Chapter 4

The morning Hank had left was an emotional charged one for them both, but Kim in particular. Hank was bleary-eyed and hung over, holding his bead. "Ouch. Hey, what did I do, fall down or bump into something?"

He was blessed with not remembering much of what had happened the night before. "I remember being in the Matador and saying goodbye to some friends. When did we go after that?"

"Home."

"Wow. I feel like a sack of broken bottles, and my tongue tastes like it's been licking ash trays all night."

He staggered to a hot shower, while Kim made him a bromo and squeezed fresh orange juice and black coffee. He didn't seem to remember anything. She remembered everything! Everything that happened and everything she had felt. He came into the kitchen with his robe on and drank hot coffee with trembling hands. "Sorry, honey. Hell of a way to start out... !" His voice stopped as he stared at her neck. Self-consciously, she put her hand to her long elegant neck, trying to hide the angry bruise.

Hank's face clouded over and he put the cup down. "Now I remember. It's coming back now." He looked at his wife, at her clean patrician good looks and her wild gypsy hair that crowned her face, trying to read what she felt there.

It was never discussed. Neither had the nerve to bring it up; not now, not when they were parting for six months. Time took care of any discussion. Time has a way of going fast in the morning when you have to catch a plane. Suddenly, they were rushing, throwing his bags into the car and racing for the Monterey Airport, with Kim driving and Hank beside her holding his throbbing head.

Their good-bye was quick, for there was no time, and they stood in the terminal and Kim cried. It was more than a six month parting and she had strong feelings of dread. Something terrible was going to happen. "Take care!"

"I will! Write!"

"I will, every day."

"I'll call you from Rio before we go up river."

"Will you? Promise?"

"Promise."

Then they were hurrying out of the terminal, and she followed him to the gate where he grasped her in a tight hard embrace. They kissed good-bye and she felt an anguish surge through her body. And another feeling mingling with it, a feeling she felt last night. She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes. They shouted good-byes to one another, and she watched him make his big-shouldered way to the plane, swiping at his head, hung over, looking back to wave once more.

She ran up on the observation deck and watched him disappear into the plane. She stood by the rail, looking at the little windows along the plane's fuselage and trying to pick him out. She couldn't but smiled bravely and waved anyway. She kept waving as the plane taxied around and down the runway where it paused, seeming to crouch on its nose-wheel and wing wheels, gathering strength for the roaring, running, joyous leap into the air. The great jet engines screamed into a high whine and the plane started slow, but suddenly it came in a rush and was airborne in an ear- splitting roar, rocketing smoothly up into the crystal clear air. Kim stood on the observation platform, pressed against the rail, waving until the jet was nothing more than a black dot growing smaller in the big sky.

She stopped waving, her arm tired, and slumped against the rail. It was all wrong, all bad the way they had parted, and she had this terrible, almost overpowering feeling of dread. She pulled herself together, dabbed at her eyes and determined to gut it through, work it out, make it good, and, above all, be beyond reproach. She would set an example. She would show the world and his parents and Hank, too. There would be no more of those dirty bathroom scenes. She would save herself completely for him until he returned.

She went home and began a life that was lonely and full of bad thoughts. She felt bad about herself and the way they had parted. She went about living, cleaning house, watched television at night, and walking the beach.

And always, she had that vague uneasy feeling of dread, of something going wrong. She never noticed that she was being watched...

There's nothing like a sunny morning in Carmel. Being a town full of trees, birds sing and chatter and down near the beach, gulls wheel and tower up, looking much like confetti thrown from skyscrapers in New York whenever they have a parade.

In Carmel, there are no street addresses. This is by choice, for Carmelites like their privacy and the daily trip to the post office where they pick up their mail, meet friends, and chat, sometimes having coffee. It is said that, sooner or later, you see and meet everyone at the Carmel Post office. Each morning around nine, after a bracing walk on the beach, Kim would drive to the post office, park and go to their mail box. Each morning she saw an air mail letter, her heart would pound, for it was bound to be a letter from Hank. Each day without a letter was a disappointment, and she tried hard to conceal her hurt. Hank had written only twice since he left, and both letters were short and vague.

This morning there had been no mail. She was leaving the post office, head down, ignoring the beautiful morning, hands in her pockets, when out on the street a voice called. "Kim?"

She stopped and turned, seeing an attractive girl on the post office steps, laughing up at her. Kim smiled in welcome, "Nichole!"

"Kim! It is you! Kim!"

"I didn't recognize you, Nichole."

They embraced; or, rather, Nichole took the red-haired wife in her arms and kissed her, her lips pecking at Kim's mouth. It was an awkward moment. Kim liked affection, and she had liked Nichole, but she wasn't used to such a demonstrative greeting. Also, Nichole had changed in some subtle way. It wasn't just that she was very well-dressed, very expensively and tastefully dressed. And it wasn't the fact that her teeth had been fixed into a dazzling smile. She was obviously doing well, but it wasn't just that. Kim stared at Nichole and saw something: hints of debauchery, a certain look in the eyes, a way of smiling, the first traces of hard lines on the face, an attitude that was a mixture of barely concealed brazenness, and an expression on her face that alluded to masochistic acceptance and sensuality.