Louder Than Love

by Topper, Jessica

  “Aw, Mommy hasn’t been it yet!” Abbey complained, quick to pout like many a four-year-old is wont to do when the game doesn’t go exactly as planned.

  “Let’s both get her, all right?”

  Delighted once again, Abbey tag-teamed with Adrian and they chased me until I was out of breath with laughter and fatigue. I shrugged out of my red zippered hoodie and brandished it like a brave bullfighter. They brought me down to the sand in a fit of giggles, then collapsed next to me, breathing hard and grinning.

  “Oh Abbey, look at you. Where’d all that mud come from? Come on, dirty monkey, let’s get you home and cleaned up.” We hiked back to the road. Adrian hoisted Abbey up in a piggyback ride so we didn’t have to put her muddy feet into her clean shoes. From her perch, she happily sang over his shoulder as we walked.

  “Dirty clouds.”

  Adrian tilted his head in the direction she was pointing. “You’re right, Abbey. Do you think that means more rain?” I loved the way he took the time to respond to her observations.

  “Yep.”

  I hosed off her feet by the side of the house while Adrian had a cigarette and admired my mom’s hydrangeas in the front garden.

  “Can I watch my show?” Abbey whispered. She was a creature of habit even with company around.

  “Abbey . . .”

  “You’re going to do boring stuff. Like talk.” I had to stifle a laugh.

  “I will think about it, okay?” I turned to Adrian. “I’m going to help her get changed. If you want a drink or anything . . .” I gestured vaguely toward the breakfront sideboard.

  “That’s Mommy’s happy drink.” Abbey pointed to the squat, bubbled glass bottle of tequila with its big nobby cork that had been left out after Wednesday’s powwow with Leanna and Marissa.

  “Abbey!” My embarrassment was plain, but Adrian just looked amused. I ushered her into her room, and she pulled on the clean pants I handed her. Out the window, the three p.m. sky looked like a seven p.m. spring evening, darkening as a distant thunder rumbled.

  “Please can I watch Maxwell now?” Her face contained a mixture of remorse and innocence. I could tell she didn’t know exactly how to read mine.

  “One show. As your quiet time. In my room.”

  “Yes!” she hissed in victory.

  Adrian had the fireplace ablaze with one popping log and some driftwood and was inspecting the liquor over in the dining room. I normally didn’t imbibe while home alone with Abbey. In fact, most of the collection was the leftovers of bottles friends had brought over at one time or another. He disrobed a half-full bottle of Canadian whiskey from its purple felt bag; Liz liked to drink it with ginger ale and had left bottles of both after her most recent visit. I watched as he mixed a big one the exact same way.

  He looked up. “Can I interest you?”

  “Mmm. Ginger please, no Crown. I’ll get some ice.”

  We settled on the couch across from the fire. “To happy,” Adrian echoed Abbey’s adjective. We clinked glasses.

  “To happy.”

  Adrian stretched his legs, crossing ankle over ankle, and put an arm around my shoulders. “And where might Abbey be?” he asked into my hair.

  “She usually has an hour of quiet time in the afternoons. Sometimes it leads to a nap, but these days, mostly not.” I strained my ears and finally picked up a few notes of the Maxwell theme song. “Do you hear that?” He concentrated, squinting and biting his bottom lip until the hairs underneath stuck straight out. Finally, he shook his head in defeat. “It’s your song: solving crimes without claws, he always lands on four paws . . . ” I prompted.

  “Ah. Max.” In the half-light of the fireplace, it was hard to tell if he was blushing. “My ears aren’t what they used to be.” I leaned and kissed him right under his lobe in consolation. He returned the favor by peppering my cheek lightly before finding my lips and lingering there. I silently cursed my mother’s choice of couch; it was a red velvet Victorian affair, hand-carved in mahogany. Its deep tufts and weak springs made it comfortable for sitting, but if leaning back, the crest across the top was murder on your neck. It had been acquired during my college days, and while I had always thought it looked nice in front of the fireplace, I had never tried to get cozy on it with another human being. Abbey and I usually chose the overstuffed chair to cuddle on or the big beanbag chair in her room. Pete and I had had more modern tastes, opting for a low long IKEA sofa in highly impractical ivory to grace the hardwood floors of our co-op. In storage with so many other relics from that time, it wouldn’t fit in here any more than Adrian and I fit on this tiny uptight thing. I grabbed him and we rolled with a plunk and a laugh onto the Persian rug.

