Coming Attractions

by Bobbi Marolt

  Her response sounded cryptic, but Helen was about to make a choice without giving it or the stars a second thought. She pressed a kiss to Cory’s shoulder and then looked into her eyes. “I want to see you again.”

  “Is tomorrow too soon? Come for brunch.”

  *

  Cory jotted her address on a piece of paper and Helen slipped it into her wallet. At the door, she faltered. How do you say good night when you’ve just met, yet shared a kiss with enough passion to erupt popcorn? Or so it seemed.

  “Good night,” Helen said as she hugged Cory.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tucson called the following morning. Helen pushed her morning coffee away and leaned back into her chair. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

  “What do you mean you’re on your way to Seattle?”

  “We decided to sublet the apartment. We’ve packed a few essentials and we’ll get what we need when we find a place to live.”

  “Can you stop here first? I want to see you and Pete.”

  “No, honey, we’re already in Pittsburgh.”

  “Damn it. You said we’d get together.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Helen.”

  Their abrupt departure disturbed her, but she couldn’t stop them from leaving. At least they weren’t dying and would be a phone call away. Without asking, she knew he’d be back in town for an occasional function. If they were happy, she was happy, too.

  “I’ll miss you, Tucson. Call me, okay?”

  “You know I will.”

  “Oh, wait. Do you remember the woman that slammed into me and ruined my scarf?”

  “Yes.”

  “We had a date last night, and I’ll see her this afternoon.” Telling him felt right and she felt good saying the words. She had taken a new beginning.

  “That’s wonderful news. We’re about to enter the tunnels, so I have to go. We love—” Their connection was cut off.

  Helen washed her breakfast mug and dressed for her second get-together with Cory.

  *

  “That’s the Dakota.” The cabby handed the paper back to Helen and then pulled into traffic. “Have you there in no time.”

  Helen looked back to the handwriting. “The Dakota,” she said quietly.

  The residence wasn’t merely another apartment building in just another neighborhood. For Helen, mention of the Dakota conjured up flashes of Central Park West, John and Yoko, Lillian Gish, and Rudolf Nureyev, to name a few. A gnat’s eyelash away, in the San Remo, lived Mia Farrow, but gone were the days of Woody Allen. Money and fame had resided on Central Park West, along with history and headlines.

  *

  Cory greeted her at the door and whisked her into the kitchen. Helen looked around the large room. An ensemble of copper-clad pots and pans hung from the ceiling, crowning a butcher block and sink. Each cabinet door was clear glass and every item was orderly. And tile! White tile from floor to ceiling gave the room a sterile feel.

  “I apologize for being abrupt. I have to get this off the heat.” Cory scurried to the stove, lifted a kettle, and poured its creamy white, rich soup into a serving dish. She covered it and turned to Helen. She let out a quick breath. “I’m glad you’re here. Hungry?”

  The tang of sour cream hit her nostrils and Helen nodded quickly. “Yes. You cook? That’s something I have no talent for.”

  Cory’s sweat suit lent sensuousness to her swagger as she walked toward Helen. She laced their fingers together. “Where does your talent lay, Ms. Townsend?” Cory teased and kissed her cheek.

  “All dormant,” she said and matched the kiss.

  On cue, her hyperactive mind kicked in and discharged a volley of electrical impulses through her brain.

  What’s dormant? The kiss? The bath? Remember the bath, Helen? Those eyes that penetrated your thoughts and hurled you into the most exquisite—?

  Enough. The room suddenly became too warm for Helen. She cleared her throat with that same pathetic sound she’d made during the ambush. She backed away.

  It was then that she noticed an alcove and dining table. That niche wasn’t as medicinal, with its walls stripped of tile. Instead, small pears and peaches were clustered on wallpaper with a golden-yellow background. The space felt cozy, and Helen envisioned a comfortable breakfast there.

  The small table was perfectly set with crystal and silver. In the center, a small assortment of fresh fall mums burst with colors of red, orange, and yellow, their colors embellished by streaming sunlight.

  “Is all of this for me?” she asked.

