by Jane Heller
I smiled, thinking he probably had. Still, I found the conversation ironic, to say the least. There I was, receiving career counseling from a man I’d written off as a deadbeat.
“So take it from me, Crystal. If Duboff Spector isn’t treating you right, go do what you do someplace else, someplace where they’ll appreciate you.” He leaned forward, as if he wanted to emphasize the point he was about to make. “You know,” he said, “for all your ambition and directness and sense of purpose, you’re afraid of change, aren’t you?”
“Afraid? Oh, I don’t—”
“You’ve spent so many years zeroing in on a single goal that you can’t let go of that goal and take a different path. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not that I can’t…” I stopped, hearing the denial in my voice, hearing how phony I sounded. “Look, I’m not you, Terry. I can’t just try this job or that job and say, ‘Hey, if it doesn’t come together, what the hell.’”
“Why not? What are you waiting for? You’ve worked hard, made money, supported yourself and your father. Now it’s okay to be flexible, to experiment, to change course. Otherwise, you’ll always wonder, ‘Could I have? Should I have?’”
I didn’t say anything.
“You told me at lunch today how much you respect the changes I’ve made in my life,” he went on. “So? If I could change, what about you?”
“You don’t like me the way I am?”
“No, Crystal. You don’t like you the way you are. That’s what you said—that you haven’t been happy.”
I nodded.
Terry sat back in his chair. “I’m giving you a lecture, aren’t I?”
“That’s okay. It’s your turn. I gave the last lecture—the day I divorced you.”
“I remember.”
“Do you?”
“Every word.”
I saw the pain in his eyes then, the years of “Could I have? Should I have?”
“Why didn’t you ever call me or write to me, Terry? Why didn’t we stay in touch?”
“I told you—I remember that last lecture. You said you didn’t want to see me again. I assumed you meant it.”
“I did mean it. At the time.”
God, it was awful to have to explain yourself after twenty years. It was so much easier to stick your head in the sand—or in someone’s tax return, as it were. I refilled my wineglass.
“Tell you what,” said Terry, sensing my discomfort. “Why don’t we lighten up and eat dinner?”
I was relieved. “Why don’t we?”
We looked around for our waiter. I didn’t spot him, but I did spot my blond pal with the blue jeans and the “Om” T-shirt. He wasn’t wearing the turquoise-and-silver cross around his neck, but he was making a nuisance of himself, as usual. On this occasion, he was hovering over an older man who was sitting two tables away from ours, puffing on a cigarette.
“You’re in a bad space, a bad state, and a bad seat,” he told the man.
“Darn. They didn’t put me in the nonsmoking section by mistake, did they?” asked the man, who was, obviously, as dense about this stuff as I was.
The Reiki healer shook his head, explained that he was referring to the “seat” of the man’s anxiety, and handed his latest sucker his business card.
Minutes later, our waiter appeared. Terry and I ordered shrimp scampi, Caesar salads, and a basket of garlic bread.
“Whew! That’s a lot of garlic,” the waiter laughed. “You two must like each other.”
“We do like each other,” Terry told him. “We just don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”
When we got back to Terry’s house, reeking of garlic, fuzzy from the wine, giddy with our reunion, we ambled hand in hand into the kitchen and noticed that the light on Terry’s answering machine was blinking.
“You’ve got a message,” I said, sinking down onto one of the kitchen chairs.
He came over to me and stood behind me, parting my hair to one side so he could massage my shoulders.
“I should play the message in case it’s from Annie,” he said as he continued to knead my muscles.
“You’re a good father and an even better massage therapist,” I praised him, turning my head slightly so I could see his face. He responded by bending down and kissing my mouth.
His action was not a surprise—I had been expecting, anticipating, hoping that we would kiss, probably since the first moment I saw him again but certainly since the previous evening, when we’d come awfully close up there in that guest room. And when his lips finally did meet mine, it was as if nearly two decades hadn’t passed, as if we had kissed this way only yesterday, as if it were perfectly natural for us to kiss so passionately, so wantonly, so avidly.
I reached up and wrapped my arms around Terry’s neck, drawing him further into the kiss, pulling him down, down, down until he was nearly squatting next to me as I sat on that chair.
We kissed for what seemed like a very long time, neither of us questioning the appropriateness of our behavior, neither of us trying to wriggle out of the embrace, neither of us bothering to breathe. The sensations were too sweet, too powerful, too many years in coming.
At some point, Terry did remind himself of the message on the answering machine, but after instructing me not to move and promising me he’d only be away from me for a second, he stayed right where he was and started kissing me all over again.
“Check the message,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He nodded and walked toward the answering machine.
He kept his eyes on me as he pushed the “Play” button, as he listened to the message, as he realized that it was Steven’s voice on the tape, not Annie’s.
“Hello. This is Steven Roth for Crystal Goldstein,” said the voice. “Her hotel gave me this number, but I have no idea where I’m calling. In any case, I’d like her to know that I’ll be arriving in Sedona about noon tomorrow, but I won’t be staying at Tranquility, due to the media frenzy there. I’ve arranged to stay at a place named L’Auberge. The phone number there is—”
Terry pushed the “Erase” button before the message had fully played out. “I have the phone number at L’Auberge,” he said to me. “If you want it.”
