by Wendy Wax
She opened the door and led him inside the restaurant so that he could see the place that had served as their unofficial headquarters and clubhouse. The place where they’d lingered in both good times and in bad.
It was well after lunchtime and not yet time for dinner, and the restaurant was nearly empty. Serena breathed in the tomato-y smell of memories and pizzas past. She watched Brooks take in the scuffed checkerboard linoleum floor, the ancient wood booths with the hat racks attached to their sides, the dark red tin ceiling with its exposed ductwork and fans, the murals of what she’d always assumed was the Amalfi Coast or Italian Riviera, the old concert posters. The kitchen was in the back, mostly hidden by a tall takeout counter. A waiter poked his head out and asked if they needed anything. “No, thanks. Just showing my friend here my favorite pizza place.”
Brooks ran a hand over the side of the nearest booth. “Did they hand out switchblades when you came in the door?” His eyes skimmed over the walls, the tables, the coatracks. Every nonmoving surface had been carved, inked, or painted with the names of patrons and sometimes their thoughts or favorite phrases.
“No.” She smiled. “But it was a point of honor to leave your name here somewhere.”
“Where’s yours?” he asked, a smile tipping up the corner of his lips.
“Oh, back by the ladies’ room,” she said, sorry now that she’d opened up this line of conversation. Because on one especially bad day she’d carved his name and enclosed it in a heart with hers. On an even worse day she’d added what were supposed to be teardrops that spelled out the word ASSHOLE. “I’m not even sure I could find it.”
She shifted uncomfortably at the collision of her old and current life, but it was too soon and too late to call a halt. “You okay to keep walking?”
“I think I can keep up,” he said. “Lead on.”
In the brief time they’d been inside, the sky had grown darker. Thunder rumbled. The breeze had picked up sending her hair whipping around her face. Serena stepped up their pace, continuing west on Bleecker and angling across Seventh Avenue into the heart of what she thought of as “her” neighborhood, a place whose architecture and history differed from the city of her birth but whose beauty she felt just as keenly.
Here the blocks were leafy and tree lined. Ivy-covered brownstones and Federal-style townhomes sat side by side, most of them renovated, many of them combined so that they took up a good part of their block. Front steps were bracketed by wrought-iron banisters that were works of art in their own right. Flower boxes clung to stone sills beneath tall lentil-topped windows. Decorative pots overflowing with bold-colored plants and greenery anchored front stoops and accented massive wooden doors of differing shapes and colors that were topped and framed in stone and wood details.
They passed Grove and Christopher streets and were crossing West Eleventh when the first raindrops fell.
She had planned a leisurely stroll between Bank and Charles streets to look at the shops before heading to Cafe Cluny for drinks and dinner, thereby giving her time to decide whether she wanted to merely point out her own home or invite him inside. But the rain grew stronger and in less than a block they were both drenched.
“Where to?” Brooks grabbed her hand and they broke into a run. Without even debating it she led him to her town house and raced with him up the steps.
“Crap!” She bent toward him and yanked open her purse, intent on locating her house key. Brooks hunched over her in a vain attempt to shield her from the now driving rain as she pawed through the bag, her head practically buried in his chest. “Got it!” She raised the key and looked up at him in victory. Before she could register what was happening, he’d leaned down. Then he was kissing her while the rain pounded down on them, soaking them to the skin.
“God, I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you sitting on that bench,” he breathed against her lips while her heart pounded in her chest and every nerve ending in her body sprang to life.
She pulled away, shocked at how much she wanted to kiss him back. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her breath was labored, as if they’d run much farther than they had. This was not what she wanted. Not at all what she had planned. She hadn’t avoided his suite at Erlowest just to fall into bed with him here. But what was she supposed to do now—send him out to get a cab? Turn around and drag him through a thunderstorm to the nearest café, where they’d sit soaked and dripping because she was afraid to let him in her home in case she couldn’t resist him? Was she that big a coward? What had happened to the steel-willed self-control that had kept her on the outside looking in at every relationship she’d had since him?
She turned and fit the key into the lock then pushed open the door. They rushed into the foyer, dripping water, spraying droplets all around them. He pulled the door closed and then before she could reason her way through anything, he was reaching for her, pulling her to him, crushing his lips down on hers.
Her first thought wasn’t how to stop him. Or even if she should. This was Brooks. Her Brooks. The man for whom all the others had been merely stand-ins. Even as she thought these things she was already kissing him back.
Rain and wind beat against the windows. Thunder pounded at the door. Desire pooled within her as stark and elemental as the storm that raged outside. Her shaking fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. His snaked up beneath hers. Their clothes came off in a sopping pool of rainwater. Naked, he stepped over them, palmed her breasts, and brushed his thumbs across her nipples.
He groaned as a spark lit deep inside her. All those years imagining this. Remembering him. All of it paled in comparison to what pulsed and rippled through her now.
She tried one last time to pull up the reasons not to do this, but they were flimsy and insubstantial compared to his naked body against hers, the strength of his hands as he lifted her, the feel of her bare legs wrapping around his waist.
