Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

  She was a few minutes early when she pulled up to Carrelli’s, a brand-new place hailed by local critics as the quintessential modern supper club of the twenty-first century. She was in awe. It was exactly as the Rockland Magazine review sitting in her console had described:

  “Set prominently in a mountain, like a jewel in the midst of a lush landscape, Carrelli’s offers panoramic views of the entire Hudson Valley region. With nothing commercial in sight, the vision of the Catskills and its myriad neighboring lakes remains gloriously untainted by man’s intrusion, leaving one to marvel that such perfection is possible in this day and age, when beauty is being eagerly corrupted by any marketable concept.”

  A tall, thin man with a strange handlebar mustache, wearing a baggy tuxedo, escorted her out of her car and into the entry. Her jaw dropped. The place was magnificent, with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and elaborately framed artwork decorating the walls. A life-size circular mural behind the ten-piece band surrounded the dance floor in a supper club scene from a forties movie, complete with musicians, well-coiffed waiters, capable busboys, and an array of patrons in haute couture. The décor complemented the mural by replicating much of its contents, giving the room a cohesive ambiance that blended the past and the present in a striking balance.

  Aaron called, still stuck in westbound traffic on the George Washington Bridge. A short, somewhat sympathetic redheaded woman with a pudgy face and peony-painted lips took Fordham to a table in the bar area near a ceiling-to-floor window overlooking Bear Mountain. Aaron had mentioned he’d called the restaurant, and a few moments later, a server came over with a large martini and a dish of caviar and flatbreads, compliments of her tardy companion.

  A man sitting alone at a nearby table kept peering at her over his menu. His face was blocked, and all she could make out were his pricey Versace glasses. She was never quite sure how to handle a situation like this, when it wasn’t clear why she was being eyed. Maybe he recognized her from the supermarket or the bank, or—the most awkward possibility—a date. She ignored him, deciding it was not her place to make any overtures. Finally, the man lowered his menu, and she could see his face. It was Bingo Smack, Fordham’s last client before editing the book had consumed her life.

  “Fordham, honey,” he said, walking over to her, “I thought it was you, but it’s a little dark, and these are new specs.” He gave her a hug. “It is so good to see you!”

  “Good to see you too, Bingo. I’m glad your book is doing well.” The Clotheser was a successful series about the hits and misses in the fashion industry. Abe had called it when he signed Bingo, saying it was the kind of topic that would never go out of style.

  Bingo sat down at her table as he asked her if it was okay. She told him it was fine but that she was waiting for someone. She was sure he didn’t believe her. Bingo waved his hand, and the same server who had given her Aaron’s message came over. He scratched his head for a second as Bingo ordered drinks and mussels mariniere. If Aaron was running a tab, this was going to get complicated.

  Bingo was fun to hang out with. He took her onto the dance floor and began telling her how positively his life had changed since they’d last spoken. He was genuinely happy now and grateful to Fordham for setting him in the right direction. He’d gotten a nose job and was busy writing another book in the series, which would be on her desk by the summer. But his most exciting news was that he was recently engaged to his partner, Adam, whose sister was having a baby for them. They were planning to wear matching tuxedos for their spring wedding, and he would be thrilled if she’d join them. At this point, Fordham was going to have to grow another hand to keep count of the boundless babies and marriages surrounding her.

  Bingo was twirling her in a spin, which she was sure had him looking far more graceful than she, when she noticed Aaron standing in front of her. He seemed apologetic, but before she could say a word, Bingo pushed her into the center of the dance floor. He was enjoying spinning her every which way. She surmised that Adam was too tall to fling. The music continued, and Bingo didn’t miss a beat. Fordham tried to slow down, but that seemed to encourage him to hold her more closely and lead more fervently.

