by Susan Calder
When they reached his Mission neighborhood, Paula’s head was pulsing. She liked Felix, but didn’t have Sam’s patience with his erratic moods. Rather than argue, she said she and Isabelle would swing by tomorrow on their way from Erin’s place. Sam pulled up in front of the townhouse. Felix bolted from the car. Halfway up the yard, he halted; he trotted back, and leaned down to the open window, with a friendly smile. “I forgot my walking stick,” he said. “Thank you all for the amazing day. You were right. All that nature has totally recharged me.” He sounded calmer.
Sam popped open the trunk to get the stick. They watched Felix walk up his steps and made sure he got into the house, then Sam drove on.
“Felix forgot his hat,” Isabelle said. “I put it on and forgot I was wearing it.”
“God forbid we return and distract him,” Sam said.
“We’ll deliver the cap tomorrow,” Paula said. “I doubt he’ll go hiking before then.”
Isabelle leaned between them to preen in the mirror. She fluffed the feather. “Cool. I’ll wear it to the party.”
“That should finish the dumb thing off,” Sam said.
They took 17th Avenue to Crowchild Trail North and crossed the Bow River to Brentwood. Leah’s Civic and a pickup truck were parked in the driveway. Jarrett must be at work on the room. This Paula had to see. Isabelle got her tote bag from the trunk and caught up to Paula on the sidewalk. They heard Pepper barking inside. Erin answered the doorbell, dressed in her usual baggy bib jeans that did nothing for her youthful figure. Pepper scurried in circles, her tail beating the porch. Paula stooped to pat her, laughing as the mutt licked her face.
“I think you miss Pepper more than you miss me,” Erin said. From her solemn face, it was hard to tell if she was joking. Her feelings were easily hurt.
Paula reached out to hug Erin as Leah appeared.
“I have to use the bathroom.” Isabelle scooted between the girls.
Leah peered over Paula’s shoulder. “Is that Sam in his car? Didn’t he want to meet us?” She wore her usual too-short skirt and clinging blouse. Clothes-wise, couldn’t her daughters meet in the middle?
“Sam’s phoning his son.”
“Mom, he’s a criminal, for God’s sake,” Leah said. “Why are you dating him?”
“This was a friendly hike, not a date, and he isn’t a criminal.”
“He’s obviously guilty,” Leah said. “Everyone at the bar wonders why the cops are taking so long to arrest him.”
“The cops might know something everyone at the bar doesn’t.”
“Callie was your best friend. She’s been dead, like, a week and already you’re screwing her husband.”
Paula flinched at the word, which felt crude coming from her daughter. Leah stood six inches taller than her thanks to the height she had inherited from her father and the fact she was standing in the house, while Paula was out on the porch.
“Sam wasn’t Callie’s husband,” Paula said. “It’s complicated. He’s going straight home after he drops me off.” That sounded prudish and she didn’t have to defend her love life to her daughters.
Erin wrapped her fingers around the straps of her jeans’ bib. “That’s not what Isabelle said when she asked to stay over tonight.”
“You mean, after the party?”
“What party?” Erin said.
Leah placed a hand on her hip. “Isabelle told Erin that you two wanted to be alone so you could get it on in private.”
“For God’s sake. Where is Isabelle?”
Erin raked back her cropped, blond hair. “Mom, you aren’t becoming one of these weirdoes who write to men in prison, are you?”
“Look, whatever Isabelle told you about Sam and me is exaggerated.” She glanced at Sam waiting in the car. “I’ll explain tomorrow when I pick her up.”
Jarrett came up beside Leah and offered his usual greetings that always struck Paula as false. Tall, dark, handsome, bare-chested in skin-tight jeans. She could tell Leah that sex wasn’t everything, but today that message coming from her might not ring true.
“You’re here to work on the trashed bedroom?” she asked Jarrett.
“I’m more like supervising some friends who do that kind of work.”
Paula nodded. That made sense.
“Jarrett’s concerned about you,” Leah said.
Paula looked at Jarrett.
He slouched to the side. “Menopause does strange things to women.”
“How would you know about that?”
