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The clerk snaps to attention. Oh, yes, miss, he says at once, not
eager for her to explain further. I will go up myself. Just you wait
right here.
Olympia nods. Somewhat nervous now, she moves about the
lobby, inspecting the horsehair sofas, the oil portraits on the walls,
the carved pillars around which velvet banquettes have been placed
for the guests. It seems she waits a long time for the clerk to return
with Haskell. And as she does so, she begins to doubt the wisdom of
her actions. What if Catherine and the children did not go yesterday
afternoon as she said they would? What if Haskell is angry with
Olympia for this ruse? In fact, he will be angry, will he not? Olympia
hardly knows the man. He will undoubtedly think her foolish, if not
altogether mad.
Suddenly panicked, she glances all about her. She did not give her
name to the desk clerk. Haskell will guess who it is, but she does not
actually have to be standing there, does she? She walks quickly to the
front door. But as she nears its threshold, she hears the breathless an-
nouncement of the desk clerk.
There she is, sir. Very good.
Haskell, with his coat in one hand and his satchel in the
other, sees her across the long expanse of the lobby. Olympia can
move neither forward nor backward. With slow steps Haskell ap-
proaches her.
It is Mrs. Rivard, then, Haskell says quietly.
It is all Olympia can do to nod.
Very well, let us speak further about this on the porch.
Obediently, she passes through the door, onto the porch, and, fol-
lowing his lead, down the steps. Silently, they walk together to the
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back of the hotel. As they turn the corner, she stumbles on an ex-
posed pipe, and in the sudden motion, he reaches for her arm.
Olympia, look at me, please.
She turns and raises her eyes to his.
I wish with all my heart, he says, that it was I who could come
to you. You understand that?
She nods, for she believes him.
" " "
He will go up first, he says, to unlock the room. After a suitable in-
terval, she is to follow.
The sun has risen, and through the windows in the hallways, the
light is overbright, causing a continual blindness as Olympia passes
from shadow to light to shadow. Not many are stirring in the hotel,
although she does hear water running and, once, footsteps behind
her briefly. Through the windows to the side, she can see wash on a
line and a group of chambermaids sitting with mugs of tea on the
back steps.
When she enters the room, Haskell is standing by the windows,
his arms folded across his chest, his body a dark silhouette against
the luminous gauze. She removes her hat and places it on a side
table.
He tilts his head and considers her for a long moment, as though
he might be going to paint her portrait, as though he were seeing
planes and lines and curves rather than a face.
But there is expectation in his features, too. Definitely expecta-
tion.
Olympia, he says.
He unfolds his arms and walks toward her. He puts his hands to
the back of her neck. He bends her head toward his chest, where she
rests it gratefully, flooded with an enormous sense of relief.
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If I truly loved you, he says, I would not let you do this.
You do truly love me, she says.
He trails his fingers up and down her spine. Tentatively, she cir-
cles him with her arms. She has never held a man before, never felt
a man s broad back or made her way along its muscles. She no
longer has fear, but neither does she have the intense hunger she
will know later. The sensation is, rather, a sort of sliding against and
sinking into another, so that she seems more liquid than corporeal.
She brings her hands to the front of his shirt and lays her palms
against him.
He seems to shudder slightly. His body is thicker than she has
imagined it, or perhaps it is only that his tangible physical presence,
under her palms, is more substantial than she has remembered. And
it seems to her then that everything around her is heightened, em-
boldened, made larger than in her dreams.
Olympia, we cannot do this.
She is taken aback, unprepared for discussion.
It is already done, she says.
No, it is not. We can stop this. I can stop this.
You do not want this to stop, she says, and she believes this is
true. She hopes this is true.
I am a married man. You are only fifteen.
And do these facts matter? she asks.
They must, he says.
He takes a step back from her. Her hands drop from his body. She
shakes her head. She feels a sudden panic that she will lose him to his
doubts.
It is not what we are doing, she says. It is what we are.
He briefly closes his eyes.
I thought you understood that, she says quietly.
We will not be forgiven.
By whom? she asks sharply. By God?
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By your father, he says. By Catherine.
No, she says. We will not be forgiven.
An expression of surrender or is it actually joy? seems to
wash over his features. She sees the strain of resistance leave his
body.
This will be very strange for you, he says, trying to warn her.
Then let it be strange, she says. I want it to be strange.
He tries to unbutton the collar of her blouse but fumbles with the
mother-of-pearl disks, which are difficult to undo. She stands away
from him for a moment and unfastens the collar herself, impatient
to reenter that liquid world that is only itself, not a prelude, nor an
aftermath, nor a distraction, but rather an all-absorbing and en-
veloping universe.
There is a change in tempo then, a quickening of his breath and
perhaps of hers, too. They embrace awkwardly. She hits a corner of
the settee with the small of her back and stiffens. Her clothing seems
clumsy and excessively detailed. He sheds his jacket in one sinuous
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