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"Hi," she said, sounding cheerful. She was angry with herself, wanted to sound harsh.
"Hey." He glanced north, toward the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. "Fulton Street."
"The poem? I know. It's 'Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.' "
From Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman's masterpiece. After Stuart Everett had mentioned in class that it was his favorite anthology of poems, she'd bought an expensive edition. Thinking that somehow it made them more connected.
"I didn't assign that for class. You knew it anyway?"
Pam said nothing.
"Can I sit down?"
She nodded.
They sat in silence. She smelled his cologne. Wondered if his wife had bought it for him.
"Your friend talked to you, I'm sure."
"Yeah."
"I liked her. When she first called, okay, I thought she was going to arrest me."
Pam's frown softened into a smile.
Stuart continued, "She wasn't happy about the situation. But that was good. She was looking out for you."
"Amelia's the best."
"I couldn't believe she was a cop."
And a cop who ran a check on my boyfriend. Being in the dark wasn't so bad, Pam reflected; having too much information sucked big-time.
He took her hand. Her impulse to pull it away vanished. "Look, let's get this whole thing out in the open."
She kept her eyes focused on the distance; looking into his brown eyes, under droopy lids, would be a way bad idea. She watched the river and the harbor beyond. Ferries still ran but most of the traffic was either private boats or cargo ships. She often sat near the river here and watched them. Forced to live underground, deep in the Midwest woods, with her crazy mother and a bunch of right-wing fanatics, Pam had developed a fascination with rivers and oceans. They were open and free and constantly in motion. That thought soothed her.
"I wasn't honest, I know. But my relationship with my wife isn't what it seems. I don't sleep with her anymore. Haven't for a long time."
Was that the first thing a man said at a time like this? Pam wondered. She hadn't even considered the sex, just the married.
He continued, "I didn't want to fall in love with you. I thought we'd be friends. But you turned out to be different from everybody else. You lit up something in me. You're beautiful, obviously. But you're, well, you're like Whitman. Unconventional. Lyrical. A poet in your own way."
"You've got kids," Pam couldn't stop herself from saying.
A hesitation. "I do. But you'd like them. John's eight. Chiara's in middle school. She's eleven. They're wonderful kids. That's why Mary and I are together, the only reason."
Her name's Mary. Was wondering.
He squeezed her hand. "Pam, I can't let you go."
She was leaning into him, feeling the comfort of his arm against hers, smelling the dry, pleasing scent, not caring who'd bought the aftershave. She thought: He was probably going to tell me sooner or later.
"I was going to tell you in a week or so. I swear. I was working up my courage." She felt his hand trembling. "I see my children's faces. I think, I can't break up the family. And then you come along. The most incredible person I've ever met. . . . I've been lonely for a long, long time."
"But what about holidays?" she asked. "I wanted to do something on Thanksgiving or Christmas with you."
"I can probably get away for one of them. At least part of the day. We just need to plan ahead of time." Stuart lowered his head. "Here's the thing. I can't live without you. If you can be patient, we'll make it work."
