The garage itself was otherwise empty, except for a row of shiny metal garbage cans against the back wall that appeared unused. Not a lawnmower, unused household item, ladder, peg with a tool-nothing. It was just a bare, bright white space with the little black bullet on wheels in the center.

     "What is it?" Helen asked, nodding toward the car.

      "A Lotus." Grenville answered. "The back door," he said, pointing, "leads up to the kitchen." But Grenville opened a door nearby, revealing a well-lighted but narrow stairway. The garage went dark as they entered the tight hall. Helen had no choice but to follow where he indicated.

      "Shouldn't we take our wet things to the kitchen?" Helen asked.

      "It won't be necessary," Grenville said, leading the way up into the silence, lights appearing before them and shutting down after them. She wondered if they were connected to a burglar alarm system. Grenville had fiddled with a small electronic panel near the stairwell as soon as they had entered.

      They emerged in an entrance foyer with a bench, a tall wall mirror, and a gleaming brass coat and hat tree, all of futuristic design. A rubber-lined tray underneath apparently was meant to hold dripping boots and umbrellas-that is, if one entered the front of the house. She sat on the bench and took off  her boots, carefully lining them up on the rubber mat. Her fresh thick socks would do for indoors. She guessed this foyer was in the middle of the house. An angled wall on the right of the entrance partially obscured a hallway. On the left was the living room. She stuffed her gloves and knit cap into her jacket pockets, and Grenville hung it all on the coat tree. He walked into the living room, oblivious of any stains he left from his wet shoes. This time Helen held her tongue.

      "The drinks are over there," Grenville said, pointing vaguely toward the fireplace. "Help yourself. I'll be but a minute." He walked off rapidly to another part of the house.

      Helen was happily surprised. Where the garage had been barren, the living room was full of lightness, airiness, warmth, and sumptuous comfort, all set against faintly rosy walls. A backless sofa with flaring arms stood beneath the wide front window. It was covered in a deeply-textured blue silk-like fabric . A mass of puffed pillows promised supreme comfort for any activity there. Heavy silken, blush-colored draperies with the thinnest of gold stripes remained open, allowing the fast-descending darkness outside to turn the window into a black mirror that reflected the entire room.

      The room was surprisingly large. A small fireplace was set flush with the wall at the far end and was framed in glistening narrow black marble tiles. Above and around these tiles, wider tiles of varying earth tones spread out to form a mantle-like frame. The same combination of tiles was set into the highly polished wood floor in front of the fireplace, acting as a hearth. A gleaming brass basket filled with small logs stood on one side, and a collection of bright brass fireplace accessories on the other side reflected bits of light from recessed ceiling lights. Lighted shelves with mirrored backs were set into the wall above the fireplace in varying squares, rectangles, and ovals, displaying sculptures of highly polished thick brass bands twisted into free-flowing shapes, with no two alike.

      A thickly padded sofa with wide, pillowed arms the color of light sand stood opposite the fireplace. Two matching club chairs faced each other over a variegated marble-topped table on an intricately carved metal frame painted blue and rose. Behind the sofa was a long library table of lustrous dark wood, creating a corridor of sorts that bypassed the seating arrangement around the fireplace and led around the corner where Grenville has vanished. A simple glass bowl on the table half-filled with water held thick-stemmed flowers of brilliant red that stood out in bold, gorgeous relief. Helen couldn't identify them. Could they be real, or was the water there simply to create a further illusion of living color?

      The walls were mostly bare, except for scattered small, lighted prints, mostly abstracts in simple frames that hinted at definable scenes. Helen found one suggestive of restful, still water. She thought she saw stray ripples in an undercurrent. Thick, fringed area rugs in shades of brown and tan and of different sizes and shapes were strategically placed in front of the sofa and chairs facing the fireplace, and  around the room, creating islands of sand and earth on the gleaming wood floor.

      But he's renting, Helen thought in wonder. Surely, even a Sir "Fig" wouldn't go to all the trouble and expense of outfitting a house like this simply for a short teaching job. Helen went to the glass liquor cart near the fireplace and bent to look at the considerable assortment of bottles, decanters, and glasses. She lifted the lid of the ice bucket made of a black, glass-like material and burnished brass. Of course. The ice cubes were perfect. No water sloshed at the bottom.

