82 Desire

thought, My God, I feel something for this woman , and the thought so surprised him that he lost his balance, tipping toward her and nearly knocking her over. He managed to right himself before they were both underwater, and she said, “Whoops. Time to go in.”
    He dressed quickly while she scampered to the car. When he got in, she moved over to kiss his cheek. He smiled and touched hers with the backs of his fingers, and all the way home, she rubbed his thigh. He parked in front of her building and reached for her, the feeling nagging at him that he shouldn’t be doing this. They necked like teenagers, her perfume—Opium, he was pretty sure—living up to its name. The more he held her and kissed her, the more he felt his judgment slipping. He was aware of behaving like a robot, yet unable to find the “off” button, until she spoke.
    “Let’s go in,” she whispered, her breath a feather on his neck.
    He pulled away and looked at her. Her eyes were wide and soft, and he thought, I can’t hurt this woman.
    He was trying to think what to do when she said, “You okay?”
    “That’s a good question.” At times like this he wished he smoked.
    “Uh-oh.” She turned from him, staring straight ahead. “Here comes the let’s-be-friends speech.”
    He had to chuckle. “Uh, no. That’s the last thing on my mind. I’m just a little…”
    “Confused? It’s the I’m-a-little-confused speech.” He could swear there was a wet track on her face.
    This was a woman who was obviously a veteran of a lot of things Russell was not. He wanted to protect her from the assholes who’d dumped her with stock phrases, and at the same time, it made him mad that she lumped him with them. (Though, in fact, he had been about to say he was a little confused.)
    He said, “You know what your problem is, Ms. Wolf?”
    She whirled toward him, fire in her eyes. “I’m a castrating bitch?”
    “Your problem is that you have obviously come in contact with some pathetic specimens of masculinity. I, Dean Woolverton, have taken a special vow to restore your faith in the existence of that elusive species known as the ‘gentleman.’”
    “Oh, yeah? How? By sleeping with me a few times and then saying you don’t want to hurt me? That makes you a real terrific guy, Dean.” She slammed out of the car and clicked into the building.
    Dean Woolverton, you asshole! Russell Fortier just wouldn’t be in this situation. He bought a fifth of Scotch on the way back to the boat and poured himself a double. He took the bottle and went up to the cockpit, downing his drink by the time he sat down.
    The night was as beautiful as it had been when he and Dina were wading, and yet the vastness of the water, the softness of the air, failed to work their invariable calming magic. A deep, thick, murky sadness had descended on him, or perhaps had burrowed out of him, chewing and biting its way to the surface like some trapped parasite.
    He had an almost overwhelming urge to talk to his wife.
    But that couldn’t be. He didn’t even want to think of the consequences of that one.
    But someone from his old life. Surely there was someone he could talk to, someone who knew him as Russell Fortier, husband and family man, well-known business figure, solid citizen (except for a few unfortunate lapses), loyal friend.
    Who am I kidding? I just ran out on my wife and friends. And my kid, goddammit, my kid. Russell Fortier doesn’t exist anymore.
    Eugenie’s face floated into his consciousness, so trusting, so utterly undeserving of what had happened to her.
    It was better this way , he had thought. This way she wouldn’t have to suffer the public indignity of a disgraced daddy. But he saw, through mists of Scotch, that he was wrong. She would go through that no matter where he was. And this way, he wasn’t even there to say he loved her, low-down scum though he was.
    He had to tell her at least that he was okay, he wasn’t dead, that he’d acted in the way he thought best for everybody.
    And yet that wasn’t true.
    The alcohol couldn’t blunt the facts, which were simply that he had acted first stupidly, and then selfishly. It was not a nice thing to face.
    He poured himself another Scotch.
    He thought, I have to talk to her , a thought he’d had plenty of time to think in the last few days, but which in the sober state had never occurred to him.
    The thing built and built until he had to pace the deck to keep from calling her. And in the end, he