Jane, for her part, had had more than a few first kisses, but none like this. Mark breathed into her, gently filling her lungs. Her mind, so frequently full of unnecessary, often self-critical chatter, went blank — blissfully, wonderfully blank. She drew him ever more deeply in. She held onto him. She didn’t want to let go. She wanted this kiss to go on forever.
Gradually, he eased off and looked at her, his eyes smoldering and dark. He rested his forehead against hers for a moment, kissed her again lightly and whispered her name, “Jane.” After a few seconds, he rasped, “I’d better go.”
She steadied herself against the counter and barely had the presence of mind to speak, but she heard herself huskily babble, “Okay.” She cleared her throat. The earth had just shattered, like a sheet of ice and she was falling, but he had to go so, “Okay.” Still dizzy, she choked, “Thanks for dinner,” not knowing what else to say.
Mark pivoted and left abruptly. Jane, still holding the beer, didn’t know what to make of it. She stood leaning against the island while her head cleared. Typically self-effacing, she had not thought him attracted to her, not in that way. They flirted, and he was truly nice, but she had not expected an attraction, for the obvious reason that he employed her. Until that moment, she didn’t know how much she liked him, how much she had wanted him to kiss her, and then left her. Dear God, what a kiss! It was just as well that he’d had the sense to stop. She was ready to let him take her on the kitchen island. She thought, “You can’t think of a saucy comeback at dinner, but you’d drop your drawers in the kitchen? Oh, sweet Sister Lucille … ” Jane took a few sips of the untouched beer, and then dumped the rest. She was tired, but also excited and perplexed. She rethought her man-vegan status, and sleep eluded her for quite a while. She reviewed and analyzed all of her interactions with Mark to date. She really didn’t want things to get complicated. But it was too late for that.
• • •
Mark dove into his car. “What the hell was that?” he remonstrated with himself. Like an alcoholic or drug addict who had convinced himself that he could be in the presence of a drug and not pick it up, he had deluded himself into thinking that he could go on as Jane’s friend and not try to touch her. All of his high-mindedness about being her boss certainly flew out the window. It wasn’t two minutes before he was all over her like a hobo on a ham sandwich. Not that it wasn’t wonderful. It was amazing. She was amazing. And clearly, she was ready for him.
But now he’d opened precisely the can of worms he’d determined would get him into no end of trouble. He wasn’t afraid of a sexual harassment suit. He knew Jane wasn’t the type of girl who would scheme a kiss into a lawsuit. But, that intimate kiss that spoke so loudly all the things Mark had been tucking away in his mind, would now lie between them whenever they met like a cartoon sign that would go ignored: “danger, no hunting, no fishing, no trespassing, go no further, stop now, turn back, life as you know it is over.” He hated for things to be awkward for Jane. He’d have to apologize to her. He was her boss, and he’d crossed the line. He didn’t want a relationship, and yet that is what he’d opened the door to. It was unfair of him. He’d taken an advantage.
Later in bed, Mark rehearsed thoughts about Jane. A single neural pathway in his brain vibrated the thought that he was seeking to get out of something that hadn’t even begun yet. And, for a moment, he glimpsed something about himself that he didn’t like, but didn’t yet know how to remedy. So, the thing went unnamed and settled back down into a dark recess. It was a long time before he was able to drift off, and as he did, he experienced Jane’s warm and accepting kiss and felt his chest and guts ache.
Chapter Seven
Jane couldn’t wait to talk to her best friend, Abby. Abby worked in history department in Van Dyck Hall, right across the mall from Jane in the English department. They’d first met at a student admissions committee function and had liked each other immediately. They were hardly more than undergraduates themselves, having both rapidly sped through their graduate study programs, Abby at Harvard and Jane at Princeton. They had both grabbed the brass ring in landing tenure-track jobs at a major public university. And Jane the more so, as she was locally grown.
Through the years that they earned their tenure, they provided mutual consolation and solace over the many indignities they’d endured at the hands of students and senior colleagues. As non-tenured faculty, they could not afford to offend anyone, despite innumerable petty provocations, like the time Jane’s department chair, who suffered a classic case of inflated ego (“pedestalitis,” Abby called it), had sneeringly asked her if she’d been a “women’s studies” major as an undergraduate. This because she’d had the temerity to suggest that Melville had a “thing” for Hawthorne. Jane sucked it up, back peddled, and later commiserated with Abby.
