In a way, though, I am lucky. I have two lives. When the real one disappoints me, I go back to that beach, cave or mountain top for another fix of Mr. Right who, unlike my friend Wayne, always knows just what a woman needs.
“Do you still like me?” Wayne asked, easing the car into gear and pulling away from our therapist’s office.
At the first meeting with Phyllis, our couples counselor, Wayne and I had trotted out our enmity for one another in a most civilized and adoring way. An onlooker might even have mistaken us for characters in a romance novel, seeing Wayne touch his manicured, stockbroker fingers to my cheek and tenderly confide, “Susanna is a wonderful companion—emotionally, sexually and intellectually.” Then reality vitiated romance as he added, “But I’m not sure I love her. Bells don’t ring.”
Although we were not married, four years of comfortable domesticity peppered with tears, walk-outs and angry silences had more than qualified us for these sessions. I merely wanted to get rid of the bad feelings, but I suspected Wayne was almost ready to get rid of me.
While we sat on the couch in Phyllis’ office, Wayne’s hands clasped lovingly around mine, the prosecution went to work. He revealed that, besides failing to play Quasimodo to my amour’s chimes, I neglected to share his enthusiasm for sports. My crimes were these: I didn’t like boxing; hated football; wouldn’t even play catch in the park.
Guilty as charged, I admitted, not realizing that the way to Wayne’s heart was, literally, through his balls.
“Perhaps you should take up a sport,” ventured Phyllis.
I glared. “And perhaps you should stop dispensing the kind of advice even Seventeen magazine hasn’t dared print in years. Don’t quote me ‘Ten Ways to Catch and Keep a Boy.’ I used to write that stuff before I started selling romance novels. And frankly, the only time I break into sweat is when I can’t meet a deadline.”
Later, after Wayne and I got home, he repeated his question. “Like you, darling?” I echoed. “You know I love you.” Although I spoke more out of practice than passion, it still took two to pay the rent, and I had no immediate plans to look for a new lover.
I headed for the typewriter to begin Chapter One of Strangers on the Beach, and to escape my aggravating Pele in pinstripes. I would start the book with another victim of love. Like me, she would know what it meant to suffer from a man’s betrayal. But there would soon be another to soothe all that pain . . .
A harsh and frigid wind froze the tears on Vivianna Bartholomew’s pale, beautiful face as she stared into the ebon sea. The high, tumultuous waves beckoned to her like fingers, coaxing her closer, closer. Above the roar of the taunting tides was the thudding of her own anguished heart and the mournful litany: If I cannot have love, then death I choose.
“Gregory!” She sobbed his name on the deserted beach. It was an epithet as well as a paean to the man who had loved her and then died before wedded bliss could entwine them. The tragedy of his death in the small, single-engine plane he piloted was agonizingly fresh yet incomprehensible to her. How can you press your lips to a man’s mouth one moment and witness his death in flames the next?
Since Gregory had perished, then she must, too. Their union now would be one of death, not marriage. And now all that was left in this life was her lonely ceremony by the sea.
“Gregory.” Her tone was softer now as she readied herself to yield to fate’s dictum. “I’m coming to join you, darling. We’ll soon be together again.” Her determined footsteps brought her to the water’s edge. The impervious tide washed around her small black boots, yet she was numb to the cold, numb to all mortal feelings. Looking up at the sliver of moon, she awaited a sign that her betrothed was prepared to receive her.
A cloud passed in front of the sky’s only source of light, and she took several resolute steps forward. Her wet skirt now clung to her body, revealing the curves more men than Gregory had noticed and admired.
“Miss! What do you think you’re doing?” a male voice screamed from behind her.
Two strong arms began to pull at her, wrestling her from the water’s grip. “Are you insane? Come out, you foolish woman!”
Vivianna struggled to be free of him, but in her weak and grieving state, she was no match for this man. He lifted her wet, frail form into his burly arms and began to carry her up, away from the sea, toward a cottage wherein a soft light shone.
