She ended with another heartfelt laugh. Annie obviously thought the song was wonderful.
“Vintage Edith,” Eve said dryly.
“She’s mad with desire for your gentleman caller. Midge had to tether her back. Be forewarned. Guard him with your life.”
“He’s not my gentleman caller, no matter how much my life sometimes seems like a Tennessee Williams play, thank you very much. He’s my boss and a very nice man. That’s all.”
“Liar.”
“What?” she spurted out with a laugh.
“Do you like him?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. This isn’t high school.”
“Same diff. You either like him or you don’t. Do you?”
She sighed, and knowing it was Annie, someone who would understand and be glad for her, she replied honestly. “Oh, yes. I do like him. So very much.” Eve looked at her hands, then spilled out all the details of the marvelous week. It was so much fun, and rather like high school, telling how they’d gone to the library every day last week and how, each time his elbow bumped hers or he looked into her eyes or he bent over her shoulder to check a fact, hesitating for longer than was necessary, her heart went into arrest and goose bumps broke out all over her skin. How she felt young and alive again after such a long dormancy. How when she was with him she experienced piercing shots of happiness and light-headedness and a bonding of mind and spirit that she never thought she’d ever feel again.
“Is that so awful of me?” she asked, blushing to the roots.
“Awful? Why would you think that? Darling, it’s wonderful. I’d be jealous if I wasn’t so damn happy for you.”
“But to have these desires again, so soon, doesn’t feel right. They have nothing at all to do with Tom or the memory of our life together.”
“I should hope not!” Annie tsked with frustration, took a deep breath then said in her lawyer’s tone of voice, “Tom died, Eve. Not you. Why should your natural desires and physical needs stop? You’re alive. You’re a woman at her prime. You owe it to yourself, to your children, hell, you owe it to your friends to let go of Tom and move on.”
“But I feel so guilty.”
Annie’s face hardened. “Don’t.”
“You don’t understand...”
“No, I do. Eve...” Annie stopped herself and shook her head. “Trust me, hon. If he asks you out, go. Jump his bones. From what I hear, he’s a live one. A good lay will do you good.”
“You’re going to make one weird mom,” she teased. “Thanks, Annie. Did I tell you yet today that I love you?”
Annie’s face shifted to reflect the power of her emotion. Eve’s heart lurched, knowing that these were tough times for Annie and John, wishing that Annie would open up. So she leaned forward and gave Annie a big hug that told her, in no uncertain terms, she’d be there whenever.
“Okay now,” Annie said, pulling back with a sniff. “Enough of this maudlin stuff. I want more details. Lots and lots of details!”
She was about to deliver the goods when the telephone rang. Reaching over she grabbed the receiver and, laughing at a face Annie made, said hello. Her smile froze when she heard Paul Hammond’s voice.
“I know this is awfully short notice but I saw in the newspaper that there is a poetry reading at a coffee shop in Old Town tonight. I thought you might enjoy hearing it. If you haven’t already got plans, of course.”
“No, I don’t have plans.” She paused and twiddled at the phone cord. “Are you sure?”
He chuckled softly. It was a velvety purr. “Oh, yes, it says right here in the paper the reading is at seven-thirty at the Onion Skin.”
“No, I mean, are you sure we should? You’re my boss, as it were.”
“Yes, so I recall. I suppose I could invite Pat Crawford to join us, but I’d really rather it was just us.”
She paused again. She wanted to go, but in truth she was afraid of going out on a date again, after twenty some years. She looked up to see Annie sitting ramrod straight, staring at her, on the alert. When their eyes met, Annie mouthed, “Go, go, go!”
“If you feel uncomfortable...” he hedged.
“No. I mean, no, I don’t feel uncomfortable. And yes, I’d like to go.”
“I’m glad. I’ll pick you up at seven. We can go for a bite to eat afterward, if you like. How do you feel about bistro food?”
“I love bistro.”
When she looked up, Annie was putting her hand in a fist and hissing out a triumphant, “Yesss!”
Twelve
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.
There is no greater sorrow than to recall
a time of happiness in misery.
—Dante, The Inferno (Canto V)
The poetry was terrible but the company was superb. There were none of the first-date jitters or awkwardness that she’d expected. From the moment he picked her up in his red Saab to the moment he dropped her off again, they shared a seamless flow of conversation and comfortable silences, as though they’d been together for years. At the evening’s end, while Eve waited for him to come around and open her car door, she marveled at this unusual ease between them and wondered if indeed they hadn’t been lovers in some previous life.
It was a balmy night, moist with the fragrant air of summer. There were hoots of young male laughter coming from the park followed by the barking of dogs.
“It’s becoming a hangout for high school boys,” she explained, taking his arm.
“Young wolves,” he said with a chuckle and pointed to the full moon overhead. “They can’t help themselves.”
She leaned against him with her face to the moon, relishing the feel of him beside her, her hands laced with his, and wished on the moon for happiness in her life again. They strolled to her building in silence, then stopped at the foyer door. She turned to face him.
“I had a wonderful time.”
“I’m glad. So did I.”
“I’d invite you up for coffee but the children...”
