Free The Truth of the Matter by Robb Forman Dew

fell into the habit of his arriving late at night at least two or three times a week and staying over. Either he left before dawn, so that no one would notice his car, or he waited until midmorning and delivered freshly dug new potatoes or a nice plucked hen to the Drummonds’ house, too, across the square, and no one thought anything about his comings and goings. Pup no longer barked when he heard Will come in the back door after the Scofield houses appeared to be shut up for the night. Lily had said to Agnes once that Will was the sort of man you only had to look at to know he liked dogs—to know that he liked animals, liked children. There was something about his ease within his own body; he moved with confident efficiency, no nervous hesitations. Agnes was always glad to see him, and he always had a treat in his pocket for Pup.
    Agnes had been surprised to discover that in her early forties she experienced the same full-fledged lust that she had during her marriage, but she was far less concerned about Will’s opinion of her. She never bothered to pretend anything with Will. In fact, some of the most sensual moments in her life were those she spent smoking a cigarette with Will while they were both still lazy and sated with sex. Or just before he touched her, as she undressed, when she insisted that she wanted just a moment to relax—it was mysteriously thrilling to her to light a cigarette while wearing nothing more than her plain white slip. And thrilling to him, too, even though he didn’t approve of women smoking.
    Once, when she had finished taking her hair down while sitting at her vanity and lit a cigarette before carefully unbuttoning her blouse and sliding it off onto the back of her chair, he had said she should at least come over and keep him company where he was stretched out on the bed. As soon as she was near enough, though, he slid his hand between her thighs and she stood still exactly like she was, with her feet slightly apart. He had held her there—long after her cigarette had dropped and burned a long scar in the floor—stroking her, but not letting her move toward him or away from him, and she had been near tears but also ecstatic by the time he released her. She was privately ashamed of her own arousal—which seemed wrong, somehow self-abasing, and she never got herself into that situation again, but she was helpless against the memory of it.
    Agnes enjoyed sex with Will, and she enjoyed his company in the evenings well enough, but she was distressed more than she allowed herself to say when he began talking about getting married. In fact, she was surprised at the depth of her own consternation. She had made a light supper and they were sitting together at the table in the kitchen, taking their time over coffee and listening to the news, the first time he brought it up.
    “I think we ought to begin thinking pretty seriously about getting married,” he said and reached over to turn off the radio. “I’d like to ask you to consider it, Agnes, if you think you can put up with me.” He was teasing her, which was disquieting, because the humor in his voice rested on the premise that she would accept without question, would possibly be relieved that finally he had brought it up.
    “We could live in town or at the farm. We could keep both if we like. We’d have lots of room for the children . . . grandchildren,” he said, but just matter-of-factly, in the way people ask a question when they already know the answer.
    Agnes had shut the whole idea of the future out of her involvement with Will and found herself unable to think of what she wanted to say. “Oh, Will. Let’s not worry about it right now,” she said and got up and began stacking their plates in the sink.
    Will sounded surprised, even injured. “You must have been thinking about this, too, Agnes. I didn’t want you to think for a minute that I didn’t intend to be honorable. Well, I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t