      "Did you find something to drink?" Grenville asked from behind her. He stood barefooted, toweling his hair. He had changed into close-fitting jeans that sat low on his hips. The sleeves of his  dark green velour pullover were pushed up, revealing strong forearms. His muscular neck rose above the ribbed v-neck.

      Satisfied that he was dry enough, Grenville tossed the towel onto a chair against the wall, drawing Helen's startled attention to an intricately carved antique chest on short, squared-off legs. It was flanked by two equally old straight-backed arm chairs also on open, box-like frames. The back and front legs of chairs and chest were deeply carved. Underneath them lay a worn carpet with fringed ends. Helen couldn't resist a closer examination. The colors of the carpet were considerably faded, but she could still make out blue, red, gold, and possibly white, or silver. She could make out flowers and scrolls within patterned squares. Several figures dressed in strange costumes were placed in the center. She also was able to see the outlines of puffed knee-pants, wide skirts, hats, and a bearded face.

      "Are they real?" Helen asked. "I mean, are these genuine antiques?" She knew the question was stupid even as she laid an index finger briefly on the delicate carvings of one of a pair of tall silver candlesticks sitting atop the chest on each side of a large, shallow silver platter also deeply carved all over its surface, including the rim.  

      "Of course," Grenville said, sounding disgusted that she would think otherwise.

      "It's just so unexpected in this room." Helen reached out toward the chest. "May I?" she asked, her hand suspended.      

      "Touch it? Certainly." Grenville gently ran a finger along the arm of the chair which had caught his towel.

      "They look as if they belong in a museum," Helen said, resting her hand lightly on the top of the chest. Her fingers tingled to be touching history so intimately. "What period is it?"

      "Elizabethan," Grenville answered shortly.

      "How lucky for you," Helen said. "You're an English professor. I guess you teach Shakespeare. Or is your specialty some other period?"

      "I do teach Shakespeare," Grenville said, "but what does luck have to do with it?"

      "I mean, the people whose house  this is-you're renting, right?-collecting valuable antiques from the Elizabethan period."

      "These things are mine." Grenville swept an all-encompassing arm at the room.  "Did you think I rented the furniture along with the house?" He asked, offended. Helen appreciated that he didn't add, "like Karl?"

      Helen couldn't believe that anyone could be so extravagant as to move all this furniture for a brief teaching post. But maybe he had a lease arrangement to buy the house and planned to stay in Medford. Maybe his appointment was more permanent than Elizabeth Warden knew.

      Helen looked about the room again. So this is the real Frederic Isham Grenville. He  collects Elizabethan antiques and obviously has money to spare. She put her hand back on the chest and rubbed until her fingers felt warm. It now didn't seem farfetched to ask: "Is this a family heirloom?" 

      "No," Grenville said after a brief hesitation. "But it does contain information about a Grenville who could have owned this chest and plate." He removed the silver candlesticks and platter and carefully placed them on one of the chairs. He then opened the top of the chest, took out a pamphlet, and carefully lowered the lid back in place. The pamphlet looked yellowed but not brittle. From what Helen could see, the writing was also in an old style.

      "Is the pamphlet also an antique?" she asked.

      "No." Grenville opened it to show the staples. "It's just a clever stage prop from a theatrical supply shop," he added. "It contains the true story of the courage of one, Sir Richard Grenville, England's great naval hero." Grenville was rolling his "r's." His accent, while always present, but never obtrusive, was turning rich enough to sound almost Irish. "Take what you like to drink," he said, gesturing toward the liquor cart, his voice normal once again. "Then I'll tell you an exciting adventure that finally led to the downfall and death of this fornicating old bastard."

      Granted, Helen observed to herself, that "bahstud" sounded classier than the standard American "bastard" with the flat "a." But Grenville now reminded her of an actor playing to the balcony. That would explain a stage prop in an antique chest."I don't know what to choose," she said, fascinated with the character Grenville seemed to have put on for her benefit on the occasion of bringing her to his house.

      "Then allow me," he said grandly, and went to the glass cart. He lifted a squat bottle without a label and removed the stopper. "Ah," he said, sniffing lightly. "Nectar." He filled two wine glasses two-thirds full with a deep-hued amber liquid so thick that it coated the glass. "A private label," he added, handing her one of the glasses and motioning her toward the sofa. But instead of joining her, he sat in the chair on her right, facing the black glass of the front window from which he could survey the entire interior scene. Helen held her glass aloft while trying to lower herself into the deep pillows of the sofa without spilling the wine.