“It hits certain women your age, a kind of craziness. You should talk to your doctor about it.”
“I should?”
“He can give you a simple prescription.”
“I don’t need drugs for what ails me.”
“Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. I was reading this article—”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Leah’s and Erin’s eyes popped open in shapes so identical it made Paula laugh. Her daughters gaped more. Mother/daughter conversations had certainly changed these days. Jarrett looked smug. He might be right that she was going nuts. She scratched her hair, which felt windblown and sticky from the hike. A shower would be wonderful.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m tired and it’s been a long day.” A long ten days since Callie’s death. She relaxed as Jarrett disappeared down the hall to his supervisory tasks.
“Did you dump Hayden?” Leah said. “I know he’s boring, but he’s better than this.” She motioned toward Sam’s car.
Leah never let up once she got her jaw on a bone. And talk about judgmental. Where did those traits come from? Paula smiled.
Isabelle, the scheming minx, appeared between her daughters. “Can I open the bag of chips in the cupboard? I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“I have to get to work,” Leah said.
What could Paula do but give her daughters a hug? Leah felt stiff, Erin softer and relaxed. “I’ll be by tomorrow around ten thirty. Since there isn’t a party, I don’t have to nag about drinking and drugs and people trashing the house more than it already is.”
Erin smiled at the sort-of joke and retreated into the house; Leah remained grim. Another week of this and Paula would be desperate enough for pills. She returned to the car.
“That took awhile,” Sam said.
She buckled her seatbelt. “You always swear you will never become your parents. When it comes to being judgmental and stubborn, my mother’s worse than me.”
“Is that possible?” he teased.
“Did you reach Dimitri?”
He turned the car ignition. “He’s hung-over as hell. The cops were by; they woke him up this morning.”
“And?”
“Do you want to grab dinner? You must know some good places nearby.”
The dash clock said 5:58 PM. All the references to food made Paula realize how hungry she was, and dinner would delay the inevitable walk up to her door, where he might try to kiss her again and she might give in this time. She suggested her favorite Greek restaurant. He steered the car down the street with purpose and control. Or, maybe everyone drove like that, if you watched them, but not everyone had his muscled arms and a T of dark hair under a shirt that perfectly hugged his pecs.
“You asked me earlier if I would do anything to get Dimitri off the hook,” Sam said without looking at her. “The answer is, no. I wouldn’t let the cops arrest someone who was innocent.”
“Unless that innocent person was you.”
“Since I didn’t do it, I figured I’d get off. If didn’t get off, better me than him. I have less life ahead to waste in jail.”
At the hockey game, he had said something similar about his father. When the gun was traced to his father, he must have hoped that the killer was the father he disliked and not the son he loved.
“There’s the restaurant,” she said. “You can park on the street.”
Two hours later he was driving her home. Over Greek salad and moussaka, retsina and ouzo, they
had avoided talk of the murder and worries about their respective children. He told her about his relationship with a volatile, insecure woman that ended a year ago and led him to think clinical, unemotional sex with Bev was the answer. He hadn’t been with anyone since breaking up with Bev. “She was meticulous about safe sex,” he added for no apparent reason except to assure her he was disease-free. Rather than respond directly, Paula said she’d been with Hayden for six months, but they had separated to work things through. Too much ouzo led her to mention the evening dress she had impulsively bought in Mount Royal Village. Sam suggested she model it for him when they got to her place.
He parked between her car and Walter’s truck. Her living room timer lights were still on. Inside, she left Sam and went to the bedroom to change. It was foolish to put on a ball gown for him alone, but where else would she wear the thing? At least, she would use it once, but probably only once, as it would remind her of this night. On the off chance she got back with Hayden, she couldn’t wear it with him now. If tonight flopped, which it probably would, she couldn’t wear it ever again. What a waste of a $595.99 dress, but it would look stupid to tell Sam she had changed her mind. Might as well go through with it. Light had stopped shining through the bedroom door frame. Sam must have turned off the timer.
