Magic Hour, Susan Isaacs [life changing books txt] 📗

“I don’t know. You sort of have a macho style, but you probably do something adorable. Sell children’s shoes. Teeny size-two Mary Janes, with a free bal-MAGIC HOUR / 251

loon.” She bit her lip. “God, I’m going to die if that’s what you really do.”

I forced myself out of bed and retrieved my pants from where I’d tossed them, between a little stool and one of those old-fashioned makeup tables with a skirt. Bonnie looked be-wildered, then hurt; she combed her short hair with her fingers, as if preparing for a dignified goodbye. But I tossed her my shield. She caught it, too, and it had been a lousy throw.

Her left hand shot out.

“Good reflexes,” I said.

“I need them. You’re not exactly Sandy Koufax.”

We stared at each other across the room, she amazed that I was a cop, me, that she knew baseball. For some crazy reason, after all that had transpired, this was too intimate.

Real fast, we began to talk over each other, she saying something pointless about loving whodunits, me asking if she had anything to drink. She offered iced tea or Diet Coke, but then I said “drink drink.” All she had was light beer and a bottle of one-step-up-from-rotgut red wine she’d bought to use for sangria, for a picnic, but it had rained. I settled for the wine. She threw on a bathrobe and went downstairs.

The minute she was gone, I got claustrophobic; I wanted out. It wasn’t the room. I knew that much. It was sizable, appealing, all white except for the old wood beams and the painted blue-green chair rail. It definitely wasn’t overstuffed; there was a four-poster bed with plain wood nightstands on either side, the little stool and vanity table with its ladylike yellow-and-white-striped skirt, and a clumsy, cozy-looking club chair, covered in a shiny cotton—big yellow flowers with blue-green leaves—a stand-up lamp beside it.

But even though there was that cool breath of air coming through the open windows, I wanted to get 252 / SUSAN ISAACS

outside. Go home, have a couple of drinks, maybe drive up to the bay afterwards, watch the sunset. I put on my shorts.

I heard her coming upstairs, so I picked up the phone. I’d say “Damn. Yeah. Right away” when she walked in, and then tell her a fast-but-grisly homicide story: maybe a stabbing followed by arson. Something nice and graphic, full of gaping tracheas, mutilated genitals. Run while she was still gagging.

Except she came in carrying a can of Diet Coke, a wine-glass, the bottle, and holding a corkscrew between her teeth.

She looked so goofy. I hung up the phone and took the corkscrew. “Calling your office?” she asked, and handed me the wine.

“Yeah. No emergencies that can’t wait.” I opened the bottle, poured, drank. The pressure to escape eased a little.

I’m sure we must have talked for a while, because if I had taken her in my arms again, I would have been lost. I remember stretching out on my side, letting my fingers graze over her fabulous skin, but not getting too close. It was perfection, lying there like that, feeling the warmth of her, the coolness of the breeze. The sky had lost its daytime glare and had become softer, finer: blue tinged with pink and gold.

I whispered, not to disturb the beauty: “I love this time of day.”

Bonnie glanced at the window. “Magic hour.” She kissed me on the mouth, but sweetly, almost daintily. “It’s a term in cinematography. The time after dawn and before dusk.

Enough light for shooting, but there’s a fineness, a tranquillity to it—magical light. You have to work fast, because before you know it, the enchantment is over, but while it’s there…you can get something beautiful.”

I drank some more wine. I must have fallen asleep for a couple of minutes. When I woke up I caught MAGIC HOUR / 253

Bonnie studying my face. She averted her eyes and said too fast: “I was just wondering how you’d look without the mustache.”

“No. You were thinking: This is one hell of a man.”

“Yes.”

I let my fingers glide down, over her throat and breasts. I caressed her stomach and felt her muscles contract. Two or three good, deep kisses. And then we were at it again, this time with a lust that made the last go-round seem a lighthearted tease. We were biting and clawing at each other. I heard myself growl.

Bonnie pulled back. The wildness disturbed her. She wanted to be civilized again, a sexy woman, not an animal.

She got cool and urbane on me, did a couple of cute maneuvers with the tip of her tongue. Then she got to her knees to climb on top. I knew what would happen: She’d arch her back, toss her head, let her breasts bounce. Then she’d bend over and do some more tongue tricks. She wanted what I wanted: mastery.

But I didn’t want well-bred sex games. I pushed her down, onto her back. We were animals, and I was the male. I wanted her to know that. I pinned down her arms, pried open her legs with my knee and started giving it to her. She was strong, and she struggled to get free, but at the same time, she was sobbing one word over and over: More.

After it was over she turned away from me. She wasn’t making any noise, but I could feel her back shaking as she cried. I was kind of shaky too. I hadn’t been in control at all. What if she hadn’t cried for more? What if she’d wanted me to stop? Would I have?

I rested my cheek against the nape of her neck. “Bonnie, it’s okay.” She didn’t say anything. “Too rough?”

254 / SUSAN ISAACS

“No.”

“Too what?”

“Too much.”

“Too much what?”

“I don’t know.”

I rolled her over onto her back and kissed her. Her cheeks were wet. “Next time I’ll be real suave. Okay? You’ll think: Jesus, what technique!” Bonnie’s face softened as she smiled;