“I don’t even have a toothbrush,” he said when they were inside. He cringed inwardly at the inanity of his remark.

“Not to worry. I have extras. Razors, too. I’ll get some things together right now.” She closed the door and headed for the bathroom to gather toiletries.

“Mind if I turn on the TV?”

“Not at all. Join you in a sec.”

Nothing on TV caught his interest. He peered through an east window into the darkness. Trees, illuminated by streetlights, swayed in the wind. Was a storm coming?

Turning from the window, he examined the photographs on a bookshelf: Cari’s high school and university graduation pictures, her parents in their wedding portrait, Cari dressed in an evening gown and cradling a violin and bow, numerous pictures of people he didn’t recognize. Three commercial photos caught his attention. He recognized one, the popular violinist, Andre Rieu. He figured the other two, both women, were also musicians.

A distant bourdon of thunder followed a glimmer of lightning. Wind whooshed through the trees. Jason shoved his hands into his pockets and sucked air. Why were his jaws tingling? Raising his hands in the air, fingers knitted, he stretched left, then right, before clenching his hands into fists and holding them to his sides rigidly. Where had she gone for a razor, Montana?

He started when she said, “You’re all set. There’s only one bathroom, so have at it if you’d like to scrub off the road dust. Use the towel on the rack if you want to shower.”

“A shower sounds good.”

“I’ll turn down your bed. Ignore the squeegee in the shower. I’ll shower, too.”

“Who are these two women?” He pointed to the photographs.

“You probably know Rieu. I like his showmanship more than his artistry. This is Viktoria Mullova,” she said, pointing to one of the women, “an extraordinary violinist, one of my faves. She’s even ventured into jazz. My all-time favorite, though, is Janine Jansen.” She picked up the framed picture of the younger woman. “She’s Dutch. Plays with more passion than anyone else in the world. Breathtaking. I love her.”

In the shower, he wondered if he was prepping or delaying. He winced when he realized he had no change of clothing. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this. The thought of Cari in the shower teased his imagination while he shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his wet hair. Slipping into the clothes he had worn all day, sans shoes and underwear, he rejoined Cari.

“I like your oversize shower.”

“Thanks. Might come in handy if I get fat.”

“You haven’t gained a pound in twenty-five years.”

“Actually, about ten.”

“In all the right places,” he said, surprising himself.

His remark appeared to surprise Cari, too, though not unpleasantly. She disappeared into the bathroom looking pleased.

Not knowing what to do with himself, he ducked into the spare bedroom. A bedside skip lamp was on low, the bedcovers turned back. The trace of freshness from the sheets reminded him of when his mother dried them on a clothesline outside. Cari obviously expected or wanted him to sleep in this room. Or did she? Her words and actions said otherwise. Did men who hadn’t been cloistered all their lives have the same difficulty interpreting female signals?

A quick assessment of a stack of books, mostly about music and musicians, on top of a chest of drawers didn’t pique his interest. The glow of a nearby streetlight revealed trees tossing in the wind, while indecisive rain drops spattered the windowpane.

Should he buy a car in St. Paul or take a bus home and buy one there? He’d saved and invested most of the money from the sale of his parents’ house, which in addition to the proceeds of his father’s life insurance and the lump sum distribution from the retirement plan at Saint Victor, had provided him a comfortable nest egg.

He’d purchase a decent five- or six-year-old car to drive for the next half dozen years while his savings grew. Might even buy a new car next time. There was no sense delaying the purchase until returning to Landover, but he dreaded the process of shopping for a car, the stress of negotiating the price, and the paperwork hassle. When he got to Landover, he’d send his deceased Ford’s title to the towing company so they could dispose of the car.

Had she gone to Fargo to freshen up? He returned to the TV to watch a ten o’clock newscast with barely enough interest to justify keeping the set on.

When Cari finally appeared, she wore a shiny red robe and furry white slippers.

“You clean up nice.”

“Thanks.”

He embraced her. “I’m exhausted, Cari. Do you mind if I retire? Thanks so much for everything.”

Did her shoulders sag a fraction?

“I’m tired, too,” she said.