Inside the wood-hewn edifice, he brought her blankets and tea. He was a large man with a brooding, dark mien, yet he moved gracefully in his familiar environment. As he took away the untouched tea from her shaking hands, their eyes met. His revealed something more than curiosity, something untamed, and it frightened her.
Quivering from the cold, she stood up and let the blanket slide from her shoulders. “I—I must go,” she said.
Catlike, he strode to the exit, blocking her passage. “No, miss. I won’t let you leave. Not yet.” His lips were only inches from hers, and she cringed from the implicit threat they had issued.
I was in bed editing the pages I had written earlier. Wayne sat on the armchair nearby watching a baseball game on television, to my unspoken annoyance.
“Susanna, this is it. I’ve decided to move out. I’m just not happy. It’s not going to work.”
His announcement hardly took me by surprise. For an instant, I actually felt relief. I had known we were heading nowhere—yet I had come to treasure the journey. Being half of a couple was so cozy and safe—and I still did love Wayne. I was about to lose my lover, roommate and sustenance in one swoop.
I wanted to tell him no, he could not leave. But that would not stop him. I started to cry, then soon felt the weight of his body next to mine on the bed. Looking up I saw that he was crying, too.
“Telling you that was one of the hardest things I ever did.”
“Hearing it was one of the hardest things I ever did.”
“We’ll still be friends—see each other, have dinner, talk on the phone, sleep together—if you want to,” he said.
“Of course, that’s what I want—I don’t want you to leave at all.”
“But I’m going to. I have to.”
I fleetingly thought of offering to take tennis lessons, but I said nothing. That was not why Wayne was leaving. He loved me—but not enough. He cared about me, worried about how I fared—but not enough to stay. I wanted to shout that no relationship is perfect and that no person can be everything to another. Wayne had embraced some romantic ideal of togetherness and I was its victim.
“Hold me,” I pleaded, hoping to stretch that moment to cover all the loneliness ahead. My cheek went to the spot on his shoulder where it had lain countless times. He hugged me and kissed my neck. I cried harder.
My hand moved down his body to caress him, and it was no different from the way we had always begun to make love. His fingers found my breasts inside my robe and cupped them. My body felt numb to the touch. Physically we were getting closer, but all I could think about was how soon be would be gone.
Our lovemaking was interrupted by tears and talking, but desire was missing. We went through the motions to reassure each other that we were beyond anger and above the pettiness of other couples.
“How soon will you go?” I asked.
“A couple of days. I found a nice apartment.”
I curled into a ball on my side of the bed. Wayne got up to shut off the TV. The game was over. I was certain his team had won.
The next day, rereading the pages I had written the day before, I laughed at the irony. In my scheme of things, the heroine yearned to leave, but the wise hero stood in her way. Oh, why couldn’t Wayne understand that the only reason lovers separate is so they can experience the sweetness of reuniting?
Vivianna’s breasts rose as she took in a breath. The outline of her nipples was evident against her thin, wet sweater, and Nicholas’ eyes rested there. “Step aside,” she said.
He folded his arm, across his wide chest and stood rooted to the bare wooden floor. “I won’t
let you go now.”
“But I must leave!” she cried. “S—someone’s waiting for me.”
“There’s not a soul on that beach,” he stated, staring through the window. “A storm’s coming up. If you go now in those wet clothes, you’ll fall ill. Stay the night here with me.”
Vivianna glanced at the room’s only bed and then at her insistent host.
“Don’t worry about that,” he assured her. “I can sleep on the floor.” The wind howled around the small cabin, making it a lone refuge in a frightening world.
Nicholas slipped a long robe off a hook near the door and handed it to her. “Take those wet clothes off and wear this.” Slowly her hand reached for the garment. “Turn around, please,” she said, unanticipated tears filling her eyes. She stepped out of her skirt, pulled her sweater over her head, and hung the items over the bedpost. She slipped on the robe. Sobbing quietly, she sank into the downy mattress and put her weary head in her hands.