And then there was no room for anything but the heat of his body fusing into hers.
Twenty-five
What do you think?” Mackenzie turned the sketchpad so that Zoe could see it. The sundress was deceptively simple and had a halter top, fitted bodice, and short skater-style skirt that would flatter Zoe’s tall hourglass shape and show off her long legs. “This would work in virtually any color or pattern, although I’m kind of seeing it in a soft cream or even a pale pink.”
“I like it,” Zoe said. “A lot. But what’s that?” She reached for a much rougher pencil drawing that Mackenzie had done on a scrap of paper. It was closer to a doodle than a design. It showed a wrap skirt in two different lengths and a crop top that could be paired with either. “And what are those panels on the skirts?”
“The wrap skirt is pretty basic,” Mackenzie said. “It’s the fabrics that would make this really stand out.”
“What kind of fabrics?” Zoe asked.
“I think it could be fabulous in jersey or even T-shirt material. Actually, I was thinking it might be neat to slice up brightly colored T-shirts into different shapes and sizes arranged in a mostly vertical pattern.” Mackenzie pulled a photo of a jacket that had been done in bright turquoise with blocks of charcoal and black. “These just jumped out at me, but any color combination could work. In fact, it could be really cool to use T-shirts that you already own that mean something to you.”
“Kind of like a memory skirt?”
“Yes,” Mackenzie replied, pleased at Zoe’s enthusiasm. “Exactly like a memory skirt.”
“Could we use some of the lettering from the T-shirts, too?” Zoe asked.
“You’re a genius!” Mackenzie looked down at the sketch and the photo. “I was only thinking about the stretchy comfortable fabric and the bold blocks of color. But using a couple of the logos or headlines would really make it unique and individual to you.”
Zoe’s smile was blinding. “I’m going to pick a few right now. I might even sacrifice the T-sh
irt Ethan gave me.”
“We can always buy fabric to fill in and accent what you choose. And maybe we should use a Lake George tee to commemorate our time here and what this house means to you and your mom.”
Emma had been sitting at the window seat but she’d obviously been listening. “There are a couple of oldie but goodies in my bottom dresser drawer that I’m glad to contribute,” Emma called out as Zoe headed for the stairs.
Emma got up and walked over to the table. “I love it. I wish I had the height to carry off something like that long skirt and crop top,” she said, studying the sketch over Mackenzie’s shoulder.
“And I always wished I were shorter and more rounded like you,” Mackenzie admitted. “Serena and Zoe managed to split the difference and ended up tall but not giraffe-like.” Mackenzie smiled. “Zoe’s great, Em,” she said. “It’s . . . fun working with her on this.” Her smile began to falter. Doing anything with Zoe was a bit like balancing on a double-edged sword.
“Well, she’s obviously having a blast. And it’s nice to see you smiling like that,” Emma said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, like you’re enjoying yourself.” Emma hesitated. “You have looked kind of torn.”
“I did have a friend in a coma, you know,” Mackenzie said, stacking the magazines closest to her. “And she had a daughter we were worried about.” Now that the imminent danger had receded, now that Emma was no longer in jeopardy, the old hurts and jealousies had begun to ambush her, sometimes when she least expected them.
And the thing was, she and Adam could have become parents. While both their parents were alive Mackenzie had tried to talk Adam into adoption as a possible road to parenthood. He’d refused this out of fear of ending up with a child with a genetic heritage that they’d have no knowledge of.
“Biological children get sick and fall prey to disease, too. Or end up in accidents,” she’d pointed out. “A child doesn’t have to be of your blood to be yours.”
But Adam had refused to be swayed. Finally Mackenzie understood what he wouldn’t say: That he didn’t really want children, had never really wanted them. That although he’d married her when she became pregnant, her dreams of parenthood weren’t his. That after their forced marriage, everything had seemed like a trap to him.
“You’re so talented,” Emma said, reaching for the sketch. “Why did you give up fashion design?”
“I hardly remember making that choice,” Mackenzie said. “It just sort of happened.”
First she’d made costumes to be a part of Adam, Emma, and Serena’s theatrical world. Then when they’d moved back to Indiana and she’d convinced Adam to buy the theater, she’d begun designing sets and costumes, doing both for as little money and as quickly as possible for their shoestring productions.
And why was that? She watched Emma compare the two sketches, even as she realized that she’d always felt so guilty for making Adam work on such a small scale that she’d done everything in her power to try to make him happy. In truth, she’d always felt she needed to make the compromises and concessions. It had been her penance for dragging Adam away from New York and his dreams of making it on a national stage.
And now that Adam had his shot at something bigger? Now that his dreams had a chance of coming true? What would happen now?
“I need a glass of wine.” Mackenzie jumped up and moved into the kitchen. “Can I fix you a spritzer or something?”
They could hear Zoe tromping around upstairs. Dresser drawers opening and closing. “It’s quiet here without Nadia and Serena,” Emma observed, taking a seat on a barstool. “But since cat ees away,” she said in a dead-on imitation of the absent nurse. “I take full glass.”
