Promise of Safekeeping : A Novel (9781101553954)

by Dale, Lisa

  Science wanted to turn sexual attraction into mathematical calculation. Studies showed again and again that facial attraction was based on symmetry and proportion. Men wanted a woman’s waist to be seven-tenths the width of her hips. Women wanted a man’s shoulders to be broad, his voice low. Chemistry, too, got in the mix. People disliked scent profiles similar to their own—hardwiring to ensure genetic diversity. Women were usually repulsed by the smell of raw male pheromones, but found themselves loving the smell if they were near ovulation. And men who could make logical judgments about facial attractiveness lost that ability—their analytical skills completely boggled—when exposed to imperceptible amounts of female scent.

  The science was fascinating, but Lauren had no use for it. If sex appeal was a simple equation of 1 + 1 = 2, people would simply know when they were compatible the moment they met—and that would be that. But she was becoming increasingly attracted to Will by the day, more aware of the way he moved, the way he casually touched her, the strength of his body and hands. She liked his smell, his smile. She liked his face—masculine without being overly hard. Seeing his house had changed something inside her too. The house was a bachelor pad, but it wasn’t just a place he lived: it was his home and he cared about it. It turned her on.

  More and more, she liked him. And more and more, she wanted. Yet, when he could have kissed her today, when he’d held her suspended in the question of whether he’d wanted to kiss her or not, he’d backed down. He was attracted to her, but he didn’t want to be. It hurt to think of it. She tried to push the thoughts away.

  “I guess ‘hard day’ isn’t the right wording,” she told Maisie. “It was a nice day, really.”

  “Then why the sexed-up heels?”

  She shrugged. “Why not?”

  The doorbell rang and Maisie excused herself to answer it. Her friends would arrive soon, and Lauren was looking forward to meeting them. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent an evening with a group of relaxed and happy women who were not sitting in lotus position and wearing yoga pants.

  She glanced at herself in the mirror over the old fireplace and adjusted her bangs. She straightened when Maisie returned—alone. Her friend walked with her two hands linked in front of her belly button, her steps small.

  “Lauren?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a reporter at the door. He’s asking for you.”

  “For me?” Lauren asked, though she knew the question was ridiculous the moment she spoke it.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “It’s okay. Did you tell him I was here?”

  “I didn’t really tell him anything. I’m sorry! I clammed up. I think the most information he got out of me was hold on.”

  Lauren ran her hands down the front of her dress, looked at herself in the mirror. A reporter. When she left Albany, she hadn’t told anyone where she was going—not even her parents. And yet, here was a reporter at the door, asking for her. Her mind ran through the possibilities and landed quickly and firmly on the most obvious one: Bryce was trying to sabotage her. He wanted to rattle her cage, to let her know she was being watched. If he’d talked to Burt or even Rizzi, he would have known where she was going. Apparently she could leave the Albany city limits, but Albany politics were not so easy to shake.

  “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk to him or not,” Maisie said.

  “Not a big deal.” Lauren crossed the room and put an arm around Maisie’s shoulders to give her a quick squeeze. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She steeled herself before she went to the door. She pulled herself up straight inside of her black dress. She could handle reporters. She was used to their scrutiny. Some were thoughtful and conscientious, but others were full of hot air.

  She put on her game face and yanked open the door. “Can I help—”

  She stopped.

  No one was there.

  The street was busy, young men and women going about their evenings together or in groups. The trees that had been planted in the sidewalk whispered a little in a warm wind. She closed the door.

  “That was quick,” Maisie said when Lauren came back into the living room. “Did you threaten to slap him with a lawsuit?”

  “I would have, but he was gone. I guess he changed his mind.”

  Maisie frowned. “I don’t like that.”

  “Well, I do. Did he say what paper he was from?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Or, if he did, I didn’t hear it. He just said he was a reporter. That was all. How do you think he found you?”

