Whenever You Call

by Anna King

  WHENEVER YOU CALL

  Anna King

  WHENEVER YOU CALL

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Anna King. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover designed by Melanie Hooyenga at Ink Slinger Designs

  eBook designed by the eBook Artisans

  Part One

  Falling

  1

  IT ALL STARTED WHEN I decided to join an online dating service and, in a few catastrophic minutes, saw the face of my beloved. You know, the one for whom you wait your whole damn life. I’d already had a pretty long life, forty-eight years, and I wasn’t looking for that face. Not in a million years. I was searching for someone to date, period, end of discussion. He was handsome, with a full head of rather glorious brown hair. His eyes crinkled and dimples popped.

  He charmed the pants right off me.

  Though, actually, my pants ended up staying on. Not by my choice.

  So, in the parlance of Match.com, I winked at him. He sent me an e-mail in response, saying that he didn’t date women who wrote books. It wasn’t personal, he assured me, but he’d found that women writers were altogether too too. Those were his exact words. “Too too.” I, as a woman writer, was too too. I quite liked the idea, particularly because it had never occurred to me before. I became committed to changing his mind.

  All this in a matter of ten minutes or so.

  Somehow, despite being too too, I failed to change his mind.

  I called my best friend. “Jenny, it’s Rose and I just want to tell you, in case you’ve forgotten, that life is unfair.”

  This was a running joke between us because Jenny was one of those walking (or, actually, non-walking) cases who rather readily brought to mind the concept of life being unfair. At the age of twelve, she’d been in a bicycle accident and had both legs amputated from the knees down.

  “Remember me,” she said cheerily.

  “Why do I have a best friend to whom I can never complain?”

  “That’s a complaint.”

  “It’s all I’m allowed.”

  I could tell that she was still smiling when she said, “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re not too busy to talk right now?”

  Jenny was a high-powered attorney in one of Boston’s best firms. She was exactly my age, unmarried, and she literally worked all the time. The fact that she was a workaholic was her only failing and, obviously, I couldn’t call her on it, so I never did.

  “I’ve fallen for with this guy on Match.com, but he told me he had a policy of not dating women writers because they’re too too.”

  “Does he date women who have no legs from the knees down?”

  “I could ask, but somehow I doubt it.”

  We giggled.

  Then I said, “Seriously, am I too too?”

  “Yeah, to be honest.”

  “Too too what?”

  “Exuberant, for want of a better word,” she said.

  “I think being exuberant is a good thing. You’re exuberant.”

  “I agree.”

  “I’m confused.” I twirled around in my desk chair, like a Sufi dancer.

  “He’s the one with the problem, not you. Not me, either, for that matter,” she said.

  “It feels like my problem.”

  “Probably because he managed to seduce you, sight unseen.”

  “I did see his photo—should I send it to you?”

  “You are in trouble,” she said, sounding like she meant it.

  I stopped twirling rather abruptly. “I know.”

  Jen spoke kindly. “How’s the new novel idea coming?”

  “Obviously, it’s not.”

  “Figured.”

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” I said.

  “Rose—”

  “I won’t.”

  “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

  “I shouldn’t e-mail him again, right?”

  “True, but that wasn’t it.”

  There was a pause. I had an uncomfortable feeling that, as usual, Jenny could read my mind. Finally, I blurted out, “What, then?”

  “Don’t go riding the subway for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “I’ve stopping doing that.”

  “Okay, good.”

  We hung up and I twirled right off my chair. I was going to ride the subway.

  Ever since I’d discovered the Missed Connections board at Craigslist.com, where anonymous people posted alternatively beautiful and/or hilarious messages about having seen the love of their life, or the lust of their life, somewhere in the city of Boston, I’d become obsessed with the possibility that a man might actually write a Missed Connections for me. Since many of the postings derived from sightings on the subway system, I rode the trains like a crazy woman. I told myself that it was a great way to experience humanity, and it would, therefore, improve my writing.

