Sam’s face displayed understanding, albeit coupled with a healthy dose of fear. “Are you worried she’ll slip away again?”
“Yes. Before… it… I never really paid much heed to kids. But now, it seems no matter where we go, what we say, we can’t get away from reminders.”
Sam placed a hand on mine. “Do you think you two will try again?”
“Only time will tell. We touched on it once in therapy, but Kat… well she hasn’t said it, but I think the guilt is killing her. Or the wondering what if. What if she’d left the house two minutes earlier or later? What if she’d taken a different route?”
“Where was she going?”
I shrugged. “Haven’t asked. Her memory of the day is foggy at best.”
Sam blinked, cleared her throat, and said, “Would you consider… you know?” She mimed a pregnant belly.
“Being the birth mom?”
She nodded.
“Of course. We talked about it in the beginning. Me carrying a child. But how do I broach that now without making her feel like I’m laying the blame at her feet, or like I’m making a statement about how she can’t have kids anymore?”
“What about adoption?”
“I wouldn’t hesitate. I think right now we just need time. We’re both still young. And with London on the horizon… we need to wait and see what the future holds.”
Sam stayed silent.
The waiter arrived with the steaming-hot appetizers. Neither one of us dug in.
“What about you two?” I asked.
“Kids?”
I fanned a fried mozzarella stick and dipped it into the creamy ranch sauce, blowing on it before placing it in my mouth. “Yeah.”
“Lucy wants one.” She dunked a piece of celery into the blue cheese dip.
“And you?” I gave the fried cheese one last blow before carefully nipping off another small bite.
“Y-yeah, of course… just not right now.”
I swallowed. “That wasn’t convincing. Not one bit.”
She slapped a palm over her mouth and spoke through her fingers. “I know. That’s part of our problem. Lucy wants to start a family. Like now. And right now, we don’t even live together. Not officially at least.”
“Maybe that’s the first step. Get a place together or move in with her. Jesus, her apartment has the most amazing views.”
Sam lurched upright in her seat. “That’s not a bad idea. Let us get used to the idea of domesticity.”
“You want one of Kat’s June Cleaver aprons?” I winked.
“That’s an idea. But I’d wear it with nothing else.” Sam slathered a buffalo wing in blue cheese. She always used her own sauce, since I didn’t eat meat. Not that I was that much of a diehard veggie. It was Sam’s style.
“Do you think June ever seduced Ward that way?”
Sam chortled. “Now that’s an image I wish I didn’t have in my head.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh my God, let’s throw a Halloween party next year and everyone has to dress up as their favorite black-and-white TV show character.”
The unassuming woman I’d collided with earlier walked by, and I nodded in her direction. She stumbled into an empty table. Accident-prone much?
I focused on Sam. “I’m still recovering from the Christmas sweater thing.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” she chided.
“Okay, I call Marilyn Munster.”
“But she was normal.” Her face screwed up.
“Exactly.”
“Gosh, Cori. You can be such a buzzkill when you really put your mind to it.”
I flicked my hand to brush off the insult. “I’m trying to imagine Harold as Eddie Munster.”
“Do you think we can sway him? That’d be a hoot.” She clasped her hands like a child begging for cotton candy.
“Kat can.”
“Speaking of, how’s the Simone project coming along?”
“Oh, I put my specialist on it, but her heart’s not in it. Kat’s worried Harold will be a single man soon.”
“Really?” The excitement whooshed out of her shoulders.
“The theory is Simone has a thing for Amber and only Amber, and this throuple bit is a way of pushing Harold out of the picture completely.”
Sam bobbled her head. “I can see that. And it explains why she’s avoiding us and keeping Amber to herself all the time.”
“Really? Who has time to think of shit like that?” I crunched into a carrot stick.
“This is a whole new world. Everyone is coming out as this and that. It’s wonderful, but it also opens the door to a lot more creative solutions for conniving bitches like Simone.”
