Wheels

Chapter 8

The nightgown which Erica Trenton finally bought was in Laidlaw-Beldon's on Somerset Mall in Troy. Earlier, she had browsed through stores in Birmingham without seeing anything that appealed to her as sufficiently special for the purpose she had in mind, so she continued to cruise the district in her sports convertible, not really minding because it was pleasant, for a change, to have something special to do.

Somerset Mall was a large, modern plaza, east on Big Beaver Road, with quality stores, drawing much of their patronage from well-to-do auto industry families living in Birmingham and Bloomfield Hills. Erica had shopped there often and knew her way around most of the stores, including Laidlaw-Beldon's.

She realized, the instant she saw it, that the nightgown was exactly right. It was a sheer nylon with matching peignoir, in pale-beige, almost the color of her hair. The total effect, she knew, would be to project an image of honey blondeness. A frosted orange lipstick, she decided, would round out the sensual impression she intended to create, tonight, for Adam.

Erica had no charge account at the store, and paid by check. Afterward she went to Cosmetics to buy a lipstick since she was uncertain if she had one at home, quite the right shade.

Cosmetics was busy. While waiting, glancing over a display of lipstick colors, Erica became aware of another shopper at the perfume counter close by. It was a woman in her sixties who was informing a salesclerk, "I want it for my daughter-in-law. I'm really not sure . . . Let me try the Norell."

Using a sample vial, the clerk - a bored brunette - obliged.

"Yes," the woman said. "Yes, that's nice. I'll take that. An ounce size."

From a mirror-faced store shelf behind her, out of reach of customers, the clerk selected a white, black-lettered box and placed it on the counter. "That's fifty dollars, plus sales tax. Will it be cash or charge?"

The older woman hesitated. "Oh, I hadn't realized it would be that much."

"We have smaller sizes, madam."

"No . . . Well, you see, it's a gift. I suppose I ought . . . But I'll wait and think it over."

As the woman left the counter, so did the perfume salesclerk. She moved through an archway, momentarily out of sight. On the counter, the boxed perfume remained where the clerk had left it.

Irrationally, incredibly, in Erica's mind a message formed: Norell's my perfume. Why not take it?

She hesitated, shocked at her own impulse. While she did, a second message urged: Go on! You're wasting time! Act now!

Afterward, she remembered that she waited long enough to wonder: Was it really her own mind at work? Then deliberately, unhurriedly, but as if a magnetic force were in control, Erica moved from Cosmetics to Perfume. Without haste or waste motion, she lifted the package, opened her handbag and dropped it in. The handbag had a spring fastener which snapped as it closed. The sound seemed to Erica like the firing of a gun. It would draw attention!

What had she done?

She stood trembling, waiting, afraid to move, expecting an accusing voice, a hand on her shoulder, a shouted "Thief!"

Nothing happened. But it would; she knew it would, at any moment.

How could she explain? She couldn't. Not with the evidence in her handbag. She reasoned urgently: Should she take the package out, return it to where it was before the foolish, unbelievable impulse swept over her and made her act as she had? She had never done this before, never, nor anything remotely like it.

Still trembling, conscious of her own heartbeat, Erica asked herself: Why? What reason was there, if any, for what she had just done? The most absurd thing was, she didn't need to steal: the perfume or anything else.

There was money in her purse, a checkbook.

Even now she could call the salesclerk to the counter, could spill out money to pay for the package, and that would be that. Providing that she acted quickly. Now!

No.

Obviously, because still nothing had happened, no one had seen her. If they had, Erica thought, by now she would have been accosted, questioned, perhaps taken away. She turned. Casually, feigning indifference, she surveyed the store in all directions. Business was going on as usual. No one seemed in the least interested in her, or was even looking her way. The perfume salesclerk had not reappeared.

Unhurriedly, as before, Erica moved back to Cosmetics.

She reminded herself: she had wanted some perfume anyway. The way she had got it had been foolish and dangerous and she would never, ever, do the same thing again. But she had it now, and what was done was done.

Trying to undo it would create difficulties, require explanations, perhaps followed by accusation, all of which were best avoided.

A salesclerk at Cosmetics was free. With her most engaging smile and manner Erica asked to try some orange lipstick shades.

One danger, she knew, still remained: the clerk at the perfume counter.