He walked toward her slowly, instinctively aware that any quick move might cause her to flee. Kneeling by the bed, he took her small, childlike hand in his and whispered, “What makes you so sad?”
She turned her face away from him. “Why did you have to find me? Why couldn’t you have left me alone to die?”
“So there was no one waiting for you on the beach,” he concluded, gingerly taking a place next to her on the bed. Compared to her chill, the heat radiating from his body was like a fire.
“But there was,” she insisted. Her tears came faster now, dripping from her luminous eyes and down her cheeks.
“A companion to die with?” he replied, puzzled. “That’s one thing we all do alone, and I can’t understand why a beautiful young woman like you would want to do that now.” He touched his finger beneath her chin and made her look at him. In her eyes was a heart-wrenching mixture of fright, sadness . . . perhaps even insanity.
“Let me hold you,” he gently commanded. She did not resist when his arms went around her narrow shoulders. Ever so slowly she grew aware, in a not unpleasant way, of the warmth his body brought.
Each time she sobbed, he held her tighter until her cries subsided. Now in her eyes was a tired gratitude. His rough fingers caressed her dark hair. “Perhaps there was a reason why I looked through my window and saw you by the shoreline earlier,” he mused. “Perhaps I was meant to save you.” His lips pressed down on hers, softly at first and then increasingly more forceful and hungry. Instinctively she responded by opening her mouth to his and savoring the hot, full-bodied pleasure.
A moment later she abruptly stood. The robe fell open to reveal her perfectly shaped breasts topped with nipples the color of pink rosebuds. “You must not touch me!” she hissed, stepping backward, away from him. “Gregory, dear God, Gregory, what is happening to me. . . .”
Shock. Denial. Anger. Acceptance. According to the latest literature on the subject of loss, those were the four emotional stages following separation from a loved one. I was stuck somewhere between shock and denial. I stayed at home in my nightgown and cried. I talked on the phone to Wayne and cried more. I called my friends and, in tears, bored them.
Meanwhile, the all-new, emotionally, healthy, self-directed Wayne was busy making a new life, furnishing his apartment and getting plenty of physical and sexual exercise.
“But it didn’t mean anything. Being with her was nothing like being with you,” he reported after his first sexual conquest. I took the liberty of assuming that this statement was some sort of compliment, although I would have phrased it much more elegantly. Something along the lines of: “My darling, I am sick, and just half a man without you beside me. How my loins ache with desire for you.”
To be fair, I had to admit that Wayne attempted to be supportive and understanding. On several occasions, he responded to frantic middle-of-the-night calls by coming over to hold me in his arms. But soft words and tender assurances did little to quell my panic. I did not want to be alone. I was alone all day, writing. And with most of my advance payment for Strangers on the Beach already spent on tissues and therapy, money was becoming a problem.
“Try to be positive,” counseled Wayne and my fourteen next-closest friends. “You’re young, attractive and successful. Not living with a man, you will get that book finished much sooner.”
I almost bought that—until Mother called from Florida. “As far as I’m concerned, that Wayne ruined your life,” pronounced the peroxide sage. “Forget him and find someone else to marry.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I’ve spent the last six weekends alone or annoying my women friends. That hardly qualifies me for the bridal registry at Bloomingdale’s.”
“But you should get married,” she replied, undeterred. “After all, you need someone to take care of you.”
My shrink and my friends thought otherwise. They wanted me to use Wayne’s departure as a steppingstone to becoming a strong, independent, self-sufficient woman.
Crying, I went back to the typewriter. You want to see happy endings, Ma? Well, so do I, damn it! But the only one I can manufacture at the moment takes place between two people who only live in a book.
“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said, looking up from the bed. “I never intended to force . . .”
“You never intended! What do I care what you intended—or even who you are?” Vivianna shrieked, her dark eyes flashing.