  I was having a hard time discerning whether the heat I felt was coming off the fire or off of our skin as it came into contact with lips, with fingers. We lay across the rug, facing each other. All around us the clocks kept track of the minutes as we stared and explored. I delicately placed my palms on his chest, enjoying the rise and fall of his rib cage under my touch. He ran a finger gently down my cheek, across my semiparted lips, and down my chin past my neck and leaned in to kiss me.

  “This is nice,” he breathed, and I nodded, too woozy to speak. “I’m not normally . . .” He searched for words as I ran my hands from his chest to his shoulders and down his arms. “I usually find it tough to be . . . tender,” he admitted. “But the moment I touch you . . .” He pushed my hair back behind my ear and I had an instant flashback to the morning’s dream, the rain and Peter and his cryptic talk of love . . .

  “I’d better check on Abbey.” I hopped up, nearly upsetting our drinks next to us on the hardwood. With shaking legs, I quickly made my escape. God only knows what Adrian was thinking of me, whether I was a loon or a cock-tease or what. I tried to shake off the lingering dream of the past and bring my head back, sharp and focused, to the here and now. Abbey was curled up on my pillow, rump in the air. Her head was turned toward the television in the corner, but when I moved around the futon to get a better look, I could see her eyes were closed. I sat down beside her and pushed her hair off of her face. She sighed but didn’t wake.

  Adrian was still on the floor, but sitting upright, nursing his drink as he stared into the dying embers of the fire. His profile looked a bit worn in the glow. “Everything all right?” he asked, not turning as I approached.

  “She’s sound asleep, would you believe? All that running at the beach.” I lowered myself beside him.

  “And you?” He turned now, and those pale blue eyes, absorbing the reflection of the fire and rebounding back a shimmering purple, were just inches from my face. “I’m sorry if I—”

  “No . . . it was all me. I had a momentary lapse of . . . I don’t know what. I’m . . . trying hard to remember how this all goes.”

  “How what goes?” Adrian asked, setting his drink aside.

  “The tender stuff. Being romantic. Getting turned on. It’s just been . . . it’s been a long time since . . .”

  “I know. It’s been another lifetime,” he agreed. “Don’t try to retrace steps. We’ll find new ones. We did pretty well the other day, yeah?” He raised his brows at me.

  “True.” I smiled.

  “I wrote something. A poem.” He spun his silver Shakespeare pinky ring with his thumb in what appeared to be a mixture of nervousness and nonchalance. “The other day in the hotel. After you left.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had assumed it was about me, but now . . . I think I wrote it with you in mind.”

  “Wow.” The only guy I had ever inspired poetry from was Shawn Fisher. He had worn a bandanna headband exactly like Axl Rose and could whistle the intro to Guns N’ Roses’ “Patience” spot-on. And he had presented me with an embarrassingly bad poem sophomore year of college. I had a hunch Adrian didn’t rhyme words like moon and June when he wrote.

  “Does that fr
eak you out?”

  “No. I’m flattered. I guess.” I took his hand to halt his ring-spinning, as it was making me antsy. He wove his large fingers through mine and curled them down.

  “Things, feelings . . . morph for me sometimes. Into songs. Poetry.”

  “Cool.” I squeezed his fingers. “Care to share?”

  “Nope.” He laughed. Leaning close, he murmured softly, “It’s a work in progress. Sorry.”

  Each kiss with Adrian was a different experience. That first kiss in the car had been hesitant yet determined; a tentative exploration of a brave new world. Then, in the elevator, urgent and exciting, madly searching. Up in the hotel room, luxurious, transporting. And now, with what felt like relief after our strange conversation, his lips tasted hungry and new, our connection deeper and our movements almost mirrorlike in their synchronization. I fluidly felt like I knew what he needed and when; it was a delicious play as he responded fully in mind and body. As my hands slid down and reached for the button of his jeans, he audibly gulped. “Yeah?” he breathed, as if to ask if I was sure. I kissed him in response, letting my fingers roam gently. I felt his body relax under my touch, but soon heard his weak protest as my body moved south on top of his. “None of that, luv.” He took advantage of the fact that I was supporting myself solely on one elbow and deftly flipped me over.

