Paper Castles

by Terri Lee

  She looked over at him, one eyebrow raised in a challenge.

  “Lust?”

  Laughter eased between them, enough to fill the space between the tall ceiling and the floor.

  “Where do you plan on showing this piece of lustful work?”

  “At a gallery downtown, of course.”

  “Of course. My husband won’t mind a life-size nude portrait of his wife, on public display, let alone one painted by her lover.” The word lover left an unfamiliar taste on her tongue.

  “I’m kidding.” Adam nudged her with his elbow. “This is just a study of my imagination.”

  She nodded. “Pretty good imagination. She looks better than I do. Much better hair.”

  “No. She’s not real. You’re real. You’re here. And I can’t believe it.”

  “Neither can I.”

  He was looking down at her as if her nude double had come to life, stepped off the canvas into his living room. She was power and inspiration. She had moved an artist to paint. This man wanted to create her. He wanted her essence captured on canvas to keep with him, always. She thought back to those years in college, studying art, all those years of looking at paintings of women, wondering who they were. Now she was one of them. She was Venus on the half-shell.

  She turned back to the painting, both mesmerized and a little confused about what it all meant. “You’re extremely talented, Adam,” she said.

  “What can I say? I was inspired.” A hint of red crept across his cheeks and it made him even more attractive.

  “What on earth are you still doing in Georgia?”

  “Maybe I was waiting for my muse. Let’s go sit down,” he said, taking her hand.

  Savannah glanced over her shoulder as they walked away. The two women eyed one another, and Savannah wasn’t sure which one was real.

  “Kick those shoes off and run your toes over this.” He indicated to the white fur rug on the floor between the two couches.

  Savannah rolled her eyes at the extravagance. “The bed is bad enough—but this is too much.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Adam said, laughing. “A gift from my brother. He thought he was being funny. But I love it.”

  He steadied Savannah by the elbow as she reached down, pulled off her heels, and ran her stocking feet into the lush pile.

  “It’s delicious.”

  “It feels delicious on your back, too.”

  Another album dropped onto the turntable. The wine’s slow warmth began to spread from the inside out. Beside her, Adam turned in his seat to face her, just like he did in the coffee shop. Eyes for her alone, she was pulled into their current. Leaving her life jacket on the shore, she swam in their brown depths. Ready to drown.

  He took a loose strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. Then took her wine glass and set it on the coffee table. He leaned in. With one hand on the back of her head, he pulled her to him. She belonged there.

  Her lips opened for his kiss. Kisses beyond the tempered yearning they’d shared in the classroom or the coffee shop. They had a taste of urgency. The kind of kisses her mouth had forgotten. Full of possibility, of carelessness and freedom.

  She let her head roll back on her shoulders to catch her breath and his mouth fell on her throat. His breath hot on her neck. She was suspended between the music, the wine, the candlelight, and his mouth.

  Spinning in slow motion. Adam’s fingers unbuttoning her blouse. The last button gave way and the silken material slid off her shoulders, exposing breasts barely contained by a bit of black lace.

  “You’re so beautiful.” His voice was husky with desire and his eyes widened as he drank her in.

  She’d forgotten the raw power of a man’s wanting. His voice lusty, chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

  He tugged at his own shirt, revealing firm skin stretched taut over sinewy muscles. Her hands ran along his smooth chest, down to the waist of his jeans.

  He slid off the couch, moving down to the rug, pulling her along beside him. The decadent fur rug tickled her back. Warm, wet lips slid from her neck to the deep plunge of her bra. One finger slid under her thin bra strap, coaxing it off her shoulder and his lips followed. His mouth was everywhere: her neck, her shoulders, and on the swell of her breasts.

  His brown eyes looked up at her, dark lashes blinking as he caught the bit of lace in the middle of her bra between his teeth and tugged. She was melting all over his white fur rug.

  Adam got to his feet and held out his hand. She followed, willing and wanting. When they reached the bed, he turned her around and unzipped her skirt, letting it fall to the floor around her ankles.

  She turned in his arms and let his eyes sweep over his prize. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pointed to her stockings and garter belt, eyes burning with greed. Excitement ran its fingers down her spine as she unhooked each stocking and rolled it down her legs with the long, deliberate movements of an actress. Natalie Wood in Love With A Proper Stranger.

  Her hair fell over her face as she bent to remove her stocking and she looked up at Adam through the blonde veil. She could see the curve of her own hip. She was the painting come alive. The look of anticipation in Adam’s eyes gave her the courage to reach a little deeper in her performance.

  She reached out her hand and pulled him off the bed. She unbuttoned his jeans, revealing the defined lines of his torso. The curved definition beneath the waistband, like a pair of backwards parenthesis. The Adonis Belt. Her fingers reached out to caress it, pressing and molding skin and muscles like a sculptor would shape clay.

  Together they crawled up the bed, a pair of stealthy jaguars on the hunt. Tearing open the covers, they fell into one another again, hands everywhere, mouths and tongues searching. Words mixed with kisses like candy on her tongue. Drops of sweetness in her ears.

