by Jean Stone
Quickly he turned back to the book. One hand braced itself against the edge. One hand scratched his ear.
Good, Kris thought, I’m making him nervous.
“This has some plates of Berthe Morisot,” he said. “Not as much a household name as Monet or Renoir, but an impressionist nonetheless.” He slipped on his half-glasses and steadied his eyes on the page.
Kris reached out to touch the book and ran a long, bronze finger across the muted colors of a woman standing in a dining room. She moved a little closer and lowered her voice. “Tell me about the artist. What about his life?” Her gaze fell to the gold band on the third finger of his left hand. A twinge of guilt threatened to surface. Then she reminded herself that it wasn’t as if Abigail cared. She was about to leave him anyway.
“Well, first of all, Morisot wasn’t a ‘he.’ It was a she. She was married to Manet’s brother, in fact.”
“Ah, now that’s the sort of thing that interests me. When was this?”
He hesitated, not raising his gaze from the picture. “Late nineteenth century.”
“A Victorian,” she whispered.
“A woman Victorian. Painting. Can you imagine that?”
She shifted on one hip, the moved her finger to brush the side of his hand.
He scratched his ear again. “This painting is actually called ‘In the Dining Room.’ It was done in 1886 … by this time her style had altered from Manet to Renoir.”
“A woman artist,” Kris breathed. “Yet the woman she paints seems so serene.”
With a nervous laugh he replied, “Serene, yes. But don’t forget that every Victorian woman was expected to feel serene in the dining room.”
She rested her hand on his arm. “Isn’t it wonderful that times have changed.” It was not a question; it was a statement. She held her fingers on the sleeve of his light wool shirt.
He moved to one side a little, creating a safe space. He took off his glasses and rubbed at what Kris was sure was a nonexistent itch in his eye.
She smiled and leaned away, teasing, toying. She loved the effect she had on men. She loved her dominance, their pliability. It always surprised her that other women could not see it, could not understand how weak the male species really was.
Then Edmund turned the page. And suddenly they were both looking at a naked young model, hands cupped to her breasts, a long scarf of chiffon draped over her thighs.
“She’s lovely,” Kris said.
“Yes,” he replied.
“So soft.”
“Yes.”
“And young.”
“Yes.”
She sat on the edge of his desk, her hemline grazing his hand, her leg nearly meeting his skin. “Edmund?” she asked.
“Yes?”
She reached down and lifted his hand, then gently placed it on her thigh. He stared at it there, his hand under hers, not caressing, not moving, as if his fingers were detached from the rest of his being, as if they belonged to another, not him.
And then Kris slowly guided his hand, prodding it to stroke the soft flesh of her thigh, urging it toward her moistening warmth.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Kris leaped from the desk. “Abigail,” she said to the fire-eyed woman who stood in the doorway.
“Darling,” Edmund said, dropping his hand to his lap.
“Kris,” Abigail snarled, without meeting her eyes. “Get out of here. I need to talk to my husband.”
They never made it to dinner.
Maddie’s new dress lay heaped in the corner of Cody’s small bedroom. She stood in front of the long mirror and frowned at the reflection of the woman in the thin silk chemise. She had not worn one since she and Parker had been newlyweds, eons ago, since they had danced in the moonlight that shimmered over the bay at their honeymoon suite on Waikiki.
Now she touched the lace that edged the top of the smooth, pale blue fabric. Beneath the lace, tiny darts formed soft peaks where her nipples were supposed to be. But Maddie’s breasts hung, instead, well below their designated place; her nipples aimed toward her navel.
As Abigail had said, some things neither nature—nor Andrew—can conceal.
Tipping back her head Maddie sprayed another mist of cologne at her throat, grateful that Cody had understood when she’d asked for a few minutes alone, grateful that he had not minded her retreat into the privacy of his bedroom, the door closed behind her.
She wondered what he would think. Would he be turned off by the pliant flesh of an older woman?
