more beautiful women in the world, but he didn’t know who they were. There were probably sweeter, purer, warmer, more passionate women, too. He doubted it; he very strongly doubted it. The simple truth was that she pleased him. Hell, she delighted him. She had a face he would never tire of watching, a face that was a thousand faces, each linked subtly by a slender chain of beauty. Fully made up, her brown eyes glowing, the lashes darkened with mascara, her lips cleanly stamped with lipstick, she was one person—and he loved the meticulously calculated beauty, the freshly combed, freshly powdered veneer of that person.
In the morning, she was another person. Warm with sleep, her eyes would open, and her face would be undecorated, her full lips swollen, the black hair tangled like wild weeds, her body supple and pliable. He loved her this way, too, loved the small smile on her mouth and the sudden eager alertness of her eyes.
Her face was a thousand faces, quiet and introspective when they walked along a lonely shore barefoot and the only sound was the distant sound of breakers on the beach, a sound she could not hear in her silent world. Alive with fury, her face could change in an instant, the black brows swooping down over suddenly incandescent eyes, her lips skinning back over even, white teeth, her body taut with invective she could not hurl because she could not speak, her fists clenched. Tears transformed her face again. She did not cry often, and when she did cry, it was with completely unself-conscious anguish. It was almost as if, secure in the knowledge of her beauty, she could allow her face to be torn by agony.
Many men longed for the day when their ship would come in.
Carella’s ship had come in—and it had launched a thousand faces.
There were times, of course, like now, when he wished the ship could do a little more than fifteen knots. It was 8:20, and she’d promised to be there at 8:00 on the dot, and whereas he never grew weary of her mental image, he much preferred her in person.
Now! For the first time! Live! On our stage! In person! Imported from the Cirque d’Hiver in Paris…
There must be something wrong with me, Carella thought. I’m never really here. I’m always…
He spotted her instantly. By this time, he was not surprised by what the sight of her could do to him. He had come to accept the instant quickening of his heart and the automatic smile on his face. She had not yet seen him, and he watched her from his secret vantage point, feeling somewhat sneaky, but what the hell!
She wore a black skirt and a red sweater and, over that, a black cardigan with red piping. The cardigan hung open, ending just below her hips. She had a feminine walk, which was completely unconscious, completely uncalculated. She walked rapidly because she was late, and he heard the steady clatter of the black pumps on the pavement, and he watched with delighted amusement the men who turned for a second look at his wife.
When she saw him, she broke into a run. He did not know what it was between them that made the shortest separation seem like a ten-year stretch at Alcatraz. Whatever it was, they had it. She came into his arms, and he kissed her soundly, and he wouldn’t have given a damn if Twentieth Century Fox had been filming the entire sequence for a film titled The Mating Season Jungle.
“You’re late,” he said. “Don’t apologize. You look lovely. We have to make a stop. Do you mind?”
Her eyes questioned his face.
“A tattoo parlor downtown. Guy thinks he may remember Mary Louise Proschek. We’re lucky. This is business, so I was able to check out a sedan. Means we don’t have to take the train home tonight. Some provider, your husband, huh?”
Teddy grinned and squeezed his arm.
“The car’s around the corner. You look beautiful. You smell nice, too. What’ve you got on?”
Teddy dry-washed her hands.
“Just soap and water? You’re amazing! Look how nice you can make soap smell. Honey, this won’t take more than a few minutes. I’ve got some pictures of the Proschek girl in the car, and maybe we can get a make on them from this guy. After that, we’ll eat and whatever you like. I can use a drink, can’t you?”
Teddy nodded.
“Why do people always say they can ‘use’ a drink? What, when you