We sat talking in low voices, and listening to the rain, kissing on the couch in my living room for a while, and each time we kissed I wanted him more, and we held each other for longer, until he kissed my breast, and my whole body surged upwards toward his, and we were suddenly hand in hand, heading for my bedroom, still kissing and touching and holding along the way, almost knocking over a lamp, and in a great hurry to get to bed. He took off his clothes, and I noticed with a shock that he didn't wear any underwear. . . . "Why Gordon Harte, you look so G.o.ddam serious all the time, and there you are walking around that magazine all day with no underpants on! What if your zipper breaks?" I was laughing, it really struck me funny.

"It never has."

"What if you get in an accident? My grandmother always said. . . ."

And he roared with laughter, and walked over to help me take off the rest of what I had on. . . . "Gillian, you're beautiful." He sounded as though he meant it, and for the rest of time our bodies rolled together, merged into each other, touched and fell away, and joined again. We made love, and lay together feeling close, and familiar, easy with each other. We had become friends. We had fallen in like. It was the first time in my life that I didn't feel I had to shout "I love you" to justify doing something that I had been told all my life was not a nice thing to do. Instead, we hugged and laughed, and I felt right with the world.

It was better with Gordon than it had ever been with Chris, which seemed odd to me because I didn't love Gordon. But that afternoon I stopped being angry with Chris. I didn't make love with Gordon to wreak vengeance on Chris for Marilyn. I made love with Gordon because I wanted to, and I liked him. Nothing more than that.

And I lay in Gordon's arms, smiling, while he drew figure eights around my b.r.e.a.s.t.s with his finger, and I thought of the poem on the flyleaf of Hilary's book . . . "he who kisses the joy as it flies, lives in Eternity's sunrise. . . ."

23.

In every possible way, October was a good month, a warm month full of people and things to do. Samantha was happy at school and, while I hadn't come to love New York, I had done a little better than just resign myself to it. New York was being good to me, it was looking its best, and was on its best behavior. There is a time of year in New York, in the fall, which comes suddenly, and doesn't last long, but is enough to make you love it for the rest of the year. If you go away then, you will always think of New York in golden hues, but if you stay you see the filth, the soot, the slush, and, later, live in the stench and torrid heat of a New York summer. But in the fall, it becomes beautiful, it is red and gold and brown, it's clear and windy and crisp, the streets look cleaner, people step as though walking to a march, the smell of hot chestnuts is everywhere, young people are in the city on weekends, making it look as though there are some nice young people who live there after all, because summer weekends are over and it's too early for skiing. It's the time of year I love best, and if there is a warm spot in my heart for New York it is for that city at precisely that time of year. And the spell it weaves for two, or three, or four weeks in the late autumn.

And as though the city itself had planned it that way, on my last year in New York, those magical weeks happened, and were crisper and livelier and more beautiful than ever before. To me, New York is like a b.i.t.c.h of a woman, she's too much to handle, and I don't admire her lifestyle, but, in deference to what she is and what she stands for, I have to admit it when she moves out in style. And in October she does.

Gordon and I were seeing each other two or three times a week, went some place really "nice" about once a week, met some place after work sometimes, or one of us cooked dinner at his place or mine. Halfway into the month, we pooled our resources and address books and threw a party. It was crazy and fun, crowded and full of amusing stereotypes, like most parties in New York.

Gordon had a full schedule, and I had enough to do, so that it never became an everyday thing.

There were no a.s.sumptions made about each other's time, but everything just seemed to fall into place, like the weather. And life moved on.

Halloween came and went leaving Samantha richer and happier with the loot she had collected from our building and Gordon's. He had taken her over to his place to test his neighbors' mettle, and she was delighted. By then, she and Gordon were fast friends.

We decided to spend Thanksgiving together, quietly, at my place, and I was just leaving the office to pick up our turkey when the phone rang. It was Julie Weintraub.

"Hi. I just spoke to my doctor, and it looks like you've got the job for another month. How's that for a b.i.t.c.h? Actually, I'm enjoying the rest, and there are a couple of interns worth staying around for. Who needs John Templeton with a setup like this?" Her words sounded funny, but she sounded disappointed. Lying on your back with pins in you, and traction pulling at you, just isn't a whole lot of fun, interns or no. Given a choice, I'd even take Eloise Franck. Poor Julie.

"Have you told John yet, Julie?"

"Yeah, I just called him. He ought to be barreling down the hall any minute with the good news."

"Come on, you know everybody here wants you back. All anybody ever says to me around here is 'when's Julie coming back?' " which wasn't entirely true, but I thought it might help.

"Bulls.h.i.t. But that was a nice try. I saw stats of your last issue by the way. Looks good to me. Maybe I won't have a job anymore when I get out of this place." . . . And that was something I knew was worrying her.

"Bulls.h.i.t to you, lady. I'm just making like a Kelly girl here. Purely temporary. I'll start wearing white gloves if it'll make you feel any better," and she broke into a more Julie-like laugh. . . . "Listen, seriously, what did the doctor say? How's it mending?"