  He rolled to pull her on top of him, unhooked her bra and slung it away. Straddling him, her thighs pressed against his hips, she sat up and threw her hair back over her shoulders, exposed and vulnerable. Yet she’d never felt more self-assured.

  “Look at you,” he whispered. His hands cupped her breasts, held them like treasures he’d unearthed. “More beautiful than I could have painted.”

  An electric current ran through her body. She opened her lips to speak but only a small moan came. She was beautiful. Invincible. High on his attention and desire. Adam coursing through her veins. She moved her hips slowly, black lace panties rubbing against rough denim, and watched with pleasure as Adam sunk his head into the pillow with a deep moan.

  Lifting her arms behind her head and arching her back, she saw herself in a mirror hanging over the headboard. The breath caught in her throat, startled as she stared at her reflection. Who was that woman, blonde hair loose and tousled from a lover’s hands running through it? Face flushed, eyes burning, breasts bared, and lips open.

  That’s me. No, it isn’t. It isn’t me.

  This woman looking back at her wasn’t real. She was a character that Savannah had dreamt up around a coffee house table. A woman with no past. And certainly no future.

  The mirror cracked before her eyes, fracturing the mood. What had been beautiful and sensual had turned cheap.

  A knot formed in her stomach, followed by panic rising up in her chest. Every nerve on fire, not with desire, but shame.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “No, what?” Adam looked up at her. “Savannah?”

  “No. I can’t do this.”

  She rolled off of Adam and slid off the bed, arms to her chest. Flustered and embarrassed and half-dressed. Savannah Palmerton, standing in a young man’s apartment with her clothes strewn all over the floor. What was she thinking?

  She wasn’t thinking. Only feeling. Like a teenage boy unable to control a wet dream. She’d lost sight of who she was. Lost sight of everything. She could lose it all. For what? A pale imitation of lovemaking?

  Adam scooted up and sat with his back against the headboard, still breathing hard as his hand rubbe
d his lips. He watched with a mix of bewilderment and annoyance as she retrieved her bra from the floor.

  “Savannah, for Christ’s sake, talk to me.”

  She was shaking now, arms twisted behind her back, barely able to manage the two hooks and eyes on the lacy garment. She scrambled around, picking up stockings and a garter belt, then wriggled back into her skirt. A striptease in reverse. The button on her skirt broke under her trembling fingers and rolled under the bed.

  “Dammit.” Her voice was fevered; she was on the verge of hyperventilating.

  “Calm down, Savannah.” Adam looked as confused as she was.

  “I can’t do this.” She held her stockings in her hand as if offering him a consolation prize. “I’m sorry.”

  Adam’s arms wrapped around his knees and he shook his head. Shirtless, jeans open, with tousled hair, he was more of a Greek god than ever, but now, his face turned cruel.

  “You know, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a prick-tease.”

  She winced, although she guessed it was deserved. “It wasn’t my intention.”

  “What was, then? Second base? A little heavy petting before your parents get home?”

  “I wasn’t trying to string you along. I wanted this. Or ...I thought I did.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “You can have anything you want, Savannah.”

  “Says the man with nothing to lose.”

  He looked at her and their eyes held for a crystal moment, trying to find a place to connect again. But the two-foot space between them was expanding.

  “Look, Adam...” Every cell in her body was screaming at her to retreat, but she took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves long enough to speak to him. “I’m not the woman you think I am.”

  His eyes challenged her. “Would’ve been nice if you’d figured that out before you came.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Just because you’re miserable doesn’t give you the right to play with other people’s lives.” He tossed the truth on the floor and it landed near her bare feet.

  “You’re right.” She picked it up and turned it over in her hand. “I was playing a game I had no business playing and I got carried away.”

  “And carried me right along with you.”

  It was hard to look him in the eye, but she forced herself. “It was easy to make the decision while I was sitting in the coffee shop. I thought I could do it. Thought I wanted it. I’m sorry.”

  He looked at her as if they’d never met. “You are sorry. A typical rich bitch.”

  Stung, she fought back. “Let’s be honest, I’m not the only one playing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where did you think this was going? How serious could you be about a married woman with two teenagers? You were counting on me being unavailable. You were just looking for sex.”

  “Really?”

  The look in his eyes told her she’d hurt him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying.” She was floundering. “Don’t listen to me.”

  “You’d better go, then.”

  She was dismissed. Adam swung his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed as she tiptoed around the apartment, hunting down her blouse and shoes, like a streetwalker heading back out into the night after a transaction. Only this customer wasn’t satisfied.

  The record on the turntable had changed again. Coltrane’s, slow seductive jazz beguiled in the background, unaware it was no longer needed and was making things worse. Savannah stuffed her nylons and garter belt in her purse, hiding the evidence. She gathered up her coat and stole a glance at Adam, still sitting on the bed with his back to her. She wanted to say something. Beg forgiveness. But he didn’t look in her direction and she wouldn’t force it. Besides, what could be a suitable apology?

  I’m sorry I’m a prick-tease.

