Elizabeth suggested, “Or we could stay here.”

I looked at her in the dim light, and as I said, I’m not good at reading a woman’s signals, but Elizabeth’s signal was loud and clear. I replied, “Let’s think about that.”

“Thinking is not what we want to do.”

I nodded, then changed the subject. “I have something for you.” I stood, went into the dining room, and found Susan’s photographs of the Allards.

I knelt beside Elizabeth’s chair and said, “Susan took most of these, and I want you to have them, though I’d like to make a few copies for myself.”

She took the stack of photos and went through them, making appropriate remarks about each one, such as, “I can’t believe how many times we were all together… I barely remember these… Oh, look, here’s my college graduation… and there’s you, John, with your arm around me and Dad… oh, God, was I a dork, or what?”

“No, you were not. I’ll take a copy of that one.”

“No, no.”

“You look great with straight black hair.”

“Oh my God – what was I thinking?”

We came across a posed photograph taken on the rear terrace of Stanhope Hall, occasion unknown or forgotten. Standing in the photo is Ethel, still attractive in late middle age, and George, his hair still brown, and Augustus Stanhope, late into his dotage, sitting in a rocker with a blanket on his lap. Also, on his lap is a girl of about six or seven, and I realized it was Elizabeth.

She joked, “That’s not me.”

“It looks like you.”

She stared at the photograph, then said, “My mother took care of him before they had to hire around-the-clock nurses.” Elizabeth put the photo on the table with the others and added, “Mom was very fond of him.”

I replied, “He was a gentleman.” I added, of course, “Very unlike his son.”

We dropped that subject and continued on through the stack of photos.

Elizabeth commented at one point, “I can’t believe how many of these people are dead.”

I nodded.

She asked me, “Were you happy then?”

“I was. But I didn’t always know it. How about you?”

“I think I was happy.” She changed the subject. “Oh, here are Edward and Carolyn. They’re so cute.”

And so we continued through the photographic time trip, both of us, I think, realizing how much our lives had intersected, and yet how little we knew each other.

Because Susan had taken most of these pictures, she wasn’t in many of them, but we came across a photo of Susan and Elizabeth together, taken at the Stanhope annual Christmas party in the mansion. Elizabeth stared at it and said, “She is a beautiful woman.”

I didn’t comment.

Elizabeth continued, “She was very nice at lunch.”

I had no intention of asking about the lunch, so I stood and poured the remainder of the wine into our glasses.

Elizabeth finished with the photos and said, “I’ll have them all copied for you.”

“Thank you.”

She sat silently for a while, sipping her wine, then informed me, “I’ve heard that… Bellarosa’s son has moved into one of the Alhambra houses.”

I nodded.

She remained silent again, then asked me, “Do you think…? I mean, could that be a problem for Susan?”

I asked, “What did Susan think?”

Elizabeth glanced at me, then replied, “She didn’t think so,” then added, “She seemed not at all concerned.”

“Good.”

“But… well, I would be.”

I didn’t reply and opened the second bottle of Tuscan red, a Cabreo Il Borgo, and we sat silently, drinking wine and getting a little tipsy.

We seemed to have run out of things to talk about; or, to put it another way, someone needed to address the subject of sex or supper. Elizabeth had already broached that subject, and I’d let it pass, but she tried another approach and announced, “I’m too drunk to drive.” She asked, “Can you drive?”

“No.”

“Then let’s stay here.”

I could, of course, call a taxi for her, and that’s what a real gentleman would do – or a limp-dicked, half-wit poor excuse of a man. So I said, “Let’s stay here.”

“That’s a good idea.” She finished her wine, stood, and said, “I need to shower.”

I, too, stood and watched her walk, a little unsteadily, into the foyer.

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow. “Dear Ms. Post-”

“Dear COLI, Just fuck her already.”

“Right.” I moved toward the foyer, then hesitated. I seemed to recall that I’d already decided that Elizabeth was emotionally distraught and vulnerable, and I should not take advantage of that. On a more selfish level, I didn’t want to complicate my life at this time. And Elizabeth Allard Corbet would be a major complication.

On the other hand… I mean, this was her idea.

My head said no, my heart said maybe, and my dick was pointing toward the staircase. Dick wins every time.

But first, I uncorked the third bottle of wine, took the two glasses, and went to the foot of the stairs, where I heard a door close on the second floor.

I made my way up the steps to the small hallway. The bathroom was straight ahead, her mother’s room was to the left, and my room – her old room – was to the right. All three doors were closed, so I opened mine and saw she wasn’t there. I set the bottle and glasses on the nightstand. I could now hear the shower running in the bathroom.

I’ve been here before, on the outside of a closed bathroom door while the lady inside was showering, and I had no clear, verbal invitation to share the shower. “Dear Ms. Post-”

“Hey, stupid, see if the door is unlocked.”

“Right.” I went back to the bathroom door and gently tried the knob. Locked.

I went back to my bedroom, leaving the door open, and I poured two glasses of wine and sat in the armchair.

The shower stopped. I opened a copy of Time magazine, sipped my wine, and read.

A few minutes later, while I was reading a fascinating article about something or other, I heard the bathroom door open, and Elizabeth poked her head through my door, wrapped in a large bath towel, and drying her hair with another towel. She said to me, “Shower’s free.”

“Good.” I stood and asked, “Feel better?”

“Terrific.” Then she turned and walked into her mother’s room and closed the door. I could hear the hair dryer running.

First-time sex is like a first dance. Who’s leading whom? Am I dancing too close, or too far? Do I need a shower? Yes.

I went into the bathroom, leaving the door unlocked, stripped and threw my clothes in the corner on top of hers, then got in the shower, still not absolutely certain where this was going.

After I finished, I dried off with the last towel, wrapped it around my waist, and exited into the hallway. Her bedroom door was still closed, but it was quiet in there. I entered my room and found her in my chair, her legs crossed, sipping wine, reading my magazine, and wearing my Yale Crew T-shirt, and not much else, except a little makeup.

I said, “That shirt looks good on you.”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

I think I knew where this was going.

I took my wine, sat on the bed opposite her chair, and we clinked glasses and sipped without talking.

She looked around at the small room, the old furniture, the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet, and the sun-bleached drapes, then said, “I spent most of my first twenty-one years here.”

I didn’t respond.

“I always came home on school breaks,” she continued, and I could hear that her voice was a little tired and slurred. “It always felt like home… it was always here… and now, it’s time to move on.”

I nodded.

She announced, “I’d like to sleep here tonight.”

“Of course.”

She stretched out her legs and put her feet on my lap. She said, “My feet are sore from all that moving.”

I put down my wine and rubbed her feet.

She put her head back, closed her eyes and murmured, “Oooh… that feels sooo good.”

Her T-shirt – my T-shirt – had ridden north, and I could see that the carpet matched the drapes.