A New Lu

by Laura Castoro

  “Cushy spot.”

  He looks at me, clearly annoyed. “That’s what Linda thought. That’s why she encouraged me to take it. But even this end of the island has more hard-working poor than vacationing wealthy. They oil the wheels of the cushy life.”

  “Touché.”

  He puts a hand on my knee. “Sorry. I know you didn’t mean it that way. But Linda did. She liked the Hamptons address. She just didn’t like the fact that all my patients are elderly, and that I don’t cater strictly to the upper end.”

  “I’ve seen your waiting room. Prince and pauper, cheek by jowl. You must be good.”

  He grins. “I’m very good at what I do. But I’m in a practice that loses patients. Linda called what I do living at the edge of the grave. That’s the point of it, to make the end easier.”

  I don’t quite know what to say to that. That his attitude is noble or selfless or even rare would be true, but trite. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to expect a comment.

  “I thought it would work, but Linda felt betrayed by my new practice.” He removes his hand from my knee. “I knew she was afraid of growing older. In fact, she was obsessed with staying young. You name the process, she had tried it—before forty.”

  “She must have been beautiful.” I’m thinking of Jolie. If I’d ever looked like that, I might be a little more willing to sacrifice to maintain it.

  “She was, and always would have been, to me. But she changed.” He pauses to give me a knowing look. “Being a man, I didn’t like the changes.”

  “And that should teach me to keep my smug mouth shut!”

  “There are at least two sides to every issue.” He rubs his brow. “I’m sure, if she were here, Linda could make you see hers. She just couldn’t adjust out on the island. The summers were great. Winters in a summer resort can be very lonely.”

  “If you don’t have a life of your own.”

  He nods. “I work a lot of hours, even more now that I’m in an unpredictable field. The elderly, like the very young, get sick quickly and inconveniently.” He looks at me again, the fire reflected in his dark gaze. “Sometimes I attend a funeral a week.”

  And that says more about him than anyone could tell me. He sees his patients all the way to the end of the line.

  “Within a few months Linda was miserable. By then Jolie went away to college. Finally, I was miserable. A few days before the boating accident she’d told me she was leaving me.”

  I think about all those expensive yachts in the harbor, and wonder if the owner or renter of one of them contributed to the alienation of Linda Templeton’s affection for her husband. Why I have that disloyal-to-the-sisterhood thought, I don’t know. Something in the pain crimping the corners of his eyes is a hint. But I don’t ask.

  “I regret her death. But to be honest, I was mentally already out the door of the marriage.”

  “Then why do you still wear a wedding band?” I’m a woman and I need to know.

  He looks down at his hand. “Protection. There are a lot of lonely women in my practice.”

  I chuckle. “Lots of wealthy lonely women.”

  “Remind me of that in a couple of years, if I’m still sad and lonely.” He slips off his ring and puts it in his pocket, and then he turns to me in a motion I don’t recognize until it’s complete.

  He kisses like he does everything else, with amazing poise and concentration and skill. But there’s nothing practiced in it. He kisses as if it’s been a long time, too long, and it’s something he really enjoys, and has missed. Or maybe that’s me.

  “Okay, that’s behind us,” he says when he pulls back.

  “Good.” He’s left me breathless, and just a little loopy. I don’t know whether to reach again for my tea, or him. This is teenybopper stuff, but I’m loving it! Yet I’ve lived long enough to be wary. Of my emotions. Of making another mistake. Of misreading the signals.

  Because he does, I, too, reach for tea. I don’t know what I’m doing, or maybe I do. It’s just flirting. “I had a thing for you three years ago.”

  “Really?” He looks pleased. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Because we were both married is the right answer—and the truth. Instead I decide the evening calls for a deeper truth. “Because you’re perfect.”

  “Yes, that makes sense.” He strokes his chin. “I certainly see perfection when I shave every morning.”

  “Come on, a doctor? Please! You are everything every mother wants for her daughter. You’re smart, well-educated. Fairly good-looking.” I laugh at his doubtful glance. “You’re a doctor, numero uno, in career-choice husband material.”

