* * *
“Doris, have you seen Annie?”
Doris, seated at a card table with friends, swung her head to gaze up toward the familiar voice. John’s expression was part worry, part annoyance. Her lips pursed, remembering Annie’s strident demand that she be taken home. Annie’s words about Eve had burned Doris deep, shamed her because they scorched away all her rationalizations to R.J. Annie Blake was right. She didn’t invite her dear friend Eve and it was indefensible. Annie Blake had character. And that was more credit than she gave herself at the moment, though she’d never admit it to Annie.
“Did she go home?” she asked.
John’s face tightened. “I hope not.”
“I’m sorry, John,” she replied curtly. “I haven’t seen her in quite a while.” Her gaze shifted to search outside the family room to the patio where a few guests milled about. The big guns had left already. Only a few close friends and stragglers remained. Suspicion flared, and she suddenly narrowed her search. Her gaze picked off the pink, drowsy faces with more urgency. She turned to face John again.
“Have you seen R.J.?”
Their eyes met. In that moment’s communication, they both sensed trouble.
“Well, she’s probably somewhere outside,” John said in a rush. He was eager to move on. “I’ll just go take a look.”
“Yes, do that,” Doris replied, distracted. After he went outdoors, Doris stood and went to the window to again scan the grounds: her perennial beds, her herb garden, her greenhouse, her play area filled with swing sets and climbing equipment no child had used in a decade. Out there were acres of meticulously landscaped and maintained grounds that had won awards in the past when gardening was her hobby. A few guests mingled along the fringes of the patio, one or two strolled to inspect her greenhouse, but nowhere in her sites did she spot her husband.
Back at the card table she heard a swell of laughter. Robanna Scott, the mayor’s wife, was telling fortunes with Tarot cards. “Here is the Belladonna, the lady of situations,” she was saying with dramatic flair. When Doris returned to the table, Robanna turned another card. It was the Hanged Man. “Fear death by water,” she said.
Doris felt a sudden chill. The other three women leaned forward in their seats, while Doris slipped out the door.
* * *
Annie hit the water with a loud splash. She sputtered, found her feet, then, catching her balance, leaned back and laughed loudly. The young girl she once was slipped out to splash and kick unselfconsciously in the pool.
She wanted some fun again in her life! She wanted understanding. Like a child, she wanted something else, too, but couldn’t put a name to it. It was elusive, just out of her reach. She only knew that if she didn’t laugh, she’d cry.
Her dress clung like a second skin, constricting her. Looking around she felt safe in the deep isolation of the pool and the tall privacy hedge. No one else was here. An impulse triggered. Why the hell not? She tugged sloppily at the dress, slipping underwater a few times, until she was free of it. Then with a tremendous whoosh, she tossed all seven hundred dollars worth of ruined fabric into the wind with a casual laugh.
Yes! This was how life was meant to be experienced, she sang in her mind. Exultant. Raw and free. Natural. Not bound by calendars and thermometers, court dates and drywall. She delighted in the cool ripples cascading through her thighs and swirling around buoyant breasts.
“Ah, Mama and Daddy, I am your child after all,” she said aloud, remembering the many nights she’d watched, appalled, while her hippie parents skinny-dipped in the pond.
She arched her back and floated, feeling the cool night air kiss her nipples, then swinging her arms, she stroked back, back through her memories.
Mama and Daddy...Drs. Henry and Lydia Blake. Her pot-smoking, free-living parents were Jungian therapists in the sixties, then later hooked up with Gestalt, then gradually moved into Orthomolecular. In the mid-seventies they founded a group therapy home—don’t call it a commune!—for troubled teens. These kids had all sorts of problems that fell under the era’s wastebasket diagnosis of schizophrenia. No insurance covered their stay at Mill House in Oregon, and the stay was never brief or cheap.
