‘Heath did die. He is dead.’ Charley’s voice gentled. ‘Everyone goes through denial. I did.’
‘The dream felt so real.’
That feeling of bliss returned, fading now, fading fast, but still there. Heath was all right. She had to believe that.
‘Hold on to any joy you can. I wish …’ He ran a hand through his curls. ‘I wish I could make this all better for you. Time warp you ahead a year or two when it doesn’t hurt so much.’
His eyes were bleak; she captured his hand again. ‘You can come too. In a few years it’ll be—’
He cast her a quick glance and she knew that, for him, a few years wouldn’t do it. A few decades? Maybe. She hoped she was still in his life to find out.
And that hope was so pathetic, she started to pull away, but he clung, and she let him. Or maybe she clung and he let her. What did it matter?
‘Did you sleep?’ she asked.
He shook his head.
She remembered what she’d heard as she passed his room, and saw his exhaustion for what it was.
Guilt.
His daughter had died while in his care. He was probably never going to get over that.
‘I wish I could make this all better for you,’ she whispered.
Their eyes met. In his she saw a spark of something new – interest, attraction.
She was imagining things.
‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ Her hand tightened on his, and he stepped closer. She didn’t move back. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m a mess.’
‘You’re not.’ He lifted his free hand and brushed her bird’s nest hair away from her no doubt pasty face. But instead of letting his arm fall, he rested his knuckles against her cheek. ‘You’ve been a rock. The first time I saw you cry was last night. That’s incredible.’
‘You’re incredible.’ God, she was so lame.
His breath puffed across her lips. She licked them.
His bright blue gaze followed the path of her tongue.
She was suddenly hot and dizzy with it. She swayed, her breasts just brushing his chest.
They froze.
How they wound up kissing, she never could figure out.
How they wound up fucking …
Was anyone’s guess.
Charley
Washington DC. January, 1992
Charley awoke from an embarrassing dream with a hard-on that was harder than any he’d had in years.
He opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was.
Something moved next to him and he glanced down.
Hannah lay sound asleep at his side. She was naked.
Apparently his embarrassing dream was not a dream.
Holy hell.
He inched away so the world’s greatest hard-on didn’t bump her. Not that it hadn’t bumped her last night – make that this morning – several times.
She’d been a virgin. That should have freaked him out enough to make him stop. But if he hadn’t been freaked out by the kiss, the nakedness, the foreplay – there’d been a lot of foreplay – why should a little virginity get him down?
So to speak.
What had he been thinking?
That she was sad. The person she loved most in the world had died. Tragically. If anyone could understand that, it was Charley. He’d wanted to make it better.
So they’d made it.
Maybe he hadn’t been thinking at all.
And that excuse would get him really far with his wife.
Wife. Shit.
That was what he’d been thinking before he’d come upon Hannah behaving so manic this morning. His wife could barely look at him, barely speak to him. She didn’t want him around, and he didn’t blame her.
For the first time, he’d been considering that maybe he should give her what she wanted. Maybe she’d be happier without him. Every time Frankie saw him, she saw her dead child. So maybe she shouldn’t have to see him any more.
How many times had he listened to other cheaters say how their wives didn’t understand them, didn’t appreciate them, didn’t want them, didn’t love them, they’d be better off without them? He’d barely managed not to roll his eyes in disgust. You took a vow, you kept a vow, or you got out before you broke it. All that ‘heat of the moment, couldn’t help myself’ was bullshit.
Yet here he was, hip deep in bullshit.
At least he’d used a condom. Heath had left behind a zillion.
If Heath could see him now …
Charley groaned and Hannah stirred. He held his breath, praying she wouldn’t wake up. What would he say?
See ya.
Oh, how he wished that he could.
But Hannah needed him. She was heartbroken, lost. And after meeting her mother he couldn’t abandon her. Besides, he’d promised Heath.
One afternoon, after the poor kid had been doing his best to upchuck most of his vital organs, Heath had gripped Charley’s shoulder and said, ‘After I’m gone, will you do something for me? Please don’t leave until Hannah’s OK.’
And Charley had agreed, because how hard could it be?
He glanced down at the woman in the bed. He really needed to quit using the word ‘hard’.
The clock read nearly noon. He was surprised someone hadn’t called the apartment.
As if he’d conjured the sound, the phone began to ring.
Hannah stirred.
He leaped out of bed and found his jeans, pulled them on dry, wincing as the zipper scraped his semi-hard cock.
‘Down boy,’ he murmured. What was wrong with them both?
‘Please don’t say you regret this.’
Charley grabbed his shirt and shoved his arms into it, leaving the buttons undone. Saw his underwear beneath the dresser and wondered how he’d scoop it up and hide it somehow.
Hannah leaned against the headboard, clutching the sheet to her breasts, which only called attention to them, made Charley remember them. They were great breasts.
Hannah was short, round, pale and plain. Didn’t matter. Because it wasn’t the way she looked that attracted him. What attracted him was how she looked at him.
As if he had all the answers, as if he could fix anything. Everything.