  “You never heard of Bill Gates?”

  My turn to laugh. “I grew up not wealthy, but we weren’t hurting. I had no desire to marry up. Jacob was blue-collar, had to work his way from the bottom. I liked that, wanted that experience. But the needs and desires of a twenty-year-old have less in common with those of a fifty-year-old than I ever dreamed. Understand?”

  He nods, then stops. “No, I don’t get it. What happened?”

  I meet his gaze. “Have you ever had the feeling that you were wrapped up so tightly by your previous choices that nothing real or new could get in?”

  “Linda wouldn’t even visit my new offices for fear someone would mistake her for a patient. Wouldn’t even visit!”

  I don’t know if that qualifies, but he’s sharing a deep hurt, and I do understand feeling unappreciated and rejected.

  “My needs changed. Jacob’s never did. Eventually, I wanted something…something more.”

  He leans toward me. “More than perfection?”

  “I didn’t leave Jacob, if that’s what you’re thinking. He left me.”

  I’ve surprised him. “So why are you…?”

  “Preggers?” Deep breath. “I think they call it pity sex. It sure is a pity I did it the way I did.”

  He stirs his tea before he says, “Where are you and Jacob now?”

  “Jacob is out of my life. I’m free and breezy, at last.” The look he gives me forces me to add, “Of course, nothing kills sex appeal like morning sickness.”

  “That’s easy enough to disprove.” He puts down his tea. “Want to?”

  I’m shocked. I admit that. I haven’t been propositioned since—well, a very long time. Surely, he’s kidding. But he just kissed me, and he looks more than half-serious, but that could just be me reading what I’d like to see reflected in his gaze, even if I wouldn’t very well take him up on—

  “You’re thinking.” So much space for the tenderness on his face. “That’s not how it works.”

  “It?”

  He reaches up and touches me with just a forefinger pressed below my collarbone left of center. Even through my linen shirt his finger is warm. “You don’t make a decision about these things. They just happen…or they don’t.”

  These things. How many things has he had? Andrea’s attitude has become my own. “I’m pregnant.”

  “I know how it works.” He’s prodding me ever so gently for emphasis. I’ve gone all tingly inside. Is this some new erogenous zone I’ve not known about? “I’ve been with a pregnant woman before.”

  I’m taken aback a second time. He seeks out pregnant partners? Oh, right, he’s a father. Bound to have had a pregnant wife in his life, and in his bed.

  “Is this safe?” Hey! He’s the professional here.

  “God, I hope not.”

  As he leans in to kiss me again I notice my shadow on the wall, and it’s shaking its head.

  He must notice my head movement, too, for he stops and pulls back. “Fair enough. But what’s that line? ‘Life is a banquet yet most poor suckers are starving to death.’”

  He quoted a line from Mame! He must like theater, or old movies.

  Should I grab for all the gusto? No, that’s a beer commercial. The best lines these days are written to sell beer. We no longer have a compelling vocabulary for our relationships with other people—only for things, pos
sessions or would-be possessions. We can feel for the moment, but seldom for the person.

  And yet I’m feeling all kinds of good and wonderful and scary things about this man just at this moment. Thinking only of him.

  Does he think I’m easy, the kind of woman who’ll sleep with anybody, even her ex? Dumb enough to get knocked up, I’m now safe and easy prey?

  He’s right. I can’t think my way into this, only out of it.

  I reach and take his face in both my hands. It’s a broad face. Warm and smooth with hardly a prickle of an evening shadow. His cheeks firm in my hands as he smiles. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  I try to buy time. “Are you Greek? Portuguese?”

  His gaze dips for a moment. “I grew up on the Shinnecock reservation near Southampton. I’m Montauk, Shinnecock, Irish, African and, yes, Portuguese. Is that an issue?”

  “Not even a small one.”

  “Good. Now, where were we?”

  I hold him off with my palms. “Your girl—ladyfriend?”

