by Rozsa Gaston
No further messages had come in. She clicked on Will’s message and stared at it once again. “Moved out last Monday. Staying with friends on the Upper West Side. Are you free for dinner tomorrow? —Will.”
At least it wouldn’t be difficult to reply. Quickly, she tapped out an answer.
“Sorry, dinner taken tomorrow evening. Wishing you all the best in your new circumstances. —F.”
Enter.
Done.
She slammed the laptop shut and went into her bedroom to decide what to wear to meet Jude the following evening.
As she rummaged through her closet, she thought if she had to choose between being loved and being in love, she’d take being in love. But she didn’t want her heart broken again. Where was the guy she could be in love with who’d be equally in love with her? Was such a thing possible or was it just a fairy tale retold countless times to keep the fire in romantic hearts akindle? God couldn’t have put that desire in human hearts without there being at least a chance for some to experience reciprocal love.
A long forgotten burnt orange, red, and white silk top with leaf designs on it caught her eye at the back of the closet. She’d last worn it on a summer cruise two years earlier. It was a deceptively modest blouse, one that clung to curves easily in the slightest breeze. Pulling it out, she held it up to her torso in front of the walnut cheval mirror in her bedroom. Nice vied with spice, an ambiguous combination. It matched the way she felt.
Then she thought of Jude Farnesworth’s fingers on her neck and the feeling of ambiguity vanished, along with all thoughts of Will.
JUDE GLANCED OVER at Farrah in the seat next to him on the drive to Greenwich. She looked good in the autumn foliage sort of top she wore. Trying not to be obvious, he eyeballed the curve of her left breast under the thin fabric now whipped back against her torso from the breeze coming in the open front windows of the car. If she only had any idea how revealing that blouse was, he chuckled to himself. Some girls were so cute. Especially ones who were unaware of how sexy they really were. Greenwich women right down to the high school girls tended to know what kind of effect they were making on a man. They were all so studied.
“Enjoying the breeze?” he asked.
“Yes. You too?”
“Definitely.” You have no idea how much, woman. No idea.
Farrah was nestled back against the headrest, her chin tilted up. Good God, were the tips of her breasts pointing upward too? How many women really had those kinds of small, perfect breasts? He’d seen them in magazines and on women in French films. But never in real life. He’d better stop thinking about it before he crashed the car.
Reaching over, he fiddled with the CD player. If he didn’t watch it his arm would brush up against the leaf pattern on her blouse, with that perky, pulchritudinous mound hiding underneath. Then he really would drive off the road.
Carefully, he extracted a CD and loaded another one in. “Easy boy, easy. Deep breaths, deep breaths.” What was it about women that drove men mad? He didn’t doubt that Adam had taken the apple from Eve. She’d probably been wearing some sort of leaf outfit when she’d handed it to him. When she’d moved in one direction the leaves had moved in another.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she said, looking over. An amused smile played on her lips. She was probably psychic, too. Another female attribute against which men had no defense.
“Huh?” he gulped.
“I said, what are you thinking?” She smoothed the folds of her skirt over her legs, revealing two taut lines made by her thighs. That was another thing. Everything women wore on dates was designed to drive men insane. It would be a miracle if he could get through dinner without attacking her. The thought of a solid wood table hiding the bottom half of her from sight comforted him. But still, there was the problem of her breasts in that skimpy leaf blouse.
“I—uh—was just thinking about whether you’d like the CD I just put in.”
“I can’t hear anything because the windows are down.”
“What?” Jude couldn’t hear what she said, he was so distracted by trying not to look at any part of her.
“I said I can’t hear you,” she shouted. “Should we roll up the windows?”
“Sure.” Jude rolled up both windows from his side. His car was conveniently equipped with master controls to the left of the driver’s seat. Perfect for successful date nights. He hadn’t had too many lately. Only one in recent memory.
