Blueprints

by Barbara Delinsky

  Caroline cut her off. “Byron is wonderful!”

  “Yes, he is, wonderfully the same, getting older and not caring, but I do. There’s this guy—” She stopped abruptly. Eyes flying past Caroline, she broke into a smile. “Hey. Jordan. I thought you were paying bills while Mandy was at the hair shop.”

  “Your being out here is too tempting.”

  The man who had come from behind the house wasn’t particularly tall, muscular, or young, wasn’t notable in any way other than the intensity of his focus on Annie.

  Taking a brief break, he extended Caroline a hand. “I recognize you from the show. Jordan Blaine, homeowner.” They shook, but his hand was barely free when he walked on. Coming up behind Annie, he steepled his fingers on the top of her head and said to Caroline, “Is this woman amazing or what? On a Saturday, no less.”

  Annie tipped her head back to see him. “It makes sense to clean now, so that I’ll know what to dig up next week before our crew starts tossing off old siding.”

  “I’m happy to dump all of these plants and start fresh. I told you that.”

  “But some of them are worth saving. If there’s no place for them in front, there is in back.”

  He glanced at Caroline. “How rare is a landscaper who comes up with a high-end design and still wants to save me money?” His fingers slipped to Annie’s shoulder. “I’ll be inside. Ring the bell when you’re done.” With a little squeeze, he was gone.

  Annie followed his departure before shifting wide eyes to Caroline. Wide, expectant eyes.

  “Him?” Caroline whispered in surprise. She didn’t find Jordan Blaine sexy in the least.

  “He touches me, y’know? Byron doesn’t do that anymore. I could be a piece of furniture that he happens to screw once a month,” which was pretty much what Annie had told her before.

  Caroline’s heart sank. The touching she had just witnessed seemed more friendly than sexual, like Annie was building it into more, but even that was a shame. Byron was a gentle soul who was faithful and adoring. It didn’t seem fair that he should be cheated on because of sex alone. “If it’s still bad, you need to talk with him.”

  “I did.”

  “Do it again. And again. You owe him that, Annie.”

  “I know,” she wailed.

  “Not to mention,” Caroline remarked, “that there was a big fat wedding band on the hand that stroked your hair just now.”

  “I know, but, God, the attraction’s strong. His eyes, his hands, his body—when we’re alone, he’s there.”

  Okay. Caroline’s presence might have kept a lid on the fire.

  “He doesn’t even have to touch me and I feel alive,” Annie went on achingly. Grabbing Caroline, she pulled her up and, linking their arms, put distance between themselves and the house. “Maybe all I need is the tease. There isn’t any of that in my marriage. No tease, no mystery, no adventure, no spice. How can old marrieds not get bored?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. My marriage never made it to the old-marrieds stage. We lasted twelve years. Roy was bored after one.”

  “Were you?”

  “Not bored.”

  “Satisfied?”

  Caroline looked at her fingernails. Given her line of work, she had no business painting them. Feet, yes, but hands? She had only done it because she had known the surgery would keep those hands idle. Now the orange polish was starting to chip. Roy had thought her hands masculine; hence the concept of hand care had taken root. Had years of moisturizing made a difference? Or sexy lingerie or designer perfume? Had sex with Roy been satisfying?

  Tucking her hands in her armpits, she leaned against Annie’s van. “Our sex was good the first few times. Then I got pregnant, and it went downhill. By the time Jamie was born, Roy had tuned out.” She met her friend’s gaze. “We still had sex, but he climaxed and was done. My pleasure wasn’t part of the package.”

  Annie hung on her forearm. “I’m sorry. That makes my complaints seem petty.”

  “No complaints are petty. Everything is relative. You’ve had something with Byron that I never had with Roy. Yours may be on autopilot now, but Byron’s still a good man.”

  “I know, I know, I know. But right there, that’s the trouble. I know Byron inside and out. We’re the same people, bringing the same cards to the table over and over again. I try to suggest new things to do, but he’s no change agent. I tell him change is good and healthy and how we stay young.” She wagged a finger between them. “How often do you and I change nail color?”

