alled me your lover.”
“Did he now?” His tone is conciliatory. “Well, he’s
nothing if not fastidious about his terms. I think that’s an
accurate description. Don’t you?”
“Did you think of your subs as lovers?”
Christian’s brow creases once more, but this time he’s
thinking. He turns the Saab smoothly north once again.
Where are we going?
“No. They were sexual partners,” he murmurs, his
voice cautious again. “You’re my only lover. And I want
you to be more.”
Oh . . . there’s that magical word again, brimming with
possibility. It makes me smile, and inside I hug myself, my
inner goddess radiating joy.
“I know,” I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement.
“I just need some time, Christian. To get my head around
these last few days.” He glances at me oddly, perplexed,
his head inclined to one side.
After a beat, the stoplight we’re stationed at turns
green. He nods and turns the music up, and our discussion
is over.
Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now
Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now
—about it being a marvelous night for moondancing. I
gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold
by the fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching
across the road. Christian has turned into a more
residential street, and we’re heading west toward the
Sound.
“Where are we going?” I ask again as we turn into a
road. I catch a road sign—9TH A一VE NW. I am baffled.
“Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.
Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept,
clapboard houses where kids play either clustered around
their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running
around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome
with the houses nestling among the trees. Perhaps we’re
going to visit someone? Who?
A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we’re
confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a sixfoot-
high, sandstone wall. Christian presses a button on his
door handle and the electric windo
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