  Pure bullshit.

  In order to encourage someone to post a Missed Connection about me. I had to show well. I tended toward a natural look, but I’ve discovered that, with age, the natural look requires a slew of unnatural accouterments. Using my super-dee-duper hair straightening device, I eased the few gyrating gray hairs that tended to corkscrew out of my scalp like I was a cartoon character. Then I smoothed on a thin veneer of foundation, the kind that costs a fortune and promises that it deflects light away from your wrinkles. Or maybe it reflects the light. I’m not sure. I can vouch for its efficacy while it simultaneously makes me appear to be wearing absolutely no make-up. Very cool. A smidgen of pink blush, a smear of taupe eye shadow, a quick dash of mascara.

  I changed into my black jeans, the ones that magically transformed me into a size two. Again, I’m at a loss to explain how the pants accomplish this. I guess that’s why some people design clothes and invent cosmetic products, and other people do things like write novels. It’s funny how most of the population believe that being a writer is a big deal (other than the love of my life on Match.com, that is) when it’s a lot more impressive to take a woman who’s essentially a size six, and with the right pants, make her look like a size two. That’s an accomplishment.

  I grabbed my notebook and a pen that can write upside down, if necessary, and took off. I lived behind a substantial almost-mansion on Mt. Auburn Street in Cambridge, in the property’s tiny carriage house originally built for the servants. I rented even though I could afford to buy a place, and despite Jenny’s periodic ranting to me about how stupid I was not to invest in the real estate market. I was a sucker for darling carriage houses with miniscule rooms, slanted floors, and four tiny working fireplaces.

  Although it was already one o’clock in the afternoon, this was my first step outdoors. I discovered that spring was truly happening. It must have been close to seventy degrees and the sun shone from a pure blue sky. This didn’t make me happy. Normally, I’m as susceptible to the weather as the next person, but given my experience that morning on Match.com, I was feeling averse to spring. Spring was too too, after all, and being too too was getting me nowhere, especially in the world of romance.

  Grumpy, I tromped along Mt. Auburn Street, heading for Harvard Square and the closest subway stop. As the sun warmed the top of my head, I became ever more aware that it was possibly the dumbest thing in the world to ride the subway on such a beautiful day. Maybe, I thought, that guy on Match.com (his moniker
was “The Sky”) had a point. And maybe Jenny was wrong. I wasn’t too too exuberant. I was too too pathetic. It occurred to me that the second most mentioned spot in the Missed Connections board were coffee shops, and there just happened to be a busy one in Harvard Square, the Au Bon Pain.

  Never say I’m not flexible and capable of changing direction.

  Since academics and students have as much free time as novelists, the outdoor seats were crowded. I bought a nonfat decaf latte and meandered through the tables, searching for a spot. That’s when I saw the back of his head. I recognized the long lazy curls of his brown hair. I knew it was “The Sky,” though his photo on Match.com had obviously been of his face.

  He was hogging a table all to himself, and by the rules of cafes on a beautiful spring day I could ask to share it. But I didn’t. Instead, I found another spot where I was in his line of vision.

  Politely, I asked the two women already sitting at the table if I could share with them.

  They nodded yes without stopping their intense conversation. I settled myself, careful not to look at The Sky. I felt certain he was watching me. I’m not sure how we know things like that, but there’s been some interesting research on the subject, and it’s clear that we just do. I debated whether I should take out my notebook. If he recognized me from my photo on Match.com, and I started writing, he would conclude that I was too too.

  For a few minutes, I just tilted my face to the sun. I closed my eyes. The murmur of the women’s conversation dropped and I figured they were worried I was eavesdropping. So I decided to pull out my notebook. Screw it, I thought, I am a writer. Since writing was my livelihood, I couldn’t exactly pretend I was anything but.

