“You’re still sad.” I touched his hand.
“Oh, I will be for some time.” He sounded quite cheerful as he wiped his bowl with a hunk of garlic bread. “Now, about this tingle.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t think you’re convinced. It’s a good thing we’ve both had garlic.” He put his bowl and utensils down with a purposeful air and shifted toward me.
“What are you doing, Patrick?” I tried, without much success, to sound offended.
“Kissing you. Or I will be, shortly.”
“I don’t think—”
“In the spirit of scientific enquiry.” And he was kissing me, and it was sweet and garlicky, his mouth closed, with a very gentle pressure that built. And built a little more, so that when his lower lip nudged between mine, despite my reservations I opened to him. Only a little, though. Only enough for my tongue to flick against his lower lip before I withdrew, shaking my head.
“Well?” He had that wicked look again, but it was deep in his eyes, nothing to do with his glasses.
“The experiment is over.” I stood and gathered our bowls.
“Ah, now you can’t tell me you weren’t swept away with passion. That I’m not a great kisser.” He stood, too, and took the bowls from me. “I’ll do the dishes. It’s a second best to kissing you, but at least I can prove I’m not overwhelmingly macho.”
And the moment was over. I watched as he left the room and touched my fingertips to my lips, where his had been seconds before.
“Patrick? You’re right. I have a complicated love life.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “I know.”
I followed him into the kitchen, tempted to tell him the entire truth, and decided against it. Hadn’t he said he was no longer in the habit of rescuing women?
Besides, I was pretty sure I didn’t need to be rescued.
The next day Kimberly and I went out to lunch, where she regaled me with an account of her most recent date, someone she’d met online.
“I shoulda known better. The dreads should have been a clue,” she said. “Nothing sadder than a white, fortysomething guy with dreads. He wore leather pants, too, and I swear he had an armadillo down his pants. Wanted to talk about root canals all night.”
“He went out on a date after a root canal?”
“No. He’s a dentist. A new breed of dentists, rides a Harley and is into extreme winter sports, and, oh, yeah, he’s a Buddhist.”
“And did you tell him of your aversion to snow?”
“You bet.” She dug into her salad. “And before you ask, I didn’t investigate the armadillo. You seeing anyone yet? How’s my buddy Patrick?”
“I’m going to ignore the fact that you just asked two totally unrelated questions. Please don’t bring the dreadlocked dentist over at Thanksgiving. But bring your cranberry relish.” I pushed my plate toward her. “Help yourself. Why don’t you just order a side of fries and be done with it?”
“Because stolen fries are so much better.” She gazed at our waiter. “I bet I could get you his phone number.”
“What for?” I blinked innocently at her. The waiter, noting our interest, headed toward our table.
“We’ll take a look at the dessert menu, honey,” Kimberly said. “Mmm. Sweet buns,” she added as he walked away.
“They’re probably not on the menu. So if it wasn’t the winter-sport dentist, who was staying over the other night?”
“Just this guy.”
“And? Will you be bringing him at Thanksgiving? Is it anyone I know?”
She held up crossed fingers. “Maybe I’ll bring him for Thanksgiving and it is someone you know, but I’m not saying. He’s great, even though he’s a bit older than I am, but I’m not gonna talk about it, ’cause it’ll jinx it. So, about Patrick.”
I thought furiously as to who the mystery man could be and gave up. Kimberly knew a lot of men. “Patrick is fine. I took him cross-country skiing yesterday. And it was just one of those things, I was getting my stuff together and we got talking and I invited him. And, yeah, I’ve invited him for Thanksgiving, too—I mean, he’s right there in my house and I invite lots of people.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s my tenant. I was being friendly. So, no, I haven’t explored the joys of the Irish foreskin— Oh, thanks.” The waiter, giving me a curious look, laid dessert menus on the table.
We discussed the dessert menu with great seriousness. I ordered us coffee and a carrot cake with two forks, knowing she’d eat at least half of it.
“Kimberly, do you think I’m stupid?”
“What? You? No way.” She flashed a brilliant smile at the waiter as he placed the carrot cake in the center of the table. “You’re a bit geeky. You don’t go out clubbing or anything. You really like classical music, but you’re not stupid.”
“The thing is…” I turned the plate so she could gorge on the frosting. “Hugh was unfaithful to me. He deceived me. And then there was this other guy who did the same thing.”
“Willis?” She stared at me, a blob of frosting on her lip. “You only had a couple of dates.”
“No, not Willis.” I hesitated, reluctant to tell her the whole story, or as much as I knew of it myself. “There was someone else. And no, it wasn’t Jason. Someone I’d known for about six months and I liked. I thought I knew him, that there was honesty there.”
“You mean while you and Hugh were living together?”
“Starting around the time things got weird with Hugh. You know, the bizarre breakup stuff, when he’d go out on an errand that would take four hours instead of ten minutes, and the late-night meetings and so on.”
“You never told me you’d met someone else!”
“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t really know what the relationship was. It was platonic. Mostly. But my point is, what does that say about me? That two guys in a row betray me?”
“You choose the wrong guys. I’ve been telling you that forever.” She scooped up another forkful of cake. “So, who was this mystery guy?”