Would the girl miss the package she had put down? If so, would she remember that Erica had been close by? Erica's instinct was to leave, to hurry from the store, but reason warned her: she would be less conspicuous where she was. She deliberately dawdled over the lipstick choice.

Another customer had stopped at Perfumes. The salesclerk returned, acknowledged the newcomer, then, as if remembering, looked at the counter where the Norell package had been left. The salesgirl seemed surprised. She turned quickly, inspecting the stock shelf from where she had taken the package to begin with. Several others were on the shelf; some, the ounce-size Norell. Erica sensed the girl's uncertainty: Had she put the package back or not?

Erica, being careful not to watch directly, heard the customer who had just arrived ask a question. The perfume clerk responded, but seemed worried and was looking around her. Erica felt herself inspected. As she did, she smiled at the cosmetics clerk and told her, "I'll take this one." Erica sensed the inspection by the other salesclerk finish.

Nothing had happened. The salesgirl was probably more worried about her own carelessness, and what might happen to her as a result of it, than anything else. As Erica paid for the lipstick, opening her handbag only a little to extract a billfold, she relaxed.

Before leaving, with a sense of mischief, she even stopped at the perfume counter to try a sample of Norell.

Only when Erica was nearing the store's outer door did her nervousness return. It became terror as she realized: She might have been seen after all, then watched and allowed to get this far so that the store would have a stronger case against her. She seemed to remember reading somewhere that that kind of thing happened. The parking mall, visible outside, seemed a waiting, friendly haven - near, yet still far away.

"Good afternoon, madam." From nowhere, it seemed to Erica, a man had appeared beside her. He was middle-aged, graying, and had a fixed smile revealing prominent front teeth.

Erica froze. Her heart seemed to stop. So after all . . .

"Was everything satisfactory, madam?"

Her mouth was dry. "Yes . . . yes, thank you."

Deferentially, the man held a door open. "Good day."

Then, relief flooding through her, she was in the open air. Outside.

Driving away, at first, she had a let-down feeling. Now that she knew how unnecessary all the worrying had been, that there was nothing whatever she need have become concerned about, her fears while in the store seemed foolishly excessive. She still wondered, though: What had made her do it?

Suddenly, her mood became buoyant; she felt better than she had in weeks.

Erica's buoyancy persisted through the afternoon and carried over while she prepared dinner for Adam and herself. No carelessness in the kitchen tonight!

She had chosen Fondue Bourguignonne as the main course, partly because it was one of Adam's favorites, but mostly because the idea of them eating together out of the same fondue pot suggested an intimacy which she hoped would continue through the evening. In the dining room, Erica planned her table setting carefully. She chose yellow taper candles in spiral silver holders, the candles flanking an arrangement of chrysanthemums. She had bought the flowers on the way home, and now put those left over in the living room so that Adam would see them when he came in. The house gleamed, as it always did after a day's sprucing by Mrs. Gooch. About an hour before Adam was due, Erica lit a log fire.

Unfortunately, Adam was late, which was not unusual; what was unusual was his failure to telephone to let Erica know. When 7:30 came and went, then 7:45 and eight o'clock, she became increasingly restless, going frequently to a front window which overlooked the driveway, then rechecking the dining room, after that the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator to satisfy herself that the salad greens, prepared over an hour ago, had retained their crispness. The beef tenderloin for the fondue, which Erica had cut into bitesize pieces earlier, as well as condiments and sauces already in serving dishes were in there too. When Adam did arrive, it would take only minutes to have dinner ready.

She had already replenished the living-room, fire a couple of times, so that now the living and dining rooms, which opened into each other, were excessively hot. Erica opened a window, allowing cold air to blow in, which in turn made the fire smoke, so she closed the window, then wondered about the wine - a '61 Chateau Latour, one of a few special bottles they had squirreled away which she had opened at six o'clock, expecting to serve it at half-past seven. Now Erica took the wine back to the kitchen and recorked it.

Returning, with everything completed, she switched on a stereo tape player. A cassette was already inserted; the last bars of a recording finished, another began.

It was Bahama Islands, a song she loved, which her father used to strum on his guitar while Erica sang. But tonight the soft calypso melody made her sad and homesick.

Gentle breezes swirl the shifting strand,

Clear blue waters lap this fragrant land,

Fair Bahamas! Sweet Bahamas!