  When I finally dared to glance his way, The Sky was gone. Bereft, I stared at the empty table. Within seconds, two undergraduates had plunked down in his place. He must have left just seconds before I turned to look at him.

  I flipped open my notebook and wrote.

  Au Bon Pain, Harvard Square, 1:30 p.m.

  I saw the sky. Did you see me?

  When I got home, I would post the message on the Missed Connections board, and then I would wait, pacing around my sideways little house, to see if he answered. I knew all this seemed a bit absurd. The guy had said no on Match.com. That was that. But, somehow, I was convinced that his no actually meant yes. I didn’t know where this conviction came from. I’d sworn off trusting myself when my third marriage had ended with a lot of noise and trouble, almost two years earlier.

  And here I was, two years of celibacy making me certifiably nuts. Everyone, including my three children, had persistently lectured me on the value of celibacy for a woman like me. That phrase, a woman like me, was a disguised way of saying I was impetuous when it came to romantic relationships. I couldn’t deny the validity of their judgment, and I’d sworn off sex, though not dating. Except, without sex, dating seemed like a big fat bore. I had close friends, my kids, other family, so I didn’t need to go out with some guy to have an intelligent conversation. I could find intelligent conversation all over the place, most particularly with myself. As a writer, I naturally enjoyed being with me.

  A man and sex just went together, like wine and cheese. And now it was spring, my second spring since this celibacy nonsense began, and I’d had enough. Though not so enough that I was willing to sleep with any man who chanced along. I did feel like the two long years that stretched behind me had made a difference. I’d cultivated a patient passion, if you will.

  That’s a a bit of a paradox, which, when it came to sex, seemed utterly right.

  I thought longingly of my cell phone and calling Jenny to tell her the latest, but I didn’t approve of having personal conversations in public. So I picked up my pen again, twiddling it around, and thinking about what I could write. I’d been trying to jump-start my next novel for weeks. I had plenty of beginnings that extended as far as twenty pages or so, but nothing that I felt really good about.

  I’d already tried writing about every one of my marriages, and the results were dreadful. People seemed to believe that novels were born out of the writer’s personal experience, but I didn’t think so. A good story usually had little to do with real life since real life was, well, tedious. Or, anyway, that was the case for me. A good story required conflict, and I was conflict-phobic. I would agree to the most egregious demands and situations just to avoid the slightest hint of disagreement.

  I worked on this issue with my therapist, of course. I mean, a fear of conflict is custom-made for deep psychological counseling. I’d made some progress. Only last week, I’d sent back my dinner order because it was tepid. True, I’d apologized so profusely that I felt sweat forming across my forehead, but still, I did end up with a hot dinner. Getting there.

  The two women at our table stood up, gathered their belongings, and left. I looked around, mildly hopeful that another handsome man might be lurking, in search of a seat. Despite the gorgeous day, the lunchtime crowd had begun to thin and there were several available, empty tables. Sighing, I tilted my face to the sun again and closed my eyes. A minute later, a familiar voice interrupted me.

  Husband number three, the bastard of all bastards, otherwise known as Isaac, spoke.

  “Working hard, I see.”

  My eyes flew open. “Hey,” I said, choosing not to answer his challenge. Yeah, yeah, conflict avoidance, I know.

  “May I join you?”

  “Sure.” I gestured to an empty chair. In my head, I began to swear softly. Isaac had the unfortunate ability to make me want to jump into bed with him, despite the fact that he’d been notoriously unfaithful to me, with scads of women. Physically, I found him impossibly attractive. He stood tall, at six foot, four inches, with huge shoulders, slim waist, and expressive hands. His face was dark and swarthy, like a gypsy, and he had bright green eyes.

  As he folded himself into the chair closest to me, I pushed myself away from the table, trying for even a few inches of distance between us. Isaac hadn’t wanted the divorce. Instead, he’d argued for an ‘open marriage,’ going so far as to suggest that we might enjoy adding a third person to our own couplings (male or female, either way seemed interesting to him). It had taken endless energy to convince him that I wasn’t up for an open marriage. Since he’d moved out, I still hadn’t slept with anyone else.

