Kimberly Stuart

by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch

  Mac let a puff of air escape his mouth in a gesture of disbelief or impatience, I couldn’t tell which. “You sure seem to have an active inner life, as Oprah would say.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You watch Oprah.”

  “Nah,” he said, hand on the door handle. “But sounding like I do impresses the ladies.” He winked and unfolded out of the cab.

  I waited for him as he strode in front of the truck toward my door. When he opened it, I stood on the running board, happy to have a small moment where I could tower over him. I pointed my finger at his nose. “I’ll participate in your uncouth form of dancing to music that demeans women and glorifies alcohol, cowboys, and trucks.”

  Mac cocked his head and smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

  “But.” I wagged my finger in his face. “I forbid you to make fun of my footwork, get me intoxicated, or otherwise humiliate me.” I lifted my chin and looked down on him. “And I might have to be taken somewhere else to use the restroom if the one here is as revolting as I suspect it to be.”

  Mac lifted me up and set me down gently on the ground. He kept his arms around me, letting the warmth from his hands linger on my sweatshirt. He looked into my eyes, which were wide and much like a deer’s in that moment.

  “What’s Eastman?” he asked softly, nodding at the lettering on my sweatshirt.

  “A music school. Very prestigious,” I said quietly, lightheaded at being this close to him.

  “Never heard of it,” he said, pulling away and turning me toward the neon. “Let’s dance,” he said, and slapped me on the rear. Hard.

  I walked slightly behind him, not sure whether I’d just been rebuffed or seduced. My rump hurt, in either case, and I hobbled along behind him, wincing at the sting.

  Mac held the door for me. I stepped past him and into another realm of neon, this time a pantheon to cheap beer draped in signage above the bar. Mac stood next to me and hollered a greeting to the bartender, a hefty woman in a denim shirt with Roadhouse embroidered on the pocket. I expected it to blink if I stared long enough.

  “Hey, Mac,” she said, ambling toward us. “How’re things?”

  “Good, good,” Mac said, taking off his cap and laying it on the bar. “How about yourself, Danelle?”

  “Fine,” Danelle said. She wiped out a glass with a white towel, sizing me up in a most unhurried fashion.

  I patted my hair, surprised anew that I’d been coerced out of my home looking this disheveled. Then again, Danelle in her denim wasn’t exactly mugging for Fashion Week either.

  She smacked her gum and placed the shiny clean glass on a shelf below the bar. “What can I get you two?”

  “I’ll have a Bud.” He turned to me.

  I didn’t think it productive to ask about the Roadhouse’s wine cellar. “Yes. Right. I’ll have cranberry juice, very little ice.”

  Danelle raised one eyebrow, still chomping on her gum, but obediently turned to retrieve our drinks. I took stock of our company. Two older men sat at the end of the bar, gray-haired, in farmer caps, and watching us in silence. At a small table near the dance floor sat a couple, the woman in her twenties with a profusion of red curls and the man, in his fifties or so, looking like a smug cat as she leaned over the table and whispered in his ear. I felt a strong urge to inform the woman that those ears likely grew long, bristly hairs that she would be called upon to pluck, should she stick around. But I was pulled back by Danelle’s husky voice.

  “Here you go,” she said, sliding a full tumbler of juice toward me.

  Mac cleared his throat before anybody got too nosy. “We’re here to dance, even if nobody else is.” He slapped a five down on the bar. “Turn up the music when you get a chance, will you?” He smiled at Danelle and picked up his beer.

  I followed him to a table opposite the mature man and his trophy. I nodded over to them. “I’m assuming she’s not his niece.”

  Mac took a swig of his beer and watched them over the lip of the glass. His eyes were very serious, taking in the scene as if it were an early Botticelli. “He’s a fool,” he said finally, cupping one hand around his glass.

  My heart swelled with joy at having heard such words from an attractive man in my age group. There was hope! All was not lost in the world!

  “If I was gonna get a young one like that, I’d at least make sure she was good-looking.”

  “You are an infuriating man.”

  He burrowed his hand into the small snack bowl between us and popped a handful of the orange-hued mix into his mouth. Even in the dismal lighting in the Roadhouse, I could see his eyes twinkling with mirth.