Sun and sand.

Arc of islands, set in shining seas,

White sand beaches rim these sun-kissed cays,

Island living, Island loving,

Sand and trees.

Bright hibiscus line the path to shore,

Coral grottos grace the ocean floor

Nature's treasure, Life's sweet pleasure,

Evermore.

She snapped the machine off, leaving the song unfinished, and dabbed quickly at sudden tears before they spoiled what little make-up she was wearing.

At five past eight the telephone rang and Erica hurried to it expectantly.

It was not Adam, as she hoped, but long distance for "Mr. Trenton," and during the exchange with the operator, Erica realized that the caller was Adam's sister, Teresa, in Pasadena, California. When the West Coast operator asked, "Will you speak with anyone else?", Teresa, who must have been aware that her sister-in-law was on the line, hesitated, then said, "No, I need Mr. Trenton. Please leave a message for him to call."

Erica was irritated by Teresa's parsimony in not letting the call go through; tonight she would have welcomed a conversation. Erica was aware that since Teresa became a widow a year ago, with four children to take care of, she needed to watch finances, but certainly not to the point of worrying about the cost of a long-distance phone call.

She made a note for Adam, with the Pasadena operator's number, so he could return the call later.

Then, at twenty past eight, Adam called on Citizens Band radio from his car to say he was on the Southfield Freeway, en route home. It meant he was fifteen minutes away. By mutual arrangement Erica always had a Citizens receiver in the kitchen switched to standby during early evening, and if Adam called it was usually to include a code phrase "activate olive." He used it now, which meant he would be ready for a martini as soon as he came in. Relieved, and glad she had not chosen the kind of dinner which the long delay would have spoiled, Erica put two martini glasses into the kitchen freezer and began mixing the drinks.

There was still time to hurry to the bedroom, check her hair, freshen lipstick, and renew her perfume - the perfume. A full-length mirror told her that the Paisley lounging pajamas which she had chosen as carefully as everything else, looked as good as earlier. When she heard Adam's key in the lock, Erica ran downstairs, irrationally nervous as a young bride.

He came in apologetically. "Sorry about the time."

As usual, Adam appeared fresh, unrumpled, and clear-eyed, as if ready to begin a day's work instead of having just completed one. Lately, though, Erica had detected a tension at times beneath the outward view; she wasn't sure about it now.

"It doesn't matter." She dismissed the lateness as she kissed him, knowing that the worst thing she could do was to be Hausfrau-ish about the delayed dinner. Adam returned the kiss absently, then insisted on explaining what had delayed him while she poured their martinis in the living room.

"Elroy and I were with Hub. Hub was firing broadsides. It wasn't the best time to break off and phone."

"Broadsides at you?" Like every other company wife, Erica knew that Hub was Hubbard J. Hewitson, executive vice-president in charge of North American automotive operations, and an industry crown prince with tremendous power. The power included ability to raise up or break any company executive other than the chairman of the board and president, the only two who outranked him. Hub's exacting standards were well known. He could be, and was, merciless to those who failed them.

"Partly at me," Adam said. "But mostly Hub was sounding off. He'll be over it tomorrow." He told Erica about the Orion add-ons, and the cost, which Adam had known would trigger the blast it had. On returning from the proving ground to staff headquarters, Adam had reported to Elroy Braithwaite. The Product Development vice-president decided they should go to Hub immediately and get the fireworks over with, which was the way it happened.

But however rough Hub Hewitson might be, he was a fair man who had probably accepted by now the inevitability of the extra items and their cost. Adam knew he had made the right decision at the proving ground, though he was still aware of tension within himself, which the martini had eased a little, but not much.

He held out his glass for refilling, then dropped into a chair. "It's damn hot in here tonight. Why did you light a fire?"

He had seated himself alongside the table which held some of the flowers which Erica had bought this afternoon. Adam pushed the flower vase aside to make a space for his glass.

"I thought a fire might be cheerful."

He looked at her directly. "Meaning it isn't usually?"

"I didn't say that."

"Maybe you should have." Adam stood up, then moved around the room, touching things in it, familiar things. It was an old habit, something he did when he was restless. Erica wanted to tell him: Try touching me! You'll get a lot more response!

Instead she said, "Oh, there's a letter from Kirk. He wrote it to us both. He's been made features editor of the university paper."

