He took her empty glass from her. “Breakfast? I’ll shop. And cook.”
Why not? The trawler was private.
Dru tried to read her watch, from Cartier’s, a wedding gift from Omar. Eight-thirty. “I need to phone Omar.” Shaking. Shaking so hard. And not at the prospect of walking to the phone. “You’re family. It might not be…what he wants.”
He showed no reaction. They stood, still shadowed by the canopy. The skin at his throat was dark. Some black chest hairs, where Omar was hairless. “You might think,” he said, “of what you want.”
She released a cable to step down to the dock. But looked back first.
His eyes waited. He knew she might be afraid of the dark. Or, indelibly, of abduction. He would let nothing harm her. With a careless stroke of his gaze, he slayed her fear. His footsteps beside her on the dock were lazy, companionable, the angels of comfort. His warmth reached her through three hundred cubic inches of cold mist.
She could read the blueprint of a kind man.
Briefly, sweeping her hand over a wet and splintered railing, she wished he was cruel. Because she wanted to accept what he offered. And that was reckless.
She stumbled over chewing gum and cigarette butts. Her fears gathered and pressing on her, chanting in the key of doom that she should not. She should not. Dru walked through the chorus, losing his scent somewhere, until she saw the light above the telephone.
She dialed, followed the recorded prompts to enter her card number. Where was Ben? Even under the security lights, she couldn’t find him. He must be near, would not have left her. Privacy. In the cold, under the skeletons and monsters of steel, under a dry-docked leviathan, Dru listened to the phone in Nantucket ring. He won’t be home. Again.
Sergio answered. Then Omar was on the phone.
She felt half-warmth at the sound of his voice. And flatness, distance. Had part of her gone on leave from their marriage? She asked, “Do you really want me to do this?”
His soft laughter reminded her of nights of talk, Omar discussing the stars and the sight of snow on quahog shells and the antiquity of sharks and the intelligence of apes, then slipping past her to philosophy and quantum theory and the history of money and its future and the connections between all these things. “Aren’t you really asking if I don’t want you to do it?” His accent was all Massachusetts. Nantucket. Some people even called him an Islander.
Dru didn’t. She was.
She said, “I’ve met Ben.” Her heart pounded. Was Omar afraid, too? Did he know, had he known all along that she would find Ben attractive? Had he—“Did you ask him to be the donor? Did you plan it, Omar?”
“I asked Ben not to let you see him. But if you want him…”
“You know who I want.”
“That is a gift in my life. In many cultures, love is considered a sickness, something to be avoided. Marrying for love is frowned upon, because love, particularly sexual love, is unstable, and marriage must endure. So, go forth, Dru, if you want to bear a child. If you develop feelings for the man with whom you conceive this child, even for…my nephew, Ben, they will go away when you return to me. The Chinese cure for lovesickness includes a steady regimen of sex with a person other than the desired object.”
“I don’t want to be lovesick. And he’s a family member.”
“It’s nothing. Choose who you want.”
Her fingers grew stiff, icy, around the receiver. “I guess this is how you create a fortune. Taking this kind of risk.”
His voice roughened, a sign of life to her. “I’m sixty-six years old, and you want to make love with my handsome young nephew. This, Dru, is the gamble of my life.”
She could tell him she loved him, promise to always love him and say good night. She should. She was cold. But if she let him go…would it ever be the same? “Is that why you’re doing it? For the risk?”
“I want a baby. With you. And you have been a midwife and aren’t now because of my circumstances, and I won’t be responsible for your never bearing a child of your own.”
Her sigh echoed under the railways. “You aren’t responsible. We could adopt.”
“I want to raise a child who is part of you, Dru.”
“Are you sure you didn’t ask him to do it? As a last resort, if no one else would have me?”
A moment. “The possibility that no one would want you has never crossed my mind. I’m going to Curaçao for a few days. I’ll be hard to reach. If you need anything, please ask Sergio.”
“I love you.” She said it almost desperately.
“And I you. Good night, Dru.”
Not my love, not dearest. He was telling her, Go. Go do it.
“Omar?”
“Yes.”
“Our marriage is a pearl. I feel as though I’ll mar it if I do this thing.”
“A marriage shouldn’t be so frail.”
Really. He was guiltless as a conqueror. “Omar, is our marriage monogamous?”
“Finance is my mistress, Dru. Give me this gift. A child. And, Dru, it’s good to enjoy it.”
She hung up. Heard the water beyond the mist.
“What did he say?”
She jumped.
He leaned against a steel piling, needing a shave, his long lean face ending at that cleft chin.
Her cheeks hardened to thin sheets of ice. “Were you listening?”
“With limited success.”
She strode past him, toward the docks. He followed, his footfalls silent. Without looking, she knew he was there and said, “You think nothing of sleeping with married women?”
“You would be my first. You’re very traditional.”
Was she? “I’m an Islander. I suppose you’re not,” she said. “Traditional.”
No reply.
She walked. Heard her own breath. Never his. The moon appeared through clouds, a paler, more genuine sister of the security light. The dock creaked beneath her feet.
Such a frightening sound, behind and around her—her own breath.
At the trawler, he caught her forearm.
Warmth. Hard grip. Sliding to her hand.
Their fingers touched in darkness. He pulled her to him, close enough to smell, then her breasts against his chest. Omar was broad, with a different kind of power. She touched these new shoulders. Each hand fumbled, jerking slightly, removed from her will. She shouldn’t touch him.
“Is it because you live in the desert?” She tilted back her head. “Have you not had a woman in so long?”
He watched her, reading her.
“Just tell me,” she said. “Have you been traveling with some Oxford scholar or married the daughter of a chief?”
“No chief has offered me a daughter.” He dropped his eyes, raised them. “As to the former—no.”
“You’re a virgin?”
The certainty of his hands denied it. He kissed her forehead.
Omar wants this. Wants me to do this. And Ben wants to help—for Omar.
His