Free Menage by Alix Kates Shulman Page B

shattered.
    Heather was astounded. To her dismay, she felt her throat close down and tears well up in her eyes. Before the betrayal of her body was complete and the tears overflowed the lids, she snatched up the fruit bowl and hurried to the kitchen, hoping no one had seen.

 
    11         SHE STOOD OUTSIDE ZOLTAN’S door holding a breakfast tray. It was five minutes past eleven. Once again she calculated the hours: though they’d all stayed up till three the night before, Zoltan had had a full night’s sleep, unlike Mack, who’d gotten up at six-thirty, or Heather herself, who’d been listening expectantly for the first flush of Zoltan’s toilet since she’d helped the children dress.
    But suppose she had miscalculated and he was at that very moment hard at work? Then her interruption would be a clear transgression. If he were still asleep, she had no right to wake him, even though she had picked up fresh cream and croissants in the village after dropping the children at their school. But she had to risk it. Fromthe moment Zoltan’s lips had burned into her hand and his eyes had skewered her—no, even before that, from Mack’s announcement a month ago that Maja’s lover might come to live with them—she’d assumed he would become her lover, too. Not Maja but she would be the apex of this beguiling triangle. Reading Zoltan’s books in bed at night to prepare herself for his arrival, studying the impossibly complicated map of Eastern Europe she had clipped from the
Times
and used as a bookmark, she had imagined his face nuzzled between her breasts or thighs, seen his intense gaze twine with her own. She wondered if his chest would be covered with hair, if he reached his climax slowly or quickly, if he cried out, if his kisses were gentle or hard.
    And he? Did he think of her the same way? He must. His books revealed him as a man of passion. And those voluptuous glances and provocative questions he addressed to her: what other meaning could they have? He and Mack had shared Maja; now they would share her, and by some ancient geometry of the heart, justice would be served.
    She put an ear to the door to listen for cues, aware that in an hour she would have to fetch the children home, and soon after that Françoise would arrive to play with them. Silence. With herpulse pounding in her ears, she lifted her fist and knocked.
    Zoltan opened his eyes. Crisp white curtains stirred at the window, sunlight streamed into the unfamiliar room. His eyes were heavy and dry with interrupted sleep, the way they felt when Maja used to spy on his dreams in the mornings, staring down at him, her head resting in one hand, until he woke. As soon as he opened an eye she would begin speaking of her dreams until he had forgotten his own. Sometimes they would make love, but the day would usually be ruined anyway; he was not a morning person. He never complained to her about her watching him, knowing she would deny it or else denounce him angrily; still, when she killed herself he felt it as a nasty rebuke. “One minute, please,” he called out, reaching for the dark blue silk kimono at the foot of his bed, the gift of a Russian production assistant who’d claimed to love him.
    He opened the door to see Heather holding a tray yet seeming poised to flee. Her wavy hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her long feet were bare, and a pale lilac-colored shirt open at the throat grazed her jeans at the hip.
    â€œCome in.”
    â€œI hope you don’t mind, I thought you might like your breakfast in here this morning, since it’s your first day.”
    â€œMind? I’m … I’m overwhelmed. Thank you.”
    â€œBy the window?”
    He nodded and pulled his robe tight around his hips. If this was family life—a gentle push in the morning, someone to care for you but not too much—no wonder Mack was so productive. Zoltan took his