Bombshell

by Lynda Curnyn

  Instinct told me to clam up lest Claudia’s bitterness contaminate the well of hope I was feeling. But I was unable to resist when Lori leaned in, eyes sparkling and asked, “What’s his name?”

  “Jonathan,” I said. “Dr. Jonathan Somerfield.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve managed to land a doctor?” Claudia’s eyebrows flew upward. She had always been impressed with my resumé of men. Probably because she herself had spent a solid six years landing her investment banker husband, only to have him drop her for a younger model.

  “He’s a Ph.D. In art history.”

  “Oh, that kind of doctor,” Claudia scoffed. I suppose she figured a man who spent his day atop the intellectual heights didn’t have anything to offer financially.

  It occurred to me then that maybe Jonathan was relatively poor. Maybe that was why he didn’t want to show me his apartment. Could he be…ashamed of it?

  That was ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as the heady little refrain of “Love Will Keep Us Together” that wafted through my head.

  I baked a cake that night. I’m actually quite a good little baker when I set my mind to it. Or, my heart, in this case. Because this wasn’t just any dessert, but a rich chocolate layer cake I planned to drizzle with the freshly made strawberry sauce I also whipped up. At first, I told myself I was baking because I needed to do something to relax, and since Jonathan had insisted on doing all the shopping for the meal himself and I didn’t want to show up empty-handed, I stopped at Zabar’s for baking supplies on my way home. But as I whipped and stirred all those luscious ingredients together, I was forced to admit that my Betty Crocker act was more than the polite gesture of a prospective dinner guest. I liked caring for Jonathan—felt fulfilled by it in a way that I had never felt before.

  Clearly I had sniffed a little too much cocoa, because when the phone rang, I picked up the receiver and practically sang my hello into the receiver.

  “Grace, sweetheart,” my mother sang right back at me.

  “Hello, darling,” came my father’s tenor to her soprano.

  “Mom, Dad,” I said, skittering back from my merriment as guilt stabbed at me. I had never returned their call after the message they had left on my machine last week. I guess I had been a little…preoccupied.

  Not that they noticed. Or if they had, they had forgotten in light of what was currently preoccupying them.

  “The Chevalier arrived,” my father said happily. “Just this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Grace,” my mother said, practically on a sob. “I’m positively overwhelmed by all you’ve done.”

  I smiled. “It was all Dad’s doing, really.”

  “Please, I’ve already let him know just how insane it was of him to spend all that money. And how romantic. I’ve never been so—” She broke off, and I realized she was crying.

  Which made me want to cry. With the same kind of happiness I sensed had caused her own tears.

  When my mother finally recovered, I said, “I have to say, it was really something for me to finally see that painting,” realizing, even as I said the words, how much of a something. If I hadn’t gone to that opening, I wouldn’t have met Jonathan….

  As if my father picked the thought of that man right out of my head, he asked, “Have you spoken to Dr. Johnny? I really must thank him for his hand in all this.”

  I bit back a smile, almost wanting to say that I had already thanked him—over and over again. But, of course, I couldn’t share that with my parents.

  I could, however, share something with them, I thought, remembering my most recent session with Shelley. “Actually, I’m seeing him tonight.”

  “Jonathan Somerfield?” my mother asked, clearly delighted. “Oh, Grace, how did that come about?”

  “We’ve been dating a bit,” I said hesitantly, not sure how much I wanted to reveal.

  “Is that right?” my father asked, a smile in his voice.

  “Oh, Grace, that’s wonderful,” my mother breathed. “He was always such a nice young man.”

  Remembering that he had likely been a married man when my parents knew him, I asked, “Dad, why didn’t you tell me he’d been married?”

  My father paused. “I guess I didn’t think of it.”

  I smiled, in spite of my chagrin. Of course he didn’t think of it. He was a man. Did men ever think about these things? Especially men like my father, who spent most of his life studying world events, not personal ones.

