"Even country," he added.

"Especially country. 'Take this job and shove it."'

"Ha. You're all right, Isabelle." They touched gla.s.ses. "Is this Coltrane?"

"Yes," Isabelle said.

"Strange," Joe said, "most sax players sound the same. Then one grabs you. What is it about Coltrane?"

"Deep stuff," she said. "So where's Mrs. Joe?"

"Ex-Mrs. Joe. On her way back to Maine, I guess. She was at the wedding. They both were, the ex-Mrs. Joes."

"Two of them? And you survived?"

"Yep," Joe said.

"Marriage . . . " Isabelle said sadly.

"The marriages weren't bad," Joe said, "just not enough. The kids are grown up, anyway, one of mine--the one that just got married--and one of Ingrid's, Maxie. He lives in Vermont."

"What does he do?"

"He's working as a carpenter. I think he might be heading into the artist's life."

"Poor baby."

"I'm proud of him."

"Good, Joe."

"And you? No Mr. Isabelle?"

"Not any more. He died in the wreck that messed me up. He was a bad boy," she said, smiling sadly.

"I'm sorry."

"If it hadn't happened there, it would have been somewhere else." She seemed to say the words more bravely than she felt them. "Let's have some more wine, then."

He hunched himself off the bed and refilled their gla.s.ses. "You're a handsome guy, Joe. Good manners. Tougher than you look. Episcopal, I bet."

"Right about the Episcopal, anyway. Not that I pay much attention."

"Is it true that Episcopalians are baptized in Harvey's Bristol Cream?"

"It's true."

"Lucky Joe." She took another drink of wine. "I know something about you tough guys."

"Oh, yeah?"

"You're really just bad boys--and you need to be read to." She reached for a book on the bedside table. "I am revisiting _Anne of Green Gables_, by Lucie Maude Montgomerie."

"Good grief," Joe said. Isabelle opened to the first page and began reading calmly. Joe stretched his legs and looked at the ceiling. It had been a long few days. Despite himself, he was drawn into the story.

Her voice was low and soothing. He nearly fell asleep and spilled the last of his wine. Isabelle took the gla.s.s from his hand and turned out the light.

"Your hands are cold," she said, "get under the covers." With one arm she pushed him sideways and held up the blanket and sheet. He rolled under and next to her. She took his hand and rested it on her stomach.

"That's better," she said. He registered distantly that he was in bed with a woman he didn't know, but her warm body and the soft cotton nightgown under his hand made that unimportant. It was a good place to be. He snuggled closer and she sighed. He began to caress her stomach slowly. She sighed again and moved her hips closer. His fingertips brushed lightly across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She tipped her head back.

"Careful," she warned in a constricted voice.

He continued slowly, turning on his side and pushing his face against her upper arm. He brought his hand down and stroked lightly along the curves of her stomach. Isabelle placed her hand on his and pushed it lower, down over her pelvis. He moved closer and rubbed where she guided. Her body tensed. He stretched out, fully aroused against her hip. Her breath came harder. It was important, now, what was happening.

He urged her on. She made a loud animal sound through clenched teeth, and then arched and let out a series of sweet whispered collapses.

"Bella," he said into her arm, "Bella . . . "

"Oh--you are such--a bad boy, Joe. Such a bad boy." She lay still a few moments, regaining her breath, and then reached down and began pulling at his belt. "Oh, take this off." He slid out of his clothes. "There,"

she said. "There." He was lying on his back as she began to stroke him.

"Bella, you called me. I like that," she said, stroking.

"Bella," he said, now short of breath himself. "Bella." She stopped.

"You like your Bella, don't you?"

"Yes." She started again. She stopped.

"You're a bad boy, aren't you?"

"Yes." He strained towards her hand.

"A very bad boy." She gave him another stroke. "But you like your Bella."

"Yes."

"You want your Bella?"

"Yes." She began again slowly. She leaned over him and stopped.

"Say 'please' to Bella."

"Please, Bella." She started again, bringing him half off the bed straining towards her. Then she stopped. He fell back and began to crack. "Please, Bella."

"Yes, yes?" She brought him up again and slowed.

"Please, Bella." The thick gla.s.s inside him shattered. He began to beg.

"Please. Please, Bella." He couldn't breathe. His heart was pounding.

She stopped. He fell back, groaning. "Please, Bella." She started again.

"You're a bad boy, Joe."

"Oh, G.o.d," he said.