He kissed her on the cheek and ducked into the spare bedroom, closing the door behind him. As he turned off the lamp and pulled the blankets around his neck, the muffled sounds of Cari turning off lights and locking the back door came through the stillness. Was she then in her bedroom? What did she have on? The ensuing silence reminded him of that fateful night so long ago when Virgil Badeen had stopped his pickup in front of Jason’s parents’ house while Cari slept unaware next door.

He threw back the covers, swung his feet to the floor, and felt his way in the dark to her door. Pausing, he took a deep breath and tapped twice.

“May I come in?”

“Yes,” she said with conviction.

He stripped off his t-shirt and inched his way to the edge of her bed. She moved over to make room for him. He slid his arm under her.

“Are you sure, Jason?”

He pulled her to him. “Certain.”

His body quaking, his lips found hers, tentatively then urgently and finally deeply as her tongue brushed against his, and he wished he had her experience to augment what he was doing instinctively. His medallion dangled between her breasts.

Cari’s hand curled around his neck. “You still have the medallion I gave you?”

“I’ll never part with it.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

“I can’t believe how beautiful you are,” he whispered. “Even more beautiful than you were twenty-six years ago. I’ll never tire of looking at you. And, my God, your breasts against my chest!”

“You forgot to put on your undies.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She pulled him to her. He reached for the sheet.

“No. Leave it off.”

His arms encircling her, he marveled how smooth and warm her skin felt. He resisted the urge to kiss her. Felt instead the angular edges of her shoulder blades while her warm hand, softer than he imagined any hand could be, caressed his chest. Her left knee drove between his legs. He twisted his body, rolled onto his elbow, and lowered his lips to hers in a kiss that remained chaste because Cari now kept her tongue to herself.

An elusive scent intensified her taste and touch. Rolling away from her, he searched for the switch on the bedside lamp.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to see you.” He clicked on the lamp. Cari’s body showed no detectible erosion from the time he had seen her naked in the cemetery and they had surrendered their virginity to each other. She was still slender and moderately tanned, except for the creamy color of her pubis and breasts. “God never created a more beautiful woman.”

Hovering over her, he leaned down with a lingering kiss before progressing down to her breasts and her belly and lower, where she was virtually prepubescent, and finally to her inner thighs. Kneeling, he raised her right foot and held her calf against his cheek.

He lowered himself to kiss her again, a kiss that lasted longer than he had ever imagined one could, until she moved beneath him in a way that told him she wanted him. But when he braced himself on his elbows, she clasped her legs together and went rigid.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

Jason rolled off her and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Had he completely misread her? What had he missed?

He rolled onto his side facing her, his head propped on his elbow. “Cari, what’s wrong? Did I—?”

“It’s not you. I just need more time. I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a quarter-century.”

“I can’t talk about it now. I hope you’ll try to understand. I’m sorry.”

“Understand what? How?”

“Be patient?”

His chest rising and falling, Jason rolled away and closed his eyes. “You must have a reason, Cari.”

She gripped his hand.

His breathing was returning to normal. “I know you’re not playing games. That’s not you.” He squeezed her hand. “Can we talk?”

“Not now.”

“I’m getting up for a while. I’ll sleep in the guest room.” He swung his feet to the floor.

Closing the door quietly behind him, he felt his way through the dark to the living room and turned on the TV, only to press the off button before a picture materialized. Darkness usually enabled him to see into the essence of things that required thought without distraction. In this case the issue itself was so great a distraction that it precluded productive thought.

He fiddled with the TV remote.

What could possibly cause Cari to do such an about-face? As a teen, she had been as horny as he was, to use the crude term. Her recent email had informed him she was in no way “programmed for celibacy.” Since their exchange of emails, all of which ended with some variation of “I love you,” she’d led him on, enticing him by word and deed—her hugs went well beyond the social equivalent of handshakes—to the point of inviting him into her bed without hesitation. His usually disciplined mind spun in tractionless circles and caromed into one dead-end alley after another.

He stayed in the living room until he felt chilled. Should he sleep here? A thick afghan draped over the back of the sofa would keep him warm. Or should he go to the spare bedroom as he’d said?

He returned to her bed. She didn’t move when he slipped under the covers.

“Good night, Jason.”

“Good night.”

Next Chapter: Chapter Eight