Bombshell

by Lynda Curnyn

  Though the concert was somewhere up near Columbia—he hadn’t said where exactly—he picked me up at my door, since he had no classes that day and he lived, I remembered with delightful anticipation, right in the neighborhood.

  When he showed up, wearing dark trousers, a wool overcoat and a somewhat befuddled expression on his face, I knew I had hit my mark.

  “Grace, you—that is, you look wonderful. Beautiful,” he finished, though that last word sounded a bit…resigned. I didn’t question it though, because his eyes told me everything else I needed to know.

  He had it bad.

  I smiled with pure female satisfaction. Even better, when we were seated in the back of the cab, the slit in front of my dress fell away to reveal a healthy length of leg. His eyes widened and I thought he might choke on his tongue as he sputtered, “112th and Amsterdam, please,” to the driver.

  When we pulled up in front of a church a short while later, I almost choked myself. “Oh, is this it?” I asked, realizing we were in front of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

  Okay, so I was dressed a bit vampy for a church. But, at least, as far as churches went, St. John’s was pretty sexy, with its Gothic spires and dimly lit, beautiful interior.

  In fact, I had never felt so sexy in a church in all my life. We sat up in the balcony, and as the strains of Mozart’s Esultate Jubilate wafted up to us from the orchestra and soloist at the front, I found myself overcome by a longing to press myself more firmly against the solid shape of Jonathan, who sat beside me looking handsome and subdued, except for the rapturous expression that came over his face as the music swelled.

  Which only made me wonder what he would look like when he…

  Uh-huh. I was going to hell.

  And looking a little too forward to the burn.

  “Are you enjoying the music?” Jonathan said during the brief break between pieces. I nodded, a bit too fervently. And whether because he shared my fervor, or was feeling some fervor of his own, he grabbed my hand and held it. And just in time.

  For the music had begun again, and it was a piece I immediately recognized, having heard it enough times in my childhood during concerts my mother often took part in, when the demands of being a wife and mother didn’t interfere. I remembered the first time I had gone to see her play, at a church that was not as grand as this one, though just as packed. I had been five at the time and sat in one of the front rows with my father, listening to the rise and fall of the melody and watching the dreamy expression come over my mother’s face as she leaned into the cello to play.

  I remembered thinking how different she looked. As if she were a stranger to me. And when the music reached a crescendo, as it did now, I remembered how my mother seemed to vibrate with it, her eyes closing, as if she were being transported to a place far, far away from where I sat beside my father in the crowd.

  I had burst into tears at the time, bawling so loudly my father had to whisk me outside.

  Of course, I could be forgiven. I was only a child at the time.

  Whereas now…

  “You okay?” Jonathan whispered close to my ear.

  I wondered at his question, until I realized tears—tears!—were rolling down my face. Clearly, I had gone insane. Not five minutes ago I had been aching with desire. And now…

  Now, I was just…aching.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  Since I didn’t know—and probably wouldn’t have shared it if I did—I nodded briskly, accepting the fresh Kleenex Jonathan procured from his coat pocket—so sweet!—and wiped from my cheeks the remaining evidence of the emotion that swirled through me.

  And when the piece came to an end I cleared away any misconceptions Jonathan might have harbored about my response to the music, assuring him that it was simply nostalgia, even though in my heart I sensed it was something more. “My mother used to play that Elgar concerto when I was a child.”

  “It is a beautiful piece,” he said, his eyes searching mine.

  For what? I wondered, staring into those soft hazel-brown depths. What did he want to know? Suddenly I was filled with the feeling that I would tell him anything tonight. If he asked.

  But he didn’t. Which was okay, too. Instead, once the concert was over, we left the church and walked in companionable silence for a few blocks, as if savoring the evening.

  At least I was savoring it. For the second Jonathan stopped, I turned to him, hoping, perhaps, he might share my romantic feelings as we stood in front of a tree that twinkled with white Christmas lights, beneath a sky that glowed with the promise of snow.

