“I bet you got a Brazilian, too,” Leanna challenged.
“No, just a bikini wax.”
Both women practically spilled their drinks all over the couch in gloating celebration. I told them briefly of how we ended up at the Plaza.
“Ahh, hotel sex . . . that’s the best,” Marissa said.
“The hell with that, daylight sex,” Leanna added. “I haven’t had that in years!”
“Jeez, a night at the Plaza would probably be Rob’s whole weekly paycheck.” Marissa sounded wistful as she dredged a chip through the bowl of salsa in front of her.
“And you were only there a couple of hours. Nicely played.” Leanna toasted me with her margarita glass.
Marissa waved her hand. “Wait a sec, doesn’t he live just a few blocks from there? Why would he spend several hundred bucks on an afternoon delight there and not take you back to his place?”
“I don’t know. The topic never came up. We were working off the spontaneity, you know?”
Leanna licked a bit of salt from her glass. “You don’t think he has a wife hidden away or some torsos in his freezer, do you?”
“Uh . . . I do now, Leanna! Thanks a lot.” I laughed, but I felt a tiny nagging seed of doubt burrow its way into the back of my brain. Was he hiding something? We had talked a lot, but I still knew so little. I was enjoying getting to know him slowly, although our romp this afternoon had certainly accelerated some familiarities.
“So how was it getting back on the horse after almost four years? Was he a stud?” Marissa pried.
“He was . . . very sweet,” I admitted. “Romantic, but not in a thickly laid, thinly veiled way. Sincere. He didn’t get weird after or anything . . . even when I fell asleep. It was nice waking up next to him, I have to say.”
“Ah, romance. The first thing I wake up to every morning is Eddie ripping a fart,” Leanna drawled. We howled with laughter.
“Rob and I are still pretty passionate, but I don’t know if I would call it romantic after fourteen years. Maybe we know each other too well. But it’s still pretty hot.”
Leanna scooped a huge chunk of guac, cupping her other hand protectively underneath it. “So when are you going to see him again?”
“I was thinking Abbey and I would take him to Bear Mountain, maybe this weekend . . . if he’s free.” I hopped up and came back with a freshly made pitcher to refill our drinks.
“What does he think of the fact that you have a kid? Is he cool with it? Did you tell him the deal?” Despite Marissa’s recent tirade about the bad bed vibes, she and my other closest friends treaded carefully on the details of “the deal,” as Marissa sometimes called it, although “ordeal” was probably a more apt term.
The truth was, they had dealt with Pete’s death in the trenches right beside me. They had witnessed the shock and horror and the aftermath, and had fought hard not to let it redefine their relationships with me. There had been a short time of walking on eggshells for each of them, naturally. But they knew I didn’t want pity or comforting ad nauseam, and I knew they weren’t going to forget or dismiss it simply by not speaking of it, so we had reached a quiet middle ground; a peaceful purgatory, I guess you could say. My baggage remained, like those forlorn items traveling round and round the conveyor belt at the airport, but we chose to ignore it, to not claim it and own it and drag it around with us. They had picked me up and healed me more so than any counseling session or grief book ever could, and I loved them fiercely for that.
“He’s been made aware.” Why was I finding it so difficult to tell Adrian what had happened? Everything else with him came so easily. Should I hand him the newspaper articles to read and tell him to get back to me should he have any questions?
I mulled it over as I chewed on a tequila-laced ice cube. It had been a long time since I had had to lay the whole thing out. Living here, I didn’t have to. Small towns are perfect for preserving, or petrifying, one’s personal history. My family’s beeswax buzzed down the power lines and grape vines of the town along with everyone else’s. Bride becomes mom becomes widow, all recorded in the annals of Lauder Lake even before I reestablished myself as a resident. But the whole story . . . not exactly first-date small talk. Nor was it second-date pillow talk. My body temp increased by ten degrees at the last thought, and it wasn’t the alcohol’s fault. Memories of our hot afternoon romp lingered like a dream, and I quite liked the mystery and fantasy we had each brought to the bed. What had he called me . . . a goddess? Sheesh. The less he knew at this point, the less likely I would become his charity case. Or scare him away. Keep the moment beautiful, as he had said about keeping his scars covered. The same could be said for mine, lying below the surface. My first-class, Louis Vuitton–size excess baggage could stay in cold storage for a bit longer.