  “Adrian . . . no fair!”

  “There are no rules. All’s fair in love and lust,” he teased me, working to unsnap my jeans.

  “But . . . I’m told I am really good at it,” I coaxed, trying to find my dignity, joking yet confused.

  “I am sure if it were an Olympic sport, you’d medal in it, luv.” He kissed my temple and ran his fingers around my loosened waistband.

  “I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel.” I gasped and lost the ability to form a sentence as his fingers began to lightly play.

  “You do. You make me feel amazing.” He sighed a ragged sigh as he slipped into my perfect spot. “You’ve got some sweet voodoo, I’ll tell you what.” I was helpless under his nimble caress and gave in. He stifled my moan with an openmouthed kiss as I bucked up against his hand. “Mmm, that’s beautiful . . .”

  “You’re beautiful. I want you.” I clawed at his shirt, threading my legs through his and grinding up against him.

  “What about our drowsy chaperone?”

  I grabbed his hand. “Come with me.”

  Our house had been built in the early 1930s and still had every original brass doorplate. Kev and I had lost most of the skeleton keys while playing with them in our youth, and my mom had hidden the remaining ones once Abbey came along for fear she would lock herself in somewhere. The only truly secure room in the house was the bathroom, with its hook and eye latch. It was too high for Abbey to reach just yet. “We’re going to have to be quick,” I whispered as we snuck past my bedroom doorway. Abbey hadn’t budged from her spot.

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, luv,” he murmured, practically climbing me like a ladder the moment the door was safely locked. The sconce to the right of my head rattled as we slammed together against the wall, kissing and pulling at each other. “You as prepared as last time?”

  “Top shelf, medicine cabinet.”

  He hopped over our puddle of discarded denim as I contemplated our surroundings. The tile floor looked pretty cold, and the curved edge of the clawfoot tub looked precarious and unforgiving. I needn’t have worried; Adrian simply hoisted me up and had me right against the wall, next to the bar with Abbey’s ducky towel hanging from it. He hooked an arm under my leg as I pressed my heel into the small of his back. It’s amazing what kind of stamina sex can provide; I knew we would both be bruised and aching tomorrow, but lost in the moment, we defied the laws of physics and managed to knock some of the plaster off the wall in the process.

  “God, Kat. Oh Christ. Fuck,” he growled, catching my eyes with his own wide and wild ones as we both came together. He continued to hold me against him, his heart knocking against mine. “Bloody incredible.”

  “And imagine how good it would be if we ever fully disrobed.” I was still in the sweatshirt I had thrown on to walk to the lake, and he had only lost his jeans and boxers.

  “I’d love nothing better,” he assured me. “We’ve just got to learn some self-control around each other.” He winked as he lowered me with shaking limbs. “Next time, I promise . . . fully naked, proper bed . . . I will feed you grapes and read you poetry.”

  “And I will schedule a babysitter,” I said, already zipping my jeans. “I’d better go make sure she isn’t having any nightmares of earthquakes or the walls falling down.” I picked a fleck of drywall out of his hair and giggled.

  “Cripes, that was a bit rough, I reckon.” He looked pleased and not a bit guilty. “Marlboros are safely out in the living room, thank Christ.”

  I tiptoed into my bedroom. Abbey had rolled onto her back, arms splayed out in an “I don’t know” shrug. Sometimes I was amazed at how tiny she was. When in full motion and chatter, she appeared larger than life. Now, I marveled at her small nose, tiny lips, her whole face in utter relaxation and calm. Lashes fanned out on crab-apple cheeks. One little foot was dangling off the futon, its sock slightly askew. Out in the living room, the piano was softly being played.

  “Is that a new picture?” Adrian cocked his head to the left, never lifting his fingers from the keys as I joined him at the bench. A framed picture of Pete and me, standing with Kofi Annan, was perched upside down on top of the piano.