“No, of course. I should be getting along.” He paused, then said in a rush, “I didn’t get to take you out to dinner tonight as I’d planned. So I was wondering...you wouldn’t want to come to my place tomorrow? I’m a fairly decent cook and I promised you that I’d read Dante in Italian. Would you?”
“Yes,” she replied readily. “I’d love to.”
His face relaxed and he grinned broadly. His smile lit up his face and his brilliant blue eyes shone like twin moons. Eve’s breath caught, entranced, and she wondered if she’d always fall captive to the remarkable charm of his smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
There was a tense moment, thick with desire. She wondered if he would kiss her, and if she should let him if he tried. He leaned forward almost imperceptibly. She held her breath. Then, as though he’d checked his first impulse, he looked down abruptly, took her hand and placed his large hand over it.
“Good night then.”
“Good night.”
She watched him through the small-paned windows of the door as he walked down the sidewalk, turned, then walked out of sight. Leaning against the door, she released a long, pent-up sigh. Then, after fumbling with her key, she let herself in. She took the stairs slowly, savoring the glow of happiness she felt inside. She had been afraid to let herself feel such attraction, to let another man come close again. But now that she had, she was soaring with joy, blushing like a schoolgirl at the very thought of him.
When she pushed open her front door, she was met with a wall of hostility. Bronte was sitting in the living room and upon seeing her mother, rose to her full height, crossed her arms and scowled.
“Where were you?” Her voice rang with angry suspicion.
“With who?” Bronte asked, moving closer.
“With Dr. Hammond from school. Does it matter?” She tried to make her voice sound nonchalant but she could see from the mottled rage on Bronte’s face it wasn’t working. Bronte screwed up her face, signaling her unspoken disgust, then spun on her heel and stomped to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Eve leaned against the door and closed her eyes, wondering how she was going to help her daughter accept the idea of her mother dating again when she herself hadn’t reconciled it.
She undressed slowly, washed her face and slid into her large, lonely bed. The curtains were not drawn and the window was open a crack, allowing the moonlight to mingle with a soft summer breeze as it filled the room and caressed her cheeks. She brought to mind every word spoken during the evening, pondered every gesture of their parting. Had it been her imagination or was he going to kiss her? Would she have kissed him back?
She brought her hand to her lips and wondered what the sensation of his lips on hers would be like. Would they be soft like Tom’s? Or firm? Would they tremble in passion? During the past week the air had sizzled whenever he passed or set a piece of paper on her desk. Whenever he so much as shared the same space, her body quivered and she breathed deeply, sure that he could pick up the magnetic charge between them. Having opened the Pandora’s box of possibilities, there was no closing it. Her curiosity, her senses, were aroused. Desire tingled on the surface of her skin like a prickly rash that no lotion could ease.
And he’d invited her to his home for dinner. Would he kiss her, she wondered again? Would she let him? She held her breath, heard the echo of laughter in the park—young wolves—then exhaled on a word. “Yes.”
* * *
“Goodbye, Mother!”
From the basement where she was sorting laundry, Doris could hear Sarah’s light footfall above her in the kitchen.
“Wait a minute!” she called out, dropping the dirty clothes from her hands. “I’ll be right there.” She hurried up the stairs to the front hall in time to catch sight of her daughter as she was opening the front door.
Sarah was a vision of summer crispness. Her small, curvaceous body was tucked into a short white tennis skirt and a crisp, freshly ironed white blouse. She was deeply tanned and athletic and wore her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She had the right clothes, the right look. Sarah could walk into any country club anywhere and be welcomed, Doris thought with a ripple of satisfaction. A real corker her father would have called his granddaughter, if he’d lived to see her grow up.
Oh, to be so young again! So fresh and perky. Doris felt a surge of maternal pride that this attractive girl was her daughter, even as she felt a sting of dejection that she, with her lumpy figure dressed in a saggy cotton dress, looked old and washed-up in comparison. Lumpy and dumpy.
“Did you eat breakfast?”
“Don’t have time,” Sarah replied, stuffing her nylon bag with her tennis racket and balls.
“You can’t leave without a good breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Doris couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t hungry.
A car honked in the driveway.
“Gotta go. Bye!”
“Wait, I’ll cook you up some eggs. It’ll only take a minute. Sarah, you’re not to go without something in your stomach. How about a bagel? Sarah!” She hustled after her just in time to have the door slam in her face.
Doris closed her eyes tight against the bubbling hurt and anger, followed by a backlash of shame that she was so unceremoniously discarded by the daughter she adored. Her son had long since ignored her, but she’d hoped for more from Sarah.
She pushed back the lace from the window and peered out at the sunny day.
She saw a young girl saunter down the front walk, hips and hair swaying, toward the young man waiting in the car. He swung open the door and the girl climbed in, giving him a quick peck on the cheek, just a teasing nip. The boy’s eyes smoldered and he must have said something bold because the young girl laughed coquettishly and slapped his shoulder as they roared away.
