Chapter 7: One Bed

The chairwoman's house stood on a dune above the Atlantic, white and low and quiet.

A boathouse sat at the bottom of the lawn.

A housekeeper in a gray uniform showed us to our room at nine.

She opened the door, said good night in careful English and left.

There was one bed.

It was a very large bed, with white linen and a deep blue blanket folded across the foot.

"There's a chaise," I said.

It sat under the window, upholstered in cream silk, and it was about five feet long.

"I'm six-two," Weston said.

"You can have the floor."

"The floor has no rug. The house is made of stone."

"Then you'll have a story about it."

He looked at the bed and then at me, and his face showed nothing.

Someone knocked on the door.

The housekeeper came in again, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and two cups.

She set it on the side table and looked at the bed.

Then she looked at both of us, standing three feet apart on the rug.

"Madam asked me to bring tea," she said. "In case you're cold."

She left.

"She's checking," I said.

"She's checking," Weston agreed.

I took the left side of the bed and I took it in my clothes.

He took the right side and lay on top of the covers, flat on his back, with his hands folded on his chest.

We lay there in the dark for what felt like an hour.

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