Mackenzie grinned, her mood lightening. “She is one formidable weight lifting nurse. I confess I can’t help wondering who she’s spending the night with.”
“Well, whoever it is I don’t think there’s any question who’s in charge,” Emma replied.
They giggled.
“Do you think she bosses people around in bed the way she bosses her patients?” Mackenzie asked, stifling another giggle.
“Take clothes off. Before count of three!” Emma definitely had the accent and the bluster down. Their giggles dissolved into laughter. “Nyet! Not there!”
“Oh, God. Now I can’t stop picturing it. I need something to block the images.”
“Here, maybe this will help.” Emma poured another half glass of wine. Both of them took a sip. “All right, then, what do you think Serena’s up to?”
Mackenzie shot her a look. “Are you serious? You really are off your game.”
“Meaning?” Emma asked after another sip.
“Well, think about it. First she goes to this fancy dinner at Erlowest with a ‘friend.’ Whom she doesn’t identify and doesn’t even consider introducing to us. Barely two days later she’s racing into the city just after saying she’s too lazy to go in and will probably record from up here.” Mackenzie shrugged. “That has screwing around with some married guy all over it.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Do you really think so?” Emma asked.
“Da.” Mackenzie raised her wineglass. “This toast may only go with vodka but, ‘Nostrovia!’”
“Nostrovia.” Emma took a long sip. “Ahhh,” she said with pleasure. “It tastes way better full strength. But don’t tell Nadia. I know she wants me to build back up slowly.”
“Are you going to let her go now that you’re starting to feel better?”
“I’m not sure I can do that,” Emma said.
“Why not?”
“First of all, I don’t know if she actually has anywhere to go.” Emma got up and pulled a jar of peanuts from the pantry. “And second of all, well, if Eve wants to keep paying her salary I’m inclined to let her.”
“You are?”
“Yes,” Emma replied. “Because I don’t know what Eve really wants, and if I let go of Nadia it’s possible her next offering will be a lot less palatable.”
“How Machiavellian of you.” Mackenzie shook out a handful of peanuts. “I like Nadia. She kind of grows on you.”
“Da.” Emma smiled.
“I was kind of hoping Serena would finally get over being dumped by that Brooks Anderson shmuck and fall for someone actually available,” Mackenzie said. “Someone nice and sweet and funny like Ethan Miller.”
Zoe, who’d pounded back down the stairs, her arms filled with T-shirts in a vibrant rainbow of colors, heard Mackenzie’s last comment. “Ethan’s the coolest ever. He’s perfect for Serena. And I really think he has a major thing for her.”
“It’s not like we can control who we fall in love with or even who we’re attracted to,” Emma said as Zoe spread the T-shirts out for them to peruse.
“No, but I believe we can control what we do about it,” Mackenzie said. “Don’t you?”
“I guess.” Emma took another sip of her wine and watched as Zoe and Mackenzie went through the T-shirts, offering a comment or two of her own.
Mackenzie sent Zoe back upstairs to find the good pair of scissors, straight pins, and a measuring tape, all of which Emma said had to be upstairs though she wasn’t sure exactly where.
“I read some of your recent blog posts the other day,” Emma said. “They were good.”
“But?”
“No buts,” Emma insisted. “They were really good. I don’t think I realized how well you could write, and I guess I always thought of you only as a fashion designer. I forget sometimes that there are creative people who have more than one talent.”
“How about you?” Mackenzie asked. “Do you secretly paint or take backstage photos of rock bands?”
“No. I can act, that’s about it,” Emma said. “Though my family might not agree with that.” She took a sip of wine. “And I think I’m pretty talented at consuming ch
ocolate.”
“Ah, well, then,” Mackenzie teased. “That makes you set for life.”
A shadow passed over Emma’s face even as they shared a smile that reminded Mackenzie just how close they had once been. A closeness that was never quite as pure after Zoe was born and Mackenzie had been left childless. She had never envied Emma’s career as Serena sometimes had, but she had and still did envy Emma her daughter. “You’re pretty good at parenting, too.” The words were out before Mackenzie realized she was going to say them. “You’ve done a great job with Zoe.”
“Do you really think so?” Emma’s question was out in less than a heartbeat, her expression hopeful, yet disbelieving. Like someone who’d just stepped forward to accept a beauty pageant crown but was afraid she might have misheard the name that had been called.
“I do. And I don’t know how you can doubt it,” Mackenzie said, already regretting raising the topic she’d always avoided.
“You mean other than because I’m desperately afraid of being a parent like mine? Or because it’s only the two of us and Zoe’s father will never really be a part of her life? Because it turns out it’s not all that easy to act for a living and still maintain anything that resembles ‘normal’? Or maybe because other than Gran who was way more Hello, Dolly than Happy Days, I have no real example of healthy parenting to follow?” Emma’s outburst came to a halt and a look of surprise flashed across her features as Zoe’s footsteps pounded back down the stairs.