Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

  “No! Get out of here!” Abe looked stunned.

  “You, my anonymous opponent, have been driving me crazy for months!”

  Well, son of a gun. Her opponent was Abe. Yet another man who could drive both Price women crazy but for entirely different reasons.

  “Better you than me,” Aaron said, inviting disapproval from everyone. “But seriously, do you know the odds of something like this happening?”

  “Better than yours of turning me into a Mets fan,” Whitty responded with a scowl.

  All heads turned to stare at Fordham when she reappeared with a new carafe of fresh water. Deciding it would be infinitely easier to play dumb, she nonchalantly asked, “Did I miss something?”

  Chapter Eighteen: The Way We Err

  Fordham was fast asleep when the phone rang, forcing her out of Johnny Depp’s embrace on top of a Land Rover in the middle of an African rain forest. Nothing’s sacred. She fought with her puffy Vera Wang comforter—a divorce gift from Evie—and a pesky matching throw pillow to reach the phone, only to then drop it twice before it actually got to her ear. Aaron was on the other end, sounding distraught. He’d left Fordham’s late and had decided to stay at the Hilton in Nanuet, a five-minute drive away, to avoid an accident reported on the Tappan Zee Bridge. He was waiting for her at Congers Lake, a park they used to go to for picnics where they would feed ducks and make out. He had a double latte waiting for her and wanted to know if she could get there while it was still hot—which, he specified meant she shouldn’t bother with anything more than clothes.

  She could understand if the night had been too much for him. It had been too much for her, too, but it was her life. He was probably going to return the hideous jogging suit and end whatever they had begun. She’d be stoic and understanding and—

  She abruptly switched gears. It was possible he just wanted to see her away from the mix of too much food, Scrabble, the Yankees, and overzealous critics. He had toughed out the whole evening. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment and ready to take things to the next level.

  It was too early for a weekend morning to begin, but Fordham was curious to hear what he had to say. She brushed her hair into a ponytail, threw on jeans and a sweatshirt, and uncharacteristically got to the park before she had a chance to think.

  She found Aaron sitting on a bench facing the lake with two coffee cups next to him. His eyes were closed. He might have been meditating, but she had him pegged as a skeptic, an assumption likely confirmed by the two loud snores he let out before his eyes flew open. He wasted no time getting to the point.

  “Denise called,” he said, handing over her coffee.

  He didn’t have the jogging suit, and he was talking about his ex. So far, so good.

  “Why?”

  “The divorce papers are ready.”

  “That was fast.”

  Fordham envisioned walking down the aisle with Aaron. She was wearing a fashion-forward dress and giving Margo the finger. Realizing how childish that thought was, she stopped herself and focused her attention back on Aaron.

  “Yes,” Aaron said. “She also wanted me to know that she plans to turn my forceps into nutcrackers.” He opened the plastic tab of his coffee lid. “Isn’t there a five-letter word for that?” He looked at her for the answer.

  “Bitch?”

  “Precisely. Right on a triple-word score.”

  “It’s too early for Scrabble,” Fordham said, not wanting to revisit any aspect of her dinner party. “Aaron, I’m really sorry. Divorce is always difficult, even when you want it.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m tough. I even survived dinner last night.”

  “I know. Things were a bit tense.”

  “Tense?” he said. “I’ve had easier nights delivering sextuplets.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It might not have been so bad if your mother hadn’t started me off as a sitting duck—”

  “Yup. And then cooked your goose. I know. The whole night was a foul.”

  They commiserated and finished their coffee while watching a couple of swans do a pas de deux across the water. She appreciated the bucolic scene and, in that moment, wished she could fly away and forget about everything life seemed determined to teach her. There had to be a reason for all the madness. Between her romantic failings, Margo leaving her with the book project, Whitty on the fast track to maturation, her mother moving in, and even Evie becoming a grandmother, the energy around her couldn’t produce more static if it tried.

  Aaron was yawning when Fordham’s phone rang.

