Time's Hostage: The dangers of love, loss, and lus (Time Series Book 1)

by Brenda Kuchinsky

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, taking hold of her shoulders and peering into her troubled eyes.

  “Nothing. Don’t mind me. I honestly don’t know what I’m talking about. Let’s go outside and soak up the sunshine,” she said. “Maybe I can shake off this dull grayness that is enveloping me. But not the gazebo,” she said. “I don’t want to be reminded of Keith more than I have to be. Let’s sit just outside the kitchen.”

  Sophia had thought she was well on her way to forgiving Barth, but she realized she still blamed him for yesterday’s denouement. It was all one stinking ball of wax.

  True, Keith was crazed. But Barth’s greed for pleasure had let him into their lives. Would Amanda be alive if not for that careless sexual act that faraway Tuesday? Who knows? Two people she had known were wiped off the face of the earth. That much she did know.

  Jack arrived, interrupting her bitter train of thought. She was beginning to loop round and round that track, whipping herself into a frenzy of frustrated animosity.

  “Our knight in shining armor,” Barth and Sophia called out simultaneously, both beaming at Jack, who had appeared at just the right moment.

  CHAPTER 32

  Their time with Jack was painless. He was thorough but neutral. He transformed the questioning into a clinical event, draining it of its inherent drama and their subsequent trauma.

  When Jack departed, still assuming his professional air, not moving onto concern and solace, Sophia and Barth emitted a collective sigh of relief.

  “That man knows his stuff,” Barth remarked. “He helped us keep our heads and not revert to our bruised emotions.”

  “Of course he does,” Sophia concurred. “That’s why he’s such a dear friend. He’s priceless. When it comes to his love life, though, he has problems. His latest love just bit the dust. It’s all about balance,” Sophia continued. “He’s so wonderful professionally and socially because he’s a workaholic. He’s good at keeping his distance but abysmal at getting really close. It’s lopsided. He pours it all into work. When a woman comes around, the glass is already full.”

  “You summed it up perfectly. Spoken like a true psychologist,” Barth said. “What are you going to do today? I was thinking of going in to work. It might help distract me from dwelling on this…this…I don’t know what to call it.”

  “I thought we’d spend the day together, but you’re right. We need distraction. I’m glad I’m off work this week because I don’t think I could hack that right now,” she said. “I know. I’ll go to yoga and maybe have lunch with Sonya afterward. Haven’t seen her in a while,” she said, realizing her faux pas as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

  “What do you mean you haven’t seen her in a while? You just went out on the town Thursday. Are you being honest with me?” Barth pounced, his smooth forehead wrinkling with worry.

  “I mean I haven’t been to yoga or lunch with her in a while. Our usual. That was different.” She was thinking on her feet, her heart racing. Deception wasn’t easy, she thought. And to think she almost confessed last night in her weakened state. Two papas. She could have two papas.

  “Okay. I guess that makes sense,” he conceded. “This is not a time to argue or quibble about semantics. Let’s go in and get ready. I don’t know how long I’ll last. Let’s plan on an early dinner here, and who knows, we may need the brandy-and-Xanax remedy again. So I’ll see you back here?” he asked.

  “Yes. Good idea,” she said.

  Sophia left first in order to make her class on time. She kissed Barth good-bye and hurried out the door. It was a short distance, but she had to walk fast. I don’t know if this has brought us closer together or driven us further apart, she mused..

  The yoga was good. She immersed herself in the breathing and concentration, enhancing the intensity of the experience.

  Corpse pose caused her to experience intrusive flashes of yesterday. Bloody Amanda, deranged Keith, fleeting relief at Barth’s appearance, the sharp knife point biting into her throat, Barth on his knees, Keith toppling over.

  She jerked upright early. It was a good time to rush out, foregoing the obligatory chants of ohm and namaste. Her classmates were on their backs with their eyes closed. She would wait for Sonya in the vestibule.

  A few minutes later, Sonya, sylphlike, floated toward her with that graceful ballerina motion, perfect posture, everything pulled up, skyward, shooting for the stars, barely grazing the ground.