"I don't know, n.o.body tells me much of anything. All I know is that they want to reshift something, which means yet another orthopedic surgeon, and the operating room again, which is not exactly my favorite scene. It also means another four weeks. Kinda depressing," and that's just how she sounded.

"Well, keep the chin up. Might as well get it all done now rather than have to go back in six months. That's nothing to mess around with. Besides, you don't think I'm going to break my a.s.s for you here every six months, do you?" and I heard Julie chuckle again. "I'll come up and see you this weekend and give you all the news . . . which reminds me, you remember that little love seat in John's office?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I hear Lucius Barclay humped Eloise on it yesterday afternoon," Lucius being the f.a.ggy beauty editor. Even women's lib couldn't get upset about our having a male beauty editor. There was absolutely nothing male about Lucius. Nothing.

But the crack had served its purpose, and Julie was in hoots at the other end of the phone.

"Hey, listen, don't do that to me . . . it hurts," and then more chortles and chuckles. . . . "Anyway, you got it wrong. I heard that story this morning: Eloise humped Lucius," and we both laughed.

"Okay, Julie, gotta go, but I'll come by this weekend. Anything I can bring you?"

"Yeah. s.e.x."

"What about all those interns? Listen, save one for me. Hang in there, Julie, we miss you. I can't wait to give you this job back anyway. I want to start collecting unemployment."

"Screw you, you don't qualify. Gotta work six months and then get fired. And if you think I'm gonna lie here for six months, you gotta be nuts. So just take d.a.m.ned good care of my job. . . . See you soon. Hey, and Gillian? . . . Thanks."

"Don't be an a.s.s. The thanks go to you, now get off the G.o.ddam horn before we get sentimental, or I get fired. See you . . . take care." Poor Julie, it didn't sound good, and I wondered what the score really was, as the phone rang and I was told that "Mr. Templeton would like to see you in five minutes, Mrs. Forrester."

Half an hour later, when I came out of John's office, I was not feeling like laughing anymore.

John had spoken to Julie, as she had said, but he had spoken to her doctor too. Julie was not healing at all, and her hemoglobin was low. They suspected bad news. They weren't sure, but they "suspected" it, and they were going to operate to find out. They thought she might have bone cancer. Julie didn't know.

When John had finished talking, I felt weak, and rotten, and sick. He told me not to tell anyone. And thank G.o.d he had the good taste not to mention the possibilities of extending my job into a permanent one. I would have thrown up at that point, or burst into tears.

As it was, I walked straight back to my office, shut the door, and leaned back against it with tears pouring down my face, wondering how in h.e.l.l I was going to face Julie on Thanksgiving Day. It was one of those horrible soap opera ironies that happen all the time, sometimes even to people you know.

The following day, Sam, Gordon and I had Thanksgiving dinner. It was lovely and comfortable, and I tried not to think about Julie.

At that point, I was five months pregnant, and hadn't seen Christopher in over ten weeks. I still missed him but I had settled in. I was happy with my job, enjoying Gordon, and rolling along nicely. The baby was more mine than Chris's, and men on the street didn't look quite so much like Chris anymore. They were beginning to look a little more like Gordon, and a lot more like themselves.

So when Gordon left my apartment shortly after midnight on Thanksgiving night and the phone rang at two, I almost fainted when I heard Chris on the line.

"Gill, I'm at the airport now. I've got a film to do in New York for the next month. The plane gets there about six hours from now. American Airlines. Meet me."

24.

The plane came to a stop just in front of the window, and rumpled looking pa.s.sengers began to disembark. Mostly men, carrying suits on hangers covered by plastic bags, and attache cases. And a few women. One woman with two small children. People. And more people. And no Chris. Where was he? Had he missed the flight? Had I heard the wrong airline? Would he be on the next flight? . . . And then there he was, smiling, looking a little sleepy, and more beautiful than I remembered him. Had he stopped walking, I would have thrown myself into his arms, but he just walked up to me, and we kept right on walking, never breaking stride.

"Hi, Gillie, how's it going?" . . . How's it going? . . . After almost three months? . . . You big s.h.i.t. . . .

"Fine."

"Don't I get a kiss?" and he held out a cheek for a peck as we neared the baggage claim area.

"Wait till we get home."

"Oh is the young lady playing it cool now?" and he looked amused.

Everything amused him, mostly me, and I felt silly, in my fur hat, looking for something to say that would pa.s.s for conversation.

He was totally engrossed in collecting his bags. The flight had been fairly full. I stood watching him, wondering what it really was that held me close to this man. Why did I still feel the way I did, how could I still feel as though the world stood still for him, how could I still believe in dream princes when I looked at Chris? But I did.

I was frowning as I looked over at him. He seemed taller and wider than I had remembered. And he looked so brown and healthy. So different from the pale, city-looking people you see in New York.

