New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [395]
By January, her slim, pale body had become an obsession with him. Often in the afternoons, while Sarah was busy at the gallery, he’d sit in the little office near Columbia, or in his apartment, and dream away an hour at a time thinking about her. Standing beside him, she only had to move her body sinuously close to his, and he would be overcome with a desire to possess her.
Each time, before their lovemaking, she would slip off the little pendant that she wore around her neck, and for him this little gesture, which she did quite unself-consciously, became a moment of excitement and great tenderness. In their lovemaking, she could drive him wild with passion. But she was more than a young mistress; there was something else that he could not describe exactly, something ancient, something belonging to the East, he supposed. He’d discovered that first night that her narrow breasts were larger, fuller than he’d expected. When they made love, and when she lay beside him afterward, it seemed to him that Sarah was not just a girl, however interesting, but a timeless woman, full of richness and mystery.
He spent so much time thinking about her that sometimes he cursed himself for not having enough to do.
Every other weekend, he would see little Gorham as usual. He almost wanted to introduce the boy to her. But even if he just said she was a friend, Julie would soon get to hear of it, and guess the truth, and then there would have to be explanations, and trouble. Besides, on these occasions, Sarah was always home with her family.
That was a small difficulty. He’d have liked to spend all his free weekends with her, but usually she insisted that she had to see her family.
“They’d get very suspicious if I missed too many weekends,” she told him with a laugh.
Some weekends she could get away, though. Late in January, he took her skiing in Vermont. She fell down quite a few times, with good humor, looked at her bruises ruefully, and agreed she’d give it another try, but maybe not for a while. Then, in February, he treated her to a weekend at a country hotel in Connecticut.
It was a cold Friday afternoon when they drove out of New York. The roads were clear, though there was still snow on the banks beside them. Charlie owned a 1950 De Soto Custom Sportsman of which he was very proud.
He’d booked the room in advance, in a charming place he knew, only an hour’s drive out of town. In the name of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Master. Hotels didn’t usually inquire too closely, so long as you signed in that way. It was dusk when they arrived. They had a couple of suitcases which he carried himself to the door of the white clapboard house. There was a log fire in the lobby, and while the manager greeted Charlie and led him to the little counter to sign in, Sarah went over to it. After a moment or two she took off her coat and sat on the low ottoman in front of the cheerful blaze. She was wearing a white shirt and a cardigan. Charlie glanced over toward her and smiled; the fire was already giving her face a charming glow. Just then, an ember fell out of the fire. She reached forward for the tongs, in order to replace it, and as she did so the little Jewish star on its chain swung out from her neck, catching the firelight. Having put the glowing ember back on the fire, she got up and came toward the desk.
The manager of the place had just been starting to tell him about the room when Charlie noticed him look sharply across at Sarah as she leaned down by the fire. Now, as she came over, the man was staring at her neck.
“Nice fire,” she remarked.
“Excuse me,” said the manager, and went into the little office behind the desk. A minute or so passed before he came back.
“I am so sorry, sir,” he said to Charlie, “but there seems to be a problem with the booking. When you came in, I mistook