Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

  Wolf downed a huge cheeseburger with fries, along with two tall pints of some dark beer. His lusty appetite fascinated me. His forearms were tanned a dark brown, even in spring, and they looked like they’d ring like steel if you tapped them with a hammer. Wiping his mouth delicately, he sighed. “Damn, that was good. Since I got divorced, I live on nothing but Swanson’s potpies.”

  Alan chimed in. “No, I like Marie Callender. Macaroni and cheese, and beef stew.”

  I laughed, raised my hand. “Lean Cuisine.”

  “Welcome to Splitsville,” Roxanne said. She pointed to her chest. “Cracklin’ Oat Bran and Lucky Charms.”

  We all laughed. As if it was funny. As if there weren’t a thousand things funnier than that. And there was more along the same lines, the same inane little conversations.

  But really, how different was it than the polite conversations I’d had a thousand times at dinner parties at Pamela’s house, or Kit’s? Not much. If you were lucky, there was a raconteur who held up your end of the table. In this case, it was Wolf, who seemed smarter than his muscles would have suggested. He was verbal and funny and never seemed to show the beer he was drinking. His speech stayed steady, his eyes clear.

  They bought Roxanne and me another round—a second two-for-one. “That’s too much for me,” I protested.

  “We’ll just split a cab,” Roxanne said. “It won’t cost that much if we split it.”

  It seemed like a waste, since I wouldn’t drink it, but whatever. I shrugged.

  Taking a slight, tiny sip of the first glass, I said, “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?” It was no less stupid than any of the other things we’d been discussing.

  “Cairo,” Wolf said without hesitating. “I gotta see the pyramids before I die.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Really.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You look surprised, sister. What’d you think I’d say?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Not that, I guess.”

  “Make you feel better if I said Branson, or something?”

  “No.” I met his eyes, which were vividly blue, and challenging. “Why the pyramids?”

  “Because they’re so old. Because I’d like to see if they have any kind of vibration in them, you know? Secrets.” He plucked a piece of lettuce from the bar and dropped it on his plate. “I used to love to read about them when I was a kid.”

  “I’d go to Rio,” Alan said. “All those beautiful women.”

  I just barely stopped myself from drawling, What a surprise.

  Wolf said, “Don’t be a cliché, man. Come up with something better than that.”

  Alan looked into his beer. “Las Vegas. Even though I been there.”

  I dipped my head to hide my amusement. Roxanne kicked me under the table and I looked at her. Her eyes were glittering with amusement, and I couldn’t believe she meant to have this guy. Under her breath she started singing the hot-dog song. My nostrils quivered with my attempt to keep the giggle out of my voice.

  “How ’bout you, sister?” Wolf asked. “Where would you go?”

  “Are you calling me sister because you can’t remember my name?”

  He grinned.

  “It’s Nicole.”

  “All right, Nicole,” he said, and I liked the ease in it. “Answer the question.”

  “London,” I said. “I was a history fiend when I was a teenager and I want to see all the places I read about.”

  “What she’s not saying,” Roxanne piped up, “is that her ex took her daughter there for spring break, even though it was the place Nikki wanted to go more than anywhere. Isn’t that just like an ex?”

  “Dude,” Alan said, shaking his head. “That sucks.”

  “I’ll get there,” I said. “Now you, Roxanne. Where would you go?”

  She tapped a cigarette out of her pack, drew it out, held it in her fingers. “Around the world. One of those cruises where you get on the ship and it takes you all the way around in 180 days or something. I’d love that.”

  I smiled at her. “You should do it.”

  She bent into the match Alan held for her. “Maybe I will,” she said, and blew out a stream of pale blue smoke. “Maybe I will.”

  At seven-thirty, I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room. In the mirror, I stared at my face and saw the wine flush on my cheekbones, the excessive brightness of my eyes. It was very hot and smoky in the pub area, and it was making me feel dizzy and overwrought. I told myself I should go home, but there was something enjoyable about it, too. Forgetting. Immersing in the noise.

