“It would have made Ford nervous, and I liked him quite a bit. He’s a charming young fellow, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s fabulous.”

“He enjoyed your many charms, my dear.”

I gave Ian a stern look. “I like him and he likes me. It’s clear that he loves his wife.”

“You, my dear girl, always interpret everything as sexual. I meant as a friend.”

“Oh. It’s so hard to tell with you and your too sophisticated Euro vampire values.”

“You know that you’re the only one for me, querida,” he said as he stroked my cheek.

We never used the word “love” with each other. Our very avoidance of the word gave it power and substance.

I looked into Ian’s dark eyes, searching for goodness, but all I saw was desire, and I wasn’t sure who had inspired it. “I have to finish my newsletter.”

two

Good Help Is Fine to Bite

I took Rosemary with me to the schlocky master suite. When I turned on the light, I saw a package on the bed, wrapped in plain white paper with a red satin ribbon. A small card said, “To My Own Girl.”

When I opened the package and unfolded the tissue inside, I saw three books bound in olive leather and blue and olive marbled board with gold lettering on the spines. They were first-edition volumes of Jane Eyre, and I couldn’t believe I was holding them. Running my fingers over the old typeface, I felt connected to the past, to Charlotte Brontë, and even more to Jane Eyre.

The character was more real to me than most people. She’d been my friend ever since I was a lonely girl shut away in my bedroom a million years ago. I saw Jane small, plain, and watchful, wearing her simple governess dress, yet equal to anyone.

When Ian came in an hour later, his dark curls wet from a swim, I placed the first volume carefully on the bed table and smiled. He knew exactly those things I loved.

I said, “I was happy enough with the earrings, but this … Thank you, Ian. It is the best present anyone has ever given me.”

“I have another gift to give you now.”

“Is it in your pants?”

“As a matter of fact …”

He was strong and I was strong.

Rosemary woke me early by whining forlornly at the bedroom door.

No matter how quietly I got up, Ian always opened his eyes. I liked him this way, drowsy, warm, and affectionate.

He smiled and said, “My own girl.”

“We’re going out for a run,” I said, and leaned over to kiss his cheek, deliciously rough with morning beard. He reached out for my hip, but Rosemary was waiting, so I pushed Ian’s hand away.