“Hey now. We haven’t met the conniving bitch yet. Maybe we should reserve judgment.” I smiled.
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
“Kat has a painting buddy who she thinks would be perfect for Harold—if we need to go down that road in the future. Goodness knows the man doesn’t know how to find women on his own.”
Sam’s broad smile knocked the sadness out of her eyes. “Kat should open a matchmaking business. Do you think she’d talk to Lucy for me?”
“The marriage gambit?”
“It’s not a gambit.”
“If you say so, but if I looped her in, she’d be talking to you. And once Kat senses trouble, she can be relentless. If you want me to open that can of worms, I will. But I’m warning you, she can make your life hell, in a well-meaning way of course.”
“Maybe that’s what I need.”
I thought she needed a swift kick to the ass. Cheating! Never an option. Never. “Are you giving me the green light to fill her in on our talks?”
Sam stared blank faced.
“That’s what I thought. I’ll try to keep it quiet, but she has a way of getting things out of me.”
“That’s because you’re like a dude.”
“That’s the second time I’ve been told that today. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at Kat. People in glass houses…”
Sam’s face went up in flames.
“Need ice?” I pointed to her water glass.
“Don’t be an ass.” She sipped the water.
“Yeah, I’m the ass for noticing you leering at my wife. Of course, everyone does.” I munched a tater tot, grinning as I chewed.
Chapter Ten
I had my arm around Kat’s shoulder. Mom and Dad were hand in hand, and Roger and Barbara huddled with their heads together, peering at a shop window on Bourbon Street. Each of us held a foot-long plastic neon-green cup containing the special New Orleans brew called Hurricane. Within the French Quarter, drinking on the street was permissible and encouraged, with several places selling booze to go.
“Where are we heading?” Dad asked, teetering a bit. We’d been drinking since noon, and the clock had just ticked past seven.
“Just a bit further,” I said.
It was the day before New Year’s Eve and most everyone we encountered on the streets was in a festive mood. Many of the buildings had Christmas lights and wreaths, even though the temperature was a balmy sixty-one, almost the equivalent of walking on the sun for us Bostonians. Christmas jazz drifted out on the street from most of the shops, restaurants, and bars. The French Quarter had a charm of its own. A mix of old and new. Sophistication and drunkenness. High society and strip clubs. American, French, Creole, and African influences. What really stuck out was how many of the old buildings had garish neon advertisements. Barely Legal Club. Tropical Isle. Daiquiris. Big Daddy’s. Voodoo. Temptations. Big Easy. Red Rhino. On and on.
Kat wore a loose skirt and a lightweight long-sleeved top. I’d casually suggested earlier that she wear a tank top underneath, since my plans involved her working up a sweat before the night was over.
Outside Bourbon Street on the corner of St. Peter Street, I waved an arm and said, “Ta-da!”
Kat eyed the building. “This is the special place
you insisted on dragging all of us to?”
“Yes! From what I hear, it’s one of the best places to dance.”
Mom, Barbara, and Kat eyeballed the squat white building with numerous mint-colored shutters on both levels. Their expressions said, thanks but no thanks. I went into sales-pitch mode.
“It’s called the best karaoke bar in the world.”
Roger cupped a hand to his ear. “Did you say karaoke?”
“I did,” I drunkenly chirped.
Roger rubbed his hands together. It was no secret my fun-loving uncle was nutty about karaoke, but I was the only family member who would join him. Even Kat wouldn’t get up on the stage. When I had learned about this place, I couldn’t let my uncle leave the Big Easy without us singing one song together.
“Many famous people have graced the stage here, including Smashing Pumpkins, Depeche Mode, and N’Sync, but Roger,” I placed a hand on his shoulder, “there’s one name I know you’ll really love. Charles Barkley.”
“Who’s Charles Barkley?” Kat furrowed her brow, unimpressed.
“You don’t know Sir Charles?” Roger puffed out his chest. “That’s like me asking you who Miro is.”