  I soaked a paper towel in cold water and held it to my forehead, then each temple. My chest at the neckline of my button-up shirt was flushed, and I unbuttoned it a little more, pressed the cold towel to that flesh, too. The one good part of being a little overweight right now was the extra cleavage it gave me. It looked nice, I thought, blurrily.

  Time to stop drinking. Well past time, actually. Maybe I ought to just go ahead and call a cab and go home. Except then I’d need a ride down here in the morning before work. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I could call another cab in the morning, but that would cost even more, wouldn’t it, and it wasn’t like I had tons. I could walk, couldn’t I? Leaning into the mirror to reapply my makeup, I thought, Yes. Walk. Good idea. It couldn’t be more than a mile, maybe not even that much. A half mile.

  Good plan.

  Time to go home. Hmm. I’d have to figure that out. When I went back out to the bar, I said to the bartender, “Will you call me a cab, please?”

  “Sister, you don’t have to get a cab,” Wolf said. “I’ll drive you.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been drinking, too.”

  “Nah. I had beer with my dinner, but that’s it.” He pointed to the two inches still left in his last pint. “Ask Andrew.”

  The bartender nodded. “He’s sober. I know him.”

  Which left another dilemma. “Er . . . I don’t really know you.”

  Roxanne put her hand on my arm. “He’s all right.”

  Truth was, I liked the idea of getting into a car with him. He was big and solid and smelled of Tide detergent, and I was really ready to go home before I drank yet another matched set of Chardonnays. “All right.”

  We paid our separate bills, and as I waited for my change, I asked Roxanne if she was ready to come now, too. She shook her head. “My night’s just getting started.”

  In the old days, I wouldn’t have left a girlfriend alone at the bar with a guy, not when she’d been drinking, or I had. She wouldn’t have let me go off with another guy, either. In those days, that was the rule: girls stuck together.

  We were grown-ups now, I thought blurrily, following Wolf out. The air outside was crisp and bracing. I liked the feel of it on my face. “Better,” I said, pausing to take a deep breath. “It was really smoky in there.”

  “Yeah, it is better. I work in Pueblo sometimes, and they’ve killed indoor smoking. It’s great.” He took keys out of his pocket. I noticed he had a very nice rear end in his blue jeans. “You ever go down there?”

  “No.”

  He led the way to a modest-sized pickup, nicely kept and clean inside, but not a monster-sized gas guzzler. A working man’s truck, with a toolbox in the back and the obvious dust of concrete in the bed. “You’re a concrete man,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “My ex was a contractor.” I rethought it. “Is.” I sat in the truck and let him slam the door. I hoped it wasn’t obvious that I was feeling the wine. “Not is husband, but is a contractor.”

  “Right. I got it.”

  Stop talking, Nikki, I told myself. Less said, less regretted.

  He climbed in on the other side. “Where to?”

  I told him the name of the apartments, and he started the engine. The radio came on, playing old-time rock at a fairly high volume. “The truck and the music
fit,” I said.

  “Not Cairo, though, huh?”

  “Sorry, that probably seemed snotty.”

  “ ‘Elitist’ is the word I was thinking of.”

  I looked at him again, and felt ashamed of myself for thinking the things I was thinking. That “elitist” seemed not a word a guy like him would drop in casual conversation. “Well, I’m kind of new to the world of not snotty.”

  “I can tell. What are you doing over here slumming?”

  I lifted a shoulder, dropped it heavily. “Same thing you are. Divorce.”

  He turned into the apartments in less than two minutes, and I directed him to the lot behind my building. He pulled into a space and turned off the lights. “I hate it when people shine their lights into my bedroom window.”

  I was suddenly aware of the intimacy of the cab, of the look of his hands on the wheel, competent and strong, and I wondered what it would be like to kiss him. To kiss anyone. I had been in my twenties the last time I’d kissed someone who wasn’t my ex-husband.

  Wolf just sat there, his hand resting on top of the wheel, the engine idling. Which made me feel like an idiot for thinking anything at all.

  “That’s nice of you,” I said. Did I slur that “s”?