“Just that. A mystery guy.”
My cell rang. I glanced at the name and number and silenced it. Another call from Harry at the Association. I decided I’d oblige Kimberly with some dirt. “I had an erection sighting last night.”
“Patrick’s?” Kimberly grinned. “Sometimes the skinny short guys are so well-hung it’s like dreamin’ and goin’ to heaven. How did you manage that?”
“He fell asleep in front of the fire after we came back from skiing.”
“Sounds like an old hound dog. Did he slobber all over you?”
“No.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she chanted.
“Okay. We kissed. It was an experiment. Will you quit with the middle-school stuff?”
“And?”
“And it was nice. Sexy. But he’s my tenant.”
“He won’t be your tenant forever. Elise has the house on the market, and guess who— Oh, my God, look. No, don’t look. Be subtle.”
But I didn’t need to look. A familiar gust of aftershave announced the arrival of Willis Scott III, whom I’d last seen butt-naked fucking a woman he wouldn’t or shouldn’t fall in love with. God knew what I’d been doing last time he’d seen me.
“Ladies! Kimberly.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “As gorgeous as ever. Hi, Jo, how are you?” He picked up a napkin and, to my mortification, wiped a smear of something off my face. I hoped it was frosting. I felt as though I were five years old. “Better give Harry a call,” he said quietly. He straightened and motioned to the woman he’d come in with. “Do you know Elise Delaney?”
Elise was astonishingly gorgeous, tiny and slender, with a shiny fall of blond hair and huge blue eyes. Her hand felt like a small, fragile thing in mine, and her lips (soft, pink) quivered as though she were going to cry, instead of murmuring a greeting.
Willis laid a protective arm around her shoulders as though shielding her from the hazards of walking across a re
staurant—all that china, those sharp knives, the hot substances—and to a table where our waiter and a couple of others dashed over to protect her from the brutality of the dining-out experience.
“Ain’t she something,” Kimberly said. “Walks through a crowd of waving erect dicks every time she enters a room and has no idea she’s doing it. Or does she?” She turned to look for our waiter and frowned as she saw him fawning at Elise and Willis’s table. Elise’s charms obviously offered more than my snippets of obscene conversation.
Elise rose, breaking free from the cluster of devoted waiters, and sauntered across the restaurant to the ladies’ room.
I laid my credit card on the table, forestalling any claims Kimberly might make on paying. “Can you give him this when he comes back? I’m going to pee.”
I doubted Elise was about to do anything so grossly human as pee, and sure enough, she stood in front of the mirror, running a brush through her amazing hair.
“Hi. Look, this could be awkward. Patrick is living above my garage.”
“I know,” she breathed.
“Oh. Okay, then. The other thing is, have you known Willis long?”
She blinked, beautifully. “He’s my Realtor.”
“Okay.” I sounded really stupid. “Have you met any of his friends? Because if he mentions the Rocky Mountain Investment Association, be very careful.”
“Oh, I have someone to do my investments for me,” she murmured. “How’s Patrick?”
“Fine.” I’d tried. What more could I say?
“Poor Patrick.” She sighed. “He won’t make anything of himself. I’m so worried about him.”
“But you’re divorcing him.” I knew no one could judge a relationship from the outside. I knew I was unfairly biased toward Patrick, but I thought briefly of wrapping that wonderful hair around her throat and squeezing it tight. “I had to. It was for his own good.” Her eyes opened wide and at any moment, I suspected, she could have released a few perfect tears.
Patrick, you idiot, I thought with a fierceness that surprised me. “Yeah, right.”
I went into the stall, banging the door closed, and positioned myself for a long, loud pee. When I emerged, the only sign of Elise’s presence was one long blond hair curled into the sink.
“I got it,” Kimberly said and handed my card back when I returned to the table. As I uttered cries of protest, she said, “I guess I’d better go back to work. How about you? Still on vacation?”
“Yes, but I’ll ride to the station. There’s something I need there.”
Outside the restaurant I unlocked my bike and buckled on my helmet while Kimberly fluttered her hand in a wave to me as she drove past.
The station was quiet, music playing softly through the speakers as I entered. I greeted the few people who were around, but did not linger for conversation. I knew only too well that I’d get sucked into some sort of problem-solving session or be asked for advice or information. As I went past her office, I saw Kimberly hunched over her phone, fingers tapping her computer keyboard. In my cubicle I watered my one plant, rising with green bravery among the scatter of CDs and paper on my desk, and opened the desk drawer. After some anxious searching I found the sheet of crumpled paper I had saved. I folded it and slipped it into my pocket, and then I went home.
I had to prepare myself and to do that I exercised. Long ago this killer set of warm-up aerobic exercises had been my daily routine, my religion. As I bent and stretched and sweated, in a ragged leotard and footless tights, my mind emptied and I became a purely physical being; I poured with sweat and my muscles became light and pliant.
To cool down I did a few yoga poses and my breathing deepened, bringing me to a place of calm and serenity.
A few more stretches and I was ready. I went upstairs and called Mr. D., for the first and, I hoped, last time.
He sounded surprised, slightly alarmed, at my voice. I wondered if he had someone else there and the thought didn’t bother me much.