“Oh please, you can’t compare the two.” Mom waved a dismissive hand and turned to Kat. “Barkley is the basketball player who spit on a young girl during a game.” She adjusted her Diane von Furstenberg silk chain-link scarf over her spaghetti-strap gown.
“That was one incident!” I defended him, which only made Kat scowl even more. “He didn’t mean to spit on the kid. He was aiming at a fan who had been shouting racial slurs throughout the game.”
Kat and Mom rolled their eyes.
Roger protected me from their glares. “Don’t mind the haters, Cori. You and I have a singing date.”
I looked over my shoulder and smiled as my father gallantly put an arm out for my mom and aunt to escort them inside. When tipsy, he was quite playful but still the perfect gentleman.
Roger and I marched to the bar and discovered that a three-for-one happy hour special was in full swing.
“Three-for-one!” Roger’s eyes gleamed like a child in Willy Wonka’s factory.
Kat sidled up behind me and twined her arms around me. Her breasts pressed against my back.
“Hello, beautiful. What’s your poison?” I asked.
“Something strong as fuck. I need some liquid courage.” She licked my earlobe.
“I’ve never known you to need courage. What’s up?”
“I’m going to sing,” she crowed.
Kat was an exhibitionist in almost all areas except for one: singing in public. In the shower, she belted out lyrics like a pro. In public—no chance in hell.
“Get out.” I enthusiastically pounded Roger’s shoulder. “We got a live one.”
Roger scrunched his face.
I jerked my thumb over my shoulder and shouted over the music and wall-to-wall tourists. “Kat wants to sing.”
Roger gave a thumbs-up and beamed. An overeager man in a Hawaiian shirt bulldozed past a woman clutching three beers in her hands, causing her to sideswipe Roger, spilling beer all over his polo and khakis. He laughed it off, patting the woman on the shoulder as if to say, “Thanks for the initiation into the club.”
Kat tightened her arms around my waist. “Only if you’ll sing with me.”
“Anything for you, Kit Kat.” I swiveled my neck to kiss her cheek. “Do you have a song in mind?”
“‘Hot Blooded.’”
“Ooooh… I’ve never sung that one.”
She slapped my arm. “Yes, you have! You sing it in the shower all the time.”
“I meant in front of a crowd. Sheesh. You’re always trying to bust me for something.” I flashed my I’m innocent grin.
She squeezed her arms around me tighter. “I know. I’m soooo hard on you.”
“I’m sensing sarcasm.”
She craned her neck so I could see her quirked eyebrow. “You think?”
I about-faced and gave Kat a quick peck on the cheek. “Go easy on me. Remember, I’m just a dumb jock.”
“With two Harvard degrees. Nice try.”
Roger motioned for everyone to gather around so he could divvy out shots. Barbara and Mom inspected the cloudy liquid, but then each shrugged. We were on vacation, after all.
Roger’s method for a toast was more like a coach rallying his team to kick some ass. “One, two, three! Take no prisoners!” He tossed his drink back with gusto.
I drank mine in one swallow, regretting it instantly. “Shit. What was in that?” I rubbed my tongue on the roof of my mouth and shook my head, trying to dislodge the foul taste.
He grinned. “Don’t be a wimp. Here’s another.”
“Wimp? Just try to keep up, old man.” I shot another round of nastiness. Why were shots always revolting yet such a mainstay to having a night on the town? Probably because people, me especially, hated being called a wimp or party pooper.
The screen of Roger’s cell phone lit up in his khakis. He’d been talking on the phone and texting more than usual. I prayed it was work bugging him during our family vacation, not some bimbo. Kat nodded, and she quickly pointed to something across the room to steer Barb’s attention.
Roger tweaked my pink Red Sox tee. “It’s time to sing!”
Kat waved good-bye. Barbara playfully shook her head. Roger’s mania for making an ass out of himself in public was beyond her reserved east coast mantra.
