Free Late in the Season by Felice Picano Page A

a mother, and at the same time to cover his body with passionate bites and kisses, like a courtesan. Bill Tierney would never believe it was possible, even if she were stupid enough to ever tell him. He called Stevie the Ice Princess; and it wasn’t always said jokingly. Not that she was frigid or anything awful like that. She simply had never felt that connected to physicality before. She had never really understood why it was that men and boys found her far more attractive than she ever found them, why they felt drawn to her when she could take them or leave them. Sometimes she thought it was a pose on their part, an affectation, or even worse, a merely mechanical working out of what they thought they ought to be doing and feeling around a halfway good-looking female: something men pretended without ever really feeling. She recalled how queasy she’d gotten one afternoon, on the sailboat with Bill out on the Long Island Sound, when she’d caught him looking at her with that stricken, fascinated, wounded look. It had given her the creeps. She’d certainly never expected to be on the other end of that bizarre an emotion.
    Next, naturally, was the sensation—intuitive, yet no less strong for that—that she would do something, possibly a great deal, probably anything to sleep with Jonathan Lash. Despite the fact that he had a lover, was gay, was twice her age, and wasn’t obviously interested in her. All those negatives made it more of an adventure. She desperately needed adventure. That was why she’d come out here alone, to test herself against the unknown—whatever that might be—if only to prove to herself she was still alive, still unlobotomized. Which scientific writer had she skimmed last term who’d written that the only certain proof that an organism was truly alive was its struggle to change the life and environment around it? She couldn’t recall, but she certainly agreed.
    Her face was done, her hair in two long barrettes, swept up behind her ears and down. The blouse and slacks she’d bought this afternoon at the harborside boutique looked really good. That had been a stroke of luck; she’d almost run past in her hurry to get dinner shopping done. Thank God, she could never bypass a sign that read, “Season Closing—Fifty Percent Off!” She had few enough clothes out here to begin with: nothing but denims and work shirts. But, then, who’d considered when she’d packed her bag that morning that she’d be doing this—having dinner with a man she wanted. It seemed that everything was conspiring to help her.
    “Wicked woman,” she said to her reflection. “Whore of Babylon.” She pursed her lips. “I wish,” she responded tartly.
    It was nine o’clock. Where was he? Outside on the ocean deck it was dark, clear, starry, quite warm. She could see the lights from his house. What was he doing now, this minute? Getting dressed? Standing in that big bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips, shaving, around his beard, trimming it, inspecting his face for tiny nicks? She hated not being there.
    Faint steps on the boardwalk. He was coming.
    The footsteps approached, and went past the entry to her family’s house: someone walking to the beach.
    It made no sense to just wait out here, agonizing. She ought to do something, check the fish, mix them drinks. What if he wanted a drink? Had they left any liquor in the house?
    In the kitchen, she found a bottle of cooking sherry and a small flask of brandy—not a great brand either: for cooking too, she supposed.
    “Hi! Anyone home?”
    Calm yourself, Stevie. He’s here.
    She felt like a parody of her mother, sweeping graciously out of the kitchen to greet her guest.
    He’d dressed as though for a garden party: beige open-necked shirt of some silky material, pale blue jacket, white pants pleated at the waist, cinctured with a thin beige belt, and white shoes. Tan, dark-haired and bearded, he looked smashing—like an oil sheikh’s playboy son on the