Nurture

by Susan X Meagher

  Her tone was bitterly cold, and Jim felt himself shiver. "Why in the fuck would I want that?"

  With a wry, astringent smile, she asked, "Am I the first one who played the game like you do?"

  "What game?"

  Kayla looked at him like he was slow and thick-headed. "The sex game. The cheating game. The 'I'll use you until I tire of you' game." She blinked when she saw the hurt on his face. "Don't even try to tell me you don't think of this as a game."

  "It's not," he said, indignant. "I've never thought of our relationship as a game, and it's very disturbing to learn that you do!"

  She got up and went to the bar. She didn't offer to make anything for Jim, but spent a few thoughtful minutes making herself a margarita. When she was finished she sat down on the sofa and took a sip. Conversationally, she said, "I can name four women at the firm with whom you've had affairs. Each one is about four years younger than the last, and rumor has it that you dumped each of them when a younger, more … shall we say … malleable one came along." She took another sip, savoring the tart tang of the drink. "Coincidence?"

  "Yes!" He got up and stalked over to the windows, his back to Kayla. "I was married. I couldn't afford to have significant, long-term relationships with other women. It was just … fun."

  "Fun," she repeated. "Kinda like a … oh, I don't know … a game?"

  "You make it sound so conniving," he muttered. "Like I used them."

  "You did," she said. "And they used you. All of them have done pretty well at the firm. I'd say they've kept up with the men in their peer group, and that's all a woman can hope for."

  "But you say you can't return to the firm," he said, turning to look at her again. "If they've done well, why can't you?"

  "Because I don't want to be number five on the list. I mean … I am number five, but I don't want that to be how I'm referred to at work. If I leave, people will forget me after a while and put your next conquest in the number five spot."

  He looked more aggrieved than she'd ever seen him. "People really refer to those women that way?"

  She laughed at his naïveté. "Of course they do. Being your ex gives a woman a certain degree of security. No one knows many details, but everyone's a little leery about crossing them. If you let them stay at the firm, you must still have a little place in your heart for them, and that's reason enough to steer clear."

  Walking to the bar, he said, "I never knew. I swear, I didn't know."

  "How many people tell you the truth?" she asked, cocking her head. "Does anyone?"

  He stopped in the middle of pouring a glass of scotch. Thinking for a moment, he said, "I guess you're the only one." He put down the bottle and walked over to her, then sat next to her on the sofa. "That's why I need you to go back to San Francisco with me. You're more than a fling to me, Kayla. I've really come to rely on you. I trust you."

  She reached down and took his hand, then smoothed her thumb across his skin. "I'm glad to hear that. I really am. I trust you, too … about work."

  "But not personally?" His eyes narrowed, reflecting his suspicions.

  "No, not personally. I can't trust a man who cheats on his wife."

  "You cheated with me," he said indignantly. "You're as much to blame as I am."

  She patted his hand as she would a child's. "No, that's not true. You were married, I wasn't. And even if you'd never met me, you'd still be a cheater. If I'd never met you, I wouldn't be one."

  "So … you've …?"

  "Never," she said. "And I'll never do it again. I still don't know why I did it. I guess I was genuinely attracted to you and thought we could be discreet enough to fly under the radar. I was just stupid," she said without any rancor in her voice.

  "Do you regret it?" he asked, carefully looking into her eyes.

  Once again she gave him a reassuring pat on the leg. "No, not really. I told you-I'm attracted to you. I think we work well together, and I've learned a lot."

  "So, how do you think of me?"

  "Mmm … I think of you as my boyfriend. I know it's not permanent, but I'm happy with you. I'd like this to continue until it doesn't work for one or the other of us, then we should let it go."

  "Just like that?"

  "Yeah. Just like that. I'll miss you, but I'm not in love with you, Jim. I put away that delusion when I found out about your history." She waited a moment, trying to decide if she should say what was on her mind. Deciding to, she added, "I think your wife is the only one who ever really loved you."

  Annoyed, he asked, "How can you know that? You've met her once."