  “Nail color.” Caroline failed to make the connection.

  “Okay. Bad example. Try hairstyle. I cut mine short, then let it grow long and cut it again. I drive Claire nuts, but I’m sorry, I like novelty when it comes to hair and nails and food. Shouldn’t I like novelty in bed, too?”

  Caroline thought of Dean. She didn’t know how he made love, what positions he liked, whether he was silent or vocal. Anything he did with her would likely be a novelty after Roy, who had been a die-hard missionary guy and didn’t welcome her input. For all she knew, Dean was the same. Worse, he could be addicted to another position that she liked even less.

  “Variety is good,” Annie said into the silence, and Caroline couldn’t argue with that.

  “But we’re older. Our bodies respond differently.”

  “Different doesn’t mean worse.”

  “I hate my thighs. They’re lumpy.”

  “Most people call that muscled, but there’s a solution for that. It’s called darkness.”

  But Caroline was thinking about things that lighting couldn’t hide. With anyone else, she might have been more hesitant to be blunt, but Annie was Annie. “What about dryness?”

  “CVS sells lubricants.”

  “Do you use them?”

  “With Byron I do. I don’t think it would be an issue…” Her eyes touched the house and returned.

  “How do you know?”

  Annie stared at her pointedly.

  Ahhh. Wetness just thinking about it.

  “I mean,” the pixie burst out, “you and I are at an incredible stage in life when we don’t have to worry about getting pregnant or even being discreet since we don’t have kids around. Why can’t sex just be pleasurable and fun, and if my husband doesn’t want that, should I be punished? Why can’t I once, just once before I go senile, have a hot, passionate, incredibly romantic love affair? I’ve been so good all my life.” She paused. “So have you. I didn’t know you when you first got divorced. Did you think about having affairs back then?”

  “Yes. I tried with two different guys. It was disappointing with both.”

  “Was it more than one night with each?”

  “Yes. I really did try.” One was a client whose house they had finished, the other an independent furniture maker. She had chosen them carefully to avoid fallout at work. Dean, now, Dean was a whole other can of worms.

  “You were on the rebound,” Annie offered, bringing her back.

  “No, the sex just wasn’t great, and I’ve been okay with that,” Caroline insisted. “I like my life. It’s rewarding and full.” Until now, if the Gut It! change held. Being on the show as the host emeritus would make her feel older than God. Not that having sex with Dean would change that.

  “But I see guys watching you. Aren’t you ever tempted?”

  She thought about that—and about why she had been totally unprepared for Dean’s move. “Sex just … hasn’t been on my radar screen.”

  “You’ve repressed it.”

  She considered that and conceded, “Maybe.”

  “Because Roy sucked at it.”

  She smiled sadly. “Either Roy or me.”

  “Roy,” Annie said. “Every woman feels. It just takes the right man to make things combust. So Roy wasn’t right, and clearly neither of the other guys was. But aren’t you curious?”

  “Curious enough to risk awkwardness, embarrassment, and pain?” Which raised the issue of why she was even beginning to c
onsider sleeping with Dean. She wondered if Roy’s death was a wake-up call for her, too, a red alert that she had to go for what she wanted while she still could. Granted, she hadn’t thought she wanted sex. But she was getting older. If her recent birthday hadn’t told her that, being put out to pasture by Gut It! would have, which brought her back to the issue of sex for a woman her age.

  You either feel it or you don’t, Dean had said, and a week ago she would have denied feeling a thing. But she was here talking to her best friend because she had felt something. Dean’s erection—God, it was weird thinking of him that way—his erection had made her buzz in a way that made his argument real. He had put his money where his mouth was, which raised an interesting thought. His mouth. They hadn’t ever even kissed. It was all well and good to be eye candy, but if his kiss turned her off, they had a problem that no advice from Annie would solve.

  Still, that erection had given her a quick blast of heat.

  “How long has it been?” Annie asked.

