Making a Scene

by Trudy Doyle

  His laugh cuts me off. “My mother’s Irish. They compromised. As they usually did with everything. Isn’t that always the best way?”

  “They must have been very happy,” I say, walking toward the door.

  “They still are,” he says, opening it. “Going on forty-five years now. So, see you tomorrow?”

  Suddenly that seems very far away. “Well, I do have an appointment in the morning.”

  “Then maybe afterwards,” he says as I step onto the stoop.

  I turn. “A compromise.”

  He laughs. “See you tomorrow.” And locks the door, waving me off.

  I can’t help thinking what it’d be like to compromise myself with him. Damn! I need to get things like that out of my head if I’m ever going to get any work done.

  So it’s back to my place, set up the laptop, make a pot of coffee and slog through another evening of screwing around while under the pretense of working. I play a dozen games of Free Cell, check TMZ.com and Wonkette, see what’s going on in Philly via Leslie’s blog, flip through the new Land’s End catalogue, call my own mother and my sister, file and paint my toenails, rearrange my spice cabinet, have a bowl of low-fat granola.

  By the time I’m finished it’s nearly ten o’clock and another perfectly respectable day has gone to shit. And then there’s what I have to face tomorrow morning.

  * * * * *

  “You know, you’re not getting any younger,” Dr. Chatterling tells me.

  Gynecologists. Don’t you just love ’em? Mine’s a walking, breathing biological clock with TNT for an alarm. If I didn’t love her to pieces I would’ve quit her for the clinic a long time ago. “Like I need you to remind me of that, Mother Fertility.”

  She taps the inside of my thigh, something she can do when she’s got a speculum up my crotch. “Don’t be smart,” she says, slipping it out. “I just thought this time we’d be swapping maternity clothes.”

  As if I’d fit in them even if we did. This is her third pregnancy, and even in her sixth month she still looks like a Bollywood starlet. “Yeah, well, it’d help if I had the other half of that genetic equation.”

  She stands up, pressing down on my abdomen, her other hand inside me as she feels around. “Okay, everything’s where it should be. You can sit up.” As I pull myself upright she snaps off her gloves, adding, “I thought you were with someone. So it’s not that serious?”

  I yank my feet out of the stirrups and gather the paper gown around me. “It’s not anything. He’s gone.”

  “Oh,” she says somberly, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I assure her. “He was hardly sperm donor material, forget about daddy.” Unlike her endocrinologist husband. The man is so fine he makes that smokin’ hot medical reporter on CNN look like gutter trash. “But then again, not everyone’s made out to be parents, you know.”

  She rolls her stool back to the counter and folds her hands atop it, looking at me with concern. “But that doesn’t mean you have to give up, Pam. It’s true you’re thirty-nine, but you’re not out of time yet.”

  Now this is something I’ve given a lot of thought to, racked my brain about until I couldn’t think anymore. But not everyone considers this rational when they’re so ingrained to think in one way. I look at her, exasperated after so many years of hearing the same thing, and try to defend my position. “Doc, I’m not an unhappy person, really. I have a great family, wonderful friends, a terrific career, which I’m hoping is about to take off.”

  “But children—”

  I hold up my hand. “Look, if I meet the right guy and he’s willing, sure, I’d love to have a child, but I refuse to hinge my happiness on it. That’s not the way I’m going to live my life. There are plenty of people out there leading wonderful, fulfilling, child-free lives and, brace yourself—I happen to be one of them. As a matter of fact, at this point it’s kind of ridiculous to even consider having any. Do I really want to be heading for retirement when my kid’s in college?”

  “Why not?” She shrugs. “I’ll be. So will a lot of people.”

  “Yeah, but I buck trends, not follow them.” I hop off the table as she stands up. “Well, Doc, it’s been interesting.”

  She pokes my arm. “All right, I know you’re angry with me now, but I still want to see you at the hospital’s silent auction next month.”

  Sheesh. Dr. Chatterling has “donated” me as a prize—a collection of my books, personally signed. “Yeah, I’ll bet they’ll all be lining up for that.”