  “I have a hunch. The guy at work who picked up my caseload isn’t my biggest fan right now. I’d put my money on him.”

  “Well, can I pretty please with a cherry on top listen when you call him up and ream him out?”

  Lauren laughed.

  They heard the door click open at the same time. Lauren hadn’t locked it behind her. Instinctively, her weight shifted to the balls of her feet, her stance softening. Someone had come in.

  “Hellooo?”

  Maisie’s face went slack with relief. “Corina.”

  Lauren relaxed.

  “That’s just Corina. You’re gonna love her. Ready to go?”

  Lauren’s breath, which had jumped into her throat, was now settling back into her chest. Her heart was slowing. The tension in her muscles eased. “Let’s go. I’m so ready for some fun.”

  Will finished moving the old dresser out to the barn, then locked the door’s heavy padlock behind him. It thumped the old boards when he let it go. The sun was nearly gone now, and the crickets were singing from their hidden perches on blades of grass. In the soft dusk, Will’s house stood two and a half stories tall, the downstairs windows gleaming gold, the upstairs windows dark.

  He put the barn key in his pocket. As usual, Lauren’s observations about him were right—his house was too big for him. And he felt sometimes that he rattled around in it like a kid walking in his dad’s shoes. He started across the lawn toward the sliding glass doors he’d had installed six months ago.

  Over the years, he’d gotten very good at being a bachelor. Of course, he had his family: his brothers and sister, Annabelle, who, together, could make as much noise as a block party. He also had his mother and her husband, who always needed something to be repaired, hauled, or assembled—and who always repaid him with a home-cooked meal. And he had friends as well, good guys who didn’t require much attention or maintenance except for the occasional invitation to watch a football game or grab a beer.

  But fundamentally, he was alone—the only person on the planet who truly knew what he was. Annabelle had her suspicions; she’d asked him once in an absentminded way, and he’d told her he was storing some things for a friend. And there had been close calls with ex-girlfriends as well, until he’d finally decided that the risk of discovery (which inevitably led to well-intentioned intervention, which led to failure, which led to irritated or maudlin breakups) wasn’t worth the opportunity for semi-regular sex.

  Normally he didn’t have trouble being alone. Life was good. But something about the evening tonight was off. A certain shift in the shadows. A certain thinness of light. The ache of loneliness, so hard to define, made him feel as if he’d been filled up to the brim by empty space—as if it was possible to be filled by nothing. He walked across the drought-brown grass of his yard, slid open the door, and went inside.

  In his kitchen, he got things ready. He put out bags of greasy potato chips and fatty white dip. He stocked the fridge with silver cans of beer. He had two fresh decks of cards, wrapped in plastic, in the center of his heavy kitchen table. And he fiddled with the dial of the radio station until he found one that played guy songs, most of them from ten years ago.

  Arlen was first to arrive.

  “Come on in,” Will said. “Any trouble getting here?”

  Arlen was holding a case of beer. “Naw. No problems.”

  “You didn’t let the ca
bbie overcharge you?”

  “I think he undercharged me. But anyway—I got my own money now.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Fella from a church came by. Said he’d give me a hundred bucks a week and try to get me a job.”

  “That’s great.”

  “There’s good people out there yet.”

  Will led his friend into the kitchen. Arlen wore jeans that he’d probably bought from the thrift store not far from the antiques shop, and a button-down shirt of light cotton—burgundy and green plaid. He was clean-shaven and smelling so strongly of aftershave that he’d probably killed a couple dozen mosquitoes on the way in.

  “Ready for some cards?” Will asked, bringing his hands together with one quick, loud clap.

  “Yeah, you bet.” Arlen stopped in the middle of the kitchen and looked around. “Looks like you did okay for yourself.”

  “Not too bad.”

  “This is just how I pictured it would be. Just what you always said you wanted.” Arlen smiled. “I’m glad for you. I’m real glad.”

