Another Marvelous Thing Read Online Free PDF

a kind of impish smirk overtook her usually expressionless features. It was almost plain to see that she was repressing a smile.
    â€œI was right around the corner,” Francis lied. “At a very boring dinner party. I don’t generally drop by, but I was right in the neighborhood.”
    â€œOh,” said Billy.
    â€œI hope I’m not dropping by at a bad time. I mean, you and Grey might have already turned in.” Francis felt his scalp begin to prickle.
    â€œGrey’s in Chicago,” said Billy. “I was working. Come in and I’ll give you a drink.”
    But she did not go toward the kitchen. Absentmindedly she wandered up the stairs toward her study. Francis followed her. His heart was beating wildly. The bedroom and the guest room were also upstairs, he knew. Where was she taking him?
    He had forgotten how these things are accomplished. Did one grab the girl by the arm, or tackle her by the ankle? Did one pluck at the sleeve of her turtleneck, tap her on the back? Ask? Beg?
    Of course Francis had forgotten that in the case of true love, things simply happen—almost the only circumstances under which they do. People just look at each other in a certain way, and the signal is as unmistakable as the mating behavior of Atwater’s prairie chicken.
    What happened was that Billy got to the door of her study and then turned around, clearly confused. Only later did Francis realize that she had no idea of what she was doing. She looked at him with a puzzled, unfocused aspect that was totally out of character for her.
    â€œWhat am I doing up here?” she said. “I was supposed to make you a drink.”
    She looked up at him, and he looked down at her. The realization that he had fallen in love caused his heart first to shrink and then to expand.
    Billy took a step toward the stair which only moved her a step closer to Francis. His chin, he saw, would graze her head. One more step in either direction—she toward him, or he toward her—and they were in each other’s arms. Francis felt impelled to move: he felt in the grip of a great many involuntary actions. His hand was on her shoulder. It was on her back. His other arm encircled her. He pulled her close. Some other hand—it had to have been his right or left—entangled its fingers in her hair and tipped her head back. Francis felt her arms slowly creep up his sides and around his neck in a gesture that was either tender or grudging. To his amazement he saw that Billy’s eyes were closed. She looked soft and dreamy—quite unlike her usual exasperated self. He was about to kiss her when she opened her eyes. These eyes, generally a hard, unavailing, unsentimental blue-gray, the sort of eyes that see right through a thing, had turned, it seemed to him, one shade darker. Francis felt very like a swimmer about to jump into a deep pool of cold water. It was now or never. He pulled her close again. Their lips met.
    Hers were soft, and tasted of raspberries. Her hair smelled of baby shampoo.
    Of course, first kisses tell it all. They reveal, as it were, the inner man. Billy’s first responses were tentative and noncommittal—as noncommittal as you can be wrapped up in someone else’s arms. She was grudging, and Francis knew that she would always be. But when she really kissed him back, he learned that she felt about him as he felt about her, although he knew it would be rather like breaking rocks ever to get her to say it. He would never hear a whispered endearment from her lips, he was certain. As for Francis, even he knew what he was broadcasting. Relief, guilt, and liberation made him passionate. He was hers entirely, after a manner of speaking.
    Their first actual kiss was a one-celled organism which, after they had been standing on the stairway kissing for some time, evolved into something rather grander—a bird of paradise, for example. Francis was afraid to stop kissing her. He feared that