  I tried to unfasten the seat belt, but it seemed stuck or something. I pushed the button and nothing happened. Pushed again, harder. Still nothing.

  “I seem to be unable to release myself,” I said primly. “Which I swear is not my way of trying to get you to come over here and put your hands on me or something.”

  “No?” He chuckled, and the sound filled every molecule of empty space in the cab, as warm and scented as an evening campfire. “It gets stuck.” He released his own belt, stamped down on the emergency brake, and scooted over a little way to push the button on my belt.

  It released, and I took a breath. “Thanks.”

  “I wouldn’t mind kissing you,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, and looked up. But I didn’t have to say anything to Wolf. He leaned over and put his hand on my jaw, and I caught the silhouette of his lashes against a faraway glow of street lamp before his lips touched mine.

  Just touched. Full lips, fuller than Daniel’s anyway. I found my mouth going softer in response, and he scooted a little closer, the hand on my jaw sliding down the juncture of neck and shoulder.

  His tongue nudged my lips. Something told me to notice this, this very moment, this first kiss after my divorce. His tongue was pointed, hot, wet, nudging along the parting of my lips, wiggling inside, teasing my tongue to come out and play.

  And with sudden release of heat, I did. I opened to him, let his tongue dive into my mouth, and I thrust mine into his, dancing, swirling, rubbing lips, tilting heads.

  Here was a man, smelling of laundry, his body hot and urgent beside me, and I didn’t protest when he pulled me closer, putting our chests into contact. “Mmmm,” he breathed. “You taste good.” His hands smoothed down my back, slid into my hair, and shivers rustled over my skin in their wake, the starved skin rippling in response.

  I touched him in return. Sucked on his tongue and pushed my hands through his short, thick hair, and traced the bristling of beard on his jaw. When he slid his hands around to touch my breasts, I didn’t stop him, and an involuntary little noise came from my throat. Taking his cue, he plunged his tongue deeper into my mouth, and I pushed back, and he pulled me into his lap, so I straddled his erection.

  He unbuttoned my blouse a little in the front, and kissed the skin there, and I rocked against him a little, aching for his fingers or his mouth on my nipples, which felt engorged and irritated. Without much thought I reached up and unbuckled the front clasp of my bra. The flesh spilled out, bare and—even I knew this much— pretty. “God, you’ve got beautiful breasts,” he sighed, and cupped them, lifted his face.

  I pressed into him, harder. “Kiss them,” I whispered.

  He did. Opened that hot mouth, put it over the tip of my right breast, and suckled. I moaned and he did it again, and we moved into a rocking rhythm, me pushing against his erection, his lips, tongue, mouth playing with my nipples. I felt the heat building between—

  A door slammed somewhere close by and I was shattered out of the moment. Wolf went still beneath me, his hands still cupped around my breasts. I realized the engine was still running. That I was drunkenly making out with a guy I just met, in his car, as if we were teenagers.

  “Let’s take this inside, baby,” he said.

  “No.” I squeezed my eyes closed, finally ashamed of myself. “No. This is a mistake.” I pulled away from him, tugged the edges of my blouse together. The voices of the people who’d slammed a door faded away. “Sorry,” I said, and pushed wild hair out of my face.

  He looked up at me, his eyes starry and beautiful in the dark, his face square and working-class and wry. “You won’t be sorry if you let me come in.” His hands moved on my thighs, up and down. “I’ve been told I can make a woman pretty happy.”

  There was no doubt in my mind that it was true. “I’m sure you could make me sing like a canary,” I said, and kissed him, then straightened. “But I’ve had too much to drink. This is not wise.”

  He bit his lower lip. “Damn.”

  “Sorry.” I pulled away completely, buttoning my shirt, embarrassment creeping in. I picked up my purse, put my hand on the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

  He half grinned. “Not quite the ride I would have given, but you’re welcome anyhow.” He leaned close and kissed me. Dizzy with wine, I let him.

  There we were again, kissing and kissing and kissing. He reached up and pinched my nipple. “Get out of here.”