  “You look awfully pretty,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  He sipped his espresso and squinted at me, narrow eyes assessing. “So far, you’ve spoken only a single word in answer to anything I’ve said.”

  Isaac was a very, very smart man. Brilliant, in fact. His field was cognitive science, so he was particularly adept at watching for, and spotting, little tiny behavior things that no one else would ever notice. This made a woman believe that he was deeply interested in her, when, in actuality, he was simply doing his job.

  I grinned. “Really?”

  He reached across the table and touched my hand with a his index finger. “How are things?”

  “Struggling with the next book—I can’t seem to find anything to write about.”

  “You’ve never had that problem before.” One of his hairy eyebrows arched. “How’s your sex life?”

  “Fine.”

  “’Cause I was thinking that maybe your creative powers are affected by a less-than -exciting sex life.”

  I ran a hand through my hair, deliberately provocative. “Nope.” Then I put on a thoughtful look, as if I’d just had a great idea. “Maybe the opposite, though.” I stared dreamily into the sun for a minute before taking a peek at him.

  He looked gratifyingly disturbed. “I thought you weren’t dating—”

  “I don’t tell the kids everything, you know that.”

  “So you’re seeing someone?”

  I looked directly into his eyes. “What about you? Fucking your way through all of the eastern seaboard?”

  “Rose—”

  “Umm?” I sipped at my cooling latte.

  He waved
a hand. “Never mind.”

  This was an invitation to delve more deeply into whatever was bothering him, exactly what he wanted, with the end result that we’d go back to my four-poster bed and find solace in each other’s arms. It took all I had to resist. He was a great lover. I could practically feel the way his hands opened my legs and—

  I stopped thinking about it. Instead, I stood up, shoving my chair back with a loud scraping noise. The latte splashed up the sides of my mug, like a mini tidal wave. “In fact, I’m going to be late if I don’t get a move on.”

  He stared at me, mournful. For a second, I really wondered why he seemed so sad. It wasn’t like him. Did I, as a former wife, have an obligation to make sure that he was all right?

  Firmly, I thought a single word. No.

  I walked home as quickly as I could, working up a good sweat in the warm sun. I dropped my backpack on the floor of the small entrance hall, then grabbed the notebook out of it. It took only three strides to walk through the living room, decorated in the bright colors of a flowered chintz that covered the cozy sofa. I ducked under the low ceiling and dashed down the crooked stairway to the basement, where I had my study. It had taken years, but I’d finally figured out that I liked to write in subterranean, dark spaces. A rich dark green carpet and a mahogany desk, with a wall of bookcases, made the study so seductive that I still took a deep breath of satisfaction when I walked in.

  I pounced on my computer and quickly typed out the internet address for Boston’s Missed Connection board on Craigslist. I glanced over the postings that had blossomed since I’d last accessed the site early that morning. Nothing for me, naturally. I clicked on the designated spot that would allow me to write my own posting and copied exactly what I’d drafted earlier at the Au Bon Pain.

  In five minutes, it appeared for all the world to see.

  But, would he?

  2

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I stared at the words of a Missed Connection posting, with the heading “Re: Au Bon Pain, Harvard Square, 1:30 p.m.” A tiny diamond of drool quivered in the right corner of my open mouth. I was astonished that I’d actually received an answer and, for a moment, I didn’t even want to read the rest. I’d made it onto the boards of Craigslist! It occurred to me that for the three months during which my addiction to the Missed Connection board had grown, I’d always had the ability to post something myself. I had to wonder what was wrong with me. For example, why hadn’t I posted a message about that absolutely devastating man with the silver hair and red jeans? I swear he’d been staring at me for a full ten minutes on the subway last week. The red jeans, though certainly unusual, were riveting. What a colossal dope I’d been.