  I righted it. “No, old one. Abbey likes to make off with pictures. She must’ve had it in her room for a while and brought it back.” I watched his hands as they spanned a scale of notes. “I didn’t know you played.”

  “‘Malagueña.’ I didn’t know you know the UN secretary-general.”

  “Um, I don’t. Pete had interviewed him at a United Nations Association awards dinner, and he posed for a picture with us.” I remembered the night well; there hadn’t been too many occasions where his work actually led to a glamorous free meal out on the town. More often, I was bringing in sandwiches to his cubicle as he churned out words and burned midnight oil to meet a deadline.

  “That’s him, then? His name was Pete?” His song dwindled into a soft diminuendo as his fingers and his gaze lingered on the keys.

  “That was his name. Yes.” And those were his hands. His veins. His hair and skin. I looked at his eyes, forever unblinking, and tried not to think of what was left of him now.

  “Okay.” His thumb tapped absently at middle C. “I took lessons as a kid. Three years. My mum insisted. I hated it at the time.”

  It took my brain a minute to switch topics. “Me too. Five years. I don’t think I’ll force Abbey. But if she wants to . . .”

  As if on cue, Abbey came stumbling into the living room like a drunken sailor, her breath slightly soured and curls matted from slumber. “Hungry.”

  “And?”

  “Food.”

  “I only answer to complete sentences,” I informed her. Adrian hid a smile behind his glass of whiskey.

  “Let’s take Adrian to Basilica!” she said, clearly proud of her brainstorm. Honestly, I hadn’t contemplated how long the date would last, but realized we were headed into the dinner hour. “Please, Mommy?”

  “Are you up for dinner out?”

  Adrian smiled. “As long as we don’t wind up in the ER, sure.”

  ***

  Lauder Lake had two Italian restaurants: Ralph’s, your basic red sauce joint, and Basilica, which relied more upon garlic and olive oil to win over its fan base. My parents had had a weekly standing reservation there since forever. And Abbey and I ate there at least once a month. Their pastas were homemade, and the cannoli literally melted in your mouth. Plus the waitstaff always gave kids a hunk of raw dough to keep them occupied so the adults could enjoy their
wine in peace.

  The hostess instinctively grabbed two menus when she saw me coming with Abbey in tow. When it became obvious that Adrian, holding the door and bringing up the rear, was in our party, she recovered quickly and deftly grabbed a third menu. With a broad smile, she sat us at a cozy corner table in the back and fetched a double order of raw dough for Abbey.

  “Tree Underwood? Is that you?” We had barely glanced at the menu before an unfamiliar couple came bearing down on our table. It took me a moment, but I eventually placed them, right as I remembered Grant’s invitation to dinner three weeks back.

  “Diane . . . Chad . . . hi!” I awkwardly half stood as Chad came swooping in with a kiss on my cheek, infusing me with the stench of his heavily applied cologne. He looked the same as I remembered him in high school, thick-necked and stocky, although his crew cut was graying gracefully. Diane was very pretty in high school, and clearly she must’ve decided it had been her best look. Her hair still smacked of eighties bi-levels and her eyes were still ringed heavily in kohl black eyeliner. Attempting to hang on to that youthful look actually made her look older than most of the female classmates who I still had the pleasure or displeasure of seeing around town.

  “We were wonderin’ if we were gonna see y’all, and here ya’ll are! And here’s your little one! Let me get a look at you, darlin’!” Diane had apparently picked up a Southern accent instantly upon relocating to Texas, even though she had lived in New York her entire life. Abbey looked at her skeptically, but politely said hello.

  “Grant had mentioned you were coming into town . . . nice to see you.” Chad’s cheap cologne marched up my nose; it was as if I had dipped my face in it. “This is Abbey . . . and Adrian . . . Adrian, Chad and Diane Snow. We went to school together.” Adrian barely had a chance to open his mouth to say hello before Diane jumped on his accent.

  “Oooh, I love your voice! Are you Australian?”

  Adrian chuckled. On just our third date, I could see by the gleam in his eye he was holding his tongue from adding a quick-witted retort. “No, I’m British,” he allowed himself.