Grand Avenue

by Joy Fielding

  “Would you like to see my apartment?” Howard was asking her now. They were sitting in his black Lincoln Town Car in front of the modern, new condominium complex on Mehring Way.

  “I’d like to, but …” But what? But it’s almost eleven o’clock and I should be getting home? But it’s been such a lovely evening, why ruin it? But I haven’t been with a man since that awful marathon session with Kevin, and I haven’t even kissed anyone since …? My God, Barbara realized. Since Chris.

  “You look beautiful,” Chris had whispered that night. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  And then the kiss, followed immediately by the noise that had pulled them apart, sent them scurrying in separate directions, brought an awkward silence between them.

  “About what happened before …,” Chris had tried to explain later.

  “I understand,” Barbara had told her.

  “Do you? Because I’m not sure I do.”

  “Can we talk about it in the morning?”

  Except they never had. The kiss they’d shared had vanished much like a dream, fragments of it lingering, teasing, courting deeper meaning, then disappearing, returning, ultimately evaporating, neither woman quite able to make sense of it, both afraid to try. So what had happened between them was never discussed, never so much as alluded to again. Barbara and Chris had fallen back into their lives, into their roles as friends and confidantes. Barbara had ultimately decided the kiss had been an expression of two lonely, vulnerable women at a particularly lonely, vulnerable point in both their lives. Nothing more.

  And the truth was that as much as she often wished she didn’t, Barbara liked men—the sheer mass of them, their bodies, their bulk, their effortless strength, the roughness of their skin, their smell. It had been way too long, she decided now, throwing caution to the wind, smiling at Howard. “I’d love to see your apartment,” she said.

  The two-bedroom apartment was as beautiful as she’d known it would be. Simple but not overly macho. Floor-to-ceiling windows, hardwood floors, soft leather furniture, colorful area rugs, a spectacular view of the Ohio River.

  “Would you like a drink?” Howard asked.

  Barbara shook her head. “I’m not sure I can do this,” she whispered.

  He didn’t ask what she meant. “Would you like me to take you home?” he asked instead.

  “No. I don’t want to go home.”

  “What do you want? I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “That might be the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me,” Barbara said, and they both laughed.

  “How about I think I might be falling in love with you?” Howard asked.

  Barbara felt her eyes fill with tears. “That’s pretty nice too.”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “You haven’t shown me your bedroom.”

  Moments later, they were standing beside his king-size bed and steady hands were unzipping her dress. “It’s been a while,” she warned him. “I’m not sure I’ll even remember what to do. Are you going to tell me it’s like riding a bicycle?”

  “Hell, no,” Howard said in genuine horror. “Every time I ride a bicycle, I fall off and break my wrist.”

  She felt her dress slip from her body and drop to the floor, raised protective hands in front of her black lace bra and panties. “These boobs aren’t mine,” she blurted out as Howard leaned forward to kiss the side of her neck.

  He looked confused. “Whose are they?”

  “I had them … what’s the word? Augmented. Surgically enhanced.”

  “You paid for these?”

  Barbara nodded, holding her breath. Why had she said such a stupid thing?

  “If you paid for them, I’d say that makes them yours.” Howard knelt down, kissing each one in turn.

  “And I’ve had a tummy tuck,” Barbara continued, unable to stop the unwanted stream of confessions, as Howard pushed her gently back on the billowy white comforter of the bed. “I’m only telling you this because you might see some scars.”

  “I had an appendectomy a few years ago.” Howard pulled up his shirt to reveal a long, jagged scar of his own.

  At that moment Barbara knew without a doubt she was falling in love.

  He took his time, exploring her body with gentle fingers, although Barbara was too nervous to really enjoy herself, too eager to get the job done. Next time, she’d be more relaxed, she told herself. Next time she wouldn’t be so concerned with mechanics, with making a good impression. Howard was a patient and caring lover, and it wasn’t his fault she was incapable of experiencing orgasm, she decided. After about five minutes of resolute pumping away, she volunteered a few grunts and groans that had always worked with Ron but that didn’t seem to fool Howard at all. Maybe they hadn’t fooled Ron either. What was that awful joke she’d overheard one man tell another? “Why do women fake orgasms?” The answer: “Because they think we care.”

  Howard cared. “What are you doing?” he asked with a sly smile as she thrashed around energetically beneath him. “I know you’re not ready.”

  How did he know? “It’s not your fault,” she assured him quickly. “I never have orgasms. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Don’t you think it should?” He slipped out of her gently. “Lie back. Close your eyes. Don’t think about a thing.” And then his head disappeared between her legs.

  “No, Howard, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Have to?” he murmured, nuzzling the inside of her thigh. “Are you kidding me?”