      "Let me help you," Grenville said, putting his glass on a table at his side that was a smaller version of the table in the center. He took her glass, and Helen pushed herself back into the cushions, curling her legs under her. Talk about being cradled in the lap of luxury. Grenville handed her the wine and returned to his seat. He raised his glass but didn't propose a toast. Instead, he said, "Sip slowly, Helen. This wine is wicked, even dangerous." His voice rumbled deep in his chest, making the words sound almost menacing.  But he was obviously playing with her.

      Helen laughed at his deliberately sinister sneer and also raised her glass in silent salute. She took a sip of the rich liqueur and closed her eyes to concentrate on the delicious taste. Strangely, her first thought was of sunlight shimmering on sweet water flowing quietly and smoothly between the rocks. She licked her lips to capture any wayward drops. "M-m-m-m," she murmured. When she opened her eyes, she saw Grenville staring at her. Suddenly a little frightened, Helen looked from the glass to Grenville. "What's in it?" she asked.

      Grenville relented and laughed. "It's just a glorious old wine. Private label. You're so accustomed to the bottled swill of today that drinking the genuine article is shocking."

      "Is this the kind of wine that costs one-thousand dollars  a bottle?"

      "I never priced it," Grenville answered, lips twitching. "But enough." He took a hefty drink and set his glass down to pick up the pamphlet. "Sip!" he said sharply as Helen was about to follow his lead and drain more of the wine. Obediently, she sipped and held the large round bowl of the long-stemmed glass cupped in her palms.  Professor Grenville-Sir Fig?-reached back on the side table and brought forth a pair of glasses in black wire frames which he put on before opening the pamphlet. Helen giggled.

      "Drunk on one sip?" Grenville asked in annoyance.

      "Your glasses," she said, and laughed aloud.

      "They're quite ordinary, you know." He took them off and examined them. "Ordinary, not quite square, not quite round glasses bought at a regular optometrist's shop. No diamonds, rubies, or pearls." He looked at her over the rims he had perched low on his nose.

      "I'm sorry," Helen said. "It's so commonplace to wear glasses, but you..." she raised the wine glass, "are anything but commonplace." She ducked her head and took a quick gulp of wine before he could stop her and felt instantly better. Grenville laughed as she continued to lick her lips.

      "Forgiven," he murmured. He adjusted his glasses and once more assuming an actor's voice, he let that strange accent roll forth as he read aloud: "A Report of the Truth of the Fight about the Isle of Azores, this last Summer: betwixt the Revenge, one of Her Majesty's Ships: and an Armada of the King of Spain." Grenville looked up. "By Sir Walter Raleigh," he added.

      "The real Sir Walter Raleigh?" Helen asked, eyes wide. "This isn't a play-or something?"

      "The one and only Sir Walter Raleigh," Grenville said. "And no, this is not ‘a play-or something.' It's the real McCoy, the genuine article." This time he sounded very American. Then, British once more, he went on. "A little history lesson is in order. Sir Walter Raleigh-the real one", he said in an aside, "wanted to put to rest the bickering and sniping about whether to place blame for a disaster, or offer praise for a great, courageous act in the loss of the Revenge to the Spaniards on September 10-11, 1591, while under the command of Vice Admiral Sir Richard Grenville." He looked up after speaking Sir Richard's title and name with great solemnity. "The real Sir Richard Grenville."

      Helen would have nodded in acceptance, but she was afraid her head would wobble on its axis. Or was wobbling on an axis reserved only for the globe of the Earth? Instead, she started to tilt her body forward and stopped herself just in time to avoid falling forward. She thought more wine would steady her, but, unfortunately, her glass was empty.

      "I can't believe it," Grenville said, taking his glasses off, closing the booklet, and putting them on the table next to him. "One little drink of wine and you're smashed."

      "No, I'm not," Helen said clearly, or so she thought. "Just a tiny little bit tipsy," she added with a giggle, raising her right hand and leaving barely any measurable space between thumb and index finger. 

      "You're sure?" He didn't sound quite convinced, but continued looking at her even as he put his glasses back, getting ready once more to call her back to the "real" Sir Richard Grenville. He watched Helen's drooping eyelids. "Am I boring you?" he asked, a touch of frost in his voice.

