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Snow and the River

By: dr_mabeuse



The thick snow fell slowly on a vanished world, obliterating the joint between earth and sky, erasing the sharp edges of the apartment buildings bordering the park, and obscuring the leafless trees and dark pines in a blur of falling white. There seemed to be nothing left but the stone bridge over the slow gray river like a bridge in the clouds linking blankness to blankness, and that's where he stood. The sounds of the city were so muffled that he could hear the gentle hiss of the snowflakes kissing the water and dissolving away, a sound like an endless sigh.

He saw her coming through the snow. Her black coat and tights and the black scarf she wore made her look like a Chinese character drawn on rice paper. Even at this distance there was no mistaking the way she walked, arms folded over her chest and back straight, eyes on her feet as if they interested her. He knew though that she saw everything around her. She always did. He stuffed the envelope he'd been drawing on into his pocket and capped the black marker and put it away. The poor paper was already wet with snow and making the ink bleed.

As he pulled his hand from his pocket, he looked at his sleeve. He could see the snow there, each clump a tangle of perfect flakes and crystals that dissolved into the fabric as he watched, as if from the mere heat of being looked at. It was a fleeting world, even in winter.

The river wasn't really a river, more like a sluggish canal that linked the park's big lagoon to the harbor to the north. It was a summer place, and on this winter's day was deserted. The whole park was deserted, and possibly even the planet. There might not be another soul alive.

As she approached she cocked her head the way she did and smiled. "Only you," she said.

He smiled back. It was impossible not to smile when he saw her. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning only you would want to meet me out here on a day like this. How are you, Jack?"

"I'm fine, Peggy. How are you?"

She smiled rather than answer him and kissed him on the cheek. She kept her hands across her chest and leaned against the rail of the bridge, blew her breath out in a cloud and looked around, rubbing her arms.

"It is beautiful," she said. "I'm glad you called me out."

"You won't get in trouble?"

"No. I've been working ten-hour days. Marge had to let me off." She cocked her head again. "Your hair's covered in snow. You look like a cake."

He bent his head and brushed his hand through his hair. It wasn't cold out and he wasn't wearing gloves.

"How's Michael?" he asked.

"He's good, good."

"Does he know you're meeting me today?"

She stopped smiling. "He knows all about you. I told you, we have no secrets from each other."

He smiled for her. "That's not an answer."

"Jack— " She said his name like a warning. "You promised we wouldn't get into this again."

He knew she hadn't told him. He could always tell when she was lying: she always looked straight at him and opened her eyes wide and used complete sentences. 

"Right. I did promise, didn't I? Sorry. You're going to be spending Christmas with him, though?"

"It's expected. Yes. Actually we're going to Vail."

He nodded thoughtfully. Well, he'd asked for it.

"What were you doing when I came?" she asked. "You were drawing, weren't you?"

"Nothing much. I didn't have any paper. I was using an envelope." He took the envelope out of his pocket, crumpled and damp. There were black marks on it where he'd tried to capture the trees across from the bridge.

"Jack, this is your phone bill. And it's still in here. You haven't even opened it."

He shrugged.

She sighed and looked at what he'd drawn, and he saw her eyes harden and grow critical as they did whenever she assessed his work. She was always honest with him, and she was always right.

There wasn't much to see really. She couldn't see the different shades of white he'd drawn in with his mind, or the gray of the river, just stark, spiky lines. Still, she smiled.

As she looked he noticed her earrings. They were silver, like she always used to wear when she was with him. The necklaces around her neck were gold, though. Michael had bought them for her.

She must have felt his eyes, because she covered up the gold with her hand then closed her coat over the necklaces. He'd embarrassed her.

Before he could say anything, she said, "I brought you something. I you a Christmas present."

He was surprised. "Really? You shouldn't have, Peggy. That's not why I wanted to see you."

She smiled. "No? Then why?"

He sighed and turned to look at the water. It wasn't frozen, but the falling snow had formed a lacey skein over the surface of the water.

"I promised I wouldn't talk about it, so I won't. I just wanted to ask you if maybe you'd reconsider."

She got angry, but then her anger melted as quickly as the snow on her lashes. She looked at him with pain in her eyes.

"Jack," she said. "I'd might as well ask you to reconsider and change the way you are. Would you? Even if I'd let you? I just can't do it anymore, Jack. The car with only one door. The apartment with no heat. The bills, the phone calls, and then when you got sick. That was more than I could take, Jack. How are you going to pay them?"

