the Third Twin (1996)

He smoothed his eyebrows with the tip of his right index finger. For some reason the gesture struck her as self-congratulatory. “Now I’m going to ask you a question, and you have to answer honestly.” He smiled, so that she would not take him too seriously.

“Okay.”

“Do you like dessert?”

“Yes. Do you take me for the kind of woman who would pretend about a thing like that?”

He shook his head. “I guess there’s not much you do pretend about.”

“Not enough, probably. I have been called tactless.”

“Your worst failing?”

“I could probably do better if I thought about it. What’s your worst failing?”

Berrington answered without hesitation. “Falling in love.”

“That’s a failing?”

“It is if you do it too often.”

“Or with more than one person at a time, I guess.”

“Maybe I should write to Lorraine Logan and ask her advice.”

Jeannie laughed, but she did not want the conversation to get onto Steven. “Who’s your favorite painter?” she said.

“See if you can guess.”

Berrington was a superpatriot, so he must be sentimental, she figured. “Norman Rockwell?”

“Certainly not!” He seemed genuinely horrified. “A vulgar illustrator! No, if I could afford to collect paintings I’d buy American Impressionists. John Henry Twachtman’s winter landscapes. I’d love to own The White Bridge. What about you?”

“Now you have to guess.”

He thought for a moment. “Joan Miró.”

“Why?”

“I imagine you like bold splashes of color.” She nodded. “Perceptive. But not quite right. Miró’s too messy. I prefer Mondrian.”

“Ah, yes, of course. The straight lines.”

“Exactly. You’re good at this.”

He shrugged, and she realized he had probably played guessing games with many women.

She dipped a spoon into her mango sorbet. This was definitely not a business dinner. Soon she would have to make a firm decision about what her relationship with Berrington was going to be.

She had not kissed a man for a year and a half. Since Will Temple walked out on her she had not even been on a date until today. She was not carrying a torch for Will: she no longer loved him. But she was wary.

However, she was going crazy living the life of a nun. She missed having someone hairy in bed with her; she missed the masculine smells—bicycle oil and sweaty football shirts and whiskey—and most of all she missed the sex. When radical feminists said the penis was the enemy, Jeannie wanted to reply, “Speak for yourself, sister.”

She glanced up at Berrington, delicately eating caramelized apples. She liked the guy, despite his nasty politics. He was smart—her men had to be intelligent—and he had winning ways. She respected him for his scientific work. He was slim and fit looking, he was probably a very experienced and skillful lover, and he had nice blue eyes.

All the same, he was too old. She liked mature men, but not that mature.

How could she reject him without ruining her career? The best course might be to pretend to interpret his attention as kindly and paternal. That way she might avoid spurning him outright.

She took a sip of champagne. The waiter kept refilling her glass and she was not sure how much she had drunk, but she was glad she did not have to drive.

They ordered coffee. Jeannie asked for a double espresso to sober her up. When Berrington had paid the bill, they took the elevator to the parking garage and got in his silver Lincoln Town Car.

Berrington drove along the harbor side and got onto the Jones Falls Expressway. “There’s the city jail,” he said, pointing to a fortresslike building that occupied a city block. “The scum of the earth are in there.”

Steve might be in there, Jeannie thought.

How had she even contemplated sleeping with Berrington? She did not feel the least warmth of affection for him. She felt ashamed that she had even toyed with the idea. As he pulled up to the curb outside her house, she said firmly: “Well, Berry, thank you for a charming evening.” Would he shake hands, she wondered, or try to kiss her? If he tried to kiss her, she would offer her cheek.

But he did neither. “My phone at home is out of order, and I need to make one call before I go to bed,” he said. “May I use your phone?”

She could hardly say, “Hell, no, stop by a pay phone.” It looked as if she were going to have to deal with a determined pass. “Of course,” she said, suppressing a sigh. “Come on up.” She wondered if she could avoid offering him coffee.

She jumped out of the car and led the way across the row stoop. The front door gave onto a tiny lobby with two more doors. One led to the ground-floor apartment, occupied by Mr. Oliver, a retired stevedore. The other, Jeannie’s door, opened onto the staircase that led up to her second-floor apartment.

She frowned, puzzled. Her door was open.

She went inside and led the way up the stairs. A light was on up there. That was curious: she had left before dark.

The staircase led directly into her living room. She stepped inside and screamed.

He was standing at her refrigerator with a bottle of vodka in his hand. He was scruffy and unshaven, and he seemed a little drunk.