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Subject: {ASSM} Rebecca [Selena Jardine]
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<1st attachment, "Rebecca ASSM.doc" begin>


Rebecca
by Selena Jardine

This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's Club
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com), where it appeared first,
illustrated by Brett Empty.

Comments and opinions eagerly welcomed and promptly responded to,
as usual, at selenajardine at yahoo.com.

Rebecca
by Selena Jardine

Last night I dreamt I was committing adultery again.

I stood in church next to my husband, singing the hymn, proper
and clean in my charcoal wool skirt and white silk blouse. The
light slanted as it does in dreams. Then I looked over and saw
the horror on the priest's face. He was looking toward the back
of the church. I followed his gaze, and saw Timothy standing
there in a pool of light. I lost my hold on the hymnal. 

It came to me then, as it does to dreamers, that I had somehow
forgotten to tell Timothy that it was over between us. I had
never broken it off, had never confessed to my husband, had never
been forgiven and begun the hard work of healing. I stood, frozen
in terror, as my husband turned to me, a question in his eyes.
Timothy only waited, terrible evidence of my betrayal. The organ
went on playing "Great is Thy Faithfulness". The red hymnal hit
the floor.

I woke up, full of a cold horror, and stared into the darkness.
Because of course it wasn't just a dream. Oh, certainly, my
affair with Timothy was all over, and had been for nearly a year.
I never was the kind of woman to have an affair, and Timothy was
an aberration in a calm and pleasant life. I was back with my
husband, safe as houses.

But here I was, starting the whole mess of adultery all over
again. And this time it was far worse than the first. This time I
was in love.

Damn Rebecca, I thought, turning my pillow to try to find a cool
spot. Damn Rebecca.

++++++

Rebecca introduced me to Timothy a year ago at a concert. The
symphony orchestra was playing Mahler. I was late for the
performance after yet another argument with my husband, sneaking
in alone and ducking my head apologetically at those listeners
who turned to glare at me. I saw Rebecca's red-gold head gleam in
the light from the stage as she turned curiously to see what the
disturbance was. Then she leaned over to her partner and
whispered something in his ear. 

At the intermission, I was rummaging in my purse for a cough drop
when I noticed someone standing next to my seat. I looked up to
discover Rebecca and her friend. I scrambled hastily to my feet,
dropping my belongings in the process.

Rebecca, my husband's first wife, is not the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen. She is, however, the only woman I have ever met
who infallibly wears the right thing for every occasion. She is a
small woman who moves with economy, yet she attracts every eye.
Her sleek red-gold hair, pixie-cut, frames green eyes and a light
dusting of freckles. Her spine is straight, her waist narrow, her
legs shapely. She is...

Well. Perhaps she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
And there she stood, next to my seat, in a maroon velvet dress
that should have clashed horribly with her hair, and didn't.

"Hello, Rebecca," I said, aware as usual that I was a gangling
eight inches taller than she was. 

"Hi, honey," she said, in her soft southern accent, looking
amused. "I want you to meet someone interesting for a change.
Tim, meet the old friend I was telling you about."

I raised my eyes to the spectacular young man on Rebecca's arm.
She usually had some protg or other, always brilliant, always
young--well, really they were my age, but they always seemed
young--and always handsome. This was apparently the latest
catch.

"Pleased to meet you, Tim," I said.

"Timothy Denison," he said, taking my hand in his own large, warm
one. "When Rebecca told me there was another architect in the
house--and which one it was--I was thrilled. I've done a little
of that myself, you know."

This was Timothy Denison? Who created the plans for the city
Opera House, the one people were still fighting over? And
practically no one knew yet that he'd taken over the plans for
the high-rise CenterEdit news station building downtown. I had a
love-hate relationship with his work.

I glanced over at Rebecca. She was standing with her arms folded
and her sleek head on one side, watching us. 

Looking back, with peculiarly clear insomniac's hindsight, I
ought to have known the trouble I was in, even then. She's famous
for it, setting people up, watching the sparks fly. I should have
taken my hand from Timothy's, and run. But the tickle of dread at
the back of my mind was not strong enough, my instincts for
danger still undeveloped. It would have been rude to leave--the
act of a child. Besides, I wanted to hear the rest of the
program. So I ignored my misgivings, looked into his blue eyes,
and began to make conversation.

