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  He stared hard at her. “I don’t believe you.”

  Laura rose swiftly, almost knocking over his tray. “Well, then that’s too bad, Harry.” She searched the drawer for a package of cigarettes.

  “There’s some in my jacket on the living-room chair.” he said dully.

  When she returned, she sat at the counter and lit the cigarette. “All right. There is a problem. But it’s just us. We don’t communicate anymore.”

  “Jesus! How can we, when you’re not here most of the time?”

  “My work—”

  “God damn it, Laura! Can’t we ever have an honest conversation?”

  “This is a conversation? You’re shouting at me.” She slid off the stool and started cleaning off the countertop.

  “All right,” he sighed. Moving behind her, he tried to slide his hand underneath her breast.

  She lurched away. “Don’t. Just don’t, Harry.” She began to cry. He drew her close, and grudgingly, she laid her head on his shoulder.

  “Laura? I’ll do anything to save our marriage. But we have to start talking,” he whispered. “We could try marriage counseling.”

  She sniffled, then moved away. “All right. Set up an appointment.”

  In silence, they cleared up the half-eaten dinner.

  Laura went to bed at ten-thirty. He watched the news. On his way upstairs, he realized that neither of them had said “I love you.”

  ***

  Gerry Deighton did not go home with his wife after the funeral reception. Instead, he drove downtown to Yonge and Dundas Streets. Most of the dingy book and record stores had been mowed under to make way for gleaming new structures of glass and concrete. Fucking desolate, he thought as he parked the car and started walking north.

  At last he came to his destination: Stress Relief Spa. Slowly, he climbed the stairs to the second floor, where a skinny kid sat with his feet up on the reception desk. Gerry booked an appointment with Ming Tao, expert masseuse. He was shown down the hall to a dimly lit room, where he undressed and lay on the table under a white sheet.

  “Just call me Ming,” the masseuse said when she entered and turned down the lights.

  “Ming,” said Gerry wearily, “I want everything tonight.”

  Ming laughed gently and pulled down the sheet. He groaned with pleasure as her fingers worked up and down his back. When he turned over, he had an immense erection. She covered him with a towel and began her work. When they were finished, Gerry sat up and reached for his wallet.

  “Ming, did anyone ever tell you that you have the most exquisite skin?”

  Ming smiled and pocketed the money. Gerry reached out and gently touched her face. She froze as he ran his finger along her neck and down her shoulder. “Very beautiful,” he whispered. Ming backed swiftly out the door. Gerry sighed and dressed.

  CHAPTER 18

  When Harry awoke next morning, he lay very still, for fear of losing forever the fleeting fragments of his dream. He had awakened with an erection, but now that was swiftly fading along with the dream. Once again, he closed his eyes. Soft, sultry shadows of a woman remained, along with an indescribable softness lingering over his entire body. Lying still in the warmth of the covers and conscious of his own rhythmic breathing, he tried in vain to recapture her presence and identity.

  Laura was gone, and the far side of the bed was cold, rumpled, and empty.

  Kicking off the covers, Harry padded into the bathroom and ran the shower as hot as possible. Billows of steam rose to cloud the mirror as he dutifully tossed his pajamas into the hamper. He turned his face upward into the pulsing jet of water and gasped in the heat. Frustration flashed within him, but receded almost as quickly, leaving him with a painful sense of longing. Slowly, he began soaping his chest.

  Always toeing the line. Nose to the grindstone. And ever faithful to Laura. Last night, her packed suitcase had sat at the top of the stairs like rock-solid evidence of a failed marriage. What the hell did twenty years of a life mean, anyway? With a creeping sense of doom, he wondered where to find a marriage counselor.

  Stepping from the shower, he grabbed a towel. What did he have to show for years of loyalty and duty to his profession and his clients? With his elegantly regal bearing, Crawford, the embodiment of professional propriety, was a notorious seducer of women. Battles of moral conscience were foreign to him. Passion and thrall were the last words he said as he pitched to the floor.

  Harry grimly recited the very practical reasons for his obedience: mortgage, taxes, car payments, office expenses. The list had no end. Maybe it was time to cut himself some slack.