"Um." Adam's grunt was unenthusiastic.

"It's important to him." She could not resist adding, "As important as when a promotion happens to you."

Adam swung around, his back to the fire. He said harshly, "I've told you before, I'm used to the idea of Greg being a doctor. In fact, I like it.

It's tough to qualify, and when he does he'll be contributing - doing something useful. But don't expect me, now or later, to be pleased about Kirk becoming a newspaperman, or anything that happens to him on the way."

It was a perennial topic, and now Erica wished she hadn't raised it because they were off to a bad start. Adam's boys had had definite ideas about their own careers, long before she came into their lives. Just the same, in discussions afterward Erica had supported their choices, making clear that she was glad they were not following Adam into the auto industry.

Later, she knew she had been unwise. The boys would have gone their own ways in any case, so all she succeeded in doing was to make Adam bitter because his own career, by implication, had been denigrated to his sons.

She said as mildly as she could, "Surely being a newspaper writer is doing something useful."

He shook his head irritably. The memory of this morning's press conference, which he liked less and less the more he thought about it, was still with Adam. "If you saw as much of press people as I do, you might not think so. Most of what they do is superficial, out of balance, prejudiced when they claim impartiality, and riddled with inaccuracies.

They blame the inaccuracies on an obsession with speed, which is used the way a cripple uses a crutch. It never seems to occur to newspaper managements and writers that being slower, checking facts before they storm into print, might be a better public service. What's more, they're critics and self-appointed judges of everybody's failings except their own."

"Some of that's true," Erica said. "But not of all newspapers or everybody working for them."

Adam looked ready for an argument which she sensed could turn into a quarrel. Determined to snuff it out, Erica crossed the room and took his arm. She smiled. "Let's hope Kirk will do better than those others and surprise you."

The physical contact, of which they had had so little lately, gave her a sense of pleasure which, if she had her way, would be even greater before the evening was over. She insisted, "Leave all that for another time. I have your favorite dinner waiting."

"Let's make it as quick as we can," Adam said. "I've some papers I want to go over afterward, and I'd like to get to them."

Erica let go his arm and went to the kitchen, wondering if he realized how many times he had used almost the same words in identical circumstances until they seemed a litany.

Adam followed her in. "Anything I can do?"

"You can put the dressing on the salad and toss it."

He did it quickly, competently as always, then saw the note about Teresa's call from Pasadena. Adam told Erica, "You go ahead and start. I'll see what Teresa wants."

Once Adam's sister was on the phone she seldom talked briefly, long distance or not. "I've waited this long," Erica objected, "I don't want to have dinner alone now. Can't you call later? It's only six o'clock out there."

"Well, if we're really ready."

Erica had rushed. The oil-butter mix, which she had heated in the fondue pot over the kitchen range, was ready. She carried it to the dining room, set the pot on its stand and lit the canned heat beneath.

Everything else was on the dining table, which looked elegant.

As she brought a taper near the candles, Adam asked, "Is it worth lighting them?"

"Yes." She lit them all.

The candlelight revealed the wine which Erica had brought in again. Adam frowned. "I thought we were keeping that for a special occasion."

"Special like what?"

He reminded her, "The Hewitsons and Braithwaites are coming next month."

"Hub Hewitson doesn't know the difference between a Chateau Latour and Cold Duck, and couldn't care. Why can't we be special, just the two of us?"

Adam speared a piece of beef tenderloin and left it in the fondue pot while he began his salad. At length he said, "Why is it you never lose a chance to take a dig at the people I work with, or the work I do?"

"Do I?"

"You know you do. You have, ever since our marriage."

"Perhaps it's because I feel as if I fight for every private moment that we have."

But she conceded to herself: Sometimes she did throw needless slings and arrows, just as she had a moment ago about Hub Hewitson.

She filled Adam's wineglass and said gently, "I'm sorry. What I said about Hub was snobbish and unnecessary. If you'd like him to have Chateau Latour, I'll go shopping for some more." The thought occurred to her: Maybe I can get an extra bottle or two the way I got the perfume.

"Forget it," Adam said. "It doesn't matter."

During coffee, he excused himself and went to his upstairs study to telephone Teresa.

-Hi there, bigshot? Where were you? Counting your stock options?"