“As for Abbey . . . he actually said he thought she should be with us on the next visit.” The Patrón was softening the edges and making my tongue lazy. “Bad sign?”
“No way. They had chemistry, too. I saw it in the library. And not just because she adores that freakin’ cat he sings about,” Leanna pointed out. “He seemed very comfortable around her.”
I was secretly glad I wasn’t the only one who had picked up on that. Seeing him interacting with her the morning following the library program had further reinforced the notion that he seemed to genuinely enjoy her company as well as mine. Yet his relationship with his own daughter sounded so tumultuous. I was curious to learn more about that. “He’s got a grown daughter, actually, from a previous marriage.” I tested the words out loud, getting used to them. I had dated several breeds of the male species in my day, but never the type labeled “Divorced Dad.” It sounded so . . . mature.
“There are my three lovely senoritas.” Rob had let himself in. I heard Abbey on the porch, cranking up her new Adrian mix CD for Brina and Joey. “Did you get your drink on, my lady?” He leaned down to give Marissa’s lips a short kiss.
She sucked the dregs of her sweet drink and grinned. “Hell yeah. Glad you are the DD.”
“Yeah, thanks for picking me up, too,” Leanna said. She turned to me. “The Volvo is in the shop, and I wasn’t about to drive that truck.”
“Of course not.” I humored her. “That truck” was Ed’s 1958 Chevy Apache Street Rod, as well as the bane of Leanna’s existence. He had blown his entire severance pay on the truck after 9/11 and his separation from the insurance company that had employed him. And he had spent most of his time since then restoring it to its original cherry-red brilliance. Lauder Lake was small enough a town to relish such oddball behavior; besides Manny Mietta, the octogenarian who drove a Cadillac predating my birth by one year, no one here antiqued when it came to cars. Although Grant’s fifteen-year-old pussy wagon may have run a close third.
“If this is his midlife crisis, couldn’t he have at least gone and bought a Maserati? Something cool?” she continued. Marissa and I both rolled our eyes sympathetically; Rob just shrugged, unwritten guy code for not coming down on another member of the tribe. Secretly, I sort of liked the truck. It was actually the one thing that made Ed vaguely unique. Ed Brown was . . . well, beige, for lack of a better descriptor. Nice enough guy, cute and smart enough, but for our Leanna . . . not enough. A powerhouse like that deserved a man who could match her.
Soon after Leanna’s vows of “for better and for worse” had been exchanged, Marissa, Liz, and I had a powwow in our identical teal dupioni silk dresses, Cosmos in hand. We vowed to always build our friend up, no matter what in life brought her down. And extended the pact to mutually include all of our futures as well.
“Thanks for coming, you guys. Sorry I broke the usual Wednesday plans.” We lingered by the door, watching as Rob chased the kids around the lawn and through the minivan via both open side doors as if it were a jungle gym.
“No biggie. This was a nice change. And come on. It was worth it, right?” Marissa teased
.
“It was a nice change,” I admitted with a grin.
Lake Views
The rain seeped into my dreams early Saturday morning, drumming on the dirty skylight over Pete’s bed in his studio on 110th and Broadway. We lay with our legs intertwined, facing each other. He was wearing his favorite T-shirt from the eighties, a red shirt so washed, it was now a dull orange. It sported a huge MTV logo on the back. “There are all different kinds of love,” he was telling me, pushing my hair back behind my ears.
I woke up to the sounds of Abbey crying in bed next to me and rain falling on the leaves of the Japanese maple outside my bedroom window. “What if he doesn’t come?”
“Oh sweetie, I doubt a little rain will stop him.” I drowsily kissed her and rolled back over, wanting to get back to the dream. What had Pete been telling me? What had felt so lifelike a moment ago seemed vague now. I let my eyes close, willing the dream reel to loop back and continue. Next to me, I could hear the scraping of Abbey’s long lashes as she blinked against the pillowcase.
