Whatever Lola Wants (16 page)

“Very well.” He drew away from her and picked up his glass. “Very well indeed.” He sipped.

She raised her glass, held it over her head, other hand on hip, her eyes on his, slowly turned half circle, swung her head around so her eyes instantly caught his again, finished the circle, lowered her glass, and sipped.

He laughed. “Yes?”

“I like to see a situation from all sides.”

“Ah.” He finished his Scotch and set down his glass. “We could eat here again. Then we wouldn't need coats”—he glanced at her sandals—“or winter boots.” If she wanted to eat, then eat they would. Sooner being better.

“Good. The food was lovely.”

Carney honestly couldn't remember.

“Since we aren't going far, we're not in a rush.”

“That's true.”

“I have to fix my lipstick. But there's no rush.”

He glanced at her lips. Virtually no smear. “No, no rush.”

“Two for the price of one.”

He laughed. “Or three. Four, six.”

“An even dozen.” Their mouths met again, again, their lips admitting to appetite growing from what they fed upon.

After a time that seemed no time at all, Carney said, “I think we better go to eat. Or forget that idea altogether.”

She smiled, mock-demure, dropped her eyes, and said, “I'll be a very few minutes. Take yourself another drink.” Again he watched her walk away. A lusty woman. He felt his own thick lust rising yet higher. He took another small Scotch. He needed it.

At their table, glancing at the menu, they discovered a loss of appetite. Bowl of soup, fruit and cheese, done. She said, “Will you sleep with me tonight?”

“If you will sleep with me.”

“All this can be arranged.”

He grinned. “Or we can ride the chairlift again …”

Under the table the front of the sole of her sandal caught him deftly on the right shin. “Listen to me. I want to tell you something I believe in.” It was then she told him her theory of sex in the morning, the best kind of sex, when the whole of the body was refreshed. “So tonight we should just sleep together.”

“Oh dear. I don't know if I can do that.”

“Shall we try?”

“Right now?”

“In a few minutes, dummy.”

“It may prove impossible.”

Carney paid for the meal. Marcie bought a bottle of St. Auguste-Dauphin. They walked to the elevator hand in hand. He had to hold her hand, he was again afraid of losing her, he had gone beyond lust. His head was so very clear.

In the room, double bed, dresser with mirror, two stuffed chairs, Marcie turned on a radio, soft music, excused herself, the bathroom again. Carney dropped his blazer onto a chair, turned off all but one light. Marcie reappeared, glowing in the dim light. He poured, handed her a glass, and they sipped, a lavish liquid. They kissed, lightly. He came back, she brought both hands around to the back of his head, brought his face to hers with soft finger pressure, held him to her as he brought his arms around her waist. Their bodies held together tight as skin. They swayed together slowly, to the music.

For ten minutes, fifteen. He said, “I find this very—hard.”

She whispered in his ear, “I know.” And then, “Shall we go to bed now?”

“And leave all this good wine undrunk?”

“You want more wine?”

“It may be the only thing that can help me.”

“Help you?”

“Live by your theory.” He could. He would. Until he knew she'd be part of his life long enough to find out if they wanted to be part of each other's lives.

She put a finger to his lips. “Theories grow from practice. You know that. Your friend Adair tells you the same thing. How much practice have we had?”

He laughed. He picked her up, kissed her. Lay her on the bed, leaned over, kissed her again. They undressed each other, discovered more of each other. And yet more.

Afterward they drank a little wine. And made further discoveries. Slept, woke early, continued their expedition. In the afternoon they skied for an hour. Back to her room. The night was theirs, and tomorrow till noon. Carney canceled the last two days of his booking, pointless staying in Waterville Valley without Marcie. She would be returning to her Boston apartment this time. They drove south in tandem. They'd stop at his home in Somerville, he'd pick up a few items, stay a few days at her place, all non-working time given over to sharing.

