"He's that way with everyone." Churchill had told me. Even though I had never said a word about Gage's coldness, it was obvious. "Always been standoffish—takes a while to warm up to people."
We both knew it wasn't true. I was the focus of a tareeted dislike. I assured Churchill it didn't bother me one bit. That wasn't true either. It has always been my curse to be a pleaser. This is bad enough, but when you're a pleaser in the company of someone who is determined to think the worst of you, you're miserable. My only defense was to muster a dislike that equaled Gage's, and to that end, he was being very helpful.
After Gage had left, the best part of the day began. I sat in the corner with a laptop and typed in Churchill's notes and handwritten pages, or worked from his recordings. He encouraged me to ask about anything I didn't understand, and he had a gift for explaining things in terms I could easily grasp.
I made calls and wrote e-mails for him, organized his schedule, took notes when people came to the house for meetings. Churchill usually presented foreign visitors with gifts such as bolo ties or bottles of Jack Daniel's. To Mr. Ichiro Tokegawa, a Japanese businessman Churchill had been friends with for years, we gave a chinchilla-and-beaver Stetson that cost four thousand dollars. As I sat quietly in those meetings, I was fascinated by the insights they shared and the different conclusions they drew from the same information. But even when they disagreed, it was clear that people respected Churchill's opinions.
Everyone remarked how good Churchill looked despite what he had gone through, that obviously nothing could keep him down. But it cost Churchill to maintain that appearance. After his guests left, he seemed to deflate, becoming weary and querulous. The long sedentar\' periods made him cold, and I was constantly filling up hot water bottles and putting throw blankets on him. When he had muscle cramps, I massaged his feet and his good leg. and helped him with toe and foot exercises to prevent adhesions.
"You need a wife," I told him one morning as I came to take his breakfast tray.
"I had a wife," he said. "Two good ones, as a matter of fact. Trying for another would be like asking fate for a kick in the ass. Besides, I do well enough with my lady friends."
I could see the sense in that. There was no practical reason for Churchill to get married. It wasn't like he had a problem finding female companionship. He got calls and notes from a variety of women, one of them an attractive widow named Vivian who sometimes stayed overnight. I was pretty sure they slept together, despite the logistics of maneuvering around the broken leg. After date night, Churchill was always in a good mood.
"Why don't you get a husband?" Churchill countered. "You shouldn't wait too long or you'll get set in your ways."
"So far I haven't found one worth marrying," I said, making Churchill laugh.
"Take one of my boys." he said. "Healthy young animals. All prime husband material."
I rolled my eyes. "I wouldn't have one of your sons on a silver platter."
"Why not11"
"Joe's too young. Jack is a ladies' man and isn't nearly ready for that kind of responsibility, and Gage...well, personality issues aside, he only dates women whose body fat is in the single digits."
A new voice entered the conversation. "That's not actually a requirement."
Glancing over my shoulder. I saw Gage walking into the room. I cringed, fervently
wishing I had kept my mouth shut.
I had wondered why Gage would date someone like Dawnelle, who was beautiful but seemed to have no interests other than shopping or reading Hollywood gossip sheets. Jack had summed her up best: "Dawnelle is hot. But ten minutes in her company and you can feel your IQ dropping."
The only possible conclusion was that Dawnelle was going out with Gage because of his money and position, and he was using her as a trophy, and their relationship consisted of nothing more than meaningless sex.
God, I envied them.
I missed sex, even the mediocre sex I' d had with Tom. I was a healthy twenty-four-year-old woman, and I had urges with no means to satisfy them. Alone-sex didn't count. It's like the difference between thinking to yourself or having a good conversation with someone—the pleasure is in the exchange. And it seemed everyone had a love life but me. Even Gretchen.
One night I'd downed a mug of the tension-tamer tea I often made for Churchill to help him sleep. It had done nothing for me. My sleep had been restless, and I woke with the sheets twisted into ropes around my legs, and my head had been filled with erotic images that, for once, had nothing to do with Hardy. I sat bolt upright from a dream in which a man's hands had been playing gently between my thighs, his mouth at my breast, and as I had writhed and begged for more, I had seen his eyes flash silver in the darkness.