The thought of the Friday before last stole over him, his fingers remembering the feel of her smooth, polished skin. Discreetly, he stroked his steering wheel.
“That’s my street down there,” he pointed to the left as they drove down East Putnam Avenue, also known as the Post Road. It was the same road Paul Revere and other mail carriers had ridden over from New York to Boston and back in the postal service’s early days.
“Really?” Farrah looked interested. “What’s that big building at the corner?”
“That’s Greenwich High School. My place is right next to it. My landlord’s place, that is. I’m in the pool house on the property.”
“Must be fun to live in a pool house.”
“It’s cozy.”
“Do you feel like you’re on vacation all year long?”
“Something like that.” He felt like he was on vacation right now, with her at his side.
In a minute the sign for La Cantina came into sight. It was Greenwich’s only Mexican restaurant and not the best one Jude had ever come across. He counted on its romantic, dark interior with banquette seating, awesome sangria and live music on weekend nights to make up for the less than amazing food. He’d be happy just to talk to Farrah although he’d like to dance with her, too.
Siga, siga, man, he told himself, using the Greek phrase for ‘slowly, slowly’ he’d picked up in Santorini the summer he was twenty-four when he’d hopped around Europe and ended up on one of the world’s most beautiful islands. Being a man on a Greek island in the summer season was about as lucky as a man could get.
That had been the summer he’d moved from the serving class to the ruling one. It had had nothing to do with money but rather with what he’d picked up on from Greek males.
Every single one of them appeared to be a member of the ruling class. Young, old, rich, poor—it didn’t matter. Every Greek man acted as if he were a minor god, if not a major one. He’d studied them closely when he wasn’t studying the Northern European girls all over the islands ready for fun in the sun as well as under the moonlight. The Greek girls had been largely hidden from view, most likely by their mothers or menfolk. Jude had been young as well as lucky. What he’d gained from one summer in Greece had stayed with him a lifetime. He’d had a hell of a good time, too.
Now, he was ten years older and ready to feel lucky again. He put his hand on the small of Farrah’s back as he propelled her to the entrance of the restaurant. His observation of Greek men had informed him it didn’t pay to be too gentle with women. It paid to be assertive and sometimes paternal, but never a pushover. Casper Milquetoast would have been stoned to death, then tossed over a cliff within days of arriving on any Greek island. The Greek males Jude had observed exhibited a protective, paternal sort of masculinity that charmed and comforted women and made something deep inside him want to cheer. He’d seen it in knee-high Greek boys with their mothers and sisters. Boy toddlers didn’t toddle in Greece. They swaggered, then maintained their swagger forever after. Some sort of basic male state of being existed in Greece that had been civilized out of Western Europe and the United States.
He’d kept his newfound knowledge to himself, aware of how politically incorrect it was. But the lesson had gotten under his skin and stayed there. Opening the door for Farrah to walk through, he stroked the small of her back with his thumb. He thought he felt her shiver. He took his hand away, hoping she’d miss it. More later. For now, less would be more.
IT WAS FUN to get out of the city. Some said Riverdale was really more an extension o
f Westchester County, but technically it was in the Bronx, one of New York City’s five boroughs. Farrah adjusted her blouse, thinking of Jude’s hand on her back that had so firmly guided her through the parking lot into the restaurant. She could swear she’d felt a slight caress just before he’d taken it away. Now, sitting across from him, she studied his face.
It was strongly sculpted. Whatever artist who’d been on duty the day he’d been created had been sure of himself. There was no ambiguity about his looks, the way there was with Will, with his mutable, connoisseur’s expressions. From every angle—the lines of Jude’s jaw, his cheek, then his brow were well-defined and consistent. His hair was medium-brown, thick, and wavy, his hairline youthful, with no hint of receding. Jude’s eyes were not so much midnight tonight as a deep, bright blue. Clear and focused, his gaze returned again and again to the leaf design on her blouse. She was glad she’d chosen it.