Timothy was singularly good at conversation. You might object to
his architecture, but there was nothing wrong with his charm.
When the lights flicked on and off to signal the end of the
intermission, I was feeling as warm and appreciated as if I'd
spent that quarter of an hour drinking good bourbon. Timothy,
too, was expansive, moving his hands as he talked, his white
teeth flashing. I was making some important point, leaning in
toward him, my hand on his arm, when Rebecca smiled a small,
catlike smile.

"We'd better get back to our seats," she said to me. "Where's
Max-the-husband tonight, honey?"

One silent, uncomfortable moment passed. I took my hand off
Timothy's arm, aware of the gleam of my wedding band in the dim
light of the concert hall. Then I laughed, an awkward,
unconvincing laugh, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Maxim's at home. He can't stand Mahler. Says it makes him want
to do himself in."

"Hmmm," said Rebecca, and moved off toward her seat. Timothy
looked at me for a moment, and then followed her. Was he puzzled?
Angry? What must he think of me? I could have kicked myself.
Instead, I sat and listened to Mahler, and then I went home,
dissatisfied with the performance, and Rebecca, and Maxim, and
most of all with myself. 

Home. The house was the only thing Maxim had managed to retain in
the bitter divorce battle between him and Rebecca. He lost his
money, his possessions, and his peace of mind, but he kept
Rosewood. It sat on the crest of a hill overlooking the city, a
Tuesday's child of a house, full of grace. Once, during the Civil
War, it had been a hospital. I could scarcely imagine that house,
with its long, cool hallways and its high, beautiful ceilings,
full of the naked and the dying and the dead. Even Rebecca, the
interior designer, had known better than to touch it or change it
in any way. She had left it as it was, a lovely empty living
thing like the hollow of a hand, and it had loved her in return.

I let myself in and stood with my back against the door for a
moment, letting the house accustom itself to my presence. I never
felt quite welcome, somehow, in the first moments of my arrival.
I grew up in tract houses, wall-to-wall carpeting,
plywood--nothing like this. I was not the sort of person houses
loved. Nothing like Rebecca. 

As I stood at the doorway, I half-expected someone spectral to
walk out of the dark hallway to greet me, but of course no
one--nothing--did. I walked into the library. A reading lamp in
the corner threw a dim light.

"Maxim?"

"I'm here," he said, and leaned forward from his chair, looking
at me over his reading glasses. "Did you enjoy the Master of
Gloom?" 

I felt a sudden surge of affection for him. What, after all, did
Timothy Denison have to offer? I met Maxim when he was bled white
from divorce and rubbed raw from publicity. There was no reason
he should have been attracted to an architect half his age and at
the beginning of her career, but he said he found me charming,
refreshing, quite the opposite of his ex-wife. 

She's nothing like Rebecca, everyone said. Nothing at all like
Rebecca.

And I had never imagined that I could be so much in love. Maxim
de Winter was so much more intelligent, so much more informed and
well-read than the average young men I met. He swept me away with
his knowledge of the world. And if I sometimes wished, a year
later, that I was more Maxim's wife and less the shadow of
Rebecca--well, it would come right in time. It would.

I walked quickly over to Maxim's chair and ruffled his hair
lightly. He smoothed it back down and looked up at me. 

"I had a great time," I said. "Gloom there was none. Mahler is
wonderful stuff, and one of these days you will be my convert,
sitting next to me and applauding so loudly they will have to ask
you to leave." 

He snorted, stood up, stretched, and kissed me on the forehead.

"Time for bed, my foolish optimist," he said. And my husband and
I went upstairs together through the shadows of Rosewood, arm in
arm.

+++++

The next day, at the office, I was pouring cream into my coffee
when the telephone rang on my desk. I jumped, startled, and
spilled cream onto the ordered pile of papers sitting next to my
cup. 

"Shoot," I said, and, reaching for a napkin, I picked up the
phone.

"Mrs. de Winter?" said an impersonal voice.

"I'm sorry," I said, dabbing frantically at my papers. Maybe only
the top one would have to be reprinted. "You have the wrong
number. Mrs. de Winter doesn't work here, she works at..."
Suddenly I broke off, appalled. I'd been married a year. How on
earth could I have made such a gawky mistake?

