Moon Over Alcatraz

by Patricia Yager Delagrange

  I placed my hand on his arm, stalling his departure. “Don’t go, Edward.” He placed his cup back down on the table. “I lost my baby a few months ago. I’m still messed up.”

  Lowering his hand over mine, he rubbed my wrist. “I’m so sorry, Brandy. I’ve never had a child of my own though I’d love to some day. That must have been terrible for you and your husband…?”

  I looked up at him. “Weston…And thank you for saying that. It’s been a bad time for me. And him, too, of course.”

  “At least you have him to lean on. You’re lucky.”

  I glanced out the cafe window, biting my lower lip, then turned toward him. His warm palm over mine was the hug I needed today. I wanted to share this with someone other than my girlfriend Cecilia. “Weston’s been out of town for more than a month now. It’s been, uh, difficult for both of us, being apart.”

  His eyes widened. “He left you so soon after losing your child?”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t like that. He was offered a fantastic opportunity in New York. I didn’t think he should pass it up. Plus it gives me some much needed time to get my head together. You know, postpartum depression and all that.”

  “Sounds like you could use a little TLC, Brandy. I make an incredible Quiche Lorraine. You’d love it.”

  I laughed out loud. “The last one you made for me, the eggs were all runny. Totally gross.”

  He tapped his finger to his temple. “I’ve learned a lot more about cooking since I last saw you. Took several top-notch classes.” He grinned. “Different day, different quiche, Brandy…You up for it?”

  He could always make me smile. “I’d love to.”

  “Tomorrow night, my place, eight o’clock?”

  Nodding, I answered right away, “Sounds perfect.”

  He got up to leave.

  “Edward?” I called after him.

  He glanced back at me. “Yes?”

  “Your address?”

  Shaking his head, he looked down at the floor. “Sorry. I’m not thinking straight.” He grinned sheepishly. “You always had that effect on me, Brandy…7177 San Antonio Avenue.” He turned and walked out the door.

  I covered my mouth with my hand, smiling, remembering how shy he used to be back in high school. Maybe getting together with him would lift my spirits, especially after my last conversation with Weston. I was looking forward to spending time with my old high school buddy.

  The next day I went through my closet, looking for something appropriate to wear for dinner at Edward’s house. I tried on three different outfits before deciding on my favorite white stretchy top, jean skirt, and black tennis shoes. I didn’t want to get dressed up as if I was going on a date—which this wasn’t—but I didn’t want to wear sweatpants and a t-shirt and look like a slob either. At 7:50 p.m. I grabbed my purse and drove to his house. I parked, checked my lipstick in the rear view mirror, and then walked up the pathway to the door.

  He answered, wearing jeans and a white shirt open at the neck. He was so movie-star handsome, it took me a second to adjust to the fact this man was the same teenager who had been my best friend in high school.

  “Hello, Brandy. Come in, come in.” He gestured to the foyer.

  I followed him into a large front room. A couch covered with oversized pillows sat in front of a flat-screen television hung above the fireplace. He motioned for me to sit down.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  I sat at one end of the couch, leaning back against the huge pillows. “I’d love a Coke or a Pepsi, please.”

  He nodded. “I have both, but as I recall you always drank Coke, right?”

  “I can’t believe you remembered,” I said, laughing.

  “There’s a lot you may not believe, Brandy,” he replied, laughing along with me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hold on a sec. I’ll get your Coke. Over ice?” He raised his eyebrows and I nodded with a smile. Did this guy have an incredible memory or what?

  When he returned from the kitchen, he handed me my drink, sat down at the other end of the couch, and turned toward me. Leaning over, he stretched out his hand holding his glass and I held out mine. Our glasses clinked together.

  “To memories and old times together,” he toasted.

  “To both of us now, wiser and a little bit older,” I replied seriously.

  I leaned further back into the puffy pillows, the atmosphere of the house both warm and comfortable. “You said there were other things I wouldn’t believe, Edward. What were you referring to?”

