The One In My Heart

He chortled softly. “Put me in my place, why don’t you?”


And with that, he pushed off to get dressed. By the time I slowly sat up, pulled down my skirt, and straightened my top, he was already presentable. He gave me my panty-and-tights tangle, and then my boots. And when I had everything in place, he turned the lights back on and brought me the vermouth I hadn’t tasted yet.

“We’ll have time to finish our drinks before dinner, like civilized people.”

I wanted to ask him whether he really fantasized about me every time he masturbated. If it was true, then he was almost as sexually obsessed with me as I was with him—and that might be some consolation. But I had a feeling he would smirk at me and ask, What do you think?

And other than laughing it off, what response could I give? If I said I believed it, I would come across as hopelessly naive. If I said I didn’t believe a word of it, then why did I bother to ask? Even laughing it off would at best be an awkward recovery from a full-blown faux pas.

So I said instead, “Do you really sleep on the chaise when you come back from the hospital?”

“When I’m on call.”

“So you just sit here and…spank the monkey?”

“You know what happened one time? I had two days off and slept the night in my bed. The next morning I came down, grabbed some breakfast, and sat down to read the news, and ten minutes later I had an erection the size of the Empire State Building. I’ve turned myself into Pavlov’s dog.”

“Now you have to stay away from the masturbation couch the rest of the time?”

“I might have to move it somewhere else. Imagine if I had a party and accidentally sat down on it.”

We were still laughing when the oven chimed to let us know that our soup was ready. But my laughter sounded a little brittle in my own ears.

Bennett set the table and served a salad for the first course. “By the way, Zelda showed me the picture with you in a tiara. Pretty breathtaking.”

“Thanks. I usually deny that I’m the one in the picture, since in person I look like a halfhearted knockoff.”

“Really? The first time I saw you, you looked almost exactly like that.”

My brows shot up. “When I was out walking Biscuit in Cos Cob?”

“No, I first saw you in Central Park last summer, at a wedding.”

I looked at him in surprise—I’d indeed attended a wedding in Central Park the past summer.

“I went for a run in the park and I was walking back when a wedding party came over the bridge. And when they all passed by, you were there at the other end of the bridge, looking down into the water.”

“Oh,” I said, more than a little unnerved. “I didn’t notice anyone.”

Weddings sometimes got to me. Despite the divorce rate, it was still even odds for the bride and groom to make it all the way, to become one of those white-haired, affectionate couples I envied and admired so much. And that day in Central Park was one of those occasions when I looked into my own future and saw nothing but loneliness.

“No, I don’t expect you did,” he said softly. “The water under the bridge was exceptionally interesting.”

We were quiet for some time. I worked diligently on my salad, though I didn’t taste much of anything. And then I asked, as much to fill the silence as out of curiosity, “And how’s work for you?”

He took a sip of his water. “I feel like I can perform a lobectomy in my sleep these days.”

“That’s the removal of a lobe of a lung, right?”

“Uh-hmm. Between Thanksgiving and when I left for Guatemala, we had a string of patients who needed the procedure. There were a couple of cardiac procedures too, a valve replacement and a transmyocardial revascularization.”

“I’m almost more impressed that you can say it than that you can do it.”

“I told you, pinnacle of modern manhood.”

This had me smiling again, despite myself.

We made more small talk as we polished off bowls of leek-and-potato soup. Then, during a lull in the conversation, he cleared the table and brought out poached pear halves. I sensed we were about to get down to business.

“So tell me why you’ve been stalking Zelda.”

And why you’ve been Googling me so hard.

Bennett poured me half a glass of dessert wine before sitting down again. “When you first called me about Biscuit, you said something like, ‘This is Evangeline Canterbury, Collette Woolworth’s house sitter.’ Your name rang a bell, but it was only when I was on the train Saturday morning, going back to the city, after we’d…”

“Done it against a wall,” I offered.

“Yes, that.” He looked at me with an expression that was almost a smile, but not quite.

An expression that caused a flash of intense heat low in my abdomen.