If it were Reams, he’d tell the man as firmly as possible that he was not going to attend a panel on Victorian zits. He turned.

And looked into the smiling eyes of Annette Grayson.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you come to see my presentation?”

thirty-two

Morgan confessed he didn’t know Grayson was going to be there. He told her that Reams had badgered him into attending.

Annette Grayson seemed glad to see him. Her eyes glittered, and Morgan soaked her in. He’d forgotten how pleasant she was to look at. Smile big, radiating, reaching her eyes, and lifting her whole face. Her hair was golden silk, loose about her shoulders. Skin tan and glowing. Annette Grayson was the brightest thing in the lobby of the Sheraton, and the sight of her hit Morgan in the gut. Took the wind from his lungs.

“Let me get you a drink,” Morgan said.

“I can’t,” she said. “My old roommate from Bennington is giving a paper in a few minutes, and I’d promised I’d go.”

“Later then?”

She bit her thumbnail, looked at Morgan, squinting her eyes. “Well…”

Morgan smiled. “What happens on the road, stays on the road. Besides, I feel I owe you an apology drink.”

“Maybe you do,” she said. “After dinner. Call my room.” She told him the number.

“Okay.”

She turned, headed through the crowd. She glanced back once, smiled over her shoulder, and was gone.

Morgan felt light. On some level, he knew his problems hadn’t gone away. But they all seemed distant. Annette’s scent still hung in the air where he stood. It wasn’t a heavy perfume, not sickly sweet. More like a body splash. He sniffed the air. Citrus.

He chewed up the rest of the afternoon. Anticipation. Fluttering stomach. The look in Annette’s eyes had promised something. Morgan wasn’t sure what. Maybe another chance.

He ate dinner with Reams. The professor had launched into a tedious summary of the panels he’d attended. It went on all through dinner, but Morgan was in better spirits and tolerated Reams fairly well, even managed to contribute a few comments that made him seem interested. They’d gone to a steakhouse about a block from the hotel. A good porterhouse.

Once or twice Morgan’s brain tried to remind him about Ginny and the headlights that had followed him to Houston and all the stone-hard troubles that awaited him beyond the out-of-focus, fuzzy-soft unreality of the conference. He beat the bad thoughts down, kicked them into the corner. Not tonight. Tonight he was having a drink with Annette Grayson.

Morgan shook loose of Reams back at the hotel, told him he wanted to go back up to the room for a while.

“You sure?” Reams asked. “I was going to that cocktail reception. The one Jakes was talking about.”

“I might catch up later,” Morgan said.

Morgan took the elevator up, let himself in the room with the plastic swipe-card. He went to the phone, grabbed it, put it down again. Too soon. He felt nervous about calling her and liked it. He hadn’t felt nervous about a woman in a long time.

He went to the window and pushed the curtains back. It was just getting dark, and Houston was flickering to life.

He picked up the phone and dialed Annette.

One ring. “Hello?” Her voice was warm milk.

“It’s Jay.”

“Give me an hour,” she said. “Down in the lounge.”

“Okay.”

He hung up and jumped in the shower. He got out and dressed, a clean blue shirt. He ironed a pair of tan slacks. He thought about cologne and wondered if it would be too much. All he had was Old Spice. He was embarrassed but liked the smell.

He combed his hair four times. There wasn’t too much to comb. He tied his little ponytail fresh and tight.

He went down the elevator, stepped into the lobby. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes early. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled the hotel.

A little shop. He went in.

Gifts. Cigarettes, toothpaste, aspirin, postcards of glorious Texas. Morgan spotted a wood-and-glass cabinet behind the counter. He looked through the glass at cigars. He was feeling sporty and whimsical and called over the smarmy cashier.

The cashier lifted an eyebrow, the rest of his vanilla pudding face sagging with disinterest. “Sir?”

“I’m looking for a type of cigar.” He tried to remember what Fred Jones had given him the day they broke out the Wallace Stevens. “It’s Mac something.”

“Macanudo?” The cashier said the word through his nose.

“That’s it. I’ll take three.”

“They’re twelve dollars each, sir. Do you still want them?”

“Of course.” Little bastard. “I said I’ll take three.” He handed over his Visa card.

Was it Morgan’s clothes? Something about the way he carried himself that suggested he couldn’t-or wouldn’t-shell out for a good cigar?

The little man rang him up and Morgan left the shop. He took the cigars out of the bag and smelled one. Nice. It was as long as the one the old man had given him, but thinner. He looked at the band. Same kind. Same rich, earthy smell. He put one in his mouth without lighting it. He didn’t have any matches. He thought about going back to the shop but decided against it. The cashier’s inexplicably superior attitude was strangely unnerving. That happened to Morgan sometimes. A waiter or barber or movie usher or some other underling would be rude to him, and Morgan would be intimidated because he couldn’t figure out if he’d done or said something wrong.

It was only much later in such situations that Morgan always wished he’d had a sharp comeback. Or a quick slap with a dueling glove. Or maybe if he’d just spit on their shoes. He was getting tired of letting life roll over him.

He went straight to the lounge and ordered a vodka martini. He drank it in three gulps and ordered another. Only then did he glance around for Annette. She hadn’t arrived yet.

That little prick at the gift shop had spoiled his mood. He half thought it would be a good idea to take Dirk Jakes back with him to rip the guy a new asshole. Jakes would do it too, just for laughs.

And then Morgan was mad because a guy like Jakes could handle himself in those situations and Morgan couldn’t. He finished the martini and ordered another one. The voice in his head told him to slow down, but it wasn’t very convincing.

“What in the world’s wrong with you?”

Morgan spun on his stool, looked into Annette’s soft eyes. They cast their warm light on him. He realized his face had been frozen in a deep scowl. He sat up straight, forced his jaw muscles to unclench. He cleared his throat.

“You don’t want to sit at the bar,” he said. “There’s a table over there.”

“That’s fine.”

He bought her a white wine and took it to the corner table. Soft light. Quiet. The lounge was pleasantly deserted, most of the conferencegoers at the big reception.

Morgan asked if she were enjoying the conference.

She said she was.

And had her friend’s panel gone well?

It had.

Thus concluded Morgan’s cache of small talk. He was bone dry.

The martinis took over.

“So what’s wrong with me, huh?” Morgan asked it with a smile.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then what’s wrong with you?”

She laughed. “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with anybody.”

“Afraid of me?”

“Not of you. That things won’t work out like we want. That life will backfire.”

“What’s the solution?”

“Stick your head out of your hole once in a while,” she said. “If it’s clear, run out, grab a chunk of life, chew it up quick, and get back into your hole. A little at a time when the coast is clear.”

“At Valentine’s party, and when we had pizza, that was you coming out of the hole for a little look-see?” Morgan threw back his drink, waved at the bartender for another.

“That’s right,” Annette said. “I had a two-day hangover after Valentine’s party, and I had to ride the stationary bicycle three hours to work off the pizza. Imagine living life that big all the time. Imagine the toll. It’s like looking at God. You can’t look directly at Him. You have to avert your eyes or look at a burning bush or something.”