He shrugged. "Lou's going to give me another show. He's going to let me have space in the gallery when Carlos has his show in February."

"And then you're going to make a scene whenever anyone tries to buy your stuff like last time? No, Jackie, I just can't take that anymore. You're so good. You're so fantastic, but you keep on shooting yourself in the foot, and I can't take that anymore. I can't make you change."

"And I can't make you change either, can I?"

She shook her head sadly.

Three crows flew by overhead, dodging their way through the heavy snow. They both watched them as the birds settled in the branches of a leafless oak, cawed at each other, and were still.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes," she said. She stared straight at him and opened her eyes wide. "Of course I love him. I love him very much, Jack."

He stared back at her this time and she finally tore her eyes away, knowing she'd been found out.

"Do you want your present or not?" she asked, looking off into the distance.

He was sorry he'd angered her. "Of course."

She smiled as she reached into her purse. He was one of the best people in the world to buy gifts for, his enjoyment was honest and almost childlike and there was nothing that didn't delight him.

She watched as he unwrapped the narrow box, glanced at the paper and then folded it and carefully out it into his pocket. She knew he'd examine the paper later, studying the patterns and colors and drawing conclusions about the artist, his intention, and who the paper was supposed to appeal to. He'd always been that way, finding interest and meaning in the most trivial things. It was one of the things she'd always loved best about him. He'd brought the whole world to life.

And now the whole world came to life again as he opened the gift, and in spite of herself, Peg smiled to watch him.

"Holy shit!"

It was a Japanese calligraphy brush, a good one, hand made, the kind he'd never been able to afford before. He stared at the brush as the snow fell on it, and not even the knowledge of where she'd gotten the money could dampen his joy. If Michael had paid for it, so much the better. There was justice in that.

His joy made him reckless, and he said, "Peggy, what are you doing with that guy? Don't you know what you're getting into? He can buy you stuff but he can't give all this to you." 

He gestured at the world beyond the bridge, growing dimmer now as the light faded and evening set in.

"What? The snow?"

He drew back. "Don't get smart, Peggy. You know damned well what I'm talking about."

She felt bad for teasing him and she said nothing. They leaned on the bridge, staring at the snow.

"It is beautiful," she said. "It's enough to make me cry."

"That's what I mean," he said. "With you and me, we own all of it. We feel it, and so it's ours. Is having stuff so important to you? Do you really want to throw all this away for some damned industrial oven?"

"Ranges," she said. "Industrial ranges." It had been something she'd always wanted, her idea of the good life.

"Whatever."

Peg lowered her eyes. Seeing his pleasure had taken her back to what things had been like, but now here were the attacks again.

"You promised," she said.

He sighed. He closed the box and dropped it into the voluminous pocket of his coat. The things he carried around in his pockets had always been a constant source of amazement to her, and the memory pulled at her heart.

They stood together, staring down into the river, watching the snow fall. They had met on this bridge, or near by. She'd been with some friends and he'd been riding by on a bike, bare foot, having lost his shoes at the beach. He'd lost his shirt to and was wearing only a windbreaker and shorts. She should have known then what she was getting into, for as he rode by, dollar bills were blowing out of his pocket, He braked so hard when he saw her that he fell off his bike.

"I want to give you something too," he said suddenly. "I have a present for you."

He straightened his coat and stood up tall, as if he were going to do something and Peg watched him, knowing he was improvising. Thoughtfulness had never been his strong suit, and she knew he had nothing to give her.

"All this," he said, gesturing again to the scene before them. "The whole thing: the park, the snow, the bridge and the river, the streetlights going on, us together in the middle of it. I want to give it to you, to be yours forever." He spoke as if he were talking to the world, not to her.

"Jack—"

"You don't think I can, do you?" he asked. "But why not?"

She sighed and was about to speak, but he held up his hand.

"No," he said. "I know what you're thinking. You're going to tell me that you'll always have this. You'll remember it, you'll remember us, you'll remember me. But I want to give you more than that. I want to give you this so that you'll have it forever—this scene before us, all this beauty, and us together. It's something he can't give you, but I can. I don't have anything, so everything belongs to me. 

"I want to give you this so that from now on whenever you see snow like this—when someday years from now when you're in your fabulous house on the North Shore and you look out the French doors and see the snow falling like this, and Michael's coming home with people for dinner and all you're thinking about is whether the roast will be ready— you'll remember me. You'll remember me, and this bridge, and everything that went with it."

