Primary Storm Read Free Page A

may be a nut, but I'm not disgruntled. If anything, I'm very gruntled."
    That made her laugh and she tossed her napkin at me, and in a matter of minutes, dinner was complete.
    In the living room I started a fire in the fireplace, and Annie took the couch and watched one of the early evening cable network shows, as I did cleanup in the kitchen. Before I started I gave her a kiss and she said, "Lacey, one of the communications people back in Manchester, she said if she had a man waiting to make her dinner and clean up afterward, she'd jump him on the kitchen table when he was done."
    "Sounds like marvelous campaign advice."
    She touched my cheek and said, "Kitchen tables can be so uncomfortable."
    I nodded in agreement. "Sure. Crumbs. Butter dishes. Odd pieces of silverware."
    "But your bed is nice and wide and warm."
    "Sure is."
    "Hurry up in the kitchen then, sport."
    I walked back. "Free advice from a lawyer-to-be. Better not let the Massachusetts Bar Association hear about that."
    I thought she'd say something sharp in reply, but by then, she was curled up on the couch, remote control in her red-painted fingernails. I kept an occasional eye on her as I scrubbed out the pots and washed the dishes and silverware and glassware. There were no leftovers --- thankfully, for usually leftovers in my refrigerator transmute themselves into science experiments within a week or so --- but there was entertainment as I worked. Annie takes her work and her politics quite seriously, and from the kitchen I heard her shout back at the television, "Moron!
    "Idiot!
    "No, you're behind in the polls because your candidate can only debate the issues when a script is written for him!"
    I kept on cleaning and then wiped down the kitchen countertop, and when things were dried and put away and the lobster shells were put into the trash, I went out into the living room.
    The television was still on, another cable news show was broadcasting a couple of campaign operatives screaming at each other, the fire had died down, and Annie Wynn, my Annie Wynn, was lightly snoring on the couch, the remote still in her fingers.
    I gingerly pried the remote from her hand, set the television timer to shut down in fifteen minutes so the sudden quiet wouldn't wake her, and I gently picked her up. She started murmuring and through a quiet yet forceful touch, I got her off the couch and upstairs in my bed in just a manner of minutes, holding on to her tight as we maneuvered up the stairway. There were two highlights of bringing her into my bedroom: undressing her and seeing what manner of undergarments she had chosen that day, and the sweet wine-tasted kiss I got from her as I slid her under the sheets, and the way she murmured, "Thank you so much for taking care of me."
    I pulled the sheet and blankets up. Taking care of someone.
    It had been a very long time since I had taken care of anyone, and though I was seriously out of practice, I found that to my surprise, I was liking it.
    I checked the clock. It was not even 9:00 P.M. I wasn't tired but I didn't want to go downstairs and watch television by myself, so I got undressed and slipped inside the cool bedding, and switched on a reading lamp. By now I was learning about Annie and her habits and foibles, and one thing I knew was that once she had fallen asleep, it would take something on the order of a tidal wave to wake her up.
    So I read for a long while, a biography of Winston Churchill, and I enjoyed the sensation of being warm and safe and having a woman slumbering in bed with me. I read until the book seemed to gain weight in my hands and fall on my chest, and soon enough, the reading lamp was out and I was asleep. The touch woke me up, and I was startled for just a moment, wondering where I was, wondering where my weapons were. Then I felt the touch again, the light scraping of fingernails against my back. I kept still and silent, just liking the touch of her hand upon me, and then her lips were at my ear,