  "True. But she's very attractive, very youthful looking, and very wealthy. Maybe she has her own string of lovers, but it doesn't seem logical that she would have stayed married all of those years if she didn't love you."

  "She did," Jim said solemnly. "I betrayed her time and again, and she forgave me each time but this one. I think she saw there was more between you and me than just sex."

  "There is," Kayla said. "But she made a mistake in thinking that extra bit was love. It isn't."

  "How do you know I don't love you?" Jim asked. "Would it make a difference?"

  "No," she said immediately. "That wouldn't change my mind. Besides," Kayla added, gentling her voice, "if you can't love your wife, a woman you promised to love, I don't know that you're capable of it. I'm sorry to say that, Jim, but if you don't love the mother of your child, you might just not be able to love a woman."

  He didn't say a word. Returning to the bar, he finished pouring his drink then returned to sit next to her. He used the remote to switch to the PBS station and settled down to watch Les Troyens, thinking of the night he and Catherine had seen it performed at La Scala. He could feel Kayla's body next to his, but he consciously tried to recall how it had felt to have Catherine pressed against him in the narrow seats, the lovely music washing over them, the light, floral scent of Catherine's perfume that he noticed every time he turned his head to whisper a little something to her.

  She's probably been there with her boyfriend by now. He sat up a little, his stomach aching each time he thought of her with that man. She was only mine, he thought. Only mine.

  At one o'clock on Saturday, Conor arrived at Catherine's new house. He had to park about fifteen blocks away, and while walking to the house, he decided that he'd better borrow Ryan's motorcycle if he was going to be making it a regular trek.

  He knocked on the door and she answered, looking very, very casual for Catherine Evans. He took in the blue chambray, man-style shirt and the buff-colored Capri pants and waggled his eyebrows. "You look mighty fine today, Catherine."

  "I thought I might have to climb up on the roof with the inspector."

  He waited for a second, then realized she was teasing him. "You look dressed-up to me, but if this is casual, it really works for you. Is the inspector finished?"

  "Yes. He left just before you got here. Ready to brainstorm?"

  "Sure am." He opened his nylon briefcase and took out a legal pad and a pencil. "Tell me everything you'd like in an office and we'll see if we can get it done."

  They spent the better part of three hours discussing which bedroom should be converted, what kind of lighting she wanted, how many electrical appliances she would be using, and a dozen other details. At four o'clock she looked at her watch and said, "No wonder I'm tired."

  "And hungry," he said, smiling.

  "Did you have lunch?"

  "Oh, sure. I always have lunch. I just usually have a snack at 3:00 or 4:00."

  "You know, I'm hungry, too. Do you have plans for dinner?"

  "Huh-uh." He looked contemplative for a moment and said, "You know, I thought we'd go over to Maeve's for dinner all of the time, but Kevin and Rory and I wind up ordering pizza or stopping for burritos most nights. Things have really changed."

  "Does it bother you?" Catherine asked, concerned.

  "No, not really. I'm almost twenty-nine. It's time for me to stop relying on my father to make dinner for me." He
let out a low laugh. "Time to find a woman to take over for him."

  "I have a feeling you're not ready to settle down yet," Catherine said, giving him an appraising glance.

  "You never know. You don't have any sisters or cousins or …"

  "No, Conor," she said, smiling at him. "I'm the only single woman in my family right now. Jim has a sister, though."

  "No offense to Jim, but I think I'd like your side of the family better. That is where the fortune is, right?"

  She patted him on the back. "That's right. I suppose you'll have to wrest Jamie away from Ryan."

  "Like I haven't tried!"

  Catherine refused to go out for dinner, insisting that only a natural disaster would compel her to appear in public in such casual clothes. Conor was happy to go to the Mission and pick up Mexican, but Catherine insisted on providing a proper dinner for him. She called a service that delivered meals from some of the best restaurants in the city, ordering a selection of appetizers and two entrees, just to make sure Conor had enough to eat.