He turned to her. "That's my gift to you. Do you want it?"

"Jack, you've already given me that."

"No. Not like this. I'm serious this time. He can give you things I can't, but he can't give you this. He can't give you beauty, and he can't give you feelings, and he can't give you all that this is. For that you need crazy Jack the artist."

She knew he was serious. If there was any way he could give these things to her, he would, and she was touched. It was so like him. 

She moved to him and put her head against his shoulder and took his hand. He put his arm around her and drew her close, and she felt his warmth against her. For a moment she just closed her eyes and forgot everything, everything but the feel of him against her body as it used to be, when it used to be enough.

"You've already given me so much," she said softly. "I don't want anything else. Just for both of us to be happy. That's all."

He laughed. "It's my gift."

She felt him move against her and heard the sound of a zipper. Her eyes flew open.

"Jack?"

"Give me your hand," he said. "Hurry. It's cold!"

"Jack? What are you doing?"

He took her hand and pushed it down against his crotch, and she felt his member hanging out of his pants.

"Oh my God! Are you insane?"

"No, Peggy. I'm giving this to you. I'm rolling all this up into a memory and stabbing you with it right in the heart. I'm making sure you never forget this day, this evening. Beat me off, darling. Right here, just like this."

Despite her shock, she almost laughed at the absurdity. He'd always been like this—outrageous, impulsive, and terribly exciting. He always knew what she wanted and how far he could push her. 

There was no one around, and even if there was, it was too snowy and dark now for anyone to see. Who else would make her do something like this? She felt his little tool begin to swell against her glove.

"Jack—"

"Do it, Peggy, please. I'm serious. For me. For us."

She had always been his inspiration. He'd said so. She'd made him want to do things, create things, and in return he'd always pushed her into places she'd never been, places she would never have imagined existed without him. 

His arm was around her, holding her close.

"Let me take my glove off."

He didn't kiss her, so she could hardly call this cheating. She was providing a service, helping him do something he probably could have done on his own. She closed her hand on his cock and felt him grow warm in her hand.

"You're insane, you know that?" she said softly. "Absolutely insane." 

She wouldn't let him see, but she was smiling to herself when she said it, and she began to move her hand, stroking him, feeling him come alive.

She'd always had a special bond with his cock, a bond that she sometimes felt almost went beyond what she had with him. It was as if they shared a special understanding, and in a very private way she had felt like she understood his cock better than he did. She knew what it needed, she knew what it liked, and she'd always been madly in love with it, and it with her.

And now it came back to her, that wonderful feeling of pleasing him. He'd never asked for much, always something simple and excitingly perverse. His cock was hard, and it steamed in the cold air like it was hot. It felt so wonderfully alive and virile here in the snow and chill.

"Wait," he said. "Wait." He moved them over to the rail of the bridge, so that his cock emerged through the stone balusters. She was standing to his right with his right arm around her shoulders, and they might have been lovers standing together on the bridge silently admiring the view, except for her right hand crossing over in front of him, pulling steadily on his cock, not too fast, not to slow, with the rhythm she knew he liked. Jack groaned and leaned on her, his legs getting weak. It was gloriously silly to be doing this to him, and somehow moving at the same time. 

The snow was falling, hissing softly in the water, and behind them the lights in the park were coming on, making pinkish halos in the falling snow. Peg leaned her head against his chest and heard his heart beating, and suddenly it didn't seem so silly. His prick was moving in her hand as he gently rocked his hips back and forth, and the thought that this was the last time that she'd ever hold him was suddenly devastating. She felt the tears come again and she put her left arm around his waist and held him close, hiding her face in his chest.

"Oh God, that's good!" he whispered. "Your hand is so warm. Look at the lights, Peg, and the snow on the pines. It's like a painting, isn't it? Pointillism? Impressionism? No one else would ever make you beat them off like this, would they? —Ugh! Christ, baby, I'm close!— No one else would ever give you all this, use you like this so you'll remember. Your hand will never forget me either, will she? Your hand will never forget me, even when you do. Not the trees and the snow and the river..."

"Oh God, Jack!" she cried. "I won't! I won't ever forget you. Don't even say that!"

