Chapter 7: Not My Trustee

We didn't drive back to Sausalito that night.

Malcolm had a key to the caretaker's cottage at the top of the vineyard.

He said we could both sleep there and he'd take the couch.

I let him believe that for about ten minutes.

The cottage was one room with a woodstove, a low bed and a window full of stars.

He lit the stove and filled a kettle.

I stood in the middle of the floor with my mother's voice still going around in my head.

Everything my mother had arranged was in this room with me.

I wanted one thing nobody had arranged.

"Malcolm."

He turned from the stove.

"I don't want tea," I said.

"I figured." He put the kettle down. "Gillian, we talked about the rule."

"You talked about the rule."

"It's a good rule."

"It's a rule about money," I said.

"Tonight I don't have any. I have your sweatshirt and a jewelry box and a bad day."

"Nobody can buy me with that."

He swallowed.

"The trust is not the reason I'm standing here," I said.

"I'd have kissed you on the deck if I'd owned nothing in the world, and I did."

"You did," he said, hoarsely.

"I'm not asking you to break your word to my mother."

"I'm telling you I'm done being handed things on a schedule."

I pulled the sweatshirt off over my head and dropped it on the floor.

"I'm taking this one."

His eyes went over me.

He took a very long time doing it.

I stood in my bra and jeans in the firelight and let him look.

For the first time in my life I didn't want to cover anything up.

"Come here," Malcolm said.

His voice had changed.

It was lower, and rough, and it went straight down my spine.

I crossed the floor.

He took my face in both hands and kissed me, slow this time, deep and open.

My knees went, and I had to hold on to his shirt.

He backed me to the bed and sat down on the edge, and pulled me between his knees.

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