“Actually,” Penelope said a few minutes later when they were all in the dining room, “my father insisted I bring over six bottles of his best champagne.”
“Drunk as loons by noon,” Dr. Pickett said, raising his filled glass a few minutes later in the dining room. “To the return of the most saintly man in San Francisco.”
“And the biggest tale-bearer,” Lydia said.
“Could you rephrase that a bit, Lydia?” Saint said. He looked around the table at all his friends. It was a heady thing, this looking and seeing, he thought. “Lord,” he said, his voice deep with his feelings, “it’s good to see all of you again. Allow me to refill everyone’s glass. If I spill any, it won’t be because I’m not seeing straight.”
Jules looked at Thackery and was surprised to see tears in the black man’s eyes. He met her gaze and said with a crooked smile, “I never drank champagne before.”
“Your wife, Thomas,” Saint said as he refilled Penelope’s glass, “looks as content as a spring rose, and just as pretty. Is he a good husband to you, my dear?”
Penelope gulped, her cheeks flushing with Thomas’ laughing eyes on her. “He will improve,” she said finally.
“Every day,” Thomas said, “yes, indeed.”
“Saint,” Lydia said, “I’ve baked you your favorite apple tarts. If we’re all not to be drunk under the table, I’d best serve them now.”
Three hours later, Saint, a bit tottery himself, was giving out advice for hangovers.
But it was only the beginning. By evening it seemed to Jules that everyone in San Francisco knew that Saint had regained his sight. The stream of visitors was continuous. The women brought food, the men liquor.
At midnight Jules was so tipsy that Saint half-carried her upstairs to their bedroom. He called over his shoulder, “Good luck to you, Thomas.” He grinned at the sound of Penelope’s giggle.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you quite so sodden,” he said to his wife as he undressed her. Jules looked at him owlishly and grinned. He kissed her freckle again. “Do you think if we listen we’ll hear some marvelous lewd sounds coming from the other bedroom?”
“What if they listen, Michael?” she asked, her eyes nearly crossing in her effort to focus on his face.
“I fear,” he said with a disappointed sigh, “that all they would hear would be the sound of your unladylike snoring.”
She tried to punch him in the stomach, but missed. Her head spinning, she fell onto her back on the bed.
Saint grinned down at her, and quickly pulled off the rest of her clothes. For a moment he was on the sober edge. “God,” he whispered, looking down at her. “I prayed I would see again. Do you know how beautiful you are, Jules?”
Jules was too giddy to care that she was sprawled on her back, her legs parted.
“That flame-colored hair, very delightful, sweetheart.” She realized vaguely that he wasn’t looking at her head.
“Michael,” she said, and tried to cover herself, only to feel his strong hands pulling hers away.
“Oh no, you are mine, all mine.”
She swallowed at the richness of his deep voice, then felt a wave of dizziness and giggled. “You have your clothes on,” she said.
“Not for much longer.”
To his chagrin, Jules was sound asleep when he turned back to her. He kissed her lightly, drawing her slender body against him. She’d lost weight, he thought vaguely, his eyes studying her. He looked a moment toward the lamp by the bed. I can see you, he silently told the light. I can see everything. I am the luckiest man on earth. He was loath to plunge the room into darkness. I will see the sun in the morning, he thought. He grinned crookedly. And I will feel like the very devil and probably curse it.
The following afternoon, Saint was cursing, but not from a hangover. He was standing by the dresser in their bedroom, two pieces of paper in his hand. He closed his eyes a moment, utter fury washing through him.
He strode to the top of the stairs and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Jules! Come here, now!”
Jules, who was feeling a bit tentative, excused herself from her company and slowly, with great care, mounted the stairs. She heard Agatha Newton, Tony Dawson, and Chauncey Saxton laughing in the parlor, and wished they wouldn’t be quite so loud.
“Yes, Michael?” she said, coming into the bedroom.
She stopped cold in her tracks, seeing him waving two sheets of paper at her.
“I was looking for a handkerchief,” he said with great calm, “and I just chanced to come across these.”