  Will nodded. Visions of the past, of tattered backpacks, of car parts magazines, of beer cans cooling in the clear water of the creek, flashed vividly through his mind. Since Arlen had been released from prison, he hadn’t so much as mentioned their past—the time they’d shared together as boys. He seemed to live only in the present moment, completely absorbed by its joys and problems. Now, to hear him talking about how things used to be, no matter how obscure the reference, made Will’s chest swell with satisfaction. Arlen, the Arlen he used to know, was still there.

  “Something missing, though,” Arlen said, peering around.

  Will knew he was being set up. “What?”

  “The wife. The rugrats.”

  Will shrugged. “Not exactly the kind of thing you can pick up at a pawnshop.” He mimed writing a note in the air. “Memo to self: Look for comic books, wall art, wife and kids.”

  “Come on, now. Don’t get all defensive on me.”

  “I’m not defensive.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m not defensive. And I’m not exactly a senior citizen yet. I’ve still got some time. We both do.”

  “You never know how much time you got.”

  “No, I suppose you don’t,” Will said. And he saw that Arlen had a look in his eyes as if he were drifting away inch by inch on a raft. It was a moment before Arlen returned from whatever place he’d gone to, but once he did fight his way back into Will’s kitchen, his expression turned clear and bright.

  “So who all’s coming?”

  “Couple of my brothers. The guy Rourke who does antique lures—you met him. My buddy Donnie from across town might come later, but I’m not sure.”

  Arlen made a slow circle of the room, looking at Will’s collection. He had to clear his throat before he spoke again. “How’d it go today picking?”

  “Fine. No problems.”

  “Watch that girl doesn’t get hurt on the job. She’ll sue you.”

  “I don’t think so.” He thought of her hand in his. The terribly erotic little sounds she’d made as he’d worked on her splinters. He forced his brain to change direction. “She’s serious about talking to you. I think, even if you wanted to yell at her, to stomp your feet and scream, she would welcome it. She knows she had a part in putting you in prison.”

  “So that makes her a saint,” Arlen said.

  “I don’t see anyone else here to apologize. Where’s the lawyer who didn’t defend you? Where’s the senator? The judge?”

  “Well—”

  “Nowhere. That’s where they are. The only person who’s here and who’s willing to take some responsibility for what happened to you is Lauren. And that counts for something.”

  Arlen was slack-faced for a moment; then his cheeks drew up in a horrible, over-wide smile. He began to laugh. “Wow.” He shook his head and put his hands on his chest. “She really got to you, didn’t she?”

  Will went to the fridge, got himself a green beer bottle from the bottom drawer. He took a long breath before he shut the door and turned to face Arlen again. “She’s not who I thought she was.”

  “You do know she can manipulate you. She can read you like a book and get you to do what she wants.”

  “I don’t think that’s what she’s doing.”

  “Course you don’t.”

  Will bristled. “Careful.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  The front door swung open—no ringing doorbell, no knock—but there was the noise of it hitting the doorstop and then the loud bickering of Will’s two oldest brothers as they came inside. Will went to the foyer to greet them. “Guys. Welcome.” They carried plastic grocery bags filled with pretzels and tubs of spreadable cheese. Farther behind them, Will’s friend Rourke was coming down the front lawn, where the grass had been worn to hard-packed dirt in a line to the door.

  “From our dear sister,” Scoot said, pushing his bag into Will’s hands. Scoot was a big man with a linebacker’s shoulders and a beer drinker’s belly. He wobbled side to side even when he was walking forward and straight. “She told me she wanted to fatten you up.”

  Will laughed.

  “And these are from my wife.” Will’s other brother Hank handed off a plate of brownies. He rubbed his belly. “But apparently I’m not allowed to eat them.”

  His brothers went into the kitchen without being escorted, talking loudly and making a big, rowdy fuss over Arlen. Will was filled with unspeakable gratitude for them. The terrible oppression he’d felt earlier in the evening seemed to be lifting; their loud voices drove the demons out of the dark corners of the house. He waited as Rourke walked the last few steps to the door.