Mill House—home sweet home. Annie still cringed after all these years. Mill House was a rambling farmhouse on a crooked stone foundation overflowing with hemp rugs, garage sale furniture, macramé and bizarre teens. They ate what they grew in their immense garden—a strictly vegetarian menu—and what they didn’t grow they bought at the local co-op. Annie never knew what fast food was until she came to Chicago. For her, meals consisted of various kinds of beans, lentil soup, soy products, whole grains and sprouts on everything, all taken with fistfuls of vitamins. She could never rid her olfactory memories of the stale smell of cigarette smoke, peculiar body odor and farts that were pervasive throughout the house.
Nor could she remember one heartfelt conversation with her parents; it was all psychobabble. They weren’t bad people, Annie knew now, they were just bad parents. Drs. Henry and Lydia Blake placed their focus on their troubled kids, and in the shuffle, they never realized that their own child was growing up neglected and angry. One would think that in this warm, supportive environment Annie would have acquired throngs of new brothers and sisters and thrived.
Life was rarely that easy. As troubled as these pampered, wealthy teenagers were, most were never so sick they didn’t let her know—in ways only adolescents could—that as the daughter of the therapists, she was considered “the help.” While other children her age were watching Lost in Space and The Brady Bunch on television, she was living Lost in Life and The Crazy Bunch.
It all came to an ugly head at the age of thirteen, a time when her body was blossoming and her insecurities were raging along with her hormones. One surly, acne-ridden, mean-spirited seventeen-year-old boy trapped her in the bathroom and placed his hands on her small breasts and the small, smooth mound between her legs, molesting her. He probably would have raped her if it hadn’t been the only bathroom on the floor and someone else had to use it. She ran crying into her parents’ office, spilling out her story in half sentences and fits of tears. When she demanded that he be kicked out of the home, they’d refused. They used all sorts of the psychotherapists’ phrases she heard all the time, He was acting out, he was hypomanic, of course the behavior was inappropriate but... They argued that the boy wasn’t well and needed their understanding and help. They assured her he was feeling very remorseful. They promised they would increase the dosage of vitamins and medication.
All she heard was that no one was defending her. No one cared how she felt, or whether she was safe. Even as a child she could cut through the lies to the cold truth: the boy was rich, his family paid good money for him to live at Mill House. In a white, blinding fury Annie had stuffed what clothes would fit into her backpack and stolen money from petty cash. Without a backward glance, she rode a Greyhound bus from Oregon to Illinois, straight to the west side of Chicago where a return address on an old Christmas card led her to her grandparents.
It had been a turning point in her life. She never went back; rarely communicated with her parents despite their many heartfelt letters. She could never forgive them for not putting their own child’s needs over strangers’. Even after all these years, Annie couldn’t face them. Last she heard they were taking in boarders, still seeing a few patients and living on a shoestring. She’d left that carefree, dreamer of a girl behind in Oregon as well, having figured out that kid was a loser destined for a painful life.
Annie reached the length of the pool, then flipping over, breaststroked her way back to the shallow end. The wine was swirling in her brain with the power and danger of a whirlpool. Common sense told her to get out of the water and back on dry land. No novice to the ups and downs of artificial stimulants, Annie obeyed. She rose from the pool, her long hair slicked against the sides of her
face and shoulders and her pink nipples hard and erect, like a ripe Venus from the seas.
* * *
Or so R. J. Bridges thought.
From the corner of his eye he’d watched Annie Blake swipe a couple of flutes of champagne and head all by herself for the pool. Typical, he thought with an admiring chuckle. He’d been watching Annie Blake all evening, as was his custom. He found her different from most of the women he knew. A maverick. Bright, insolent, refreshing, with a tongue that could lash out unexpectedly. He’d always dreamed of feeling that pink, pointed tongue lash out on him—between his lips, his neck, trailing down to where he wanted her tongue the most. His business was finished for the night, so he’d grabbed a flute of champagne and followed her down. He was feeling pretty cocky. He’d all but nailed down the deal.
And the River North project wasn’t the only thing he wanted to nail tonight.