  It stung. I jumped out of the truck. He didn’t wait for me to get to a safely lit spot before he pulled out, gunning the engine to show his annoyance.

  I stood in the mild dark, too much wine in my head, and glared at his taillights as they disappeared into the darkness, and I tasted the ashes of the night on the back of my tongue.

  Did I really have to repeat the whole absurd dance of mating again? Wasn’t it enough to do it before I found Daniel?

  I made my way only slightly unsteadily to the stairs, which seemed very, very, very long by the time I reached the door. Maybe I didn’t want a man, not any of them, if it meant having to do all this again, making mistakes, wading into all the messy needs, wishes, desires. Pride and body fluids and possible broken hearts.

  My chest felt thick with the weight of it.

  At the top of the stairs, I paused to catch my breath, and I snagged on the view. Not of the dark mountains, not at night, but of the glittering city of Colorado Springs visible between two buildings. It spread out to the east, sparkling in white and red and green, and in my inebriated state, it looked unbearably beautiful. I almost wanted to cry over it. When a tear actually welled up in my eye, I got a grip.

  “Go to bed, Nikki,” I said.

  And I did.

  10

  Nikki’s Perfume Journal

  SCENT OF HOURS

  Time: 6 A.M.

  Date: May 25, 1993

  Bottle: a small Aunt Jemima pancake syrup bottle, washed clean, tied with a pretty cluster of dried lavender

  Elements: dew, roses, damp earth, grass, sunlight, crushed mint, sage, thyme

  Notes: Sunday breakfast with Daniel and Giselle

  After we got the restaurant set up for the morning rush, I had a few minutes to go outside and have some coffee and breakfast before we opened. I carried a plate of quiche and spinach salad with oranges out to the garden area behind the restaurant. There wasn’t a lot to it, just some trees and rough greenery and a bench that sat close to the back of the lot, where the land dropped away to the creek that ran through town. This morning, the swell was high with mountain runoff, and the air was crisp and light. I sat on the bench with a sense of relief, my body buzzing.

  These were the kinds of mornings I used to like puttering in my garden. Starting in mid-March, sometimes even a litt
le bit earlier if the winter had been mild, I began the day by going to the garden, watering and feeding the plants, plucking off dead leaves, and pulling weeds and omnipresent elm seedlings. It soothed and centered me, and I was missing it already.

  The night before sat on my chest like a weight, an exact contrast to that woman who had so optimistically laid out gardens and tended them. A nicer me, I thought now.

  In the suburban neighborhood where my mother moved us, it had always been a vague shame to be one of the Bridges girls. The divorcée’s daughters. Everyone on our block, and I do mean everyone, was married. There was a father mowing lawns and a mother setting out homework assignments, and family outings to Dairy Queen on summer evenings.

  Not in our house. My mother worked two jobs, for one thing— as a secretary for the real estate company during the day, and as a hostess at a steak house in the evenings three times a week. She paid the bills, did the grocery shopping, kept us in school clothes, made it to every single recital, play, or orchestra appearance we made, but never to the PTA. Once a month, she and her girlfriends went out on the town. Sometimes she didn’t come home.

  I hated her for it.

  Sitting in the peaceful garden of the restaurant, I thought now what a little shit I’d been, judging her so harshly. How lonely she must have been! How hard she had worked! And the stigma for her daughters had been difficult, but how much worse for her to live in that neighborhood with all those intact families, and live with their judgments so her daughters would have a better school, a safer world?

  I’d have to call her.

  A starling whistled from a tree branch overhead, and I tossed out a crumb from my quiche. The bird cocked his head, whistled again, looked around cautiously, and swooped down. I stayed very still. His neck feathers had the iridescent sheen of motor oil, purple and indigo shining in the blackness. He plucked the crumb into his beak and cocked his head at me.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  From beneath the bushes came the stuttering meow of a cat on the prowl. Before I even had a chance to turn my head, a black streak zoomed into the clearing. The starling squawked, launching itself into the tree. The cat, all youthful athleticism, leapt for the retreating tail feathers, and caught one in a claw and slammed back to earth.