Before he could answer, she was gone. She half jogged through the Final Frontier Passage to the Rings of Uranus, the building of condominiums where she lived. It stood fifteen circular stories tall, providing sweeping views for most of its tenants. Natasha often wondered why that was supposed to be a selling point in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, and generally kept her vertical blinds closed.
She impatiently tapped her foot as the elevator climbed to the thirteenth floor. The only other occupant of the car was a good-looking man in his twenties who was obviously returning from a visit to the workout room. The doors of the elevator slid apart, and the man opened his mouth as if to say something. Natasha shot him a look that said, Don’t bother, loser, when she got out of the car. The man’s mouth snapped shut as if he’d heard her.
She walked into her apartment, slamming the door behind her, then threw the deadbolt and dropped her keys on the table in the small entryway. Moving as quickly as she could, time being of the essence, she undressed as she went to her bedroom. She tossed the discarded clothing on her bed and stopped at the bedside table. She slowly opened the drawer and lifted up a false bottom, removing a tiny key. She looked over her shoulder, as she always did when taking out the key, in spite of knowing how silly it was to be furtive in her own home. She maintained her stealth as she went down the hall to a closed door. She inserted the tiny key into a padlock, slid the lock off, and slipped inside the room, relocking the door behind her. Only then did she feel safe enough to release the breath she’d been holding.
Without taking the time to look around, she quickly applied more makeup and got dressed, finally pinning up her hair and putting on a hat. Only then did she look at herself as objectively as possible in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. One corner of her mouth turned slightly upward.
Good God, she thought, I hardly recognize me. I’m getting better at this all the time.
She left the room and relocked the padlock from the outside. She went back to her bedroom, replaced the key, and found a large pair of sunglasses, which she slid on carefully so they wouldn’t get tangled in the blond extensions that were attached to her hat.
She picked up a paper bag from the counter and tucked it into her dress pocket before walking to the door and looking out the peephole. Slowly, carefully, Natasha opened the door just an inch. She listened for footsteps or voices and heard neither. She darted out the door and ducked into the stairwell, walking down to the ninth floor before slipping into the corridor and taking the elevator.
She continued in the same clandestine fashion to the section of the mall anchored by Kohl’s department store. It wasn’t an area she normally ventured to, given that most of the businesses were discount stores. That was what made it the perfect rendezvous place. She sauntered into a bar located near the entrance to Kohl’s and surveyed the room without removing her sunglasses. She spotted the owner of the gravelly voice sitting at a table not too near the bar in a dark corner.
He was wearing bib overalls and a T-shirt, which had some sort of condiment stain on it. His oily hair was thinning, but was long on the sides and in the back. His long beard undoubtedly doubled as a flytrap when he rode his motorcycle on the highways.
Natasha sat opposite him and brushed back the hair hanging from her hat like any actress working with a prop. “You have it?”
“I said I did when I called, didn’t I?”
“Let me have it,” Natasha demanded.
“First things first. You know that,” the man chastised her. It was annoying to be admonished by one of Hell’s Angels, but she reached into her pocket without argument.
“Here,” she said with disdain, taking the bag from her pocket and pushing it across the table, casually glancing around to make sure no one saw. A ferret-faced man at the bar was looking in their direction, but Natasha dismissed him with contempt. In spite of his cashmere sweater, he looked like a big loser who wouldn’t know his ass from his elbow.
“And here’s to you,” her companion said, pushing a similar bag across the table toward Natasha. When she anxiously started to open the bag, he said, “Are you sure you want to do that here?”
“Huh?” Natasha asked, her hand already inside the bag. She was delirious with anticipation.
“We have enough history that I don’t feel out of line saying that you don’t want to do that here,” he commented.
Natasha caught herself, finally understanding his warning. Without another word, she got up from their table and hurried back to her apartment, her fingers tingling where they clutched the bag in her pocket. Once inside, she retraced her earlier steps, getting the key and letting herself into the locked room. Then she gently placed the hat with attached extensions on the one empty Styrofoam head among many neatly lined up in a row, each wearing wigs of various styles, lengths, and shades of blonde.