  She closed the door quietly behind her and took the stairs, running as fast as her heels would permit. The chilled night air stung her face. Leaning her head on the steering wheel, she finally let go. The tears rushed out in a mix of anxiety, embarrassment, and regret.

  You’re such a fool. For all your grand thoughts about running off into something wild and dangerous—you’re incapable. You’re even a failure at having an affair.

  She was startled by a knock on the window. It was Adam. Barefoot, with his unbuttoned shirt open to the night air. She fumbled with the handle before rolling down the window.

  “Do you want to come inside and talk?” His angry, bitter expression was gone. Here was the sweet man she’d met her first day in art class, a lock of dark hair falling in his eyes.

  “I can’t trust myself,” she said. “I don’t think I’d have the strength if you tried to change my mind.”

  He crouched down by the window, elbows on the frame so he could see her eye-to-eye. “I won’t try to talk you into anything. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  She pressed her fingertips to her eyes, quelling the tears, feeling his kindness would unravel her. “I’ll be okay.”

  “I know you will.”

  “You’ve been so good to me. So good for me. I really don’t think you have any idea and... I’m going to miss you.” Fridays would never be the same. This good-bye wasn’t just for tonight. It was for always. How could she possibly go back to his class? She hadn’t thought that part through. Didn’t realize how much there was to lose. She’d lost Fridays.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” Adam said. “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t stop painting. You’ve got talent, and I say that as your teacher, not as a seducer. Don’t lose your dreams.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “And not just for that.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not the woman in the painting.” Savannah laid her hand on his cheek.

  “You are that woman. Just not for me.” He kissed the inside of her palm before leaning through the window to kiss her. A tender farewell kiss. He stood up and patted the roof of her car, sending her on her way.

  Tears were still rolling down her cheeks as she pulled onto the street. In her rearview mirror she saw his dark figure standing beneath the streetlight, holding a little piece of her soul.

  SAVANNAH SHUFFLED into the kitchen the next morning, pleaded for coffee, then collapsed at the kitchen counter, her robe trailing behind like a tattered superhero’s cape.

  Neenie set a mug of the dark tonic and a spoon in front of her and returned to her large wooden bowl of bread dough.

  “Thank you,” Savannah said. “And good morning.” Her throat was dry and the few words squeaked out only half-said.

  “Morning’?” Neenie looked askance at her. “The morning’ s long gone. It’s pretty near noon.”

  Savannah winced at the reprimanding tone in Neenie’s voice and watched as the brown hands sunk into the billowing yeast mixture. Turning, and punching until the floury balloon was half its size. She sprinkled more flour on top and spread a clean dish towel over the bowl, setting it aside for the dough to rise again.

  Savannah rested her head on her palm, her elbow on the counter.

  “Where are the kids?” The words stretched out with a yawn.

  “They’re long gone, too. Up with the birds and out they went, barely time to get a piece of toast in them before they flew outta here.” Her head shook, but Savannah saw her lips turn upward. “Kids. Always running.”

  “I know. I wish I had the energy.” She stirred her coffee and watched the little ripples follow her spoon. Leaning over her cup she breathed deeply as last night’s events untangled themselves, only to collide and snarl again. Disjointed images surfaced and teased, then faded before her eyes. How many sleeping pills had she taken? She couldn’t recall.

  You’re such a fool.

  She shuddered at her recklessness, unable to recognize the woman who had tossed aside the good s
ense she was born with to go chasing her libido. She’d managed to escape last night, but what about next time?

  There won’t be a next time.

  Or won’t there?

  She couldn’t be sure of anything anymore, because she didn’t know the eyes reflected in her coffee cup. This common, shameless adulterer.

  Almost-adulterer. As if that were any consolation.

  After a long silence, Savannah whispered, “Neenie, what am I going to do?” The words hung in the air, refugees looking for a safe haven.

  Neenie turned from the sink as if she’d been expecting them. She poured herself a slow cup of coffee and positioned herself on one of the stools next to Savannah. Her lap spread out under a flowered apron, ready for whatever Savannah needed to put there.

  “The question is, child, what do you want to do?”

  “I want to be happy.”

  “That’s too big.” Neenie shook her head. “What does happy look like, anyway?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Happy was a wayward balloon with a string she couldn’t quite grasp no matter how high she jumped. Happy belonged to the barefoot summer girl of her youth. It didn’t live here.

  “You have to start smaller.” Neenie was saying. “Baby steps towards glad. Then you keep on moving until you can find happy again.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “I didn’t say it was easy.”

  “What if you only get one shot at it?”

  “I don’t believe that. Lots of ways to be happy. You’ll find yours again.”

  “Maybe.” It would be so much easier if she were a child again, able to crawl into Neenie’s lap, where everything was all right. “I need someone to point me in the right direction,” she said, wallowing in the sulk, lacking the strength to even lift her head to the possibility of happiness.

  “Well, I know one place you won’t find it.”

  Savannah looked up, eyebrows knitted together.

  “In the bottom of a glass of vodka.”

  Neenie sat back then and squared her shoulders, hands folded neatly in her lap, inviting a sharp rebuttal. Instead, Savannah’s shoulders collapsed and all the air went out of her lungs.