Dakota broke eye contact and toyed with the chain-link watch around her wrist—a gift from a long-ago boyfriend.
“But you aren't really asking if I regret raising a family or not having a so-called career,” Clarice said then, interrupting her thoughts. “You want to know if I was content being with only one man my whole life.”
Dakota shot an upward glance and was met with keen eyes. “Yes, that's right,” she admitted.
“Here's the truth—” Clarice crossed her ankles and folded her veiny hands across her mid-section. “Our marriage had its ups and downs and there was a time when I was tempted to have an affair.”
Dakota gaped at the elderly woman with rapt attention. Good, honest, pure Clarice had thought of cheating on her husband? Now this was news.
“Marv and I were going through a time where he was working long hours away from home,” she explained, “and I was lonely. It became a strain on our relationship—the not being able to spend much time together.” She touched a hand to her silky hair and went on, expression growing distant: “There was a man who worked at the grocery store—a uh, produce manager, I believe—and he was about my age and very handsome. We started being friendly with one another but it was really quite innocent.
“Eventually, however, it got to the point where what used to be a nod of greeting became a rather lingering conversation each time I carted the kids off to the store for goods. One day I realized I was looking forward to seeing him every week, and that scared me. I loved Marvin with all my heart and it horrified me that I was attracted to another man.”
Dakota leaned forward slightly, breathless and pulse pounding. This proved her theory about marriage and the insanity of being committed to just one man. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach and a tension headache pinched her temples. What should have been a feeling of triumph felt more like grave disappointment.
Deep down, she had always hoped Clarice would prove her wrong in this one thing.
“So, what happened?” she asked, holding her breath.
Clarice unclasped her hands and smoothed out her paisley skirt. “Oh, I deluded myself for a while with rationalities—It's only a harmless friendship—What does it matter if he's handsome, lots of men are handsome—” A curt look. “But—after a couple of months had gone by, it became quite clear to me that he was interested in more than friendship.” She lifted her chin. “And I finally admitted to myself that I was also interested in more.”
Dakota tried not to sneer. “Let me guess—Like a proper Christian woman, you denied yourself and switched grocery stores.”
A bubble of a laugh. “I suppose you could put it that way. But that makes it sound like a sacrifice. Faith aside, I simply realized that if I were to continue cultivating a relationship with that man, it would most certainly have developed into a love affair. But even though I was attracted to him and was charmed by his personality, I was still very much in love with Marvin!” She leaned forward, expression sombre now. “Listen to me, Rose. I was not willing to lose my husband over it—even if it seemed exciting. Though what affairs ever end in anything but shame? Not to mention how it would have devastated my children. No. If any sacrifice were to have been made, it would have been to lose Marvin—not to forgo an affair.”
“But you said that he was never home and you were lonely. What kind of companionship is that?”
Clarice raised an eyebrow. “As I said, our marriage—like any marriage—had its shares of ups and downs. It wasn't always that way, Rose. Just for a season. Why—imagine if people started abandoning their loved ones any time the going got tough. What if I disowned my children during their moody teenage years? What if they'd abandoned their father during his four years of battling cancer? If you really love someone, you stick by them even during the hard times—because that's what true love is.”
Dakota poured herself another tea, knowing it was cold now, and didn't bother to add milk. It was only a distraction anyway—an excuse for pause. She took three slow sips and tried to focus her thoughts.
“I don't doubt that you loved your husband,” she said, keeping her tone respectful, “but what about the fact that you were falling for another man? You'll never know what could have been! Don't you feel like you've missed out?”
To this she was met with a sigh and an unexpected look of sadness which deepened the soft lines of the elderly woman's face. “Rose,” she said, voice nearly a whisper, “you don't understand. God has only given us one life to live. I am only one person. You can't live a bit of this life and a dab of that life without consequence. You can only live one life, and every single decision you make will guide the course it takes. I chose to remain faithful to the man I already loved—the man I had committed my life to and raised a family with. Yes, I was attracted to another man… but my heart belonged to Marvin.”
Chapter 27
On her way home that evening, Dakota stopped at a drug store and picked up a hair-dye kit to retouch her roots. If she waited any longer to do it, people were going to realize that ash-blond wasn't her natural color.
When she was all done, she dried her hair, fluffed it and stood staring at herself in the wide mirror above her bathroom sink.
The room was suffused by a row of flickering pillar candles of varying heights. She was in the habit of muting the bathroom lights, preferring to see her reflection in the smooth, warm way that others saw her in the dim lighting of clubs and fancy restaurants. Sunshine streaming through the bathroom window or the blaring incandescent lights over the sink made her feel overly exposed: worry lines, older eyes and paler lips.
With a sigh, she blew out the candles one at a time and went into her bedroom. She removed her housecoat, pulled on violet flannel pajamas and a pair of sheepskin slippers. It was her favorite outfit to lounge in when no man was around. If romance wasn't the plan for the evening, she preferred to forget about her body for a couple of hours and enjoy being comfortable. Silky negligees were completely impractical when she was alone.