Teresa's voice came clearly across the two thousand miles between them, the big-sister contralto Adam remembered from their childhood long ago.

Teresa had been seven when Adam was born. Yet, for all their gap in ages, they had always been close and, strangely, from the time Adam was in his early teens, Teresa had sought her younger brother's advice and often heeded it.

"You know how it is, sis. I'm indispensable, which makes it hard to get home. Sometimes I wonder how they ever started this industry without me."

"We're all proud of you," Teresa said. "The kids often talk about Uncle Adam. They say he'll be company president someday." Another thing about Teresa was her unconcealed pleasure at her brother's success. She had always reacted to his progress and promotions that way, with far more enthusiasm - he admitted reluctantly - than Erica had ever shown.

He asked, "How have you been, sis?"

"Lonely." A pause. "You were expecting some other answer?"

"Not really. I wondered if, by now..."

"Somebody else had shown up?"

"Something like that."

"A few have. I'm still not a bad-looking broad for a widow lady."

"I know that." It was true. Though she would be fifty in a year or so, Teresa was statuesque, classically beautiful, and sexy.

"The trouble is, when you've had a man - a real one - for twenty-two years, you start comparing others with him. They don't come out of it well."

Teresa's husband, Clyde, had been an accountant with wide-ranging interests. He had died tragically in an airplane accident a year ago, leaving his widow with four young children, adopted late in their marriage. Since then, Teresa had had to make major adjustments both psychologically and in financial management, the latter an area she had never bothered with before.

Adam asked, "Is the money end all right?"

"I think so. But it's that I called you about. Sometimes I wish you were closer."

Though Adam's late brother-in-law had left adequate provision for his family, his financial affairs had been untidy at the time of his death.

As best he could from a distance, Adam had helped Teresa unravel them.

"If you really need me," Adam said, "I can fly out for a day or two."

"No. You're already where I need you - in Detroit. I get concerned about that investment Clyde made in Stephensen Motors. It earns money, but it represents a lot of capital - most of what we have - and I keep asking myself: Should I leave it where it is, or sell out and put the money into something safer?"

Adam already knew the background. Teresa's husband had been an auto-racing buff who haunted tracks in Southern California, so that he came to know many racing drivers well. One had been Smokey Stephensen, a consistent winner over the years who, unusually for his kind, had shrewdly held on to his prize money and eventually quit with most of his winnings intact.

Later, using his name and prestige, Smokey Stephensen obtained an auto dealership franchise in Detroit, marketing the products of Adam's company.

Teresa's husband had gone into silent partnership with the ex-race driver and contributed almost one-half of needed capital. The shares in the business were now owned by Teresa who received them under Clyde's will.

"Sis, you say you're getting money from Detroit - from Stephensen?"

"Yes. I haven't the figures, though I can send them to you, and the accountants who took over Clyde's office say it's a fair return. What worries me is all I read about car dealerships being risky investments, and some of them failing. If it happened to Stephensen's, the kids and I could be in trouble."

"It can happen," Adam acknowledged. "But if you're lucky enough to have shares in a good dealership, you might make a big mistake by pulling out."

"I realize that. It's why I need someone to advise me, someone I can trust. Adam, I hate to ask this because I know you're working hard already. But do you think you could spend some time with Smokey Stephensen, find out what's going on, form your own opinion about how things look, then tell me what I ought to do? If you remember, we talked about this once before."

"I remember. And I think I explained then, it could be a problem. Auto companies don't allow their staff to be involved with auto dealerships. Before I could do anything, it would have to go before the Conflict of Interest Committee."

"Is that a big thing? Would it embarrass you?"

Adam hesitated. The answer was: It would embarrass him. To do what Teresa asked would involve a close study of the Stephensen dealership, which meant looking into its books and reviewing operating methods. Teresa, of course, would provide Adam with authority from her point of view, but the point of view of Adam's company - his employers - was something else again.

Before Adam could cozy up with a car dealer, for whatever purpose, he would have to declare what he was doing, and why. Elroy Braithwaite would need to know; so would Hub Hewitson, probably, and it was a safe bet that neither would like the idea. Their reasoning would be simple. A senior executive of Adam's status was in a position to do financial favors for a dealer, hence the strict rules which all auto companies had about outside business interests in this and other areas. A standing Conflict of Interest Committee reviewed such matters, including personal investments of company employees and their families, reported yearly on a form resembling an income tax return. A few people who resented this put investments in their wives' or children's names, and kept them secret. But mostly the rules made sense, and executives observed them.

