House Rules

by Ruby Lang

  * * *

  They held a reception in the small mezzanine area immediately after the concert. It was usually a good time to get all the board members together, lubricated with music and wine. But Simon found himself waiting anxiously to see if Lana would show up. And when she did, a little glassy-eyed and bewildered, his heart gave a twist.

  He hugged Julia and thanked her when she told him how moved she’d been by the concert. When Lana turned to him, he couldn’t help himself from bending and whispering, “There you are,” and putting his palm on her back. “I’d love for you to meet some people.”

  He handed her and Julia glasses of wine, and made space for them in the throng of people. Soon, Julia was in a lively conversation with a local gallery owner and Lana had been introduced to some of his choristers and their families, and Simon was just watching her talk to them all, enjoying the way she seemed to fit in his present life.

  It felt husbandly. Or rather, it seemed like he was in a dream where she had been his wife all along, there’d been no separation between them. He’d be lying if he didn’t enjoy the fantasy, the warmth of her back, the shine in her face, not just for the performance, not just for the kids, but for him.

  And she was proud of him. He could see it shining in her face when she turned to look at him, before she murmured that the concert had been wonderful, before she lifted his hand and brushed a kiss over it. That much hadn’t changed. And the light touch of her lips, her eyes, her warmth, it kindled another fire in him.

  He could not wait to get her out of here.

  But one of his longtime board members was clearly lingering to get a word, and there were other donors and grantors he had to shake hands with, so he gritted his teeth and smiled. “Lana, this is Monroe Webb and his partner, Annie Wu. Monroe’s the chair of our board of directors. He’s been with us since his son Cal was a member of the chorus. Cal’s a musician now, too, and a musicologist.”

  Monroe, nattily attired as always, gave them a friendly nod, but sprightly Annie, much less reserved, was studying Lana with open curiosity.

  “An early success story,” Lana said, smiling.

  Simon replied, “I can’t take credit. Cal was already incredibly skilled when he decided to join us. He was one of those kids who wanted to make music all the time. He’s got so much curiosity. How is he doing, Monroe? I’d love to persuade him to perform with us again, or come down and talk to the members. They’d love him.”

  “I’m sure he’d enjoy that, too.” Monroe turned to his partner. “We’ll have to get our heads together, see what his schedule is like.”

  Annie Wu grinned. “I’ll bet we can lure him with the promise of adoring fans. But I have questions for Miss Lana here. How long have you known Simon? Are you a musician yourself?”

  “A long time,” Simon responded without thinking. “She’s a pianist.”

  He felt her spine stiffen under his hand.

  “I’m a chef.”

  The way she said it, the way she stepped slightly away from him, made him realize he’d made a mistake. And even as he felt sorry for answering for her, for having discounted all those years of her life, all the hard work that made her new and magnificent...it irritated him slightly because he’d been enjoying this dream and she’d reminded him it was one-sided and not true.

  “Well, I can’t sing a note,” Annie Wu said cheerfully, ignoring Lana and Simon’s sudden silence. “When I was a kid I had piano lessons, and I was terrible and everyone let me know as if I hadn’t figured it out. The best thing about the lessons was my teacher had seven cats. Possibly more.”

  Monroe Webb looked at his partner, his expression horrified, and he brushed the sleeve of his dark bespoke suit as if he could feel feline hairs accumulating.

  “Oh, please,” Annie said. “Don’t tell me when you were a kid you wouldn’t have been delighted with the idea of having hundreds of cats.”

  “I would not,” Monroe said.

  But Annie’s response seemed to relax him. “Another wonderful concert, Simon. The kids, especially that second-to-last song, ‘Wanting Memories,’ it was incredibly moving.”

  Simon found his voice. Good thing he’d been giving and rehearsing some version of this pitch for months. “All the credit goes to Abena. We’re lucky to have her, and if we could bring her on as co-conductor and organize a larger stipend for her, who knows how much better the chorus could become.”

  “It’s definitely something we should consider.”

  Monroe’s smile flashed in his dark, handsome face. “You be careful with this one,” he warned Lana. “He’s seems gentle but he can roll right over you when he gets an idea in his head, and make you think it’s what you wanted all along.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Lana said so softly that probably only Simon heard it.

  Monroe and Annie were already waving to someone else they knew, leaving Simon and Lana alone in the crowd.

  “I’m sorry. I got excited, and I didn’t mean to discount your work.”

  But his apology seemed to be swallowed up as someone else approached wanting to talk to him about making a donation. She gave him a quick squeeze of her hand; it should have been reassuring, but like his apology it was rushed and not quite enough, and she slipped away.

  The last he saw of her at the reception was when he spotted her talking to Julia. Then the crowds started to thin out, the last of the kids arguing with their parents that they should be able to stay up late even though it was a school night. And finally, he knew she was really gone.

  Disappointment cracked across him, unexpected and heavy. Of course she shouldn’t have stayed to the end. It wasn’t her show. And if she’d asked him if she should wait, of course he would have urged her to go home, perhaps walked her out the door and handed her into a cab.

