He told Paris all about the final anniversary, where they'd gone, what they'd done, what they'd eaten. It was as though he did it to protect himself from his feelings for Paris. Phyllis was the shield he was using against his own emotions. His guilt was stronger than his libido. He poured Paris a glass of champagne, and drank three himself before they went to dinner. And when they got back, he lit the fire, and turned to Paris, just as two and a half years before, he had turned to Phyllis. He could still see it, although for once he didn't say it. But Phyllis's presence was palpable in the room.
“Tired?” he asked quietly, and she nodded. In fact, she wasn't. She was extremely nervous. And it was hard to tell how he felt. He had seemed nostalgic and quiet all evening. Maybe he was getting ready to let Phyllis go, Paris hoped. Maybe this was going to be the epiphany he needed. She was praying it would be. It was time.
Paris put on the simple white satin nightgown she had brought, which dropped easily over her lithe figure, and clung to it enticingly as she emerged from the bathroom. He was already in bed, wearing crisp linen pajamas. His hair was combed, and he had shaved for her. She felt like a bride and groom on a wedding night, fraught with all the same tensions as old-fashioned couples who had never slept with each other. And she was beginning to wonder if they should have made less of a fuss of it, and just climbed into bed one night at her house. But they were here now, and there was no turning back.
And as she got into bed and he turned off the light, he kissed her, and all the passion they had felt for each other suddenly rushed to the surface. He was instantly aroused and so was she, and they seemed to be starving for each other. It was far more heated than she had hoped for, and she felt relief wash over her along with passion. She dropped her nightgown to the floor, and he peeled off his pajamas and they disappeared somewhere, as they entangled in each other's arms, and their hands and lips discovered each other. And then just as he was about to enter her, she felt everything stop, and everything but the essential part of him went rigid.
“Are you okay?” she whispered in the dark. He had pulled away from her, and she was frightened.
“I was about to call you Phyllis.” He sounded as though he was nearly crying, and Paris suspected he was, or would be in a minute.
“It's all right, sweetheart … I love you … don't worry … everything is going to be fine.…” Shestroked him gently as she said it, but he was slowly backing away, and even in the half light, she could see that he was panicked. She didn't know what to do, she wanted to make this better for him. She cared about him, as a man, and as a person.
“I can't do this to her,” he said hoarsely. “She would never forgive me.”
“I think she'd want you to be happy,” Paris said, rubbing his back gently, and trying to relax him. “Why don't you let me give you a backrub, and not worry about this. We don't have to make love tonight. There's no hurry.” And no need for pressure. But all he wanted suddenly was to get away from her. To be as far from Paris as he could get, and as close to Phyllis. It was as though he wanted to crawl back into the womb of time and be with her, and Paris could feel it.
Instead of letting her rub his back, he got up, and walked across the room naked. She could see he had a remarkable body for a man his age, but it did her no good, if he wouldn't share it with her. And he wouldn't. He locked himself in the bathroom without a word to her, and stayed there for half an hour, and when he came out, he was wearing what he had worn to dinner. Paris was shocked, but tried to conceal it. He stood looking down at her in bed with a tragic expression.
“I hate to do this to you, Paris. But I can't be here. I want to go back to the city.” He looked as though something in him had died. He had given up.
“Now?” She sat up in bed and looked at him, and the glow of her skin shimmered like pearls in the moonlight. She was every bit as beautiful as he had thought she would be. But he still couldn't do it. To his late wife. He honestly believed Phyllis would never forgive him.
“I know you must think I'm crazy, and I guess I am. I'm just not ready, and I don't think I ever will be. I loved her too much for too long, and we went through too much together. I can't leave her, or betray her.”
“She left you,” Paris said gently, leaning back against the headboard. “She didn't mean to, and I'm sure she never wanted to, but she had no choice. She's gone, Jim. You can't die with her.”
“I think I did. I think I died in her arms that night. I just didn't know it. I'm sorry to do this to you. I can't have a relationship. Now or ever.” It was what she had feared from the beginning and had begun to think was all right, but clearly it wasn't. He wasn't willing to recover. He didn't want to. He had opted for death instead of life. And nothing Paris could do would change that.