  “All for you.” Cory looked toward the table and back at Helen. Her bangs had loosened and she looked adorably impish. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Beautiful.”

  Over soup and salad, they discussed Helen’s research on the Third Reich and her interest in German-occupied Poland. Her intention was to write a book on the ghettos of Warsaw and Lodz and the death camps, primarily Auschwitz, Dachau, and Buchenwald.

  “I had planned to travel to Auschwitz with my father, for hands-on research, but then I shelved the book.”

  Cory munched her salad. “Was that when Chelsea died?”

  “No, years before her death. Solidarity and Lech Walesa were coming into power and the entire Eastern Bloc was experiencing dramatic change. Travel there wasn’t exactly safe.”

  “I’ve been to Poland,” Cory said as easily as another person would say they’d been to Philly. “It’s a remarkable country with a fantastic history. They have quite a love for their country. After the war, the old city of Warsaw was rebuilt through photographs and works of art.” Cory rattled on. “The Black Madonna…”

  Her remark surprised Helen. Nobody “goes” to Poland, and nobody says it’s a remarkable country with a fantastic history. Forever, Poland has taken the brunt of ethnic jokes.

  Helen wiped her mouth with the napkin and then placed it neatly on the table. Remembering the vastness of Cory’s residence and the fact that she’d seen no piano while she shuffled through, she felt uneasy. Who was this Chamberlain woman? She eyeballed her with suspicion.

  “Were you visiting the country?”

  “I traveled there for business first and then pleasure.” Cory stood and began clearing the table.

  Used by women. Secretive. She’s a spy. For us? For the KGB? She’s a Commie. A pinko. A sympathizer. Who else would infiltrate Poland on business and then pleasure? Sure, overthrow a country today, feast on its bounty tomorrow. The nerve. But where did the piano come in?

  “Wait,” Helen said. “There’s something I don’t understand. What exactly is it that you do?”

  “I travel,” she said. “A lot.”

  “So will you answer my question?”

  “Yes.” She sat quietly for a moment, almost as though she weighed her answer. “Come with me.” She took Helen by the hand. “I haven’t been totally up front with you, but it comes from my insecurities.” Cory led her into the living room and stopped in front of large oak double doors. “This is where I leave my vanity.”

  She opened the doors and Helen stepped inside. Cory stayed at the threshold, leaning against the door, her arms crossed. Helen slowly walked around the room.

  Framed posters occupied most of the white wall space. She read them aloud: “Chamberlain Plays Chopin. Two nights only.” It was from a recent Carnegie Hall date. Then, “Cory Pops With Boston,” a Boston Pops guest appearance. One poster displayed a photograph showing only Cory’s eyes, with the remaining features in shadow. Helen wanted to touch the poster but didn’t. She continued to read the placards that sent her around the world: London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Warsaw.

  Cory rustled at the doorway and Helen continued her survey. Finally, she walked to a grand piano that faced a wall whose windows held no drapes. Cotton clouds and blue sky reflected clearly from the top of the ebony instrument. She touched the polished finish and noticed, in another corner, a life-size porcelain statue.

&
nbsp; “Apollo. The god of music,” she said.

  She attempted an abrupt about-face, but still another item on the wall stopped her. There, in a black frame, stood Cory and her delicious half-moon grin, shaking hands with Queen Elizabeth. Beside the photograph hung a framed program. Helen read the entire page. “By Royal command, in recognition of her outstanding contribution to the arts, Coryell Chamberlain performs Brahms and Borodin, in the presence of Queen Elizabeth II, at The Royal Albert Hall, eight p.m. on August twenty-first, nineteen ninety-four.”

  Helen completed her about-face and glared at Cory. “You were commanded by the Queen? Well, isn’t that special?” Helen scoffed. “Doesn’t that make you a knight or something?” She stepped up to Cory. “Are you trying to make a fool of me?”

  Cory stood erect, surprised by Helen’s anger. “No. Helen, I—”

  “When did you plan to tell me? You said you’re a musician and I’m thinking, okay, a local with talent, but this—” She glanced around the room, shook her head, and pounded out, through the double doors. Cory followed.