  “Where have you been? You never showed up last Monday. And that strange message. What’s the cover up?” Sonya asked.

  “I have a lot to tell you, and I owe you an explanation for that late-night message. Can you come to lunch with me now?” Sophia asked.

  “Yes,” she said, looking at Sophia quizzically. “I have to close out. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Sure. But we can’t go to Maoz. We need a quiet place to talk. Let’s go to A La Folie down the street. We can find a secluded corner. I know you won’t touch those buttery crepes, but they have salads. I’ll meet you in the courtyard.”

  “Okay. You’re not yourself you know. Rushing out in the middle of shavasana like a woman chased by whirling dervishes. Slow down. At least you were able to concentrate during the class, but your demons caught up with you,” Sonya said, shaking her head.

  Once Sonya joined her, they ambled the few short blocks to the restaurant, hugging their rolled-up yoga mats by their sides, enjoying the eternal sunshine, feeling very present, appreciatively aware of their bodies, which had just served them so well.

  “Maybe we should just enjoy the present moment and put my explanations on hold,” Sophia proposed, breaking their amiable silence.

  “No. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” Sonya protested, raking her fingers through her short, straight mop of dark-brown hair.

  “It’ll ruin our yoga high,” Sophia warned.

  “I’ll practice later as an antidote,” Sonya said.

  “You have an answer for everything,” Sophia protested. “Okay. I owe you an explanation for that mysterious midnight message, and I need to get some things off my chest.”

  As they entered the familiar space, Sophia was stricken by the thought of her last visit, when she had encountered Amanda. A very much alive, annoying Amanda.

  “What’s wrong? You look sick,” Sonya said.

  “I just remembered eating with Amanda the last time I was here, and now she’s dead. Murdered,” Sophia blurted out.

  “Murdered?” Sonya’s eyes widened, saucer-like, making her look more like Audrey Hepburn than ever.

  The same louche, shaggy-haired waiter greeted them. “Sit anywhere,” he said breezily.

  It was barely twelve noon, the equivalent of 7:00 a.m. to a true South Beach sybarite. The place was packed with breakfasting locals and lunching tourists. Quite a difference from the early morning emptiness she and Amanda had enjoyed. A stab of guilt pierced her as she recalled all her mean-spirited thoughts that morning. And now the poor soul was dead, a victim of matricide.

  Sonya was still staring at her in disbelief as they made their way to a tiny table across a room buzzing with a myriad of conversations.

  They sat down as they spied two others making a beeline for the table. Waiters dashed, sped, and snaked all around them like so many fish in an aquarium. Only Monsieur Sexy didn’t seem to allow himself to be rushed. He strode loose-hipped and long-legged, like an oblivious runway model, to their tiny table where he deigned to hand them menus.

  “What’s your name, sexy?” Sonya drooled.

  “Jean Pierre,” he murmured, leaning over to proffer menus before turning on his heel and slinking off.

  “Sonya. You’re surprising me. I thought you were ever faithful to Rudolf.”

  “I am. I am. But that hard ass plastered into those jeans is seductive. And those sleepy eyes. That French insouciance. I’m not dead. I can look, can’t I?” she asked.

  “Of course. It’s just another side of you I don’t
know. I’m having an affair,” Sophia blurted out, inspired by Sonya’s unexpected ardor.

  “You now have all my attention. Sexy Jean Pierre be damned,” she said, gazing at Sophia expectantly.

  “Let me start at the beginning with Barth,” Sophia said.

  “Yes?” Sonya finally interposed when Sophia remained mute amid the Tower of Babel around them.

  Sophia breathed deeply, pulling her ear a few times, and began recounting her tale. “One innocent afternoon I unexpectedly found myself free from work and meandered into the garden where I found one of Barth’s students on his knees, enthusiastically polishing Barth’s knob. Both men were very enthusiastic, come to think of it.”

  “Polishing his what? Oh, oh, I see,” Sonya said, visualizing the phrase as its meaning dawned on her.

  “And that eager-beaver student was none other than Keith, Amanda’s son,” Sophia said, only to be interrupted by Jean Pierre, who had materialized, eying them, silently expectant, awaiting their order.