Natasha sat in a chair and reached into the bag, touching something wrapped in tissue paper. She pulled it out and gently placed it on her lap. After carefully folding the brown paper bag and putting it on the table in front of her, she gazed expectantly at the clump of tissue, inhaling sharply at the bright colors bleeding through the thin paper.
She barely breathed as she carefully unwrapped the tissue to reveal a tiny patchwork coat in perfect proportion, about four inches long and half as wide, quilted with the love and care of an eighty-seven-year-old Amish woman. It was brilliant in design and color, the stitching perfect, and hemmed just so.
Natasha held it carefully in the palm of one hand, like a little girl who’d found a baby bird on the sidewalk. With the index finger of her free hand, she gently traced the stitching, squirming at the sudden dampness between her legs. She shifted in her chair just a bit, and as her fingernail bumped over the precise stitching, she let out a soft, “Ohhhhhh.”
She fondled and inspected the tiny coat for almost an hour, turning it every which way, hypnotized by the colors and the flawless detail. Finally, she gently put the coat on the tissue paper and set it all on the table so she could reach up to a shelf. She took down a doll that resembled how Barbie might look after she’d stuck her finger in a light socket. The blond hair on the doll was enormous.
Natasha took a tiny blue sequined jacket off the doll and delicately set it on the table, then picked up the patchwork coat. With all the finesse and precision of a surgeon, she slipped the coat onto the doll and admired how perfectly it fit.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. With the tracing fingernail, she brushed a bit of hair from the doll’s face, drawling, “You’re beeeeautifuuuuul…”
She reached over to push a button on a nearby remote, and Dolly Parton’s voice filled the room. Natasha stood to look at the other dolls on the shelf. Dolly in one of her less overwhelming hairstyles, wearing a white satin dress slit all the way up her thigh, with tiny pearl beads on the bodice. Dolly in red, white, and blue sequins, wearing a jaunty cap over her blond shag. Dolly with spiral curls cascading over her black turtleneck sweater, jeans tucked into her black boots. Dolly in a red sequined calico dress, her hair in a beautiful updo. Dolly in shimmering white lace, curls flowing to her waist from a tan cowboy hat. Dolly in a black bustier, garter, and stockings. Dolly in tight, dark denim, wrists weighted with red bracelets, and red earrings peeking out from her blond tresses.
There were more than a hundred in all, and Natasha sighed with contentment as she inventoried her little World of Dollys. She swayed back and forth, crooning to the Dolly in her new coat of many colors, conveying in song that she wished her joy and happiness, but above all that: She would always, always love her.
9
Why the Long Face?
Although Derek’s paychecks were relatively meager in the World of Hunter, he’d earned more in a month than he had during any of his college semesters. He bypassed the mall office of First National Bank, where Hunter had set up an account for him, and went to the mall branch of Indiana State’s credit union. Half an hour later, he emerged with his temporary check
s and a new sense of independence. A man on a mission, he resisted the siren calls of Aveda, Guess, and Mars Music as he walked through the mall.
He’d decided what his first major purchase would be after his evening with Christian. It had been so bizarre to actually meet MCI Man for drinks, especially when their conversation was interrupted several times by Christian’s phone. He still wasn’t exactly sure what Christian did for a living, but the phone made him seem industrious and in charge in a way that Derek envied.
Later, when he left Energy Electronics, he was a little disappointed because the battery on his new cell phone had to charge overnight before he could use it. Nonetheless, it was gratifying to know that friends could call him without going through the hotel receptionist. Although the friends were still mostly illusory. He rarely got calls from anyone but his parents. Still, it was his phone, paid for with his money, from his job. And it felt good.
