Chapter 14

A day or two later, Helen saw Sandy at the Hypermarché outside of Agde, shopping for groceries. Sandy was dressed, incongruously, in the blue canvas overalls of a French working man; Helen wore a thin white singlet and a flaring mini-skirt.

"Like your outfit," Sandy said as they wheeled their carriages out to the parking lot.

"You look good yourself, but those overalls are a little strange for a big-time entrepreneur," Helen responded with a matching grin.

"Practical," he replied. "I'm doing some cleanup out at the back of the place, and these things really hold up when you've got dirty work to do."

"You going to be all day?" Helen asked. "I was sort of thinking of making lunch, now that I've got all this stuff."

"Nearly done, in fact. Got up early so I'd have time to shop, too. Glad I did."

"See if you can't be at my place by 12:30."

"That's no trouble, but where is it?"

She gave him directions and drove off, stopping at the Post Office and then taking her supplies upstairs. When she entered the apartment on the first trip, the place was like an oven, so she pulled off her singlet and opened all the windows. The orange cat, now something between a guest and a resident, came in and began a discussion of something he obviously felt was of real importance. Helen bent and rubbed his ears before going downstairs to get the rest of her purchases.

Sandy was dressed more conventionally in shorts and a colorful shirt when he arrived. Helen closed the door, and kissed him comprehensively, sliding her hands under his shirt to rub his bare back. His hands were similarly busy with her until, finally, he undid the button at the back of her skirt and let it drop to the floor.

"Fresh," she said, smiling, and pulled him into the living room. Her skirt lay where it had fallen, inside the front door. "Now, get those things off."

Sandy pulled his shirt off and let his shorts and briefs fall, retrieving them and laying them over the arm of a chair. He picked Helen's skirt up off the floor, dropped it with his own things and advanced toward her.

"I thought you came for lunch," she chided, taking evasive action.

"Whatever you like," he said, abandoning his approach with good grace.

Helen hugged him and gave him a light kiss.

"Who's your friend?" The orange cat was a meatloaf on the balcony rail.

"No idea," Helen replied. "He showed up a week or so ago. I'm hoping he'll get bored and go away. Hasn't told me his name."

"Old Possum says they never tell, so you might as well call him what you will."

"I'm not sure I want to call him anything. I'd run him off, only I'd hate to do that. And he's really cheeky."

Helen had produced a tasty chicken salad she had found at the charcutier and set wine and dishes on the table on the balcony in the sunshine. Sandy followed, helping in little ways.

"I guess you're wondering why I called this meeting," Helen said as they settled at the table.

"I guess it's so I can look at the view." Sandy leered at her.

"Well, that's one reason I bought this place," she answered, her grin putting the lie to the evasion. "On a good day, you can see Sète. And the whole beach. I love it."

They ate and sipped the wine, chatting, until Sandy took matters in hand, recalling their rather tense conversation some days before. "So, how are things in Geneva? You getting everything you want?"

Helen looked up at him, recalling her words.

She dropped her eyes, gazing very deeply into her glass. Then she looked back at Sandy. "You mean, did I get laid?" her voice flat and sad. "Actually, I haven't been to Geneva since we... since..." She shuddered, "I shouldn't have said what I did," she said and dropped her gaze into the deep red wine. "No." she said. "That's over." Only her face showed the depth of her emotions.

"Hell, Helen, I'm sorry. Last time you mentioned it, it was almost a joke. Something happened, and you've been hurt."

Helen got up from the table and walked to the wall of the balcony. She stood looking over the beach and sea for a moment or two. The trees in the campground were almost fully leafed out and there were a few early-season campers; a few nude bodies on the beach. She turned and walked back to the table, standing close against Sandy's bare leg.

"Move. I want to sit on your lap."

Sandy shifted the chair, but then rose and pulled Helen toward the nearby lounge. They sat on the edge, and when Sandy lay back, Helen's head was on his shoulder as he put his arm around her. To her surprise, she was dripping tears down his bare chest. Somehow the cat had climbed up and cuddled amongst their legs. It felt comforting, somehow.

Helen told him about Johannes. She realized that she had not yet come to terms with losing him — if she had — even though she knew what they had together wasn't love, more a deeply satisfying friendship — with sex.

By the time she had spoken her inner feelings to Sandy, whom she realized she hardly knew, her eyes were dry, and the background feeling of depression was replaced by a slight sadness. It was definitely an improvement.

"And I got a blood test the next morning," she added. "It was negative, of course. Johannes would never have taken a chance like that. Giving me HIV, I mean."

She got up off the lounge and poured more wine for each of them. She sat at the end of the lounge and looked into her glass, again deeply and for several long moments. When she looked up again, there was a different look to her face.

"You know what I feel, now?" Sandy shrugged, and she went on, not having noticed or cared. "I'm angry. He just went off with her and now I've lost him."

"You need to stop looking into your wine glass," Sandy said. Her puzzled look made him continue. "You did that before and fell apart all over me. I need to thank you for trusting me like that.

"But now, you've looked into that glass again, and seen something else. This business that Johannes did something to deliberately hurt you? Helen, that's just ridiculous."

"Then why do I feel like that?"

"Can't answer that one. But look at it clearly. Johannes did not plan to get HIV; do you think anyone would do that on purpose? You both had agreed that having other lovers was part of your relationship. He made the honorable decision and told you he couldn't make love to you again. He certainly didn't say, as far as I know, that he didn't want to see you again; terminate your friendship. You insisted on meeting the woman who passed it on to him, though for the life of me I can't see why, unless you wanted to kill her. I don't know you very well, but I have to ask 'What's got into you?'"

"I don't know," she said, quietly. She started to look into her glass again and turned away, smiling wryly. "I see what you mean, though. It's not the wine, you know. I guess it's something else I have to learn to deal with."

She put the glass on the floor and snuggled up to him again, resting quietly against him. After a while, their warm bodies and bare skin in close contact began to start another fire.

Helen got up and drew Sandy into the bedroom. They cooperated in pulling down the duvet and rolled together into the center of the bed.

At one point Helen squealed and wriggled.

"What?" Sandy asked. "Am I..."

Helen giggled, "No, not you. Don't stop... But the cat..."

Sandy looked to the side where Helen's eyes pointed. The orange cat was curled up on a corner of the bed, watching with wide green eyes.

Quite a bit later, they arrived at the bar downstairs that Helen called Chez August. She had put on a lace shift that, in another place, would have required a slip. August made them steak-frites, which they ate hungrily, washed down with good Languedoc wine.

Sandy noticed the easy closeness between Helen and August. He asked quietly, "Ever screwed him?"

Helen laughed. "I wouldn't think of it. I know his wife. She terrifies me. But come on, you're not suggesting I'd have sex with just anyone, are you?"

Sheepishly, Sandy said, "Well, August is a nice guy, not bad looking, and I don't know his wife, so... And I'm not coming on with the jealous lover thing — we've only been together twice. I don't think we're in love, exactly, and jealousy isn't my thing."

She looked up at him, a fork full of frites in one hand. "You're trying to find out what the limits are, aren't you? Good. That means you like me enough to ask. I like you, too. Enough to tell you what I see as the limits. You don't have to agree, but..."