  With a slow, circular motion, he cleared off the mirror. Then he remembered. A smile crept over his face. Today would be good. He had a ten o’clock appointment with Natasha to appraise the Deighton house. Within twenty minutes, he was dressed and out the door.

  In traffic, he considered Marjorie’s estate. He and the Gideon Trust Company were the co-executors. Quick and decisive action was required to gain the upper hand, otherwise he might lose control of the estate to the trust company. Without determination and speed, a poor solicitor acting with a major trust company might be relegated to the status of a flunky with a brand-new rubber stamp.

  Harry knew their game well. Senior trust officers lured his clients with promises of prompt personal attention, and then concluded, in pitying tones, that only they had the resources to back up such promises. From then on, their teams of experts, their appraisers, and their investment counselors and accountants called the shots. The senior trust officer issued instructions after brief consultation with the poor solicitor on legal technicalities. But not this time, he vowed.

  Years back, a hapless junior trust officer named Steinberg had attended Crane, Crawford and Jenkins for a meeting with the estate beneficiaries. In the library, the deferential Mr. Steinberg had been seated apart from the Deighton family. Nowhere could he rest his file in comfort. His papers persisted in sliding from his grasp and his constant efforts to retrieve them gave him a groveling air.

  At one point, Steinberg requested the birth certificate of Miss Suzannah Deighton. Carefully, Crawford set down his gold pen. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Steinberg,” he said coldly. Flustered the trust officer looked up.

  Crawford’s voice rolled like distant thunder “A cursory glance at your file, Mr. Steinberg, will confirm that the Deighton family is one of the most respected and prominent families in the city, whom I have had the honor of representing for more than thirty years. Are you implying, young man…?”

  Mr. Steinberg was no fool. He stammered, “Certainly not, sir. I’m sure that’s an unnecessary detail.”

  That was it. Control from beginning to end. Exercise the power at every opportunity, and never relinquish authority. This time he would seize the reins. He hadn’t notified the trust company of Marjorie’s death until after the funeral. That eliminated one occasion for contact with the beneficiaries. Now Natasha reported to him on the appraisals.

  The few times they had met, her glance and warm smile made him hope that she felt his attraction. He tried to dismiss the thought. Plenty of women were warm and friendly, and it meant nothing. She seemed just out of his reach. But still, he hoped.

  He pulled up in front of the church, just behind Natasha’s red Porsche. She lowered the window and favored him with one of her brilliant smiles. Her phone was cradled against her sleek black mink. Swept with a desire to reach out and touch her soft and silky fur coat, he busied himself instead with his briefcase. She knew her business inside out, but never let a man think she was too expert. She had just a touch of vulnerability. Harry enjoyed her immensely.

  She took his hand and stepped gracefully from the car in her long black leather boots. Her fur draped open, revealing an elegant red wool dress beneath. He longed to touch her glossy black hair, which curved softly to her shoulders and blended in with her mink.

  “Harry!” She continued to hold his hand. “Such a pleasure to see you again! It was so cro
wded at Richard’s funeral—we couldn’t talk.”

  Intimacy. With the sense of being gathered into her confidence, Harry smiled and took her arm. “The pleasure is mine, Natasha. I’m really glad you can do this appraisal.”

  “I’m delighted. We must have lunch, once I’ve done the work.” She leaned into his arm.

  For Natasha, Harry was an intriguing prospect. Immediately, she knew from his eyes and his touch the depth of his attraction to her. But something was holding him back. Without a doubt, he was a gentleman. Perhaps he was truly in love with his wife.

  Natasha was weary of coping with brutish male egos: those legions of professional men who assumed a quick lay on the office couch was simply their due for a promising referral. In her experience, men were generally a disappointment; women were an occasional temptation. Harry would be a refreshing challenge.

  A sputtering Honda Civic pulled up behind Natasha’s Porsche. Harry winced. The neat, square frame of Cameron McCrea, senior trust officer, emerged from the little car. With bustle and determination in every step, he marched toward them.