  But he only stepped to the curb and raised a hand to hail a cab.

  I shivered, feeling a bit bereft.

  “You cold, Grace?” he asked.

  I wasn’t. Not exactly. Still, for a moment I considered parlaying his question into an opportunity to step beneath that black overcoat and gain a little body heat. But as luck would have it, a cab pulled up just then, and I yielded to Jonathan’s gentlemanly attempt to usher me inside.

  When the cab pulled up in front of my building, he gave me an all-too-brotherly hug. To hide the disappointment that washed through me, I ducked quickly out of the cab with a mumbled good-night.

  “A hug is good! It’s progress!” Angie said when I had lowered myself to that female vice of analyzing the male. In fact, I had called her bright and early the next morning to discuss this latest development. Or nondevelopment. I couldn’t help myself. Because Dr. Jonathan Somerfield had me utterly perplexed.

  “He probably thinks I’m a…a basketcase.” Then I explained—worrying over the explanation as I did—the emotion that had come over me.

  Angie was silent for a few moments, which scared me further. “Have you spoken to your parents lately?”

  Now she was sounding like Shelley. “Not recently.” I would have called, only the last time we spoke they had seemed so busy packing and making plans, I didn’t want to destroy their merriment with my recent malaise. And now…now, I just wanted to protect whatever little happiness I had found by not placing too much on it. Because one mention of my recent outings with my father’s former protégé, and I was certain my dreamy-eyed mother would turn it into the romance it was clearly not.

  “I think I’m just…premenstrual,” I said finally, rationalizing that perhaps it was the cyclical rhythms of my body that were making me feel so vulnerable.

  Not that the feeling went away. It only seemed to multiply over the course of the day, so that as I sat listening patiently while Lori excitedly explained how she was readying her portfolio to send to the London School of Photography, all I could think about was whether Jonathan would be calling for another date.

  I was positively wound up by the time I got to Shelley’s that night.

  Her attitude didn’t help matters.

  “I want to talk about last week,” she began.

  “Last week?” I said, blinking at her. It seemed like a million years ago. So much had happened. And not happened. “We didn’t meet last week.”

  “That’s right. That’s what I want to talk about. Your reasons for canceling the session.”

  “It was a holiday—you know, Thanksgiving?” I said, latching on to the first excuse I could find for why I had blithely called her voice mail to cancel.

  “Oh,” she replied, studying me. “Did you go out of town? To see your parents?”

  “No, no. It was too much of a bother, with them leaving for Paris so soon after. Besides, New Mexico isn’t exactly a hop, skip and a jump. Do you know there’s no direct flight from New York? It’s a full day of travel, and it seemed like a bit much for just a long weekend….”

  “So you stayed home then?”

  “Yes, if you must know,” I continued, frustrated with this line of questioning. “Had a little turkey.” I didn’t mention that the garbage disposal had had more. “Some wine. Got caught up on some work. You know, I think I may have figured out the key to the downturn in sales for Youth Elix
ir—the campaign I’m working on?” Then, eager to get on to the subject—i.e., the man—that was foremost on my mind, I continued, “Anyway, I was glad I did stay home. Because on Friday I—”

  “So you could have come on Wednesday evening but decided…not to?” she asked, hanging on like a dog with a bone.

  I blew out a breath. Clearly, this therapy business was for the birds. Wasn’t I coming here so I could find a little peace of mind? And something about my last date with Jonathan had unsettled me. I felt a need to talk about it. And if I was paying for this session, I should at least have the benefit of angsting over a man when I chose to. “Look if it’s the money you’re worried about, I’ll pay you for the missed session,” I said finally.

  “Is that what you think? That I’m upset about the money?”

  “Well, you’re acting pretty pissy about something. Look, I could pay you the fucking money—” I paused, and in a somewhat calmer tone, added, “I mean, if that’s what you want.”