  “No one since Linda.” He says the words separately, as if each is a full statement in itself.

  The second kiss is better than the first. He drags me into his lap, and though I’m no petite package, I feel right at home in the circle of his legs and arms.

  The man can kiss!

  He’s slow and thorough, and while his hands are sliding up and down my back, his lips and tongue are making love to my mouth. I feel dizzy when we come up for air. But he’s a man on a mission, and he isn’t mistaking slowness for a need for a rest stop. He’s turning me, and I’m so overwhelmed with sensation that I’m on my back before I quite realize how it was accomplished. My big linen shirt, oh! It’s sliding up my torso thanks to his hands. They meet my bra, rise up over it and palm both my breasts at once as his mouth again finds mine.

  I am anxious, but I’m not always a fool. This is no time to break off and then wonder what might have been. I reach around, find the back of his shirt, and start pulling it out of his pants. His back is broad and solid, and I find myself kneading him like bread dough. He thumbs my nipples through the lace, and I can’t help it, I gasp.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” he whispers into my ear. “Just go with me, Lu. Just be with me.”

  I mumble an affirmative into his neck, and then nip at his earlobe. He groans. Ah, he likes that! I lift my head and suck his lobe all the way into my mouth, tugging and sucking until I’m satisfied, and then I stick my tongue into the hollow of his ear. He gives a grunt, almost like pain, but he doesn’t pull away.

  When I’m done, I realize he has opened my bra. He lifts it and ducks his head beneath my shirt.

  Oh, now, wait! I wasn’t prepared to feel this much, reveal this much. But that mouth and tongue of his are magic. It takes only the briefest thought of what he might do elsewhere with his talents, and I’m shuddering.

  “I never come this fast,” I say in wonder. Not untouched in strategic places.

  All I get in reply is a chuckle. And then he’s reaching for the drawstring of my waistband, and I’m no longer thinking, but hoping, praying, yes, oh yes, oh yes!

  Some prayers are answered. Some dreams satisfied. I don’t mean to sound flip. I mean to sound grateful.

  Finally, half-exhausted and delirious with pleasure, I reach for his waistband, slide his belt loose and try to lower his zipper. But he’s come up astride me and his trousers are pulled taut. So I go for what I can and stick my hand inside. He sucks in a breath, giving me access, and I find the length and strength of him.

  I am impressed. His penis is like a shaft of copper pipe. How old is he? Whatever it is, it’s the perfect age. At twenty, he’d have killed me.

  Now it’s my turn to try to please. Maybe it’s him or something I’m doing, but I’ve hardly begun before he pushes me away, saying, “I don’t want to spoil it for you.”

  I look up, flash my version of a wicked smile, and say, “My treat.”

  It goes both ways, when you’re with the right person. Pleasure begets pleasure. When he comes, I’m overcome with sensation, too.

  After that, it’s pretty much a love match, a little of this and a whole lot of that.

  We end up with me on my knees and him behind, one broad arm reaching ’round to make certain I don’t miss one moment of pleasure. I vaguely understand this keeps pressure off my abdomen, but I’m pretty certain if he suggested hanging me up by my big toes at this point, I might be considering it.

  I come in hard shudders that rack my body scalp to toenails, make my womb dance, and I think, Oh baby, baby, ooh baby, baby!

  I feel him come, like tidal waves crashing on my shore, and it’s so damn intense that afterward we kind of collapse sideways from the strain. Even then, his arms are there to steady and cushion my fall.

  He pats my sweaty back and kisses my shoulder, then says in a fake southern drawl, “Ah sure am grateful for the pleasure of yawr comp’ny this eve’in’, Miz Ta-lu-lah!”

  When my heart stops racing and my eyes uncross I turn my head toward him, grinning. “What did you put in that tea?”

  He swivels his head toward me, his expression lazy. “Equal.”

  I’ll say!

  12

  I can’t believe it. Here I lie on the floor—naked! And I’m not cringing.