"Mrs. D., it's Donovan." Donovan, the firm's secretary, his voice
full of unconcealed glee. "Timothy Denison is on line 2." 

What does Denison want with *you*? Atypically for Donovan, he
didn't actually voice the question. He must have been busy
storing up my mistake for future delectation. 

"Thanks, Donovan," I said, feigning nonchalance, and I pushed
line 2 with a trembling finger.

Timothy was as charming as he'd been the night before. So sorry
to bother me--he'd never had such an engaging intermission--he
wanted to continue the conversation. Lunch? Was I free? Today?
Wonderful! He wouldn't keep me, was sure I was twice as busy as
he was himself--and he hung up.

I suspected that my socks were being deliberately charmed off. I
waved it away. But despite my lingering anxiety about the results
of my stupid gaffe on the phone with Donovan--whispers in the
hallways (barely 25, ridiculous, nothing like Rebecca)--I was
smiling as I went back to work.

I arrived early to lunch, but not before Timothy. He was already
at a table and waiting for me, playing with his fork and glancing
around the room. When he saw me, he got quickly to his feet. 

"Just the gorgeous architect I've been waiting days to see," he
said, grinning. People looked around, their mouths full.

"That would be you," I said, primly. "Now sit down, for heaven's
sake, and order something." The waitress was standing next to us,
looking hopefully at Timothy's spectacularly dimpled chin. 

"Let's have a bottle of wine," he said. "I already know what I
want. You look at the menu and I'll look at you, how about
that?"

Lunch lasted and lasted. At first I wondered if there would be
any lingering awkwardness from the other evening, when I ought to
have announced my married state, and had not done so. But there
wasn't any awkwardness at all. Timothy asked interested questions
and then leaned forward slightly for the answers, watching my
eyes, waiting for each word. After the first few minutes, I was
so flattered I couldn't even remember to be wary.

We ate, and drank, and talked. I told him about how I came to be
an architect, of course, and about my ideas for the future of our
firm. He nodded, apparently totally fascinated, making mental
memoranda. Then, as the afternoon went on, and I abandoned
thoughts of getting back to the office, I told him shyly about my
childhood: my mother's death, my father's careful care and
education of me, and his long illness that had left me on the
bottom rung of his old business. Timothy nodded, full of sympathy
but not pity.

"So that's how you got to be this way," he said, watching my face
and smiling a little. I felt that this famous architect had never
met such an interesting woman. Maybe not even Rebecca, my mind
whispered, and then hushed itself. 

Timothy reached across the table and took my hand. I remember
that moment perhaps more clearly than any other of all that
afternoon. With the ball of his thumb, he stroked the backs of my
fingers, circling each knuckle and slipping his thumb between my
fingers to touch the tender web of skin. I stopped speaking. My
voice would have trembled far too much. I noticed that his
fingernails were neatly trimmed. I suddenly, helplessly wondered
whether he had trimmed them that morning, whether he was thinking
as he did so of slipping his fingers into my slick heat. I
flushed to the collarbone.

"After hearing what you had to say about the CenterEdit building,
I have some things I'd really like your opinion on," said
Timothy. He looked a little rueful. "My apartment looks like a
bomb went off in it, but I wonder if you'd like to come and see
some of my plans."

All my awareness was centered in my fingers. Timothy was still
caressing them gently. 

"Yes, please," I said. My voice seemed far away, but it was
steady enough. "I'd like that." 

The quiet ride in the elevator allowed my rioting blood to cool
slightly, and when we arrived at Timothy's apartment, I
noticed--quite calmly, or so I thought--that if a bomb had gone
off there, it must have been carefully targeted. His place was
meticulously clean in a Danish Modern way, except for the piles
of papers on the large glass coffee table. I went over toward the
table, thinking that the papers must be what he wanted me to see,
but as I leaned forward, I felt his gentle hands on my hips,
holding me firmly.

I think back on this, and I want to say, There. That was the
moment of decision, that was when I could no longer go back, that
was when it was taken out of my hands. But there are so many
moments of decision, and they flow one after another, and nothing
is ever truly out of our hands. 