  “And you are likely eating something prepared in 1998 in the bowels of a New Jersey snack mix plant.” I shook my head, not even trying to fend off the blanket of despair that was beginning to cloak me. How has it come to this? I chastised myself. So I hadn’t been on a date in awhile. Did that mean I had to settle for fossilized peanuts with a man who drank Budweiser?

  Mac threw back his head, pushed his chair back until he balanced on only two legs, and laughed with such gusto it took him a moment to compose himself. I sat with my arms crossed, watching the redhead trace circles on the palm of pimp daddy’s hand.

  “Now, now,” Mac said, letting his chair regain its rightful pose and leaning over the table to me. He waited until I looked him in the eye. “You and I both know that man is looking to embarrass himself.”

  “He is?” I said, fiddling with the cocktail napkin under my cranberry juice.

  “Yes, he is.” He reached over and detracted my busy fingers from the napkin. He ran one finger slowly along each of mine. If only he’d waited one more week, I thought, entranced. Then I would have had a decent manicure.

  “Not only that,” he said, “but it is the humble opinion of this man that a woman becomes more beautiful with age, so that poor chap is missing the boat.”

  I looked at him skeptically, waiting for the shoe to drop. “But?” I said and pulled my hand away. I narrowed my eyes. “She’s probably a good romp in the meantime?”

  “Sadie Maddox!” Mac said, his eyes bulging in feigned offense. “Such language coming from a world famous opera star! You charm your public with that mouth?”

  As much as I would have liked to deny him the pleasure, I could not contain my laughter.

  He pushed away from the table. “Enough chitchat, sweetheart. All this verbalizing of feelings is wearing me out.” He offered me his hand to help me up. “Time for your first lesson in the two-step.”

  We hit the floor during a song that praised in no uncertain terms the full-figured woman. I found this to be exceptionally heartening and made myself teachable under the capable tutelage of Mac. Having no other experience with which to compare him and as we were the only couple on the floor, I hated to be too impressed, but he did appear to be a very good dancer. As with other forms of dance accepted by more civilized people, the man’s role in the dance was crucial. A good lead could make or break every single eight-count. But I was in good hands, literally. Mac spun me, whirled me, dipped me, twirled me, and I laughed like a schoolgirl for the first time in a long time.

  “You have very good rhythm,” he yelled over the music.

  “Thank you,” I yelled back. “Could you call the Met and put in a good word?”

  He chuckled, which I took to mean he’d at least heard of the Met. After two more wild songs, one about going fishing and ditching the wife to do it and the other about getting revenge on a boyfriend by torching his house, we slowed down and danced to a ballad.

  A woman sang in a lush alto about a man who loved her despite her cheating heart. We moved slowly back and forth, Mac’s arms around me and our feet barely shifting on the floor. I felt a happy exhaustion settling in and allowed myself the deliciousness of resting my head on his chest. My hair, I assumed, hung in dreadful, limp strands anyway by that point, not only because of my unexpected foray to the honky-tonk but also because I hadn’t let it be touched by any of the “stylists” in
Maplewood. Going to my salon in New York and letting Jack get his hands on the disaster was one of the first items on the next week’s agenda.

  Unable to stifle it, I yawned with a flourish into Mac’s chest. He spoke into my ear in order to be heard above the music. “Tired?”

  I nodded.

  We finished the song and he led me off the floor and out the door, waving to Danelle as we left. The sudden quiet of the night outside magnified the sound of our footsteps on the gravel. Mac let me into the truck and jogged around to his side. I shivered in my sweatshirt.

  “Warmer days now but our nights will be cool for awhile yet.” Mac said, cranking the heat as we pulled onto the highway.

  “I had fun,” I said, smiling at myself for the truth of those words.

  “Good.” He sounded pleased. “That was the goal.”

  We sat in silence the rest of the ride home, much like we did during our morning and evening commutes. I felt something had changed between us, come alive almost, and I wondered if I was the only one who’d noticed.

  Mac cut the lights on his truck before turning down the long driveway toward Cal and Jayne’s.