  “Well, old chap, good to see you again,” began McCrea. Harry bristled, but checked himself. He introduced McCrea to Natasha as one of the many trust officers at Gideon.

  Natasha shook hands with him and then gazed up at the house.

  “Oh, Harry,” she sighed, stepping back close to him. “This residence…it has such majesty, such grandeur!” Glancing sideways toward the trust officer, she continued, “Aren’t you enthralled with its charm, Mr. McCrea?”

  Until that moment, McCrea had given little thought to the house, or, for that matter, the estate, except for a rough calculation of executor’s compensation and Probate Court fees. What he saw was excess. For his taste, which bordered on the austere, he saw too many turrets and too many curlicues. He was plagued with a puritanical abhorrence of the flagrant spending of the wealthy. Furtively glancing at Natasha, he wondered who retained her.

  “Mmm…well, I suppose,” McCrea began, somewhat vaguely. “Looks like the turrets up there on the right-hand side could use some repair.”

  “Repairs?” Natasha’s eyes widened. “But of course, Mr. McCrea, when even the finest of homes reaches a certain age, loving care and restoration is required to maintain beauty!”

  Harry tried to suppress a grin. It was going better than he had hoped. Natasha had concluded that the trust officer was a dullard without beauty in his soul. Poor Cameron was already intimidated. The sun shone.

  He took Natasha’s arm and started up the walk. The windows in the upper stories glinted in the light. Clouds blotted out the sun, and shadows swiftly chased them up the walk, overtaking them before they reached the veranda. With them came a chill wind, causing Natasha to shiver, ever so slightly, against him.

  Harry hadn’t entered the house since he had found Marjorie dead. The lock was stiff at first, but after a moment, the door swung open.

  Natasha’s lips were close to his ear. Her breath was warm and stirring. “Harry,” she whispered, “it really is magnificent, isn’t it?”

  He smiled and nodded, stepping back to let her in.

  Indeed, the foyer was impressive. Suddenly, the sun burst through the clouds and light flooded in, setting the paneling aglow. The broad expanse of carpeted stairway led the eye upward to the now-quiet bedrooms. The door to the back stairs would have to be fixed, but Harry would leave that to McCrea and his many minions.

  Through the French doors was the parlor. He could easily imagine Marjorie seated by the fireplace, with gentle Rosie serving her sherry. Harry knew Natasha was already formulating a marketing plan. Through her appreciation, he could see the house was a splendid residence that would attract the most discerning buyers. She would be able to excite a prospective purchaser with her vision. That was just one of her many talents.

  Harry stopped in the doorway. Something was eluding his grasp. Only a few days ago, he had stood right there, straining to hear in the silence. He tried to recollect the sound in the upstairs corridor that afternoon. But then again, old houses always made noises. He proceeded into the parlor, eager to catch up with Natasha.

  Transfixed, Harry stood watching Natasha. With the most casual of gestures, she draped her full-length black mink coat across the sofa, exposing its slashes of deep red tints. With that one motion, the dream of last night exploded in Harry’s brain.

  Natasha! What had he done to her—with her—time and again? Images flashed in his mind of her naked…of her dressed in tight black corsets with long garters, posing for him. Harry stood marooned in the living room, conscious only of the deep flush rising in him.

  Cameron McCrea had set his briefcase down and was now inspecting the hallway, squinting upward in search of cracks in the ceiling. He pursed his lips and jotted furiously in his little black notebook every few paces. Next, McCrea scurried across the parlor and dropped to all fours. Craning his neck to see up the chimney, he fiddled with the damper. Natasha winked at Harry over the view of the trust officer’s rear end. With any luck, thought Harry, soon the man would be examining the fuse box in the basement and double-checking for incontrovertible evidence of termites.

  Drinking in the detail and atmosphere, Natasha moved gracefully through the principal rooms. A marketing strategy was beginning to form in her mind. Knowing that only a select few would be right for this home, she intended to target that group from the start. The purchasers would have a lifelong love affair with the bygone eras of the city.