I can clearly remember what I did and what I thought. This is
Rebecca's lover, I thought, and he wants me. I straightened my
spine, placed my hands flat over Timothy's, and stepped back
against his body. I could feel his hardness pressed against me. I
could feel his heartbeat against my back. I stood for a moment,
breathing the unfamiliar scents of a new apartment, a new male
body. He didn't say a word. Perhaps he didn't want to frighten
me. Didn't he know that I was pinned like a butterfly in a trophy
case, hungry beyond the possibility of being frightened?

Slowly, I took his hands and moved them up, flat over my body,
creasing my blouse, over my ribs, crossing my belly, until they
reached my breasts. I heard him exhale then, a soft warm breath
in my ear, and he kissed my neck softly. My nipples rose, and he
tapped them with his fingertips, a slow tattoo. 

I didn't want to have to say or do anything more. I wanted him to
know what I wanted. I wanted him to murmur, "You are the most
beautiful woman I have ever seen. Rebecca is nothing like you,"
as he gazed in awe at my body. I might have come from that
alone.

It was good even though it wasn't like that. Timothy turned me
around and kissed me, rapidly unbuttoning my blouse. His hunger
was almost as good as the words would have been, with the lithe,
warm weight of his body on mine. He expertly unbuttoned my skirt
and discarded it. His hand, the hand that had touched Rebecca,
slipped between my thighs. His fingers curled under the fabric of
my panties. I know he found me wet. He bit my lower lip and
kissed me again to soothe the bitten spot, his fingers moving on
my hot wet skin.

And my hands were moving, too, fumbling and plucking at buttons
and closures. At last my palms were on his flat, warm stomach. I
found one of his nipples and rubbed gently, and he made a small
noise of pleasure. After a moment, impatient of constraint, he
pushed me away a little and pulled his shirt off over his head. 

I stood and gaped for a moment before I realized what I was
doing. He was just so beautiful naked. I suddenly felt awkward
and self-conscious. But the moment didn't last long. Timothy must
have had experience with the effect he had on women like me. He
gathered me to him, electric touch of skin on skin, and kissed me
down onto the beige carpet.

He was a good lover, was Timothy Tim. He was expert at pacing and
control. I lay in that pin-neat Danish Modern apartment with his
lovely cock slipping in and out of me, and I saw him watch my
face, and when I came underneath him, came with him shaking my
hips back and forth, left and right, he grinned in pure
satisfaction just before he came himself. I kissed his warm
shoulder and felt a thin, hard, pale-blue carapace of guilt form
around me. 

I had to return to the office that evening to collect my things.
It may have been my father's company once, but I was still not
permitted five-hour lunches, and I sneaked off the elevator and
down the empty hallway as if I had committed a crime. And, in a
way, I had. 

I gathered up my papers, checked my messages, and made sure
nothing urgent was waiting for me. I riffled through the pink
slips of paper. Maxim hadn't called. I was safe. Just as I was
about to leave, I turned my head for one last check, and I saw
Donovan. There he sat, looking at me from his desk, a little
knowing smile on his face. He looked as if he knew everything I'd
done, all afternoon, from my appetizer to my hurried goodbyes at
Timothy's apartment door.

I heard the soft ding of the elevator down the hall. I ran.

Dinner that evening with Maxim was interminable. I had no
appetite, and I toyed with my food until he commented on it, when
I forced myself to take several large bites. I felt my guilt must
be written on my face as a banner headline: Young Architect
Betrays Husband! "Max Never Learns," Leers Adulteress!

"What's the matter with you?" asked Maxim irritably. The answer
that passed half-formed through my mind was insane. I was not
afraid that Maxim would find out about Timothy, or that he would
see that pale blue shell of guilt I wore. I was nervous because
Rosewood, with its cool breath on my face, already knew.

Maxim surveyed me casually from his seat. "You're jumpy as a cat
tonight."

"And you don't even like cats," I said, trying to smile. "It's
nothing, really, Maxim. Just pressure at work. Tell me what
you've been doing today."

To my surprise, he shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, I may be a
little high-strung myself tonight," he admitted. "I ran into that
damned woman." I knew he meant Rebecca. He almost never called
her by name.

"You did? Where?"

"At the Arena Stage benefit. I had no idea she was going to be
there, or I'd have sent my regrets and a check." 

Was that a false note in his voice? Was it possible for him not
to know that she would be there? I had forgotten all about my own
betrayal. My mind was filled with an image of that sleek red-gold
head, the dimpled smile, the pale slender legs. Of Timothy,
kneeling between those legs. Of Maxim, who had been there before
him. 