      "About what?" Helen asked, opening her eyes as wide as they would go. She liked the rising and lowering tides of his voice. He could read or say anything he wanted. Grenville rose, moving to Helen's side in time to keep her from falling forward. "I'm okay, I'm okay," she reassured him. "It's fascinating, especially since it involves a real, historical Grenville." That point now seemed important to her. Was the wine befuddling her? It was scrumptious. She had never tasted anything like it. She stared up at Grenville, but he was too tall, and it strained her neck. Helen snuggled deeper into the sofa, holding the empty glass out to the Grenville standing before her. She wished that he had lit the fire. Not that she was cold. In fact, she was very warm and cozy. But it would have added a romantic glow.

      "You're sure you weren't related to him?" Helen asked, finding her words coming out very slowly. But she wasn't slurring, so she must be sober. "The real Sir Richard Grenville, I mean. I do remember reading something about him...once." She paused. " It would be nice if you were. He was a brave, honorable man, if I remember."

      "Honorable?" Grenville's voice was harsh. "Oh, dear," he said, focusing on her bobbing head as she tried hard to hold it upright. "I told you not to drink the wine too quickly."

      "It wasn't quickly." Maybe if she could hold her chin in her hand and balance her elbow on her knee, she could appear completely attentive. The maneuver, however, turned out to be too complicated.

      "Of course," Grenville said, putting her glass on the table and pulling her to her feet. "Come on, old girl. It's time for a little walk and some fresh air." He guided her on her wobbly way past the Elizabethan corner. That's what it would be for her, she decided. "The Elizabethan corner," she said aloud. Grenville made no comment, moving her along as she attempted to examine the chest again.

      He stopped her at a door, window panes on top, solid on the bottom. He worked another nearby electronic panel, and light flooded the area beyond the door. Pulling her back slightly by her waistband, he opened the door and then the storm door. Before Helen could complain about being manhandled, Grenville, still holding onto her waistband in back, pushed her head out into the night. Blinded by the sudden light, her lungs stinging from the deep cold, Helen could only gasp and throw her hands before her face. But he held her so that she couldn't get back into the warmth.

      "Help," she croaked. "Let me in before I freeze to death!" But even after Grenville pulled her back, closed the door, and put her into a cushiony nearby chair-none too gently, she noted-she still felt cold. The flannel shirt wasn't meant to be lumberjack warm. And she only had a thin bra on underneath. She continued to shiver, perhaps more than was necessary. Grenville flung a towel at her, and she quickly pulled it around her shoulders.

      "You'll be warm soon enough," he said, amused rather than angry. Helen balanced herself and her still spinning head by holding onto the edge of the table in front of her as she watched him busy himself at a butcher's block centered in the narrow kitchen beyond the seating area.

      "I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "I'm just not used to drinking. And you're right. That wine is like no other wine I've ever had." Grenville sliced a large round rye bread. Helen could hear the sinfully sharp knife crunch through the outer crust and then smooth its way down through the dense center. The thin slices fell silently on a growing pile. Standing at ease with still-naked feet firmly planted, and his hair falling carelessly over his forehead, he looked several years younger than the usually fretful, preoccupied man she had come to expect. Grenville nodded without interrupting his quiet whistling in time with the Mozart playing softly in the background. "No more wasting fine spirits on you, my girl," he said cheerfully. Helen was relieved that he wasn't about to bundle her up and send her home. "Either cola or ginger ale. Nothing else for you."

      "How about some of that coffee?" she asked timidly. It was as aromatic in its own way as the wine. He laughed, put the knife down and poured coffee for both of them. Helen took the offered coffee and inhaled the steamy aroma. She wrapped her hands around the white mug to absorb some of its warmth. Grenville went back to the kitchen as soon as he saw that she could hold the coffee without spilling it. "Heed me this time, Helen. Sip, or you'll burn your mouth and gullet." She obeyed. 

      Helen finally saw that she sat near a round table surrounded by three other chairs. She stretched her neck to look past the sand and white checked curtain hanging on a bright brass rod positioned to cover only the lower half of the wide window. This dinning area where she sat was separated from the kitchen enough to form a corridor between the living room and the rooms on the other side of the house.