  “You don’t understand. Let me explain.”

  “Do you know how foolish I feel? You’re an international celebrity and I didn’t recognize you. Obviously, I’ve had my head up my ass for three years, but you didn’t have to keep this from me.” Helen found the kitchen and grabbed her jacket. She turned to Cory. “I prefer honesty to half-truths.”

  “Helen, performing for the Queen was a great gig. It doesn’t mean—”

  “Last night I marveled at how real you were.” She looked into the eyes that began to pull her under again. Along with her anger, she felt arousal, which left her with two options: either get the hell out of the building or begin to remove those sweats that looked adorable on Cory. Helen hoisted her pocketbook over her shoulder. “I’ll find my way out, thank you.”

  Pushing past Cory, she wouldn’t look at her. Embarrassed, she wanted first to run hard and then deal with the anger.

  “Wait,” Cory said as Helen blindly made her way toward the entrance. “Let me explain.”

  “You have nothing I want to hear.” She closed the door firmly behind her, loud enough that it echoed in the hallway. “‘A musician,’” she said sarcastically and entered the elevator. “‘Known to dabble,’” she mocked. “All of a sudden I have fucking nobility on my hands.” She pounded her hand against the back wall of the elevator. “Damn it. I never say that word.”

  The Carnegie Hall poster, those green eyes. Helen thought she’d probably passed the music hall a dozen times while those eyes watched. She remembered the poster now, the way Cory seemed to beckon her. She’d never given those eyes a second thought. That would have been a slap in the face to her devotion to Chelsea.

  Helen hurriedly walked the distance to Lincoln Center. She sat at the edge of the fountain and pigeons gathered around her. They cooed and seduced her for a possible meal.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said to the feathered creatures. “You’re really doves incognito.” She reached toward a bird that had ambled close to her feet. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, and the bird took flight. Helen leaned her elbows on her knees. She buried her face in her hands and tried to justify how she felt.

  What are you afraid of?

  “She lied to me.”

  She didn’t. She is a musician.

  “She held back. I don’t like her ways.”

  You like pain?

  Helen looked at the granite walkway beneath her feet. “I’m fine.”

  You’re a spider web. The dead cling to you.

  She looked at the steps across from her. “How can I trust her?”

  She meant no harm. She’s been used.

  “I won’t be her savior.”

  You could be her lover.

  Helen bit her lip. “There’s plenty of women for her to lure into her life.”

  Don’t be afraid.

  “Of what?”

  To admit how lonely you really are.

  Helen wanted to cry. Not for half-truths but for the three years she’d lost. Dead time. Safe time. Now this woman had barged in and slammed her life into a tailspin. She spiraled downward, faster and faster. She closed her eyes. Tears spilled from them.

  “I am lonely.” She wiped the tears with her palm and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Intimacy was a ghost for her. Sex had become four minutes of self-gratification on the nights when she had felt emotionally close to Chelsea. And now, this woman, this Cory Chamberlain, had her feeling that another human’s touch had no equal.

  No equal. She wondered about Cory’s breasts. She could feel their smooth curves warm her cheeks and palms, could feel them pressed against her own breasts. She laughed at the irony, remembering her inability to structure a proper sentence in Cory’s presence and realizing that now she wanted nothing less than to feel all of Cory against all of herself.

  “Okay, Townsend, settle yourself.” She took a deep breath and looked around the outside of the performing arts center. “Now what do I do? Go home and clean something? Oh, I’m getting awfully good at that. The whole place looks like the Ajax white knight moved in.”

  Helen cringed and groaned. “Damn it. Knighthood is reserved for Englishmen. I know that. I don’t even know if the Queen still does it. Of course she does. Maggie Smith, Anthony Hopkins, Paul McCartney.” All wore the modern title of Dame or Sir. “Cory must think I’m an idiot.” Helen pushed herself up from the fountain. “Well, little birdies, I’ve my intelligence to prove.”

  She made a single phone call before leaving. “Hi, it’s Helen Townsend. Can you have the Princess ready in a few hours?” She looked at her watch. “Four sounds perfect.”