No, I thought bitterly. I am nothing like Rebecca. No one is
anything like Rebecca.

But Maxim was saying something. I dragged my attention back to
him. He was red with anger or embarrassment, or some other
unaccustomed strong emotion.

"...venomous bitch," he said. "Filthy woman actually dared to
suggest that you were out dallying with another architect, some
protg of hers. 'Buffing his hardwoods,' in fact, was the vulgar
term she used."

I started horribly, so shocked that my face went numb.

"Of course I didn't listen to a damned word of it," said Maxim
moodily, prodding his steak. "But her laugh is still lingering in
my ears. I'm sorry, darling."

Then he looked up and saw my face.

His head rocked back as if he'd been slapped. I watched, my own
lips cold and numb, as all the color drained from his face.
Surely, surely, I thought, no one can be so white and stay
conscious. Surely he will faint.

Instead of fainting, he smiled. It was the most horrible thing
I've ever seen, twisted and rueful.

"Ah, yes," he said, and his voice was not his at all. "I should
have remembered that Rebecca never tells a lie if the truth will
hurt more."

Then I was on my knees beside him, carapace shattered, saying how
sorry I was, how sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn't know why I'd done
it, I'd never do it again, never, never. He bent his head.

"No, really, of course I can understand," he murmured. "Of
course, of course. A beautiful young woman like you, married to
an old man like me." 

"No!" I cried. If he'd been angry, I might have resisted or
become sullen. But at his resignation, my tears started in
earnest. "No, that's not it at all. I don't really know how it
happened..." and I found myself telling him the story, the way
wives do, trying to exculpate themselves, trying to make it all
look a little cleaner.

He said only one thing more that meant anything, that evening,
and it wasn't meant for me to hear. I finished explaining, the
tears running down my face. He looked at me thoughtfully.

"Rebecca..." he said, in a whisper. Then he nodded, and he said
that he understood, and forgave me. But I felt Rosewood exhale
around us, and I knew I had changed our marriage in some
essential way. It was at that moment that I began to hate
Rebecca. I had always felt powerless before her. Her
sophistication, her beauty, her wit, her experience, and her
wealth placed her above me in every respect. She had already
owned and discarded everything I had ever wanted. But this choice
she had forced me to make, and her subsequent betrayal of
Timothy, of me, of Maxim, changed everything. There was a low
blue flicker around the edges at first, as if someone had struck
a match to paper, and then the eager licking and licking of
flame, hatred growing to fill my mind. It was a comfort to give
in to it at last.

+++++

If you have never cheated on your wife or husband, or if you've
never been caught doing it, then you can have no idea what the
next weeks and months were like for me. The only possible refuges
for the adulterer are abject apology and unceasing, unending
promises never, never, never to do it again. 

Of course, such apology is no real help to a broken heart, and
such promises are meaningless when you haven't yet had time to
prove that you are serious about them, but the words themselves
are a kind of glue that holds the relationship together until the
months and years do their job of reconstruction. So I talked and
talked about how sorry I was, and about how I'd never, never,
never do it again, and Maxim listened, and touched my hair
occasionally. It helped a little. 

But for me, the talking and apologizing and promising served only
one real function. As I put my head in Maxim's lap, and brought
him coffee, and called him from work to prove that I was not out
at long fuck-lunches with spectacular young architects, I was
building my plan of revenge on Rebecca. She had broken Maxim's
heart once through their divorce. She would not leave him alone
now, through me. She had ruined my marriage, my love, and my
life. Well, Rebecca--sleek, gold, pale, honey-tongued--would find
that she had underestimated me. I would teach her not to do that
again.

Wild plans flitted through my head at first, I admit. I thought
of killing her: shooting, stabbing, poisoning. I thought of
disfigurement of her lovely face and perfect body, of acid and
"accidents" and wheelchairs. But these were just crazy ideas.
Someone like me could never get away with that. 

I am nothing like Rebecca, I reminded myself sardonically, as the
months went by. Nothing like so bold as Rebecca. Scale back your
expectations to avoid disappointments.

So I decided to steal her husband.