  “Don’t laugh! Last year your books brought a profit of two hundred and fifty dollars. And this year, with you there, they’ll bring even more.”

  “I’ll be there, don’t worry.” She looks relieved. Like everyone else who wants a piece of my writing or my money or my time. Or a sit in the window for publicity. Look! I can hear them saying. And she even eats too!

  All right, I think as I’m driving back to Riverboro, maybe I was a little harsh on the Doc, but definitely not on anyone else. I do possess a minor notoriety, successful enough to live comfortably on my investments and my art. But there are people out there who try to ride the coattails of whatever I’ve managed to accomplish, Josh being proof enough. But Roark? There has to be more than my so-called fame to spark his interest in me. My ego won’t allow any less. I park my car and run up to my flat for my laptop, pausing for a quick check in the bathroom mirror.

  All right, I’m not getting any younger. At the base of my temples I see sprinklings of gray hair, and around my eyes there’s the faintest of lines. I bend to the sink, grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and brush. So what. Everyone gets older, and I’ve never really had a problem with it. Because what really matters is where you are in that place and time, and not the volume of sag and wrinkle. And I like where I am, am looking forward to the future, can’t wait for it, in fact. And if I have to face it alone, well, there are worse things. Like getting through this damn sex scene. I poof my hair, slide on some lipstick, grab the laptop and I’m out the door.

  It’s nearly noon and lunchtime, as my stomach vigorously reminds me, but it’s not only hunger making it flip. As I turn the corner to Serious Joe, I can see it’s filling up, two long lines leading toward the counter, all the tables full. Except for one, I notice, walking inside. Where I sat yesterday is pointedly empty; Reserved, says a little sign on top.

  “Ms. Flynn?” says a young woman in a Serious Joe tee, stepping in front of me.

  “Yes?” I answer tentatively.

  “Roark would like you to stop in the back a minute. Could you follow me?”

  What in the world could that be about? Perhaps he’s taking our infant friendship to the next level? I immediately examine the prospect. The butterflies in my stomach tell me it’s not exactly an unwelcome prospect.

  “Sure,” I say, and I follow her through the packed midday crowd to a door behind the counter.

  We enter into a fairly good-size kitchen—a griddle, stove and prep table in the front, workers busy with the business of lunch. As she leads me toward the back door, past ovens and what I’m thinking is bakery equipment, I notice Roark talking to an equally large, very blond man in a suit.

  He sees me. “Hey there,” Roark says, his face lighting.

  The other man turns, smiling broadly. “Pamela Flynn!” he gushes, hand extended. “I’m a big fan.”

  I take it. He’s tall and very blue-eyed handsome, with a cragginess to his voice and mien that’s ruggedly alluring. “Are you?”

  “Pam, meet my old friend Doug Welland,” Roark says. “Lieutenant Doug Welland of the Camden Police. He’s read all your books.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says, shaking my hand vigorously. “Kept me company on many a stakeout, though it seems I’ve kind of exhausted my supply. When’s your next one due?”

  “Working on it as we speak,” I tell him. “Should be out by the end of the year.”

  He shakes his head. “Well, that’s not going to do much for me now, is it? I’ve go
t one tonight, and the only thing I have is the crossword out of today’s Inquirer.”

  The back of my neck tingles. “You have a stakeout tonight?”

  He winces. “Yeah. Been watching this one since a suspected coke shipment hit the docks last week. Boring as hell, but the skinny is it’s supposed to bring out the big guy. Word is he’s due to hit town any time, so we’ll see.”

  “Oh my God, how fascinating.” I’m not kidding. This is meat for my writing stewpot. “My contact up in Trenton is always going to take me with him, but for one reason or another we could never hook up.”

  Roark laughs, leaning against the door. “What I tell you, Doug? Look at her, she’s drooling.”

  “I can see that.” Doug looks from me to Roark and back. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join me.”

  My heart leaps in my chest. “What, are you for real? I’d love to!”

  Doug taps his old friend in the arm. “And you too, Roark, why not?”

  He lifts a brow. “You know it’s kinda up past my bedtime.”