  “That was a few years ago, wasn’t it, Tom?” my mother said now. “Such a tragedy…”

  Her words brought all my fears to the surface once more. It was a tragedy. The kind of thing that might mark a man’s heart forever.

  As if my mother felt my anxiety over the phone line, she continued, “I think it’s wonderful, Grace. He’s wonderful. For you.”

  And as I lay in bed that night, bathed in the scent of chocolate that permeated my apartment, I thought he was, too.

  This didn’t stop me from feeling somehow less than wonderful myself as I readied myself to go to Jonathan’s apartment the following evening. I changed my outfit no less than six times. It’s tricky business, dinner at a man’s house, especially when you know you’ll be staying the night. I wanted to look casual yet sexy. Which would have been easy enough to do, if it weren’t for the whole undergarment dilemma. And since the undergarments were likely going to have a starring role this evening, they needed to be good. But this is the problem when your bra size is a 38-C. No one seemed to cater to it except for those bra companies known more for sturdiness than sex appeal. If I wanted seamless support, I had to live with a bra that looked like it had been pulled from my grandmother’s boudoir. Or was downright boring, which was what I usually had to resort to for everyday wear. Not that I didn’t own better. I had a whole drawerful of the kind that generally were best worn when you were certain your man would be tearing it off you within minutes. A pretty little demi was out of the question, unless I wanted my breasts to enter the room before I did. And my lacy push-ups made the most unflattering lines under all my formfitting tops. And though I could have gone the bulky sweater route, I needed to have some sort of sex appeal before that sweater came off….

  Finally I settled on stretch lace in black with a sexy French-cut brief, beneath a black sweater with a very deep v-neck that clung to me just enough to flatter my supremely female form while only hinting at what might be layered below. Of course, I paired this with an equally flattering pair of wool pants.

  I topped it all off with my coziest cashmere coat. And, carefully fitting my cake into the baker’s box I’d purchased, I tucked the cake, the strawberry sauce and a bottle of wine into a shopping bag and headed out the door.

  I decided to walk, despite the cold. Or maybe because of it. I was starting to feel I’d lost it, considering all the angsting I’d done ever since I had proposed this tête-à-tête two days before. It wasn’t like me to obsess over every detail as I was doing, and just as inexplicably I found myself letting the worry go. As I walked the short distance to Jonathan’s apartment, I even began to relish the fact that he lived so nearby. If nothing else, he’d make a great booty call….

  Stop that, I chided the demon voice that seemed to waft up from deep inside whenever I let down my guard. Or put it up, I thought, realizing it was probably a product of fear.

  I saw the same fear in Jonathan’s eyes when he greeted me at the outside door of the stately brownstone where he lived. It was as if he’d been waiting there for me, which seemed a bit odd. And the way he stood looking at me, I thought for a moment he might make up some excuse and quickly usher me out.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he took the shopping bag from my hand, then fumbled for his key when he realized he had let the inner door slam shut behind him.

  “Jonathan,” I said, grabbing his hand before he could reach for the lock. He looked up at me, a bit startled, as if seeing me for the first time.

  “Hello,” I said, leaning forward and brushing my mo
uth against his.

  I felt some of the tension ease out of him, though it never left his eyes, I noticed when he finally pulled away to let us in.

  It turned out, Jonathan’s apartment was nothing to be embarrassed about. And it was located on the first floor, which at least somewhat explained why I had been greeted at the door rather than buzzed in. When we approached his apartment at the end of the hall, I noticed how small he looked against the tall wood door. Some ceiling, I thought, gazing up at the pretty woodwork at least twenty feet above me.

  Some apartment, I thought, when he finally pushed the door open and stepped aside so I could enter. A large living room greeted me, which I might have called cozy due to the wood furnishings and Oriental rug, except for the sense of expansive space, created mostly by those amazingly high ceilings. And the fireplace. An image of Jonathan and me making love before it rose up in my mind, then quickly died away as I glanced about the room. No, not here, I thought. It almost didn’t look lived in.