  “I want to understand why you’re so angry.”

  “I’m not angry!” I yelled, then felt like a fool when she just stared at me. “Look, I’m sorry if you schlepped all the way out here from Brooklyn. You can charge me for car fare, too—”

  “Brooklyn? Grace, I don’t live in Brooklyn. I just told you a session or so ago that I live downtown.”

  “Brooklyn, downtown. What’s the difference—”

  “Well, there’s a very big difference between Brooklyn and downtown Manhattan.”

  Didn’t I know it. “Sorry if I…insulted you,” I said sarcastically. “From a real estate point of view.”

  She stared at me.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with Brooklyn,” I babbled. “I mean, I lived there for a little while. Apparently, I was born there, too.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So why do you think you said Brooklyn when you know I live in the Village?”

  I had no idea where the hell she was going with this, but it was clear she saw some warped psychological motive here. So I stared back, trying to see into her head, to give her whatever stupidity she was looking for so we could just move on. I landed on it almost immediately.

  “Oh, I get it. Kristina Morova.” It always came back to her, didn’t it? “So you think that Brooklyn slip was some kind of reference to her.”

  “I don’t think anything. I’m asking you.”

  “Look, if it makes you feel better, I didn’t go to Brooklyn either. I mean, Katerina called, but I told her I had plans.” I blew out a breath. “I just didn’t feel like seeing anyone last week, okay? And I didn’t want to talk about it. Isn’t that okay sometimes? If I don’t come? Isn’t this about making me happy, not you?”

  “Were you trying to make me unhappy?”

  “This is crazy. Okay, yes. I was trying to piss you off. Out of some warped need for revenge against Kristina. Okay? Can we move on now?”

  “Interesting.”

  Interesting? Not very. “Look, can we change the subject?”

  “I want to ask you something first.”

  I braced myself.

  “If I were Kristina Morova, what would you want to say to me?”

  I bit back the retort that had stood ready on the tip of my tongue, and suddenly found myself speechless. Because the truth was, I had no words for her, this woman who had given me life. She was just a shadow, a stranger….

  “Look,” I began, an ache rising up in my throat. “All I wanted to tell you tonight was that I…that I met someone. Someone I really like…” I felt strangled suddenly and then very, very hot. Maybe I was premenstrual.

  Then a sob shook through me, so uncontrollable I was powerless to stop it. And mortified. Even more mortified than I’d been last night, weeping over a goddamned piece of music.

  The moment the tears broke free, I buried my face in my hands, as if I could hide my sudden weepfest from Shelley. But there was no hiding anything anymore. I was on a crying jag. And afraid. But of what?

  Of wanting things, I realized. Things that seemed so impossible to have.

  That thought sent another shudder of tears through me, and I let it flow. What else could I do? It was a fucking downpour.

  And once it passed—because it did, finally, pass, I felt incredibly silly, crying like this in front of this woman, this stranger….

  So I got a hold of myself, but then I saw a look of compassion on Shelley’s face that made me want to cry even more.

  As if she sensed it, she grabbed the box of tissues on her desk and held it out to me.

  The gesture alone was enough to stop the tide, so ridiculously grateful was I for her acknowledgment that I was hurting. I just hoped I wasn’t going to be asked to explain it, because I couldn’t. Just as I couldn’t have explained it to Jonathan last night.

  “So tell me about this man you met,” Shelley said.

  Which surprised me even further. Finally we got to talk about something I wanted to talk about. So I told her about how we’d met, our day at the museum, the concert last night.

  “I even cried in the middle of that, too,” I said with wonder. “It’s like I’ve become some kind of a…a head case.” Of course, head cases were Shelley’s specialty. She probably thought I was nearly certifiable.

  “Now I’m sitting here like some…stupid love-sodden teenager,” I continued, “wondering ‘Is he gonna call, does he like me?’ Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed.