  Doug waves him off. “So you better start drinking some of that Jersey jolt you call coffee. With you and Bennie it’ll make four, so we can play Texas Hold ’Em. Come on.”

  “Oh hell, you talked me into it,” he says. “What time?”

  “And where should we meet you?” I cut in, the fact that Roark’s joining us only doubling the flip in my stomach. “I know,” I say to Roark, “we could take the train. I could meet you at the stop and oh! What should I wear? Are we going to be watching the street from inside a house, or are we going to be sitting in a car? I should probably be wearing something dark, right?”

  Now Doug’s laughing, running his hand through his spiky blond hair. “I can pick you up at the Rutgers stop at say…seven?” He winks at Roark. “And maybe you should wear something you can run in. Just in case.”

  “You got it,” I say, literally having to stop myself from jumping up and down in excitement. “Thank you so much.”

  “See you tonight,” he says, clasping Roark’s hand before leaving.

  When he’s gone, Roark turns to me. “Well, let me get you to your table so you can get to work. I’m guessing you’re hungry, so why don’t I bring you—”

  “Thank you,” I say, stepping closer.

  He throws out his hands in faux innocence. “For what?”

  “Stop it,” I say. “You did that to jog my block, don’t you think I know it? I’ve been wanting to go on a stakeout for years. Thank you so much.”

  It takes until that moment for me to realize just how keyed up he was. When he inclines his head and those massively broad shoulders slump almost indiscernibly, his whole body relaxes. “You’re welcome,” he says softly, his face glowing, stunning me to think I could produce this type of reaction in anyone.

  “You’re welcome,” I echo, but it’s barely audible. Seems I’m caught by this searing gaze he’s training on me, his hand moving to pull me in and there I am, inching to meet him. Then some bastard breaks a glass and the moment.

  He steps aside, allowing me to proceed. “Well, let’s get out there so you can get to work.”

  Roark steers me ever so lightly toward the front and I can’t help but ask, “Why are you so good to me?”

  As he pushes the door open to the café, he leans in and whispers, “Maybe I’m falling in love with you.”

  I turn my head, too shocked to answer, and suddenly we’re out on the floor. He squeezes my shoulders and slides past me, his body a solid wall of heat as a dozen people rush him—employees, patrons, a vendor, his ubiquitous female fans, and I’m left standing there, damned confounded. Then the same employee who took me to the back comes over.

  “Ms. Flynn?” she says. “Roark saved you a table by the window.”

  It takes a couple of seconds for my fogged brain to connect the synapses and respond. “Oh. He did? How thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “Not a problem,” she says, smiling goofily. “We’re really excited to have you working here.” Then she widens her eyes. “That Jack Tanaka—he’s soooo hot!” She laughs, a bit embarrassed. “Well, anyway, there’s your table. So what can I get you?”

  An ammonia capsule? A bathtub full of ice? A slap across the chops? Maybe because I’m falling in love with you. Did he really say that? I slide my laptop to the table, dropping into a chair like a sack of lead.

  She looks to the back of her order tablet. “Today’s lunch special is a cup of potato leek soup and a whole grain wrap of roasted green peppers, Vidalia onions and eggplant.”

  At this point I’d eat roasted shoe leather if it came out of Roark’s kitchen. “Fine,” I say, opening my laptop just as my phone rings. It’s Leslie. “What’s up?”

  “Where are you?” She sounds a bit frantic.

  “Serious Joe. Why?”

  “I just saw Josh walk into O’Dooley’s. Did you know he’s back in town?”

  “I didn’t know he left. He wants to sue me, you know.”

  “The balls of that guy! Did you get your locks changed?”

  “The day after he left, but it’s not like he’s much of a threat. Not in that way at least.”

  “He had some chick with him too.”

  “What’d she look like?” She describes Karen to a T. “That’s my ex-oldest friend. Wow, it must be serious if she’s still in town. She can have him.”

  “Pam, maybe I’ll go over to the bar and see what he’s up to. You know, act real nonchalant.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to go there because Kevin keeps hitting on you?”