  His eyes met mine. “Did you know I had a crush on you throughout our four years of high school?”

  My mouth dropped half-open. It took a few seconds to find my voice. “You’re not serious.”

  Shaking his head, he added, “I was too shy to actually say anything to you. I remember feeling I’d die of embarrassment if I asked you out and you turned me down. So I never said anything, never broached the subject.”

  “I’m flattered.” He chuckled. “No, I’m serious. I didn’t know you thought about me that way.”

  “I thought about you a lot, believe me. In ways that would turn both our faces red as a beet.” He took another sip of his drink then placed it on the table.

  I felt awkward, didn’t know what to say. So I kept quiet, looking down at the couch, fiddling with a stray thread in the cushion. Edward and I had been close during high school but we’d lost touch when we departed for our respective colleges. A lot of time had passed since we’d been friends.

  In high school, he was kind, funny, had a great personality, and I’d always felt comfortable and safe when we hung out together. I recalled how he’d come to my rescue many times, saving me from unwanted advances from some of the more aggressive guys who frequented our school.

  Looking up, I could see the longing in his eyes, his gaze fixed on mine, pupils dilated, the silence between us palpable. He reached out his hand and took my drink, placed it on the table next to his then covered my hand with his warm palm. I turned mine upward and grasped his fingers.

  The tug on my hand was barely perceptible but there nonetheless. I moved toward him several inches and he stretched out his other arm, pulling me into his embrace. His lips were warm, the caress of his tongue on mine hot. I shivered. His arms around me were like a security blanket, holding me close to his chest. Tingling sensations zipped through my body.

  He slowly pressed me back onto the seat of the couch, angling his body to the side of me, engaging my mouth in long, lazy caresses with his tongue. I settled my hand over the zipper of his jeans, rubbing in slow pressured circles. His mouth found my nipple protruding through the material of my shirt and he suckled the nub gently. Zinging currents ripped through my groin.

  I hadn’t felt any of these sensations since before that awful day in the hospital and I succumbed to how good it felt, burning sexual desire saturating my body. Not thinking of the past or the future, my mind floated in the inexplicable present, my only awareness the physical heat spreading through every part of me.

  Kissing a path up my neck toward my lips, his mouth met mine in a frenzied array of deep kisses interspersed with my nibbling on the sweet flesh of his full lips. Weaving my hands through his thick hair, I moved my hips inward, pressing against the bulge in his pants, further enhancing his growing passion.

  He moaned, pulling away from me. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered.

  I shook my head, never breaking our gaze. “No, I’m not sure. But I don’t want you to stop.”

  He reached under my skirt, pushing it up to my waist, sliding my underpants off my legs. I unzipped his jeans, forcing his hardness between my thighs, pushing him inside. I was enjoying this more than I could have imagined, needing the feel of him within me. I couldn’t get enough of this man and I didn’t want this to end. Reaching my apex, I screamed his name, he grasped my hips, forcing himself deeper, a loud moan escaped his lips and I felt his whole body shudder.

  Ou
r labored breathing cut through the silence. Moving to the side of the couch, he draped his arm across my waist. His breathing slowed, his eyes closed, time passed. He was asleep. And the reality of what I’d done crawled into my consciousness like a snake. I rolled over onto the floor, grabbed my shoes in one hand and my purse in the other, stood, adjusted my clothes and then ran out the door.

  What had just happened?

  I jumped in my car and, oddly enough, pressed the automatic door lock. I shook my head, my mind swirling. Couldn’t think clearly. Turning the key in the ignition, slamming my foot down on the accelerator, I peeled away from the curb, my head pounding. What was wrong with me?

  Within moments, I’d reached home, raced into the driveway, ran inside, and headed straight for the shower, as if I could wash away all traces of our coupling. Leaning my head back in the steamy spray, I closed my eyes. What had I done? Why had I acted that way?