She turned her face up to him and the tears came flooding. She beat him off and his mouth came down on hers and now she was cheating but she didn't care. His left hand came up and found her breast through her sweater and she remembered his touch, the way he'd loved her inadequate breasts and awkward body and had always found her so beautiful and worthy of love and she sobbed into his mouth as his arm crushed the breath from her body. She felt it all just like he said. She felt the quiet and the loneliness and the beauty pierce her like a knife plunged into her heart

"Fuck!" he moaned. "I'm coming! Watch me! Watch it, Peggy! Watch!"

She couldn't stand to look, she didn't want to see him waste himself like this, not in the river, that cold, freezing river. She felt his prick jerk in her hand and felt him shudder. His hips punched forward reflexively and she took his weight, holding him up with one hand while she continued to milk him. She had to look down and see him spit, had to see the semen spurt from his cock between the balusters and fall in squiggling lines and streamers into the darkness below; one burst then another, and another, pearlescent yet darker than the falling snow, mysterious hieroglyphs and brush strokes painted on the air, pulled from his own body and written in his own seed. She'd never seen anything so tragic.

"God," he said, shaking against her. "Oh Peg."

He finished ejaculating and got terribly hypersensitive the way he did, and she stopped, then removed her hand, though she still felt him in her palm. She knew he was right, that she'd never forget this, never forget what he'd made her do. He took her in his arms and pulled her close, and Peg cried quietly against his chest, crying out the months of sadness and aching indecision and love, crying until she was as blank as the world around her, and he just stood holding her as his deflating cock found its way shyly back into his trousers. He held her in the falling snow and let her cry.

He didn't kiss her again, except for a kiss on the top of her head, the most heartbreaking kiss of all. 

He let go of her and took a step back. He pulled her coat closed and buttoned it up like a mother hen, then straightened her scarf around her neck and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. He smiled at her, and then he turned and walked away towards the lights of the city.

"Remember me," he said. "Remember me."

She watched him go. Through the falling snow he looked like a black character written on gray paper, then he faded into the blankness and she was left alone, the world vanished as if it had never been, leaving her alone with the snow falling in the river.

Snow and the River Ch. 02



"It looks the same," she said as she looked out the hotel window. "The same park, the same snow, the same time of day, even."

"The wrong date."

She turned back towards him where he sat naked in the disordered mess of the bed, the bed she'd just gotten out of. She wrapped her robe around herself more tightly and tied the sash. The scene outside made her cold, even though the room was warm and snug, the air perfumed by the flowers she'd brought back from her niece's wedding.

"You remember the date?" she asked.

"Of course I do. You don't?"

"November 30th," she said. "Twenty four years and two weeks ago."

"And when were you married?" He had the sheets and blanket pulled up to his waist, his foot poking out of the bottom. He didn't smoke out of respect for her, and he missed it.

"February eighteenth. We sent you an invitation."

He laughed. " I know. I think I still have it. As if I was going to go to your wedding, Peggy. And then when did the divorce come through?"

"Seven years ago. We were married seventeen years altogether. It's funny—it seems like so much longer since the divorce. But then, we hadn't been getting along for years. Separate bedrooms, separate vacations, the whole bit, so it was hardly like we were even married towards the end."

"But I was right, wasn't I? You remembered the day. Even the date."

She stared out at the dusk, the softly falling snow in the streetlights of the park. Despite herself, a smile crept across her face, a particular kind of smile she hadn't felt in the longest time.

"Of course I remember! You made me beat you off outside in a snowstorm. How could I ever forget that?"

He laughed with glee, remembering. 

After all these years and he still had that laugh, tempered now to be sure and not as edgy, but still his. She smiled again, and again the feel of that smile on her face took her back twenty-four years. He was the only one who'd ever evoked that particular combination of happiness and naughtiness in her. Her son had come close when he'd still been a child, before they'd started having their disagreements and difficulties, but that had been years ago.

The thought of her children erased the smile from her face. They were grown now and sometimes didn't even feel like hers anymore, like strangers.

"I really did love him, you know," she said to her reflection in the window. "You always thought it was just about the money, but it was more than that."

He let the snow go on falling for a while, then said. "I know that. I always knew that, Peg. I just didn't want to deal with it. I didn't want to think about what that said about me."

She turned around and looked at him. 

"You're dying for a cigarette, aren't you?"

He laughed. "I'll live. It's a no smoking room anyhow. No ashtrays."

"Since when do you care about ashtrays?"

