Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [39]
Michael stared at one of the women. She was tan, a little plump, so pretty. She smiled at him, and he looked away. God, when had he started ogling sunbathers? His head spun, as if from heatstroke, but Michael knew it was from desire. He felt dirty, as though he were doing something illicit. And wasn’t he? He had told Lydie about his plans to swim, much the way a businessman tells his wife the clean details of a business trip: the hotel where he will stay, the meetings he will attend, the presentation he will deliver. Omitting, the way Michael omitted his real reason for coming to the pool, any mention of the female colleague who will be taking the same trip.
Last night, lying beside his sleeping wife, Michael had imagined swimming alongside Anne, reaching for her underwater, kissing her as they sank to the bottom of the pool. He had imagined her breasts, so round and full under the light summer dresses she wore; in the pool the tips would harden to points. He had imagined his erect penis magnified underwater, entering her as she lay on the cool tile. All this action was happening at the bottom of the pool, and Michael found it interesting that the fantasy made him feel so guilty that he was drowning himself and Anne in it.
Yet here he was, back at the pool. And there was Anne, real, in the corner of his eye. His heart raced. He squinted, concentrating on an article about the political right in Lyon.
“Hey, there,” she said. “You came.”
“Hi,” Michael said, trying to sound surprised. He shaded his eyes. She wore a yellow caftan over her bathing suit, green espadrilles on her feet. She grinned; she looked so happy to see him that he rose and kissed her cheek.
“Come on, let’s swim,” she said. The caftan dropped to the floor, revealing a turquoise maillot. Michael thought of his fantasies about bikinis and skintight swim trunks, and he laughed. Anne tilted her head, inquisitive, but Michael just smiled. She dove into the pool.
What had seemed so sexual, so unbearably erotic in his fantasy, turned into merely a vigorous workout. Michael swam in the lane beside Anne. Turning his head to take a breath, he glimpsed her legs kicking. A flash of pale thigh, muscular calf; he pulled ahead. He heard his heartbeat echo in his head, unbelievably, slower than it had been when she had first approached on dry land. He was out of shape. He hadn’t the energy or strength to think about what could happen, or to make it happen. Instead, he swam as if his life depended on it. As if his ship had sunk a mile out of the harbor and he was fighting against an ebb tide and an undertow to reach the shore.
He couldn’t swim anymore. He stopped, treading water, gasping for air. His eyes stung from chlorine, but he scanned the pool, looking for her. There she was, halfway to the other end, stroking steadily. She touched the pool’s rim, then kicked off, coming toward him. Easy. Without looking up, she knew exactly where to stop.
“Had enough?” she asked.
He spoke with deliberate smoothness, to give her the idea he had his breath back. “For now.”
“It is good for you to start off slowly,” she said. “Swimming is the best exercise there is.”
“You were right,” Michael said. “This place is practically empty.”
“Isn’t it nice?” Anne said. “Now, let’s get out of the water before you die.”
They dried their faces on towels, then lay side by side on chaise longues. Michael was silent, his eyes closed, enjoying her closeness. She was right there, the woman he had fallen in love with. He wished the day stretched ahead without appointments. What time was it? Eight-thirty? Nine? He wished that his Louvre project would lead to another, so that he could stay in Paris forever. He felt her take his hand.
He opened his eyes, turned his head to look at her.
“Hi,” she said, watching him. She held his hand lightly, as though she wasn’t quite sure she wanted him to notice.
He said nothing, only looked.
“We could go somewhere,” she said. She smiled, ducked her head. “Oh, it’s embarrassing to ask …”
“No,” Michael said. “It’s not. I want to.