by Toby Devens
Handsome and slim, his crisp unstained apron wrapped from chest to knee like armor, he bent stiffly to remove the items from the tray and arrange them in front of us. Traditional black tea for Emine, the apple tea I loved at my place, the plate of pastries centered.
“You are well?” he asked me.
“Fine,” I said. “You?”
“Thanks God, yes.” He cleared his throat and said, “This baklava is with chocolate. I know you like chocolate, Nora. But we also have—”
“Tell me when you need me back there,” Em interrupted him without shifting her gaze from the gulls. It was a dismissal.
“For now, it is quiet,” he replied. “I will let you two have your talking time together.”
“You will let?” Emine whipped around. This was a new version of my gentle friend. “You will let? Very kind of you.”
“All I meant . . .” He shrugged, raised an eyebrow to me as if we were conspirators in some plot. Then he clipped an old-school bow toward me, turned on his heel, and strode away.
Em stared into her cup. I cradled mine to warm my hands. Before sipping, I inhaled the apple scent and felt the steam soften the grip of my anxiety about my own kid.
Emine pushed the plate of baklava toward me. I pushed it back, but it was a symbolic gesture. An extra inch away wouldn’t stop me from polishing off at least two pieces of the syrup-drenched pastry she made from scratch.
At that moment, Erol, the Haydars’ ten-year-old son, dashed by with a pink backpack slung from one finger. He called out a hi to me.
“Again Merry left her lunch behind.” Em shook her head in frustration. “She’s so mean to her brother, and he tries hard to be kind. Him, she hates all the time. Me, one day she hates—one day she hugs. The doctor says the hormones of puberty are giving her the ups and downs. Like the roller coaster in Ocean City.”
“Sounds like a typical teenager,” I responded.
“I wish so. Meryem is not typical.” She gave me a smile made crooked by pain.
When I’d first met Emine six years before, I thought she resembled a woman on an ancient Turkish mosaic with her elegantly carved features and deeply waved brown hair loosely gathered back from an oval face. Now the grout between the tiles was showing as a fretwork of wrinkles, and her hair was wisped with silver. She was still beautiful, but less vivid, more faded than her forty-one years warranted. The last few with Merry had aged her.
She went on. “So now we have new things to be concerned with. Makeup, too much. Adnan will not allow it when she works at the café. Even so we keep her in the back, not serving the customers. But as soon as her shift is over she goes to the bathroom and piles it on. Then she usually slips out the back door to sneak past us.”
Em rubbed her eyes with her palms as if she could erase her daughter’s image. “We grounded her for a week after she gave herself that awful haircut. Adnan pulled her cell phone when she broke curfew. A friend loaned her another one. We can’t keep up. Her final grades were high. She’s very smart and, I am ashamed to say, very cunning. Also stubborn. Like her father. Adnan is . . . Well, there is an Arab saying ‘Stubborn as a Turk.’ He is best example.” She shook her head. “Wrong—best example is his mother.”
The legendary Mrs. Haydar senior still ruled what was left of the roost in Istanbul, but Emine lived in terror of her random visits. At seventy-eight, Selda Haydar was a powerhouse, as crammed with opinions, advice, and directives as her imam bayildi, stuffed eggplant, was crammed with onions and garlic. Selda had insisted on cooking the dish for me during her last stay, although I told her eggplant made my tongue fuzzy. “Not my recipe,” she’d insisted, looming over me as I ventured to take a forkful. One of the reasons for the family’s relocation to the States was her daughter-in-law’s refusal to live under Selda’s thumb.
Emine sent a sharp look toward her husband as if he’d made the choice of a mother. Misinterpreting, he lifted a kettle questioningly. More tea? She shook her head no.
She sighed. “Every day it’s something new with Merry. Boys now. She’s crazy for them. She winks to them. They look at . . .” Her hands made a silhouette of breasts. “Thanks God, so far I think mostly it is fantasy. But I worry that she’ll step over the line. Do they have judgment at that age?”
I thought of Jack’s love or lust or whatever drove his need to hang on to mean-girl Tiffanie. At nineteen, my son was no Solomon.