      The kitchen was a warm blend of the earth tones so prominent in the living room. Ceramic floor tiles extending into this dining area repeated the colors of the tiles that surrounded the fireplace, and the counter tops were that same rosy, variegated marble.  The glass-topped  table and metal-framed chairs under the window where Helen sat were a lustrous amber. Deep cushions and padded backs made the chairs quite comfortable. Together with the colorful kitchen utensils, the overall effect was of soothing, pleasurable warmth in sharp contrast to the cold, gusting winds that drove the powdery snow into diving, swirling mounds of diamonds under the outside lights.

      It suddenly occurred to Helen that all this bounty with which Grenville encased himself had less to do with a muted display of his wealth than with his desire to be in his own home, surrounded by the things he enjoyed, regardless of what the outside world presented. By bringing his hearth with him, so to speak, he created a safe haven to retreat to, a refuge from an indifferent, even hostile world. He could always be home-come home. But, Helen thought, that meant having things of your own to take with you.

      "That's it," Helen said aloud.

      "There has to be an antecedent," Grenville said, "or did I miss something?"  

      Helen looked out the window. He had left the outside floodlights on, and she watched the snow fall on shrouded bushes and bare trees for a few seconds before turning back. "You're right," she said. "To bring your own things with you rather than rattle around in someone else's version of who you might be, or what they want you to be." Feeling she had again revealed too much of her own situation, Helen apologized. "I really don't drink, except for a little wine now and then. I'm embarrassed by my..."

      "Say no more," Grenville said grandly, gesturing with the knife. "I now know how easy it would be to take advantage of you." He began whistling again, paying no attention to her as he gathered up the sliced bread into a napkin-lined basket and carefully covered it over. Helen turned quickly to look outside again. She didn't want her face to reveal her sudden, unbidden thought: All you have to do, professor, is crook your little finger. Forget the wine and roses.

      A delicious aroma had been slowly filling the area. And when Grenville pulled on  protective mitts and brought out a thickly crusted piece of meat from the wall oven, the room was suffused with the promise of a feast. He lovingly transferred the roast to a wooden platter and inhaled deeply. Helen's exceedingly empty stomach, now beyond voluntary control, erupted in a loud rumble.

      "My sentiments exactly," Grenville said, bringing out a fresh carving knife and eyeing the pastrami as if it were a precious diamond about to be split into great wealth. Bending close, he sliced a paper-thin strip of meat, speared it on the knife tip and held it out to Helen. She left the chair in a bound, but managed to be dainty about removing the meat from the knife and thrusting it into her mouth. And as the first drops of fat and spicy flavorings in the succulent meat slid down her throat, she groaned in ecstasy. Medford Christmas cookies and cakes, onion soup smothered by melting cheese, and anemic salads, how could they compare to just this one bite of real, old-fashioned New York deli pastrami? If it wouldn't have made her look the fool, she would have burst into tears as the memories of a happy youth flooded her mind, all brought on by the taste of the meat from "home."

      Helen again followed Grenville's lead and ate with gusto after he burdened the table with an array of food any deli owner would envy. She felt no shame at a lack of table manners when grasping a pickle with her fingers, or licking them clean after they became smeared with dripping fat. At last, they could eat no more. Helen took one last sip of beer-Grenville had relented about only "either cola or ginger ale"-and brought her napkin to her lips in time to muffle a discreet burp.

      "I'll clear the table," he said. "Why don't you go into the music room." He nodded toward the other side of the dining area as he lifted two large platters.

      "I want to help," Helen insisted.

      "Nonsense. I'll only put away the perishables. The rest can wait."

      Helen's curiosity got the better of her desire to help. She saw immediately  why it would be called the music room. A brilliantly polished ebony grand piano, lid majestically open, stood at the head of the room before a wall of windows. The outside lights had been turned off and the windows were bared to the night to create the illusion of a wall of mirrors reflecting the room back on itself. Helen could imagine the gorgeous light that would pour in on a sunny day.

      The sofa and chairs were striped in the same muted colors as the living room and were clustered to form intimate groupings with tables and lamps. Bare floors and uncluttered walls added to the room's welcoming openness. She turned when she heard the piano playing in synchrony with  the Mozart coming from the audio system that was apparently piped throughout the house. Grenville, at the keyboard, smiled at her and then lost himself in a movement from the Mozart piano concerto that had contained the theme for the movie Elvira Madigan. His flawless accompaniment multiplied and enhanced the music until Helen felt wrapped in rapturous sound.

