Nine
 "Matthew is my brother. We haven’t spoken in some time. What did he want?"
"It wasn’t him, actually, but his wife or his girlfriend or something."
"I see." Rob got that dark something again in his eyes as he leaned across the couch and listened as he played the message back. "That was Neila," he said when the message was done. "Matthew’s wife. They must have had a spat, and she thought he was staying with me."
"Of course," Sylvie said. She raised her glass in a toast, and he clinked his against hers. Still, something was a little different about him, somehow.
They sat out on the lawn for a while, under the stars. Rob had opened a good bottle of sweet asti spumante. They drank it chilled, from a cooler. Rob made small talk. "Do you know how champagne glasses got their shape? Supposedly, at the court of Louis XIV, they decided to honor Marie Antoinette by creating a new type of glass for their table. So they took an impression of one of her breasts while she leaned forward, and that’s how it got that nice symmetrical and rather sexy shape."
Sylvie yawned. "That’s nice, Rob. What a wonderful story."
Rob went on talking, and pretty soon Sylvie found herself dead tired. She couldn’t move her hands anymore, nor could she even speak to ask him for a blanket.
In the morning, she awoke as a slat of sunshine guillotined through a curtain and threatened to split her head in half. She must have cried out in pain, for, minutes later, Rob entered carrying a tray. "Good morning!"
"Oh my God, my head hurts."
"You mixed wine and champagne, my darling. I should have known better. Here, as an apology, I’ve made a nice breakfast for you. And I have some aspirin."
She forced the aspirin tablets between her parched lips, and then drank from a glass of cool water. Rob gave her a salty broth that made her sweat, but restored much of her vitality. "God, I can’t remember ever having a reaction like that to wine."
"Wine and champagne. We had red wine with dinner, white wine when we got here, and champagne out on the lawn. Do you remember dancing in the nude?"
"No!" She felt mortified.
He grinned mildly. "Darling, you were incredible. It was a better show than at the Purple Pony. Have you thought of working as a stripper?" He nuzzled his lips through her hair.
She couldn’t eat the scrambled eggs, but she crunched on bacon and dry toast. Her stomach wasn’t too bad, after all, and her hangover was lessening. She simply felt lousy and out of place and all she wanted to do now was to be home. She felt so embarrassed.
"Was I—noisy?"
"You mean while dancing? No, you were silent and mysterious."
"Good. At least I assume none of your neighbors saw me."
"Nobody can see us here. It’s just you and me, darling."
"I need to go home and recuperate."
"Will I see you later today?"
She gave him a wan smile. "I’ll call you later and let you know how I feel."
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Copyright © 1996 by John T. Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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