She sat cross-legged on the bed, holding a cup of coffee, the sheet over her shoulders like a collapsed tent. “One-nighters,” she said coolly, “are how I make sure I don’t become dependent on someone.”
Tim propped himself against the headboard, and nodded. “There are — devices, you know,” he said facetiously.
Melanie chuckled. “After a couple of bad marriages, a ton of guilt, and too much therapy, they start looking pretty good,” she said, adjusting her position on the bed. “Seriously, I got my act together and decided, never again. I don’t date. I don’t get involved. I don’t see anyone more than once. It’s that simple.”
“Must’ve been a couple of real losers—”
“Not really. I was as responsible as they were. Selfish. Focused on my career, and my body. They wanted kids, which I thought would destroy both. Don’t get me wrong, they had their faults, but”—she paused and took a sip of the coffee—“yours truly was no angel. First time, I was nineteen and didn’t know anything. The second, I was twenty-eight and thought I knew it all. Funny,” she said poignantly, “they both hurt as much.”
Tim didn’t reply, nor did his expression change to indicate he empathized. He was too intent on studying her face — obliquely, the way men do the next morning.
Melanie had seen the distant uncertainty many times and knew what he was thinking. “I’ll save you the heavy math,” she said. “I’m forty-two.”
She slipped from beneath the sheet, stepped to the floor unclothed, and did a lovely jeté en tourant across the sleeping balcony. She held the last position, articulating it, a current flowing through her in the diffused light.
Tim swept his eyes over her elegantly arched figure, easily that of a woman ten years younger.
“You’re very beautiful,” he said desirously.
“An illusion,” she replied, moving back to first position. “The lighting. It’s all in the—”
The single clipped ring of the telephone interrupted her.
The answering machine clicked on.
Melanie tilted her head thoughtfully, deciding, and did a little brise ferme to the phone. She turned up the volume on the answering machine, heard the end of her recorded message and the electronic beep, then monitored a man’s voice.
“Miss Winslow? This is Doctor Sloan. I’m calling about your mother. Give me a call as—”
Melanie snatched up the receiver. “Doc? Hi, it’s Melanie,” she said rapid-fire. “How’s she doing?”
Melanie’s highly tuned posture slackened at the reply. “Yes, thank you,” she said softly. “I’ll come this afternoon.” She hung up slowly, and glanced to the skylight in reflection. Her eyes filled.
“You okay?” Tim asked, seeing the change in her.
Melanie nodded unconvincingly and slipped back under the covers next to him. She buried her face in the curve of his neck and cried softly. Her feelings were complex and difficult to sort out. She had never been this aware of her own mortality before. She burrowed in closer to him, and lay there thinking about it for a while. Then, in a small, vulnerable voice, she said, “Make love to me.”
Chapter Nine
President Hilliard stood with his back to the huge stone fireplace in the sitting room of the presidential cottage at Camp David, and raised his glass to Phil Keating and Gisela Pomerantz.
“To the birth of a new era — and to those who will inherit the torch of peace.”
“And to you, Mr. President,” Pomerantz added, holding her glass up to him.
The trio clinked glasses, and sipped the bittersweet vermouth-cassis-and-soda that was the President’s favorite aperitif. They had gathered, at his request, prior to a luncheon for diplomats who would represent NATO countries at the upcoming disarmament talks.
“Gisela,” Hilliard said, getting to business. “I had a lengthy and frank transatlantic powwow with Chancellor Liebler this afternoon. And I assured him that we were fully aware of your country’s special interest in the success of the talks.”
“I’m certain he was most appreciative,” Pomerantz replied. “As the only country on the border between East and West, Germany has been, as you’ve often said, the linchpin of deployment. Naturally, she should command the same position with regard to disarmament.”
Hilliard nodded emphatically.
“The Chancellor and I covered that ground quite thoroughly,” he said, going on to enumerate. “We specifically discussed the suspicion long held by some NATO members that the United States had secretly developed defense initiatives designed to confine a nuclear conflict to Europe; Germany’s strategic position as the point of attack by Warsaw Pact forces in a conventional war; her need to continue selling industrial products to the Soviets and Eastern block; and, as a divided nation, Germany’s desire to maintain cordial relations with the East, thereby keeping borders open and separated families in contact.”
“You’ve articulated our concerns very well, Mr. President,” Pomerantz replied.
“Phil’s a good tutor,” Hilliard said with a smile. “Now,” he resumed, “Chancellor Liebler agreed that what we’re proposing in Geneva is very responsive to those concerns, and in light of recent displays of good faith by our side and the Soviets, I asked him—” He paused to clear his throat, and sipped some of the aperitif.
“The President’s referring to our indefinitely postponing deployment of Pershing IIs in Norway and Belgium,” Keating said, taking over. “And the Soviet’s subsequent dismantling of their SS-20s along the Polish Border in response.”
“Yes,” Pomerantz replied, brightening. “We were quite pleased that the disarmed system was one targeted on Europe rather than one targeted on the United States.”
“Which brings me to my point, Gisela,” Hilliard said. “In light of all this, I asked the Chancellor, ‘Why is the German government so — for lack of a better word — uptight?’ And he—”
“If I may, Mr. President,” Pomerantz interrupted. “Why did he send me to represent Germany, and not someone who is more aligned with your position? Wasn’t that your question?”
“Gisela,” Keating counseled, “I think it’s a mistake to take the President’s comments personally.”
“No, no, she’s right, Phil,” Hilliard corrected. “And the Chancellor gave me a damn good answer. He said, he wanted to be certain our negotiating strength is what we claim. And if we can convince his resident hard-liner here—” He let the sentence trail off, and gestured to Pomerantz. Then he turned back to Keating with a veiled look that said — I know what you’re thinking and God help you if you say it. “And I agree with him, Phil,” the President resumed, with a bold lie. “Nothing wrong with taking a good hard look at what we’re doing before we commit.”
Keating, who was thinking—Bullshit! I don’t need anybody to assess the strength of my position—caught the look and pretended to concur. “That’s a very prudent attitude, sir,” he said, forcing a smile.
Hilliard nodded. He had wanted Pomerantz to feel comfortable and wholly accommodated, and was thinking he’d succeeded, when the protocol officer informed them luncheon had commenced.
“Precisely, I am all in favor of prudence,” Pomerantz replied as they followed the protocol officer to the door. “You see, after studying the NATO Report, all nine-hundred-fifty-four pages of it, I asked Chancellor Liebler and Defense Minister Schumann a question neither could answer. And that question was—‘What ever happened to the Heron?’ ”