  “Oh, a salad,” Sonya barked, eager to return to Sophia’s story.

  “Which salad?” Jean Pierre sneered. “We have many salads,” he continued, as he looked at her pityingly, as if she were mentally deficient.

  “A salad. A salad,” Sonya was beside herself with anticipation. “With spinach and candied pecans, that one,” she spat out. “Oh, and a glass of Chardonnay. This calls for a drink even right after yoga.”

  “Which Chardonnay? We have many Chardonnays from various countries. French, the best of course, American, Chilean…” He trailed off, looking at her commiseratively, as if no doubt remained as to her wanting intellect.

  “Chilean, the cheapest,” she shot back.

  “Good choice,” he said, grimacing to reinforce his disapproval. “And for you?” he asked Sophia, as if hoping for a more intelligent order.

  “Buckwheat crepes. And the same wine. How about a carafe?” Sophia ordered.

  Jean Pierre grinned approvingly at Sophia as he informed her that they offered only a French house Chardonnay by the carafe.

  “Perfect. Parfait. Vive la France,” she proclaimed to his backside as he was already catwalking off to fill their order.

  “I hope you don’t mind?” she asked.

  “Not at all. Are we getting sloshed?”

  “Maybe. It was impulsive.”

  “Back to the story, please,” Sonya entreated.

  “Ah, here’s the wine to help lubricate my tongue,” Sophia said as Jean Pierre plopped down the carafe of straw-yellow wine, enticingly sweating beads of condensation, together with two wine glasses.

  “If anyone can ‘make haste slowly,’ it’s that boy. He looks like he’s doing everything at a snail’s pace, yet he returned with the wine posthaste,” Sonya said, her gaze lingering on his retreating form.

  “Wine,” Sophia said. “Sacred to the French. Holy water.”

  “So Keith is the culprit you catch red-handed,” Sonya said, returning to the story, while pouring the wine for them.

  “Yes. And, believe me, I considered Barth just as much a culprit. So, needless to say, relations were strained between us. I wanted to kill Barth. He betrayed me. And I was so confused. I wondered if he were gay or bi. I began thinking he did this all the time. All the bad thoughts came flooding in. He said Keith had pressured him into this one-time thing. But did I believe that? I even started wondering if those two were having an affair right under my nose.”

  “Well? Did you get any clarification?” Sonya asked, sipping her wine.

  “Clarification? I wouldn’t believe anything Barth might have told me. So I just let him go off on his own to his friends in Key West. You know we usually do the Christmas week thing in the Keys. And I decide not to tell Amanda, whom I encountered here the next day, when I went to that six a.m. class you were teaching.”

  “When does this affair come into the picture?” Sonya asked.

  “Patience, my dear,” Sophia said, taken aback as she looked at her drained glass and realized she had been gulping her wine while engrossed in relating her story. “First, let me finish the Keith fiasco, which will blow your mind,” Sophia promised.

  “Slow down on that wine, or you’ll be slurring your story,” Sonya warned. “Where’s the food by the way? I need some bread.”

  “Patience again. This place is packed. Pour me another,” Sophia said, ignoring Sonya’s advice. “So, anyway. I go to dinner with Amanda and end up spilling my guts because she shocks me by telling me Keith is in Key West on vacation. I assume the worst. They had a rendezvous. Barth and Keith. And freak momentarily. Amanda also freaks out and shows up at the house on Christmas, full of booze and Ambien, with a big old butcher knife, calling for Barth’s balls.

  “In the meantime, I’ve called Barth and confronted him. He tells me, not only is he not rendezvousing with Keith, but that Keith has taken to stalking him.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Sonya said.

  “That culminates in my rushing to Amanda’s home to check on her where I find her murdered in her bed and Keith, who has murdered her, almost succeeds in doing me in. I won’t go into the gory details now. Obviously I lived to tell the tale, unlike Keith,” Sophia concluded.

  Sonya looked aghast at Sophia. “You could not make this up,” she said. “What about the affair?” Sonya bit into her bread, which had finally arrived.