  Both of them heard McCrea tromping down the cellar steps. Natasha gazed at Harry. Why was he standing like a lost soul in the middle of the parlor? Gracefully, she circled about the room, immersed in viewing the chandelier, until she backed into Harry with a thud. Swiftly, she turned about to face him, finding herself within inches of his chest.

  “Oh! Harry, I’m sorry!” Her fingers rested lightly on his tie.

  Harry realized he was grinning foolishly at her. Breathing deeply, he took in her fragrance, the warmth of her touch and closeness. He wanted the moment to last forever.

  She took his hand. “Come. Show me the upstairs.”

  Having lost his voice, he only nodded. Happily, he trotted up the stairs at her heel. In the dream, she had floated everywhere about him, and now she was above him on the staircase. He yearned to reach out and touch her. They paused on the landing.

  Natasha suddenly turned toward him and sniffed. “My God, Harry! What could that smell be?”

  “What?” Harry was shaken from his riotous fantasies.

  “It must be from one of the rooms.” She shook her head as if trying to catch its direction.

  In unison, they ascended the remaining flight to the second floor. “It seems to be gone.”

  “Gone? What’s gone?”

  “That odd smell.” For just a moment, they stared at each other, then simultaneously shrugged.

  Natasha began her tour of the bedrooms. “Could you help me, Harry? I want to measure these rooms.” She began to unravel her tape measure. The yellow metallic tape dangled halfway across the room. Harry stretched it to the far wall. They repeated the procedure, several times. She recorded the measurements and snapped the tape back in place. Mesmerized by her soft, deft motions, Harry hungrily drank in every detail.

  Standing close to her, he glanced at the bed and flushed. Edges of his dream persisted in crowding into the room. There she was, laughing, drawing him down and further into her. Savoring each lacy bit of fantasy, he sensed both danger and freedom. He had not forgotten that his bed had been cold, rumpled, and empty this morning.

  She smiled at him and waited. Most men would have slammed the door and dragged her down onto the bed. How bold did she have to be?

  Was she really inviting him? Harry wondered. Surely he must have gotten carried away by his fantasies. It was crazy. McCrea was still bumbling about in the basement. How he loved the thought of that prissy old maid stumbling in on them. But it would be excruciatingly embarrassing to misread the si
tuation.

  As Harry wrestled with his circuitous self-debate, Natasha smiled and closed her case. Best not come too close just yet, she decided. He looked as if he could scarcely breathe. “I’ll do the rest of the measuring later, Harry.”

  Briskly, she moved out into the hall. The moment was gone. Harry followed at her heels down the stairs. Below him, he saw her, all motion and light and life. Catching his breath, he was amazed at one thought. He would happily risk everything for just one chance with the lovely Natasha. Energy not felt in years flooded through him. Reckless joy and passion suffused his spirit. At last, he felt something.

  From the dining room, she exclaimed, “Harry, come quickly! You really must see this!”

  Desperate to recapture the fading moment, he strode through the parlor and into the dining room.

  Natasha was gazing upward. “This chandelier is very rare.”

  Her smile faded. “Harry! Watch out!”

  Something grazed his ear as he lurched sideways. A plate lay in tiny pieces at his feet, having inexplicably slipped from the wainscoting.

  Natasha touched his cheek. “My God, Harry, are you all right?”

  Staring at her, he nodded. Pure desire coursed through him. The space between them seemed to dance and crackle. At that very moment, he could draw him to her.

  “Ghosts, I suppose.” McCrea stood smirking in the doorway to the kitchen.

  Furious at the intrusion, Harry said, “Let’s look at the kitchen.” Taking her arm, Harry guided Natasha past the trust officer.

  “Truly in its original state!” laughed Natasha.

  Compared to the other rooms, Harry thought, the kitchen was cramped. Set in one countertop was a single porcelain sink, which was badly stained. Cupboards were few and small, scattered in pairs about the walls. A small kitchen table sat under the high window.

  “Sunday dinners of well-done roast beef, boiled potatoes, and overcooked vegetables,” said Natasha.

  McCrea looked befuddled.

  “What we need, Natasha, is a pot of borscht bubbling on the stove,” said Harry, touching her arm.