Paula rolled off her sensible cotton underwear and rifled through her drawer for the bikini nylon lace ones Leah had given her as a joke. She struggled to zip up the back of the gown and adjusted the bodice, studying herself in the dresser mirror. Without a strapless bra, her boobs sagged. The hip bow looked dorky. Her ass was too wide. She tried a few necklaces, but all looked too clunky or thin and cheap. The hell with them. She would go with a bare neck and ears. After all the fussing, there was no time for make-up. She plumped up her sweaty, tangled hair and turned around again. Her ass wasn’t so bad. The hip bow might pass for elegant. Her boobs were reasonably perky for someone her age. She smoothed her hair a final time and opened the bedroom door. Music wafted from the living room. Ray Charles. Good choice, except that the CD had been a gift from Hayden. She remembered the condoms she and Hayden had stopped using and probably didn’t need with Sam, but grabbed one from her bedside table and dropped it into her cleavage in case they didn’t make it back to the bedroom. It was wise to be prudent. She followed the music down the hall to the living room. Sam stood at the far end of the sofa, his back to her, lighting a candle on the end table.
Sam turned around and said something. Paula couldn’t tell what from the buzz in her ears. He had slid the ottoman toward the front window so there was nothing between them but open floor. Five candles in glass jars lit up the wall unit shelves. The jars shimmered peach, green, pink, yellow, blue. Mint glowed from the glass on the far end table. Sam lit the mauve candle on the table between the sofa and chair. Ray Charles sang from the CD speakers.
Sam walked toward her and held out a match. “You light the last one for luck.”
She shook her head. Her hands would drop it to the wood floor and burn the house down. From the speakers, piano notes rippled down a keyboard. Sam took her hand and placed his other one on the hip without the bow. They moved, rather than waltzed, to the room’s center. The ninth candle shone white from the entry console table. Sam had closed the living room shutters. His cheek was rough against hers. When they set out this morning his face had looked so smooth.
They kissed; his mouth and tongue tasted like Mediterranean food and mountain air. His hands were all over her back. He slid her zipper down. She pressed closer to keep her dress from falling and felt him harden against her. He kissed her hair, her ear, her throat. She stepped back, wanting his lips on her breasts. The dress slid to floor. He sucked her nipples. She fumbled with his belt buckle. He drew back and stripped off his shirt the same way he had this afternoon. All she had on now were the nylon lace bikini panties. She stepped out of the bunched dress so it wouldn’t get more creased and turned to the candles staggered on the wall unit shelves. Peach, green, pink, yellow, and blue quivered in colored jars. Behind her came the thud-thud-thud of him hopping out of his pants. For him, this was fun, a release from stress, a chance to get laid after two dry months. He had nothing to lose, while she could wreck everything with Hayden, if she hadn’t done that already. Hayden had warned that Sam was using her. For what? She couldn’t remember, with Sam nuzzling her neck and rubbing her and sliding his hand down her thighs, down her calves. She blew out a candle for luck, turned around, and kissed him. They sank to the pile of clothing on the floor. She straddled his thighs, remembering the condom that was buried somewhere under the dress. Forget it.
“Ouch,” Sam said.
“What?”
“My buckle jabbed me in the back.” He shifted position. “Ooh. I think that was your dress bow.” Gingerly, he edged their bodies sideways.
“We could go to the bedroom,” she said.
“That might be safer for me.”
“In that case . . .”
Colored candlelight danced on his face and chest. She loved how it shimmered on his silver hairs. She kissed his skin shining yellow and green and blue and mauve. Hands fumbling, she slipped him in. Quivers shot through her arms, her thighs, her whole being. She loved this. Make it last forever, Sam. She loved it, loved it, loved it.
Chapter Twenty-three
He was gone from her bed. Paula spread her arm across the cold sheets. Had she imagined last night? She hoped so. No, she didn’t and she hadn’t. Their empty orange juice glasses sat on the bedside tables. The clock rolled to 7:43 AM. Dim light flowed through her window. The door was ajar. No sounds streamed in. Sam must be in the kitchen or living room. She crawled from the covers and put on her sleep shirt.
