And inevitably, Charlotte's predictions proved to be right. Peter suggested he come out for the weekend when he heard that the children were spending Labor Day weekend with their father. I was expecting him to stay at the hotel, as usual, and was startled when he suggested that this time I stay at the hotel with him.

“I … uh. I didn't … I don't … I don't usually…” I said smoothly, suddenly mortified despite the inroads we'd made in that direction since the beginning of August. And then I surprised myself, as I reminded myself that I was an adult, and Charlotte would know nothing about it. “Why don't you stay here?” I asked softly.

“That would be nice.” I could imagine him smiling as he said it. And I was still blushing when I hung up the phone. It was ridiculous to be shy about things like that at my age. Ridiculous maybe, but I felt like a runaway teenager about to get caught by the cops when I watched him drive up the driveway. I was wearing pink jeans and a pink shirt, and a new pair of pink espadrilles. I had thrown out all my old ones. And as I glanced in the mirror, I thought I looked like a giant mass of cotton candy, but Peter didn't seem to mind it.

He kissed me as he came through the front door, and set down his bag. That single act seemed suddenly ominous to me and like a symbol of enormous commitment. What if I chickened out, and didn't want to “do it”? What if I changed my mind? What if Charlotte and Sam hadn't really left, and were hiding in the closet? But I had seen them drive away only two hours before with Roger. Just enough time to sink into a hot bath, and transform myself from motherhood to sex queen for Peter.

“Hi,” he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing me again, as I wondered if he knew I was nervous. “I brought some groceries,” he said calmly, and then he looked at me with a question in his eyes. “Or would you rather go out? I'm actually a pretty fair cook, if you trust me.” That was, in fact, an interesting question, to which I was not yet sure of the answer. Did I trust him? The truth was, I did. But should I? What if he did this all the time? … picked people up in small hotels, wined and dined them for a month … and then what? What did I think he was going to do to me? What if he really wasn't divorced, or had a thousand girlfriends in New York and California? But as I helped him unpack the groceries and he kissed me again, more passionately this time, I decided it didn't really matter. I was crazy about him. And however evil he might turn out to be in the end, he could be no worse than Roger.

We managed to get the steaks he'd brought into the refrigerator, and the makings of a salad. And he set the bottle of red wine down on the table somewhere behind us, and somehow at that point, I lost track of the groceries, and he began to slowly unwind what I was wearing like so much cotton candy. And seemingly effortlessly, our clothes vanished in a path of pink and white and blue and khaki, and the next thing I knew, we were lying on my bed naked, as the sun went down slowly over the ocean, and I was breathless. I had suddenly never wanted anyone as much as I wanted this man, never trusted anyone as much, had never given myself in quite the way I gave myself to him, not even to Roger…. I was starving. And what happened after that seemed like a dream afterward when I thought about it. We lay in each other's arms and talked and kissed and whispered and dreamed, and discovered things about each other that I longed to know, about him, and he needed to know about me. It was after midnight when we finally thought about dinner.

“Hungry?” he asked in a husky voice as he rolled over, and I touched the satin of his skin. But I could only groan at the question.

“God, Peter … not again … I couldn't.”

He laughed as he leaned over and kissed me, and whispered, “I meant dinner.”

“Oh …” I felt strangely shy with him, and yet at ease at the same time. It was all so new, and so different than anything I had ever known in my life before. There was something so tender about the way he looked at me, so kind, and yet we were friends even before we were lovers, and I liked that. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?” I asked, lying back comfortably on the bed we had made ours, sorry that we could not stay there forever, but immensely pleased that Roger had taken the children for the weekend.

“I thought I was going to make you dinner.” He kissed me again then and for a minute I thought it was all going to begin again, but we were both tired and sated and suddenly realized that we were starving.

In the end, we decided to pass on the steaks, and opted for an omelette instead, which Peter cooked to perfection with ham and cheese, and the salad he had brought to make for dinner. He was right. He was a terrific cook, almost as good as he was a lover.

We went for a walk on the beach after that, and then came home with his arm around me, and we fell asleep in each other's arms that night, with all the delicious newness and lack of expertise which comes from not knowing how someone sleeps, or what side they sleep on, if they like to cuddle or be left alone. But Peter made it easy for me. He just pulled me to him, held me close, and a moment later as we drifted off to sleep, I found myself wondering if Charlotte would know, with that hideous extrasensory perception of the thirteen-year-old, that we had “done it.” My eyes fluttered open as I thought of it, and glanced at Peter, and then I smiled … he looked so beautiful as he lay there sleeping beside me. Sorry, Charlotte.

There was more of the same the next day. We made love again when we woke up, and afterward I made him breakfast. We swam, we talked, we ate, we went for long walks. We spent most of the weekend in bed, and by the end of the weekend, more than I wanted to, or would have dared admit to him, there was a part of me that belonged to him. I was falling in love with him. Correction. Past tense. I had fallen in love with him. It had all been too sweet, too good, too right, too tender. I was a goner.

And when he drove me back into town on Monday night, after I closed the house, he mentioned that he was going to have to spend some time in California in September.