  His tongue was everywhere, weaving its way through all her secret folds. Gentle, strong, hard, soft. “Oh, my God,” Barbara heard herself cry out. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” And suddenly she was screaming out loud, actually screaming from the sheer pleasure of what she was experiencing. “Don’t stop,” she begged him. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  He didn’t. And when he entered her again later, she was more than ready, and her body exploded with a series of violent spasms she’d never really believed were possible.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked her, as they lay sweat-soaked in each other’s arms.

  Barbara was grinning so hard she could barely speak. “That I can’t wait to tell my friends about this,” she said, and they both laughed.

  “Can you stay the night?”

  Barbara suddenly pictured Tracey, who was probably waiting up for her, and shook her head. “Maybe next time.” She kissed Howard on the lips, tasted herself on his tongue.

  They got dressed. He drove her home, walked her to the door, made sure she was safely inside, kissed her again. “See you tomorrow,” he said as she closed the door after him.

  Barbara sighed deeply, threw her head back, and squealed with delight, throwing her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. The house was in darkness. The TV was quiet. Maybe Tracey was asleep after all. Barbara slipped off her shoes, was about to carry them up the stairs, when she saw something move in front of her.

  And suddenly the room was filled with the sounds of screaming, one scream echoing the other—first Barbara, then Tracey, then Barbara, then Tracey.

  It was just the two of them, Barbara realized, her breath coming in ragged bursts as her terrified daughter emerged from the shadows, the golf club in her hands dropping from her open fingers and crashing to the floor, bouncing toward Barbara’s stockinged feet. Tracey flew into her mother’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “My God,” Barbara cried, hanging on to the girl for dear life. “What’s going on? What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I was so scared.” Tracey was shaking so hard she could barely get the words out.

  “Scared of what? What’s going on?”

  “I was in the kitchen getting something to eat and suddenly there was this noise, and I turned around and there was this face at the window.”

  Barbara raced to the kitchen window, sq
uinted into the darkness, saw nothing. “A face? Whose face?”

  “A man. I’m not sure. It happened so fast. I was so scared.”

  Tony! Barbara thought bitterly. It had to be him. Who else would it be? It wasn’t enough that he continued to harass Chris, he had to terrorize defenseless teenage girls as well. “My poor baby.” She should never have gone out. She should never have left Tracey alone. To think she’d been writhing around in ecstasy while her daughter was cowering in fear. Damn that Tony Malarek. Damn him straight to hell.

  “I found one of Dad’s old golf clubs at the back of the closet. I thought I could use that, you know, to protect myself if I had to. I guess I should have called the police, but I didn’t think of that. I was just so scared.” Tracey was babbling now, her eyes moving rapidly, as if trying to keep pace with her words. “And then it got real quiet, so after a while I went back upstairs. I guess I must have fallen asleep. I don’t know. Suddenly I heard the door, and I grabbed the club and started back down the stairs. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I forgot it might be you coming home from your date.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry I went out.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Had her daughter’s imagination gotten the better of her, or had there really been someone lurking about outside? “I’ll stay home tomorrow.”

  “No, don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll stay home,” Barbara said again, hugging Tracey tightly to her side and leading her up the stairs, “and we’ll make popcorn and watch Richard Gere rescue Debra Winger from that dreary factory job. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Tracey said with a grateful laugh.

  They reached the top of the stairs. “You want to sleep with me tonight?” Barbara asked, as Tracey nodded vigorously. Lately Barbara had insisted that Tracey start sleeping in her own bed again.

  “It’ll be just like old times,” Tracey said, pulling back the covers of her mother’s bed and crawling inside.

  Minutes later, Barbara climbed in beside her. She’d call the police in the morning, report a prowler. Howard would understand about tomorrow night. He’d have to. There was simply no way she could live with herself if anything were to happen to Tracey. “There was a little girl,” Barbara began, her voice a soft singsong as she gathered Tracey into her arms and smoothed the hair away from her face, “who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead.”

  “And when she was good,” Tracey continued, “she was very, very good.”

  “And when she was bad …”

  “She was a really bad girl!” mother and daughter chimed in unison.

  Twenty-Two

  In the beginning I thought she was wonderful,” Peter Bassett was telling the hushed boardroom. “Maybe her work wasn’t up to professional standards, but she was bright and enthusiastic and full of ideas, and I thought she’d learn. Plus, it was so obvious she had a crush on me. I guess I was flattered. Look, I know it was stupid. I’m not proud of what I did—I am a married man. But Susan was the instigator here, not me.”

  Susan cleared her throat, stared into her lap, then cleared her throat again. Oh, God, she thought, looking to Vicki to rescue her. But Vicki merely smiled, the enigmatic little half-smile she’d had since the deposition hearing began, and said nothing.

  Did she have to look so damn comfortable? Susan wondered. Although why wouldn’t she look comfortable? She was in her element. Vicki loved that they were ensconced in the large boardroom of the largest law firm in Cincinnati, surrounded by expensive paintings and spectacular views, that the heavy oak table they were sitting at stretched almost the full forty feet of the room, that the sixteen high-backed, autumn-colored chairs arranged around it had probably cost more than what it had cost Susan to furnish her entire house, that Vicki’s husband, an obviously bemused Jeremy Latimer, was flanked by a trio of high-priced, serious-faced, impeccably dressed attorneys, everybody waiting to see what she’d do next.

