Tell Me More

by Janet Mullany

  It was only ten in the morning. There was a time I might have wanted to stay at the station the whole day and well into the night. There were always things to do, projects to work on.

  But now I couldn’t stay. I left the station by the back door and walked along the bike trail I rode to work. I turned over the events of Saturday night in my mind, of what had happened when I’d entered that room, Angela’s hand pushing gently against my back.

  I was still angry and humiliated but I felt then that I could forgive Mr. D., see in his actions the complex and baroque intricacies of human behavior that he enjoyed. I was prepared, at the very least, to listen to his explanation, and for him to listen while I poured out my anger at him. In those few seconds as I entered the room, I could see there was potential for forgiveness, for possibilities to present themselves.

  The room had a faint scent of something sweet and delicate, a whisper of perfume. My feet sank into a Persian rug of minute intricacies and a lamp on a massively carved chest gave off a warm, golden glow. To the side something moved and, keyed up by anxiety and the strangeness of the evening, I started before realizing it was my reflection in a huge mirror on the wall. Of course.

  Ahead of me stood a bed, wide and low. And on the bed, beneath a white sheet, a man lay, his head propped on one hand, his face shadowed.

  “Hey, Jo.”

  “Jake?” My hands felt cold. I crossed my arms over my exposed breasts.

  “Expecting someone else?”

  I nodded.

  “My reward for recruiting you,” he said. “You need to thank me properly.”

  “Why should I thank you for rewarding yourself?”

  “Good question. Let’s think of it as an apology.”

  “An apology?”

  “You abused my hospitality. Cathy’s, too. She was upset.”

  “What do you think I did? I left early but you were, uh, busy and I realize I didn’t thank you—”

  He moved a little, bringing his face into the light, and I saw his expression. “You have no idea, do you? You should have seen yourself, the way you looked at my house. I finished that basement myself!”

  “It’s a great basement. I have mice in mine.”

  “See? There you go again. You don’t even know you’re doing it.” He pushed the sheet down, revealing his erection as a threat. I’d never seen a guy use his dick as a weapon before and it scared me. “What the fuck makes you think you’re better than us? Looking at my house and my wife with a high-and-mighty expression, like you’re some sort of princess. Asking if we had any books.” He spat the word out as though it was an obscenity. “Get your ass over here.”

  I looked him in the eye. “No. I don’t want to.”

  “You agreed to abide by Association rules, and the rule here is that you do what I say.”

  “Seems like the only rule going is that I get told what to do and I’ve had enough. Sorry, Jake. I’m leaving.”

  He lay back, hands locked behind his head. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”

  “Who’s Mr. D.?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “The guy who should be here. The guy who really did recruit me, and I think you know who I mean.”

  “I’ve no idea.” He sat and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  I turned away from him and walked to the door. I didn’t want to turn my back on him but neither did I want to back away as though he were royalty or as though I was too scared to take my eyes off him. My hand shook as I closed my fingers on the handle and to my relief it was just a regular lock, nothing fancy.

  “You’ll wish you’d stayed,” he said as I opened the door.

  “I doubt it. You’re not my type.” I closed the door behind me and then I ran, back to the locker room, and escaped.

  And that was why I now walked along a bike path, my fists clenched, muttering to myself, too, and still slightly stiff from the beating and tension. A bicyclist whizzed past me and I looked at the bare branches of the trees and beyond them the pristine whiteness of the mountains against a pure blue sky. I lifted my face to the dazzle of sunlight and the sharp, cold air. I needed to cleanse myself of disappointment and negativity.

  I went back to my cubicle and sent emails to cover my shift for the next couple of days, got caught up on paperwork and future programming and tidied things up. I was going to take some of my unused vacation and comp time and get myself rested and relaxed. I checked snow depths and skiing conditions. Things were looking good. I thought fondly of my reserves of wax at home, the excitement of taking skis down and preparing them, pulling out favorite wool sweaters and down vests, gloves and hats.

  “Can I help?”

