Seven
 In the morning, Sylvie did a little more testing. She called the number on the card. “Guthrie Turlock Donaldson,” said a crisp, business-like middle-aged woman.
“Hi, is Mr. Turlock in?”
“I’ll check. Hold please.” After a moment: “I’m sorry, he’s not in the office at the moment. Would you like to leave a message on his voice mail?”
“Er—no thanks.”
She hung up, feeling relieved. She drove the ten minutes to La Jolla and drove past the address on the card. Sure enough, there was a nice fat official sign: Guthrie Turlock Donaldson, and over their names a trade sign with GTD embossed. So much for checking him out. She began to really feel good.
In the next few days, Sylvie went to Ensenada with Rob for the day; they went to L.A. and toured the studios there; they stopped at Disneyland. It was late at night, and she didn’t want him to drive back, so they checked in at a warm, bright, clean motel. Without asking, Rob booked separate rooms for them. She would not have objected if they’d stayed in one room, maybe in separate beds; she wasn’t quite sure yet how ready she was for anything more. So they slept in separate rooms. She was having a good time, and she tried not to think about how quickly the days were passing before she’d have to go back to work. Maybe she could see him occasionally, but nothing heavy like this. She decided, as she fell asleep in a strange room in Anaheim, thinking of him breathing and thinking of her just a wall’s thickness away, that she must speak with him about that before things went any further.
The opportunity presented itself the next day. They were on that wonderful lawn, lying on deck chairs. He wore only his black swim trunks and looked wonderful to her. She wore a mauve bikini that showed off her smooth skin, her long legs, her small but shapely breasts. By now, she was no longer shy with him. He glowed with sun oil as he lay on his back, chin up, hands by his sides. His sunglasses made him seem machine-like. “Rob?”
“Mm?” He barely moved.
“Do you always have this much time on your hands?”
“Rarely.” One hand fiddled with the sunglasses, and he stiffened a bit, apparently anticipating personal questions.
“I’m going to be really busy starting in about ten days. I just want you realize that.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but if that’s the nature of your job—.”
“Nothing personal. I’m having a really wonderful time and, well, I just thought you should know.” She wondered if he could read into that her concern that, at this point, she was just having a fling, and she hoped it was that for him too. She wasn’t ready to really open up to him in a serious way; she was puzzled about her behavior, since she was normally quite reserved and did not play around much. Since she couldn’t explain this fling thing to herself, she didn’t want to bring it up in conversation with him. Maybe, she thought, I just work too hard and want to blow off some steam. Can I blame myself for that?
“I’m going to be traveling again soon,” he raising his glasses and regarding her with sincere hazel eyes. “I was concerned that perhaps—”
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Copyright © 1996 by John T. Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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