  It had been a sex scene to rival any you’d see in the theater! Except for one thing. What I’d done was not part of a movie script. It had been a scene from my real life.

  Chapter 8

  Physically and emotionally exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep within moments, and woke up the following morning sick with guilt. I played the scene over and over in my head, a film in which I was a mere observer and not a participant. I didn’t know what to do next. Should I go back to my usual routine? Make myself a latte and sit down and write my novel? Call Weston and ask him how the weather was in New York?

  My infidelity tinged every action and my day metamorphosed into the surreal. Nothing was normal anymore, least of all me. I searched for something to grab onto, to make me feel my life wasn’t tilted precariously on the edge of an abyss. But it was like trying to grasp fog. I couldn’t make any solid sense of last night’s foray into adultery.

  And I dreaded Weston’s next call. What would I say? I tried my best to write but couldn’t type a single word I didn’t delete. After several hours, I closed my Mac, disgusted with myself. That evening after fixing a salad, I sat in front of the TV to watch a movie but couldn’t eat a bite. I expected the phone to ring any moment. But would it be Weston or Edward?

  After revisiting my promiscuous scene over and over throughout the day, I fell into bed early, mentally exhausted. Did I plan to lie to Weston when we next talked, wait until he returned home to drop my bombshell? I lay in bed staring out the window watching the stars, wishing on each of them for guidance.

  When the phone rang my heart sped up, matching the rhythm of my pulse. I sat up, staring at the jangling object on the nightstand, questioning my sanity if I answered it. Counting the rings, after ten piercing rounds of irritating tones, I grabbed it off the base, dropping it on the floor as it slipped out of my sweaty hand.

  I scooped it up, my insides cringing. “Hello?”

  “Brandy? Are you all right?” West asked in a rush of words.

  “Yes, I just dropped the phone. I was hoping you’d call tonight.”

  “I wanted to talk to you too. I got a flight out for Labor Day.”

  I held my breath, stunned speechless.

  “Brandy? You there?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah, sure. Just surprised. I thought you had to work.”

  “There’s been a delay involving the ship from China.”

  “Well, that’s great. Umm, let me get a piece of paper.”

  After writing down the pertinent flight details we agreed we’d see each other in a few days. I lay back on the pillows but slept for mere minutes at a time, waking up every hour to look at the clock, hoping to have the luxury of realizing my evening with Edward had been a bad dream. That I hadn’t acted like an unmarried woman with no attachments, free to do what I pleased with whomever I pleased because my libido had felt the urge. I’d made mad and passionate love to another man.

  And I hadn’t had any visions of Christine!

  Needless to say, I wouldn’t be stopping by Peet’s every morning. Instead, I jogged along the beach boardwalk, ending my journey without my favorite latte, exercising my way to forgetting or perhaps to forgiving myself. If I ran faster and harder and longer than ever before, maybe I could quell the constant replay of that night.

  Weston’s flight was scheduled to arrive on Friday night before the Labor Day weekend. My concerns I’d never be attracted to any male were obviously not true. Sexual desire was no longer an impossible dream. But what about when I got together with Weston? Would I be able to make love to my husband without seeing frightening images of my dying baby? Had those visions completely dissipated since my interlude with Edward?

  An idea popped into my head. I’d drive to Nordstrom’s in San Francisco, buy something sexy for our first night together. I loved my husband. Maybe now I could “make” love to him. I was willing to try. I didn’t know whether this was guilt talking but something inside me had turned a corner after my night with Edward. I felt more alive and attractive and looked forward to giving myself sexually to Weston, anticipating I’d enjoy the experience with him.

  On the one hand, I was grateful for this opportunity to prove to him we could have an active sex life, while on the other hand, what had precipitated this change was my unexpected sexual interlude with Edward. But I would admit my one-night stand. I just wasn’t sure when the best time for that admission should be.