      She chose the sofa near the piano to watch and listen as closely as possible. Grenville seemed unaware of her, his face sad, stirring Helen's curiosity. Was it the music, or some unhappy reverie?  Every now and then he looked up at some far object that didn't seem to be in the room. Gradually, the music-the entire evening-overtook Helen, engulfing her in a deep yearning that was hard to define.

      As a teenager, it would have been the longing for the perfect companion, someone with whom to share that rich inner life that never seemed to find an outlet in the real world. At the age of sixteen, she had added longing for sexual pleasures, or peaks of physical experience. Now, those longings came together as they never had before and flowed toward the man at the piano.

      She opened her eyes and found him staring at her. He quickly looked down when he realized she was awake. He stopped playing, allowing the recorded  music to continue without him, and walked to the black windows, his back to her, hands in his pockets.

      "That was a dirty trick," Helen said, not moving. Her voice was strangely throaty. Grenville looked back at her over his shoulder, his eyes making her feel as if she should check to see whether her shirt had come undone. But she lay still.

      "You mean the recording, or my accompaniment?" His grin held little cheer.

      "You're definitely not a Fred," Helen said, not sure how to answer him. "But Frederic sounds so formal. Calling you Grenville is too masculine for me. So, how shall I address you, professor?"

      He came over on silent bare feet, almost as if he were stalking her, and sat in a chair opposite.

      "My friends called me Fig," he said softly. "Remember? My initials?" His eyes were glued to her face.

      "Fig," Helen said, trying it out. He remained dead serious. "Fig," she repeated. She whispered "Fig" yet again and knew she loved the name. She could drink the name, chew the name, taste the name and all the maleness it clothed. Grenville-no, Fig-watched her, tense as a cat waiting to pounce. Oh, how she wanted him to pounce; to claw open that immense Gordian Knot crowding her insides that held her in suffocating confinement. She closed her eyes, afraid that he would read her turmoil. Free me, she begged without a sound. And when she opened her eyes, he was kneeling at her side, arms crossed on the cushion in front of her breasts, but not touching her. And all she could see were his immense dark eyes drilling into her and fathoming every thought.

      "Fig," Helen said again. If she reached out and touched him, she would be burned. She could feel his heat. Or was it her own heat pouring out and mingling with the power in those arms, that face? Run! whispered a sudden strange, urgent voice in her brain. But she couldn't; she wouldn't. All she had to do was touch him to set off the conflagration waiting beneath her skin. She leaned her breasts against his arms, the shock of pleasure making her gasp. Then how would it feel to touch his face, devour his mouth? At some point, Fig's hunger also reached flash point. Briefly sane, Helen thought, did he plan the whole thing? The idea only added to her delirium. And it was over in a shower of stars behind her closed eyelids.

      Fig shifted his weight to keep from crushing her but still kept her warm with his body. Helen could hear his labored breathing, his mouth now close her ears, and she could feel her own chest, covered by his out flung arm, rising and falling with her own efforts to gulp down air. She turned her head at the moment he opened his eyes. They gazed at each other in bleary contemplation. Fig's chest began to rumble with inner laughter. Helen felt its contagion, and soon both laughed until they struggled for breath.

      "Come!" Fig demanded, heaving himself up and standing before her in naked glory. He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet, surveying her equally naked length and breadth until Helen blushed. But he was obviously satisfied. He drew her close. It was clearly too early for her to leave. Whatever the actual time, the evening had only just begun. "We need more room," he muttered, and turned her toward the hallway.

      They entered a nearby door that stood partially open. Only a dim light shone from a table lamp next to a huge bed piled with creamy pillows and a great puffed comforter. In a single sweeping gesture, Fig flung the comforter to the foot of the bed, scattering the pillows over the mattress. He then lifted Helen with similar ease and tossed her onto the bed, spreading himself over her until both were swallowed up in blissfully yielding clouds of softness.