Harry was old money even in a state overflowing with old money.
His family was related to Henry James, the novelist, but they
never said a word about it, and you couldn't even find _The Turn
of the Screw_ on their bookshelves--too much like showing off.
They preferred to take him out of the public library, I suppose,
and send him back when they were through. Harry had the pale skin
and high color of a Scotsman, and under Rebecca's ruthless hand
he gave the largest parties our city had ever seen. 

And I was going to take him from Rebecca. 

I had seen her with all her spectacular protgs, version after
version of Timothy Denison, and I wasn't sure how much she was
really attached to her husband. But I knew that she would never
willingly part with something she regarded as belonging to her.
Even Maxim was marked with her red-gold chain of ownership, and
she hated seeing him with me. How much more so with her own
husband, the party-loving Harry James? I knew the power of an
attentive young woman over a neglected older man. If I could
attract Timothy, even for a day, then I could surely catch
Harry.

"Harry is a gentleman," Maxim said to me as we were preparing for
their famous midsummer party. This was an uncharacteristic
pronouncement for him. He isn't given to saying things like that
about people.

"Poor Harry, then," I said, with some asperity, struggling with
the collar of my dress. "Would you mind zipping me up?"

"Just because he isn't married to a lady doesn't mean he isn't a
gentleman," said Maxim, zipping the mandarin collar of my dress.
"There. You look wonderful. I'll wait downstairs for you while
you finish getting ready." And he bent and softly kissed the nape
of my neck, then moved downstairs, all power and studied grace.

It was the first spontaneously affectionate gesture he had made
in nearly a year, since the night he found out about my betrayal.
I felt for one moment almost as if he had forgotten, or as if
nothing had ever happened, as if the whole mess, blessedly, had
only been a long fever dream. I stood looking into the mirror. I
was wearing a long red silk dress that clung to my body, the high
collar contradicting the language of the deep slit up the side of
the skirt. My dark hair was arranged in a soft, heavy mass at the
back of my head, and my gold jewelry hung about me richly. I was
ready to seduce Harry James, the gentleman, away from Rebecca,
the witch, the vixen, the woman I wanted to be. 

But did I really want to do it? Maxim's kiss had touched me
deeply, and for a moment I wavered. Here again was a moment of
decision, when I could have called down to Maxim and claimed
illness or fatigue. I need never have gone to that party. I could
have been myself again, his young wife, happy and awkward and a
refreshing change from his first one. He would have accepted
that, and at that moment, I might have, too. But then I
remembered Maxim's white face and his twisted smile when he saw
that I had slept with someone else. When he saw what Rebecca had
done. 

I reached for my reddest lipstick, and I leaned forward to apply
it. My hand was perfectly steady.

+++++

The party was already in full swing and threatening to spill onto
the lawn when we arrived. It was hotter inside than it was out,
the air conditioning failing to make an impression on all those
bodies. Waiters were everywhere, offering drinks and little
savory things on toast. I lost Maxim in the crowd almost as soon
as we came in the door.

I didn't care. How could I ever have felt awkward and ill at ease
with these people? How could I have spent so much time wondering
what they thought of me?

"My dear, you look wonderful tonight," called a man I vaguely
recognized. A friend of Maxim's? Of my father's? I waved at him,
smiled at his wife, and walked on. I moved from room to room,
sipping my drink, as cool as if it were midwinter. I smiled at
people but ignored attempts at conversation. I was looking for my
host and hostess, prey and predator. 

I could hardly imagine a party like this in the high, cool halls
of Rosewood. The house seemed endless, room after hot room packed
with people. The conversation was loud enough to drown the music,
and the noise was a high buzz in my head. I began to wonder if my
earlier confidence had been foolish. Would I ever find Harry in
this mob? Was I traveling in circles? Every door was open, but
none revealed the distinguished grey head I was looking for. I
wouldn't ask. I knew no one. I had another drink.

One thing I was grateful for, even in the noise and heat. Timothy
Denison was nowhere in evidence. Rebecca must have moved on.

I found the only closed door in the house by accident. I was
standing on the upstairs balcony with my back against a wall,
coming slowly to believe that our hosts had set the party in
motion and then taken a plane to Bali, when I heard muffled
voices coming from behind me. I hadn't heard a single muffled
voice all evening--only loud, raucous voices raised in laughter
or argument or a struggle for preeminence. I was thinking about
this when a door opened immediately behind me. I was face to face
with Harry James.