“Thanks. I guess Steven and Harrison Reid will be neighbors.”
“Bully for both of them,” Terry said, walking back toward me. “I’ve got other things on my mind.”
I didn’t have to ask, “What things?” Terry’s lips were on mine before I could even pose the question.
“I was planning to look through all my papers tonight, to see if I had anything that would lead us to Amanda,” I reminded him during a brief lull in the kissing.
“Tomorrow,” he said softly, nuzzling my ear. “Tonight’s booked.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.” He went to the sink, reached inside the nearby cabinet for a tall glass, and filled it with tap water. And then he came for me.
“Ready?” he asked, handing me the glass.
Oh, I was ready all right. But, I must admit, it did cross my mind in that instant that sleeping with Terry could complicate my life, particularly where Steven was concerned. Despite his marriage proposal, despite his imminent arrival in Sedona, I no longer felt bound to Steven Roth in the way I once did, no longer considered our relationship a “given.” Still, would I be cheating on him if I slept with Terry, betraying him with my former spouse just as he had betrayed me with his? Would I be making a big, fat, irrevocable mistake?
“Our being together doesn’t have to affect anything or anyone,” Terry said, picking up on my hesitation. “You can see it as a tiny blip on the radar screen or a quick trip down memory lane or two people who’ve loved each other indulging in a night of pleasure. How you look at it is up to you. But don’t—whatever you do—don’t deny yourself this. You want it as much as I do, Crystal.”
“Yes,” I said, tired of denying myself things, tired of servicing everybody else, tired of set
tling. “I want this as much as you do, Terry. Maybe more.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
At my insistence, we spent the night in the guest room. Sleeping in Terry’s bedroom, in Terry’s bed, would have made a statement I wasn’t prepared to make.
“You’ve still got those freezing cold feet,” he said after we’d slid between the sheets and pressed our naked bodies up against each other.
“I’m afraid so,” I laughed. “And you’ve still got that tremendous—”
He silenced me with another of those wondrous, stirring kisses, the kind that bring about both an exquisite rush of excitement and a profound sense of well-being.
“Terry,” I murmured, repeating his name over and over as he reacquainted himself with my body, revisited his “favorite places,” remembered where I liked to be touched and how.
“Who would have guessed this would happen?” he said softly when I took my turn exploring his body, the body that had once been almost as familiar to me as my own.
We reveled in our lovemaking, marveled at the very fact of it, lost ourselves in the sheer pleasure of it. It didn’t matter that we were divorced, that we hadn’t seen each other since Gerald Ford was President, that we were trying to determine the whereabouts of a woman lots of people wanted dead. All that mattered was that Crystal Goldstein and Terry Hollenbeck were up there in that little bedroom creating a miracle—a miracle that lasted most of the night and into Saturday morning. It wasn’t what I had in mind when I came to Sedona searching for Meaning, but it wasn’t chopped liver, either.
“We’ve gotta get up, Terry,” I said at about nine a.m., recalling that he’d told me his friend Cynthia was bringing Annie home at nine-thirty. “Wake up, okay?”
“I’m awake,” he mumbled, his eyes shut, his body paralyzed, the same Terry that Annie and I had joked about.
I shook him. “Annie will be home soon,” I tried again. “I wouldn’t want her to see us—”
“Relax,” he said, coming alive. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thanks, but we do have to get up,” I said, starting to climb out of bed.
Terry pulled me back down next to him and kissed the tip of my nose. “Look, before everybody starts piling in here—my daughter, your boyfriend, whoever—I’d like you to know that I think you’re the best.”
I smiled lasciviously. “The best at what, may I ask?”
“The best at whatever you want to be the best at,” he said, his tone turning serious. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Crystal, whether it’s making it work with Steven or finding a job at another accounting firm or even staying at Duboff Spector. You have it all, right there inside you. If you need to make changes in your life, there’s no reason why you can’t.”
“Boy, you have more confidence in me than I have in myself.”
“I love you. That’s probably why.”
“Terry.”
“It’s true. I love you.”
I stared at him. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying that you love me still, as in: you never stopped loving me? Or are you saying that you love me now, as in: you didn’t really love me the first time around?”
“Neither. I’m saying that I love you differently, as in: I have a capacity for loving you now that I didn’t have the first time around, that I’m in a better position to love you now than I was then.”
“But how can you tell that this love is different?” I asked. “We hurt each other once. It would be crazy to have another go at it, wouldn’t it?”
“Not crazy. Just a little risky, maybe.”
“Risky. My specialty,” I said dryly.
“Look, this subject is too important for us to talk about on the run. We can pick it up again later. Like this afternoon.”
“I can’t. Steven will be here. I’ll be going over to L’Auberge this afternoon.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“I’ve got to see him, Terry. He’s coming all this way.”
“I know.” He kissed me again. “Better get up then.”
I nodded. Better get up.