      Helen stared at the ceiling. The air felt cool on her face, but the comforter was drawn up under her chin. Her body at last satisfied, she rested in a delicate warmth that contrasted with the incredible heat she and Fig had generated for so long. What had come bursting and pouring out of her? How many years had this great boil of need been building? But Fig had lanced and cleansed it. She was certain she had done the same for him. How strange that a man as handsome, intelligent, and accomplished as Fig should also have had such great needs. There was no mistaking that point. Helen continued to stare at the ceiling, remembering the incredible pleasures they had given each other and marveling at the sensual capabilities of her own body. How was it that she had never even suspected its force? That had to be Fig's doing. He was magnificent. She would never be the same dull clod in bed as before-provided, of course, that her partner was as knowledgeable as Fig: better yet, Fig himself.

      Helen raised herself on one elbow to examine the room. There were lots of round and oval shapes-mirror, dresser, chest-offset by the huge square expanse of the bed. The bedside lamp remained the only light source in the room. And with the muted light and the misty shapes in the ever-present sand color, there were no dark corners. The entire house, or what she had seen of it, expressed this airy openness. Her eyes fell on the chair next to her side of the bed. Her clothes, which she recalled leaving scattered on the floor of the music room, were neatly laid out, in the sequence in which she would ordinarily dress herself, including her boots, jacket, and scarf which she had left at the front door!

      Confused, Helen turned to the other side of the bed where Fig had lain. The sheet was as taut and smooth as a recently made bed, and the pillows had fresh, unwrinkled cases. Only her side indicated the turmoil that had just taken place. Helen fought a sudden nausea. A shadowy movement caught her eye. She saw Fig standing next to the bathroom door, his back against the wall, his middle wrapped in a towel. So recently he had lain utterly revealed to her, and she to him. She had held nothing back and presumed that neither did he. Now he stood distant and still, his privacy protected. The meaning of all this suddenly came clear: You may now leave my bed and house; your function has been completed.

      Helen thought of the model Deirdre. Had Fig made love to her on this bed, then taken her to lunch as a grudging courtesy, and also sent her on her way? Her mind closed down, and she got out of bed and dressed, her back to Fig all the while. She had to walk near him to leave, but she kept her eyes rigidly focused ahead. And to emphasize the way out, only the hall leading to the front door was lit. The rest of the house was in darkness. Helen quickly opened the door and closed it without a sound to disturb the silence of the night.

      The snow had stopped some time earlier, and the stars hung in brilliant array in the velvety blackness of the sky. Helen drew deep breaths, trying to absorb the stillness and beauty as if she had just stepped out of her own front door to get a little fresh air. Fortunately, the stairs down to the driveway were navigable as long as she exercised care. Once on the road, it was almost fun to swish through the sugary granules of snow. No house showed evidence of wakefulness. Except for the street lights, there was nothing and nobody to prevent her from viewing Crest View Drive as her private road, a road apparently leading only down to her own house.

      No recriminations, no regrets, she repeated all the way home like a mantra to keep her mind and emotions closed down. This was a one-nighter, and as one-night stands went, this one was really something. She didn't have to go into it too deeply. She was a big girl. No recriminations, no regrets. This was the way Professor Frederic Isham Grenville-Fig-operated. Love 'em and leave 'em, or something to that effect. No recriminations, no regrets. It had been a terrific lay. She ought to be grateful. No recriminations, no regrets. No sobs. No tears. No recriminations, no regrets, no... nothing.

      A lovely evening. A lovely interlude. What more did she want? "Bahstud!" she said in a fierce whisper, and felt better. She knew a few more choice words to call him, but would wait until she was in her own home and could shout them to the uncaring walls. She fumbled for her  key, dropping it from her numb fingers as she tried to insert it into the lock. She stepped aside to allow light from the street lamp post to guide her search. She had neglected to leave the porch light on.

      When Helen turned, she saw Fig standing under the lamp post so there was enough light falling on him to prevent any mistake in identification. He had followed her. His face was in shadow, but she saw that he wore the same jacket and scarf twisted round his neck as before. This time, however, he also wore a knitted cap pulled down over his ears, and thick gloves displaying a fleece lining at the turned-back wrists. She looked down and saw that his jeans were tucked into boots that came almost to his knees. Helen quickly found the key and unlocked the door. Leaning her back on the door to support her trembling knees, she finally let the tears come. She sobbed harder when she realized she was crying not only for herself, but also for Fig without understanding why.

      A few hours later, Helen gave her key to a startled but cooperative neighbor. She also left an address and explained she didn't know precisely how long she would be visiting her sister in New York City. The neighbor nodded. Families should be together at Christmas.