"Well, hello there," he said. He recognized me at once; old money
always will. "How are you? I'm so glad you could make it. Having
a nice time?"

"Yes, thank you so much for having us," I said. Damn! My manners
again. That was a six-year-old's reply, not a sexy woman's.

"How's Max?" he asked, then added automatically, glancing away,
"the lucky dog."

This was not at all how the conversation was supposed to begin. I
cast desperately about in my mind for a flattering and seductive
way to say, My husband is fine, thank you, but couldn't come up
with one. It didn't matter anyway. Harry was looking down the
hallway toward the stairs, smiling at someone else,
apologetically squeezing past me. My great plan of revenge was
ludicrously over before it had begun.

I couldn't bear it. My hand shot out and I took him by the wrist.
He looked at my hand, then, kindly, at my face. My face, which
was nothing like Rebecca's.

"Yes, my dear?" he said.

I meant to kiss him, or to whisper something in his ear, or at
the very least to smile seductively. Some token left on the
board, something to say that I had not been utterly defeated. But
just then I looked down from the balcony and saw Maxim. His
upturned face was smiling, and he waved at me. I lifted a hand
like lead and waved back.

"There's Maxim," I said. Harry James looked around, and then
waved enthusiastically at my husband. 

"I'll go down and say hello, if I can find him in this mess," he
said. "I'll see you later, my dear." And he was gone.

I stood, blind with failure. I could feel the ignominious tears
beginning to prick at the back of my eyes. I had to go somewhere.
I could not, could not allow this to happen here and now. I
groped along the wall, and my hand found the doorknob. A moment
later, unthinking, unseeing, I had shut the crowds away. I was
safe as houses. 

And just as I was about to let myself dissolve into tears, I
heard someone clear her throat. I turned around so fast that I
heard a soft purring sound as the seam of my skirt tore at my
thigh.

Rebecca. Why hadn't I guessed?

The room was small and intimate. On the delicate furniture, here
and there, stood vases of rich rhododendrons the color of blood.
There, in a sleeveless black dress, her arms casually stretched
along the top of the white sofa, sat the woman who had possessed
and discarded everything I wanted. She had destroyed it, and
tossed it aside. I hated her. I blamed her for my unwelcoming
house, which loved her best. I blamed her for my distant husband,
who had been hollowed out like the shell of an egg by his
marriage to her. And perhaps most of all--perhaps most
unjustly--I blamed her for the whispering voice I heard, day and
night, that always said the same thing: nothing like Rebecca, you
are nothing like Rebecca. I didn't want to be like Rebecca. I
wanted something impossible, instead. I wanted to *be* Rebecca,
herself, the woman I hated: all the things she had and was. 

I stood without saying a word, pale as death in my torn silk
dress, Cinderella with the laughter of the stepsisters ringing in
her ears. 

Suddenly, Rebecca stood up. She walked swiftly to the fireplace
and back, her dress flapping at her ankles. I realized dimly that
she looked nervous. Rebecca, nervous? She looked around the
room--there were no cigarettes, no matches, not in a room so
delicate as this--and let out an exasperated little sigh.
Finally, she came to stand before me, eight inches shorter than
I, sleek and perfect. 

Or... perfect? Standing so near, I could see the lines at the
corners of her eyes. She looked tired, and startlingly human. Was
this really the Rebecca I had dreamed of poisoning, of revenging
myself upon, of vanquishing?

"For the longest time, I couldn't believe he divorced me and then
married you," she said. Her voice should have been bitter, but
her soft accent robbed the words of the sting that lurked there.
"Old Max-the-husband. I should have known he was never married to
me in the first place. He never loved me. Or you, either. He was
really only married to his house all along. Don't you think so,
honey?"

I listened carefully for the current under the venom. Careful,
careful, I thought. Hear what she's really saying. And I heard
Rebecca concede defeat. I clenched my fists in hot triumph, the
hatred licking and licking and licking away inside me.

But she was still speaking. There was something else in her face,
in her voice, something I'd never seen before.

"Oh, honey," she said, her eyes on the rise and fall of my
breasts. "Why did you have to be so completely glorious?"