  *

  The return walk to the Dakota afforded her time to pull her emotions together. By the time she reached Cory’s door, she felt more comfort with the direction she was about to take. She knocked softly on the apartment door.

  “It’s open.”

  Helen opened the door. “You don’t say that in New York and survive,” she said in warning, and closed the door behind her.

  Crouched in front of the aquarium, Cory swung around, lost her balance, and fell to her knees. She blushed, then smiled bashfully. “I’ve misplaced my social graces as well. I had a feeling it was you.”

  “Proper position for a knight to greet her lady.” She dropped her pocketbook and jacket to the floor. She approached slowly and knelt in front of Cory. Her eyes never strayed from Helen.

  “It was a Royal Command Performance.” She took Helen’s hand, brushed her lips across the fingers, kissed the tip of her thumb. “Knighthood is reserved…” Her voice mingled with the soft sounds of a bubbling aquarium.

  “I know,” Helen said. “I came back to…to tell you…” She moved forward and nuzzled Cory’s ear. “You’re a tease.” She bit into Cory’s neck. “An attractive, soft, warm, and wonderful tease.” She licked the abused flesh.

  “No.” As Cory pulled Helen’s mouth close to her own, her eyes searched Helen’s. “This is real.”

  Their mouths came together. Cory’s tongue slid deeply into her and Helen hungrily captured each stroke. Her hands swiftly traveled over Helen’s breasts, down her sides, and beneath her sweater. Her fingertips painted lightly over Helen’s belly while warm lips rained kisses onto Helen’s face.

  “Come to my bed,” Cory said.

  “No.” Helen released Cory’s hair from the elastic and gathered it into her hands. She nuzzled the cool thickness, breathed the lilies. “I want you here. Right here in front of the fish, but not now. Not yet.” She moved away and took a deep breath. “We’re going for a ride.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Where are we heading?” Cory asked while they sped along I-684.

  “Westchester County Airport.”

  “Oh. Is someone waiting for you? If I’d known you had other plans, I would have invited you for another day.”

  “No other plans,” Helen said. “There’s something I want to share wit
h you.”

  “Okay.” Cory turned in her seat to face Helen.

  “How was your trip to Boston?”

  “Perfect. The Pops pianist had taken ill and they called me to cover for him. I always have fun with that group. I was also asked to conduct two pieces.” She held her arms in the air and motioned a down beat. “There’s nothing like conducting a group of talented musicians.”

  “Multitalented, huh? I have to admit that I don’t own any of your recordings.” She pulled into the airport. She hadn’t been there in months and it was time to spread her wings. “Follow me,” she said when they left the car.

  A short walk later, an airport official met Helen on the tarmac.

  “It’s good to see you again, Helen. The wind is a little tricky today, but I don’t think it’s anything you can’t handle.” He took the pre-written flight plan that she handed him and tucked it into his jacket.

  She grabbed Cory’s hand. There was a hesitation to Cory’s step as they followed him to a white Piper Tomahawk. On the side of the fuselage was the word Princess painted in pink. “She looks great, Bill.”

  “The mechanics checked everything and I took her on a trial run. She’s purring like a kitten.”

  Helen ran her hand along the propeller of the single engine plane. “Thanks,” she said and turned to Cory. “Ready to go for a ride?”

  “You’re a pilot?” she asked.

  “Taught to fly by my father and I was licensed at eighteen. Come on. Let’s have some fun.”

  Bill assisted Cory onto the wing and buckled her into the copilot seat. Helen visually inspected the outside of the plane. After determining that all was safe, she hoisted herself onto the opposite wing and climbed inside the cockpit. She was proud to share this time with Cory, and it felt like a playful “look what I can do” after seeing Cory’s music room. Not that she needed to get even, she only wanted to feel special, something more than a writer for a newspaper.

  Helen turned the key, and the single engine coughed and the propeller finally spun on the nose of the plane. She adjusted her headset. Each gauge showed the proper reading and the gas tank registered full. She checked the position of the flaps.