He picked up the last of his bags and we headed for the exit to look for a cab. The ride into the city was a little uncomfortable because it seemed odd not to have a phone resting between us. I had grown accustomed to dealing with a disembodied voice, not to looking into the eyes of this big, suntanned man. He noticed my hat and liked it, and commented briefly on the fact that I didn't look pregnant: "What'd you do, get rid of it?"

"It's the coat, Chris. My clothes still hide it pretty well."

"Yeah, I'll bet you're not even pregnant." I knew he didn't mean it, but it was a typical Chris remark, which annoyed the h.e.l.l out of me, but somehow I managed not to snap back.

When we got home, Chris walked in, dumped his bags in the hall, and headed for the kitchen where we could hear Samantha expounding on the virtues of her teacher.

"UNCLE CRITS!" Screams, and yells, and hugs, and much tossing around, and more yelling. It was so nice to watch them together. The two people I loved most in the whole world crawling all over each other, and hugging, and laughing. It made me laugh too, and brought back all our days in California. It was sunshine and beaches and love.

"Uncle Crits, I'm going to show you my room, and you can't come in, Mommy."

"Okay, I'll make breakfast." They disappeared down the hall, hand in hand, with Samantha telling him all about school and Chris asking if she'd been a good girl, and had she been putting honey on her corn flakes like he'd shown her?

Poor Sam, she needed Chris almost as much as I did. He had been the closest thing she'd ever known to a full-time father, and our days in California had been the closest thing she'd had to a normal home life.

"Breakfast! Come and get it!"

"Okayyyy. . . ." came back, m.u.f.fled, from down the hall. And then Chris appeared with a jump rope tied around his head and Samantha shouting "Giddyap horsey" as she skipped behind him.

"Horses don't eat at my breakfast table, Mr. Matthews."

"Since when? Things must have changed a lot in the last two months," and we all laughed and ate eggs and waffles, and toast, and bacon. We ate and talked and joked with each other, and I knew how terribly I had missed Chris. Just as much as I had thought, and then multiplied by twenty.

My mother's helper appeared when breakfast was over, to help clear up and take Samantha to the park. . . .

"I don't wanna go, I wanna stay with Uncle Crits." She looked as though she were going to cry.

"Come on, podner. Your mother and I are going to talk. You go to the park and see if you can't find some hay for the horses. I'll be here when you get back, now giddyap, there. . . ."

She looked dubious, but she went, waving back over her shoulder, "Gabye, Uncle Crits, see you later. Bye, Mommy."

"Bye, sweetheart."

"You've still got her spoiled rotten, Gillian. Nothing's changed."

"Look, she needs a lot of love."

"She's got a lot of love, she needs a lot of time. And spoiling isn't going to make up for that. If you didn't have your G.o.ddam alimony you wouldn't have that girl taking her to the park and you'd both be better off."

"I have to work for chrissake."

"That's not the point. . . . I'm going to take a bath. Which way's our room?"

"I'll show you," and as I walked down the hall I was annoyed at Chris. What did he know about children?

"Run my bath, will you, Gill? I'm going to open the bags."

I turned on the taps full blast, and felt a little balkish about taking orders again. . . . Yessir, Mr. Chris, sir. Yo baff is fillin up dere, yo honor, sir. . . . Run your own G.o.ddam bath. . . .

He walked back into the bathroom, stark naked, and I noticed the bathing suit marks which hadn't quite faded since last summer.

"You're peeking."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Come on, take your clothes off, and let's take a bath."

"I had a bath before I went to the airport. I'll unpack for you."

"No, I'll unpack for me. Take your clothes off and get into the bath. I want to see that belly of yours."

"Chris, I don't want to take a bath."

"You're taking a bath. Now, move your a.s.s, girl. . . ." He was stretched out in the tub, looking up at me, with that look of his. . . . "You can take your hat off now, too. I said I liked it, but I think you could take it off now."

"Thanks. Yeah, okay," and I was pulling my clothes off, feeling silly about it, as Chris watched.

"I was standing naked next to the tub, and Chris held out a hand to help me in. "Yep, you're pregnant."

"Who told you?"

"Wash my back, will you Gill?"

"Sure," and there I was, lathering his back, with my gardenia soap, smiling at the moles and freckles.

I could have drawn a diagram of where every spot was on his body. I knew him, his soul and his body, every inch of him. It was a happy thing to be doing. . . . If anyone had told me that week that I would be washing Chris Matthews' back the day after Thanksgiving, I'd have laughed in their face. But there we were, and I was grinning from ear to ear.

"Watcha smiling at, little fat girl?"

"What do you mean, 'little fat girl'?"

"I mean little fat girl, now what are you smiling at?"

"Nothing. Us. You. It's so nice to have you back, Chris. It's just not the same on the phone, it's no good. I get hung up on the words, I forget the looks that go with things, and you can't squeeze them into a telephone. I've missed you so terribly."