  Then I saw a wall of books to one side, fronted by an armchair and a small table where a book lay open, as if he had just left it there, and an abandoned coffee mug. Apparently he was living in this room, yet somehow it felt lonely.

  “So this is it,” he said, startling me out of my thoughts. “See? You didn’t miss much.”

  I turned to him. “Well, I haven’t seen anything yet. Why don’t you give me the tour?”

  We started with the kitchen, where I noticed a couple of steaks, which lay on a plate on the counter looking like he had marinated them already. There was also something in a pot on the stove that Jonathan declared was a wild mushroom risotto.

  “I see you have hidden talents,” I said with a smile.

  He blushed, then met my gaze. “I had to do something while I was waiting.”

  My smile widened. I guess I wasn’t the only one who had been filled with nervous energy. I took comfort in that as he led me through the living room and down a hallway where we passed a bathroom and another door that was shut and that we would have passed by had I not paused before it.

  “Closet?” I asked, curious as to whether he had been blessed with what usually came at a premium in Manhattan: storage. I had already seen the generous front closet where he had deposited my coat and could only assume the bedroom held another closet.

  “No, no. That’s a second bedroom.” And before the value of that real estate happenstance could sink in, he added, “A small one.” As if the prosperity suggested by a two-bedroom brownstone apartment embarrassed him. “Caroline and I had hoped to use it as a…a nursery.”

  He looked away on that last word, and suddenly I understood what had hung so thickly between us since he had opened his home to me: the weight of his past and the pain of remembering what he had once hoped for his future. With someone else. Someone who I feared was still present, not only in these lovely rooms, but also in Jonathan’s mind.

  I struggled against the sorrow brought on by this realization, and got it under control by the time he looked at me again. “It’s a study now,” he said, frowning at the closed door as if, despite the rechristening, he hadn’t completely come to terms with its new function.

  I noted also that he didn’t even touch the knob, as if he felt no need to show me that particular space.

  Before I could wonder at that, he led me away toward the door at the end of the hall, which I saw, once we stepped through it, was the bedroom.

  The bed was made up untidily in a plain blue spread, and one wall was lined with rows of books that were clearly constantly in use, judging by how they leaned haphazardly all over one another. A desk sat in one corner, which made me question how much of a study that other room really was, especially since this desk was clearly a working one, covered by a computer and piles of books and papers.

  Still, I felt a momentary pleasure at the sight. This room, at least, was fully and completely inhabited by Jonathan, right down to the portable valet where some of those hopelessly outdated yet utterly Dr. Somerfield trousers were hung.

  I smiled, finally feeling at home, and stepped into his arms. My hips came into contact with his and I felt his body come to life, which, of course, only boosted my spirits further. “Mmm-hmm,” I murmured, placing my cheek against his delightfully rougher one, my lips against his ear, cradling his now-full erection in the apex of my thighs. “You sure do have a lovely…home.”

  Dinner got off to a late start, as Jonathan and I made a few more wrinkles in that bedspread before the call of hunger pulled us from post-lovemaking languor and we headed for the kitchen.

  We cooked side by side, with me adding a marinade Mrs. DiFranco had taught me to the French string beans Jonathan had purchased, while he grilled on the kind of high-tech stovetop grill that could only have been a leftover from his married life. How else did a bachelor wind up with such sophisticated cookware? But the reminder of his previous life was overridden by the new intimacy I felt as we stood in that small slice of a kitchen, cooking side by side, almost as if we were man and wife ourselves.

  Our meal was even more intimate, with me draped in one of Jonathan’s soft button-downs and my lacey briefs while seated across from him at a table awash in candlelight.

  By the time we nestled together on the couch to eat dessert, my legs thrown over Jonathan’s as he sat at one end and I reclined against the other, I was safely back in my comfort zone again, especially when I saw the way his eyes closed to savor his first bite of my cake from the plate we shared.

  “Mmmm, Grace,” he said opening his eyes and turning to look at me. “Is there nothing you can’t do?”