Doris let the lace slip from her hands and stood slump-shouldered in her slippers feeling suddenly very alone in a house that was meticulously clean and depressingly vacant. There were very few signs that anyone actually lived in these great front rooms filled with antiques, carpets and porcelains. How many times in the years past had she scolded the children when they tracked mud or tossed their coats on the floor? Don’t touch! Don’t muss! For what, she wondered? How sterile everything appeared now that they were grown and gone. How very silent.
Turning, she caught the reflection of a woman in the ornate Venetian mirror. This woman had pale skin and brittle, rust-colored hair streaked with a quarter inch of gray at the roots. She raised her hand to her cheek. Who was this woman? She drew back in aversion. The stranger in the mirror was the very washed-up woman Doris had sworn, back when she was Sarah’s age, she would never become.
She stared at her reflection, dazed. When had she grown so old? What had happened to her skin? Over the years she’d noticed the rounding of the hips and arms, the graying at the roots, the wrinkles near the eyes. But she’d made appointments at the beauty salon, staving off the inevitable. The change was happening, however, regardless.
She smoothed out the pink cotton shift she wore more for comfort than style and thought to herself that not all women looked so dumpy at her age. Annie Blake certainly didn’t. “She looks pretty good, I’d say.” Doris’s face fell. Annie was probably in court this very minute, wearing one of her expensive suits. She could see her now, hotly arguing a case and earning the admiring glances of the judge, the jury, probably even the opponents.
How regrettable that her father, a judge himself, never encouraged his daughter in her education. As far as her parents were concerned, the whole point of sending a daughter to college was to catch a good husband. And didn’t she reel in a big one with R. J. Bridges, the quarterback of the Georgetown football team? They’d married immediately after R.J. graduated; it didn’t matter that Doris dropped out after sophomore year. She could remember her mother’s words about the matter. “After all, dear, a marriage certificate means much more than a college degree.”
Well, what was done was done. She’d made her decision, although Midge kept urging her to go back to college. She was far too old to sit in a classroom with a bunch of children. It was too late for her. She looked back at the door and thought with grim determination, Sarah will graduate from college.
Thinking of her daughter again pricked the pain of her rejection. Doris turned and, with a heavy tread, climbed step after step back to her bedroom. She entered her room, then locked the door. The bedroom was dark and cool. Her drapes were still drawn and white stripes of light pushed against the shades to no avail. The disheveled bed seemed to beckon her to lie down again and shut out the disappointments with the sweet release of slumber.
She slipped from her dress, avoiding the mirror. Lying down, she stretched out her arms and legs, spreading them wide. Her skin felt delicious and decadent against the cool sheets, not the least fat or shapeless. She sighed heavily, more like a moan.
Ah yes, here in the darkness, with her eyes closed, she felt like she could be anyone she wanted. A smile curved her lips. Yes, here her imagination was free to roam without fear of censor or guilt. And she had, she’d discovered in the past few months, a very rich imagination. Exciting things happened to her here, far from the ordinariness of her life.
Here she didn’t need R.J. to make her feel fulfilled. She had her mind. And that, she’d also discovered, was her
most powerful sexual organ. Her hands slid along her body, relishing the silkiness of her skin that rivaled the sheets. Closing her eyes, she let her imagination go.
It was summer. She is young—sweet sixteen again. Her youthful skin is glowing like a firefly as she gracefully climbs into the sports car at the curb. She raises her lips to the adorable young man in his letter jacket....
* * *
Paul Hammond picked Eve up promptly at seven o’clock. He carried an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hand for her and a box of chocolates for the children. Finney and Bronte were beyond rude. They didn’t thank him for the expensive chocolates and watched him through narrow, slitted eyes, like two man-eating cats ready to pounce.
Once outside, Eve raised her face to Paul and smiled brightly.
“Your skin is positively glowing,” he said.
Her heart soared and she felt a sudden gladness to be free from her own children and their black scowls and condemnation. “I’m sorry about the children,” she said as they pulled away from the curb. “They’re very protective.”
He turned his head, the radiance of his smile catching her off guard, and patted her hand. “I know how they feel.”
She leaned back in the car then and relaxed, knowing in her heart that whatever happened that night would be all right, because of him.
His house was just as she’d imagined it might be. The dark-brown brick Tudor was unpretentious and charming. It could have been plucked from a small village in the Cotswolds and planted right in Oakley. The sweeping, pointed gable rose high in the air. She thought it was amazing that the blue-and-gray slate didn’t slide off the sharp slope that fell to just above the long row of mullion windows. There were lots of trees and neatly trimmed shrubs, creating a shady haven on the busy block.
Inside, too, the house was very much like the man. There was nothing sleek or high-tech about either. The dominant impression was of quality and comfort. This was the home of someone with educated tastes and the money to indulge himself. The rooms were small but there were lots of them and they were well proportioned. Best of all, they had interesting curves and funny little built-in bookshelves squeezed in everywhere. If she were to draw his mind in cartoon, she’d draw this house. Most amazing, however, was the carved, stone fireplace and mantel of Randolph Hearst proportions that dominated the living room. Whoever built this house had had an ego. There was room for little more than the soft cordovan red leather sofa, a few shabby chic chairs and a low, sprawling wood coffee table littered with books and magazines.
The Book Club Page 20