«Well, Dan, now you're going to have to spill the beans: have you been gallivanting around Italy with contessas?»

«No, no contessas. Not many of them go to basketball games. There _is_ this one woman. . . .» His voice trailed off and he looked away. Embarrassed?

«Yes, all right; there's this one woman. _And_?» Unconsciously I took out another cigarette. I was smoking up to two packs a day and climbing; before the abortion it had been less than one.

He looked at me, smiled, shrugged. «It's very hard for me, Cullen. Believe it or not, since Evelyn died I have been very low-keyed with women. I go to bed with some and some go to bed with me – if you get the difference – but a lot less than some people think. Until recently I've had no desire to jump into any . . . pool and get wet. There've been other interesting things to pay attention to, like living in Europe for one. I think it's going to be a very slow process, finding someone else to be with for the rest of my life.»

I had the cigarette in my mouth and was squinting against the smoke that curled up the side of my cheek. «But now you sound like you think you found someone.»

«I don't know. I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, believe me. To tell you the truth, most of the time women make me nervous. Really! I often feel like I'm either saying the wrong thing or acting the wrong way – even when I know they like me. Isn't that silly? I feel like a kid going to dance class for the first time; which hand do I put where on the girl's body?»

We smiled at each other and the room hummed with comfort and companionship.

«But you were married once, Danny. You should know all the ropes.»

«Maybe some of them, but really I was only married long enough to know I liked it, Cul. Then it went away.»

«Danny, you're smart and you've got a good heart, so answer me this, will you? Why do all the jerks do so well in life? And why do so many nice people get stomped on? If anyone didn't deserve to lose their wife, it's you.»

«It's not that simple, Cullen. Sometimes it works out fine.» His voice was soft and sad.

«Oh yeah? Well, I don't think it works out fine too often. Do you want more cake? Say yes, please.»

«Of course.»

The new woman's name was Drew Conrad. Whoever heard of a girl named Drew? But she was a model and that explained a lot about her, as far as I was concerned. Every guy I knew in those days was going out with a model. My definition of a model? Airheads with nice teeth.

«What's she doing in Italy, besides posing?»

«Are you telling me that you don't like models? Why don't you do it, Cullen? You sure could make more money than you do at that magazine. God knows, you've certainly got the looks for it!»

«Yeah, I'm pretty, but when people look it makes me extremely nervous. What's more, I wouldn't want to spend my life posing on a car hood in a pair of purple underpants. Hey, guys, look what you can have if you buy that Fiat! It's tacky, Danny. I'm sure not the world's best person, but I work hard to avoid being tacky if I can. Modeling _reeks_ of tack. Look, I'm sorry if I'm squashing your Drew Conrad. Are you going to tell me what she's like?»

«She's tall and dark. We met at a party in Milan.»

«And?»

«And . . . well, um, the sex is nice.»

«And?» For the first time, the question of what Danny James would be like in bed crossed my mind. I looked hard at him and imagined he guessed what I was thinking because he quickly averted his eyes and scrooched around in his chair like he had ants in his pants.

But I liked sex. I also liked my aloe plant and the International House of Pancakes. My experiences with sex reminded me of a great new movie that everyone talks about and loves. You go along hoping, _hoping_ it will be everything they said it was. But then it's over and you walk out of the theater, blinking hard at the sudden light – tired, and sort of disappointed and confused by all the hoopla the thing has received.

Most of my bedroom stories could have been divided into two simple categories: «Bunny Rabbit Sex» and «Blackmail Sex.» I'd had scads of Bunny Rabbit Sex – crazily eager, jackhammer stuff so repetitious and unoriginal that your nose started twitching in frustration after a while.

Or there was the ever-popular Blackmail Sex: do it with me right now or else I'll be depressed for the rest of my life . . . or at least the rest of tonight. «Pay-ter» was a great one for that and I fell for it each time.

Now, sizing up Danny in a sexy light, I couldn't imagine him being guilty of either approach, but like him as much as I did, I still had my doubts.

«Cullen, did I say something wrong?»

«No, nothing, Danny. I was just thinking about sex.»

His eyes smiled and he winked the nicest wink that ever was. «Cullen, I wouldn't know what to do if you and I went to bed. You know why? I'd be too busy staring at you to think of anything else.»

It was said with such great humor and warmth that the only thing I wanted to do was get up and give him a hug, which I did. He hugged back and the next thing I knew, I was crying all over his gigantic shoulder.

«I don't want to cry, but I can't really help it.»

He squeezed me tighter and stroked the back of my head again and again. It was a wonderful feeling. He also had that man's bouquet of smells – heat, cologne, sweat, summer earth. It made you hot, comfortable; assured you that for a moment or two you would be safe from the snapping alligator jaws of life.

Don't get me wrong – good smells or not, putting your arms around most men was either like embracing a chimp or a tombstone. Men either «let» you hug them or quickly tried to turn that nicest of things into an orgy.

Not Danny James. His hands ran down my back in innocent rills that I wished would go on forever. Hands are wonderful; they can disappear coins, or they can iron out wrinkles in blue, rumpled souls.

«Are you crying because you're so sad to see me, Cul?»

I smiled and sniffed into his chest. His words, his hands on my back, his _presence_ there was like someone had opened a trapdoor in the top of my head and poured warm milk in, filling my body, soaking all of my cells, soothing them all with its life, vitamins, whiteness.

I told him this and he chuckled. «I've never been called a glass of milk before.»

Jet lag caught up with him an hour later and he started yawning. I steered him into the bathroom and told him that by the time he was finished in there, I'd have the couch made up and he could flop right down and go to sleep. He shuffled out a few minutes later wearing a pair of cute flannel pajamas as big as an Indian tepee.

«The couch is all made up. I'll get out of here and let you go to sleep.»

«Cullen, I'm going to sleep with you. Don't say no, and don't think I'm going to try anything. I came a hell of a long way to see you, so we're not going to play any games with each other. We'll sleep and be good, but we'll be sleeping together. Okay?»

«Okay.» I couldn't look at him and my heart was beating very fast.

«That 'okay' didn't sound so good.»

«OKAY!»

«Good. I'm completely exhausted. I'll see you later. Thank you for dinner, even if it was green.» He turned and started out.

«Danny? I'm so glad you're here.»

«Me too.» He half-turned and gave a little tired wave.

I watched him scuff off into the bedroom and lie down, Gulliver-style, on my surprised bed. Then I went into the kitchen and did the dishes with worried hands.

Naturally, nothing happened when I did get into bed. Danny was sound asleep. Rolling over on my side, I smiled into the darkness and listened for a long time to the hiss of his breathing.

I awoke when I felt a hand on my face and opened my eyes to see Danny looking at me from ten inches away. His face was puffed and crinkled into a sleepy smile.