  After the next spin, she couldn’t find Aaron. He wasn’t standing near the dance floor where he had been, nor was he at the bar or sitting at a table. She couldn’t imagine that he would have left just because she was dancing with some strange man for no apparent reason. Certainly, he must have known there’d be an explanation. The music stopped, and Bingo excused himself to take a phone call from his agent. Fordham scanned the room but still didn’t see Aaron. She went to the front and asked the redhead if she had seen her gentleman friend, but she pursed her peony lips and said she didn’t want to get involved.

  This situation had gone from annoying to amusing to ridiculous in less than an hour. She tried calling Aaron on his cell phone, but it went straight to his too-full-to-leave-a-message voicemail. She called the house and asked a particularly chipper Dorie if she had heard from him. She said she hadn’t, but Fordham was reluctant to trust her answer.

  “Why would I lie, dear? The sooner this relationship begins, the sooner it’ll end.”

  She had to hand it to Dorie, the queen of non-diplomacy who knew how to take a bad situation and make it worse in an instant. There was no way Fordham was going to let this night be ruined because she had unwittingly become the star of A Series of Unfortunate Events. There had to be some way to get a hold of Aaron and salvage the evening.

  She walked out onto the terrace to get some air and gazed up at the stars. Sometimes, it helped her to notice how small she was in the vast expanse of the universe. And there Aaron sat, talking on his cell phone. He was at a small table with his back to her, and she watched his body move as he spoke. His shoulders were much broader than they used to be. When they were kids having chicken fights in the water, and she was perched around his neck like a tie, she’d always been worried she’d fall. That would no longer be an issue. Aaron, the adult, seemed very capable of carrying her weight.

  Fordham lightly touched his arm. He flinched at first but smiled when he realized it was her and told whoever was on the other end that he had to go.

  “Ah, there’s my girl. You are stunning.” He stuck his phone in his jacket pocket.

  “You disappeared,” she said, sounding more concerned than she wanted.

  “I got a call that I had to take. Besides, you were having a good time dancing with that guy.”

  She was disappointed that he wasn’t jealous. Somehow, the possessive edge that sought to thwart competition and insist that she be his and his alone had gone missing. A man was not supposed to be so cavalier about finding his woman in the arms of another man, even if it was innocent. Of course, she was being unreasonable. Moments earlier, she hadn’t even been sure she would qualify their relationship as a romance.

  “I was having a good time,” she said, hoping that would fan the flames.

  “Good. I felt so terrible about running late. Between the car fiasco, traffic, incompetent lawyers, and meetings, I’m glad you weren’t bored waiting for me.” Aaron was cooler than a cucumber heading into a salad.

  So that was it. Aaron was going to be the consummate good guy, considerate and trusting. Maybe he could tell Bingo was gay. It was too hard to accept that he couldn’t care less that she’d been dancing with another man. But it would be even more foolish of her to waste the evening trying to rile him up so she could feel appropriately complimented. She had to get over herself. Most women would have appreciated having that kind of trust from their guys, and if in fact that was the role he was assuming, then his reaction was a good thing.

  They were escorted to their table by the redhead, who acted as if Fordham had never approached her about anything more than a question about the dinner specials. The same confused server came back with a bottle of champagne and an assortment of fresh breads in a silver basket. She allowed herself a long, thin salt stick with a small pat of b
utter. She had one bite left by the time their entrées were served.

  Aaron had taken the liberty of ordering for her as he’d regularly done when they were kids. Back then, he’d done it partly because he knew what she liked and partly because of limited funds. Tonight, the gesture was reminiscent and endearing.

  “How’s the tuna?” he asked, remembering that it had been one of her favorites.

  “Delicious. Remember when I got food poisoning from the shrimp salad at Black-Eyed Sue’s? I spent the night puking.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said, ribbing him a little, “You had an omelet and french fries.”

  “You want to know one thing I do remember?” he said, raising his eyebrow amorously.

  “Okay...”

  “The first time we made love. We were listening to Elton John.”

  “Wrong Yellow Brick Road. We were watching The Wizard of Oz. Your mother was upstairs, doing the dishes. The house fell on top of the Wicked Witch of the East, and since I was tired of being a virgin, I raised my hips just in time for the munchkins to start cheering.”