  “Hi, monkey, what’s up? Lily’s house? What time? Okay, get ready. I’ll be home soon. Love you too.” She ended the call. “I have to drive Whitty to a friend’s house.”

  “Short and sweet, huh?”

  “’Fraid so, but I’m all yours tonight if you’re still into dinner.”

  Fordham got up and kissed Aaron on the forehead as if he were a little boy who’d just lost his puppy. He didn’t seem to mind her maternal edge.

  “Of course I am. It’ll be nice—and quiet. And no worries about today. I have to work anyway. Welch’s Pharmaceuticals just launched a new spermicidal jelly. Big mix-up. What we’ve got goes better with peanut butter.”

  IT WASN’T EVEN LUNCHTIME yet, and Fordham was exhausted. Whitty was being quieter than usual, and Fordham was relegated to staring at license plates and quietly cursing out-of-towners for not understanding the local traffic flow. She stopped at a light, and a silver Maserati from California on her right begged for entry into her lane. She smiled mischievously and let him in because he reminded her of Johnny Depp and the dream that had been yanked from her prematurely. She eyed Whitty, who was running her finger over a mark on the upper middle of the windshield.

  “Is that a crack?” Fordham asked.

  “Yeah. It’s little, though.”

  “Well, I still have to take care of it.” Fordham checked the Google map to see how close they were. “Why did you call Lily?”

  “I didn’t. She called me. She wants me to teach her how to write in script. And David said he would help me with my poem.”

  “David?” Just the mention of his name sent little quivers down her spine. That wasn’t good. Whether she liked it or not, she was looking forward to seeing him.

  “He said Dr. Prince makes him feel old. It’s only when we’re not in school, of course.”

  “Hmm. You know, you never even told me you entered the contest.”

  “I know. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Okay. Are you going to show me your poem?”

  “No.” Whitty tilted her head at the phone to see the directions. “It’s here,” she said, pointing to a charming white colonial with a black roof and a red door.

  Flower boxes holding an assortment of mums, marigolds, and yellow pansies hung below the windows, and a little footbridge crossed over a tiny creek toward the far side of the front lawn. It was the kind of house that, along with a blue sky, gigantic trees, and a refurbished tractor in the driveway, would be the subject of a jigsaw puzzle.

  Fordham brought Whitty to the door and rang the bell. She could hear Lily running and yelling to David to let her get it. He was standing close behind her when the door flew open.

  “See, Whitty?” Lily said, showing her a big sticky clump of matted hair. “Me and Daddy made Rice Krispie treats. I got marshmallow in my hair, and it was so yucky!”

  David picked up scissors and a comb from off the top of a hallway dresser and quickly stashed them in a drawer. He seemed a little frazzled, but not enough to cut through his basic calm.

  “Yeah. I hate when that happens,” Fordham said, speaking from experience.

  “Believe me—me too,” David said. “Please, come in.”

  “Thanks for having Whitty over. She said you offered to help with her poem. She—well, we—really appreciate the extra attention.”

  “What can I say? She’s special. She must get it from her mom.”

/>   David’s phone rang, and he went into a small study to answer it. Fordham was trying to analyze what he’d just said to her, but her attention was diverted by his conversation. She wondered if he realized she could hear him.

  “I can’t talk now,” he said uncomfortably. “No, not now. Please don’t come over. I will call you later. Promise.”

  He hung up and went back to Fordham, who could feel herself blushing. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said.

  “No! Not a thing.”

  “Okay. That’s good. When should I pick Whitty up?”

  “Why don’t you let her stay and get her in the morning?” David retrieved the pen from behind his ear and put it in his pocket. “It would actually help me out. I have a quarterly report to finish, and with Lily busy, I might even be able to get it done.”

  “This is nice. You do me a favor and let me think I’m doing you one. I’m sure my mother will be happy to have the night off.”

  “Ah, you have plans.” David sounded disappointed.