  I have not thought once about my middle-aged body, my stretch marks, my droops, my saddles, my wrinkles or my pores. Why should I? I’m wise enough to know that no alteration in them could have made this evening any better. In fact, I’m in love with the real me all over again. Look what it got me!

  There’s a man lying next to me, whom I genuinely like, smiling back at me. And to think I thought I had given Jacob my best. My best hasn’t been on display in years!

  No, scratch that. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had! And I didn’t even have to wax my legs.

  I hope I didn’t say that out loud.

  He cups my face. “You’re a surprise.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” I shocked myself. Got to be the hormones!

  Although… I remember pregnancy sex as uncomfortable, and not particularly satisfying. Jacob was always afraid he might do the baby harm so we kind of rocked ourselves to a so-so climax. William has only to kiss me to set me off.

  The best sex ever. It’s official.

  “What are you thinking?” He taps my forehead.

  He didn’t use a rubber! And then I remember the crackle of foil. Yes, he did.

  “I’m glad you were prepared.”

  He looks surprised by the first words out of my mouth. Uh-oh, not a good sign. Brain-numbing sex is wearing off. Pretty soon fifty years of pretty righteous living is going to start its inquisition.

  I wait a heartbeat. But I don’t feel guilt or dread, or even the shilly-shally of regret in the wings of my joy. Good. Later is better, much later.

  His beeper goes off. I had completely forgotten the possibility of that kind of intrusion. But he’s on his feet in a flash, and after a look at it, he says, “Excuse me,” and pads away into the next room.

  Was that a naked man I saw? Why yes, oh yes, that was a naked man I saw.

  I roll over onto my back in laughter. Reduced to nursery-rhyme humor by giddiness! I’m pathetic. And he’s cute, even from the rear.

  After a moment, I sit up to look for my shirt. The smile on my face feels so broad I have trouble seeing much past my nose. Yet I manage to find it, put it on and button it up before he returns.

  From somewhere he has snagged a pair of shorts and pulled them on. He’s frowning as he enters, but the moment he sees me, his expression softens. He comes right up to me and pulls me up from the floor, and into his arms for another kiss.

  After two or three more I can feel the stirring of interest, but he reaches up and captures my face between his hands. “I’m sorry, but I have to go out.”

  “Someone’s ill?”

  He hesitates. “Someone’s died. It was expected. But…”

  �
��Of course.” I turn and begin to gather my things. He stands and patiently watches until I’ve found them all, then I head for the bathroom.

  When I come out again, in more or less normal order, I see he’s completely dressed, too.

  He approaches as if he has more bad news. Maybe my conscience absconded to lecture his, because it sure isn’t making any waves in my head. Then I remember his lost patient. “I’m so sorry you have to go, and under these circumstances.”

  He shrugs. “It’s what I do.”

  But when I try to walk past him, to pick up my wallet, he reaches out and halts me with a hand on each of my shoulders. He redirects me back in front of him, but this time he doesn’t try to kiss me.

  “You said earlier that Jacob was out of your life. Even though he knows you carry his child?”

  I really don’t want to talk about this now. “He doesn’t know.”

  William’s hands drop from my shoulders. “Then you aren’t over.”

  “Of course we are.” I feel ridiculous trying to explain my position to a man who’s just known me in about every biblical sense. “This wasn’t some pitiful ploy to trick my husband back into my life. It is—was a mistake. I don’t want him back.”

  William says nothing.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe that’s what you think today. But you haven’t heard what he has to say about your condition. You’re angry and hurt. Embarrassed. All of that will wear off in a few weeks, a month.”

  “When I’m big as a house, you mean?”

  “I don’t mean anything.” He shakes his head. “I can’t talk to you about this. I can’t be the one to influence your decision.”

  “Oh, I get it.” He is having the second thoughts I wasn’t having.

  “No, you don’t.” He shoves his hands into his pockets when I know he wants to touch me again, because I want him to. “I won’t insult you by making any promises, even to call you. You’ve got some very important things to deal with. I don’t want to mess that up for you.”