He bought a latte at Brew Moon Café, sitting at one of their bistro tables to people watch. Most of his fellow employees swore they shunned public places on their days off, citing retail-induced agoraphobia. But Derek was tired of spending his nights at the Congreve chatting online to people thousands of miles away. Or endlessly changing television channels. Or waiting for Hunter’s e-mails, which were usually short and only minimally affectionate.
Then again, the apartment seemed really tempting when he saw Natasha Deere emerge from Ann Taylor. Fortunately she didn’t spot him, although he doubted that she’d have acknowledged him. Natasha didn’t really see people unless she had a reason to castigate them.
His boss baffled him. He’d quickly placed her in his mental A-B-C file drawer, for abhorrent, brutal, and cold, among less savory words that began with the same letters. Then out of nowhere, she’d pulled him off the floor a few days before to have “a little chat.” He’d expected to be fired for something he didn’t know he’d done wrong.
Instead, Natasha had said, “Congratulations on your sale to Mr. Mercer’s client.”
“Thanks,” Derek said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Do you know who Christian Mercer is?”
The first man who might tempt me into cheating on my boyfriend, Derek thought of saying, but merely asked, “Someone important?”
“He’s a glorified errand boy for influential people in Terre Haute. Or at least those who like to think they’re influential. Maybe he’ll bring more of them your way. Try not to foul it up.”
Since then, his manager hadn’t seemed quite as frigid, but Derek knew not to get comfortable. He saw the way she treated Erik, who had their department’s highest sales. If Natasha’s lifeless, Prada-clad feet were ever spotted sticking out from under a stack of shipping crates, Erik would be the first suspect. And Derek would have to stand in a long line of people willing to provide him an alibi.
Derek didn’t really care if Christian brought him more customers. He’d rather see Christian, whose attention had reminded Derek that he was still a young man with a healthy libido. A lonely young man, in fact. Which seemed exciting and dangerous, a deadly combination.
He finished his latte and walked to the Congreve, edging his way through the crowd of people who were there for a Midwestern mayors’ conference. Normally he’d scan them for possible stories to entertain his Internet buddies, but his thoughts were consumed by Christian.
Derek had been hesitant to meet MCI Man at the Aurora, right under the noses of Hunter’s employees. He’d chastised himself for succumbing to the alluring contrast of Christian’s dark auburn hair and gray eyes, the way his clothes fit his body as if they’d been custom-tailored, and for some bizarre reason, his fingers, which had struck Derek as artistic and sensual. After Christian removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, Derek had watched the play of the muscles in his forearms and hands when he made notes in his PalmPilot or drummed his fingers on the table.
But it wasn’t Christian’s obvious physical appeal that Derek couldn’t forget. There was something intense about the way Christian sized him up, taking in every detail of his appearance. Maybe Christian was just a label queen, but he’d seemed to want to probe beneath Derek’s clothes and find out who he was. Derek’s fantasies about MCI Man had left him self-conscious about being with the real person. He’d also wanted to avoid any discussion of Hunter, so he’d nervously tried to direct Christian’s attention to other people in the bar.
It had worked, and Christian seemed to be charmed by Derek’s gift for improvising stories about people. But in the cold light of day, Derek wondered why it had been so important to charm Christian. Was he really ready for a fling? A different relationship? Had he given up on a future with Hunter? Would he have followed through if Christian had suggested moving their meeting into the closest available bedroom?
When he let himself into the apartment and plugged in his cell phone to charge it, it occurred to him that the closest available bedroom would have been Hunter’s. Which was too far outside the realm of decent behavior for Derek to even contemplate. It was time to make some changes.
He moved his things from Hunter’s room into the suite’s other bedroom, then checked his e-mail. There was nothing from Hunter, so he threw himself on the sofa to watch television. Two hours, one dinner, one fantasy about Hunter, and two fantasies about Christian later, he was climbing the walls. He dug through the slips of paper and cards he’d piled on his dresser until he found Vienna’s number. She and Davii were probably inundated with things to do on a Friday night, but he figured he’d give it a shot.