  The feast arrived quickly, and they laughed as they set it out on the dining room table. The seller hadn't left any linens or dishes, so she set the foil containers directly on the wood. "My mother would turn over in her grave if she saw me doing this," Catherine said. "Actually, she'd faint to see me dressed this way."

  "We always ate at the table, but there wasn't much of a dress code … except for Sunday dinner."

  Catherine started to sit, but she stopped and stood up quickly. "Utensils!"

  "Utensils," Conor said, nodding gravely. "Plastic won't work, huh?"

  "I bought you a nice steak," she said. "I can't imagine a plastic knife will get through it."

  "Knife … knife …" He brightened, saying, "Hold tight. I've got just the thing." He walked to his truck, grousing to himself about the dearth of parking in the city. When he finally reached the vehicle, he pulled out a small bag of tools he always carried, then ran back into the house. "Snap-off cutters!" he exclaimed, holding them in the air. "We break off a couple of blades, and they're like brand new."

  Catherine extended her hand and Conor dropped an orange one into her palm. "I've never seen one of these," she said, curiously investigating it. "How does it work?"

  He showed her, then they both sat down and started to eat. Catherine didn't need the knife, since she only picked at a couple of appetizers and ate a good portion of the salad Nicoise. But Conor made good use of his tool, ripping through nearly everything that Catherine didn't consume.

  "Your appetite is even healthier than your sister's," Catherine observed, watching Conor eat his steak in a very determined fashion.

  He grinned. "Da says we all eat like polite wolves." He gestured with his fork while he swallowed. "But it's his fault. He used to serve the food on a big platter, so the faster you ate-the more you got. He should have divided the portions in the kitchen. Then we wouldn't have gotten into the habit of eating like beasts."

  "It's nice to see people who enjoy food," she said. "I still have a love/hate relationship with it."

  Cocking his head, he gave her a puzzled look. "You hate food?"

  She moved a tiny bit of seared tuna around on her paper plate. "In a way." She looked like she was going to avoid answering, but then she looked him in the eye and said, "I debate over every bite."

  "Huh?" His voice was several decibels louder than it had previously been.

  "You heard me," she said, looking a little embarrassed and shy. Her brown eyes were mostly downcast, and her chin was tilted away when she snuck a quick look at him. "I have a running argument with myself over every bite of food I eat. I always try to eat as much salad and vegetables as I need to satisfy my hunger, then I let myself have a few bites of something really tasty … like this tuna," she said. "It's divine," she said in a near whisper, her voice taking on a sultry tone. "But I'm fairly sure I'll be full enough without it. So I'm arguing with myself about whether I should eat it or not."

  "Eat it," Conor said immediately. "When in doubt, give into temptation."

  Catherine smiled fondly at the young man. "You sound so much like your sister."

  "She sounds like me," Conor said, then got back to the point. "You don't have to starve yourself," he insisted. "I … don't wanna get into your business … but you're awfully skinny … I mean, thin. You've lost a lot of weight in the last few months, haven't you?"

  She nodded and gave him a brittle smile. "I was getting a lot of calories from vodka."

  He ignored the import of her statement and said, "So eat a little more. You can't treat food like it's toxic. It's one of the best things about being human. There's a reason we have so many taste buds, ya know."

  "I have always … treated it like it's poison," Catherine said. "Being thin wasn't just encouraged at my house, it was required. My mother regarded extra pounds with disgust."

  She was quiet for a moment, but Conor could see that she had more to say. He could see her struggle.

  "I was bulimic in high school and college."

  "Is that when you …" He drew a line from his stomach to his mouth.

  "Yes. I'd sneak into the kitchen and take a fresh box of cookies and eat every one. Then I'd go down to dinner and eat next to nothing, then vomit afterwards. It was the only way I could … I guess … rebel."

  "Uhm … how long has your mother been gone?"

  "It'll be twenty-three years in June."

  Conor softened his voice and reached across the containers of food to gently touch her knee. "Isn't it time to started listening to yourself? Your mom didn't give you very good advice, Catherine. You don't have to listen to her anymore."