She remembered how fascinated she’d been with Will’s changing looks. His right profile had exuded strength, manliness. His left had hinted ‘sensitive artist,’ a man in need of a woman’s guidance. She had thought it was a sign of his complexity until she’d come up with another term for it—weak indecisiveness and inability to appreciate what he’d fought ferociously to possess, namely, her. If she gave him the chance, would anything change in the next round?
“What shall we drink?” Jude asked.
“What’s good here?”
“Margaritas. Also they’ve got a secret recipe sangria that’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Sangria sounds perfect.” She liked margaritas too, but tequila played tricks on her. It wouldn’t do to have psychedelic hallucinations on a night like this one. She knew neither the man across from her well nor the direction the evening would take. Better to stay clearheaded and nimble. Nothing with which a glass or two of sangria would interfere.
“White or red?” he asked.
“Red.”
“Good.” He turned in his seat, looking for a waiter. As he moved, the fabric of his shirt strained against the muscles of his upper arms under the soft-looking brown and maroon plaid shirt he wore. It looked as if it might be brushed cotton. Squelching an impulse to reach out and touch it, instead she combed her fingers through the shock of hair that fell over her right shoulder. Don’t fiddle with your hair at the dinner table, her mother’s voice intoned.
“Need a fork?” Strangely, Jude leaned toward her, handing her one he’d picked off the table.
“No. Why?” she asked, puzzled.
“You looked like Ariel for a minute. I thought you might want a fork to comb your hair with.”
She broke up with laughter at the earnest expression on Jude’s face as he waved the fork in front of her.
“How do you know about Ariel?” she finally choked out. His humor was a breath of fresh air after a heat wave, breaking the hothouse atmosphere between them.
“She’s my sister’s favorite mermaid. Her eight-year-old, my niece, is named Ariel.”
“So you’ve seen The Little Mermaid?”
“At least twenty-five times.”
She giggled. His words made her heart feel light.
“Do you see your niece often?”
“As often as I can. They’re on Long Island, so I get out there a few times a year.”
“Any family nearby?”
“No.” Jude’s face darkened, his eyebrows almost connected. Then the waiter arrived, cutting short whatever else he might have been about to say.
Farrah looked around the restaurant while Jude gave the waiter their drink order. Nautical motifs vied with Mexican ones as wall decor. A donkey piñata hung from the ceiling in the adjoining room in front of a collection of brightly colored buoys on the wall.
“Are we near the water?” she asked.
“About five minutes from the Mianus River.”
“Oh. I thought Greenwich was on the ocean.”
“It is. The Mianus empties into Long Island Sound,” he explained.
“Can you access it publicly?”
“Sure. The local marinas don’t mind people walking around. Want to go down and take a look after dinner?”
She shivered, nestling into her banquette seat, feeling exactly the way she had back in her junior year of high school when a blond-haired boy she’d liked had asked if she wanted to take a walk down by the river. “I love the ocean,” was all she’d said back, her heart pounding.
“It’s different from the Hudson River, for sure.”
“The Hudson is beautiful, but you can’t really get near it in my neighborhood.”
“I thought we did well last time we tried,” Jude answered, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth.
“That’s about as close as you can get,” she replied, trying not to blush. “There’s nowhere you can sit on the banks or get near the water.”
“Funny. Why’s that?”
His eyebrows lifted expressively with the question. She wondered if sometimes one went up without the other.
“Most of the riverfront is privately owned and what isn’t is owned by the railroad. They don’t allow access,” she explained.
“Seems odd to live next to a river and not be able to get near it.”
“I know. There’s some sort of Riverfront Alliance that lobbies the railroad to get them to create some public park space, but it’s not a popular idea in Riverdale.”
“Why’s that?”
“Too many residents who don’t want people from other neighborhoods coming into theirs. It’s a pretty private sort of place.”
“Homey too, right? Last time we got together you told me Riverdale was a nice neighborhood that people think back to fondly when they move away.”