  But she hadn’t, and really, why should she?

  The fact that he had no real right to his feelings was perhaps the softest, most killing blow of all.

  * * *

  But Lana was still asleep in his bed when he got home. He watched her for a minute, her face pale in the light from the window, her dark hair disappearing into the night. Although he was tempted to wake her up, he knew she hadn’t been sleeping as much as she should have. She’d been drained by the end of the evening, and as much as he wanted to hold her and ask her for some sort of reassurance, he couldn’t right now. He crept quietly around the room, thinking about how it was usually she who did this. She knew how to slip under the covers so gently she didn’t even wake him.

  He was struck by how generous it was—not in not waking him, although that was thoughtful—but in how she was there to share her mornings with him, her warmth, her body. So he tried to be generous, too, although she gave a start when he slid in and the cat sprang up, disgruntled. “Don’t you have your own bed?” he whispered to the cat.

  She did. She had Lana’s old room all to herself. She’d peed on the bed to underscore her possession. But Muffin was an ambitious little taker, yowling noisily for food that she ignored when dished out, demanding scritches until she was ready for them to cease immediately, which she signaled by biting.

  The cat stalked away now, giving Simon a baleful glance. He would probably pay for it later.

  Lana hardly seemed to stir. She was probably exhausted. He knew he was tired, too, but his brain pinged with adrenaline, and it was a surprise when she pulled one of his hands to her belly and slid it right down into her underwear where she was already wet.

  “Am I the one who gets revved up after performances, or are you?” he asked, his fingers already busy on her clit.

  “Shut up and get under me,” she said tenderly.

  For some reason, her small irritability mixed with affection made him feel more reassured than anything else that had happened that night.

  She rolled on top of him and pulled off her arm braces, the decisive crac
k of the Velcro surprisingly loud and erotic in the silent room. He’d already been ready, ready as soon as she’d grasped his hand in her strong fingers. But now as she raised her ass to take off what little clothing remained on her, he felt himself almost trembling. Part of him wanted to take over, to roll her under him, and to move himself on a short, straight line to completion. But another part of him knew it wouldn’t be as good as if he let her surprise him. His jaw clenched with the effort to hold himself still, to let her do this in her own time. As she leaned over him to the nightstand, he took the opportunity to lick her nipple, to smooth his hands down her lithe waist, coiled and strong. He moved his hand around the front to her thighs and slicked his fingers down and into her pussy.

  She ground against him for a moment, then sat down hard on him with a gasp so that his hand was almost crushed against his stomach. But he worked, and she worked, and soon, she was sliding down him, leaving a trail of her arousal down to his cock. At least any effect she had on him, he also had on her. He had doubts, yes, but he didn’t doubt she wanted him, and that knowledge was sometimes more than enough.

  She rolled the condom on quickly—thank God for that—and when she took him inside he nearly choked with relief and pleasure. For a moment, he watched her moving on top of him, the jounce of her small breasts, the upward movement of her head and shoulders as she looked to the ceiling then down at him again. Then he pulled her toward him to kiss her, to feel her mouth, still fresh with toothpaste. Her tongue and lips slid against his, hot with the rhythm of their movements. He felt surrounded by her, by her skin and smoothness and the wet warm scent of sex and sweat, and he was lost.

  She was murmuring against him, inhales and exhales, her teeth against his lips and chin and back up again. He grasped her hips to steady her and pumped up into her, breathing against the strain of trying to slow himself down, concentrating on her mouth, on the push of his tongue on hers.

  Her hand tugged at his hair now. Through her fingers, he could feel her entire desperate body. She was so strong and he loved it.

  Then like that, she’d pulled up, up and away from him, her breathing gone as her body bucked on him. He watched her with wide open eyes, following the outline of her in the dark. Everything about her moved upward then crashed down almost as if she were trying to take off, as if he were holding her here. He had to let go, he had to let her go. His hips and hands moved her higher and higher. Even as his own orgasm started to lash its way through him, he felt that effort of hers straining toward the sky.

  In a moment, she took him with her, the pleasure tearing through him until he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear the sound that left his throat.

  When he came back down she was a warm heap on top of him. He brushed her hair gently from her face, and out of his mouth, wanting to hold on just a few seconds more. But she rolled off him quickly, a little too quickly, and padded to the bathroom.

  He couldn’t move. Who would want to? But when she came back, he went and got rid of the condom and cleaned up, too, like a grown-up, and jumped back into bed like a kid and listened to her giggle.

  “Go to sleep,” he told her.

  “I can’t. I’m riled up.” She yawned and stretched beside him. “I feel like I could spring up, play Scrabble or chess or something.”

  “Sing a song, play the piano.” He was half asleep.

  “Our neighbors would love that.”

  “Why don’t you play anymore?”

  A pause. “Because I don’t have to.”

  “But you still love music. I could see it tonight. It moved you.”

  “Yes, it did. But maybe I loved it because I wasn’t doing it.”

  She buried herself into his shoulder. “Where is your dad’s old chess set, anyway?”