He laughed again.

"And your kids?" he asked. "Tell me about them. Where are they now?"

She sighed. "Scott is in LA with his father. Well, they're not actually together. Michael's with his girlfriend out there and Scott's in school at UC Long Beach, or maybe he's off this semester, I'm not sure. He doesn't talk to me much. Last I heard he was trying to get his real estate license. He's very ambitious, very focused."

"And Talia?"

"Tonia," she corrected. "Antonia Michelle. She's doing a semester in Germany, in Munich. She's doing very well. We're close."

The word sounded like "closed" and that bothered her, so she asked, "And you've never had any kids? No little bastard Jacks running around?"

He smiled. "I had myself snipped twenty years ago. There are no little bastard Jacks."

She was surprised. "You didn't tell me before." 

"You didn't ask. You said you were okay, so I didn't mention it."

The thought of his infertility pained her. She so clearly remembered that day, watching his semen spurt into the river and knowing very well what it was and what it represented. It seemed cruel now that he should be vasectomized and sterile. The world needed more little Jacks running about like demented elves and shaking people up. She felt sad for Tonia, who would never know the wonderful madness she herself had known with him.

"And you never married?"

"I never said that. I was married twice. For three weeks the first time, eight months the second. No—nine. Nine months."

She laughed. "You're serious?"

He nodded. "I tried to do the right thing. I really did. They wanted to get married, so I figured they knew what they were doing. Maybe they did, but I didn't. I just couldn't do marriage. You knew that. That's why you left."

She looked at him with new respect, surprised that he understood. This wasn't the old Jack, the one she'd known.

"You've changed," she said. "Not all of you, thank God, but some of you." 

He smiled. It was a smile in which that wild mischief still lived, but subdued, toned down by a kind of shy sadness.

"We get deeper as we age, don't we? Everything slows down and gets deeper."

So he could acknowledge pain. She hadn't known if he ever could when they were younger, and now the realization that he did made her happy and sad at the same time.

She turned back to the window and looked out. 

"Do you still tell stories?"

"Stories?"

She smiled. "That's what you used to call them. Remember you used to tell me about paintings and pictures, what they meant and what the artist was trying to do. Why they worked or why they didn't. You even used to critique wrapping paper. I used to love your stories."

He laughed. "Did I? I didn't know. What an insufferable son of a bitch I was, huh?"

"So you don't do that anymore?"

"I guess not. Who would I tell? You were the only one who would ever put up with me."

She stood up a little straighter. She saw herself smile in the dark window. "I used to love your stories. You taught me so much."

He started to say something then stopped. "It would have been better if I'd talked less and listened more."

"Can you tell me one now?" she asked. "I want to know why the snow's so beautiful. Why it breaks my heart. Do you know?" 

He put his head back against the wall and looked at her to see if she were serious. "Yes. I know. Do you really want to hear?"

"Yes."

"Because it covers everything and makes it all go away. It's the world's way of hiding everything and making us pay attention to what's really important."

She said nothing, and he felt a moment of awkwardness, like he'd said too much.

"So where did you say you lived now?" he asked. "New York, right? The city?"

"Outside the city. About an hour and a half. It's a nice little town of overachieving exurbanites who have no time to enjoy it. Our street had a two-drink minimum. Most parts of town it's more."

He'd noticed her drinking at dinner. He'd noticed the bottle of scotch on the dresser too, and knew she'd been drinking before he'd arrived, but he hadn't said anything. He'd been nervous too, and she'd put up with far worse from him when they'd been together.

"You lived in a big house, didn't you? I remember that Christmas card you sent me. It looked like it was from a John Hughes film."

She laughed. "The Mansion of Emptiness. No, we sold the place during the divorce. Michael moved to California and what was I going to do with it? I live in a condo now. It's plenty for me, and it's pretty nice around there. There's woods and a river right near by."

"A river," he repeated. "Does it have a name?"

"No. It's not that kind of river. A creek, really."

"Does it snow?"

"Yes," she said. "It snows all the time."

She cast one last glance at the scene outside and saw two people strolling across the street, holding hands and headed for the park, and then she couldn't look anymore. 

She turned and sat down in one of the chairs and was going to cross her legs, but didn't know how. If she pulled the robe aside, it would look like she was flirting. If she arranged the robe over her legs it would look like she was being modest. She gave up on crossing her legs and sat with her knees together.