“Tell me why you wouldn’t acknowledge me at the Association,” I said. “Tell me the truth. I want what you should have told me all along.”
“My dear, I misjudged you. My apologies, but I thought you knew long ago the role I played.”
“I didn’t. Not until I met you upstairs and heard your voice.” My hand gripped the towel I sat on. I was too sweaty to sit directly on the sheet. “You set me up.”
“I did, yes. You mean Willis and Jake never said a word? Hmm. I underestimated them. Of course, neither of them is very clever.”
“I guess I’m not very clever, either. And why did you pass me on to Jake? That was the worst.”
“Don’t be angry. I was there.”
“Where?”
“The mirror is a two-way mirror. Most of them in the house are. The plan was that—”
“Fuck the plan. Let’s face it, you screwed up. I’ve had it. With you, with the Association, and you can tell Harry and the rest to go fuck themselves.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple, Jo.”
I’d been about to hang up, but the seriousness in his voice stopped me.
“What do you mean?”
“Talk to Harry,” he said. “And, Jo, I know you’re angry, but we had something, you and me. We still do. Can you trust me, for a little longer? I don’t want to see you in trouble.”
“I already am in trouble,” I said. “I’m in trouble with you and your perverse games and I think you’re bad for me. I wanted to see this through, Mr. D. I wanted a resolution to whatever we had—”
“You wouldn’t meet me, I remember.” I was pleased to hear a note of aggravation in his voice.
“Then, I wouldn’t. Now, I probably wouldn’t, either. But things change.”
“I told you once I’d do anything you wanted.” His tone had changed to sadness.
“But now I don’t know if I can believe anything you say. I’m done with sexual experimentation, Mr. D., done with you.”
“There’s someone else? One of the boys in the Great Room?”
“No one you know.” I took a deep breath. “We won’t be talking anymore, Mr. D. You were a friend to me once—you helped me during the breakup with Hugh, and I thank you for that. I don’t know if you were planning to seduce me into the Association even then, and it doesn’t matter. I loved the phone sex, too. But it’s over.”
“I see. I won’t insult you by telling you I love and admire you. It’s too late, and you’re right, I screwed up. Look after yourself, Jo.”
So this was our last conversation. But I’d felt this before and the pain was somehow both real and a parody of itself.
I’d never even seen his face.
I clicked the phone off and laid it down. I scooped the sheet of paper with his phone number and email address into the bedside table drawer and pulled off my sweaty exercise gear so I could shower. Then I put on my pink fluffy slippers, my sweats and Hugh’s sweater with the hole in the elbow, and went down to the kitchen for a snack.
Patrick was there, stirring something in a large bowl, the scent of yeast in the air.
“I’m making bread for Thanksgiving. I’ll put it in the freezer so I won’t be in the way on the day.” He looked at me. “You okay?”
“Great, thanks.” I crossed to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. “I’m going to make some girlie decaffeinated coffee. Want some?”
“Sure. Thanks.” He dipped his hand into a sack of flour and sprinkled a handful on the counter.
As the coffee brewed, I watched him. He tipped a great creamy flood onto the floured surface, scraping the bowl with a wooden spoon. A bubble or two burst on the surface of the dough as it settled and spread; but it wasn’t quite dough yet—too runny, too uncontrolled.
He sprinkled flour over the surface and scooped, turning the mass of stuff over itself, up to his wrists in dough. He held up hands from which ragged lumpy pieces of yeast hung, and took a clumsy step toward me.
“Flesh…flesh,” he moaned.
Patrick turned back to the counter and worked the dough, scooping, folding, pressing out bubbles and sprinkling in more flour. The mass resisted him at first, spreading and bubbling, but calmed beneath his touch, assuming a soft docility. The surface dulled with flour. He reached for a spatula and scraped residue from the counter, folding the pieces inside, pressing the dough down, folding again.
He gave a pleased sigh when he lifted the dough free, turned it over and kneaded it again, working in a regular rhythm: press with the heel of his hand, fold, turn.
“It’s looking like bread, now,” he said.
I concentrated on pouring coffee into mugs. But I really wanted to watch his hands handle the dough with such deft assurance, and part of it was that I felt I watched a moment of intimacy, a man unveiling a mystery. “It’s a bit late to be making bread, isn’t it?”
“Am I disturbing you? I can put the dough into the refrigerator if you like and work on it tomorrow.”
“No, no, that’s fine. I just thought…well, it’s going to take some time, with rising and so on.”
“Yeah. I’m not sleeping that much these days. I might as well use the time.” He smiled. “I find this very reassuring. You know, it works. Every time. You put yeast in warm water with a bit of sugar and it comes to life. No doubts, no uncertainties.”
His sleeves were rolled above the elbow. I watched the tendons on his wrists flex, the coppery hair dusted with flour.
“I met Elise today,” I blurted out and wondered whether I’d ruin his night.
“Did you, now.” His fingers didn’t pause in their smooth, rhythmic task. “A lovely girl, isn’t she?”
Well, he had married her, after all. He’d been in love with her. I made a polite sort of noise and poured milk into the mugs of coffee.
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