  I looked at her, and this time a laugh sputtered out of me. “Thanks a lot.”

  She smiled, too, and that was even more amazing. I’d never seen her smile before. It felt like some sort of…reward.

  Then she gave me the first real piece of advice I had ever gotten at these crazy sessions. And it sounded an awful lot like the kind of solid, simple advice a friend might give. Or a mother.

  “I think you should just call him yourself.”

  Yes, it was simple advice, yet so hard to follow for some reason. I usually had more balls than most men. Yet here I was acting like a scared little girl. The next morning at work I picked up the phone no less than half a dozen times, trying to think of some cool and casual way to wangle another date out of the elusive Dr. Somerfield—without it looking like I was trying too hard. During my last attempt I imagined pretending I had somehow dialed him by accident, and then chatting him up until I found an opening to ask him out.

  Pathetic, right?

  Even more pathetic, however, was the sight of Claudia, scurrying into the office a full two hours late and looking a bit jet-lagged from her trip from Milan. Or something. She positively slumped.

  I might have said she was back to her old self again, if only because she seemed to have dropped her youthful garb for her former austere yet sophisticated wardrobe. But that was the only evidence we saw of the old Claudia. No shrill orders were barked from behind her desk, no impossible demands made at all hours. In fact, her door stood closed for most of the day, and when she did emerge, it was only to stalk silently to the ladies’ room, or to drop some innocuous task into Lori’s in-box, before she disappeared behind closed doors once more.

  “Do you think she’s ill?” Lori whispered to me.

  I hoped it was something as temporary as illness. For as much as I despised Claudia’s neo-Nazi management style, I couldn’t bear this version of her. She seemed positively…meek. And somehow that was worse than her tyranny.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked her when I managed to gain entrance to Claudia’s office that afternoon to discuss a competitive report I had pulled together.

  She looked up from the report, which she had already begun to page through diffidently. Her eyes were weary, and she sighed.

  “I’m old, Grace.”

  I almost smiled. After all, admitting it was the first step. But knowing Claudia probably wouldn’t find any humor in this response, I gave her the standard reply. “You’re as old as you feel, Claudia.”

  She practic
ally sneered at me. “Well, I feel about ninety today. My body is aching from riding coach from Milan to Newark—can you believe they only had two seats in first class on the return? And guess who got them. I was stuck in coach with Irina’s assistant, Bebe, of all people. My head is aching, and I think I just had my first hot flash in the taxi coming here this morning. I nearly clubbed the cab driver for turning the heat up too high. Then he dumped me off in front of the building and I realized I was still sweating—and it’s thirty degrees out there!”

  I decided to hone in on what I suspected was the real source of Claudia’s malaise. “What happened in Milan?”

  She shuddered. “What didn’t happen? The minute we stepped off the plane, Bebe came down with some crazy virus. So who do you think had to call all the restaurants in advance to see if Irina’s dietary needs could be met? Then there were all the late-night parties Irina begged me to come to, though I have no idea why. She spent half the time voguing for Phillip on the dance floor and the rest of the time on her cell phone, telling whoever would listen what a fabulous time she was having. I was so relieved when she decided we should take a few days in the Lake Country. Then, when we arrived, I overheard the hostess asking Irina—” she squeezed her eyes shut, as if the memory still pained her “—if…if her mother would be joining her for dinner in the main dining room that evening.” She scowled. “Do I look like anyone’s mother to you?”

  The menace on Claudia’s face in that moment made her look far from maternal. But the truth was, Claudia was old enough to be Irina’s mother. Not that I was dumb enough to point out that particular biological fact to her. I decided a change of topic was in order. “So how did the shoot go?”

  Her features turned placid and her eyes lit up hopefully. “Oh, the shoot. Well, that was lovely. That Phillip…” She sighed. “He is a genius. He made me feel so comfortable, so feminine, the whole time the camera was on me. It’s too bad he’s gay. I bet he could make some woman very happy.”