  She looked at him and saw his genuine concern for her. It touched her in a way that nearly took her breath away. Blindly, she patted his hand, and he removed it from her knee. "I'll … I'll think about that," she said. She took a breath and managed a smile. "Catherine Deneuve has said that a woman has to make a decision when she reaches middle age. You have to choose your ass or your face."

  Conor's eyes widened and he looked as shocked as he would have if she'd belched. "What? Choose them for what?"

  She laughed, a genuine one this time. "Which part you want to keep looking good. If you choose your face, you need to add weight to keep it full. You won't have as many wrinkles, but your derriere and hips will be a lot bigger. If you choose your ass, you can stay thin, but you'll look your age. A thin face starts to look haggard." She gave him a rueful smile. "Of course, most women in my peer group stay thin and start having plastic surgery at thirty-five. I'm already overdue."

  "You can put off that decision for a good ten years," Conor said. "And I hope you decide to leave that beautiful face alone. I think plastic surgery is a crock." He gave her his boyish, devilish smile. "Except for breast implants, that is. Those rock."

  She reached over and grabbed a lock of his hair and gave it a good tug. "You, Mr. O'Flaherty, are incorrigible."

  "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, still grinning.

  "That's exactly how I meant it," Catherine said.

  After cleaning up from dinner, they gathered their things and started to walk to Catherine's car. They walked up Divisidero, both of them silent until Catherine said, "I've been thinking of asking you for a favor, but I want you to promise that you'll say no if you're uncomfortable with it."

  "Uhm, okay, I think I can do that."

  "First off: do you own a tuxedo?"

  Conor chuckled. "The last tux I wore was to my high school prom. I think I weigh about fifty pounds more than I did then, so even if I did own it, I couldn't get it on."

  "How would you like me to buy you a nice tux in exchange for putting up with some of the most two-faced, insufferable women in the entire Bay Area?"

  "Hmm … Boy, you sure would make a good salesperson." Conor scratched his head and made a face. "Before I give you my answer I have one question-will you be there?"

  "Of course."

  "Then it sounds like a blast, wha
tever it is," he said. "You don't have to buy me a tux, though. I can rent one."

  "No offense to the rental houses, Conor, but those suits look like they're rented. This is a very elegant event, and I can't have my escort looking less than top-notch."

  "I can pay for my own suit, you know. I can get one for a few hundred dollars, can't I?"

  Catherine put her hand on his arm. "I'm inviting you as my guest, Conor. This isn't the kind if thing you'd go to on your own, so I'd really like to buy your suit. Is that all right?"

  "Sure," he said, nodding. "A couple hundred won't do it, will it?"

  "Sadly, no," she admitted. "Now, the event's in a couple of weeks, so we're cutting it close here. Can you make some time this week to go shopping? We'll have to work some magic to get the suit altered in time, but I think we can manage."

  Thinking that Catherine could probably charm any tailor in town into working overtime, he said, "Sure. I can be free any day after 4:00. Name the place and the time. Uhm … I can act like myself at this thing, can't I?" he asked with a touch of hesitancy. "I mean, you don't want me to impersonate a guy with class, do you?"

  She took his arm. "Conor, I couldn't dream up a man that would be one shred more interesting than you are. Of course I want you to be yourself."

  "Just checking." He gave her a smile. "Let's make a deal. I'll try to act like myself and not feel like a fish out of water, and you try to not give a crap about how much you eat or what your friends think of you."

  Catherine's eyes got big and she considered his proposal as they neared her car. She opened the locks and put her things on the passenger seat. "It's a deal," she said at last. "I'll do my best to go to one of these events and actually have a good time."

  "It's guaranteed," Conor said, confidence nearly oozing from him.

  Charles Evans was working on his sermon for the week when his phone rang. He was in the middle of a thought and was going to let the machine answer, but changed his mind on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

  "Senator James Evans is calling for Reverend Charles Evans. Is this Reverend Evans?"