“But what about Bear Mountain?” she whimpered.
“It won’t wash away in the rain,” I assured her. “If we can’t show him Bear Mountain today, we’ll do it another day.” It was 7:46 on a sopping wet Saturday, with no hope of sleeping more now. Adrian’s train wasn’t due until 11:25. Following Abbey as she padded to the kitchen, I began to revamp the day’s plans in my head. Picnicking at the mountain was out. I had planned on grabbing bread from the farmer’s market after we collected Adrian from the station. Assorted European cheeses had been carefully selected from the import store. Instead of whipping up the pasta primavera salad I had in mind, I began to prep the vegetables for soup. It was definitely a damp-to-your-bones soup kind of day. I added the tiny tubes of pasta for a heartier result. Then I dragged out the bread machine and involved Abbey in making a fresh loaf of our own from my favorite Amy’s Bread cookbook. We definitely had the time this morning, and I needed to burn off some nervous energy. My dream was still hovering close. Funny I had dreamed of Pete in that old apartment. Usually my dreams of him took place outdoors, in the wide open where I couldn’t contain him. He felt close to me now, as he had been so close in the dream. Yet here Abbey and I were, so far away from that place. Her little hands were on top of mine, measuring and adding ingredients. The rain spilled from the gutters and beaded into tears that rolled down the kitchen windows.
“Our house feels cozy today,” Abbey observed.
“It sure does.”
Finally, after breakfasting and showering and putting the kitchen back together following our impromptu cooking session, it was time to go meet the train. The rhythmic thumping of the wipers was like a metronome that paced the beating of my heart. Breathing deeply, I swung down the long drive into the lot of the commuter station, letting my eyes survey the scene. The 11:25 had just pulled out, and a meager handful of passengers were sifting down the steps from the station. Umbrellas began to blossom up, obstructing my view. I pulled up as close as I could and popped the door locks open. Seeing him was a delightful gift, an assurance I hadn’t conjured him up in my lonely mind. He was indeed there, hunched and hurrying to the dry sanctuary of my car and inside before I could relish the vision any further.
“So much for Bear Mountain!” I greeted him as he dripped a rainy kiss onto my cheek. He was wearing a black leather jacket that took the brunt of the weather. It had the cut and thickness of a motorcycle jacket, but without all the goofy zippers and buckles. Very clean and classic, perfectly broken in.
“No problem, I’m easy, whatever you gals want to do. Hiya, Abbey.” He smiled into the backseat.
“Hello, Adrian Graves,” she said earnestly. I could hear the mixture of shyness and delight in her tone. “Guess what we’ve been listening to!”
“Um. Led Zeppelin IV?”
Abbey laughed, even though there was no possible way she understood his humor. “Silly Adrian. Your CD!” As an afterthought, she quickly added, “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” We spent the short trip back to the house singing along to the CD, including a raucous rendition of “Octopus’s Garden” with Adrian belting out the chorus in his best Liverpudlian baritone.
“We have a surprise for you. It involves yeast,” Abbey said mysteriously as we entered the house.
“It smells amazing in here!” Adrian, shrugging off his jacket, allowed Abbey to proudly lead him into the kitchen to marvel at our freshly baked bread. “Nice thing to do with your daughter,” he commented to me. She had scampered off to the piano, pretending to provide us with a reprise of “Octopus’s Garden” in G position.
“It’s pretty easy. We used the machine today, but sometimes we do it by hand. You just have to devote the time to the rising up and the punching down.” I handed him plates from the cupboard for the table. “My mom used to bake a lot with me . . . so it’s become a household tradition.”
“Lots of rising up and punching down in my household, too,” he admitted. “My dad was a man of few words.” He mimed the jabs of a prizefighter to finish the sentence. “As for my daughter . . . I did take her for her first tattoo.” Adrian chuckled at his confession. “That’s about as close as we got to any sort of tradition. She and her mum, well . . . they shop together. Bonding on Bond Street.” He ducked in and kissed me. “Has it really only been three days?”