When no one answered at the apartment, he tried Davii’s cell phone. After getting voice mail, he left a message suggesting that they meet him at the Aurora if they got home early enough. Since the chance of seeing them was slim, he might as well drink close to home.
Sheree Sheridan was in the middle of a set when Derek settled himself at the bar with a martini. Hearing her mourn the man that got away in her husky voice hit a little too close to his heart, so he focused on the way she looked, something he never tired of.
Having seen the telltale lines around her eyes and mouth, Derek knew Sheree had to be fiftyish, but to him, she was timeless. Her hair, blonde courtesy of a hairdresser, was teased and pulled into a loose knot, with wisps falling artfully down the back of her neck and around her face, softening her features. She was in stage makeup—heavy on the foundation, false eyelashes, lots of contouring and shading—and he thought she looked fabulous. The blue sequins of her dress caught the light and shot beams into the room, casting glamour on the crowd that always filled the bar on Friday nights, a mixture of locals and hotel guests.
Everything about her—whiskey voice, glittering costumes, fading beauty—bespoke a world-weary attitude. And then her eyes registered. No woman of her years and experience should have eyes that still looked dreamy and hopeful. From the first time he saw her and listened to her sing, Derek had adored her.
He still remembered that night. He and Hunter had gone into Terre Haute for dinner, a rarity in itself. When they’d returned to the hotel, some sad song was drifting through the lobby like smoke, and Hunter had suggested they stop in and listen to Sheree. Later, in bed, Hunter had been unusually expansive. Derek didn’t know if it was Sheree’s singing or the numerous cocktails that loosened Hunter’s tongue, but he listened, spellbound, to the story in their dark bedroom.
“That woman,” Hunter said, “is the closest thing to a conscience Randolph Congreve ever had.”
Apparently, it was one of the family’s open secrets that Sheree was Hunter’s father’s mistress. The girls weren’t supposed to know about her, but the boys had occasionally seen her in their father’s company at symphony performances, the opera, and the ballet. Any time his sons were bold enough to speak to their father and Sheree, she always knew them by name without being introduced, and could even converse knowledgeably about their hobbies and interests. Sheree was the only proof that their father knew what his sons did with their time. Somebody had to have t
old her.
“Sheree is all heart,” Hunter said. “Way too good for the old man.”
“So what’s she doing here?” Derek finally thought to ask.
“Maybe he got tired of her. Maybe she’s getting too old, so he found a younger version. Although she’s one of a kind. Or maybe he’s just too old and tired himself to continue to maintain a mistress. Who knows?”
The subject never came up again, but many times when Hunter was out of town, Derek spent his nights in the piano bar watching Sheree cast her spell on the crowd. He rarely saw her during the day, although she, too, had an apartment at the Congreve. Sometimes he’d spot one of the bellhops walking her Italian greyhound, or catch a glimpse of her getting into a hotel courtesy car. He didn’t really want to see her outside the bar, preferring that she remain a mysterious, sultry creature of the night.
He automatically joined in the applause when she finished her set. After being stopped by a few of the patrons, she came to the bar, where the bartender handed over her usual glass of sparkling water with a twist of lemon.
“Hi, Buddy,” she said to Derek, giving him one of her languorous smiles. She always made it sound like his name, although he knew that she was fully aware of who he was.
“Hi, Sheree,” Derek said, smiling back as she slid onto the stool next to his. “You sound great, as always.”
“Honey, it’s the songs. I haven’t sounded great since God was a boy, but thank you for saying so. You look a little gloomy. Is that the songs, too? You came in during the sad set.”
He shook his head and said, “The sad set is my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” she said. “I wonder why a broken heart is always more interesting than a light one?” He’d been staring toward the stage, but that made him turn a startled look her way. “Feeling lonely and abandoned?” she asked.
“A little,” he admitted. “Sort of like I’ve overstayed my welcome. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if he’s tired of me.”
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