  What were they doing here? How had she let it get this far?

  “We’ll sue the bastard!” Vicki had proclaimed when Susan had filled her in on the whole truth of what had taken place between herself and Peter Bassett.

  “What!”

  “It’s called sexual harassment, and if this isn’t a perfect example of it, I don’t know what is.”

  “We can’t sue him,” Susan protested.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for starters, you’d be suing your husband. It’s his magazine.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s named after you. Isn’t there a slight conflict of interest here?”

  “Not if you trust me to represent your best interests.”

  “Aren’t my best interests the opposite of yours?”

  “Jeremy and I aren’t joined at the hip. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

  “Still, what’s he going to say when you slap him with a lawsuit?”

  “Are you kidding? He couldn’t buy this kind of publicity. He’ll love every minute of it.”

  “But …”

  “But what?”

  “But I’m not completely innocent here. I let Peter kiss me.”

  “Yes, and they’ll brand a scarlet K on your forehead,” Vicki deadpanned. “Come on, Susan. You didn’t use that kiss to try to blackmail him into an affair. Peter Bassett as much as told you he’d fire you if you didn’t sleep with him. I can’t see he’s left you any choice.”

  “You really think we have a chance?”

  “Let’s get one thing straight right off the top. There are never any guarantees when you go to court. And this isn’t going to be an easy case to win.”

  “Then why risk it?”

  “Because the next woman this creep harasses could be your daughter,” Vicki told Susan simply.

  After that there was no further discussion.

  That was five months ago, before Anita Hill’s accusations against Clarence Thomas made sexual harassment the hot topic of the day and elevated Susan’s lawsuit to front-page news.

  “Serendipity,” Vicki pronounced. “We got lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Susan protested. “How can you say that? I don’t have a job. My husband is barely speaking to me. I can’t open the morning paper without seeing a picture of my big fat face. A jury is never going to believe I didn’t come on to Peter.”

  “I think you photograph beautifully. Besides, trust me. This case never goes to court.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bassett,” his lawyer was saying now. “Mrs. Latimer, I’m sure you have some questions for my client.”

  Vicki’s response was to reach into her briefcase and retrieve a small black object, which she deposited gently, but with flourish, in the middle of the long table. She pressed a button on the tiny tape recorder, then sank back in her chair and smiled over at Susan.

  Susan held her breath, waiting for the sound of a distant door opening and closing.

  “Well, well. What have we here?” the male voice asked.

  Everyone in the room swiveled toward Peter Bassett.

  “What the hell is this?” Peter Bassett demanded angrily.

  “I finished the article on hormone replacement therapy,” Susan mouthed along with her voice on the recording. “I know you’re anxious to have a look at it.”

  “What kind of games are we playing here, Counselor?” the most senior of Jeremy Latimer’s three attorneys asked, instantly on his feet.

  “Sit down, Austin,” Jeremy said firmly, and the portly older man promptly did as he was told.

  “I object to this,” the youngest lawyer said, his hands waving in several different directions simultaneously, as if he weren’t quite sure exactly what he was objecting to.

  “Save the histrionics, Tom,” Jeremy said dryly. “We’re not in court. Let’s hear the damn thing.”

  All eyes quickly returned to the miniature tape recorder, staring at it as if it were a giant TV screen.

  “What say we look this
over in the boardroom,” Peter Bassett’s disembodied voice was saying, his lazy baritone filling the room, beckoning each listener forward. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

  “You were wired?” Peter Bassett demanded dramatically, his voice bursting with indignation.

  Susan refused to acknowledge him, looked toward Vicki instead.

  Vicki smiled. My idea, the smile announced.

  “Is this legal?” Peter Bassett asked.

  “Shut up, Peter,” Jeremy Latimer said.

  Peter Bassett sank down in his seat and closed his eyes as, for a brief moment, a silence as heavy as black smoke filled the room.

  Then: “I don’t want any trouble, Peter. Please, can you just let me do my job?”

  “Your job is very much at risk at the moment.” The words spit through the tape recorder, spraying all those listening, like venom from a cobra’s fangs. “I’d hoped you’d come to your senses. I like you, Susan. I like you very much. I thought you liked me. I thought you liked working here.”

  “I think you’ll find the article more than satisfactory.”

  “I think I’ll find it very unsatisfactory.”

  “If you’ll just have a look at it …”

  “Convince me.”

  “What?”

  “Convince me to have a look at it.”

  “Peter, please. Can’t we just stop this now, before it’s too late?”

  “You think you can just waltz in here shaking that great ass at me and I’m not going to respond the same way any red-blooded American man would, the way you know you want me to?”