  I looked over my shoulder. Patrick stood behind me, a slight grin on his face, and I wondered how long he’d admired the sight of my butt as I knelt on the floor hauling stuff out of the hall closet.

  “I’m fine.” I found my ski boots and one mitten and tossed them out onto the hall floor.

  He glanced at my skis and poles on the floor. “Where are you going?”

  “Not sure yet. Somewhere over the Divide.”

  “Yeah, I heard they got six inches there. Snow,” he added, as though suddenly aware that a double entendre lurked in his words.

  “Would you like to come?” I found another mitten—not a matching one, but it would do. “Come skiing, I mean.” Now he had me doing it, too.

  “Sure. When?”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll drive.”

  “Great.” He laid an envelope on the hall table. “Rent.”

  Our conversation became a little less stilted and monosyllabic as we agreed on a start time and discussed a suitable trail. While we talked I regretted my invitation—I’d wanted solitude and the chance to think and unwind, not an obligation to make conversation with someone I barely knew. But unless he backed out, and that could be awkward, too, I was stuck with him.

  I felt bad about my reservations; after all, he’d come to the rescue when I locked myself out last night, and we’d gotten to know each other some. That, too, was a subject I didn’t feel altogether comfortable with, thanks to the occasional flare of carnal interest between us.

  Heck, I was the veteran of orgies and BDSM; why was I so bent out of shape by a little flirtation?

  Bright sunlight shone in the car’s windows as we toiled up the highway that led to the high country. Patrick, beside me, fiddled with the radio before we lost the signal, not saying much. We both had mugs of coffee. We’d both managed to spill them over ourselves. Neither of us looked as though we’d stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalogue, although my down vest, bought at a yard sale and fine once I’d patched it, had once belonged to someone who had bought from that supplier. I wore my bike pants and silk underwear for warmth and the sweater with the hole in the elbow that Hugh had left. Patrick wore a truly horrible plaid woolen shirt with paint stains, cord pants and a pair of bright red gaiters.

  “We won’t win any fashion awards,” he commented.

  “It’s not as though we’re going to hang around a bar in Aspen after,” I replied. “We’re losing the radio signal. Want to play a CD?”

  He rummaged through my collection. “Do you have anything except opera?”

  “No.”

  He shrugged and we listened to Verdi for the next hour. I tried not to grip the steering wheel in terror as trucks thundered by and I think Patrick noticed but tactfully refrained from commenting. When we turned off the highway he wrestled with the map.

  “Okay. Your next left.”

  “Left?” I peered dubiously at the road.

  “Right.” Roight.

  “Right?”

  “No, left. Here.”

  We left the paved road and drove a couple of miles more to the parking lot for the trail, where we filled our pockets with trail mix and fastened our skis. We were the only people there, the trail, an old mining road, winding into the trees, pristine and untouched.

  I launched myself onto the trail. Sometimes I
liked to plod along, staring at the trees and looking for tracks of animals and birds in the snow. Today I wanted to move. I wanted the freedom of bounding through the snow, feeling the pull on my muscles and the sharp air on my skin. And I think there was part of me that wanted to impress Patrick, to show him I was strong and skilled.

  Behind me, Patrick’s skis hissed on the trail I’d created, an easier run, but he kept up with me. “I’ll take over breaking the trail anytime you like,” he said, barely out of breath.

  “I’m fine.” The trail dipped and turned and a blue jay, brilliant against the snow, flashed across my field of vision. I pushed my dark glasses up as the trail led into a shadowed area and then slowed to adjust them again as the sun dazzled my eyes.

  I took the trail a little slower now, reminded that part of the pleasure of this sort of skiing (other than being able to wear your worst clothes) was to observe and enjoy the scenery, and sure enough, after a steep bit that required herringboning, the trees opened out to an open meadow. I was reminded of my picnic with Willis, only a few weeks ago, at a lower altitude, which made all the difference in temperature, when the sky was as sharp a blue as this. I slowed to a plod and saw snow-covered mountains on the horizon, their peaks wreathed in clouds, a stand of aspens, leaves gone, trunks etched against the snow.