Emine played with a sugar packet, folding and refolding it until it sprung a leak. “Thinking about her keeps me awake at night. If she’s like this now—and she just had the fifteenth birthday last month—what do we have to look forward to at sixteen and”—she shuddered—“eighteen? What college would even consider her with the way she presents herself?”
“Sometimes the future takes care of itself,” I said. Kismet wasn’t a particularly consoling concept at the moment, but it was all I had. Maybe I should try to believe it myself.
Em darted a look to the line beginning to form at the counter. “I’d better go help up front.”
If I was going to teach the morning Zumba class, I’d better get moving, too. Em walked me to the door and stopped to tuck a pound of her finest ground coffee into my gym bag, along with a package of the sour-cherry baklava Jack loved.
We hadn’t talked about him. On my way to town, I’d thought I wanted to. I’d hoped Em, a wise and caring soul, could help me sort out my conflicted feelings. But as she anguished over Merry, I thought how trifling my situation would sound compared to hers. I was worried because my son was elated at the prospect of locating his sperm donor? I should have been thrilled for Jack. I was. And I wasn’t. I was scared. I’d been ambushed too many times before not to see danger lurking around every dark corner. Besides, hearing myself talk about his quest would make it real. And bottom line, what was there to say? So far nothing had happened. Not actually. Just possibly, and possibly didn’t count.
Em kissed me on one cheek, then the other. “Say hello to Margo for me.”
Oh God. Margo. I’d forgotten. She attended the eleven a.m. Zumba class.
“Tell her we’ll be there early to set up the coffee and pastries on Sunday.” The Manolises’ annual Father’s Day cookout. “I spoke to her yesterday about it, but you know how anxious she gets before the party. Sixty people on your lawn is a big deal. And they’re predicting thunderstorms in the afternoon. She said she would try to make it to class, but she wasn’t sure. She has the pool man coming sometime this morning and the tent people this afternoon.”
The pool man, I got. One of her many minions. But the tent people? It sounded like a Star Trek episode.
“Summer begins. You are now officially in charge of the studio,” Em said. “Now, go Zumba. And, oh yes, while you’re there, take a look at the sign-in list for Tuesday nights. We’re set with Larissa and Bobby.” She meant my assistants, who would cover anyone lacking a partner for the ballroom class. “We close out registration tomorrow.”
“Any surprises so far?” I asked.
We had our share of perennial students, especially among the older folks. Dancing exercised the body and mind. Music was good for the soul, and it was nice to be in a partner’s embrace. For me now, having a man’s arms around me was business. But once it hadn’t been, and I missed that.
I hadn’t thought about a man’s arms wrapped around me for a long time after Lon’s death. A man’s body? Just the phrase had sent chills through me. The wrong kind. I replayed countless times the police officer’s reporting, “Your husband’s body was found . . . ,” and the conference chairwoman telling me, between sobs, how and where they’d found him.
The next time I could think of a man’s body with pleasure wasn’t until I was in the arms of Scott Goddard. Just dancing, nothing else. Of course nothing else. His wife, Bunny, was cracking her gum only feet away. And if that wasn’t enough of a deterrent, the mind-reading admonition of Sister
Loretta, principal back at Our Lady of Peace Academy, came in loud and clear. “The impure thought is, at the very least, a venial sin. It is also the devil’s temptation to the act, which is a mortal sin.”
Those impure thoughts were addictive over that summer two years back. Scott’s eyes, so very blue and usually cool, warmed when he strode over to claim me for the next dance. His arms were well muscled, his lead strong. One hand in mine was dry and warm; the other shaped a sure-fingered curve at my waist. Of course, what had sprung from those innocent gestures was an adolescent crush, and the sad truth was, I was old enough to know better.
Then one night that summer, on my deck, under the influence of jasmine-scented darkness and too much wine, I confessed to the worst possible priestess. Margo and I had already worked through a bottle of cabernet and opened a second, and I was relating the latest transgression of Bunnicula, as my girlfriend had named Scott’s wife. The witch refused to socialize with the other students during breaks and went outside to smoke and yammer into her cell phone. She treated Scott with barely concealed contempt and sneered when he stumbled trying to follow my demonstration of a step.