  Caroline had done the math more than once since Dean had changed their relationship with his challenge. “Seventeen years since the divorce, ten since I last had sex, or tried.”

  “I knew you ten years ago. You never told me—”

  “Because we weren’t that close then, and it was bad. Oh boy,” she breathed. “I am so out of my league here.”

  Annie’s sidelong stare lasted long enough to make her squirm before a breathlessly high voice said an amazed “You’re considering it! That’s why you wanted to talk. Oooh, this is good, Caro. Who is he?”

  Caroline moved a hand no. She couldn’t tell Annie. Annie knew Dean. It would be unfair to implicate him in something that might absolutely never come to pass.

  Mercifully, her friend let the identity piece go and chided softly, “You’re thinking of doing it, and you’re scared. Do not be, Caro. If the guy is right, it’ll work, and if he isn’t, it’s no loss.” Caroline was thinking that it wasn’t so simple, that a working relationship was at risk, not to mention a friendship, when Annie said, “I’d give my right arm to be as free as you are. Sex is an integral part of womanhood. When I think of never feeling that … that rush again, I feel incredibly sad. It would be a loss.”

  “Loss of?”

  “Pleasure. Possibility. Power.” Annie raised hope-filled eyes to hers. “That’s what I get from those books that you refuse to read. It’s like they remind me that my body is capable of doing more, like I have to let go of preconceptions, like I can open my mind to growth in this, too.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I have not done anything with Jordan, I swear I haven’t, but when he touches my shoulder or my hand, I feel powerful, like I’m the one making it happen. Don’t you want to feel that?”

  * * *

  Actually, no. Power wasn’t part of Caroline’s equation. Hers was less lofty. She knew what it was to feel passion for work and for her daughter, but stripped-naked, bare-ass passion with a man? Exposure to the extreme? Being that close with another person, that trusting? That might be something she did want to feel.

  But with Dean? It could either be the best thing that ever happened or the worst.

  fifteen

  Dinner with Brad Saturday night was a disaster. Jamie had hoped that eighteen holes of golf would loosen him up, and that since the other three in the foursome had kids, he would warm to the idea of being a father himself. But beyond color on his cheeks, his features were their usual calm selves. She had always found that reassuring. Now it angered her. If ever they needed to actually share thoughts, this was the time, but he remained distant. He nodded when she told him about organizing the condo and did it again when she said she had possible nanny contacts. His eyes glazed over when she described her dilemma at the furniture store that morning, and when she asked his opinion, toddler bed versus twin bed, he held up his hands and said a gentle “You’d know better than me” with an infuriatingly sweet smile. By the time he had given versions of the same answer with regard to staying with Jessica’s pediatrician, feeding Tad the sugary breakfast cereal he wanted, and, finally, formalizing his adoption in court, she’d had it.

  “I’m not asking for a definitive answer, Brad, just an opinion. What do you think?” She had lost interest in both the steak on her plate and the garlic mashed potatoes topped with onion rings that she would have normally devoured. She was too filled with annoyance to eat.

  “I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “I have no experience in this.”

  Sorry, bud, said her irate mind-voice, helplessness does not work here. “You do. You spent a law-school summer interning for a lawyer who specialized in child custody cases.”

  “That was after my first year, and I hated it so much that I did a one-eighty the next summer and never looked back. I’m a real estate lawyer, Jamie.”

  “But you know how this state works. I want to know whether I should ask Theo to pull strings and speed things up.”

  “Why do you need speed? It’s not like there’s anyone else who wants custody.”

  Jamie recoiled. “Like Tad’s a booby prize?”

  He gave a tiny frown and silently reached for his wine.

  “You think he is,” she charged. She kept her voice low; it wasn’t in her to yell. She couldn’t control the tiny tremor in it, though. Her heart was breaking. She shouldn’t have to work so hard to remember why she loved Brad. But after spending the week tiptoeing around him, soothing his ego, and giving him time to adjust, this issue remained huge. “You and I swore we would talk things out, so let’s talk. You don’t want Tad.”

