The Naked Detective by Laurence Shames

Author:Laurence Shames
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: shames, laurenceshames, keywest
Publisher: Laurence Shames

19

Flinty, dry rosés get no respect in this benighted country, though there is no finer accompaniment for, say, cold poached salmon—or for getting naked with a new lover in the middle of a weekday afternoon. So I went into the wine room and grabbed a good Bandol.

Opening it, icing it, my hands felt blockish, awkward. I was nervous—I admit it. I tried to figure out if Maggie was too. It didn't show in her posture or her movements. Unrushed, smooth as ever. With her usual lack of ceremony she opened up the fridge, found some cheese and olives, put them on a tray. Then she asked me if I had an extra robe.

Robes! Why hadn't I thought of that? Terry cloth, shawl collar—very elegant, very Hepburn- Tracy. I ran up to my bedroom and grabbed a couple.

Maggie slipped into the bathroom to put hers on. I tried to feel suave and cool about this; I failed. She was in my house and removing all her clothing. This was an amazing concept. Her breasts would press against the inside of a garment that I myself had worn; her nipples would touch the very same terry cloth loops. Her freed loins would be barely hidden by curtains of cloth that would shift and flutter and separate with every breeze and every motion. Nakedness as close as a loosely tied belt.... Forget about whodunit and what was in the goddamn pouch—this was suspense.

She came out of the bathroom. Small faint freckles ran down her chest and underneath her collar. There was intimacy in the way she'd folded up the sleeves. I could manage nothing better than a tight congested smile. I stepped inside to change.

The panels of my robe would not lie flat. For some reason I thought of that old saw about hiding one's light beneath a bushel basket. Okay, let's not exaggerate—a half bushel would work. I arranged myself as best I could and went back into the kitchen.

Maggie had taken the food and wine and moved out by the pool. I joined her at a little table in the shade. Fronds were lightly rustling and rattling; they were silver from reflections off the water and they sounded like maracas. The air smelled faintly of chlorine, more faintly of iodine wafting off the ocean. We clinked glasses, though didn't toast to anything in particular. Arousal was making it hard for me to talk. We sipped some Bandol and nibbled some olives. After a while I reached across the table and gently seized her collar. I held the bunched cloth as though it were her flesh, and pulled her softly toward me. We kissed.

Her mouth was cool from the wine and salty from the olives.

I asked if I could see a little more of her. She answered with her eyes, and I coaxed apart the panels of her robe; I felt the friction as the nubby cloth slid against her belt. I saw that the faint freckles stopped at the tops of her breasts.

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