36 Arguments for the Existence of God - [20]

concocted by the cosmetics industry. There are laugh lines lightly traced around her laughing green eyes, but that seems only right for Roz, considering how much laughter must have seized her in these passing years. She’s wearing a short, swingy red wool coat, beautifully cut, with fur round the collar and cuffs that looks undeniably authentic. What would it be? Sable? Seal? Mynx? Or is he conflating mink and lynx? Mynx, if there is such a thing, would definitely suit her. She’s in high-heeled black boots that put her almost nose-to-nose with Cass, and she’s carrying a large black quilted purse whose tasteful gold trim has “Chanel” embossed on it. The only remote reminder of the old hippie attire is the long gold-and-ebony earrings dangling out from under her lustrous hair.

Smiling seductively, she slips off her black gloves and unbuttons her coat to reveal a swanky red wool suit underneath, with great shiny thick buttons down the jacket front. There’s an ebony-and-gold choker around her throat to match the earrings. The suit skirt is cut short, and the long span of leg above the boots is spectacular. Them’s some gams, as Roz herself had once observed to Cass, and them’s still are.

The smile above the choker is vintage Roz, halfway between a grin and a leer. She looks, as Shimmy Baumzer might put it, like the fox in the cathouse that swallowed the canary.

“I’m reversing the clock. I’ve taken control of my biochemistry.”

The mention of the clock pressingly reminds Cass that he’s going to be late for his appointment with Shimmy.

“I have a matching mink hat, too, only I didn’t want you to see me with hat-head. It’s in the car.” She tosses her unhatted head in the direction of the red Mercedes she’s parked haphazardly on the street. If she doesn’t get a ticket for parking without a Cambridge-resident sticker, she’ll get one for having her backside sticking out far enough to obstruct traffic.

“I’m impressed. I’m more than impressed. I’m speechless with admiration. But, Roz, I wasn’t kidding about that appointment.”

“Who you going to see who could possibly be more important than your best girl, whom you haven’t seen in at least a hundred years?”

“I’ve got an appointment with the president of Frankfurter. I have to be there in about half an hour.”

“Frankfurter? That’s perfect, sweetheart! I’d love to see the old place. Get some clothes on! We’re going to be late!”

So Cass skips his shower and heads upstairs to throw on some clothes, leaving Roz in the living room below. Roz is never shy about poking around and has an anthropologist’s instinct for fieldwork, so it wouldn’t surprise Cass if, by the time he’s loping down the stairs, she’s more familiar with his present life than she was a few minutes before.

“If you want, I’ll take the wheel, since, as you might remember, I drive like a maniac.”

Now that she mentions it, he does remember.

“No, we’ll take my car. I’ve got a faculty parking sticker. You might want to move your car into the driveway, though. You’ll probably get a ticket.”

“But we’ll be late for your appointment! I’ll just take my chances. Life’s a thrill! Wait a minute, I just want to get my hat. You can’t leave mink lying around in Cambridge. Some PETA nut will break in and douse it with fake blood.”

He waits for her to get back into the car and backs carefully out of the icy driveway.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive? I could get us to Frankfurter faster than it’s taking you to get out of this driveway.”

“It’s fine, Roz. I’ll drive and you’ll talk.”

“Okay, but don’t think I’m not going to get everything out of you. For starters, I want to know who this Lucinda is. I hope she’s an improvement on that last woman of yours. What was her name? That batty poet with the red lipstick smeared across her teeth?”

“Pascale Puissant.”

“Pascale, right. Boy, that was a man-eater if ever there was one. Anyone ever told you you’re a philogynist?”

“Is there such a word?”

“Probably not, due to lack of demand. I remember you said her beauty reminded you of a wolverine.”

“A wolf, Roz, not a wolverine.”

“Same difference. Red in tooth and claw. Where’s that from?”

“Tennyson.”

“Did she stick it out with that doctor?”

“They lasted less than a year.”

Roz reaches over and ruffles Cass’s hair, letting her hand drift down the back of his neck. He wishes it didn’t give him the thrill it does. Men’s bodies are cads. Still, the sensation reminds him of Lucinda, if that’s any redemption.

“You’re better off without her. You should be grateful to that brain doctor-what was his name again?-for luring her away from you.”

“Micah McSweeney, and I am.”

“Sometimes I think your mate-selection module got knocked out of whack in the commotion you went through with me.”

“You may be right.”

“Remember when you begged me to marry you?”

“Did I? Sure you’re not mixing me up with some other bloke?”

They’re both grinning.

“Did you? On your knees, did you!”

“And what did you say? Did you by any chance say, ‘I need a life of maximal options’?”

“You still remember!”

Her voice is rich and husky, though the vibrating veins of animation that run through it make it sound as if it belongs to a higher range. It’s exactly the voice Cass remembers from twenty years ago. If Cass doesn’t glance over at her, he’d swear it’s the twenty-nine-year-old woman. Then again, even when he does give her a quick sidelong glance, she looks not much older than when they had been lovers. The biggest difference is, she looks a lot tidier and more expensive-though he wonders about the bottoms of her feet.