  Yes, I do, he would have insisted in an ideal world, because Tad was an adorable, smart, healthy little boy whose now-dead parents had named Jamie his legal guardian. Just as important, how could Brad not want what Jamie so badly did?

  Instead, he was silent as he considered his answer. It was only after a pensive swallow of wine that he set down the glass and said, “It’s not Tad. It’s fatherhood. I was hoping we’d have time to ourselves before that.”

  “Well, so was I. Do you know how often I think about the fact that if my father had been on that road five seconds sooner or later he’d be alive now? No,” she answered, still quiet despite the ache inside, “no, you don’t know, because I’m afraid to tell you, because it’s so obvious that everything about Tad annoys you.”

  “Not everything—”

  “You hate his noise, his food, his music, his mess. You hate his existence in the condo, but on little more than a week’s notice, I don’t have a better option—and do not suggest Roy’s house. You know my feeling on that. You also know that my mother and I are barely talking, and that she might have been a resource for me if it hadn’t been for the Gut It! mess—and that’s another thing you and I disagree on. This is not the time to make a host change, Brad. My mother is too good at it, and I suddenly have a whole other job.”

  “The show is important to MacAfee Homes.”

  “And MacAfee Homes has always been my first priority, but it isn’t now. Tad is.” She knew Brad well enough to recognize the flash of hurt in his eyes, and she nearly caved. He needed love. But so did she. And so did Tad. So she whispered, “Don’t, Brad. Please don’t. Selfishness doesn’t work right now.”

  “Selfishness?” he asked, sounding offended, but at least that was something. “It’s not selfishness. It’s concern for you. You’ve worked your tail off building a career. To just throw it away—”

  “There’s nothing throwaway about what I’m doing.”

  “You’re an architect.”

  “And I can’t be a mother, too?”

  “You can, but it means compromise. You’ve never been one to do that.”

  “Brad.” Frustration beyond belief. “Things change. What would you have me do? Where would you have me put Tad?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Where?” she repeated, desperate for an answer. If she and Brad couldn’t find a middle ground, there was no hope. “Remember I told you how my father came ove
r just hours before he died? He accused me of being selfish and shortsighted, and he wasn’t talking about this”—she wagged a finger between them—“clearly he couldn’t have been, but his words haunt me. He told me to act like a grown-up.” Her eyes filled with tears, not very grown up at all, but when it came to self-control, she was depleted. “I’m trying to do that, Brad. I’m looking at a situation that was not my doing, and I’m trying to figure it out. Buying a bed for Tad may seem like a stupid little thing to you, but if it’s the very first major purchase I make as a mother, it isn’t stupid at all. This is my life, Brad. This is who I am from here out. You’re either on board or you’re not.”

  He didn’t take a stand on that, and Jamie didn’t push it. Clinging to a last lingering hope, she told herself that he needed time to consider what she’d said. But the rest of dinner was awkward, and, though he came home with her, she wasn’t sure why. She half-wished they were fiery people who fought and made love, fought and made love. But sex didn’t happen that night either. Not that she wanted it. Still, he might have tried, at least.

  And then they were barely asleep when Tad woke up crying. Naturally, the monitor amplified his sobs, which brought a groan from Brad, who murmured a groggy “Shut that off,” which, Jamie later realized, said it all. At the moment, though, she was simply worried about Tad.

  Taking him from his crib, she bundled them both up on the living room sofa, where they slept until she heard Brad let himself out at dawn.

  Much as her heart ached, she didn’t get up. Tad hadn’t woken, and she decided he needed the sleep more than she wanted to run after Brad. Every minute of peace and quiet with Tad was a treasure.

  So she lay on the sofa with him, appreciating the whisper of the AC, the cycling of the fridge, and the gentle sough of baby breath, as she alternately studied his rosy-cheeked face, fingered the ring on her left hand, and wondered how she could simultaneously feel so in love and so hollow. It wasn’t until Tad opened his eyes and snuggled closer that she realized the “in love” part had to do with the child.

  * * *