The chill she had felt was gone and now, in its place, was a fire of rage—at this stranger, at Gregory, at life itself for bringing her such loss and pain.
“My name is Nicholas Powers,” he stated in quiet dignity. “And if I’m not mistaken, I’ve saved your life—for the time being, at least. So if I were you, young woman, I would lower my voice and show some appreciation.”
Chastened, she grew quiet, yet a world of emotion was swirling inside her. “You don’t know anything!” she protested. “My fiancé died less than ten days ago. I’ve no parents, and no place to go. There is nothing left of my life.”
“You’re wrong,” he murmured, slowly coming toward her. “You’ve got life itself. No need to rush death or run to its arms—it will take you soon enough. Only a coward—or a scared child—would make such an irrational choice.”
“Perhaps I am both,” she whispered.
“Then let me be your strength,” he earnestly beseeched. “I live alone and have little money, but I offer you my home and all that I have.”
This time it was Vivianna who brought her face close to the stranger’s, her eyes begging for a kiss. Nicholas complied, his arms reaching out to embrace her. She began to tremble, but this time it was neither fear nor cold that motivated her—it was desire. It was life.
“That’s good. Thanks for showing it to me,” Phyllis declared, handing the manuscript pages back to me. “I like happy endings.”
I shrugged. “It’s required.”
Her soft, blue-gray eyes assessed me. “When are you going to admit the real reason why you write these romance novels? I know—you write well and it’s an easy way for you to make a living. But why do you choose to write these kinds of books?”
I drew in a breath and looked at her. “Because I still believe in love, romance and passion. God, I’m embarrassed to admit that.”
We both laughed. Then she said, “If you believe it’s there, maybe it is. So why don’t you begin to let go of Wayne and try to find those things with someone else? Not because your mother says so, not because you can’t care for yourself, but because you feel it will enrich your life.”
“And even if it doesn’t,” I added, “at least I’ll have some new material to work with.”
I FALL FOR BASTARDS
I remember the precise moment I stopped having affairs with bastards and switched to men who were good for me and I’m going to tell you why I did it and how it changed my life. I didn’t stop dating rotten men because I had a fabulous insight in therapy, been to est, lost every member of my family in a plane crash or gone to India to work for the
Peace Corps and seen the light. No. My conversion came about because I couldn’t get in to see Annie Hall in a Manhattan movie theater on a Saturday night in August. It was the sixth day of a record heat wave and I got to the box office right after the last ticket had been sold. I was real upset even though I had already seen the movie.
The reason I was left to wander the scorched streets of Manhattan was a creep named Marvin Goldman. If that doesn’t sound like a name you would ordinarily associate with a bastard, that is exactly the point I’m going to make.
I was once asked by a man why rotten men get the best women and nice guys have trouble scoring (at least that’s what he observed). If anyone else is considering going into the bastard business, let me say that bastards are not what you expect them to be. They are definitely not mean, macho, insulting or ostensibly cruel. The true bastard, the guy born to the role, the one who can really hurt you, is usually a very nice human being with a name like Marvin, Harvey or Clifford.
My Marvin, the bastard who forever changed the course of my sexual destiny, was not wearing a black leather jacket, boots, or a Hell’s Angel’s t-shirt when I met him at a party, nor did he walk with a swagger. He was standing on the fringe of a lawn party in Southampton in a pair of blue jeans, white Adidas and an alligator shirt. He looked shy, ill at ease and frightened. A few inches shorter than I, he had a sunburn that made him look like a strawberry ice cream cone with glasses. I returned his “Hi” because I felt sorry for him and thought he was grateful to me for answering him.
Marvin wasn’t rare. Before Marvin I’d known other bastards who were not only shy but capable of acts of generosity and gentleness you’d never expect from a rat. They genuinely wanted to make me happy. Lloyd made love to me as if I were a piece of fragile crystal, parting my legs and licking my clitoris so softly that it was like being aroused by a butterfly—though he knew when to metamorphose into a man.
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