After preparing herself an olive martini, she took the cocktail glass with her to the living room and set it down on a glass end table, its base clinking.
White was a running theme throughout most of the house but especially in this room—white sofas, white picture frames, white lamps, white window shades, and a white fur rug beneath the glass coffee table. In a far corner stood a bamboo floor plant and the garden mural filled the adjacent wall. A tubular vase of orange roses sat in the center of the coffee table; she made a point of bringing home fresh-cut flowers each week.
After setting a radio to a Classical station, she pulled a hard-cover book from a bookcase and set it down on the coffee table. It was a book safe she'd made herself as a teenager by cutting out a large, inch-deep rectangle in the center and glue-gunning the pages together.
She lit a mocha candle, switched on an end table lamp and opened the book, pulling out a bag of weed, hand-rolling tobacco, mouth piece, and rolling paper. It was something she rarely did—perhaps only half a dozen times a year. A gripping desire for escape overwhelmed her. And without a man around, this seemed like the best way to do it.
Her first experience with marijuana was when she was fourteen. With that sexy young friend of her dad's. And if she allowed herself to be completely honest, she could remember those daring nights as they really were.
She arranged a decent pile of tobacco and dried-green cannabis in the center of the paper. Then she added the mouth piece and rolled it up together into a tight cone-shape, twisting and trimming the tip. Before lighting it, she took a sip of her martini and set the glass down on the floor. She leaned back against a couch pillow, put up her feet and brought the lit joint to her lips.
***
Dakota hadn't really noticed Ryan Hill when he first started showing up for her father's poker games, but one night she'd bumped into him in the kitchen when she went to grab a soda.
Most of her dad's friends were older, middle age, but this guy was much younger; like one
of those hotties from Beverly Hills, 90210. She'd seen him from a distance before; he lived down the road in an old farmhouse.
Having thus seen him up close for the first time, she was star-eyed. From then on, she made a point of going to the kitchen for a glass of water or soda whenever she saw him head in that direction. She also stopped wearing shorts to bed with her over-sized T-shirt. She didn't really know what she was doing, but she'd seen this in movies before and understood that long bare legs were sexy.
After one month of obsessing over him, daydreaming about him constantly and writing his name on every page of her diary, he asked her how old she was. For a moment she panicked, fearing he would think her a stupid kid, and blurted out that she was seventeen. His pleased grin indicated that he believed her and she almost giggled with excitement when he nicked her chin with his knuckle and gave her a wink.
The first time he kissed her took her breath away—she'd never been kissed before.
It happened two weeks later in front of the kitchen fridge. The poker game had been going on for a couple hours already in the living room and they were well out of view of anyone who might happen to glance toward the closed-off kitchen. With one deft movement, Ryan pulled her against him and kissed her lips—hard and fast.
Before she could say a word or open her eyes, he slipped something cold and metal into her hands.
A key.
“Come see me tonight, baby,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her earlobe. “You know where I live.” He pulled away and moved to leave the kitchen, a sly grin on his face. “Three a.m., sweets… . Don't disappoint me.” He left the room with a charming wink that turned her knees to jelly.
After milling about her bedroom for three hours, watching TV and impatiently eying the clock, it was finally 2:30 a.m. She washed her face, put on fresh makeup, some jewelry, jeans and a tee, and ran a brush through her amber-colored hair. She slipped the key into her pocket and opened her bedroom door a crack.
The house was dark.
Her mother wasn't home, as usual, and her father was snoring away in his bedroom down the hall. As quietly as possible, she took the creaky steps to the main floor and went outside, shutting the heavy front door behind her with a click.
Outside was a warm summer night; the sky bright with a full moon. A chorus of crickets and night peepers filled her ears. She hurried down the street, cheeks hot, and cut through a neighbor's field to Ryan's house; a farmhouse he shared with several friends. How many times of late had she made an excuse to walk past this house in the daylight, hoping to catch a glimpse of him?
The second floor was unlit and shadowed, but two of the main floor windows were yellow. She climbed the front porch steps and unlocked the door slowly, hands tremulous and clammy. The door swung open on hinges needing oil and made a harsh sound. Ryan stepped out of a nearby room to her left; looking to see who had entered.
He beamed at the sight of her.
She hesitated before starting toward him, feeling shy, and he motioned for her to follow him into the room he had come from; cooing at her like she was a timid puppy in need of coaxing. With tentative steps, she crossed the front corridor and entered a narrow room with a television atop a dresser, a coffee table scattered with magazines, and a well-worn Futon in couch position. A tall sash window with heavy drapes filled the center of the far wall.
She didn't really know what to expect. She'd spent most of the night and the past month daydreaming about kissing and cuddling, and it was hard to imagine anything beyond that; she had no experience to draw upon. Maybe it was a bit foolish to sneak out to see Ryan in the middle of the night, but he was such a sweet guy. It's not like her parents cared either. And besides, it was exciting. She couldn't believe that the man of her dreams actually liked her. It seemed too good to be true.