  “I’m duly impressed,” Patrick said, moving alongside me. “Damn, I forgot the camera.” He delved into a pocket and offered me some trail mix. “You’re very fit.”

  “Fit enough for this.” I was pleased with my body and how it had recovered from the beating. “It’ll be fun coming down. How long have you skied? I can’t imagine there’s a whole lot of snow in Ireland.”

  “Since last year. These were a Christmas present from Elise.” He gestured at his poles and skis and looked sad and I wished I hadn’t asked.

  “You’re pretty good.”

  “Thanks. And you?”

  “Ever since I was a kid.” I took a gulp from my water bottle. “My mom taught me and then she and I and the Great Abe used to go on picnics in the snow.”

  “Great Abe?”

  “My stepdad. He’s called Abe and he looks sort of simian. Long arms, hairy back. He’s a nice guy.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Mom’s a potter and Abe runs an auto repair shop. Very Vermont. They moved there before I was born when land was still cheap. Mom’s sort of an old hippie. Now and again she’ll call and make a confession of how capitalism is corrupting her, now she sells her pots instead of trading them for goat cheese.”

  He laughed. “You like them, I can tell.”

  “Sure. I’m planning to visit them at Christmas.”

  Patrick slathered some more sunscreen onto his face and we set off again, gliding over the snow. I let him lead, observing his ass through his baggy cord pants, and wondered if he’d watched mine. Our pace and the quiet gentle hiss of skis on snow was hypnotic.

  “Nice trail,” he said after we negotiated some small hills and bends. “How did you find out about it?”

  “Facebook. I’m on a cross-country-ski group.”

  We made another stop for trail mix and water and sunscreen and now the shadows lengthened just a little and the air had a cool tinge. We agreed to return, mostly a downhill run, and on my first attempt to telemark around a bend I made a spectacular dive into a snowbank.

  Patrick leaned on his skis and laughed. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” I floundered in the snow and retrieved my hat. When I was back on the trail he leaned to smack snow from my back in a friendly, helpful sort of way, and I was relieved. Maybe exercise in the fresh air was the best way of dispelling unwholesome thoughts, just like the Boy Scouts taught, or used to teach.

  So why was I watching his ass again?

  I pushed forward, knees bent, and overtook him, building up a burst of speed, and loving the long effortless glide on the trail I’d broken earlier, poles tucked under my arms. Bliss, pure bliss.

  Better than sex? At that moment, yes.

  I arrived back at the car and waited for Patrick, who joined me a couple of minutes later, with a big, happy grin on his face. I’d never seen that before. I wondered if he’d been as happy skiing with Elise and I was glad his breakup hadn’t tainted his enjoyment of the snow and the day.

  “Excellent,” he said as he unfastened his skis. “I’m going for a piss.” He bounded into the snow through the trees and returned a few minutes later, brushing snow off himself.

  I leaned against the car, reluctant to leave, but noting how the gray-and-violet shadows lengthened. Something moved in the trees. A dog?

  “Look.” I touched his arm.

  A coyote emerged from the thick, stood and observed us for a moment, curious yet cautious. Then it retreated back into the trees.

  “Wow,” Patrick said. “Thanks for that.”

  “Thank you. I think you probably peed on his territory and he came out to complain.”

  16

  “THE THING I LIKE ABOUT YOU,” I SAID AFTER A forty-five-minute silence on the drive home, “is that I don’t have to talk to you.”

  Patrick yawned. “I guess that was a compliment. Want to stop somewhere for dinner?”

  “An observation, that’s all. And, no, but thanks for asking. I’ve got stuff in the Crock-Pot. If I remembered to turn it on. You’re welcome to have some, too.”

  “Look, you drove and now you’re offering to feed me. Let me take you out to dinner another evening, so I don’t feel totally emasculated.”

  “Okay.” I took the turn off the highway. “We could see if some other people want to come.”

  He made a throat-clearing sound. “Uh. I was thinking, just you and me.”

  “Like a date?” Just in time I stopped at a red light.

