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The first time I made love to Allison Gwynn, I felt like an adulterer.
Totally irrational. Robin and I had been living apart for months. And now she was with Tim Plachette.
But when the touch, the feel, the smell of someone is imbedded in your DNA . . .
If Allison sensed my unease, she never said a word.
• • •
I met her shortly before my years with Robin started to unravel. I’d been helping Milo on a twenty-year-old murder. Years before, at the age of seventeen, Allison had been sexually abused by a man who figured in the case. Her college mentor was an old friend of mine, and he asked her if she’d talk to me. She thought about it and agreed.
I liked her right away— admired her courage, her honesty, her gentle manner. Her looks were too notable to miss, but back then I appreciated them as an abstraction.
Ivory skin, soft but assertive cheekbones, a wide, strong mouth, the most gorgeous, waist-length black hair I’d ever seen. Huge eyes, blue as midnight, projected a sharp curiosity. Like me, she was a psychologist. Those eyes, I figured, would serve her well.
She grew up in Beverly Hills, the only daughter of an assistant attorney general, went to Penn, continued there for a Ph.D. In her senior year, she met a Wharton whiz, fell in love, married young, and moved back to California. Within months of receiving her state license, her husband was diagnosed with a rare malignancy, and she was widowed. Eventually, she pulled herself together and built up a Santa Monica practice. Now she combined clinical work with teaching nights at the U, and volunteering at a hospice for the terminally ill.
Keeping busy. I knew that tune.
Seated, her high waist and willowy arms and swan neck implied height, but like Robin, she was a small, delicately built woman— there I go again, comparing.
Unlike Robin, she favored expensive makeup, considered clothes-shopping a recreational activity, had no problem flashing strategic glints of diamond jewelry.
One time she confessed it was because she’d been late to enter puberty, had hated looking like a child all through high school. At thirty-seven, she appeared ten years younger.
I was the first man she’d been with in a long time.
• • •
When I called her, it had been months since we’d spoken. Surprise brightened her voice. “Oh, hi.”
I talked around the issue, finally asked her to dinner.
She said, “As in a date?”
“As in.”
“I thought there . . . was someone.”
“So did I,” I said.
“Oh. Is this recent?”
“This isn’t a rebound thing,” I said. “I’ve been single for a while.” Hating the awkwardness— the self-pity— of all that.
“Giving yourself time,” she said.
Saying the right thing. Trained to say the right thing. Maybe this was a mistake. Even back in grad school, I’d avoided dating women in my field, wanting to know about other worlds, worried that intimacy with another therapist would be too confining. Then I met Robin, and there’d been no need to look anywhere . . .
“Anyway,” I said. “If you’re busy—”
She laughed. “Sure, let’s get together.”
“Still a carnivore?”
“You remember. Did I gorge myself that badly? Don’t answer that. No, I haven’t gone vegetarian.”
I named a steakhouse not far from her office. “How about tomorrow night?”
“I’ve got patients until eight, but if you don’t mind a late dinner, sure.”
“Nine,” I said. “I’ll pick you up at your office.”
“Why don’t I meet you there?” she said. “That way I won’t have to leave my car.”
Setting up an escape plan.
I said, “Terrific.”
“See you then, Alex.”
A date.
How long had it been? Eons . . . Even though Allison would be bringing her own wheels, I washed and vacuumed the Seville, got compulsive about it, and ended up squatting at the grille wielding a toothbrush. An hour later, grubby and sweaty and reeking of Armor All, I took a long run, stretched, showered, shaved, shined up a pair of black loafers, and pulled out a navy blazer.
Soft, single-breasted Italian model, two Christmases old . . . a gift from Robin. I yanked it off, switched to a black sport coat, decided it made me look like an undertaker and returned to the blue. Next step: slacks. Easy. The featherweight gray flannels I usually wore when I testified in court. Add a yellow tab-collar shirt and a tie and I’d be— which tie? I tried on several, decided neckwear was too stuffy for the occasion, switched to a lightweight navy crewneck and decided that was too damn Hollywood.
Back to the yellow shirt. Open-necked. No, the tabs didn’t look good that way. And the damn thing was already sweat-stained under the arms.
My heartbeat had kicked up, and my stomach was flipping around. This was ridiculous. What would I tell a patient in the same predicament?
Be yourself.
Whoever that was.
• • •
I reached the restaurant first, thought about waiting in the Seville and greeting Allison as she approached the door. I figured that might alarm her and went inside. The place was lit at tomb level. I sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and watched sports on TV— I can’t remember the sport— had barely gotten through the foam when Allison arrived, freeing a black tide of hair from her sweater and looking around.