  Fordham hadn’t meant to invite the question. “Yeah, um, dinner. Nothing special. Just dinner with... an old friend. I should really go. I have to get my windshield repaired. There’s this little crack. I don’t even know how it happened.”

  “Well, you know what they say—broken glass means good luck.”

  “That’s true, especially for the guys at Jose’s Perfect Auto Body.”

  Fordham found Whitty and told her she could sleep over if she wanted to. Lily jumped up and down, and Whitty seemed happy with the arrangement. Fordham didn’t want to intrude, but David assured her it wasn’t an imposition. He had a stash of new toothbrushes for when his mother would come to visit and a big T-shirt Whitty could sleep in. He even offered to toss her clothes into the machine for the next day. Fordham left, realizing there was nothing she could find to obsess about except David’s thoughtfulness.

  THE GUYS AT THE AUTO body shop said the windshield would have to be replaced, and they could do it in the time it would take her to have a cup of coffee and do food shopping at the market nearby. She didn’t feel like sitting there for that long. She mused over her options then called Evie, who was at Pettigrew’s Bridal Salon, shopping for a wedding gown with Dylan. If Fordham wanted to join them, they would love to have her opinion. She was still having visions of Margo’s dress selections, and it seemed crazy that no matter which way she turned, someone was either insanely in love or happily pregnant and planning a wedding.

  There was only so much mirth and merriment Fordham could take. She told Evie that she had to work before seeing Aaron for dinner. It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t have all day to play Say Yes to the Dress, and her mood would have put a damper on all the oohs and aahs required when rating each froufrou frock. The fact that she wasn’t in a better frame of mind troubled her. Maybe she needed to get a handle on what Aaron was expecting—or more importantly, on what she was expecting from him. She told Evie to have fun and was about to hang up when a wrench was thrown into her goodbye.

  “So, Fordham, you never told me. How’s the sex?”

  That was a very good, very bad question. She walked outside for privacy and sat on a bench in front of the auto shop. “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Oh, you’re not allowed?” Evie seemed earnest. “Is that some kind of tacit gyno rule?”

  “No rule, I just don’t—can’t—answer,” she stammered. “We haven’t had sex yet.”

  “What? It’s been at least a year since you’ve been with someone.”

  “You don’t have to remind me. We just haven’t had the time or the chance.”

  “Seriously, Fordham, how much time do you need?”

  “It’s been more than a couple of decades since we’ve been together. So I’m thinking I need a while.”

  “Honey, he’s not twenty.”

  She listened as Evie told Dylan to try on the ball gown with the pink hearts and then the blue tulle. On second thought, maybe I should head to the store to save the poor girl.

  “You don’t get it. We’re both really busy. Aaron is in meetings. I have the book and Whitty—”

  “My concern is that you’re not getting it. Period.”

  “I hear you,” Fordham said. “And there’s also the matter of the gatekeeper, who I’m more than sure would be willing to forgo Scrabble games just to sit between us and squelch every possible sexual impulse with a discussion about one friend’s smelly yeast infection or another’s hemorrhoid adventures. Honestly, Evie, I’m not sure how it’s ever going to happen.”

  Despite how much she missed the intimacy, her life wasn’t sounding or feeling very sexy even to her own ears. Fordham hung up with Evie, and with an hour to kill and nowhere to go, she wandered into a pet shop to see the new puppies and muse over her squelched libido. It wasn’t lost, like her car key, but every time something came close to her ignition, there was a backfire. She picked up a baby Maltese that Ella, their cat, would have mistaken for lunch. It was into snuggling, and she held it close to her. As much as she wanted sex, as a single parent living with her mother, she felt the need to pursue it tastefully. She put the dog down, and it peed in retaliation. No great surprise—it was a male.

  With still more time to kill, she stopped into the Five Below next door, figuring she would pick up nail polish for her toes. Two colors immediately caught her eye. Purple Passion might be a fun way to inspire possibilities for her evening with Aaron. And then there was Prince of the Sea, which, though dazzling, evoked her guilt for even choosing it. With hope in her heart, she went with the Passion.