* * *
Annie slicked the dripping hair from her face and immediately hunted for a towel. The pool area was dimly lit by the moon overhead but she could see enough to figure out that Sarah Bridges had had a party here earlier and that the teenagers hadn’t bothered to pick up. Bowls of salsa and dip sat on the table beside platters of soggy chips and pretzels. Apparently they were too lazy to pick up their towels, either—a slip she was grateful for. Annie scuttled directly over to grab one. She wrapped the long towel around herself and tucked it in like a sarong.
Feeling decent, she sauntered around the beautiful, blue-tiled pool in search of her dress and shoes. Where was John, she wondered? He’d love this. He could skim across a pool with his long back arched like a porpoise. He’d been a competitive swimmer all through college; the butterfly was his specialty. She’d always appreciated the long, lean, sinewy lines of a swimmer’s body. The memory of their recent fight lowered her shoulders and her mood. The sorrow physically hurt.
A scuffling noise sounded near the lounge chairs. Annie crouched, tightening her towel. “John?” she called out.
There was no answer. She stood still, listening to the night sounds. All was quiet save for the song of crickets and the backbeat of music from the house. She walked to the lounge chairs, calling out “Who’s there?” but no one replied.
It must have been an animal, she thought, feeling the evening breeze raise the hairs on her arms and neck. A cat, or maybe a dog? Whatever, it was gone now. She felt so tired the droplets of water seemed to weigh her down. She slunk into a strappy lounge chair and stretched out her long legs. The hell with John and his party, she thought, yawning. Right now, she felt like closing her eyes and...
“Is this seat taken?”
She bolted up, grasping the arms of the chair.
“Sorry,” R.J. said with a chuckle. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“Well, go on back to your party,” she said, leaning back again and closing her eyes. “I’m taking a nap.” She pried open one eye and said suspiciously, “How long have you been here?”
“Not long.”
She sniffed, adjusting her towel higher. “Just long enough, I’ll bet. Do you always creep up on ladies?”
“Depends on the lady.”
He was smiling, not lecherously, more like someone enjoying the game of cat and mouse. He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, tan, with that sexiness in an older man who stays fit. He wore his confidence well.
“May I sit down?”
“What if I said no?”
He tilted his head and his gaze swept her body with an audacity she found oddly scintillating.
“I’d say that, considering this is my property, you have cojones.”
She raised her brow. “And I’d say, given what you undoubtedly just saw a moment ago, you know that I don’t. So let’s not pretend you’re not a voyeur.”
“Ha! Let’s not pretend you’re not an exhibitionist.”
“I prefer to call myself a free spirit,” she said, but her half smile gave her away. “Go ahead, take a seat if you want. As you said, it’s your place. Only, are you sure you want to sit by lowly little ol’ me? I’m not a player.”
He lowered himself into the chair, choosing to sit upright with his arms resting on his knees. Again, she felt his gaze creep slowly up and down her body. Instinctively, she tugged the top of the towel.
“You could be.”
“Look, R.J., I don’t know what you might be thinking but...”
He widened his eyes with innocence. “What? What did you think I meant? I’m talking about John’s career. He has such potential. He could climb higher, especially with your support.”
She remained silent a moment, considering. His expression was friendly, that of a good, concerned boss. A neighbor, a friend. Someone sincerely interested in her husband’s welfare. Annie’s lips twisted. He was good. He almost had her believing him.
“He could climb a lot higher with a decent salary,” she said dryly. “And benefits. Hell, why not be really decent and throw in a pension plan?”
R.J. guffawed and she felt his hand on her kneecap, then felt him pat it. It was a seemingly careless gesture, one a friend might make while laughing. One moment it was on the skin, the next it wasn’t. Very smoothly done. He talked on as though nothing had happened, about the grand projects he planned for himself and John, schemes that would make them all rich.