I got to her just as the maître d’ looked up. When she saw me, her eyes widened. No look-over; just focusing on my face. I smiled, she smiled back.
“Well, hello.” She offered her cheek, and I pecked. The sweater was lavender cashmere, and it matched the clinging dress that sheathed her from breastbone to knee. Matching shoes with big heels. Diamond earrings, diamond tennis bracelet, a short strand of silver pearls around her white neck.
We sat down. She ordered a glass of merlot, and I asked for a Chivas. The red leather booth was roomy, and I sat far enough away to avoid intrusiveness, close enough to smell her. She smelled great.
“So,” she said, aiming those blue eyes at the empty booth next to us.
“Long day?”
Back to me. “Yes. Thankfully.”
“Know what you mean,” I said.
She played with a napkin. “What have you been up to?”
“After the Ingalls case quieted down, I took a little time off. Lately I’ve being doing court consultations.”
“Crime consultations?”
“No,” I said. “Injury cases, some child custody.”
“Custody,” she said. “That gets ugly.”
“Especially when there’s enough money to pay lawyers indefinitely, and you get stuck with an idiot judge. I try to limit myself to smart judges.”
“Find any?”
“It’s a challenge.”
The drinks arrived. We clinked glasses and drank in silence. She twirled the stem, inspected the menu, said, “I’m starving, will probably gorge again.”
“Go for it.”
“What’s good?”
“I haven’t been here in years.”
“Oh?” She seemed amused. “Did you pick it to indulge my carnivorous tendencies?”
“Yours and mine. Also, I recalled it as relaxed.”
“It is.”
Silence. My face warmed— Scotch and awkwardness. Even in the dim light I could see that she’d colored.
“Anyway,” she said. “I don’t know if I ever thanked you, but you made talking about my experience as easy as it could’ve been. So thanks.”
“Thanks for helping. It made a difference.”
She scanned the menu some more, gnawed her lower lip, looked up, said, “I’m thinking T-bone.”
“Sounds good.”
“You?”
“Rib eye.”
“Major-league beefathon,” she said. She looked at the empty booth again, brought her eyes back to the tablecloth, seemed to be stu
dying my fingertips. I was glad I’d filed my nails.
“You’re taking time off from crime cases,” she said, “but you’ll go back to it.”
“If I’m asked.”
“Will you be?”
I nodded.
She said, “I never got to ask you. What draws you to that kind of thing?”
“I could recite some noble speech about righting wrongs and making the world just a little bit safer, but I’ve stopped fooling myself. The truth is, I have a thing for unpredictability and novelty. From time to time, I need a shot of adrenaline.”
“Like a race car driver.”
I smiled. “That glamorizes it.”
She drank wine, kept the glass in front of her lips, lowered it, and revealed her own smile. “So you’re just another adrenaline junkie.” She ran a finger around the base of her glass. “If it’s all about thrills and chills, why not just run cars around the track or jump out of planes?”
The work I did had been a factor in the breakup with Robin. Would we still be together if I’d settled for skydiving?
As I framed my answer, Allison said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I’m just guessing that you crave more than novelty. I think you really do like making things right.”
I didn’t answer.
“Then again,” she said, “who am I to utter pronouncements without a solid database? Being a behavioral scientist and all that.”
She shifted her bottom, tugged her hair, drank wine. I tried to smile away her discomfiture but couldn’t catch her eye. When she put her glass down, her hand landed closer to mine. Just a few millimeters between our fingers.
Then, the gap closed— both of us moving in concert. Touching.
Pretending it was accidental and retracting our hands.
The heat of skin against skin.
The blue shirt with which I’d replaced the sweat-ruined yellow one was growing sodden.
Allison began fooling with her hair. I stared into what remained of my Scotch. Breathing in the alcohol. I hadn’t eaten much all day, and booze on an empty stomach should’ve set off at least a small buzz.
Nothing.
Too damned alert.
How was this going?
• • •
For the rest of the evening, we let loose a few more cautious bits of autobiography, ate well, drank too much, walked off the meal with a slow stroll up Wilshire. Side by side, but no contact. Her big heels clacked, and her hair flapped. Her hips rolled— not a vamp, just the way she moved, and that made it sexy. Men looked at her. Halfway through the first block, her hand slipped around my biceps. Breeze from the ocean misted the streets. My eyes ached with uncertainty.
Conversation fizzled and we covered the next few blocks in silence, pretending to window-shop. Back at our cars, Allison gave me a tentative kiss on the lips. Before I knew it, she’d gotten into her ten-year-old Jaguar and was roaring off.
Two days later, I called her and asked her out again.