  I thought about this for a moment. “I’m not much of a chess player,” I said, my gaze moving over to the pretty chess table set up in one corner of the room.

  “We can remedy that.” His eyes lit up as if the prospect of offering to teach me gave him joy. “Here, taste this,” he said, holding out a forkful of the cake.

  I leaned forward, holding his gaze as my mouth closed over the bite of chocolate. “Mmmm.” I leaned back again to savor the rich taste. “I am good, aren’t I?” I said with a wink.

  “Where did you learn how to make this?” he asked, helping himself to another bite and then dishing up another for me.

  “My mom,” I replied, accepting the bite from his fork. “I used to make this cake with her when I was a little girl. Usually on Christmas Eve.”

  He frowned down at the cake as if the mention of the upcoming holiday disturbed him. I felt the temperature change—ever so slightly—in the room. Trying to purge the sudden awkwardness, I plunged forward, bringing up the subject that had lingered in the back of my mind since my lonely Thanksgiving.

  “Of course, we won’t be baking together this year, with her and my dad celebrating in Paris.”

  He glanced over at me. “Are you spending the holiday alone, then?”

  “No, no,” I answered quickly, not wanting him to think I was a friendless loner. “I’ll be spending Christmas Day with the DiFrancos—you know, my friend Angie’s family?”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, as if my having these plans filled him with some sort of relief. “So it will be a seafood dinner, then?”

  “Well, that’s on Christmas Eve.” I was glad he was so focused on his cake that he couldn’t see the question in my eyes. Because I hadn’t made plans to go to the DiFrancos for that part of the holiday—Angie and Justin were celebrating a romantic Christmas Eve together at their apartment. I understood. Christmas Eve had always held a bit of romance for me, too, perhaps because it was so close to my parents’ wedding anniversary. Yet somehow I never seemed to have a man in my life come Christmastimes. So after this brief but utterly romantic few weeks with Jonathan, I hoped that this year I would.

  “You?” I said, venturing forth on that limb as carefully as possible. “Any plans for the holiday?”

  I saw him chew thoughtfully, then offer the remainder of the cake to me before he answered. When I shook my head, he took the last bite
himself, then placed the empty plate on the coffee table. “Well, my parents are in Connecticut, as you know, so I’ll head up there for the day. My brother is usually there with his wife and their two little girls.” His gaze turned pensive again.

  “So no big Christmas Eve dinner for you either?” I said, feeling intensely the romantic wish that lay beneath my question.

  He looked at me as if he sensed the direction my thoughts had taken. I saw his gaze darken with emotion and wondered at that, but the wondering got too much and before I knew what I was doing, I was putting my wish into words.

  “Maybe we could spend it together….”

  He reached for his coffee, only to stare down into the mug as if seeking an escape route in the bottom of that cup. My guard went up immediately, and just as I was about to rescind my proposal with some suddenly-remembered-invitation to help me save face, Jonathan looked up at me again, his gaze pensive as he said, “Maybe…” Then, as if he longed to shut the door on the subject altogether, he placed the mug back down on the table and stood. “So what do you say to a little Chess 101?”

  It had been a mistake, I realized, to take that hopeful little step forward, for it had sent Jonathan retreating behind his wall of intellect. Gone was that searching intimacy I had earlier seen in his eyes. It was replaced by that scholarly-yet-once-removed air I had noted about him at our first few meetings, as he guided me through the steps of a game I no longer wanted to play.

  “You sure you want to do that?” he said midgame, when I moved my knight over to the side of the board. “You left your pawn unprotected.”

  My pawn wasn’t the only thing I had left unprotected.

  “Why? Are you going to let me take it back?” I asked, thinking more of my little invitation that had apparently ruined everything.

  Not that Jonathan noticed, looking at me as if I were a student in need of enlightenment, rather than a lover looking for more than her next maneuver. “Well, if you don’t, I’ll have your king in three moves. The game will be over.”