The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [100]
— I’ll always love you, Jack says.
They drive to a ranch in the mountains. The temperature drops nearly forty degrees. Over the peach dress, she has on his leather jacket. She can still feel the wedding smile on her face, a smile that hasn’t faded, as if it had been captured in a photograph. Her head jostles some when he shifts. She wonders what it means to have a wedding night if they already live together, and if they will feel different to each other in the bed. She wonders what it means to have a wedding in front of a man neither of them had ever met and who won’t remember them. The dry air of the west makes her hair feel thinner than the humidity of Ely does. It tightens the skin on her face.
Still they climb higher. Dark now and clear, the night sky draws white lines on scrub and rock and makes shadows of small boulders. In the distance, they can see a light.
A fire has been lit in the cabin. She wonders if the wattle between the logs is real or for show. The bathroom has a metal shower and a pink sink. Jack seems abashed by the modest furnishings, as though he had planned for something else.
— I love it here, Kathryn says, reassuring him.
She sits on the bed, which sags and gives a loud metallic creak. Her eyes widen, and he laughs.
— I’m glad it’s a cabin, he says.
They undress in the firelight. She watches as he pulls his tie to the side, unbuttons his shirt. The way he tugs his belt buckle slightly to release the tongue. He slides his legs from his suit pants. Men’s socks, she thinks. If they knew how they looked, they wouldn’t wear them.
Naked, he is cold and dives into the bed. They glide against each other like dry silk. He pulls the comforters, piled high and weighty, the only luxury in the room, over their shoulders.
The bed squeals at the slightest shift in weight. They lie side by side, their faces not three inches apart, and touch each other as they never have before: slowly, with an economy of movement, as if executing an ancient dance, ritualistic and intent. When he enters her, he moves with exquisite care and patience. She sighs once quickly.
— The three of us, he says.
three
MATTIE’S ARMS TREMBLED, JERKING THE REEL WITH the strain.
“Hey, did you see that?” Mattie cried.
“It looks huge,” Kathryn answered.
“I think I’ve really got him.”
“Bring the line in away from the rocks or you’ll cut it.” Kathryn could see the black and silver stripes tumbling just below the surface of the water. For forty minutes now, she’d been watching Mattie fight the fish with her father’s oversized rod, letting the line spin out, setting the drag, grunting, and then reeling in the fish, anchoring the pole in her armpit for leverage. Kathryn waded out with the net, scooped and missed, tried again. Finally, she held the striper aloft for Mattie to see.
Jack should be here, Kathryn thought automatically.
Mattie put down the rod, took the fish from her mother, and laid it on the sand. The doomed striper flipped its tail. Mattie got out the measuring tape, and Kathryn crouched with her to get a better look.
“Thirty-six,” Mattie said with pride.
“Yes!” Kathryn said, scratching the top of Mattie’s head. Her daughter’s hair had gone a lovely coppery color over the summer. She wore it natural, let it wave where it wanted to. She was nearly naked but for the two thin wisps of ice blue that were her bathing suit.
“Are you going to eat