He seemed to know exactly what was going on and he smiled in sympathy.

"And you?" she asked, to change the subject. "You're still in the same place?"

"Not quite. I took that storefront down the block, remember? The place where Posner used to have his used bookstore? I just told you about it at dinner. Studio in front, I live in the back." 

"Oh, right, right. The bookstore."

He realized she hadn't heard a word he'd said at dinner. She'd picked at her food and had eyed the wine with such hunger that he'd insisted on buying another bottle, for which she'd been touchingly grateful. He'd let her have it and then covered the awkwardness by making a show of eating her meal as well as his own. It had made her smile. His hunger had always been a private joke between them.

"It's funny," he said. "When we were kids, I thought all I'd have to do was make a name for myself in the art world and that would be it. I'd be on easy street for life after that, with commissions and sales rolling in. It's hasn't been like that. It hasn't been like that at all."

"But you're doing all right?"

"I get by. But it's hustle here and hustle there."

"I saw that spread on you in Modern Art Quarterly."

"Yeah." He looked at her. "What did you think?"

"Of the article?"

He shook his head.

"The paintings? I thought they were magnificent, Jack—I've always thought your stuff was magnificent. But when did you start using all those grays? Everything was always black and white."

He watched her for a while, then said. "The park. From that day in the park."

Peggy dropped her eyes to her lap where she smoothed out her robe on her thighs as if the wrinkles suddenly bothered her. She tried to think of something else to say, but it was no good, and her memory of the day came flooding back to her—her misery when he'd left, her sudden emptiness and confusion. She tried to say something but her throat wouldn't work, and she felt the tears well up as she remembered him walking away from her.

He stood up and got out of bed and she was afraid he was going to comfort her, but mercifully he didn't. He would leave her free to feel what she needed to feel as he'd always done, whether due to his understanding or to his indifference she could never decide, but she was grateful that he never interfered. He would wait till she was ready.

He went naked to the dresser and poured them both some scotch in the plastic hotel cups, handed her a drink and then picked up his jacket and rummaged through the pockets until he found his cigarettes. He took one out and lit it, inhaled, and then blew out the smoke with an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction.

He picked up his glass. "To us, Peggy," he said.

It was only a toast, she told herself. It meant nothing. The messed bed where they'd made love looked at her accusingly, but then the sight of him standing there naked with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, his poor little cock all shrunken and silly, made her smile. He'd grown thicker with the years and heavier, but he was still so Jack.

He took another drag and then walked into the bathroom and she heard the butt hiss in the toilet.

"I drink too much," she said, as if that was the reason for her crying, as if she could fool him. "I worry about it."

He came in and sat on the edge of the bed near her but didn't say anything. Peggy passed her knuckles under her eyes, looking for tears. "I drink a bottle of wine a day, most days. It's the only way I can get to sleep. Do you have trouble sleeping, Jack?" 

He sat with his arms on his knees, looking at her. He shrugged.

"No," she tried out a little laugh. "You never had trouble sleeping. I was always the one. I was the one who'd wake up in the middle of the night worrying about things."

He smiled. "You were a worrier," he said softly. "Still are, aren't you, precious?"

The sound of the word was too much for her. She turned her helpless eyes on him and no longer fought to keep things inside. She felt the tears, hot and clean on her lashes and she stood aside and let them come.

He would let her cry. Her emotions never frightened him, not like they'd frightened the other men in her life.

"Did you hate me, Jack? All these years and I thought you must hate me for what I did, for being so selfish and leaving you like that. So many times I wanted to call you and talk to you but I was always so afraid you hated me."

He gazed at her now and his eyes were soft. It was an expression she'd never seen on him before—one she'd longed to see but never had, but she saw it now: sadness, regret, understanding.

"No. I never hated you. And you weren't selfish, no more than I was. We both did what we had to do. I never hated you, Peggy. Not for an instant."

She wanted to say it then. She wanted to tell him how she felt about him, how she'd always felt about him, but it was if her jaws were wired shut and she just couldn't get her teeth apart. So he said it for her.

"I love you, Peggy. I always have, even while you were gone. When you love someone like that, even a break-up doesn't change things. I loved you that day on the bridge, and I loved you while you were gone. That part of me hasn't changed. The way I show it—I hope that has, but not the feeling."

That was not the Jack she knew. That was not the Jack she'd expected. The glass of whisky shook as he took it from her hand and lifted her up and out of her chair.