And then came the day within a week of each other, that magical day when they learned that their tenure packets had been approved and they’d both been recommended to the university administration for promotion. Abby was thrilled, and Jane was depressed. That job that she’d worked so hard to achieve, that her mother had waitressed double shifts to help her achieve, seemed a poor recompense for the effort. Jane had lost her enthusiasm for teaching, her colleagues’ insufferably petty politics, all the departmental, gossipy in-fighting, and she began to look for a way out. Jane, who had worked her face off for tenure, felt like a proud fifty-seven Chevy truck amidst a bunch of Buicks (Cadillac wannabes).
Abby, petite with little hands, little feet, and big eyes, often struck Jane as a doll. Her child-like features belied her strong and agile mind. She was a consummate performer, and approached life as staged art. She was an able historian, not because she was so bright (though she was) but because she played her hand so smartly within her department. Whereas Jane always felt an imposter when she hid her feelings from her more powerful colleagues, Abby was genuinely approachable. She accepted people as they were, warts and all. Always bubbly and cheerful, Abby simply didn’t have any meanness inside of her. She told Jane that being a Jew had taught her that the world was full of anti-Semites, but she just couldn’t hate them all. She was appalled by violent hatred, but blundering ignorance only inspired her to educate.
Jane couldn’t imagine religious or ethnic persecution — even though she was second generation Irish-Catholic. She remembered that once a child in school had called her a “Mick,” and paused for the fiery retort she’d intended to provoke. Unfortunately, Jane didn’t get the memo that she should find being called a Mick insulting and just went blankly on her way.
Abby and Jane shared in each other’s holidays. Both were more spiritual than religious. Jane hadn’t set foot in a church since her confirmation, and Abby’s upbringing had been very liberal. They educated each other light-heartedly about Yom Kippur, Hanukah, Rosh Hashanah, Christmas, Lent, and Easter. Abby took Jane to temple, and Jane took Abby to midnight mass at Christmas, a fairly mortifying adventure since neither of them knew how to conduct themselves liturgically, and Abby kept saying in a pronounced voice — “Wow! I can’t believe I’m in a church!”
But more than anything else, Abby and Jane saw each other through their various relationship trials. They had each fallen in love a few times, dumped men, and had gotten dumped by men. And throughout the years, they upheld each other’s self-esteem.
It was great that Abby was still close by, and Jane wanted to catch her up on everything, the Halloween party, the date that was not a date, and that kiss. She also wanted to invite Abby to the party and to ask if she thought Rachel wouldn’t mind playing the gypsy palm reader.
Rachel and Abby grew up together, like sisters. Jane loved Rachel almost as much as she loved Abby. But unlike Abby, Rachel was austere, mysterious, quiet, and quite mesmerizing, though with a wicked sense of humor. She was the most physically beautiful woman Jane counted among her friends and acquaintances. A few inches shorter than Jane, she was slender, wit
h thick, curly dark brown hair, that if extended reached down to her waist. Rachel had given up trying to drag brushes through it. She just let it cascade in ringlets and pulled generous portions of it back to expose her exquisite complexion. Rachel had the kind of true beauty that both Abby and Jane envied. At parties, everyone wanted to know who “that stunning woman” was.
Still, Rachel struggled with prescience all of her life. Evidently, it came to her from her Aunt Sylvie, who also had “the gift,” which Rachel referred to as “the curse.” Lately, she had reconciled herself to having insight, and had begun to discipline her mind so that she might provide more accurate readings, rather than the muddle of images and incoherent prognostications and metaphors that often emanated from her attempts.
In addition to her physical beauty, her “gift” could be a bit unnerving. When Jane first learned of Rachel’s abilities, she wasn’t sure she could be friends with her. But, as she got to know her, she relaxed. Sister Lucille would have boxed her ears, though, if she knew that she’d made friends with someone who had the “sight.”