  “Now,” he said as we slowed to a stop near the front sidewalk. “You tell those big city friends of yours we know how to have good time in the middle of nowhere, too. Next time,” he said as he opened his door, “I’ll take you to work with me. Show you how to perform an autopsy on a horse.”

  “Why, I ask you, did you have to ruin this moment?” I shuddered to think of that field trip.

  We crept toward the house, hand in hand, not unlike two wily teenagers out past curfew. Mac turned the front doorknob with the finesse of a burglar and moved aside. I made no noise stepping over the threshold; Mac raised his eyebrows and nodded, impressed with my work. I waved and smiled then moved to close the door but Mac reached for me and pulled me to him. He leaned down and kissed me softly. I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply the scent of him. He pulled away. I took a breath to speak but he put a finger over his lips to shush me. In general, I do not appreciate being shushed, but considering the moment, I obliged.

  I stepped back and he closed the door, leaving me to tiptoe in silent wonder up to my room.

  16

  The Big Apple

  “Oh. My. Good. Gracious.” Jayne stood in capri pants, tennis shoes, and fanny pack and looked up. Her mouth formed an O, the back of her head tilted so her pale hair vibrated in a small, suspended arc. “I can’t believe I’m here.” She wiped away a tear at the corner of her eye.

  I rolled my eyes, certain that Jayne wouldn’t notice and that I wouldn’t have cared if she had. These kinds of exclamations had traveled with us to the Statue of Liberty and the viewing deck of the Empire State Building and it was only two in the afternoon. There was only so much I could do before unveiling the superhuman effort it was taking not to kill myself. For all my bravado about avoiding tourist traps, I’d succumbed to guilt and had agreed to shuttle my guest around to some of New York’s most popular attractions. I’d put my foot down at seeing Mary Poppins, the only Broadway show with tickets available. But I’d been unable to deny Jayne the pleasure of a double-decker bus and now, Forty-second Street.

  “Times Square in New York City,” Jayne said, shaking her head. “I watch every year when the ball drops but I had no idea how impressive it would be in person.”

  I wouldn’t have used that particular adjective, I thought as I gathered in our surroundings. Overrun by people with cameras, yes. Chock-full of overpriced, unimaginative food, yes. The object of many a native New Yorker’s disdain, absolutely. But impressive? I sighed again and started walking. Jayne followed closely behind, taking two steps for every one of mine.

  “Where are we going?” she asked excitedly. People jostled us on every side and I felt Jayne’s hand find my elbow.

  “Late lunch with Richard. Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” she said. I glanced at her face. It would not be overly dramatic to say she glowed. The woman had been smiling almost without fail since we stepped onto the puddle jumper in Maplewood. I had definitely underestimated how ready Jayne had been to get out of dodge. Certain the plane ride (her first) would present various challenges, I’d tucked into my handbag a packet of Dramamine, chewing gum for help with ascent and descent, and had given the gate attendant a heads-up before boarding that we had with us a first-time flyer who might become hysterical.

  Not a peep.

  Jayne had remained calm and unperturbed, happy to peruse her Today’s Christian Woman through a teeth-grinding ascent, in turbulence over Lake Michigan, and during a particularly trying odor incident in the final leg that had compelled me to use my air purifier. In fact, she had been the one to comfort me when I’d gone green from the smell.

  “We’re almost to La Guardia,” she’d said like a native, patting my hand and taking a sip of ginger ale.

  She’d been thoroughly appreciative of my apartment, commenting cheerily on the furnishings, which she assured me were very “fancy,” and she’d been keeping the living room, where she slept, impeccably clean. She’d even had the guts to leave the building early the first morning and with directions from Tom the doorman, had walked a block to my grocer to pick up essentials for breakfast. Just like on the farm, I thought, Jayne took care of my culinary needs without being asked.

  Lunch, though, had the potential to put a deep wrinkle in her Pollyanna outlook.

  “Jayne,” I said, turning a corner at a clip. “Are you familiar with Japanese food?”

  “Nooo,” she said slowly and not without a dollop of concern.