In the bathroom, she dabbed water on her morning hair, patted it down as best she could and padded to the kitchen, where Sam wasn’t sitting. Nor was he in the living room that reeked of acrid candle smoke. Her cosmic blue evening gown was draped on the chair, where they had placed it after waking up. Wrinkled and smelling of sweet sex, it would need to be dry-cleaned. Sam’s T-shirt and jeans and briefs were missing. The Sunday newspaper lay on the console table. He must have brought it in. She opened the shutters. His Acura was parked on the street. Drizzle coated its metallic red. Where the fuck was he? She rolled the ottoman back to its spot in front of the sofa and checked the kitchen again. He hadn’t made coffee. There were no signs he’d had breakfast. He wasn’t on the back deck. The only place left was the basement. She opened the door and shouted his name. No reply. She called again and rechecked all the rooms, peered into closets, looked under the beds, which was nuts. How could you lose someone in this little house? The hell with him. His car was here. He had to turn up. She started the coffeemaker and carried the newspaper to the kitchen table. The City section featured a recap of Callie’s murder with her usual photograph. No news. The front door creaked. Sam stood in the entry, removing his windbreaker.
She stopped beside the ottoman. “Where were you?”
“I went for a walk,” he said. “Didn’t you see my note?”
“No.”
“I left it on the telephone table.”
“Why would I look there?”
“Sorry.” He moved toward her. “I assumed you’d guess I didn’t go too far.”
“Why did you go out at all in weather like this?” She crossed her arms.
His hair was rumpled and damp. “You were sound asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you with the radio or TV. I felt like stretching my legs. It wasn’t raining when I left. It still isn’t. Just a little mist.” He smelled mustier than her evening dress.
She stepped back. “Where did you go?” Her hand rested on a glass jar.
“I planned to look at the old commercial buildings on 9th Ave, but got blocked by a train. So, I went to the murder site. I hadn’t seen it, since the murder, that is.”
Paula picked up the jar. The mauve candle had burned halfway down while they slept on their clothing. She had woken with a jolt, rousing
Sam. He’d got their orange juice, while she used the bathroom. He was waiting for her in bed, where they did it again, slowly this time.
“The place where she was killed looked so normal,” he said.
“It always does, whenever I go there. I can’t believe I didn’t notice you leave. How long were you gone?”
He glanced at his watch. “About an hour, I guess.”
“The site’s ten minutes away.”
“I continued to Macleod Trail and circled back through the streets.”
She plunked the jar on the table. “Would you like breakfast? The coffee smells ready. There’s cereal and toast, maybe fruit if we’re lucky. Orange juice.”
“I’m meeting Dimitri at ten o’clock for brunch. I could have a coffee.”
She had to leave around ten o’clock to pick up Isabelle. He would want to go home to shower and change. They both conveniently had excuses to avoid the question of what to do the morning after. Had he made up the brunch date with Dimitri? He would be more used to these first-time situations than she was, having changed women every two or three years. Over thirty years of adult life that would make . . . how many? She was too tired to do the math. She poured their coffees and sat down across table from him.
He added milk to his mug. “I did a lot of thinking on the walk.”
“About what?” She sipped, dreading whatever he had to say.
“About you and me and other things. I’d like to see you again.”
Paula ran her fingers through her matted hair. In the bathroom mirror, her skin had looked sallow, her eyes red. He didn’t look much better, on the whole, although his tousled hair was splendid. So were his eyes that were way too eager for this hour of day. In that first newspaper article, he had said he was an early riser. That figured.
“We really clicked last night,” Sam said.
A flush warmed her neck and face. “I’ve been thinking, maybe I should be alone for awhile, to sort things through.”
“If it’s about that guy you’re with, I wouldn’t mind sharing with him while you’re sorting.”
“I’d mind. And he certainly would.” How could Sam understand her so little? Last night, they had been so connected. She knew what was under his T-shirt and jeans now, but didn’t get what was in his head, like was he willing to share because he wanted her that much or because he just wanted a partner to click with? Had he loved any of his previous women, aside from those moments during sex when the body tricked you into feeling love? She didn’t love him beyond those moments yet, but to continue with him she would have to believe there was potential.