  “Oh, I can handle Kevin. It’s you I’m worried about. Besides, it’s lunchtime and you know how I love their corned beef.”

  “Then who am I to keep you from it? Thanks, Les. Keep me posted.”

  “Absolutely.” She rings off.

  I sit back, clearing my lungs and my head with one hellacious exhale. What a day this is shaping up to be. Then my lunch arrives, and this time I don’t fight it. It’s on the house, though I leave a very generous tip. Afterwards, I tap at my keyboard, but nothing’s coming, too many distractions skewing my thought process. Before long the lunch crowd clears out and there’s only the scattered few left. And Roark, finally left to his own devices, coming over to me.

  “How’s it going?” he asks.

  “It went,” I answer, “long before I even arrived.”

  “So sorry,” he says, mouth crooking sympathetically. He looks out the window to the sidewalk and the parade of people and cars going by. “And here I thought this place would be such an inspiration.”

  It inspires me in ways you can’t imagine, I’d like to say, but I don’t. Because I’m still bedazzled, still threaded up in what he told me, if, in fact, he meant it. Was I hearing things? If I did I let it wash over me, letting the prospect of the night take precedence.

  “Maybe you’re just too excited about tonight,” he says.

  “That must be it,” I say, staring into his eyes, losing myself in their inkiness. My God, he’s such a beautiful man, his angular face, his thick dark hair, the perfect proportion of breadth and width down his long, perfect body. My God, he’s almost painful to look at. “I really can’t wait.”

  “So I’ll pick you up at six,” he says, not as question. “Then we can walk to the train. How’s that?”

  “That’s great,” I say, the rest of the afternoon floating away in a fog of conversation and preparation for the evening, and we exchange phone numbers with no hidden agenda, I tell myself, just in case we can’t make it. Then before I know it, it’s six o’clock and I’m trotting down my stoop to Roark.

  It’s a cool night though not cold, in the forties, and he’s dressed all in black—overcoat, t-shirt, jeans and shoes. “Well hello, Pamela Flynn,” he says, looking lethal and magnificent. He eyes my equally dark ensemble. “Sheesh, we’re playing this to the hilt, aren’t we?”

  “Method writing,” I say, falling in step beside him. “And save your train stub. It’s tax d
eductible.”

  The River Line Light Rail is just a short walk, and as we wait for the next train we watch the commuters disembark, hurrying past us for their rides or the sidewalk. We don’t say much, just idle chitchat, and after a few minutes the train arrives and we climb on board. Roark’s behind me as we weave through the still-crowded aisle, walking from car to car to the last one where we find an empty seat at the end near the handicapped opening. As we snake around the commuters impatient for the next stop, Roark stands back to allow me in first. As I slide in the train lurches, Roark grabbing on to the overhead luggage rack for balance. As he steadies himself his coat swings open, metal glinting from within.

  I stare straight ahead with the realization, my God—Roark is strapped.

  Chapter Six

  Roark is packing. A gun, that is.

  I drop to the seat, keeping my gaze out the window, digesting the sight of the shiny piece artfully holstered under his overcoat. All right, he’s got a gun, that’s cool. It’s perfectly legal. If you have a permit. Which I’m sure he does, why wouldn’t he? And after all we are going to Camden, which a national poll deemed the most dangerous city in America, and on a police stakeout no less. I mean, if I had a gun, wouldn’t I be packing too? Well, wouldn’t I?

  Probably not.

  Because I’m one of those so-called liberal types who firmly believe in gun control, who feels the world would be a much safer place if no one had them. I mean, consider the fatality statistics of those countries with strict gun laws and compare them to ours. There’s no contest. Call me starry-eyed, but there it is. Not to mention they also scare the crap out of me.

  Which leads me to the scariest point of them all—how much do I really know about this man? He could be some kind of a maniac out to kidnap and ravage B-list writers. Almost involuntarily, I find myself inching away from him and toward the end of the seat. And almost instinctively, he notices.

  I hear him exhale. Hard. “You saw my piece, didn’t you?” he whispers.