She nodded.
"And?"
She looked down into her glass and then again at him.
"Gavin, I don't fool myself. You're—how can I
put it?—a kind of intellectual pinup. I, on the other hand-"
"Don't finish that sentence, Sheila. You are not only intelligent and beautiful, you're extremely sensitive, and, if my instinct is correct, like myself a member of FOBS."
"What's FOBS?"
''The Fellowship of Bruised Souls. Uh—I'm the founder, actually."
"You don't seem at all wounded to me."
"I've just learned to hide it better. A little cynicism goes a long way."
He paused. "I didn't really tell you the whole story the other night at dinner. When I left England and my wife didn't, it wasn't exactly Oxford she preferred as much as a certain Oxford don. A very nice professor of philosophy. So you see my being a 'pinup,' as you so flatteringly call it, can't really compensate for the fact that my own wife didn't think so."
Now his eyes betrayed the memory of unhappi-ness.
"Oh," said Sheila. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say except that I think I know the feeling. How did you get over it?"
"I really haven't. I'm not quite sure I ever will completely. But time does help—regenerates one's capacity for hope. After a while you begin to believe you might actually meet someone you trust."
He looked at her.
"I really don't know where I am," she said. "I mean, so many things have happened to me all at
once."
He took a breath and then asked gently, "Is there someone else in your husband's life, Sheila?" She was dumbfounded.
"I understand/' he said. 'Tou can't talk about it. I'm sorry I brought it up."
But she had to say something.
''Gavin, things aren't quite the way they look. I mean—" She shook her head, unable to find words. '1 mean I just couldn't explain it if I tried."
''Sheila, I withdraw my question—with apologies. It's really none of my bloody business."
She could not even say thank you.
"Some other time," he added, "when you feel you can. Or want to."
He stood up.
"Look. I know I should really go now. . . ."
She was about to protest, when he added:
"Really, it's the right thing for both of us."
She hesitated, and at last said, "Thank you, Gavin."
He took out his address book, tore a page from it and began scribbling.
"Now I'm giving you my home number in Washington and my White House extension. And I'm warning you—if I don't hear from you by the end of the week, I'll call you. I have to know you're all right."
She thought. Should I ask him to stay?
"I'm going tq plan on spending a week in Cambridge right after Labor Day. But in the meantime, promise me you'll call. Even to talk about the weather. I just want to hear your voice. Please. Promise."
"Yes."
"Mommy, I can't sleep."
It was Paula, standing there in her pajamas.
"Oh, honey, I'll be up in a second," Sheila responded. And then introduced the stranger. "Gavin, this is my daughter Paula. Paula, this is Dr. Wilson from Washington."
''The one who wrote the books who's not as conceited as you thought?'* Paula asked.
'Tes." Sheila smiled. And Gavin laughed.
"Hello, Dr. Wilson/' Paula said.
*'How do you do/' said Gavin.
"It's past my bedtime/' she added, by way of elucidation.
"Then you must hurry back to bed/'
"Dr. Wilson is right/' Sheila added.
"Will you tuck me in. Mom?" asked Paula.
"Of course."
"Great. I'll be waiting. Night, Dr. Wilson." And she was off to prepare for Sheila's visit.
"She's a lovely little girl," said Gavin. "Now are you sure you'll be all right on your own?"
"Yes," she answered.
She went with him to the door. He stopped and looked down at her.
"I would like very much to kiss you, but this is not the time. Good night. Sheila. I hope you won't forget anything I've said." He gently touched her cheek.
And walked out into the night.
Sheila watched his car drive off and thought, I wonder what would have happened if he'd kissed me.
JjOB AWAKENED SLOWTLY TO THE SOUND OF RAIN. At
first glance it seemed like a winter day. And felt like it, as he closed the window. The outside thermometer actually read 58 degrees. Winter on the Fourth of July. A statistical impossibility—except in Boston.
He padded down the hallway and peered into Jessie's room, where he had put Jean-Claude to bed for the night. The boy was still sleeping peacefully. The events of the previous day had clearly worn, him out. Oh, God, thought Bob as he stared at the tranquil face. What am I going to do?
When Jean-Claude woke, they shared some rolls and coffee. And since the energetic rain showed no signs of fatigue, Bob abandoned plans to tour the sights in Lexington and Concord. Instead he drove to Cambridge and parked in the MIT faculty lot.