Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [53]
“It isn’t that. Well, anyway, can I bring the car back in the morning?”
“Sure. Have fun, pal. I’ll be thinking of you.”
Philip and Jeannette awoke at three the following morning. Their lovemaking had, at first, been tentative. But it soon became intense—and wonderful for both.
“I have an idea,” she said, sitting up against the headboard.
“What’s that?”
“Why don’t you come home with me for Christmas and meet my folks.”
He turned on his side, rested his head on his hand, and looked up at her. “I can’t,” he said. “I promised my brothers and sisters that I’d be with them over the holidays.”
“You don’t have to spend the whole break with them, Phil. Batavia, or whatever the name of your town is, isn’t that far from Greenwich. You could drive down and at least spend a few days with us.”
He swung his legs off the bed, which positioned his back to her. He felt her fingertips on his neck, then her lips. “Please,” she said. “For me?”
“I don’t know, Jeannette. Probably not. I made a lot of promises to the family, things to do, stuff like that. And I planned to write a paper that’s due when we get back.”
She pulled away, got out on the opposite side of the bed, and disappeared into the bathroom. The grayness of the room matched Rotondi’s mood. He knew he wouldn’t go to visit her over Christmas—couldn’t go. What he’d said was true, that plans made with his sisters and their families would take up some of his time while at home. But not that much. It was also true that he intended to write a paper to get a jump on things when he returned from the break.
He knew that those reasons for not going were just rationalizations. The truth was that he did not feel comfortable spending time with Jeannette’s wealthy parents, to be judged by them, to be asked questions about his own family. Was he truly in love with Jeannette Boynton? The answer to that was beyond debate. He was, and desperately so. At the same time, he was convinced that he wasn’t worthy of her. It wasn’t a matter of self-loathing. It was just that his feelings of love seemed always to be tempered by a need to disengage—for her sake.
He was terminally confused.
• • •
As winter surrendered to spring, they continued to date, although less frequently and with diminished urgency. There were a few more nights in motels, pleasurable physical experiences but with both instinctively realizing that the fire had lost some of its intensity—not extinguished by any means, but banked. Phil became less and less accessible, taking refuge in his studies and finding pleasure in the physical exhaustion that followed workouts and track meets.
Now, on this lovely day in early May 1971, he shared a blanket with the woman he loved, and with his best friend.
“What are you doing for the summer, Phil?” Simmons asked.
“Working back home. I’ve lined up a job in a local factory. Not the sort of job I wanted, but it pays better than anything else. I’ll need the money at Maryland.”
“Like I told you, buddy, you can come to work for my father in Chicago. Wouldn’t hurt a future lawyer to learn something about the real real estate business.”
“I appreciate it, Lyle, but I’d rather be home.” He glanced at Jeannette, who was on her back, her arms folded over her eyes against the sun.
“You look beat,” said Simmons. “Man, you should back off the books a little.”
“Not much longer to go,” Rotondi said. “I think I can ace a straight four-oh this semester.”
“All work and no play…”
Rotondi grinned and stood. “You think I’m a dull boy, Lyle?”
“Hell, no,” Lyle responded. “You’re the most interesting guy I’ve ever known. I’m just saying that—”
Jeannette sat up abruptly. “I have to get back,” she said, rising to her feet and gathering her belongings.
Lyle and Phil looked at each other, knowing what the other was thinking. She’d been in what could only be termed a foul mood lately, not finding things as funny as she would have a month or two earlier, and exhibiting an uncharacteristic short temper.
That night, Rotondi sat in his room