"Jack..."

"Shhh."

He put his arms around her and she melted against him. An instant—she would give him just an instant to hold her and make her remember his body, the feel of his embrace, but all she could think about were the snowflakes falling on the river, dissolving and losing themselves. She didn't want to come back to herself. He led her to the bed.

"Jack..."

"Come on. The woman I just made love to wasn't Peggy. She was someone from out of town here for her niece's wedding, looking up an old flame for a fuck for old times' sake. I want Peggy now, the real thing. I know she's in there somewhere."

He sat down on the bed and pulled her close so that she stood between his legs. He peeled her robe down off her shoulders and she blushed, frightened at what he would see, what he hadn't had time to look it the first time—her mother's body, the twenty-four years of use, the body Michael had rejected. She felt his gaze on her and she watched his face, his eyes as they remembered her and compared her to the woman who stood before him now.

He smiled. There was that same appreciation in his eyes that had always embarrassed her and given her such joy, and she sighed in relief as his hands traced over where his eyes had just been, sculpting her curves as if looking hadn't been enough, his hands needed to confirm it was her.

He pulled her down onto the bed and rolled her over onto her back, and when he kissed her, her own hunger caught her by surprise. She put her arm around his back and pulled him against her, kissing him fiercely, her other hand on his cheek as if to hold him there.

She'd never felt like this when she'd been younger, when sex and love had seemed so easy and effortless, but now something inside her needed him, needed something from his kiss, and her fingers trembled with desperate urgency as she touched him and opened her mouth to his tongue.

When he pulled his mouth away from hers she cried out at the loss.

His eyes glowed as he looked at her. "Yes," he whispered. "There you are. There's my Peggy."

She leaped into the kiss again, making no attempt to contain her passion. He understood her in bed. He'd always understood her then and he understood her now as he let her devour his mouth, kissing her back and licking her lips when he could. He lifted himself up and laid his weight on her, and she felt his cock pressing against her thigh.

"Where's the smile?" he asked, lifting his head. "You always used to smile when we fucked, did you know that?"

She was fighting for control and she didn't want to talk, she didn't want to reminisce. She needed him here and now, just as they were. "Did I? Did I really?"

He nodded solemnly. "You were always smiling. Don't you remember?"

She smiled now, then laughed. She filled her hands with his hair and pulled his mouth to hers again, and she told him who she was now and how she wanted him, how she'd missed him—Jack, her Jack. She kissed him and bit his lips and felt him smiling back at her.

He'd been right. Everything was deeper now, everything meant more than it had when they were young. There was excitement, but there was something heavier and more urgent too, something she hadn't felt when they'd just made love before.

She wanted him inside, but it was as if her body was unsure. A modesty had taken possession of her, and it wasn't until she felt his hand between her legs that she was able to open her thighs for him. His finger right there, curious, loving, the way he'd always touched her, like she was a piece of art. He raised himself up on his arms and she waited breathlessly for him, her legs spread, her hands trembling uncertainly against her breasts.

"So quick?" he asked. "Don't you want to see all my tricks? All the things I can do?"

"Oh Jack, don't tease!" she breathed harshly. "Don't tease me now."

His smile faded as he looked at her and their eyes met—his gray eyes, the color of the river. She saw into their depths and felt herself dissolve, felt a surge of melting excitement in her belly and between her legs like she'd never felt before. He raised his chest and she gripped his arms, opened her legs wider and felt him nudge against her delicate flesh, then glide effortlessly inside, making her cry out in sheer pleasure. Her hips automatically surged upwards, engulfing and possessing him

"Oh Christ, yes!" He whispered it against her neck as he sunk into her. 

Peggy took him inside, into that space that was only his. It was if she'd walked around all these years with an emptiness strapped to her, an emptiness only he could fill, and now that he was there again the emptiness was gone and she felt full and wonderfully complete. She put one hand on the back of his neck and hid her face in his shoulder, not wanting to cry now, not when it was all so good.

But she couldn't help it, couldn't stop the tears that fell even as her mouth spread wide in a smile of fierce and triumphant joy—the way he needed her, the way he made her feel like there was nothing in the world for him but her, the terrible comfort of her body. 

She remembered the boy, his insatiable hunger for everything. That hunger was still there, but now it was all for her. The force of his pleasure intoxicated her, made her bold and turned her into a whore for him.