Well, he would have to go to the committee, Adam supposed, and state his arguments. After all, he had nothing to gain personally; he would merely be protecting the interest of a widow and young children, which gave the request a compassionate overtone. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less trouble he anticipated.

"I'll see what I can work out, sis," Adam said into the telephone.

"Tomorrow I'll start things moving in the company, then it may be a week or two before I get approval to go ahead. You do understand I can't do anything without that?"

"Yes, I do. And the delay doesn't matter. As long as I know you're going to be looking out for us, that's the important thing," Teresa sounded relieved. He could picture her now, the small concentrated frown she had when dealing with something difficult had probably gone, replaced by a warm smile, the kind which made a man feel good. Adam's sister was a woman who liked to rely on a male and have him handle decisions, though during the past year she had been forced to make an unaccustomed number on her own.

Adam asked, "How much of the Stephensen Motors stock did Clyde have?"

"It was forty-nine percent, and I still have all of it. Clyde put up about two hundred and forty thousand dollars. That's why I've been so concerned."

"Was Clyde's name on the franchise?"

"No. Just Smokey Stephensen's."

He instructed, "You'd better send me all the papers, including a record of payments you've had as dividends. Write to Stephensen, too. Tell him he'll probably be hearing from me, and that I have your authority to go in and look things over. Okay?"

"I'll do all that. And thank you, Adam dear; thank you very much. Please give my love to Erica. How is she?"

"Oh, she's fine."

Erica had cleared away their meal and was on the sofa in the living room, feet curled beneath her, when Adam returned.

She motioned to an end table. "I made more coffee."

"Thanks." He poured a cup for himself, then went to the hallway for his briefcase. Returning, he sank into an armchair by the fire, which had now burned low, opened his briefcase and began to take out papers.

Erica asked, "What did Teresa want?"

In a few words Adam explained his sister's request and what he had agreed to do.

He found Erica looking at him incredulously. "When will you do it?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'll find time."

"But when? I want to know when."

With a trace of irritation, Adam said, "If you decide to do something, you can always make the time."

"You don't make time." Erica's voice had an intensity which had been lacking earlier. "You take the time from something or somebody else. Won't it mean a lot of visits to that dealer? Questioning people. Finding out about the business. I know how you do everything - always the same way, thoroughly. So it will involve a lot of time. Well, won't it?"

He conceded, "I suppose so."

"Will it be in office time? In the daytime, during the week?"

"Probably not."

"So that leaves evenings and weekends. Car dealers are open then, aren't they?"

Adam said curtly, "They don't open Sundays." "Well, hooray for that!"

Erica hadn't intended to be this way tonight. She had wanted to be patient, understanding, loving, but suddenly bitterness swept over her.

She flared on, knowing she would do better to stop, but unable to, "Perhaps this dealer would open on Sunday if you asked him nicely, if you explained that you still have a little time left to spend at home with your wife, and you'd like to do something about it, like filling it with work."

"Listen," Adam said, "this won't be work, and I wouldn't do it if I had the choice. It's simply for Teresa."

"How about something simply for Erica? Or would that be too much?

Wait! why not use your vacation time as well, then you could . . ."

"You're being silly," Adam said. He had taken the papers from his briefcase and spread them around him in a semicircle. Like a witch's circle on the grass, Erica thought, to be penetrated only by the anointed, the bewitched. Even voices entering the magic circle became distorted, misunderstood, with words and meanings twisted . . .

Adam was right. She was being silly. And now whimsical.

She went behind him, still conscious of the semicircle, skirting its perimeter the way children playing games avoided lines in paving stones.

Erica put her hands lightly on Adam's shoulders, her face against his.

He reached up, touching one of her hands.

"I couldn't turn sis down." Adam's voice was conciliatory. "How could I? If things had been the other way around, Clyde would have done as much, or more, for you."

Abruptly, unexpectedly, she realized, their moods had switched. She thought: There is a way into a witch's circle. Perhaps the trick was not to expect to find it, then suddenly you did.

"I know," Erica said. "And I'm grateful it isn't the other way around."