Except at the Somerville house—he'd show her around the next time, place was a mess—a phone message from the Red Adair Company: report immediately at Laguna Mecoacan in the state of Tabasco, the huge IXTOC #1 well was spewing way out beyond the lagoon into the Bay of Campeche. An offshore drilling rig had been demolished by the blast of an oil eruption, thousands of tons already, every available man and woman desperately needed.

He'd be back soon, Carney promised. She'd be here when he returned, she promised. The IXTOC #1 fire held nearly all his attention eighteen hours a day, exhausting but heady work, little time for sleep. Marcie stayed at the back of his mind mostly, sometimes she came to the fore. Once as she was whispering to him Julie appeared, saying nothing, watching only. Carney squeezed his eyes tight to make Julie go away.

He returned to Boston three months later, max time for any project, worn and weary but unharmed. Adair claimed he'd never lost a fire-fighter on the job. Carney had three weeks, they needed him back at the well, still bleeding oil. Marcie and Carney spent many of their days together and all their nights, six of them in Montreal. He introduced her to Bobbie. The two women got along well. Three days before he left, Marcie asked him to marry her. The proposal took him by surprise, he admitted it. He'd never really thought about being married, his work with Adair didn't exactly leave much organized time for domestic life. Neither did her work, she noted; they were two of a kind. Okay, they'd talk about marriage when he got back.

IXTOC #1 kept him in the Bay of Campeche for an additional seventy-three days. They spoke when they could, too rarely, on the phone. For the first nine weeks they didn't discuss getting married.

Marriage? What would that mean? First, that he and Marcie would be joined together, he'd never lose her. Well, way less chance. Wasn't losing her what he feared? How would she deal with him off fighting oil fires around the world for two-thirds of the year? Still, once he'd been given the date of his next furlough, he began speaking of marriage on the phone. They both found those conversations too brief, the discussions too complicated, best to wait till they were together. On the plane home instead of watching the movie Carney closed his eyes and found, waiting for him on the screen at the back of his eyelids, Julie. Julie said, quite simply, If Marcie can handle his being away, then no problem, right? Because, basically, he loved Marcie. Right?

Which, not mentioning Julie, is what he said to Marcie as they sat facing each other at dinner his first evening back. They filed for a marriage license but held off the wedding until Carney's next return because Marcie wanted her sister and father present. Fine by Carney because it looked like they were finally closing the fire down and he could invite Red and a few of his firefighting comrades.

Carney left, Carney returned. Carney and Marcie were wed. Marcie's father the doctor gave her to Carney, Bobbie gave Carney to Marcie and wrote an occasional poem, filled with wit and tease. Ricardo glowed when he danced with Bobbie, and Carney wondered if they too might one day marry. Actually, from what Carney could see, Bobbie and Ricardo were as close as married now.

The next three years were, as predicted, difficult departures and joyous re-meetings. Carney loved her mightily, her mind and her body twin homes for her quirkiness. He felt blessed with his double life, at home with this exceptional woman, at work with singular colleagues. He experimented with new methods for confronting fire, he invented new substances for damping fire. Along the way he kept notes on where and how prevention had failed. Back home he experimented, too, and so did Marcie. He even made time for his cello.

He enjoyed the balance. She increasingly did not. Their work agreement, once a high-level compromise, became more and more of a burden for her. She'd quit her work in Quebec and Ontario, decided two consultancies in two countries were one too many if she ever wanted intense time with her husband when he came home. But she discovered she also wanted, even needed, continuity. Very hard to create with Carney away more than half her life. They'd spoken of this a couple of times before he'd last left. Those conversations, unended, left the situation unresolved.

Carney returned from five weeks battling a small but vexing fire in Kuwait. She picked him up at the airport. The first few days were as ever, relating the incidents of their lives while apart, those not talked about on the phone or talked of then but elaborated on now. And their sexual rediscoveries. The third evening, dinner at a little Sumatran restaurant Marcie had discovered, she said, “We have been avoiding something.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “Maybe you have. I haven't.”