She was impressed. He’d remembered their conversation almost word for word. “It is homey. Not fancy, but definitely homey.”
“I liked it.”
Inside, she glowed. He liked the place she’d chosen to make her home. Will would disdain Riverdale. He was all about fancy, not homey. She didn’t look forward to seeing his reaction to the neighborhood she’d moved to from the Upper West Side.
The waiter arrived, interrupting them. Jude chose a steak burrito special that sounded tantalizing, but Farrah decided on shrimp enchiladas. She loved seafood but rarely cooked it at home. It had a way of smelling up her galley kitchen, plus what was the point of preparing something special for just one person?
The waiter took their menus, and Jude picked up his drink. He took a long slug, then set it down and looked at Farrah, his eyes narrowed.
“So how was your week? he asked, one eyebrow going up.
“It was—hectic,” she said, scrounging for an adjective to substitute for confusing. “I have a chance to win—to win—” to win back my ex, but I’m not sure I want to.
A movement caught the corner of her eye. A woman in a broad-brimmed hat was approaching, a wide smile on her face.
“Jude,” she sang out. “Good to see you.” The woman’s china-doll blue eyes swept over Farrah too, her smile only slightly diminishing in intensity. She reminded Farrah of Christie Brinkley but with a longer nose.
“Anne. How are you?” Jude asked. He looked just a tiny bit nervous. Maybe she wasn’t the only one with an ex reappearing on the scene.
“I’m fine. Any luck with my contacts?” she asked Jude, the silk of her navy and white-striped sheath dress rustling as she turned.
“Yes. Every one of them as a matter of fact.” Jude was now smiling, but he hadn’t stood. Farrah wondered if he wanted her to go away.
“How’d it go with Jordan last night?”
Jude’s face flushed ever so slightly. “Great. The Garden Club was super.”
No one ever said “super” in the Bronx. It was one of those words from The Preppie Handbook. So he’d been at a social event with a woman the evening before.
“She told me she introduced you to boatloads of people. Did you sign them all up?”
Boatloads of people? Anothe
r term never uttered in the Bronx. Farrah imagined Will’s almost-wife to be something like the woman standing before them. The wide, bold stripes of her dress formed a perfect advertisement for her poise and confidence.
“I’m working on it.” Jude said, his eyes turning to Farrah.
The woman’s eyes followed his.
“So I see,” she said brightly. “Are you sponsoring Jude’s race for lymphoma?” she asked Farrah.
“I—uh—”
“Farrah, this is Anne Alexander, Chairman of the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Fairfield County. Anne, this is Farrah Foley.”
“How do you do?” Anne nodded without extending a hand.
“Hello.” Farrah smiled back, then looked at Jude. “What race is this?”
“It’s Leatherman’s Loop. The one you’re doing with me, right?”
“Oh that’s super,” Anne interjected before Farrah could reply. “So you’ve signed on with Jude’s team?” Her smile as charming as her eyes businesslike, Farrah guessed her to be a crack fundraiser.
“There’s no teams in this event, but we’ll be in the race together,” he told her.
“Wonderful. Then you can sponsor Jude,” Anne trilled, turning to the entrance. In the dim light Farrah made out a prosperous-looking older man in a dark green polo shirt waiting by the door. “Got to go. Good luck to both of you.”
Jude’s eyebrows went up. “Thanks?” It came out more like a question.
“With the race, I mean,” Anne giggled, then turned, her dress swishing importantly as she walked away.
Farrah looked at him. “You’re raising money for lymphoma?”
“I am.”
“I’ll sponsor you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he protested.
“I want to.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“I know. My mother died of lymphoma.”
“God.” Jude’s hand moved toward hers on the table. Before it reached her, it stopped. “I’m sorry. Was it—how long ago was it?”
“Eight years.”
“Too young,” he said.
“Yes.” She sensed he wanted to touch her, but she drew back.