  “Well, no. But…would you have a problem with that? If I was to ask you out on a date that was really a date?”

  I turned the radio on while I considered my answer. “But you weren’t asking me out on a date.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it was a date. I plan to ask you if you want a website designed so I can write it off on my taxes.”

  I agreed that sounded good, and within a few minutes we were home.

  We dropped skis and outerwear in the hall. A fragrance in the air announced that I had remembered to turn on the Crock-Pot and that dinner would be ready soon. I left him lighting a fire and went into the kitchen where I checked the seasoning on the beef stew—needed more salt, but not bad—and ladled it out into two bowls. I cut up some French bread, slathered it with garlic and butter and shoved it under the broiler, my mouth watering.

  I smiled when I arrived back in the living room with a tray of food and drinks. The fire had caught well and Patrick lay on the rug, fast asleep like a dog tired out from a run, his glasses folded neatly on the coffee table.

  “Hey.” I poked him with my foot. “Wake up.”

  He grunted and rolled over onto his back, revealing a quite unmistakable erection beneath his pants. He curled up fast, rolling to a sitting position, possibly becoming aware of his condition at the same time I did. “Sorry,” he mumbled, reaching for his glasses. “Wow, that smells good.”

  I placed the tray on the coffee table. “Fork or spoon? It didn’t thicken much.”

  “Spoon. I want to shovel it in.” He nodded in appreciation at the bottle of nonalcoholic beer I’d brought him and grabbed a piece of garlic bread. “And that’s a compliment. You’ve no idea how great this is. Home cooking that isn’t my own.”

  “You like to cook?”

  “Sometimes. But not just for myself. It gets boring or you end up eating the same stuff for days.”

  “Yeah,” I said around an uncouth mouthful. “Hugh was a bit of a foodie. He knew about wine, too. He’d probably be real upset I used one of his precious bottles to cook with.”

  “Hugh was your, uh, boyfriend?” He was being very tactful.

  “Yeah. And sorry. Hugh and I should have been more careful
that day.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mind that much.” His eyeglasses glinted in a wicked sort of way. “I’ve been carried away with passion a few times myself.”

  “So,” I said after a few more mouthfuls, “are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

  “Shit, I’m not even divorced yet. Why? Are you interested? Reconsidering that date that isn’t really a date?”

  My spoon clinked in its bowl. He’d gone straight to the issue we’d both circled around so carefully.

  “No, I—”

  “There’s a tingle between us,” he said. “Doesn’t mean we have to do anything about it, but it’s there. And it’s sort of awkward. Technically I’m still married, I’m your tenant and I’m flat broke, and I’m depressed quite a bit of the time. I’m not a great prospect. And you…?”

  “I’m involved with someone,” I said after a pause. “At least, I thought I was. Now, I’m not sure. There are unresolved issues.”

  “Hugh?”

  “No, not Hugh.”

  “Ah.” He scooped the last of his stew out of the bowl. “I think you have a rather complicated love life.”

  “And that puts you off?”

  “No. You’ll sort it out. I’ll sort out my situation. I can sell the house at the end of the academic year, or maybe sooner if Elise buys me out, and I’ll stop being depressed. I’m a naturally cheerful bloke, or I used to be. But there’s one thing I don’t do, and that’s rescue damsels in distress. Not anymore. So you let me know when you’re sorted out, and we’ll talk about it some more.”

  I laughed. “You’re very sure of yourself. Of me, too, I guess. So what happened with Elise?” I added hastily, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Would you like some more stew?”

  I fetched us both second helpings and Patrick stared at the fire for a time. “Elise,” he said. “We fell out of love. I don’t know why. Why should you expect to know why you look at someone one day and they’re just a person, someone you know well, and you maybe even quite like, but there’s nothing left? I don’t know. I guess I was going through my knight-on-a-white-charger stage and she was letting her long blond hair down from the tower. And then I found out she was disappointed I didn’t become a big-shot lawyer, and she wasn’t some sort of mythical princess—just a fairly ordinary woman. She liked me in Ireland but I didn’t export too well.”