  Rourke nodded. “Hey. What up?”

  Will swung his arm around for a brisk handshake. He left the front door standing open, then showed Rourke inside. His brothers were already opening Will’s refrigerator and cabinets, grabbing for pint glasses and arguing about the best way to avoid Richmond rush-hour traffic. Arlen stood looking pleased but awkward, not quite sure how to join in.

  “Rourke?” Will gestured for his friend’s attention. “I want you to meet Arlen Fieldstone. Arlen, Rourke.”

  “Heard so much about you,” Rourke said, and Will thought he saw a little glint of wariness darken Arlen’s eye. “I mean … I heard about you from Will. Not— I didn’t mean the newspapers.”

  “Nice one, Rourke.” Will’s brother Scoot kicked out a kitchen chair and dropped into it. “Arlen’s used to it by now. He’s a regular celebrity.”

  A bitter noise caught in Arlen’s throat.

  “So what’s next for you?” Rourke asked. “Writing a book? Getting a reality TV show? The offers must be pouring in.”

  “No offers. And no TV.”

  Will clasped Rourke on the back and smiled. “How ’bout we quit the gossiping and play some poker?”

  “Fine by me,” Arlen said.

  The Mexican restaurant was the color of cantaloupe, with flamingo-pink accents and a teal ceiling painted with clouds. If there was an air conditioner in the building, it was either completely broken or exhausted of all cool air, and everything Lauren touched—the door, the lip of the bar, the stool when she pulled it out—was sticky. Revelers sat jammed in elbow to elbow, and the noise of the crowd was deafening—people struggling to be heard, each laugh louder than the next. But the margaritas were cheap, the nachos were piled sky-high, and a wall covered in pictures of Elvis and pinup girls ensured that no topic was prohibited for a night among new friends.

  Lauren was enjoying herself. At first, a pesky and useless feeling of anxiousness had gripped her. She kept thinking she was forgetting something: an appointment, a phone call, an e-mailed document that perhaps hadn’t gone through. But as the minutes passed and the surface of her red-pink sangria descended into the bottom of her glass, she began to have fun.

  Laughter flowed, sweet and full. The conversation wasn’t exactly challenging—discussions
of shoes, television shows, husbands’ bad habits—and Lauren adored it all. She missed this. As undergraduates, she and Maisie had shared a close group of girlfriends who got together in their pajamas to watch movies and drink wine. But once she’d moved back to Albany for law school—and Maisie had moved to Richmond—Lauren had thrown herself body and soul into her career. Her friends dwindled to a number that she could manage, which was not much of a number at all. It made her wish she had more time to give to others—and more time to give to herself.

  “So how long are you here for?” Maisie’s friend Corina asked.

  “It’s a little up in the air. Not very long.”

  “You seem so familiar,” she said. “But there’s no way I’ve met you before, right?”

  “I come to Richmond to visit Maisie as often as I can. But no, I don’t think we’ve met.”

  Corina nodded and lifted her highball for a quick sip. She had long brown-black hair that was flat and parted straight down the middle like an open book. Her face was narrow and her eyes were big. She’d smiled at Lauren with real gladness when they were introduced, but now her mouth was slack and her gaze tipped to the ceiling. This was Behavior 101: the tendency to look up when recalling a visual memory.

  “I remember where I know you from,” she said, lifting her hand, then dropping it on the bar with a smack. “You were on the news.”

  Lauren smiled.

  Corina was delighted, her face lit brightly and her smile wide and white. “Why did I see you on the news? I can’t remember for the life of me … ”

  “Lauren has a book out,” Maisie put in. “She gets called to the news stations because she’s an expert on body language.”

  “No, I don’t think that was it.” She leaned her wrist against the bar, her brow furrowed with thought. “No—it was … Oh. You’re that lawyer … ”

  “Was,” Lauren said. “Now I do consulting work.”