  “One thing led to another. I’m convinced I would never have started this affair if it hadn’t been for Barth’s affair, or whatever you want to call it. I met this magnetic man and thought nothing of it. Well, that’s not entirely true. I was thinking lascivious thoughts. My seizures had come back out of the blue right before that. I was feeling lost at sea. The pull was like the moon on the tides. I took action after I discovered Barth in flagrante delicto.”

  “What did you do?” Sonya asked, transfixed.

  “I called him. He came over with his bag of tricks. And now I’m in a kinky sexual relationship. I went to his place the second time and stayed the night, which is why I used you as cover. We were barhopping, as far as Barth is concerned, and I spent the night with you, my dear friend.”

  “Does he have a dungeon?” Sonya asked.

  “No. Nothing like that. That would be a turn-off to me. That ritualized S and M stuff. Yuck. No. He just spanks and whips. With a tiny whip. Oh, and he likes to suck a bit of my blood. Nothing excessive, a nip or cut, here and there. A bit of bondage with beautiful perfumed silky scarves. He introduced me to anal sex with loads of butter. It’s the best. And he wants me to get a genital ring. A clitoral-hood piercing. I’m putting a hold on that. Since Keith held a sharp knife point to my throat, piercing doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “Do you hear yourself? This man is abusing you, and you are acting like you love it. Have you gone stark raving mad?” Sonya asked, raising her voice above the hubbub, causing several curious heads to turn their way, staring, waiting for more.

  “Lower your voice, for fuck’s sake,” Sophia said. “We’ll have everyone in the place in on my affairs.”

  “Sorry. But I’m very concerned. Mostly by your cavalier attitude.”

  “I’m totally consumed. And exhilarated. And sexually rejuvenated. Orgasms don’t lie. And I’m exploding like Mount Vesuvius,” she shouted.

  Now it was her volume that turned heads.

  “Whoops. I need to lower my voice too,” Sophia said. “The problem is he lives in three places and is soon leaving for Basel, Switzerland. I’m seeing him on New Year’s Day, and I’m going to propose meeting him in London in April when I’m there for my annual mindfulness conference.”

  “This man’s flogging you, tying you up, sucking your blood, and screwing you in the ass, and you’re grinning at me as if you’ve met the love of your life. Oh, and you can’t wait to see him in London after starting off the New Year with him. What’s wrong with this picture?” Sonya asked.

  They had both managed to suck up the wine and ignore their food, and Sonya was waving the e
mpty carafe over her head to attract Jean Pierre.

  “I see you like the French wine,” Jean Pierre said, sauntering over to them.

  “Any wine would taste good after all we’ve consumed,” Sonya gibed, hoping to get a rise out of him.

  He plucked the carafe from her fingers and walked off wordlessly.

  “I didn’t expect this disapproval. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  “Happy for you? My husband was abusive. I was his sexual object. I went from a raging, punishing father to a raging, punishing husband. It took years of therapy, and I’m still a mess. You expect me to be happy for you? The only thing that would make me happy is your ending the affair before who knows what happens.”

  “Sonya, the sex is a big charge. It’s like I’m liberated. Flying like an eagle. I don’t feel abused. I feel loved, wanted. Reborn,” Sophia said. “Look, let’s agree to disagree. I appreciate your concern, but you’ve got it ass about face. I’m approaching sixty fast, and this is the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I thought my sex life was winding down. Let’s eat before we pass out. Let’s eat before the wine gets here.”

  “Okay. But you’re not like an eagle. You’re like a poor mouse snatched up by an eagle that is holding you firmly in his rapacious talons,” Sonya said. “I’ve been reading about this phenomenon. The elderly have tons of STDs. More than youngsters. They’re promiscuous. They’re like the college crowd. Fucking like bunnies.”

  “Thanks, Sonya. Now I’m one of the desperate elderly?”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t think of you that way. You brought up the age thing. You don’t need to be used and abused to feel young. You are young. You’re not like a fifty-eight-year-old. Sorry I brought it up.” She paused. “Do you have a safe word?” Sonya asked, changing the subject, fascination creeping in to her voice.

  “No. No safe word. I told you it’s not like that. Now let’s eat.”