Though she talked to them by phone, Jane had not seen her two friends for over two months. In fact, the last time she saw them, they had come over to her apartment so that Abby could “talk sense” to Jane about how crazy she was to dump her career in the toilet.
“I’m not dumping my career in the toilet, Abby, I’m taking a sabbatical.”
Abby looked at Rachel for support. “Rachel, can you do anything with her?”
Rachel replied, “Honestly, I can’t. I don’t think Jane is doing anything wrong” and added to Jane, “it’s your mother,” just as the phone rang. Jane checked caller id, but needn’t have. Rachel continued, “Actually, Jane is making the smartest decision of her life.” She closed her gorgeous hazel eyes that seemed to change in color, depth, and hue depending on her mood, from pale translucent brownish green to a deep emerald, and in rare instances a light sea green.
“I see your sun, Jane. Your day here is brightening to a crisply clear, perfect fall day. There is warmth, and just the right amount of chill and breeze, and your sun begins to approach its zenith. I see a wonderful afternoon unfolding for you.” She opened her eyes, and the deep sea green of them began to fade back to a clear emerald. “There are obstacles, shadowy and indistinct, but formidable. Still, I know you will be happy, no matter what.”
“Really honing the gift, I see,” Jane said wryly. “I mean could murky be that vague for me?” But she appreciated the positive vibe in any case.
Now, she couldn’t wait to conference them, yet when she got them both on the phone, she didn’t know precisely how to begin. Rachel interceded, “Jane, I was telling Abby that it’s high time we came out to your farm and spent some time with you. Do you intend to invite us?”
“Of course. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. Abby, you can commute from the farm to school — it’s only forty-five minutes — but Rachel, can you get away from the city?”
Abby gleefully interjected, “It’s perfect, Rachel. You can come to my house by train, and we can drive from Highland Park to Bedminster.”
“Yes, and I know you’ve already Googled the directions,” Rachel offered.
“You cannot hide from prescience, Abby,” said Jane.
“Yes, well, that and Abby told me she planned to Google them last night, and we were going to demand an invitation if you hadn’t offered one. As for me, my work travels with me. So, I’m good. My clients can always reach me on the cell. Besides, I’m looking forward to spending time in the country. I’m ready for a change of venue.”
“Perfect,” Jane said, “because I was hoping to talk you into playing gypsy palm reader at a major Halloween party Mark Hannon is hosting.”
“Oh my God!” said Abby, who knew the kinds of parties Mark threw from her addiction to the tabloids. “Oh, Rachel, it will be so much fun. Say yes, say yes!”
“Are you kidding? Of course, yes!” Rachel agreed. “Playing gypsy at Mark Hannon’s party might kick something off for me outside of the city.” Rachel didn’t care for Tarot cards or conventional paranormal paraphernalia. She preferred to create drawings or pastels as she read for her clients. The artwork often reflected the reading, and frequently clients bought her art. It was, after all, inspired by them.
But Rachel sensed the spark some anxiety from Jane, “There’s more you’re not telling us right now, yah?”
Jane let the silence play out for a few moments before answering, “Yes, there is. But I want to tell you in person — so when can you get here?”
They decided that Friday would be a great day to come for their visit to extend for as long as they wanted. Jane couldn’t wait to let her friends help her figure things out.
Chapter Eight
Mark went back to New York briefly. He decided he’d rather risk the wrath of his ex-girlfriend, Veronica, than see Jane at the moment. He couldn’t help being rich, good looking, healthy, and personable. And he tried and almost always succeeded in being the best man he could be. He was naturally attractive to women. And he loved them, at least superficially. He was used to all things being equal in his relationships, which was to say mutually convenient. Mark had never had to struggle for anything. He was privileged, he succeeded in his own business ventures, and there seemed an endless trail of women who wanted to be with him.
He didn’t use women. He just didn’t start a relationship with the headline, “I’m not the marrying kind.” But how does one disclose that anyway, he wondered. Is a guy supposed to say, “just so you know, I’m going to make your toes curl, but I’m never going to marry you. So, howsaboutit, you want to get going?” That kind of takes the mystery out of things. And besides, he wasn’t against marriage, not at all. He assumed he would marry … someday, just not now. There was plenty of time. He was still young, he told himself.
