Mourning Glory by Warren Adler Page B

waiting for daylight.
    She saw herself as the chatelaine of his big Tudor house on
the beach, the new Mrs. Goodwin. It was morning and she imagined herself locked
in his arms as she awoke, the sun peeking through the blinds, lighting the
room, dancing along the walls bedecked with works of art and ornate
ormolu-trimmed mirrors and antiques. The sunlight would awaken the colors of
the gorgeous Oriental rugs on the floor.
    She would stretch and observe the silken lining of the
canopied bed, and soon he would stir beside her and they would make love, a
long, lingering episode of foreplay and glorious orgasms for both of them, then
the delicious time of leisurely afterglow.
    Later there would be breakfast on the terrace. She would be
wearing a long, silk, embroidered morning gown enhanced by a delicate gold
necklace around her neck. The maid would serve them, cold orange juice in
stemmed glasses, eggs, over light the way she liked them, and crisp bacon,
toasted bagels, strawberry jam and wonderful coffee, the aroma complementing
the sea air.
    They would read The New York Times and occasionally
comment about various events in the news, lock eyes at times and purse lips in
a mimed kiss. Before them would stretch the white sands of the beach and
beyond, the glistening sea, twinkling in the sunlight.
    Sam would enter his study and do his various business
chores, perhaps overseeing his investments, calling his brokers. He was still
in action, of course, a captain of industry, offering suggestions to his
colleagues and underlings in the business community in which he operated.
    She would be involved in her many activities, running the
house, meeting with the staff to plan the evening dinner party. The governor
would be coming, of course, along with his lovely wife and two or three other
couples, perhaps a famous movie actress and her industrialist husband and, for
extra excitement, a duke and duchess from Great Britain laden with the latest
gossip of the royal family. A cozy little dinner for eight by candlelight. On
the good china, of course, the set that had previously belonged to the czar of Russia.
    Later there would be tennis doubles at the club ... what
club ... perhaps the Everglades, which was, she knew, notoriously anti-Semitic.
In this fantasy, Sam had been chosen their first Jewish member. Initially, he
had refused, but the club president had persuaded him after a long private
dinner that it was time that class, not religion, should dominate the selection
process. She, his new wife, had been mentioned, of course. A distinct asset,
the president had said, a wise and glorious match.
    After tennis, an exquisite lunch, overlooking the
eighteenth hole with the retired chairman of AT&T, after which they would
be driven back to their home, still a little tipsy from the Dom Perignon that
they had imbibed a bit too freely.
    Back home they would have a brief swim in the pool, then
retreat to the beach house and have a delicious sexual episode before falling
off into a delightful nap, rising with just enough time to dress, supervise the
table settings and discuss the final arrangements with the cook and the couple
who would be serving.
    Dinner would go off without a hitch and they would linger
over the brandy, while the men smoked their Havanas and the talk waxed eloquent
about the current state of affairs in Washington and the world. They would
listen with rapt attention to her views as she outlined the prospects of
monetary reform based on her assessment of the latest conference of the World
Bank.
    Before the guests said good-bye, Jackie, coming home from
the dance at the club, looking radiant in the latest Oscar—by then she would be
referring to all designers by their first names—would introduce them to her
date, the son of the owner of the largest cruise company in the world, and they
would remark on Jackie's beauty and poise and her date's good looks and
sophistication.
    Just past midnight they would bid their guests