  “In storage. With a lot of his old stuff and some of mine. I moved it there when I came here. You know, I wasn’t sure it would take. Us living together, I mean.”

  Another silence. Maybe she was asleep. He was half asleep himself, hardly aware of what he was saying. “It’s our trial period together, after all.”

  He couldn’t fight it any longer, sleep was claiming him. Maybe he heard her whisper, “Right. Trial period. How could I forget?” Maybe he didn’t hear it at all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lana hadn’t expected to be offered a job when her old friend came into the city.

  Hester was a couple of years younger than Lana. She’d grown up in Hong Kong, cooked in Vancouver, and now she lived on a farm a little upstate and ran a culinary school and restaurant with her partner. Lana had visited last fall before she’d started working at Lore. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  “Our curriculum is expanding,” Hester explained over late, late-night drinks. “I thought of you immediately.”

  Lana was tired. She’d been in Simon’s bed when he came home after the concert. They’d never bothered with the pretense they’d sleep alone, and the cat had grudgingly taken Lana’s smaller bed as her own. When she and Simon had sex last night, his eyes had stayed open and glittering, following her, seeing her as she smoothed the condom over his ready cock, taking in her every movement as if to make sure she wouldn’t disappear. When he watched her like this, she didn’t think she could.

  But afterward, he’d reminded her they were still in a trial period, and even though she’d fallen asleep after talking about it, the phrase had struggled its way up through her memories, repeating itself throughout the day. What did Simon expect would happen? Maybe he was judging, and she was on trial.

  Lana brought herself back to reality by taking a tiny sip of her drink. Some terrible ’70s hard rock played over the speakers, and the table was scratched, but judging by the gloss on the crowd and the price of the drinks, this bar wasn’t the dive it was hoping to be. She grimaced at the glass rather than meet Hester’s eyes. “Me, teaching at a cooking school. I went to college to be a teacher, but I haven’t dealt with students in years.”

  “Don’t talk your way out of feeling qualified for a job that you’re already being offered, Lana.”

  “I see where you’re coming from, Hester. But chiding me when I’m cautious isn’t helpful. Trying does actually cost something, no matter what they say. You and I have both been told about opportunities only to have them taken away, or to be told we don’t have the right credentials when we do. It erodes your confidence even when you know you’re right. So let me have a moment.”

  “Fine. But this is me, and this is a real offer. I ate at that place Lore tonight. You’ve gotten better and better. The other chefs there pay attention to you. They watch you because you have skills they want to learn. But that place is a pit that eats young people up even though they think it gilds their CVs. You probably don’t want to stay there long-term. I can’t see you planning on it.”

  “I’m not exactly known for my planning, Hester.”

  “Well, don’t stay there forever. Put aside your fears, because that’s fear talking you out of this. We have plenty of people who’ve gone to European schools and can teach pastry making to middle-aged weekenders. But for our regular curriculum, we want a truly global school with people with diverse backgrounds who’ve learned their techniques in Singapore, or India, or Ethiopia, to teach our young chefs.”

  “You’re really offering?”

  “Yeah, I am. You have a unique skill set and experience. And as you mentioned, you do have teacher training, which is more than most of the other people we’ve hired. I want you to really think about this. The pay is not extremely high but we offer healthcare, dental, and regular hours. And you’d still be cooking.”

  It sounded too good to be true.

  “How far is it again? Say, if I wanted to commute?”

  “A couple hours. Longer in rush-hour traffic. You would probably want to move or rent somewhere for weekdays, but housing’s a lot cheaper up there than in Manhattan.”

 
Hester spoke with the assurance of someone who was independently wealthy, waving aside the cost of an extra living space with one careless hand. “Take a little time to think about it.”

  Oh, Lana planned on overthinking it, starting now.

  But Hester was frowning at her drink. “I can’t really do these late nights anymore. I don’t miss it.”

  “Do you need a place to stay?”

  “No worries. I booked a room. I have to see a couple more people tomorrow.”

  As Lana sat on the rattling, bright 2 train back home, she thought about picking up and moving again, this time to a small town. She remembered her fainting spell at work. Her period would be coming up again soon, and she hoped it would be gentler this time. She was otherwise healthy, but she was getting older. Not counting the endometriosis, how much longer could she keep this up? Especially when her wages as a cook weren’t so great to begin with.

  It was a good opportunity, and with Hester living in the same town, she already knew she wouldn’t be friendless, nor would she be the only Asian woman for miles. It was the offer she’d been waiting for, even though she hadn’t known it.

  Of course, she loved the apartment and didn’t want to think of leaving their tree-lined street, the warm brick walls, the sun-filled room at the front of the house, Simon’s bedroom, Simon’s bed.

  She still cared about him. And she wanted to know where this would go. They’d only really been together again for a few weeks. They were still on their trial period. There was still time for him to change his mind about how he felt, if he was holding back, if he had never really moved in. After all, he kept his important mementos in storage as if half expecting to leave. He was apparently still weighing options.