Palindrome by Stuart Woods

What do you do? How do you support yourself?”
    “I write. Not a hell of a lot, but I write. I’m good at it. It doesn’t support me, but there’s a little money from my parents that keeps me from having to write when I don’t want to.”
    “Where have you been living most recently?” she asked, framing the question carefully. She didn’t want generalities.
    “Rome.”
    “Where in Rome?”
    “I have a little flat in the Piazza Navona. It gets the sun in the mornings and the shade in the afternoons.”
    She reached for his hand. “Let me have a look at your palm, now.”
    He closed it. “You don’t want to know too much.”
    She wrinkled her brow.
    He reached out and massaged her forehead with his fingertips. “No furrows there, please. No worries, especially about me.” Then, as if he had done it before, he moved his hand to her cheek and kissed her lips.
    As if she had done it before, she kissed him back.
    He pulled her to her feet and put his arms around her, kissing her again.
    She responded more easily than she would have believed possible. For the moment, she had no past, and his didn’t matter. Soon, without seeming to walk, they were in her bed and naked. She received him easily, lustily, and they made each other happy.
    This is just physical, she told herself, just something I need at this moment.
    Sometime in the night, she felt him leave the bed, and she fell asleep, expecting him to return. He did not.
    The next morning, she woke feeling all rosy; then she remembered the night and suddenly felt guilty. Why? She was a grown-up; she could sleep with whom she liked. She thought about it until she had rationalized away the guilt and was left with only a warm, sweet memory.

14
    L iz stuck her head into the little office at the inn. Germaine was talking on the cellular telephone that was the inn’s only electronic contact with the mainland. “Buy a girl a cup of coffee?” Liz asked.
    Germaine covered the phone with her hand. “I’ll be with you in a minute; help yourself.”
    Liz walked into the kitchen, searching for coffee. Hamish Drummond was sitting at the otherwise empty staff table, sipping from a cup and reading a newspaper. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and joined him.
    “Morning,” he said, smiling. The usual detached charm.
    “What’s in the papers?” she asked. “I haven’t seen one for a while.”
    “The news is bad,” Hamish said, “for the Atlanta Bobcats anyway. Bake Ramsey hurt his knee, and it looks like he’s out for most of the season.”
    “I don’t follow football,” she said. Not anymore. Baker had never been seriously injured before, she remembered—not in college, not in the pros. She wondered how he was taking it. Then she dismissed her ex-husband from her mind. He was no longer her concern. “Anything else of importance?”
    He held the paper back and cast an eye over the front page. “Mmm, let’s see—unilateral disarmament; first man on Mars; Second Coming.” He shook his head. “Nothing as important as Ramsey’s knee.”
    “Now we know what your priorities are.”
    “Damn right. I had money on that game. The ‘cats should have creamed ‘em.” Hamish stood and drained his cup.
    Germaine entered from her office. “You off, then?”
    “Yep. A boat’s coming for me from Fernandina.”
    “You’re leaving us?” Liz asked.
    “Yeah, for a week or so, anyway. Got to go to New York, make a few bucks.”
    “Okay. Have a good trip.”
    “Thanks.” He snaked an arm around his sister’s neck and kissed her on the lips. “Take care.”
    “You, too. You will come back?”
    “Once I do this deal I can afford some time off. I’ll come back and wait tables or something.”
    “That’ll be the day,” Germaine said dryly.
    Hamish grabbed his bag, left by the back door, and headed for the inn’s dock.
    Germaine poured herself some coffee and sank down beside Liz. “Whew, busy morning until this minute. Nice to have