“I don't need an excuse, but I don't think we should,” she said demurely.
“Why's that?” He was playing with her neck, and running his lips across her face tantalizingly. She ran her hands through his hair, and pulled him close to her.
“I think there's a rule book somewhere about situations like this. I think it says you're not supposed to sleep with each other on the first date, after eating pizza and fixing a sink.”
“Damn, if I'd known that, I wouldn't have fixed the sink or eaten the pizza.” He smiled at her and kept kissing her. He wanted her more than he ever had any woman he could remember. And he could see she wanted him just as badly, but still felt she shouldn't. She was savoring the moment and thoroughly enjoying him.
“See you tomorrow?” she said softly. It was nearly a tease, but not quite, and he was surprised to find he liked it, waiting for her, and the right moment, whenever that was. For him, it would have been right then, or whenever she wanted. He was willing to wait, if Sylvia preferred it. She was worth waiting for. He had waited fifty years for her.
“Your place or mine?” he whispered. “I'd love you to come to mine, but it's a mess. I've been gone for a month and no one's cleaned it. Maybe this weekend. Why don't I come back here tomorrow and see how your sink is doing?” The gallery was closed for the Labor Day holiday, and she was planning to work at home. She had nothing else to do the next day.
“I'll be here all day. Come whenever you want. I'll cook you dinner.”
“I'll cook. I'll call you in the morning.” He kissed her again, then left, and she stood silently, looking at the door after she'd closed it. He was a remarkable man, and it was a magical moment. She walked into her bedroom, as though seeing it for the first time, and wondered how it would look with him in it.
And as he walked out into the street and hailed a cab, he felt as though everything in his life had changed in a single evening.
6
GRAY CALLED SYLVIA AT TEN O'CLOCK THE NEXT MORN-ing. His whole apartment looked a mess, and he hadn't even bothered to unpack his suitcase. He had fallen into bed the night before, thinking of her, and the moment he woke up, he called her. She had been working on some papers, and smiled when she heard him.
They asked each other how they'd slept. She had been awake half the night, thinking about him, and he had slept like a baby.
“How's your sink holding up?”
“It's fine.” She smiled.
“Maybe I'd better come over and check on it.” She laughed at him, and they chatted for a few minutes. He said he had some things to do at home after his trip, but offered to bring her lunch around twelve-thirty.
“I thought we were doing dinner,” she said, sounding surprised, although she had told him she'd be home all day, which was a tacit invitation, and she'd meant it.
“I don't think I can wait that long,” he said honestly. “I waited fifty years for you to come along. Another nine hours might kill me. Are you free for lunch?” he asked nervously, and she smiled. She was free for anything he wanted. She had decided the night before when he kissed her that she was ready to let him into her world, and share her life with him. She didn't know why it felt right to her, but everything about him did. She wanted to be with him.
“I'm free anytime you want to come over.”
“Can I bring anything? Quiche? Cheese? Wine?”
“I've got some stuff here. You don't need to bring anything.” There were so many things she wanted to do with him, walk through Central Park, wander around the Village, go to a movie, lie in bed and watch TV, go out to dinner, stay home and cook for him, see his work, show him her gallery, or just lie in bed and hold him. She hardly knew him, and yet at the same time, she felt as though she had always known him.
In his studio, Gray opened his mail, checked his bills, and haphazardly took his clothes out of his suitcase. He left most of them lying on the floor, and took out what he wanted. He showered, shaved, dressed, quickly wrote some checks, ran out the door, mailed them, and went to the only florist he found open. He bought her two dozen roses, hailed a cab, and gave the driver her address in SoHo. At noon, he rang the bell, and was standing in her doorway. The plumber had just left, and her eyes widened instantly when she saw the roses.
“Oh my God, they're beautiful.… Gray, you shouldn't.” And she meant it, she knew he was a starving artist, and she was bowled over by the tenderness and generosity of the gesture. He was a true romantic. After a lifetime of narcissists, she had finally found a man whom she not only cared about, but to whom she mattered.