"Hard, Jack! Hard!" she whispered as he began to fuck her. "Fuck me hard!"

It hadn't been like this when they'd been young., It hadn't meant anything then, not like it did now, and he fucked her with a fury that felt like love, a fury she needed to match her own, as if he could batter through all the time and all the distance and reach her pure heart again. He fucked her so hard the big hotel bed creaked and Peggy reached above her head and gripped the headboard to hold herself steady, exposing her entire body to him to do what he would. She felt herself dissolving, disappearing into the blazing force of his lust, and it felt glorious. He was freedom, he was completion, he was delicious oblivion.

When he reared up and grabbed her wrists she cried out in surprise but his savagery and selfishness only made her hotter. She looked up into his face and saw that he wasn't smiling anymore, that he was fierce and choking with need, and that did it for her—how he needed her, how he'd always needed her, and how she needed him. Jack lowered his head and growled, plowed into her hard, crushing his body against hers and she felt him jerk and spit as he held her down and gave her his shuddering, wracking release, sobbing and moaning into her neck.




Snow and the River Ch. 02



The glory of his relief, his pleasure melting into her own. She felt him relax, jolted by echoing spasms, felt the strength leave his body as his weight bore down on her. He let go of her wrists and pushed himself off her so she could breathe, but kept himself close enough that she could feel his heart still hammering against her breast.

"Oh God, Jack!" she moaned, putting her arms around him and holding him close, "Oh my baby, my baby!"

"Come back to me, precious," he whispered in her ear. "I love you. Say you'll come back to me."

Joy leapt in her heart, and, because it was Jack, fear too.

"Oh Jack, oh baby, I love you too, but I don't know. I don't know."

He lifted his head and looked at her. "Try it, Peggy. Just try it. We can work something out. We don't even have to live together. Just be there for me. Be close to me."

"Jack, I've got my life there."

"Your life," he said, and she realized how hollow her words were. "Then stay now. You don't have to go back tomorrow. Change your ticket. Stay here for a few days, a week. Then see what you think."

"I guess I could stay," she said in confusion. "But there's my cat. My neighbor's feeding my cat."

He laughed and jumped out of bed. "Forget your cat, Peg. Take it from me, she hates you. I know cats. She's glad you're gone. You're staying, you're staying! You have to stay! I have so much to tell you, Peggy, so much to show you!"

She couldn't resist. "Yes. I'll stay, Jack. If you want me to."

"Oh Christ!" he clapped his hands and looked heavenward in joy. "Yes, baby, yes! Over and over again, yes!" 

He looked at her, eyes glowing. "Now come on. Get dressed. We're going out." 

He made her dress, ignoring her trembling legs, throwing her clothes at her and laughing, pausing only to gather her in his arms and kiss her again as if he was already eager for more.. He pulled her out of the room and dragged her downstairs, pulling her across the lobby in front of the astonished faces of the people with snowy hair as she struggled to get her coat on and push her hair into some kind of shape.

"Come on, come on!"

She knew where they were going, out into the snow, the quiet, falling snow— the same snow but joyous now, like confetti, falling like applause from above. He guided her across the empty street and into the park, his arm around her shoulders protectively. The snow was up to their ankles. They left trails like skiers as he dragged her along, and her feet still knew the way after all this time. She followed him, listening as his excited talk and laughter quieted and stilled as they approached the bridge and he led her out on it.

"It's the same," she said breathlessly. "It's exactly the way it was. Except for the Christmas lights on the hotel. They weren't there then. Or were they? It's darker now, and later."

The thousands of bulbs of white, green and red glittered through the falling snow and cast soft shadows even from across the street. 

He smiled. "They were there, we just didn't notice them then. We were young—we didn't need Christmas then like we do now."

She turned to him. "You were right, you know. I've never forgotten. I never forgot a thing, just like you said. I never had French doors, but it snowed like this in New York too, and whenever it did, I thought about you. I remembered you Jack, I did. I never forgot."

He stood there staring at her, his eyes glowing with pleasure, and she walked to him and put her arms inside his coat and pressed against him, holding him close. She began to cry.

"No," he said. "It's not the same. It's not the same snow, it's not the same river, and we're not the same people. But still—it's just as beautiful, isn't it? It's even more beautiful now."

They stood there with their arms around each other, warm in each other's embrace, so still they could hear the sound of the snow falling in the river. The world dissolved around them in the endless, falling white.