even capable of loving someone. It’s obvious he prefers sex to love, or maybe he just conflates the two. What’s worse—thinking sex is love, or thinking that the two can be separated from one another and preferring sex?
Julia allowed the warm water of the shower to pour over her, trying to take her mind away from the inexplicable draw she felt toward him. What I would not give to have even a part of the happiness that Grace and Richard had. They had the ideal marriage. They always spoke kindly to one another. And they were so much in love…
Julia exited the shower and was soon clad only in Gabriel’s bathrobe with a thick, white towel wrapped around her curling hair. At least, she thought it was Gabriel’s bathrobe. It didn’t smell like him. She pulled on the slippers and went hunting in the bedroom for some clothes. She found a pair of socks, a white undershirt, and a pair of Princeton boxer shorts in his dresser, all of which looked like they would fit her somewhat. Walking over to Gabriel’s large and immaculate walk-in closet, she flipped on the light switch. Row upon row of meticulously organized clothes met her on three sides.
She moved to the far wall and began going through a pile of sweaters and cardigans, almost all cashmere by Loro Piana, neatly arranged between wooden dividers on a shelf. She quickly found the British-racing-green sweater that she’d borrowed before and noticed with satisfaction that it had apparently been returned to its formerly pristine condition. She boldly held the sweater to her nose and inhaled, smiling with pleasure as she realized that it smelled of Aramis and Gabriel. He must have worn it after it had come back from the dry cleaner.
Just then, something shiny caught her eye. Leaning up against the wall and half-hidden behind the hangers of sports coats and suit jackets were Gabriel’s black-and-white framed photographs. She recognized the top photograph as the fifth one, the one that had been over the bed. It was gently erotic and almost tender.
He shouldn’t have been ashamed of this one. Julia wished her back was that beautiful. And part of her wished that Gabriel would look at her the way the man in the photograph looked at the woman. Just once.
She quickly returned to the bathroom and regarded her face in the mirror. She looked tired. She was pale, as usual, with dark circles under her eyes. Those eyes were glassy, and her veins showed at her neck. She looked ill, actually, after a couple of weeks of drama and lack of sleep, and the contrast between her pale skin and her dark hair wasn’t helping matters. Nor was the fact that Rachel had not thought to leave cosmetics behind for Gabriel’s overnight guests. Clearly, it was an oversight on her part.
After dressing, Julia ventured into the kitchen. Gabriel was nowhere to be found. She stuffed her dirty clothes into her knapsack and pulled out her phone and the padded envelope. Plopping herself on one of the bar stools she quickly checked her voice mail. Five messages from Paul were waiting, each more urgent than the last, culminating with a message in which he said he was standing outside her building on Madison Avenue and ringing her doorbell.
Scheisse. There was no way she could explain what had happened. But she couldn’t ignore Paul either, so she quickly manufactured an excuse and texted it to him:
Paul, hi. Sorry. Didn’t hear doorbell.
Broken? Emerson scolded me
but won’t have to drop class (phew).
Have to find new advisor.
Working on it.
Chat later & thanks, Julia
She hoped her message would be enough to occupy him until she constructed a better explanation. She supposed she would have to speak to Gabriel about that so that they could get their story straight.
Something Gabriel had said yesterday made her curious about the contents of the envelope he’d left for her in her mailbox. Opening it, in addition to her black lace bra she found her iPod. She pulled it out, placed the ear buds in her ears, and scrolled through the music to the Recently Added Song section, where she discovered that Gabriel had made two additions.
The first song was Prospero’s Speech by Loreena McKennitt. With surprise, Julia listened to the haunting female voice sing words from Shakespeare’s The Tempest:
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands:
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I