“Do you spend a lot of time there?” I asked casually, wondering if he was telling me this was the end of a brief summer fling, or something I'd have to get used to. I figured I could get used to anything for him. I hadn't felt this way since I was in high school, but hated to have him know it so soon. It was embarrassing to be head over heels for a guy I'd known for less than two months. How could this happen to me? I knew better. I had been married for thirteen years to a man I trusted and loved, and he had still managed to look me in the eye and tell me he didn't love me. This one would too eventually. I knew that. I was a grown-up. So I figured the announcement about California had a deeper meaning. But he seemed relaxed when he said it, and when we stopped outside my building, he kissed me.

“Everything's okay, Steph,” he said, as though he had sensed my panic. “And don't worry about the trip. I'll only be out there for two weeks this time.”. My heart pounded a little bit. It was as though he understood what I was feeling and the fact that now I would really miss him. “But I have a surprise for you while I'm gone. You won't even miss me.”

“What is it?” I asked naively, relieved by everything he'd said so far. He was going to California, but he didn't appear to be leaving the relationship. Yet. And I couldn't help wondering what the surprise was. I asked him about it, as he helped me get my bags upstairs. As usual, the doorman vanished as soon as he saw them.

“You'll see,” Peter said mysteriously, referring to the surprise again. “You won't be lonely for a minute,” he promised. He was leaving in two days, which gave us a little time to enjoy New York together.

The night before he left he took me to dinner at ‘21’ and everyone knew him there. And then we went back to his apartment and made love. It was even better than it had been over the weekend. The time I spent with Peter was magical, and I was sad to remember that he was leaving in the morning. The kids were with Roger and Helena for the night I spent with him, and when he dropped me off at my place in the morning, he told me he loved me, and I told him I loved him too. That was before I knew what the surprise was. I had forgotten about the surprise momentarily. It seemed suddenly unimportant in light of what he had just said. He'd said he loved me. But what did that mean?





Chapter Four

Peter called from the airport before he left, and he sounded in good spirits. He made a vague reference to the surprise again, and then he had to dash to get on the plane, before he missed it.

It was an odd feeling after he left. I had gotten strangely used to him in the short time we'd been together. It had all the elements of a fabulous romance, and yet there was a comfort level, and an ease with each other that was almost like being married. J loved being with him. There had never been anyone like him in my life. Not even Roger. This was very different. It was more grown up, more respectful, more comfortable in many ways. We had a great time, laughed a lot, talked constantly, and enjoyed being together. And there were none of the dead spots, or disappointments there had been with Roger. Peter was terrific.

He had won Sam over weeks before, but Charlotte was continuing to glower. She still attributed the worst motives possible to him, and cast aspersions on him at every opportunity, probably because he liked me, and made me happy. He was aware of her hostility, but didn't seem bothered by it, which made him seem like even more of a hero to me. No matter how much abuse she heaped on him, subtly or otherwise, he was good-natured about it. Nothing seemed to bother him. He was the consummate good sport, and really did seem to like my children.

Later that day Charlotte was in the process of telling me how glad she was that he was gone and that she hoped his plane crashed, as she described the flames that would devour him after it did, when the doorbell rang. I was cooking dinner, and didn't like what she was saying, since I knew he was still en route to California, or at least I thought so. That is, until I answered the door, wearing an apron, and carrying a ladle. It was the first week of school, and Sam was in his room, doing homework. Charlotte disappeared to hers at the sound of the doorbell, as though she knew what was coming.

I was surprised the doorman hadn't announced who was coming up, and figured whoever it was had slipped past him, or maybe it was someone from the building, with a package for me. But I was in no way prepared for what I saw, when I opened the door, and almost dropped the ladle I was holding. It was Peter, in an outfit the likes of which I had never seen, anywhere, at any time, on anyone, and certainly not on Peter. He was wearing fluorescent green satin pants, skintight and startlingly revealing, with a see-through black net shirt, with a little sparkle to it, and a pair of black satin cowboy boots I'd seen in a Versace ad, with rhinestone buckles. I remember distinctly wondering who on earth would wear them, when I saw it. His hair was slicked back, differently than he normally wore it, and he was smiling at me. It was Peter, there was no doubt about that, and he had played the best joke on me. He hadn't left town at all. He had stayed, and dressed up for Halloween, a little early to be sure. It was a far cry from his immaculate white jeans, and well-pressed khakis, and the blue Oxford shirts I had grown so fond of.

I threw my arms around his neck and laughed. It was a terrific trick to play, and I loved it. “You're here! … And that's quite an outfit!” I noticed that he was wearing a different aftershave. I liked it, but it was a lot stronger, and made me sneeze. And as he followed me back into the kitchen, he walked with an outrageous swagger. He was almost grinding his hips, and in the clothes he was wearing, reminded me of an interesting cross between Liberace, Elvis, and Michael Jackson. He looked as though he were about to go onstage in Las Vegas.

“Do you like it?” He seemed pleased that I liked what he was wearing, and smiled broadly at me.

“It's quite a surprise…. What I like best is that you're here.” I couldn't stop grinning as I watched him, and put down the ladle as I stared at him sauntering around my kitchen. I could hardly wait till the kids saw him, particularly Charlotte, who had just been complaining about how conservative he was, and how boring. This was definitely not boring, neither the trick he had played, nor the outfit he had worn to do it.