“Ugh. He deserves better,” Margo had said.
I nodded.
“After all, a war hero who gave a leg for his country. Smart, handsome, and Em says he’s very charming.”
I nodded.
“And sexy.” She leaned forward into the glow of the citronella candle.
I nodded. It was that last nod that outed me. Margo pounced on it with her catty claws. Her smile lit up the darkness.
“So you do find him sexy.”
That launched me into a stammer. “I mean, he’s attractive. I . . . uh . . . don’t know about sexy. And he’s married, for heaven’s sake.”
“Like that eliminates him? Oh, puh-leeze.”
I knew she was thinking of Pete, who had a history Margo couldn’t forgive or even forget. “Never. Scott wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .”
But the damage had been done. From then on, at so much as the mention of Scott’s name, I could see her internal wink. She knew my secret. Which by no means did she keep, as revealed by Em saying—though only once and at the end of that summer—“I can understand why you think the colonel’s attractive. There’s something very masculine about him.”
So yes, with my two closest friends onto me, my reaction when the Goddards didn’t show up for the ballroom class last year was mixed. I was disappointed, sure, but also relieved. Life resumed and I persuaded myself that I was happy being alone and, except for one or two regrettable exceptions, chaste.
Still, when Em, standing with me at the door of the Turquoise Café, murmured, “There is an interesting name on the registration list,” I thought, The Goddards are back, and my pulse went staccato. “A Lynn Brevard,” she said, and my pulse slowed. “In her thirties. She seemed nice. I will email to you the intake notes. The rest are repeaters. Dr. Whitman also signed up for private lessons with Larissa. No other surprises.”
Thank you, Jesus, I thought. I’d already used up my quotient of surprises for the week.
chapter six
We Got Rhythm was listed last on the plastic placard that hung under the huge Hot Bods sign facing the boardwalk at Tuckahoe Beach. Carmella’s Pilates, Cloud Yoga, We Got Rhythm, in strictly alphabetical order, according to my landlord, Sal Zito, and not, he swore, because he had a little sneaky for Carmella. The three small businesses rented studio space and time from Hot Bods, a full-service workout facility for the hard-core gym rats. My clients were generally older, softer, and, to my mind, wiser.
It was five of eleven when I skidded into the studio for my Zumba group. The bird-chirp chatter of the women quieted only slightly at my entrance. I was a familiar figure around Hot Bods in the summer and knew most of these students by name. Waves and a chorus of hi’s greeted me.
When I announced, “I’ll be teaching this session, and for those of you used to Larissa who haven’t danced with me before, you’ll get a sample today. I’m tough!” A few hoots punctuated the responding laughter. My class was demanding, but these gals figured that compared to the Moscow Marauder I was a cream puff. Well, not today, first day back.
I kicked off my sandals, pulled on socks, and laced up the very expensive Zumba shoes I wouldn’t sully on the cobbled streets of the Tuckahoe Mews. I switched on the sound system to play an Afro-Cuban beat and, as the women gathered around, handed out the brilliantly colored sashes hemmed with coins or woven with tiny bells that Emine had bought for her belly-dancing classes. These women had appropriated them for Zumba, thinking it was a hoot to jingle exotically while they were on the move.
When everyone was in place I turned the music up, and an exuberant Latin-accented baritone boomed, “Zumba!” followed by a wild burst of percussion from conga drums. Marimbas pulsed, the guiro rasped, a trumpet blared, and in front of me two rows of smiling women—soon they’d be gritting their teeth, I promised myself—launched into a frenzied salsa.
I shouted against the irresistible beat, “Let’s get those heart rates climbing. Now, isn’t this a fun way to burn a thousand calories? Hands up, who thinks this is better than sex?”
As if I had a clue.
The rumble of laughter faded as they had to conserve their breath. After the salsa, a merengue followed. Then a cumbia, and a mambo with soul. My energy seemed to be contagious. “Bring it on,” one of the more zaftig women shouted. And I did. My pride was at stake.