She leaned back in the sultry night air and listened to the cicadas chirp as a background to his grandstanding. Another time, another place, another age, she might have found R.J. attractive. Powerful men had an aura that was an aphrodisiac for her. Tall, short, fat, thin, balding or as hairy as a gorilla, it didn’t matter. It was the power—and the brains that often went along with it—that was the ultimate turn-on for her. Perhaps because such men were her heroes growing up. Men with drive, brains, ambition, wealth. These were men she went after.
Men so unlike her father. Men so unlike John.
She felt again the tingling sensation of R.J.’s hand grazing her thigh. She looked up sharply. He was still talking but the fire in his eyes, the tone of his voice, all spoke clearly of his interest. Did he think she was naive? Another glance told her that his interest was rising.
Annie’s catlike eyes glistened in the dark as she contemplated how to play with this very large mouse. Why she even bothered she wasn’t sure. Was it because she was angry at John? At Doris? Was it simply because it was dangerous? Reckless? For it was. She knew how easy it would be to escalate the game—a feathery touch of her fingers on his palm, a knowing glance, a lift of the knee allowing his hand to slide along her soft, inner thigh.
From the corner of her eye she caught a movement off to the right. A tall man stood in the shadows. A wisp of blond hair caught the moonlight. John. Her body tensed as her senses heightened, knowing he was watching. She lay still, watching him, no longer listening to R.J., hearing only the pounding of her heart. Her finger twitched at her side. How long John stood there she couldn’t know, but the thought that he hung back and watched while another man’s hand grazed his wife’s thigh made her heart shrivel. Just how long would he watch? What would it take for him to step out of the darkness and finally confront his boss?
She told herself she was blameless. That she was only sitting there, but something in her made her want to test him. She had to know. She listened while R.J. droned on, and waited. Sure enough, his palm came to her thigh again, just above the knee. And as she’d predicted, this time it rested longer, testing. Annie fought the urge to slap the hand away. Instead, she lay as still as a cat, holding her breath, watching the shadows.
R.J. murmured something about how beautiful she looked in the moonlight. She dragged her attention back to his face and met his gaze, at first gauging the seriousness of his intentions, then challenging him. She knew she had crossed
some line between them, throwing everything up for grabs. His pupils quivered, his nostrils flared, and she saw in his expression a certain conceit of his own appeal. He didn’t know that this was a deliberate move, that he was merely a pawn on the board.
As he lowered his face toward hers, she looked point-blank into his eyes, her hands-off message clear. Then she pushed him away. Darting a glance in the darkness, she saw John still standing, watching. R.J., thinking she was being coy, or not caring about anything but his own desire, moved toward her again.
He surprised her by moving quickly and grabbing hold of her shoulders with his meaty hands. With a jerk, he drew her up to his lips. She tasted brandy and cigars and squirmed, but his grip was as taut as iron. His fingers dug into her shoulders, hurting her. He continued the assault, pressing his lips hard against hers with a brutality that was all about male ego and showing her who was in charge of this situation. When he thrust his tongue into her mouth, she gagged and pushed harder against his chest, angry now.
“Cut it out,” she growled against his lips, pushing hard with flat palms against his chest.
He pulled back at last with a feral gleam in his eye. Annie reached up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her gaze darted over his shoulder to the darkness of the shrubs.
She saw John turn his head and walk away from them, back up the slope.
The pain was raw in Annie’s chest. Her cheeks burned and she exhaled in a hot, scorching whoosh. He was walking away!
Suddenly she was thirteen again, feeling the same shame and hurt she had the day her parents turned away from her, disbelief in their eyes, even when she’d showed them the ugly purple-and-black bruises forming on her arms. Like then, she didn’t know whether to shout obscenities or crumple and weep.
R.J. misunderstood her silence. He leaned forward and playfully tugged at the corner of her towel. Hardly aware, she lifted her gaze to peer into his eyes, which were pale and rheumy with drink. As though from far away she heard him say again how beautiful she was, that he wanted to see her breasts again, that they could move to the cabana. He placed one hand upon her belly and made small circular motions.
The Book Club Page 26