Terry had predicted that I would like Cynthia Kavner the minute I met her and he was right. She was a delight—warm, friendly, and down-to-earth. A short woman with frizzy auburn hair, she was about my age and had two children: Laura, Annie’s friend from school, and Karen, who was four years older. She was a Phoenix native who had spent summers in Sedona, then moved to town permanently after her divorce.
“So you’re the famous Crystal,” she said with a hearty laugh. “Annie’s been talking about you nonstop.”
“I guess it was a little strange for her to find me on her doorstep yesterday,” I said. “She was great to me though.”
“She’s a great kid. She’s very excited that you’ve decided to move to Sedona.”
“That I’ve what?” I said, stunned.
“Uh-oh. I’m getting the sense that Annie’s been doing a little wishful thinking here. You’re not moving to Sedona?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I told Annie yesterday that I’ll be going back to New York when the detective who’s investigating the Amanda Reid case gives me the okay. I can’t imagine why she’d tell you I was staying.”
“She wants you to stay, obviously. She’s been without a mother her entire life. She probably envisions you stepping into that role, because you and Terry used to be married to each other.”
“Maybe, but she and Terry are incredibly close, a real twosome. Most girls would have at least some resentment toward a woman who shows up and changes the dynamic.”
“Annie isn’t ‘most girls,’” Cynthia pointed out.
“I’m beginning to see that,” I said.
After Cynthia left, Terry announced that he was going over to the office to change cars. We’d been driving around in the tour company’s big Jeep while his own four-seat Jeep Wrangler was still in the lot. He said he’d be home in a couple of hours and that Annie should play hostess while he was gone.
“I’ll bring us back the fixings for a cookout on the Creek,” he promised. “A good old-fashioned burger barbecue.”
“My dad loves burgers,” Annie whispered to me.
“I remember,” I whispered back. “Medium rare.”
She giggled, seeming pleased that she had someone with whom she could share tidbits about her father.
“I’ve got a great idea,” she said. “We’ll go outside and I’ll show you how to jump on my trampoline!”
I smiled at her, combing back the lock of hair that had fallen into her face. She was a little sprite, that Annie, a charmer with an amazing ability to sound like a grownup one minute and a kid the next. I wasn’t fooling myself or idealizing her—she had to have her bratty days, just like other children her age—but from what I’d seen of her, she was swell company.
“I’d love to play on your trampoline,” I told her, “but could we do it in a half-hour or so? There are some papers I’ve got to look through first, upstairs in the guest room.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll be outside waiting for you.”
She hurried off into the backyard, leaving me to wonder how I’d allowed myself to miss out on the experience of raising a child, of being a mother, of being a caregiver to someone other than my unappreciative, unresponsive father. When I was young and newly married, I had taken it for granted that I’d have kids someday. I had imagined that I would be one of those so-called “superwomen” who would juggle family and career as if there was nothing to it. Then came the quick divorce, the long hours at the office, the single life in New York, and before I knew it, I had forgotten all about ever wanting children, had convinced myself they were more trouble than they were worth. I was out of the loop when it came to the hottest toy at Christmastime, the coolest snack to bring to school, the latest trend in computer games. I didn’t even have the vocabulary to talk about children, much less have them. And so life went on—without them.
“See you in a little while,” I called out to Anni
e as I heard the screen door bang shut.
I made myself a cup of coffee and took it upstairs to the guest room. And then I got down to business. I sorted through my suitcase and came upon the following pieces of paper: a copy of Fortune magazine, which I’d brought with me to read on the flight to Phoenix; a folder containing my plane tickets and travel itinerary; a second folder containing my rental car information; assorted credit card receipts; and a brochure promoting Tranquility and its many amenities. Nothing there that could point to Amanda’s whereabouts, right? Next, I checked inside my carry-on bag, but its only contents were my makeup case and prescription drugs. I didn’t even bother to open my purse, since the only pieces of paper in there were traveler’s checks and a hundred bucks in small bills. Obviously, Keith/Sergei/Spirit was mistaken about there being any clues in my possession.
Disappointed that I couldn’t help Will Singleton, that I couldn’t save the day after all, I trudged downstairs, through the back door, out onto the lawn.
There was Annie, jumping up and down on that trampoline, up and down, up and down, up and down. I was getting queasy just watching her.
“Come and try it, Crystal!” she said excitedly. “It’s easy. I’ll teach you how.”
I guess she hasn’t seen the movie Accountants Can’t Jump, I thought. Oh, well. She looked so eager for me to join her that there was no way I could refuse.
“I should take off my shoes, right?” I said.
“Yeah. Kick ’em off and climb up.”
Here comes the cup of coffee I just drank, I said to myself, wondering if it would have been prudent to pop a Pepcid AC before all the jumping.
I took off my sneakers and approached the trampoline. It seemed more and more intimidating the closer and closer I got.
“Here, Crystal. Grab my hand,” the ten-year-old girl said to the forty-three-year-old chicken.
I grabbed her hand and she pulled me up onto the trampoline. I tried to steady myself; it was like steadying yourself on a waterbed.
“Okay. Now jump,” she said and did.