Stop it, she scolded herself. Stop it right now. You have a lot to offer him.
Sinking onto the blue plaid futon, Maddie folded her hands and tried to pretend there were no flutters in her child-bearing, stretch-marked stomach, no doubts in her muddled mind. And then she thought about Abigail again, about Kris. About their birthday wishes.
Then she thought about their bodies.
It had been years since she’d seen either of them undressed or half-dressed or in the act of dressing. Probably not since they’d been giggling teenagers, crammed into the same locker room at the swim club, or squeezed into dressing rooms at Bloomingdale’s in search of the perfect outfit for the Friday night dance. They—Abigail and Kris—had always had good bodies, with things that stuck out where they were supposed to and dents where they were meant to dent.
Maddie sighed and ran her hand across the soft, goose-bumped flesh of her belly. Her body had never been like theirs. Other than Parker she had not had a lover, except for that boy—Russ was his name—one summer at camp. But that had been mere groping and grabbing and innocent teenage stuff. It had not been … sex.
Her mind jumped back to Parker. She wondered how he was going to be jealous of her new, young lover if he had no way of finding out.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Maddie jumped and caught her breath.
“Maddie?” Cody asked. “Are you okay?”
Her hands began to tremble, her heart began to thump. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to suck in her stomach, praying for courage, seeking a miracle to transform her into a sexual goddess, into a world where lovers were lovers and sex was just sex. Where ex-husbands never crawled into the beds of consenting adults.
The knock came again. “Maddie?”
She opened her eyes. Her gaze fell on her thighs. Well-worked-out thighs, but still forty-nine-going-on-fifty thighs. Not like Abigail’s. Not like Kris’s. And certainly not like Sharlene’s.
“One minute,” she called, with a slight squeak in her voice. Then she bounded up from the futon, slipped the chemise over her head, stuffed it back in her bag, and pulled on her rumpled dress.
She opened the door.
“Maddie,” he said gently. “We don’t have to do this. If you’re not comfortable …”
She looked into his deep brown eyes. “I don’t think I can …” She wished the mouse would get out of her voice. She wished that damned tear had not escaped. With a swift hand, she brushed her cheek.
“Hey,” Cody said, leaning in and touching her face. “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay.”
She reached up and took his hand. So warm, so strong. So young. She carefully stroked his fingers. He stood motionless, watching her. “It’s just that it’s new to me,” she said, then quickly added, “Not sex, of course. But this. This …”
He put his arms around her, enveloped her. “ ’This what? Making love to a younger man?”
She did not answer, but closed her eyes and let herself feel him close to her. Another tear—a longing, bared open tear—slid down her other cheek. A tear for Parker, perhaps. A teat for the man who no longer held her, no longer kissed her, no longer was part of her life.
Cody leaned down and kissed her hair. Once. Twice. Three gentle, caring times.
She pulled back a little and looked into his eyes again, her soft thighs unimportant, her stretch marks fading from her mind. “Hold me, Cody,” Maddie whispered. “Hold me, touch me, and make love to me. Ple
ase.”
Kris gazed out the tall, velvet-draped window of her room in the west wing, wondering why she had done what she’d done, and what right Abigail had to be angry.
It had, after all, been Abigail’s idea.
Hadn’t it?
She looked beyond the glass to the reflecting pool shimmering in the moonlight, a dusky mirror that held the knowledge of her many past sins, the demons of her darkness. She stared at it a moment, a moment too long.
And then the feelings returned. A gnawing chill seeped into her, dampening her spirit with its cold, clammy grip of reality. She tried to take in a breath; it was shallow and weak despite the rapid pace of her pulse.
For a moment she stood motionless, frozen by the image that stretched before her, glued by the pain, deadened to the bone.
She blinked. She breathed again. More deeply this time, more able.
Quickly Kris turned to the closet. She had to pack her things. She had to leave this damn place once and for all.
What the hell was she doing here anyway?
Why had she ever come back?
Why had she ever answered Abigail’s stupid request for lunch?
