clothing did, equipped with tape measure and pins to tailor each article of clothing to perfection.
Dinner, which was always bountiful, was for eating but also for learning. Which fork, which knife, which glass for which wine; how to open a napkin and how to fold it when finished. They learned how to seat a lady and to help her from the table. Mickey educated their palates to the use of wines and spirits, a skill at which Reuben showed himself to be adept. Mickey said it was yet another indication that he would be a success. If there was anything Daniel disliked, it was lessons in breeding and etiquette, although at Mickey’s rebukes he would merely flush. “I’ll make gentlemen out of you if it’s the last thing I ever do,” she declared with determination.
Coffee and brandy followed dinner, with talk of the war, what was happening in America, and books. Like Daniel, Mickey was a voracious reader. Their conversations were lively and spirited and usually lasted several hours.
Finally Mickey would peck each of them lightly on both cheeks, saying, “Well done,” then wave cheerily and retire upstairs to her rooms.
And always Reuben didn’t know if he was relieved or angry at her sisterly show of affection. When he was alone he admitted that he wanted more. On the third day of his stay he’d decided that Mickey was beautiful. Only at night in his dreams did he allow himself to lust after her. When he woke, frustrated and puzzled, he would punch his fists into the pillows and groan angrily. Why was she torturing him like this? If it was a game, didn’t she know he would be a willing player? But there couldn’t be a game until both players were in agreement and rules set down. Rules…Who makes the first move? Certainly not him; he was a guest. Of course, she was a woman, and as a rule women wanted to be asked, or so he remembered old George saying, but then, most of everything George had said had turned out to be just so much manure.
Worst of all, he found himself staring at her all the time now, imagining all kinds of wonderful things: how her lips would feel on his, how silky her skin would be, how she’d look lying naked beside him, how she’d taste. It was almost beyond his imagination all the wonderful things an experienced woman like Mickey could do to him. Once when they were walking he thought his head would blow off in excitement when he pictured himself settling urgently between her legs. George had said it was a feeling that had no equal. Mickey had looked at him, looked at him as though she knew what he was thinking. Another time, while they were playing chess, he’d let her capture his knight because he was watching as her pink tongue moistened her lips in concentration on the game. She’d looked fully aware of his thoughts then, too.
It was a game, Reuben knew it in his gut. Who would weaken first? By God, he’d wait her out no matter how long it took. With that decision made, he set a precedent that he was to follow for the rest of his life: Never make the first move. Watch your adversary and then go in for the kill, but only after that adversary has made the first move. The only thing that confused Reuben was that Mickey wasn’t exactly an adversary. He also decided it didn’t really matter how long he’d have to wait—because although she had begun the game, when it ended, he’d be the winner. In all games there was a winner and a loser. He would never, no matter what he’d have to do, be a loser.
After that, Reuben felt better. Having sorted it all out in his mind, he became an active player. When he walked behind Mickey’s chair, he’d let his fingers trail along the back of her neck. When sitting beside her at the bridge table, he’d let his knee touch hers ever so slightly, and he wasn’t quick to draw away—nor was she. Over the candlelight dinners he’d stare at her bosom and give her the sensuous smile he’d practiced in front of the mirror in his room. He’d watch her draw in her breath before he turned away. Another time he’d alluded to his sexual prowess, with Daniel egging him on. He’d seen a spark of anger in her eyes and grinned.
Just last evening when she’d come to peck him on the cheek, he’d turned swiftly so her lips met his. Her eyes had widened and she was the first to turn away, but not before Reuben had seen her body shudder. Hold out the bait and then yank it back was one choice piece of advice from George that seemed to be working. Fine for George to say, but his old buddy hadn’t given any advice on how to get her to actually bite. Probably because it was assumed by all of them that Mickey herself would initiate everything from the beginning. Jesus, how wrong they’d all been.
“Today I feel we are like the Three Musketeers. Do either of you feel like that?” Mickey asked. They had been out walking for most of the afternoon in the crisp November air.
“When you are truly well,” she continued, speaking to both her companions with a broad smile, “we will motor to Gascony. D’Artagnan and his brave musketeers, even Cyrano de Bergerac, came from Gascony. You see, every day we learn something.” She looked directly at Reuben when she spoke. Instead of answering her, he gave her his practiced smile. Her eyes closed sleepily, then she reached for a flower and placed it gently between her breasts.
Daniel was oblivious to the byplay as he windmilled his arms. His cast had recently been taken off; movement was no longer limited. Now he could bathe himself and wet his entire body. The world he was living in felt good.
Mickey stepped between the two of them and linked arms. They literally danced the next few yards. When they stopped, on the crest of a hill above a small village, they could hear shouting and singing.
“Mon Dieu, what in the world is that racket?” Mickey cried.
“Looks like there’s a parade, or else they are having a party,” Daniel said, laughing.
The three of them looked at one another in wonder. Could it be? Finally?
“Hurry, darlings, we must see what this is all about.”
Daniel and Reuben took Mickey’s hands and ran down the hill, watching and listening to the Frenchmen as they waved their arms about, speaking rapidly. Some were singing while others laughed and slapped one another on the back.
It was November 11, 1918, and the Armistice had just been signed.
“We must celebrate!” Mickey exclaimed.
“It’s over, Daniel,” Reuben said quietly. “Our men made the difference. I feel kind of proud, don’t you?”
“Damn right.” He wiped his eyes, and Reuben realized his own were misty. “We were the lucky ones, Reuben.”
“Yes,” Reuben said, touching his friend’s shoulder. Then he grinned. “I agree with Mickey! We need a celebration!”
The threesome spent the next few hours drinking several bottles of the finest champagne Mickey’s wine cellar afforded. The celebration lasted through dinner and into the early evening.
Mickey felt like a young girl, sharing secrets of her youth while the young men listened and spoke of theirs. The conversation inevitably brought them through myriad experiences that elicited both laughter and sometimes tears; their glasses were never empty. When she had listened to Daniel, tipsy and rambling, a lopsided grin on his face and hope in his eyes, tell again of his dream of becoming a lawyer, Mickey decided to begin now to help him realize his goal. Mentally she calculated what it would take over the next few months to put this person into action and determined to make arrangements immediately.
When she watched and listened to Reuben, she was aware that no matter how much he drank, or talked, or listened, a part of him was sitting beside her, tasting her, wanting her.
The atmosphere in the room was jubilant and warmly familial as they finished the last bottle of champagne. Mickey was the first to rise. Hugging them, and kissing them both on each cheek, she wished them a good night’s sleep, first Daniel,