Soft and low, his voice liquefied a part of me.
“Crazy, right?” We held each other, listening to the rain compete against Abbey’s piano playing. “It’s cozy in here, isn’t it?” Great, Katrina. You’ve been reduced to stealing one-liners from your preschooler.
“Very. Let’s never leave,” he murmured into my hair. Although he had abandoned his jacket in the other room, I swore the heady and smoky smell of the leather still lingered there on his skin, mixing with that peppery scent I was quickly becoming addicted to.
“Well, if this rain ever stops . . . I am sure Abbey would love to show you the lake.”
“So there really is a lake in Lauder Lake, then?”
***
Abbey grabbed both of our hands and practically dragged us down the street after lunch. “Wait till you see my lake!” We paused at the wet sand to peel off socks and shoes, then rolled up our jeans and walked around the bank of pine trees until the lake came into view. The beach was deserted, not surprisingly. Abbey ran ahead, yelling insults at the gulls and galloping to the edge of the water.
“This is lovely. I had no idea it was so close to your house.” Adrian bent to pick up a smooth stone and effortlessly skipped it toward the dock. “You’ve got a nicely kept secret out here.”
“More like a forgotten secret. Lauder Lake used to be a resort community, before all the wealthy New Yorkers moved on to more luxurious digs in the Catskills.” We sat on an area of sand that had been dried by the emergent sun and watched Abbey scavenge for interesting bits of shell and pebbles along the shore.
“Their loss.” Adrian dug his toes into the wet sand.
“When I was little, I assumed everyone had a lake at their disposal within walking distance,” I admitted. “I spent every day of every summer here. Except when I was twelve and I tried sleepaway camp, which I hated.”
“I think I would come down here every day, too, if I lived here. Even in winter. Growing up in a port town, you learn to appreciate the grounding, calming effect of water.” He had been squinting out across the lake before turning his gaze on me. “‘For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.’”
“I like that.”
“It’s not mine. Cummings.” He tossed his hair back. “I’m glad you have this sanctuary here for you and for Abbey.”
I looked down at our sandy toes. “All those years I lived in the city . . . this place was never far from my mind.” We gazed past the sand, dimpled from our steps, to the gentle push-pull of t
he small ripples and the lush thicket of green that bordered it far across the surface. “Like a reminder it would always be here for me when I needed it.” It had certainly been a comforting constant after my heartbreak and homecoming four years ago.
Adrian nodded, tracing around my hand splayed behind me for support. Here and there his finger would touch one of mine as he outlined it in the sand, sending that delicious zing of electricity I remembered feeling in my car that day we met.
“New York feels that way to me,” he said quietly. “From the first time I visited, I felt like I knew it well. Like I had conquered it in one huge bite. And then I went back home to London and felt like I was wearing a cheap, ill-fitted suit. New York was like a love affair that I didn’t allow myself to commit to fully, like I didn’t deserve it. I thought of it a lot, though, especially when things got tough back home. My career . . . hadn’t turned out like I’d imagined, and things with the wife had turned bloody ugly, and I felt like all my friends there . . . well, they were different, too. Maybe it was me who changed. Anyway. I knew I would end up there eventually.”
He hoisted himself up abruptly and half jogged, half ambled to the water’s edge. Abbey ran across the sand to meet him, holding out her hand to show him something she had scavenged. I sighed, feeling as if our talk had unwittingly brought a melancholy down upon us. Determined to change that, I hopped up, leaving behind my handprint Adrian had traced in the sand, and ran toward them. “You’re it!” I tagged Abbey, who squealed and took up the chase. Round and round she barreled in pursuit before giving up on me and catching Adrian on the arm as he did an exaggerated slow-motion jog away from her.
“Tagyerit!” she bellowed as Adrian turned to chase her. She zigzagged back up the beach, screeching with anticipation of being caught.
“Gotcha back!” Adrian lightly reached out and stretched one of her curls as she tried to fake him out with a feint to the left and then to the right.
Louder Than Love Page 13