She wondered these things in rapid succession, then told herself to move, to get out her suitcase, to leave before Abigail was through talking to Edmund.
But all Kris could do was grasp the large bangles that encircled her wrist and spin them around and around, as if they could unwind the torment within her, as if they could undo the guilt.
It wasn’t, she knew, about Edmund.
If she wanted a child that badly, surely she could figure it out for herself. If there was one thing Kris Kensington was capable of, it was getting a man into her bed. She didn’t need Edmund and she didn’t need this godforsaken place. This constant reminder that she was not good enough, that she was not worthy, and that, of all things, she was half-black. Half a little slave girl, a plaything for the master.
She stood there, staring at the closet. And then she was aware that Abigail stood there too, arms folded, body rigid.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Abigail said.
“I did nothing wrong.”
“You tried to seduce my husband.”
“It was your idea.”
“I hardly meant it.”
Kris looked at her friend, the girl who’d had everything, the woman who had everything and was going to throw it all away. “Make up your mind, Abigail,” she said, suddenly regaining the ability to move. She stepped toward the closet and began dropping garments into her suitcase.
“What goes on in my mind is none of your business.”
“You made it my business the day you summoned us to lunch.”
“I needed you …”
“No, Abigail, you don’t need anyone,” Kris said, zipping closed the rim of her suitcase. “You never did.”
“You’re the one who’s never needed anyone!”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Kris hoisted the suitcase over her shoulder. Abigail reached over and yanked it from her.
“Oh, yes, I do. I know that you’re miserable and alone and are obviously willing to go to … to any length to have a child. But you can’t punish me by trying to steal Edmund just because you think God is punishing you for having that abortion.”
“Give me my suitcase, Abigail. You’re not making sense.”
Abigail pulled the case closer to her chest. “I know you feel like you killed a child, Kris. I assume you had your reasons.”
“I did.”
“So you could live free? So you didn’t have to be weighted down by responsibilities? So you wouldn’t have to feel anger and pain and shit—like the rest of us have had to feel?”
Kris was quiet a moment. Then she slowly turned and faced Abigail. “No,” she said, grabbing the suitcase from her. “I did it so I wouldn’t hurt you. So you would never know that the father of my child was your precious grandfather.”
She could almost hear the hiss of life deflate Abigail’s lungs. The woman turned pale—ghastly, ghostly pale. Her jaw went slack; her lower lip began to twitch.
Still Kris could not stop, the decades of hurt unleashing themselves and hurling them smack into Abigail’s horrified face. “You always thought you were so much better than the rest of us,” Kris seethed. “You never liked Betty Ann. I doubt if you ever liked Maddie. And the only reason you tolerated me was because I was some kind of toy for you. Your little black friend. Someone you could prance in front of and show off your beautiful house to and your frilly-ass room and … your grandfather.
“Well, guess what, princess, your grandfather wanted me. He screwed me again and again and he liked it just fine. And I would have had his baby, but I was afraid it would end up too much like you.”
Abigail’s hands flew to her ears. “Shut up!” she screamed. “Shut up and get out of my house!”
“No problem,” Kris said. “I know the way.”
The Thanksgiving weekend was at last over and done with. Maddie sat at the stool in her studio, hunched over her light box, waiting for Cody to deliver an order of processing chemicals. He’d offered to bring it; he’d said it would give him a chance to touch her, and that he desperately needed to touch her. Maddie had laughed and told him he was a horny bastard, to which Cody quickly had agreed.
She had not told Abigail; she had not told Kris. It was almost as if she was afraid the sizzle would dwindle if they knew—if anyone knew—how good Cody made her feel.
Sitting up straight, Maddie stretched her back, then began to scrutinize a proof sheet for the latest Savoir cover: three hot new models making exorbitant fees for hawking makeup, fragrances, and body cremes. They were sensuous and alluring; they were provocative and daring. The trouble was, they were only eleven. Eleven years old, yet looking twenty-five. She doubted any of them could have survived the drug-riddled, “heroin chic” culture of the fashion world that had only recently gone out of vogue. She wondered if these kids had mothers, and if so, how they felt about their babies peddling sex.
