coming to rest in a new world.

“Look at what a mess we're in,” said Kristin, from her crush of clothing. It was a kind of joyous boast.

Roy had rolled onto his back on the leather seat, in the rumpled jacket, shirt, and tie. He was not embarrassed that his trousers yawned open. Nor had Kristin pulled up her underwear.

“We are a sight,” he said happily. He groped for and found a handkerchief, passing it on. “Let's never leave this car.”

He had meant for her to use the handkerchief for her own purposes. Instead she did the most incredibly sweet thing ever done for him by any woman and tenderly dried him off.

By which gesture he was of course aroused again, and once more they joined and lost themselves in each other…. When finally they came back, weary and reluctant, to an awareness that a world of others might still exist, the showroom and the street beyond the big windows had disappeared in darkness. They needed no light to see each other. They were now naked, holding fast, the only life in the universe, her breath in his nostrils, her heart in his hand.

“I've never been in love before,” he said. He was unable sufficiently to express his disbelief. “
Never!
” It was not enough. He kissed her in desperation.

She touched his cheek. “I know.”

“It isn't what
he
thought or thinks. When he accused me, I hadn't even thought of you in that way.”

“Did he give us the idea?”

“God,” said Roy. “I hope not.”

She clutched him with remarkable strength. She was slender and delicate but not fragile. She caressed him in a way more evaluative than erotic, running fine smooth fingers over his torso and the undulations of his far arm.

“What a body
you've
got.”

He assumed from the emphasis that she was quoting him on hers, but he did not remember saying so. “One of the few things I've done in life is keep in shape. Until now, I could not have said why: It just seemed like I ought to, like frequenting women I didn't care about.”

“You won't hear any complaints from me,” Kristin said with a warm mouth against his neck. “However you learned what you do.”

But it was not a technique. “I love you,” he said. “I've never made love before.” She continued to explore his body with sensitive fingertips. “Kristin?”

“I can't get any closer.”

“Where do we go from here?”

Along her spine he could feel the vibration of the soft groan. “I
dread
going home, but I guess I have to.”

“I don't mean now, today. What do we do from here on?”

She reclaimed her hand. They still were sprawled on the rear seat of the Silver Wraith, amid scattered clothing. He heard and felt rather than saw her get dressed. She said, “I can't even think about it at this minute. It's still too soon. It's been too quick. I didn't even know why I came here. I guess it was to try to understand. Now I'm more confused than ever.”

“I'm clearer-headed than I've ever been,” said Roy. “I want you.”

“I believe you've just had me more than once,” Kristin said, with a startling, airy laugh.

“I'm old-fashioned. I want to marry you.”

“But I'm already married.” As if to soften the blow, she leaned over and kissed him languorously.

“Yeah,” said he when she had pulled free. “I can't forget that. I don't know what to do about old Sam.”

“Nothing!” She was almost shrill. “The less he knows, the better.”

“Just keep meeting on the sly?” he asked in disbelief. “That can't be right.”

“I don't think we should go into what's right.”

“If it was only about sex,” said Roy. “But it isn't. I wouldn't have touched you if it were. This guy
is
my best friend. I couldn't stab him in the back.”

“Haven't we already done that?”

“No! Love overrules all else. I don't mean Sam would agree with that, but
we
have to, you and me.”

He finally exerted the effort necessary to put on his clothes, freeing the individual garments from the general tangle. He had done nothing close to this since he was a teenager. Love not only superseded morality; it transformed everything done in its interests, else he would have felt foolish after a roll in the backseat of a car. As it was, he felt like a hero. He would have liked to lift Kristin up and carry her in exultation among the high-performance machinery in his showroom, pausing to make love on the long, low red hood of the Lamborghini or against the cool lemon-yellow fiberglass of the Lotus Elite…. He was being more childish than heroic, and it did not matter.

Kristin brought him back to reason. “Do you have any idea what time it is? I can't see my watch in the dark.”

“Mine's got a backlight.” As usual it was the drugstore model derided by Sam. He felt for the appropriate button and depressed it with a thumbnail, suffusing the dial with a ghostly blue glow.

“It's after nine.”

“Long after?”

“Almost nine-thirty, in fact.”

She shrieked and hurled open the door on her side, illuminating them both for anyone outside to see that they were emerging from the backseat of a car in a darkened showroom.

There was no immediate way to tell if anyone did so. The sudden light had half-blinded Roy. It was momentarily worse when he had closed his door, returning to the blackout, in which they were now separated.

“Wait!” he called to her. “I'll come around and get you. I know this place by heart.” His boast proved empty; he bumped against the coachwork of the Silver Wraith on the trip around, and when he got to where she was supposed to be, he could not find her, though he could see some by then. “Where are you?”

She was at the front door. “Is this locked?”

“Hold on just a minute!” He hastened there. He dared not touch her. The door was plate glass, and several pedestrians were on the far sidewalk, he now could see, but whether they were looking or had looked across he could not know. “There are people over there!”

“I'll have to take the chance. I can't wait any longer!”

She opened the door and stepped out, almost colliding with a man walking a small dog on an extra-long leash that permitted the animal to follow the curb while its master stayed adjacent to the show windows. The pair monopolized the sidewalk.

Roy was in no position even to bid her goodbye. The man grunted rudely at Kristin and glanced long enough at Roy to remember him, should the dog-walker prove to be one of Mrs. Forsythe's or Robin's—or Sam's—informants. God damn it to hell, as Mrs. Perkins, the housekeeper of his childhood, used to say. Mrs. Forsythe was in some ways a replacement for Mrs. Perkins.

There was no longer reason for concealment. Roy went back to the office and turned on the lights. The first thing he noticed was that blanket from the Grandy house, still in its folds atop the filing cabinet. Mrs. Forsythe had reminded him of its existence earlier in the day. Over on her desk the red-eyed answering machine was blinking. He was entangled in a complex of emotions, too exercised to eat dinner or just go home, and he could not trust his reflexes if he sought the most effective distraction, taking the Lamborghini to a highway on which he could drive 180 at night, with the lights off so as not to attract a cop. He had done things like that when younger.