This is it, I thought, with a sudden spurt of glee. Why didn't I
think of it before? This is ten times better than Timothy. If she
desires me, I have what I need.

While she was still speaking, I slipped my fingers into her sleek
charioteer's head of red-gold hair, tilted her mouth up to mine,
and kissed her. I kissed the mouth that had kissed every lover I
had ever known. I kissed the woman whose life I wanted, and I
felt the eager licking of flame inside me turn into a roaring,
consuming fire.

Rebecca had stopped talking, and her mouth was soft and sweet and
surprised under mine, like the mouth of a young girl. I put a
hand on her waist, the fabric of her dress slippery under my
palm, and spread my fingers wide until I was touching the side of
her breast. She breathed faster, and her breast rose under my
fingers. How did I know what to do? It was easy. It was so easy.


Her green eyes were wide, looking into mine. She looked younger
than me. I kissed her temple, then bent to kiss each cheekbone,
with its dusting of freckles. 

"Beautiful," I murmured, and the fire in my gut roared for more.
We moved to the sofa, and I reached for the buttons on her dress.
She never made a single movement to stop me, and after a moment,
I felt tiny hands like birds at the slit of my dress, halfway up
my thigh. I turned my head so I could kiss her pale throat, then
the hollow between her breasts. Warm skin, softer than I would
have guessed. I had never touched a woman before, not like this.
Easy. 

All this time, I was bubbling with glee. Perfect, perfect, I
thought. She wants you! Rebecca wants you! Look at her! She's
begging for it!

And she was. Her chiseled face lay flushed on the white sofa, her
eyes meeting mine, pleading for more. Her hands stroked my
silk-covered breasts at first, clumsily circling the nipples, but
after a moment she lay back and gave in to pleasure, making tiny
noises in the back of her throat.

This is it, I thought. I will make her give in utterly to me. I
will be the one in charge, Rebecca.

I bent my head and gently took one erect nipple into my mouth,
then let it slide from between my lips. With my hands, I reached
under her silky black skirt and between her thighs. She started,
then relaxed, and when I fumbled a little, taking off her
panties, she helped me by raising her hips. All this time, she
remained wordless.

Then, under her skirt, I began gently stroking her pussy. She
looked so beautiful half-dressed and on her way to orgasm that I
wondered why she didn't go around like this all the time. Her
color was high, her hair tousled, her eyes half-closed, and she
looked perfectly, radiantly lovely. I hesitated a moment, cupping
her mound with my hand, then slipped a finger into her pussy. 

Oh. Wet. Hot and wet. Another finger, and now I touched her clit.
Easy, this was easy, and her breathing was changing as I moved my
fingers with the light, fluttering movements I had come to love
on my own body. I could smell the rich, heady scent of her pussy,
and I could feel the rising color on my own cheeks. A little
faster, now. A little faster. 

I knelt before Rebecca James, orchestrating her orgasm, and
watched as her body leapt and trembled and whimpered helplessly
in pleasure, her eyes squeezed shut, her muscles tense. When I
bent and took her nipple into my mouth and bit down on it, she
caught fire. A high-pitched cry of pleasure. Another. Her belly
was hard as a board, her chest flushed, her pussy pulled and
rippled around my stroking fingers. I had never seen anything
quite so beautiful.

Still, I might have escaped. I really believe that I might have
escaped intact, my lust for revenge satisfied, the fire quenched,
if she hadn't said anything to me. All the time I was making love
to her, she spent wordless in my arms and under my lips. I might
have gone out of the room forever that way. 

But instead, just as I was getting ready to get up from my knees,
she reached out a hand and touched my hair, once, very gently. I
looked up at her. She was smiling at me with soft irony.

"Thank you so much," she said. "But oh, honey, I hate to think
you're not going to be here for breakfast."

Before I knew it, I laughed, a warm, happy sound. And then I knew
that Rebecca had consumed me, too.

+++++ 

Last night I dreamed I was committing adultery again. Timothy
Denison was nothing to me, even when he was inside me; a
relationship could heal from that. But this time? This time I am
in terrible trouble. This time I am in love.

I hear the roar of the flames. The light of the burning could be
confused with the sunrise. The ashes will be bitter on the
tongue.

Damn Rebecca, I think, trying to find a cool spot on the pillow.
Damn Rebecca.


Edited by Father Ignatius

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