  “No way! Are you sure?”

  “It was my first time!” she said. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “I remember it differently.”

  He didn’t have the right to remember it differently, especially when she had every detail of that evening chronicled in a journal.

  “Do you remember when we did it in the back of your convertible?” Fordham said in a sultry whisper.

  “Of course I do. You had to dangle your legs over the side,” he offered, seeming deep in memory. “You left a scuff mark.”

  “We never did it in that car,” Fordham asserted. “See what I mean?”

  “No,” he said, sounding lost.

  “Time plays with our memories. This is here and now.”

  “You’re right, Fordie. But if I remember loving you, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t want us to get too caught up in the past.”

  “Past. Present. I never stopped loving you.”

  “Maybe you didn’t,” she said, beginning to believe him.

  The band was playing a Beatles medley in the background, and people were making their way to the dance floor. Aaron got up from his seat and extended his arm. “Baby, dance with me. Not for the past, but for right here and right now.”

  He held her close as they danced to “And I Love Her.” Despite their bickering and his challenged memory, Fordham was enjoying being in Aaron’s arms. Maybe it wasn’t so important for him to feel threatened by other men or even to remember every morsel of their relationship the way she did. He held her a little closer and nuzzled at her neck with soft kisses. Maybe he was right, and the only time that mattered was the present.

  He whispered, “And maybe we did make love in the back of my Mustang, and you’re the one who doesn’t remember.”

  “I doubt it,” she said with mild conviction.

  “Well, now I have a BMW in the parking lot. What do you think?”

  “I think I have a better idea.”

  Chapter Nineteen: Stunts upon a Mattress

  “Ouch!” Aaron yelped.

  That wasn’t good. She knew it had been a while, but Ouch wasn’t Baby, not so fast. Or even, Just use your hands, which would have been insulting but not appalling. No, Ouch meant she was a complete sexual failure. It meant she no longer had the capacity to navigate his body with the reckless abandon that used to drive him wild and render him incapable of all speech save a few grateful shouts of her name. It meant that she not only lacked passion, but she was also inept and inflicted pain, possibly because she was still harboring hostility over their breakup.

  “What did I do?” she said, mustering up the courage to face her incompetence.

  “You didn’t do anything. You’re amazing, but what the hell is this?” He pulled out the laminated copy of Prince Charming’s submission with a tack affixed to it from under his butt.

  She quickly grabbed it out of his hand before he could decide to turn on the lights and read the offending weapon. Damn! She’d completely forgotten to take it down.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, pushing the submission under the bed while still lying on top of him.

  “Well, then, nothing just poked me in the ass. I think I’m bleeding.”

  She rolled over as he did, and sure enough, the tack had punctured his skin, leaving a tiny trickle of blood that she was able to blot away before it hit the brand-new Calvin Klein sheets she’d bought and saved for a night like this. She tossed away the tissue and began kissing him with renewed confidence.

  “So are you going to tell me what that was?”

  “It’s a submission for the book.”

  “Are all the pages going to stab the readers?”

  “No, I...” She wondered what Evie would have told Marv. “I hung it up... as an example. To help me format the others.”

  That response might not have worked so well if it had been a picture of George Clooney, but in this case, Aaron seemed satisfied to drop the investigation and began to unhook her bra. She was hoping that he wouldn’t immediately ask her how long she had breastfed. He couldn’t. He was a doctor. He’d taken an oath swearing he’d be tolerant and respectful, and besides, she was just a little pendulous. It wasn’t as if she had hairy nipples. She was banking on that attitude as her bra hit the floor.

  Aaron seemed nothing but pleased as he drew her close to him for a deep kiss. The music continued to play random selections as the lavender-scented candles continued to sweeten the air, and the foreplay continued to give her time to question whether she was making the right decision. She wondered if it was possible to pick up the past and move it forward so quickly. He was still a great kisser, and each brush of his lips against her skin was telling her that this wasn’t such a bad idea. But if she was still able to think maybe she wasn’t really ready to submit.