“Your job is to shoot,” Savoir editor Brian Dixon had ordered when Maddie protested. “Shoot them; don’t judge them. The Savoir cover is not a platform for morals.”
She supposed Brian Dixon would never vote for Dan Quayle. She supposed Brian Dixon would have loved it if he’d seen her in Cody’s bedroom acting like a teenager. Brian would have loved it; Abigail and Kris would have applauded. Still, Maddie could not help but wonder what the world was coming to, and if she was contributing to its decline.
A knock came on the studio door. She jumped. Her pulse beat quickly; she smoothed her sweater, brushed the wrinkles from her short, sueded-silk skirt, and remembered how much easier it was to dress in sweatpants and flannel shirts.
But that was the old Maddie. This was the new.
She slid off the stool, ran her hands through her hair, and opened the door.
It was not Cody on the other side. It was Parker.
Her heart flew into her throat.
“Maddie,” he said, “I tried the front door. No one answered.”
She leaned against the doorjamb. “Sophie’s at yoga class.” Her words squeaked past her aorta.
Parker smiled. “She’s really something.”
Maddie nodded.
“Could I come in?”
He was wearing a blue shirt again. His eyes flashed in the sunshine; his smile warmed in the light. It was the first time he’d come to her studio door, the first time he’d asked to come in. “Why?” she asked nervously. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I have these pictures that Timmy shot. I wanted to return them …” He handed her an 8 × 10 envelope.
“And you were in the neighborhood?”
“Sort of.” He grinned.
His grin was like the photo on the editorial page of Our World. It was warm and charming and … Oh, God, Maddie thought. The files. The pictures. He can’t come in here. Her mind’s eye darted around the studio. Was anything out
that could incriminate her? Any magazine back issues? Any blow-up shots of … him … with Sharlene dismembered and Maddie’s hiding place revealed?
She touched her throat. And Cody. Cody would be coming any minute now. “Well,” she stammered, “actually, I’m expecting someone …” “Oh?”
“Yes,” she replied, hoping and praying that Cody wouldn’t show up just then, hoping and praying that he would. Then Parker would know. Then he would become jealous. Then …
“Timmy’s a natural, Maddie. He’s got your talent, that’s for sure.”
“Maybe you should put him on the payroll.”
He remained in the doorway. She wished he would go. She wished he would stay.
“The truth is,” he said, “I wanted to see you.”
She gripped the envelope as though it were a life preserver, salvation from a sinking ship.
“I’ve been concerned … you know. Since Thanksgiving. Since you fainted. And I noticed that you’ve lost weight …”
Somehow Maddie managed to laugh. “Did you? Well, I’m feeling fine, thanks.” She didn’t want to tell him that it was just menopause; she didn’t want to remind him how much older she was than Sharlene. “As for the weight loss,” she continued, “you have no idea how hard I’ve worked at it. I’m not sick, Parker. In fact, for once in my life I’m getting healthy.”
And I’m screwing a twenty-eight-year-old, she wanted to add. Are you jealous now?
“Healthy enough to take in an exhibit this weekend?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a show at the Guggenheim. Manuel Alvarez Bravo. I thought Timmy might enjoy it. And that you might like to come along.”
She admired the realistic style of the renowned Mexican photographer. She wondered if Parker had remembered. “And Sharlene? Will she ‘come along’ as well?” From wherever the courage came to ask, she had no idea but was grateful.
“Sharlene is in Paris. Christmas shopping.”
Well, Maddie thought. Isn’t that cushy. Sharlene was in Paris, Christmas shopping, while Maddie was here, wondering how she was going to afford Hanukkah gifts for the twins this year without dipping into her stash of child support. That money was for … she didn’t know what the money was going to be used for, but she knew she wasn’t going to touch it.