Of course he didn’t have any answers, could fix nothing. His talent lay in breaking things, breaking people. He should probably remind her of this. Then again, didn’t she know?
Still she continued to look at him exactly the same way she always had. He didn’t deserve it, but he found that he needed it.
Hannah’s hair was tangled from his fingers, her chin red from his stubble, her mouth swollen from his kisses.
He was suddenly glad his shirt was long enough to cover the front of his pants. He felt like a dirty old man. He also felt like a very young one. The last time he’d gotten it up like this had been …
Who knew?
‘You regret it.’ She tugged the sheet closer. ‘Of course you do.’
He did regret it. Or should he say he regretted it now. While it had been happening, he hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d only been feeling. And what he’d been feeling was alive, in a way he hadn’t felt since his daughter had died.
Shame flickered. He waited for it to flare, but it didn’t. He’d felt so bad, for so long. Right now, he just didn’t.
He’d never imagined adultery could be like this. He’d always thought that he’d be unable to stop envisioning the face of his wife, probably to the point of impotence.
Hadn’t happened.
‘I … uh …’ He was so damn smooth.
‘I won’t tell Francesca.’
‘Tell,’ he repeated, turning the word over on his tongue. Was he going to?
‘It won’t happen again. We’ll forget all about it.’
Charley’s gaze flickered over her face, her hair, those breasts. He doubted that, but he could try. He should probably start by getting a hotel room.
He meant to. He truly did. But the apartment phone started ringing again, and then it didn’
t stop.
Hannah seemed so bewildered he stayed to help. He made her a list of people to call as he’d promised; he even called some of them.
Friends started arriving with food and drinks. Several remained and the apartment became a wake.
He certainly couldn’t leave her alone with a dozen strangers, even though they weren’t strangers to Heath. By the time midnight rolled around again, he was still there and he was too tired to go anywhere else.
He hadn’t called Frankie. What was more disturbing was that she hadn’t called him.
He’d told her about Heath; she’d said she was sorry, but he could tell by her voice she didn’t really care. And that had pissed him off. It was the first time he’d been angry with her since Lisa, and it had felt good. It had felt normal.
Of course, after they’d hung up, the guilt had returned, intensified by his anger. He hadn’t slept; he definitely hadn’t been himself. As evidenced by the adultery.
Hannah was taking a shower. Code for sobbing uncontrollably. He took the opportunity to phone his wife.
‘Hello?’ Her voice was drowsy.
He’d forgotten it was midnight. Eleven p.m. in Milwaukee but past Frankie’s bedtime. She was an early riser, always had been.
‘Sorry. It’s late. I’ll let you get back to sleep.’ He spoke too fast. Did he sound as guilty as he thought he did?
‘No. That’s OK.’ Sheets rustled. ‘How was your day?’
‘Shitty.’
‘Why’s that?’
Was she that out of touch with his life? Or did she just care so little now that she forgot what he’d told her within twenty-four hours?
‘Heath. Died.’
‘Oh. Right. The essay. Sorry.’
His anger intensified. ‘He was more than an essay.’
‘Of course he was. Are you staying?’
He’d thought he should go – he knew he should go – yet he hadn’t. And the pull of this place, of what was going on here, of Hannah, was stronger than the pull to go home. Because the house where Frankie slept had never been home. Home had always been Frankie and now she just … wasn’t.
‘I probably should. The kid – his sister – she’s … well, you know.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘You think you can help her?’
‘I …’ His voice trailed off.
Was that what this was? Had he been helping Hannah? Or had she been helping him? Did he feel better or so much worse? Depended on when you asked him.
‘The situation doesn’t make things more difficult?’ Frankie asked.
For an instant he wondered which ‘situation’ she was talking about. Thank God he didn’t ask.
‘No. Well, a little. But I understand how she feels.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Frankie said in the midst of a yawn.
‘You don’t need me home for anything?’ he asked.
Frankie laughed, and Charley flinched like he’d been slapped.
She didn’t need him. Probably never had. And he’d been OK with that, because it meant he could do his job and she didn’t cling. Now he wanted her to, or maybe he needed her to, and she didn’t know how.
‘I’ll let you sleep,’ he said.
‘’Kay. Night.’ She hung up without saying that she loved him.
He tried to remember the last time she had.
‘Everything OK?’ Hannah stood in the door to his room, wearing a knee-length white terrycloth robe.
When she lifted her hands to towel dry her hair, the robe became thigh-length, and he wondered why he’d never noticed what fantastic legs she had. She was short, a tad overweight, but her legs were firm and round and …
‘Charley?’ She lowered her hands, face crinkling with concern. ‘Is there something wrong?’ She glanced around, as if she wasn’t quite sure where she was or why she was here. ‘Other than the two people we love so much being dead.’
‘Other than that.’ He crossed the distance and took the towel from her. ‘Not one damn thing.’
Then he kissed her and everything that was wrong didn’t seem as wrong, at least for the rest of the night.
The morning was always another story.
He opened his eyes, felt her beside him, felt himself harden. Again.
What was wrong with him? Most men would say, Nothing, bro. Impressive hard-on for a man your age.