She said, “I’ve got the afternoon off, was planning to relax at home. Why don’t you come over and we can eat here? That is, if you’re willing to take the risk.”
“Big risk?”
“Who cares? You’re the adrenaline-guy.”
“Good point,” I said. “Can I bring something?”
“Flowers are always appropriate. Not that I’m suggesting— I’m kidding, just bring yourself. And let’s keep it casual, okay?”
• • •
She lived in a single-story Spanish house on Fourteenth Street, just south of Montana, within walking distance of her office. The alarm sign on the lawn was conspicuous, and the black Jag convertible was parked behind an iron gate that cut the porte cochere from the street. As I approached the front door, a motion-sensing light went on. Woman-living-alone precautions. Woman-who-had-been-molested-twenty-years-ago precautions.
As I parked, I thought about Robin moving back to Venice, all by herself. Correction: not alone anymore . . . stop, fool.
I rang the bell and waited, bouquet in hand. Figuring roses would be too forward, I’d chosen a dozen white peonies. Casual had come down to an olive polo shirt and jeans and running shoes.
Allison came to the door in a lime polo shirt and jeans and running shoes.
She took one look at me, said, “Do you believe this?” Then she cracked up.
• • •
As I sat in her compact white kitchen, she cooked mushroom and chicken liver omelettes and took a chilled salad out of the fridge. Sourdough, white wine, an ice bucket and a six-pack of Diet Coke filled out the menu.
The kitchen opened to a vest-pocket backyard and we ate outside on a trellis-topped patio. The garden was used-brick pathways and a patch of grass surrounded by high privet hedges.
I tasted the omelette. “Not much risk, here.”
“It’s one of the few things I can get through without disaster. Grandma’s recipe.”
“Let’s hear it for Grandma.”
“Grandma was ornery, but she knew her way around a stove.” She talked about her family, and eventually I found myself parceling out bits of self-revelation. As the evening progressed, my shoulders loosened. Allison had relaxed, too, curling up on a couch, her feet tucked under her. Laughing a lot, blue eyes animated.
Pupils enlarged; those who study that kind of thing say it’s a good sign. But shortly before eleven, her posture stiffened and she looked at her watch, and said, “I’ve got an early patient.”
She stood and glanced at the door, and I wondered what had gone wrong.
When she walked me out, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being so abrupt.”
“Patients have their needs,” I said, sounding like a stiff.
She shrugged, as if that wasn’t it at all. But she said nothing more as she extended her hand for a shake. Her house had been warm, but her skin was cold and moist. In bare feet she was tiny and I wanted to take her in my arms.
I said, “Good to see you, again.”
“Good to see you.” I stepped out to her front porch. Her smile was painful as she began to close the door, then she came out and bussed my cheek.
I touched her hair. She turned her head and delivered another kiss, full on the lips but closed-mouthed. Hard, almost assaultive. I tried for another kiss, but she withdrew, and said, “Drive carefully,” and this time she did close the door.
• • •
She phoned me the next day, at noon. “Wouldn’t you know it, my early patient was a no-show.”
“Too bad,” I said.
“Yes . . . I . . . could we . . . would you like to . . . I’m free tonight at seven, if you’re willing.”
“Seven’s fine. Want me to cook?”
“Alex, would you mind something other than just sitting around and eating? Maybe a drive? I’ve been so cooped up. Driving helps me unwind.”
“Me, too.” How many hundreds of miles, since Robin had left, had I put on the Seville? “We could take a spin up the coast to Malibu.”
My favorite drive. All those night cruises along the Pacific with Robin—shut up.
“Perfect,” she said. “If we get hungry, there are plenty of places to stop. See you at seven.”
“Want me to meet you somewhere?”
“No, pick me up at my house.”
• • •
I got there at 7:02. Before I reached the door, she opened it, stepped out onto the front path, and met me halfway, setting off the motion-sensing light. She had on a sleeveless, black cotton dress, no stockings, low-heeled black sandals. No diamonds, just a thin, gold choker that accentuated the length and whiteness of her neck. Her hair was clipped back in a ponytail. It made her look younger, tentative.
“I need to explain about last night,” she said, talking fast, sounding breathless. “The truth is, the early patient was scheduled at nine-thirty. I had plenty of time, didn’t need to kibosh everything. I was— let’s call a spade a spade: I was
nervous. Being with you made me very, very nervous, Alex.”
“I—”
“It wasn’t you.” Her shoulders rose and fell. Her laugh was quick, just short of brittle, as she took my arm and ushered me into her house. Standing with her back to the door, she said, “If my patients could see me now. I’m a big-deal expert at helping others make transitions, but I am having the hardest time.”
A Cold Heart Page 3