  I’d have to deal with the ramifications of telling Weston about Edward, and, hopefully he’d understand. Though if I couldn’t make sense of it, why should I expect he would? I continued my shopping spree in a haze of confused thoughts about the how and why of the return of the old “me,” but decided to give up trying to figure out the puzzle right now. I put that dilemma on the back burner and drove back to Alameda with just enough time to take a bath, do my hair and make-up, and get dressed.

  I left early enough to allow time for parking and reaching the gate to greet Weston when his flight arrived, nervous but grateful for the positive way I was feeling. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions—guilt for sleeping with Edward, excitement over the possibility the scary visions of my unborn child were gone, fear of Weston’s reaction to my infidelity, and confusion of when would be best to tell him.

  When the timing was right, I’d know and decided not to worry about it. I didn’t want the anticipation of my confession to ruin our little vacation, wanting to make the most of the limited hours we’d have together over Labor Day weekend.

  The possibility popped in my mind Edward might call to ask why I’d left so suddenly. However, my unexplained and immediate departure after having sex with him would be answer enough to whether I wanted to continue our relationship. In my mind, the least of my worries was what Edward would think about my running away without a word.

  Weston walked through the gateway and my heart did a skipitty rhythm; I ran to him as fast as my heels and dress would allow. He seemed not to recognize me at first, and did a double take then jogged in my direction, a huge smile gracing his handsome face.

  The only clothing he’d seen me wear before he left for New York was sweat pants, an old favorite t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting me to be dressed up, and the look on his face was worth the time and effort I’d taken with my appearance. And I was sure he realized I’d done it for him.

  He stopped about a foot from me, obviously not sure whether he should give me a hug, kiss me, or what.

  “Brandy, you look beautiful,” he whispered. “I love it when you let your hair down.” He fingered a long strand of my dark auburn hair.

  Placing my hands along the sides of his face, I smiled. “Thank you…I’m happy you’re home.” Pulling him down toward me, I gave him a gentle kiss, pressing up against his hard, warm body.

  His arousal was evident. Slowly widening our kiss, he hugged me tightly against him and his breathing deepened into a low groan. “I love you, Brandy. And I’ve missed you so much.”

  I looked longingly into his deep chocolate brown eyes, hoping he’d see how much I’d mis
sed him, my arms wrapped closely around his neck. Pulling him back for another kiss, I caressed his lips with my tongue, letting him know I wanted this as much as he did.

  He smiled, took my hand then grabbed his carry-on case from the floor, leading me to the parking garage.

  “How was the flight?” I asked as we took the elevator to the floor where I’d parked.

  “Too long…And I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived.” He looked at me with knitted brows. “Our conversations haven’t exactly been—”

  “Let’s not rehash our misunderstandings and accusations, West. We’ll start fresh. Take it from today and go from here.”

  He smiled. “Being apart wasn’t such a good idea. I was worried I shouldn’t leave.”

  “I’m feeling much better now.” I put my arm around his waist and snuggled closer to his side. “Much.”

  He stopped in the middle of the parking lot and turned me toward him. “You’re feeling better about…you know—”

  “Making love to you?” He nodded. “Yeah, I am. In fact, you always drive over the speed limit, so I’ll ride shotgun on the way home.”

  He bent down, engaging my mouth in a deep, exploring kiss, his erection pressed against my pelvis. I pushed against him with my lower body, relishing his arousal.

  There was minimal traffic across the Bay Bridge, and we made it home in less than half an hour. Pulling into the driveway, he shut off the ignition and silence enveloped us like a cloak. He turned to me with a confused look on his face.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I think I’ve taken all the rejection I can handle when I was home last.”

  I placed my hand on top of his lap, caressing him. He grinned, grasped the door handle, and jumped out of the car, rushing to my side to put his arm around my shoulders. We entered the foyer, and he guided me upstairs to our bedroom. We reached for each other, falling back onto the down comforter, my body pinned underneath his.

  “I’ve missed this, Brandy. I want to make tonight special for both of us.”