I’m not that old.
Although, two days ago, he’d been feeling ancient.
Oddly, this morning, while he was still disgusted and guilty, he was markedly less so than yesterday.
Was cheating any less cheating if you only did it once?
No. But was it worse if you did it twice? Three times? More? There was the rub.
And it was too early for Shakespeare.
‘You wanna go out for breakfast?’ Hannah smiled sleepily and set her hand on his chest.
His impressive hard-on hardened.
‘Because there isn’t any food here.’
‘The entire kitchen is full of— Ah. Sarcasm. Got it. We can do whatever you want.’
Her hand lowered. ‘I can think of something I want more than breakfast.’
Charley couldn’t remember the last time he’d been wanted more than breakfast.
An hour later, they strolled to a coffee shop. Charley needed to get out of the apartment.
He should probably stay out of the apartment. But he didn’t.
With no funeral, the days blended together. Heath was gone, but Charley continued to glance into his room whenever he walked past. If he heard a sound in the apartment, his first thought was, I should ask Heath …
Charley hadn’t had a friend like Heath since Vietnam. Maybe that was why he’d felt so close to him. They’d all been dying in Vietnam too.
But there was something to be said for closure. Charley certainly didn’t look for Lisa in places she’d always been. Then again, he wasn’t in the places she’d been.
After two weeks, that started to be obvious.
‘Isn’t life shifting toward normal by now?’ Frankie asked.
Ever smooth, Charley said, ‘I … uh …’
‘Did she go back to work? Have you?’
‘She did,’ Charley answered, conveniently ignoring the second question, the answer to which was no. He was obsessed with finishing the essay on Heath, picking just the right photos for both the book and the showing. Hannah was helping him.
She’d returned to You in less than a week. Carol was desperate, or so Hannah had said. Charley just thought Hannah needed to complete the vow she’d made to fulfill Heath’s dream. He’d tried again to get her to see that her brother wouldn’t want that, but she wasn’t hearing him. And who was he to say that working where Heath had, fulfilling her brother’s goals, wouldn’t heal her?
The evenings they spent together at the light table, peering at photographs of Heath, telling stories about him, laughing, editing; working together on something that meant so much to so many drew them closer. They both missed Heath. Into that void came each other.
They inevitably ended up sleeping together – if inevitably meant always.
‘And what are you doing?’ Frankie asked.
Her.
He bit his tongue. Literally. Had he said any of that out loud?
‘Charley?’ Frankie’s voice was sharp.
‘The showing. The book.’
‘What showing? What book?’
‘On Heath.’ His voice was equally sharp. Did she remember nothing he told her any more?
Silence descended.
When Frankie broke it, her voice had cooled. ‘You never told me about a showing or a book.’
‘I must have.’ Lately it seemed all he did was talk about it.
To Hannah.
Could he really have forgotten to tell Frankie about the contract with Balfour Publishing? The showing at the Society for Visual Arts in Soho?
Frankie sighed, an exhale heavy with disappointment, if not judgment, which he heard from her far too often lately. While h
e deserved it, nevertheless it grated every time.
‘Tell me now.’
Charley did. He waited for Frankie to be thrilled. If she was, she did a great job hiding it.
‘After the show next month, you’ll … come here? Go where?’
‘What do you want me to do, Frankie?’
‘Whatever you want to. That’s what you always do anyway.’
‘Are you going to come to New York for the showing?’
‘Do you want me to?’
On the one hand, he couldn’t believe she even had to ask. Of course he wanted her to. This was a huge deal.
On the other hand, he only wanted her to come if she understood what a huge deal it was, and she didn’t.
There was also the issue of his mistress.
Charley winced. He had a mistress. ‘If you want to,’ he said.
They sounded like teenagers. From her impatient huff, she was as tired of it as he was.
‘I’ll have to check my schedule and let you know. Is that OK?’
He wanted to ask, ‘What schedule?’ She’d left the Journal, against his advice.
‘I can’t do tragedy any more,’ she’d said. ‘I need to find beauty. Record it. Create it.’
He’d said a few things he shouldn’t have then about artsy photographers and making a difference. He regretted them, but he wasn’t sure how to take the words back. And if there were a way to take things back he wouldn’t waste that magic on words.
‘Check your schedule,’ he said. ‘Let me know.’
But she never brought it up again.
The night of the gala opening to Aids: A Life and Death in Pictures, Charley rented a tux at the request of his publisher.
‘You should wear one of those more often,’ Hannah said when he stepped out of the bedroom.
She’d bought a new dress. A long, flowing sheath of stretchy material the shade of a snowy midnight that felt like velvet. Against it her hair shone like a star; the shimmer of blue made her eyes bluer too.
‘Wow.’ He took her hands, held them out to the side. ‘You should wear this more often.’
She laughed, and for the first time since Heath had died, she seemed to mean it.
His chest hurt a little. She was getting better. He should go soon.
Hannah twirled a cape over her dress. Charley had bought a trench coat. The night might be mild for late February, but it was still February and in Manhattan there would be snow on the ground.
Just Once Page 30