Bellagrand

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Grabbing the bottle, Gina poured the wine herself. “Better count your Advent blessings now, Bill Haywood’s flunky,” she said, raising her glass to her husband. “If I’ve read about him correctly, there’ll be precious few of them soon.”

They clinked, drank their wine. The fight always fizzled out of the both of them. Intimacy was a salve to smooth the sharpest edges.

“Big Bill thinks I’m too involved with you,” Harry said that night in bed. “He says I can’t be of help to him if my allegiance is divided.”

Gina wrapped her arms, her legs around her husband. “Did you tell him your allegiance isn’t divided at all? It is wholly to me.”

“You’re just making his point. Bill told me that great men cannot be great or become great when they are surrounded”—he groaned—“by their women.”

She did not unwrap herself. “And you believe him?”

“Right now, I can’t think straight.”

The covers went over their heads. The covers flew off their overheated bodies.

Afterward: “Can you think straight now?”

“I fear he may be right.”

Gina shook her head in exasperation, in muted affection. “Truly,” she said, “and in this case literally, in the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”