“In the larger than the you-or-me sense. In the we sense.”

“Okay. What have we been avoiding?”

“We're getting older.”

“Not me. And I swear”—he studied her hair, face, neck, and nodded—“neither are you.”

“Inside me.”

Now his head shook. “Not true. I've been there. I know.”

“Carney, listen to me. I want to have a baby. Maybe even two.”

“Hmm,” he said. They'd spoken of this before, but only in the hypothetical: what would it be like if? So this wasn't a surprise, not totally. And he could almost see himself as a father …

“I'd like to have a baby soon, Carney.”

Her eyes, beautiful eyes, covered his face. Her children would be exquisite. He found himself nodding. “Okay. Good.”

“But I can't do it myself.”

“I hope the hell not.”

“I want to have the baby with you.”

“Damn well better be me.”

“I don't think you're understanding me. I want the baby to be yours too.”

Something suddenly unclear fell between them. “What are you telling me?”

“I want us to raise this child together.”

“Of course we would—”

“With both of us in the same place. All the time. Most of the time, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“I don't care where that one place is. Anywhere you want. But just one place, not three or four different places every year.”

“You want me to quit working with Red.”

“Maybe you could work for him in one place.”

“That's not the pattern for disasters.”

“Do you have to be dealing with disasters?”

“What else?”

“You used to worry about prevention.”

“I still do—”

“Couldn't you worry about prevention from one place, one home? Our home?”

“Marcie, you're asking a whole lot.”

“Can we think about it?”

“Sure, we can think about it.” He hadn't meant to put that much emphasis on
think
.

•

“Ted, can I interrupt you?”

I held back from saying she already had. Often it's easy enough to come back to seeing and hearing someone's memory, but I'd recently discovered that sometimes it could disappear—fade, or break away, as if the person it belonged to had closed a window or relocked a box—and the thread would be lost. She wanted the story, but occasionally her disregard for my craft got to me. Yet I only said, “Of course.”

“Why is Carney like that?”

“Like what?”

“So much in love with Marcie. He needs her, and she gives him what he needs. And at the same time he doesn't, well, give her very much. Why not?”

I didn't like hearing about Carney's inadequacies but had to admit she saw them clearly enough. “I don't know.”

“Ted? Are lots of men just like that?”

Her question shook me. “I—I don't know that either.”

“Were you?”

“I don't think so.” I remembered my wonderful Annette. Would I have been like that with her, treating her like Carney dealt with Marcie? I couldn't remember. Strange. I said this to Lola, adding, “But we do know one man who doesn't treat his wife like that. Milton Magnussen, right?”

She considered this, and nodded. “But what about John Cochan? I don't think he's very kind about Priscilla.”

I conceded she was likely correct. But I could feel Carney's memories of his time with Marcie receding. “I should go on with the story, you know. Before it disappears.”

“Oh. Yes. I'm sorry, Ted.”

•

Their talk about
having a baby lay dormant for a couple of days. Marcie had a contract in western Massachusetts, a clinic in the Berkshires. She'd been dealing with them electronically, now she had to be on-site for a full day. No sense Carney coming along, she'd be on from nine to nine, drive home after. Wouldn't she want company for the two-hour ride back? He could find something to do there for the day. No, she'd be fine and she'd—they both could—sleep in in the morning. Or anything else they wanted. She kissed him goodbye at six-thirty.

Bobbie called to invite him to dinner. “This evening. Around seven.”

“Marcie won't be home till late.”

“I know. She told me. So let me feed you.”

“I can—”

“I know you can. But I haven't seen you alone for ages.”

When he arrived Ricardo too was there. He'd joined Bobbie in cooking the meal. Toward the end of a fine coq au vin and rice pilaf, after a chat that had gone in a dozen directions, she said, “Marcie tells me she wants to have a baby.”

Aha. The women's conspiracy. Except Ricardo was here. Two men against one woman. Almost equal odds. “Yep. We've been talking about it.”