"No," I said, and I explained that I'd not yet told Henrietta that her son was dead, that I'd been waiting until I'd discovered who the killer was. "I'll go by her apartment later this afternoon after she returns from work."
"She will be heartbroken."
"Yes. She will. I'll tell her the killer died a violent death. Maybe it will ease her pain a little." But the words rang false, and I knew that I had held off informing Henrietta of her son's fate for no good reason.
"She will want to have the name on the headstone changed," said Mira.
"What?" I asked, distracted by thoughts of Henrietta.
"Willie's and Esther's headstones. They bear their false names to this day."
"Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose you're right. I'll talk to Henrietta about it."
"I haven't visited their graves," Mira said, looking abashed. "Not even once. I couldn't bring myself to do it. When this is all over, I think I'll go."
There didn't seem to be anything to say to that, so I kept quiet.
Mira put her hand on my forearm. Her fingers matched her physique—long and slender. Like last time, her touch was cool, but it sent heat up my arm.
We stared each other in silence for a long, loaded moment. The air in the apartment seemed to be holding its breath.
Mira broke the silence. "Thank you, Adam, for all you've done."
She leaned a little toward me and tilted her head. After a slight hesitation, I leaned the rest of the way, closing the distance between us. Her lips parted slightly the instant before my mouth met hers, and her warm breath tickled my tongue. It had a taste, her breath, but I could not tell what it was. Something sweet and fresh.
Her lips were softer than they looked, and she invested herself fully in the kiss. When she broke the kiss, my lips felt deprived.
"I wanted to do this last time," she said, smiling softly, "but the moment seemed wrong. Now is better." She didn't wait for a response, but leaned in again.
This kiss was deeper. Her hand gripped my shoulder. My hand went around her back. She scooted closer to me on the sofa, our legs and bodies touching. A muffled moan escaped her throat. A long-dormant heat began flowing through my body.
Part of me was immersed in the moment, in Mira; another part kept its distance. Against my closed eyelids wavered the face of my dead wife, Deborah, and mingled with the pleasure of the kiss was guilt. It was an illogical guilt, but palpable, born from a feeling that I was being unfaithful to Deborah. A voice inside my head warned me that should I take this moment further, I would be cutting ties to my past, to my lost love. I had no picture of Deborah. All that she'd worn or touched or owned was gone, taken by the Germans or the Hungarians. All I had were memories, and they brought with them such agony that I kept them locked away in a vault deep down in my subconscious.
But another voice whispered that Deborah would not have begrudged me this moment, nor any that might follow. She would not want me to wallow in misery for the rest of my life. She would want me to seek and find happiness. And where would I find another woman like Mira? A woman who could accept and appreciate the man I now was?
The voices were still skirmishing in my head when Mira ended the kiss. She rested her forehead against mine, inhaling deeply through her nose. Then she leaned back, took her hand off my shoulder, glanced at her watch, and let out a sigh of frustration.
"I hate to do this, Adam," she said, "more than you can imagine. But Sarah is expecting me at the hair salon. I'm already running late."
She looked apologetic, and I did my best to hide my conflicting emotions. There was relief, but it was overshadowed by impatient irritation and a desire to kiss her again.
Mira said, "Can you come over tonight after you see Willie's mother? I'll cook dinner for us."
"Yes," I said, my voice slightly hoarse. I swallowed to clear it.
Mira smiled. It was a happy smile, eager and lovely, utterly exorcised of ghosts and guilt. She put her hand on my thigh and we kissed again. My hand went through her soft hair to cup the back of her head. She kneaded my thigh. It lasted a long time, that kiss, and by the time it was done we were breathless.
"God," Mira exhaled. "I wish I didn't have to go."
At the door we kissed some more—a swift series of kisses, each like a promise of more to come.
"Finish what you have to do and then come over," Mira said. "Around six should be fine. We'll eat early."
What we would do after dinner remained unsaid.
I was light-headed when I strolled west on Frishman. A woman walking in the opposite direction slowed her steps to study my face, then gave an amused smile and a chuckle and continued past me. It was only then that I realized I was grinning.
How was I to pass the time till evening?
