Her Father's House by Belva Plain Page B

business.”
    â€œI certainly won't deny that.”
    â€œAnd anyway, you don't really
like
me, Donald. You only like to make love to me, which is not the same thing.”
    â€œI don't believe what I'm hearing. You might as well be speaking Eskimo, or Bulgarian, to me.”
    Yet always, he thought then, there are two sides. No, there are three—his, hers, and the truth. She thought him straitlaced, and he was. He thought her loose, and she was. So perhaps after all the storm, the fever, the truth was somewhere in the middle place where they could not meet?
    He looked again at the swelling beneath her belt. There was another life to be considered here besides theirs. Order, peace, and common sense were slipping away. The future was slipping out of his hands, and he must retrieve it if only for the sake of that other life.
    â€œCome on,” he said. “The afternoon's half over and we haven't gone to the museum.”
    Lillian shook her head. “It's too late today. It's almost time to meet for Giorgio's dinner. He's invited a lot of our old friends, people I want to see again.”
    â€œYou should be thinking about what we're going to do about ourselves. We have a lot to straighten out before that baby arrives and we have to take care of it. Let's have a good dinner by ourselves at the best place in Florence. You choose it.”
    â€œBut I want to see my old friends. This has been a bad day, Donald, and I need a pickup.”
    â€œI don't think you do. I think you and I need to be together.”
    â€œWe can be together at the party and talk later. Come on, you're invited.”
    â€œI assume I would be, since I'm your husband,” Donald said, stiff with anger.
    â€œDonald, I want to go.” She stood up and put on her jacket. “Will you come?”
    He had gone as far as he would. “Do as you please,” he said. “So be it.”
    When the door closed behind her, it left an echo in the room. Whatever way all this should end, he would remember the sound of that closing door. Where would he be, remembering?
    Now he, too, had to get out of this room. After consulting the city map, he found his way to the Uffizi Gallery, and there spent a weary hour standing before the masterpieces that in his present state of mind were merely a blur of colors. Afterward he walked slowly back to the hotel and ordered dinner, not because he was hungry, but because it was routine to eat at the end of the day. Back again in the room, he idled over a stack of magazines, and at midnight, went to bed, where he lay staring into the dark.
    At some point he must have fallen into a doze, for suddenly he was startled to feel that the other half of the bed was vacant. It was after six by the clock. He got up and went to look out the window, where a hard rain was falling under a pale gray dawn.
    Where was she? Fear like an arrow shot through his chest. He thought of calling the police, but had no idea what to tell them or even how to describe Lillian. The city was full of tourists and he had not noticed what she was wearing. He did not even know that man Giorgio's last name. The best he could do would be to wait another hour or two, then go down to the desk and ask for help. Back and forth he walked, watching at the window for full daylight, and then put on his clothes to be ready for it. Because there was nothing else to do, he lay down again on the bed; sleep came, and although he felt its coming, he was too exhausted to fight it.
    When he awoke, he looked at the clock and was horrified to find that he had slept until half-past eight. He leapt up and ran to the outer room of the suite on his way to the elevator and the front desk. And there she lay, crumpled in disarray upon the ornate sofa, her jacket, soaking wet, tossed on the floor, along with the delicate shoes they had bought in Rome. Beside them on the floor was her handbag with a pile of paper money, coins, and cosmetics.
    Donald stood,