  Aaron was now on top of her, and this time, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” was playing in the background, courtesy of the CD Aaron had chosen. She still wasn’t sure what she was feeling, but she’d decided she was ready to go with it regardless when a loud crash came from Dorie’s room. Fordham sprang up in an instant, threw on panties and a robe, and was heading out the door while Elton was proclaiming about rejecting the penthouse and embracing the plow.

  Aaron jumped into his playful satin jock strap and grabbed a can of hair spray and a curling iron. Apparently, he was going to fend off the attacker by forcing him into an updo. She glanced at him quizzically, and he shrugged while pointing to his crotch as if to say Cut me some slack—I’m dressed like Ron Jeremy.

  Fordham flung open Dorie’s bedroom door and immediately wished she was a fainter just to have some relief from a scene she had no interest in being part of. There was her mother, lying on the floor next to her collapsed bed, wearing a sheer hot-red teddy with a snap crotch, holding her ankle in her hands and moaning in pain. Abe, wearing green silk boxers, was at her side, trying to comfort her. They could have been posing for an X-rated Christmas card.

  “Abe?” Fordham cried.

  Dorie moved a little and let out a few shrieks.

  “Now is not the time to discuss this, Fordham,” Abe said.

  “We need ice,” Aaron said, examining Dorie’s ankle.

  “Good idea,” Abe said.

  “And a scarf,” Aaron added.

  “Mine is hanging over my desk chair,” Fordham said.

  Abe quickly exited the room as if claiming his own white horse, while Fordham kneeled next to Dorie.

  “Mom, what happened? Not that I’m entirely sure I want to know.”

  “That’s okay,” Dorie said. “I’m not entirely sure I want to tell you.”

  “Fair enough.” A whooshing sound caught Fordham’s attention. “Do I hear water running?”

  “Oh my God, the Jacuzzi!” Dorie said, panicking.

  Fordham opened Dorie’s bathroom d
oor to find the overflowing tub sending a storm of fragrant bubbles to the floor. She shut off the jets and released the stopper then gathered as many towels as she could find to hold the water back from the bedroom carpet. It was mostly working, but there was still some seepage, so Fordham whipped off her robe and deftly shaped it around the towels to create a stronger barrier.

  “Well, I’ll be dammed,” she said, proud of herself for having completed her mission.

  She marched back into the bedroom and watched as Aaron and Abe both tended to Dorie.

  “What were you guys doing—reenacting Titanic?”

  “Fordham!” Dorie said. “Where’s your robe?”

  Abe’s eyes popped open, and he quickly bent his head in the opposite direction. Fordham glanced down at her bare breasts and decided that if everything happened for a reason, this was one for the books. “My robe is lying in a sea of love, saving your carpet.”

  “I will get you for this,” Dorie said. “Go put something on.”

  “Bennett or Sinatra?”

  His gaze fixed on the floor, Abe said, “Fordham, be a good girl—listen to your mother, and put a nice shirt on.”

  Fordham winced. Her boss, who she’d discovered was sleeping with her mother, had just politely admonished her. There was no time to emotionally process any of it, but at least her immediate thought had been practical. This was going to make one hell of a submission. She went to her room and threw on sweats and a tank top before returning to the excitement.

  “I think it’s just a bad sprain, but it may be broken,” Aaron concluded, putting the finishing touches on Dorie’s makeshift brace.

  “Dorie, I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Abe said, near tears.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Dorie said. “I should have never tried to... well, you know.”

  “Oh, please don’t say anything else,” Fordham said.

  “She needs an X-ray,” Aaron said as if clad in his usual suit and tie instead of a jockstrap.

  “I am not going to the hospital like this,” Dorie said.

  “Why? I made a diagnosis like this,” Aaron joked, pointing to his near nakedness.