“Keep hydrated,” I shouted over the music. A few dancers broke from the pack and boogied over to the cubbies to grab their water bottles and swig as they jogged in place. “Don’t stop moving. Never stop moving.” Which was my personal credo, and God knows, there had been times over the last eight years when it was the only incentive that prodded me out of bed in the morning.
“Eyes on me, not on your feet, or you’ll trip over them.”
There was a flurry at the door and all heads turned as Margo Manolis breezed through, only half an hour late for a forty-five-minute class. My dear friend, who’d been a drama major at New York University and had polished her skills at Manhattan’s New School theater arts program, knew how to make an entrance. She stuffed her Gucci gym bag into one of the cubbies and slipped into her spot front and center. Even late, even if she had to crowd the previous occupants, she claimed her place. You didn’t mess with Margo over territory.
She sent me a shrug, her version of an apology, and followed that by knocking herself out for the final fifteen minutes. Last off the floor after the cooldown, she strolled over, snatched up her tote, and fell into step with me.
“What the hell was that all about?” she demanded. “You teaching Russian army Zumba?”
“The Larissa special,” I agreed. My heart was still beating hard. I relished the rhythm and the power surge I hadn’t felt for a while. “They’re used to being pushed. They loved it.” I gave her a measuring glance. She swiped her blond bangs, wet with perspiration. Her cheeks were flushed. “Too much for you?” I taunted.
“You can be such a bitch,” she growled. But fondly. “Actually, it was great. You know I love a challenge.” She paused and the next voice I heard had deepened to a sonorous Lady Macbeth tone. “But there are challenges, and then there are challenges.” Her Botoxed brow tried, but failed, to wrinkle. “You have time to talk now?”
She meant listen, but that was okay too. My brain was warning my mouth into temporary silence about Jack’s morning revelation.
“Sit outside?” I asked, hoping for a boardwalk bench facing the ocean, a view with a calming effect.
She patted the Gucci gym bag on its monogram. “This is show-and-tell. X-rated. It’s probably better in your office.”
It wasn’t exactly my office. I shared it with Carmella, the Pilates princess, who could execute twenty one-legged push-ups without flinching, but couldn’t manage to toss a dirty nap
kin in the trash or blow the crumbs from her PowerBar off the computer keyboard. Margo surveyed the disheveled room as if it were a crack house and cast a disgusted look at the scarred orange plastic bucket chair meant for guests before gingerly lowering herself into it. She arranged the Gucci bag in her lap and began with a few token niceties. Margo’s mother, the world-renowned Holocaust scholar Paulette Wirth, for all her maternal deficits, had taught little Margo manners.
“Jack in?” she asked.
“He got in late last night. Or, more precisely, early this morning.”
“Squeezing out every last minute with the crazy girlfriend? What does he see in her?”
I shrugged. “First love, I guess. It will work out. I’m not really worried about him.”
She read me like Vogue, saw through the smooth fabric of my pretense to the places where the stitches were unraveling. “Bullshit, Norrie. You’ve been worried about Jack since the day he was born.”
“Before that,” I admitted.
“I still think I made the right decision not to have kids of my own,” Margo said. Another choice driven by her bizarre childhood. “Pete’s two were enough for me. Every other weekend and a month in the summer was just the right dose. And now they’re all grown-up and moved on.” She fidgeted with her wedding ring, a thick band of platinum paved in diamonds. “Maybe that’s what’s triggered this. The kids are out and now Pete thinks it’s his time.”
After twenty-five years of dealing with an actress, I knew a cue when I heard one. “For what? What’s going on?”
Her eyes filled with tears. No one did tragedy better than Margo. Or farce. Now she sniffed, swallowed hard, and said in a tremulous voice, “Pete’s having an affair.”
I’d learned that you waited a beat before responding to any of her major pronouncements. You didn’t want to step on her lines. And a good thing, too, because she shifted a warning gaze to me. “I know what you’re going to say. That I’ve had these suspicions before and they only panned out that one time, and the past is past. ‘It’s been eighteen years since Alicia, so move on, Margo.’ Well, I did. But you can’t erase history.”