Jane troubled him, though. She worked for him. She’d be the one to suffer if she got in too deep with him, and he didn’t want it on his conscience. Jane, who did not seek him, and yet who opened so sweetly when he asked. Jane, who embarrassed so easily and enchantingly. Of course, he’d never fire her or hold her job over her head. Good grief! He wasn’t Simon Legree. But she might feel the need to move on if things went badly from her perspective. Mark did not want her to have to face that choice. He escaped back to New York to think of what he could do to repair things and kicked himself for having gotten, out of necessity, into damage-control mode.
He raced from the limo to his building. He shot glances up and down the sidewalk, half expecting to see Veronica stalking him. She’d called innumerable times, and he had not returned her calls, believing that silent running was the kindest way to end things. Best to stay off the radar was his thinking. Phoebe, who had introduced him to Veronica after an Armani shoot in which she’d styled Veronica, had chided Mark, “Do you have any idea how buggering the silent treatment is? Give the girl some closure for heaven’s sake, Mark!” But Mark believed that any communication would only encourage more communication, and would just prolong her unhappiness. It was better to let her get on with things on her own, he thought and so ignored Phoebe’s advice and Veronica’s countless calls.
At twenty-five, Veronica was exciting. She had unusual features that, though not precisely beautiful, leaped off the photographic page as absolutely stunning. And she was not stupid. She knew how to dazzle and was fully prepared to capitalize on her looks for as long as she possibly could. Initially enamored of Mark’s holdings more than of holding Mark, she’d seduced him so deftly that he’d imagined the idea must have been his.
But despite her sophistication, Mark managed eventually to uncover what was obvious to everyone at first glance: Veronica was fond of Mark, but if he’d been a poor man, she would never have wasted her time. Her jaded view of men, coupled with Mark’s innate misgivings about commitment, doomed the relationship before it could
ignite. Mark, always quicker to realize when it was time to cut bait, dumped her still wriggling on the hook. The momentary guilt he felt passed. He salvaged his sense of personal integrity believing that if things weren’t right for him, they couldn’t be right for her either. With this infallible logic, he proved his innocence and rested his case.
Mark collapsed gratefully into his leather office chair and swiveled to look at the cityscape. He surveyed the concrete buildings, the reassuring edges and surfaces that were so simple and reliable. His thoughts returned to Jane, and after a bit, he persuaded himself that he was making too much of it — it was just a kiss, and he convinced himself that Jane was without doubt untroubled by it, and he should not trouble about it either.
• • •
Back at the farm, Jane, reflecting on that kiss, was shocked by the suddenness of her desire. She tried to put the kiss out of her mind, but it had made a groove in her brain that she kept falling into. She had already concluded from experience — more ample than she liked to admit — that she wasn’t good at relationships. She had been so grateful for the job at the farm, where she could just be herself by herself. She was afraid that getting involved with Mark would end badly, forcing her out her job, the county, and possibly the state.
When it came to men, part of Jane was always on the alert, always that little girl she had been, who had loved and needed her father so badly, who was so utterly desolated by his death. That little girl’s voice that never rose to full consciousness in Jane urged her in inaudible whispers to be very careful and to remember how much love can hurt. “Even the best of men leave,” she whispered in her blood.
As she tossed hay for the night, she was unaware of the precise nature of her turmoil, only that she felt off. She did not have thoughts and feelings, so much as they had her. A vague sort of sadness and dread played at the edges of her emotions. She drove the clouds away, as she had always done, by focusing on the beautiful — whether it was a poem, nature, seeing the horses well and in, or just the pleasure of her own good health. She had an array of emotional tumbling passes that always managed to right her spirit. Rationally, she knew that her father hadn’t died on purpose, and she knew her mother did her best to support them, even though she too grieved. But this knowledge did not prevent her from feeling sad and lonely, and she couldn’t help fearing to risk her heart that way again. It just seemed to be asking for trouble to start something up with Mark. It would end badly with hurt feelings and then the uncomfortable and inevitable meetings at the farm. “Don’t pick your potatoes where you shit, Jane,” she could hear her mother bitterly advising.
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