As she had innocently fantasized, they kissed and cuddled for awhile—she like putty in his hands. But as time passed, Ryan stopped being gentle and got a little rough. She was so enamored by his attention that she didn't protest at first, even when his caresses started to hurt and embarrass her.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be!
An hour later, she tried to hurry back home but there was too much pain between her legs to walk fast. She hugged her arms around her chest and followed the fence line of the field along the side of the dirt road that lead back to her own house. Her father was still snoring away upstairs. She went to her bedroom and undressed, thankful that her absence hadn't been noticed by anyone. After pulling on an over-sized T-shirt, she grabbed her pajama shorts and carried them with her to the bathroom.
Dried blood made a trail down to her right knee. She wet a cloth and wiped away the blood, pulling on underwear and shorts.
She hadn't expected… this.
Several days went by before she was ready to talk to her friends about it and when she finally did, she'd rearranged the memories so many times in her heart of hearts that she was able to tell them a convincing tale of a romantic rendezvous. Her friends were jealous and something about their admiration made her feel good inside again. It helped to lessen the shock and numbness she had been feeling all week. Maybe it wasn't all that bad. It was just her first time, after all. It was going to be better the next time, she was sure of it.
And she'd already decided that there would be another time.
The second time, Ryan kept his key and told her she need only climb into his bedroom window whenever she wanted to see him. He would keep the sash open for her.
He was smoking pot that night, and not wanting to seem like a child, she pretended that smoking pot was something she was used to doing. But the truth was she'd never tried it before; had only ever heard the boys whisper about “Mary Jane” in math class from time to time. She knew her mom did pot too, but she'd never seen her do it in the house.
They shared a joint and it was all the strength she had to hold back the spasms of coughs that swelled in her burning throat during those first couple of inhales. When the high started, she felt like she was wandering around in a dream. This time, the sex didn't seem so rough and painful. And as the weeks passed, it gradually became pleasurable.
She was in love. Madly in love. Never in her life had she felt so close to another human being. Ryan was her world. Her prince. And she adored him.
From here, the memory turned sour. A cool evening in September. One o'clock in the morning. The window sash was closed and the drapes shut. Through a narrow slit in the curtains, she peered in on a room full of people. Several guys and several girls. No, not girls. Women. And they were drinking beer and smoking joints and having fun. It was a party. She went to the front door and knocked, figuring Ryan would be delighted to have his girlfriend join them.
When he opened the door, he slipped outside and shut the door behind him. “Rose, hey. Look, sweety, tonight doesn't really work for me. You go home, okay?” He nicked her chin with his knuckle and winked, reaching for the door handle behind him. He went back inside, leaving her standing in the shadows of the front porch.
When she returned the following weekend, the window and drapes were closed yet again. Through the chink in the drapes a woman with wavy blond hair was sitting on the Futon next to Ryan, her feet up on the coffee table and a beer in hand.
Ryan's arm was draped over her shoulders.
Rose ran all the way home and curled up in a ball under her blankets, sobbing until she was hoarse. Her mother was home that night but if she'd noticed her daughter's sobs, she made no effort to check in.
The next day she hitched a ride into Barrie with her mother and bought a bleaching kit and hair dye. After dying her hair blond, like the woman in Ryan's bedroom, she decided to change her name to Dakota.
As far as she was concerned, dumb little Rose Reilly no longer existed.
Chapter 28
Dakota woke with a start to find herself sprawled out on the couch rather than the bed.
Morning sunlight poured across her pajamas and slippered feet through t
he front window. She sat up stiffly and ran a hand through her hair, glancing about the room.
She must've fallen asleep doing pot. On the floor next to her, a martini glass lay empty on its side. The olive had rolled away and settled where it made contact with the fur rug beneath the coffee table. Groaning, she moved to the edge of the couch and leaned forward, retrieving both the glass and the olive. She set them on the low table, gathered up her marijuana materials and put the book safe back on the shelf.
It was a relief to know Jaelynn was opening shop this morning. Being the owner of the business certainly had its perks, but it was rare day when she slept in on a weekday.
She reached the flower shop by nine-thirty.
Jaelynn was in the back room brewing coffee and gathering together materials for an order of bouquets she was working on that day.
“Good-morning,” Dakota sang as she brushed into the room and grabbed a clean coffee mug from an upright cabinet. She poured a coffee, scooped in some Coffee-mate powder and leaned up against the counter, stirring it as Jaelynn picked out several rolls of ribbon.
Jaelynn glanced her way and laughed, brushing a strand of fair hair off her cheek. “Someone's eager for caffeine,” she said. “You've got that crazed look in your eye.”
“I won't deny it.” Dakota sniffed at the coffee in exaggerated delight and grinned. “It's a socially-acceptable addiction, eh.” A wink.
Jaelynn tucked a bundle of bouquet materials under one arm and reached for her crutch. It was looking like she'd need to make several trips at this rate. “My 'socially-acceptable addiction' is cookies,” she said with a laugh, hobbling out of the room.
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