While Roger negotiated with the dude in charge, I studied our party from afar. My father whispered something in Mom’s ear, and she whacked his arm with a wicked I’ll show you later grin on her face, making me cringe. Barbara and Kat had their heads together, deep in conversation. They related to each other like mother and daughter, so I imagined they were getting along just fine even though it was loud as shit.
Roger tapped my shoulder and thrust a microphone into my hand.
“What are we singing?”
He twitched his silver eyebrows. “It’s a surprise.”
I had a pretty good idea.
Three minutes later, the host introduced us, squiring us to the colorful stage in front of the obnoxiously large pink and green neon sign. “Come on people!” said the man in a black T-shirt and jeans. “Make some noise for our special guests, Cori and Roger!”
The stage was the most jovial I’d ever performed on. Red paw prints were spattered over the yellow walls. Two pianos, one pink and black, the other green and yellow, were shoved against the wall. Festive colored balloons were tied on an arch. Some strategically placed guitars added to the orderly chaos.
Roger wore his karaoke game face.
Still clueless, I waited for the music to start. The unmistakable beat of “Sweet Caroline” got the crowd’s attention. I saluted Roger, and he flicked his fingers in an aw shucks way.
The song was not only a Neil Diamond classic; it was also sung at every Red Sox game. For diehard fans like Roger and me, it was holier than a hymn. My uncle once told me he wanted it played at his funeral.
Kat put two fingers in her mouth and belted out an impressive whistle. She pumped her arm in the air, shouting, “Whoop! Whoop!” She could do that, but not sing?
Dad clapped as if he was enjoying a St. Paddy’s day parade.
The crowd cheered, screamed, and after Roger egged them on, joined in singing. A group of Sox fans, evident by their baseball caps, howled with encouragement.
By the time we were nearly done, everyone in the place held their drinks aloft, swaying back and forth, like we were in Germany during Oktoberfest. Roger spread his arms out wide, soaking in the adulation.
The host appeared on the side of the stage and shouted into his mike, “That’s what I’m talking about. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Roger and Cori!”
Everyone went berserk.
We jostled our way through the crowd back to the group, and Kat’s eyes were wide as if a flyin
g saucer hovered overhead.
“Scared, Kit Kat?” I teased.
She slammed her lips shut and shook her head, giving zero illusion she wasn’t freaking out. I found it fascinating that someone who was usually so comfortable in her own skin had such a fear of singing in front of well beyond inebriated people whose only goal was to have fun.
“Don’t worry. Most of the people here tonight won’t remember a thing tomorrow. Hell, they probably won’t remember what happened after another hour.” I yanked her hand and led her to the courtyard outside for a much needed breath of fresh air.
“You and Roger were amazing.” She wrapped her hands around my neck and moved in for a kiss.
I was more than willing to oblige.
There was a smattering of people outside, and some hooted encouragingly as we kissed. Kat deepened it, much to the tawdry crowd’s delight. Two women kissing in public usually pleased crowds.
“You can do that, but you won’t sing.”
She ran a finger down the front of my shirt. “The thought scares the crap out of me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t make you.”
She smiled. “I know. But I’m making myself. When you think about it, it’s silly really.” She leaned in and whispered, “I mean, I’ve gone down on you in a movie theater.”
I tossed my head back and crackled with laughter. “Yes, you have. More than once, I might add.”
“I love the sense of danger.” Her chocolate eyes gleamed with excitement.
“Maybe that’s the problem. When singing, there’s no sense of danger, just fear.”
She crinkled her nose. “So I need more oomph to get me going?”
“I think so.”
“Well, how can we add that?”
“I could go down on you while you’re singing.” I tilted my head, waiting for her to thump my arm or something.
“Not with Barbara present!” she shrieked.
“So if I sent them back to the hotel, you’d let me?” I asked out of curiosity. I’d never do such a thing. At least I didn’t think I would. But in the past, Kat had talked me into doing many things way outside my comfort zone—like letting her eat me out while we watched The King’s Speech. I still had no idea how that movie ended. Did he actually speak?
Confessions From the Dark Page 11