Mourning Glory by Warren Adler Page A

out-of-work cosmetician, a fancy name for makeup salesperson, with no
prospects or money, who had, so far, made a mess of her life.
    It was all right for Mrs. Burns to suggest this course of
action. She was educated, polished, articulate, self-confident, a born leader
and executive with a proven track record and a great job. She could attract men
like moths around a candle. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm.
    She took a realistic inventory of her present position, and
it offered a dreary prospect. People should stay within their own circle, she
decided, as she let herself in the door of the apartment. Jackie wasn't home
yet from her job in the movie theater.
    She went into her bedroom, took off her clothes and lay on
the bed. Often in this state of uncertainty and despair she had turned to her
dildo for comfort. She got up, fished in her lower drawer and took it out. But
when she lay back in the bed, activated the device and began the process she
felt nothing. She shut off the motor and put it aside. Sex, in this artificial
manner, struck her now as repugnant, humiliating in its implications. Her mind
continued to dwell on the crazy premise that had dominated her life for the
past few weeks.
    She had been a fool to consider such a patently cynical and
stupid idea. It was time, instead, to deal with real alternatives, like a job.
Suddenly her life seemed to have stopped on a dime. Yet, in an odd way, she
likened her present state to that of Sam Goodwin. His life, too, at least
temporarily, had also stopped on a dime.
    He was probably, at this very same moment, considering his
future without his beloved wife. The manner in which he was grieving, she
assumed, attested to his devotion to her. She admired that kind of devotion.
    It was the curse of her early Catholicism that made it
impossible for her to be morally neutral. She was, after all, engaging in a
cynical, dissimulating, hypocritical act, building her future prospects on a
tissue of lies. She could not escape the clearly defined sense of right and
wrong promulgated by the Church. According to those strictures, she was doing
wrong, something sinful. At times such ironclad, uncompromising definitions
seemed more powerful than the act of survival itself. Wasn't that what she was
pursuing in these funeral capers? Survival. Deliberately, she pushed aside the
concept of sin as presenting far too rigid a barrier and began to
rationalize her intent.
    Was it really sinful to want to replace a man's loving
departed wife, to bring him joy and rejuvenation? She pictured him as she had
seen him earlier that evening, looking after his dog. He was graceful and
elegant, handsome.
    In her mind, she imagined him coming closer to where she
was observing him in her car. He smiled at her and offered his hand, which she
took. It was strong, yet gentle. He eased her out of the car and, hand in hand,
moved with her into the house. Inside, he turned to her and they embraced. He
kissed her deeply, his tongue caressed hers, as he enveloped her in his arms.
She responded, felt all the wonderful sensations of his embrace.
    A sudden thrill charged through her and she reached for the
dildo again, activating it, placing the tip on her clitoris, picturing him now
naked, erect, entering her. She felt open, moist, accepting, as he moved deeply
inside her, speeding his strokes. After awhile she felt the first signs of an
oncoming orgasm. Finally the spasm came, and it seemed more intense than usual.
    She calmed slowly, surprised how strongly Sam Goodwin had
entered her fantasy life. Hold that thought, Grace, she told herself as
she dropped into a dreamless sleep.
    She awoke in a turmoil. It was still dark. Her body was hot
and moist and her heart was racing. By some miracle, she had held the thought,
and she remembered the fantasy that had stimulated her. But, she discovered,
there seemed a lot more to the fantasy than the sexual component, and she gave
it full reign as she remained in bed