  “I’ve made plans to meet Richard at a Japanese noodle place a few blocks from here. Are you up for it?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Because Times Square has plenty of places to eat, if you’d prefer something safer.” And if you’d like to get suckered into a twenty-five-dollar plate of burger and fries like all these other saps, I thought as we passed a flock of them wearing matching Hard Rock Café T-shirts.

  We walked a few paces before she answered. “I’d like to go with you, if that’s all right.” She watched my face as we walked. “But I’ll need help ordering. I don’t speak Japanese.”

  I turned to her and laughed. I draped my arm around her tiny shoulders and squeezed her to me as we walked. “Jayne Hartley, you are impossibly perfect.”

  She grinned and scurried along to keep up with my stride.

  We reached the restaurant and my mouth began to water before I even opened the door. Although Richard and I had been here countless times, neither of us was sure of the restaurant’s name. We referred to it simply as the Unbelievable Noodle Place Off Times Square. The place was unbelievable for two reasons. First, the décor. Perhaps as a nod to its proximity to Times Square, the owners had ramped up the corny factor to new heights. Water features filled the place, several of them spilling into mini koi ponds where the “koi” were actually overfed goldfish. Fake greenery spilled from every crevice. A silver wallpaper border topped the pale peach walls. The crowning glory, a self-playing pink upright piano, stood in the middle of the restaurant and played easy-listening classics like the themes from Chariots of Fire and Ice Castles.

  Quixotic ambience notwithstanding, the food at the Unbelievable Noodle Place Off Times Square had transformative powers and was unfathomably inexpensive. This was the second reason for its treasured place in our collective memory. A girl could immerse herself in a vat of steaming ramen and forget very easily that goldfish were swimming only inches away from her feet and that “Mandy” was not, in fact, her favorite song. All this for under ten dollars.

  “Sadie!” Richard broadsided me and immersed me in a hug. He smelled of expensive pipe tobacco and cologne.

  I pulled away to see his face. We kissed both cheeks and I laughed at the pleasure of seeing him. “So, so good to see you,” I said. “You look fantastic.”

  “I do, don’t I?” he said, stepping away so I could get the full view. He turned to
my guest. “Jayne. You are lovely.” He leaned over to kiss her flushed cheek and her eyes widened at me over his shoulder.

  “Jayne Hartley,” I said, “meet my dear friend and former husband, Richard LaSalle.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you.” Jayne smiled and blushed, blushed and smiled, while Richard soaked up every bit of it like the last drops of French onion soup at the bottom of a bowl. “In person, that is,” Jayne added shyly.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Richard said, remembering. “We spoke on the phone that one morning. I believe you were on the way to church. Our table’s ready,” he said, ushering us to a four-top by the windows. “Church, right. Did Sadie tell you about how it was the church that compelled her to spend the semester in Iowa?”

  I shot him a look, and he grinned like the Cheshire cat as he pulled out Jayne’s chair. I seated myself.

  “No, she didn’t,” Jayne said. She looked at me, confused. “You mean like a missions trip?”

  Richard cackled and said through his laughter, “Yes, something like that.”

  I cleared my throat. “Jayne, it is imperative that you remember, in all your dealings with Richard, that he is not known for his truthfulness. Nor his discretion,” I added, narrowing my eyes across the table.

  “Now, now,” Richard said, reaching for my hand. “You know you love me. Have you missed me horribly or am I the only one who’s been miserable?”

  Jayne watched us with big eyes. A fleeting image of Mac and his quiet, deep laughter passed through my mind. I patted Richard’s hand and pulled mine out of his grasp.

  “Of course I’ve missed you,” I said, smiling and studying his face. “You look well. How are things?”

  As always, diverting the focus of the conversation to Richard himself worked beautifully in distracting from the issue at hand. He launched into a dramatic telling of the fiasco of the week, an errant stage manager at Juilliard who had placed the wrong score on Richard’s stand for one of the pieces he’d conducted at a weekend concert. Jayne listened with polite attention, though I suspected she was bored out of her mind. The food presented challenge enough for her once our dishes began to arrive. She huddled over her bowl of noodles, looking about half her age as she tried to decipher all the ingredients in the broth. I flagged down a waiter and asked for Western flatware after she’d struggled valiantly with her chopsticks and soupspoon for a good five minutes.