She had a sense of reprieve from her own stupidity only seconds earlier, an awareness of having stumbled without warning into a moment of intimacy and tenderness. She went on softly, "It's just that sometimes I want things between you and me to be the way they were in the beginning. I really do see so little of you." She scratched lightly, with her fingernails, around his ears, something she used to do but hadn't for a long time. "I still love you." And was tempted to add, but didn't: Please, oh please, make love to me tonight!

"I haven't changed either," Adam said. "No reason to. And I know what you mean about the time we have. Maybe after the Orion's launched there'll be more of it." But the last remark lacked conviction. As both of them already knew, after Orion would be Farstar, which would probably prove more demanding still. Involuntarily, Adam's eyes strayed back to the papers spread out before him.

Erica told herself: Don't rush! Don't push too hard! She said, "While you're doing that, I think I'll go for a walk. I feel like it."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

She shook her head. "You'd better finish." If he left the work now, she knew he would either return to it late tonight or get up ridiculously early in the morning.

Adam looked relieved.

Outside the house, Erica pulled tightly around her the suede jacket she had slipped on, and stepped out briskly. She had a scarf wound around her hair. The air was chilly, though the wind which had buffeted the Motor City through the day had dropped. Erica liked to walk at night. She used to in the Bahamas, and still did here, though friends and neighbors sometimes cautioned that she shouldn't because crime in Detroit had risen alarmingly in recent years, and now even suburban Birmingham and Bloomfield Hills once considered almost crime-free had muggings and armed robberies.

But Erica preferred to take her chances and her walks.

Though the night was dark, with stars and moon obscured by clouds, enough light came from the houses of Quarton Lake for Erica to see her way clearly. As she passed the houses, sometimes observing figures inside, she wondered about those other families in their own environments, their hangups, misunderstandings, conflicts, problems.

Obviously, all had some, and the difference between most was only in degree. More to the point, she wondered: How fared the marriages inside those other walls, compared with Adam's and her own?

A majority of the neighbors were automotive people among whom the shedding of spouses nowadays seemed routine. American tax laws eased the way, and many a highly paid executive had discovered he could have his freedom by paying large alimony which cost him almost nothing. The alimony came off the top of his salary, so that he merely paid it to his ex-wife instead of to the government as income tax. A few people in the industry had even done it twice.

But it was always the foundered marriages which made the news. Plenty of the other kind existed - lasting love stories which had weathered well.

Erica thought of names she had learned since coming to Detroit: Riccardos, Gerstenbergs, Knudsens, Jacoccas, Roches, Brambletts, others.

There had been outstanding second marriages, too: the Henry Fords, Ed Coles, Roy Chapins, Bill Mitchells, Pete and Connie Estes, the John DeLoreans. As always, it depended on the individuals.

Erica walked for half an hour. On her way back, a soft rain began to fall. She held her face toward the rain until it was wet and streaming, yet somehow comforting.

She went in without disturbing Adam who was still in the living room, immersed in papers. Upstairs, Erica dried her face, combed out her hair, then undressed and put on the nightgown she had bought earlier today. Surveying herself critically, she was aware that the sheer beige nylon did even more for her than she had expected in the store. She used the orange lipstick, then applied Norell generously.

From the living-room doorway she asked Adam, "Will you be long?"

He glanced up, then down again at a bluebound folder in his hand.

"Maybe half an hour."

Adam had not appeared to notice the seethrough nightgown which could not compete, apparently, with the folder, lettered, Statistical Projection of Automobile and Truck Registration by States. Hoping that the perfume might prove more effective, Erica came behind his chair as she had earlier, but all that happened was a perfunctory kiss with a muttered, "Good night, don't wait for me." She might as well, she thought, have been drenched in camphorated oil.

She went to bed, and lay with top sheet and blanket turned back, her sexual desire growing as she waited. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine Adam poised above her . . .

Erica opened her eyes. A bedside clock showed that not half an hour, but almost two hours, had passed. It was 1 A.M.

Soon after, she heard Adam climb the stairs.

He came in, yawning, with a, "God, I'm tired," then undressed sleepily, climbed into bed, and was almost instantly asleep.

Erica lay silently beside him, sleep for herself far away. After a while she imagined that she was once more walking, out of doors, the softness of the rain upon her face.