"America has so many beautiful places to visit," he said. "There is nothing like traveling and traveling and suddenly being surprised by a breathtaking sight. You know that expression, stop to smell the roses?"
"No," she said. It suggested something to do at a cemetery to her.
"Well, it means taking the time to appreciate the beautiful things, Paula. You should think about that more. You should stop to smell the roses, too." She laughed. She didn't know why exactly, but there was a new tone in his voice that actually stung her with a little trepidation.
"Most people never do and one day they wake up and realize it, but they also realize it's too late. It's all passed them by, understand?"
"Sorta," she said. That was her philosophy in a roundabout way, wasn't it, she thought.
"I knew you would understand. Anyone who can sing like you do, who can feel words and music, has to be able to understand what is and what isn't important in life. You're an artist," he continued. "Artists are by nature more sensitive." She liked that. No one ever called her an artist.
"Look at these houses out here," he said as they drove on. "Each one has a sizable piece of land around it. They look so peaceful, too, don't they? You feel the contentment, the quiet bliss. With that sky opening up, those homes silhouetted look like they're on the edge of the world. In them, people are sleeping snugly, fathers and mothers are embracing each other, their children are feeling secure, safe, dreaming about bubbles and balloons and tinsel."
"Are you a poet?" she asked him.
"No," he said smiling, "I'm just poetic."
"Same thing to me," she said.
"Maybe it is," he said nodding.
"I don't understand what you do, this networking thing."
"Oh, it's boring work compared to what you do, Paula. You're out there with people, all sorts of people, personalities, and you have the music that can carry you above it all. I watched you carefully. You're not bothered by the noise or anything. You're in your own little world, aren't you?"
"Yes," she said. "That's it."
"Of course that's it," he replied.
They made another turn and climbed a hill and moments later, there was the dam and the lake and the starlight playing on the water. He found a dirt road that turned in and off the highway and drove in as far as he could, switching off the lights.
"Just look at that," he said. "Breathtaking." She looked at it as if for the first time, too.
"Yes," she said.
He sat there so still and so unmoving that for a few minutes she thought this was going to be it. He wasn't even going to try to kiss her.
Finally, he turned to her.
"I can't help it," he said. "I get so stirred up by beauty. Forgive me," he added. She raised her eyebrows.
"For what?"
"For wanting you so intensely," he said and leaned toward her to kiss her, softly at first and then harder.
She pulled back as if she was angry. "I'm sorry, he said. "I..." She put her finger on his lips and smiled.
"Wouldn't it be better in the rear seat?" she suggested. How wonderful it was to have one so eager, he thought. It filled him with new confidence, not that he needed any boost in that department.
"You took the words right out of my mouth," he said, only he said it as if she literally had, as if when their tongues met, the words that were in his brain and transmitted to his tongue, were then conveyed to her.
They got out of the car and opened the rear doors and met on the wide leather bench seat. In moments, his lips were on her neck and his hands were moving over her breasts.
This is just like high school days, she thought and moaned with pleasure. Despite the darkness, she could see his eyes, luminous above her. She let him undo her belt buckle. He undressed her slowly, never moving much without kissing her somewhere. She was contented to just lie there and let him do all the work, serve her as it were, deliver the ecstasy. When she was totally naked, he lifted her breasts with his palms as if he was weighing them.
"Magnificent," he said and lowered himself to her. He entered her with the same gracefulness he had with his every move, the same assurance and confidence. She accepted him as she would accept any necessity of life itself, as if sex were nourishment and could ensure her own well-being. Every part of her was full of warning and welcoming. Vaguely, she felt he was drawing new strength from her compliance. He was moving deeper and deeper into her. He seemed to have no limit, to grow to enormous length, like some kind of a snake, moving through her very organs, into her intestines and on to her very heart where he wrapped himself and squeezed until she found it harder and harder to breathe. It wasn't a dream; it was literally true. She started to gag, to plead for an easing, a moment or two of respite, but he was relentless and soon she felt her eyes go back. Moments later, she blacked out.
THIRTEEN
Terri had just pulled Curt fully into the house when the sheriff's patrol car turned into her driveway. She saw the head trauma immediately. Whatever had been used as a weapon, had split open the front of his skull just under the hairline and the flow of blood down his temples and over the bridge of his nose made it look horrible. She turned him on his back and leaped up to get her doctor's bag. When she returned, the patrolman was already there, kneeling at Curt's side.
"What happened?" he asked.
She shook her head and went to work, checking his pulse, cleaning the wound, and evaluating what had to be done. As she spoke, she cut away some of his hair.
"I heard a knocking at the door, but I was in the tub," she began. "I had no idea he would be at my door, of course."
"Who is he?" the patrolman asked.
"My fiance, Curt Levitt. By the time I got downstairs, this had all obviously happened. I opened the door because I saw his car in the driveway and this is how I found him," she continued, deciding he needed stitches immediately. "I want to stop this bleeding and then we'll need to get an ambulance and get him to the hospital to see what sort of injury he's obtained." The patrolman nodded and returned to his vehicle to make the call for the ambulance.
"They're on the way," he told her coming back.
"Thanks."
"Do you have any idea how this happened?"
She shook her head.
"I didn't see anyone else or even hear another car," she said. Curt was still unconscious. She felt her heart tighten, and her breath quicken. Suddenly, she was not the doctor anymore; she was a very concerned loved one.
"I'll look around," the police officer said. She barely heard or acknowledged him.
"Curt," she said. "C'mon honey."
His eyelids fluttered. When he opened them, she could see immediately that the pupils were enlarged. He had been hit very hard. All the complications paraded before her.
"Whaaa," he said.
"Don't move. What happened, Curt? If you can, tell me. There's a policeman here."
The patrolman returned.
"Nothing," he said and noticed Curt's eyes were opened. "What's he say?"
"Curt, can you tell us what happened?"
"Hit me," he said. "He was... at your... door... hit me," he finished and closed his eyes again.
"Try to stay awake, Curt. Who hit you? Did you recognize him? Curt?" She shook him gently.
"Man... at the hospital," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. She looked up at the patrolman.
"Get in touch with District Attorney Dennis. Tell him to meet us at the hospital," she said. "Stay with Curt. I'm running upstairs to throw something on. Stay with him."
"What should I do first?" the patrolman asked, confused by her list of commands.