He continues the tour. Glass coffee tables, comfortable sofas, and a large, theatre-size screen make up the main living room. August clearly has a decorator and housekeeper as there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. Even the throws are symmetrically folded at the corners of the couches.
As he rattles about in the kitchen, pulling out platters of oysters and popping a champagne bottle, I walk over to a glass case filled with first editions in a dozen translations ofBloodOath. With this place and these accomplishments, he must feel proud. He comes across as cavalier. But I wonder suddenly if he’s happy.
We sit down, and I realize I’m famished. There’s something rather fun and sexy about slurping oysters. The sand on the tongue, the controlled messiness. All my caution fades as we talk about everything from our books to classes. I find myself describing my pleasant Midwest childhood, the wavy cornfields, our 1915 farmhouse with glass doorknobs, cozy, cushioned reading nooks, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He tells me about his socialite mother, who brunched once with Truman Capote in the mid-’70s. August remains close to her to this day, always giving her early drafts of his books and skiing in Switzerland with her on holidays. After two and a half glasses of champagne (shockingly, before 1:00 in the afternoon!) and a shameful number of oysters, somehow I find myself on the living room couch making out with A.D. Hemmings.
“I’ve wanted to do this from the moment I met you,” he says against my mouth. It’s a cliché remark, straight from the Alec d’Urberville playbook, and yet—
At first, I try not to think too much about what I’m doing, how I’m breaking a million, zillion widow’s rules. The champagne and August’s expert kissing help. But as we’re tangled on the couch, intrusive thoughts surface, sort of like Mom’s occasional dinging texts when Philip and I were trying to be intimate.
The “séance” is still fresh in my head.
What if spirit-Philip can see me?
What if spirit-Mom can see me making out with a British man I barely know after a lunch of champagne and too many oysters? She’d be asking poignant questions about venereal disease and that sort of thing.
August’s hand slides down the side of my rib cage, his thumb grazing my breast. I melt. Mygod, I forgot how much fun it is to be touched by someone for the first time.
My senses fire up and then—thescent. August smells amazing, like salty oysters and expensive cologne. But inside I recoil, my chest tightening. He doesn’t smell like Philip. My body can’t catch up to what my brain is consenting to. Philip smelled like Old Spice soap, and my senses reject this new man.
Damn biology.
His mouth moves down my neck, and the jet necklace twists, tightening uncomfortably.
“Owww...”
“Oh, sorry.” He pulls back a little.
“No, it’s okay.” I quickly unclasp the necklace, and it falls to the floor. Lust is a devil. I’m like my friend Heather, removing the purity ring in romantically heated moments.
Now I know why I couldn’t have kissed Henry. This first-kiss fire can be too intense. Spirit-Philip, Spirit-Mother, jet necklace, new scents—a barreling train can’t stop me. I roll sideways, unbuttoning August’s shirt.
Something hard uncomfortably presses against my hip. Well, that’s natural. As I’m almost finished unbuttoning, August rolls more on top of me.
“Owww!” I scream, pain searing into my hip.
We bolt up alarmed.
I pull the bird urn from my sundress pocket, and tears burn my eyes.
Philip’s ashes injured me while I was fooling around with another man. If that isn’t a screaming sign, I don’t know what is.
“I’m... I’m sorry. I have to go,” I mutter, sitting up, smoothing my hair. I retrieve the jet necklace, fastening it around my neck. I grab my purse.
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry...”
When I get back to the row house, Ms. Fernsby and Heathcliff are cutting out cookie shapes in the kitchen.
“Lizzie?” She looks up, alarmed.
“I’m fine,” I mumble through tears and run upstairs.
I fall onto the bed.
This went further than that moment with Henry.
Who was I back there with AugustDansworth?