  Sex had been different when she was married. She and Gil were so into it at first that they used to take routine trips to the adult toy store to check out the inventory. They bought creams that smelled like French toast or snowflakes and oils that promised to soften and harden different body parts at the same time. If they were feeling really adventurous, they’d bring home an assortment of things that buzzed and hummed. Once Gil came home with a bag that should have been groceries but was filled with sexy gag gifts. She was pretty embarrassed one night when her parents were over and she accidentally prepared a box of penis-shaped pasta with meatballs for dinner. Arnie didn’t notice, but her mother said on the sly that she felt like an obscene slut with every bite.

  That spirit of adventure quickly disappeared, replaced by the same ruts, routines, and practical behaviors all couples vowed they wouldn’t fall prey to when they were in the throes of passion and gratitude. No one cared about rubbery eggs or washing whites and colors together when there was a steady supply of orgasms on the menu, but those were the very things that crept inside a marriage when spouses became roommates, their bodies no longer revered as new territories of endless exploration. Everyone said it was natural for the sex to fly out of a marriage, which it did when Gil got pissed off and threw her favorite vibrator out the window at some very confused birds. But that hadn’t happened until much later, when she figured out he’d been cheating and she wanted him to know that sex was mechanical for her too.

  Maybe that was part of why she was feeling so hesitant about Aaron. She didn’t want the fuss of being involved and hurt. When she was first split from Gil, she tried to protect herself by not caring about men. It was easy to gallivant and flirt without making an emotional investment. She’d have drinks or dinner, and most of the time, it was simple and pleasant. But after a while, like anything habitual, the experience became monotonous, and a date meant enduring another night of bad pickup lines:

  “What kind of music do you listen to?”

  “Ever had a threesome?”

  “My Jag is in the shop, actually.”

  “My ex took everything but my sense of humor.”

  That last one was the real kicker, typically being the furthest from the truth.

  The only upside of the casual-dating scene was that once she had her fill, she could move on. She didn’t have to sleep with anyone unless she wanted to, and since most men were not worth swea
ting over, or under, she kept her legs and her heart shut.

  The question she had to ask herself now was if she was ready and willing to let Aaron Karp back into her heart and her bed. If she were honest with herself, she would have to acknowledge her uncertainty. She had no legitimate reason to shy away from telling David about her plans for the evening. He didn’t care. He had a Girl Scout or girlfriend or whatever. Fordham was the one being evasive. She was the one who was worried that things between her and Aaron were moving too quickly—although, her concerns could simply be a product of her insecurity. Perhaps it was time for her to accept that she wasn’t a kid anymore and her prospects for a relationship that could lead to marriage were diminishing daily.

  Even Brandon had moved on, she reminded herself as she left Five Below and spotted her car in the body shop garage, still being worked on. Although she’d never been serious about him, she didn’t think he was the type who would willingly make a commitment to anyone. Maybe his deli darling was pregnant. That would explain it, and assuredly eliminate him from the backup-sperm position. There was no way she was going to share a baby daddy with Olivia-Sue.

  The best option was to stop thinking so much. She needed to take matters into her own hands. It was time to provide Evie with the answer to her question.

  RUSHING ON THE WEEKEND was particularly annoying. The car needed a special part and wasn’t fixed until long after the guy had promised. Now Fordham was running uncomfortably late. At this rate, she would be meeting Aaron for dinner in a grease-stained T-shirt and sweatpants with a rip in the crotch, which he might not mind but would not go over well in a place like Carrelli’s, where people were dressed up like patrons at the Met. She didn’t like changing plans but had no choice. She called Aaron and was thrilled to find that he’d postponed their reservation until an hour later than they’d originally planned. He said his day had gotten screwed up and asked if she would mind meeting him at the restaurant. His rental, a Jag, was actually in the shop.