A Curious Affair (21 page)

“If you’re feeling brave. The glaze is over there.” I jerked my head at the counter by the window.

We prepared the last of the meal together, working as though we had done it a dozen times before.

The feast was a success. It’s hard to go wrong with traditional foods. We ate through the courses in the breakfast nook rather than the dining room. The small wooden table and chairs were less comfortable physically but much safer emotionally.

We talked easily as we noshed our way through the well-dressed ham and spicy sides and then through small slices of lemon meringue pie. Atherton kept his distance while we dined, but I knew he was watching and listening to everything I said.

It turned out Tyler was an Ian Hunter fan; he also liked Sourdough Slim, the yodeling cowboy. Of course, everyone likes Sourdough in these parts. Not liking the king of cowboy accordion players is cause for a denial of residency in this county. It might even be a hangin’ offense.

The conversation turned serious only once. Tyler mentioned having lunch with Nolan the next week and I warned him that it might be best if he kept our friendship quiet for the time being. “Nolan didn’t like Cal, and therefore he doesn’t like me.”

“He didn’t like Cal?” Tyler sounded surprised. I didn’t blame him. Everyone liked Cal, and to go on hating him after he was dead was downright mean-spirited.

“He and Nolan locked heads when they were on the city council.” I shrugged. “You know Nolan. If grudge-holding were an Olympic event, he’d be a gold medalist.
Don’t expect him to be thrilled when he hears that we’re involved.”

“Nolan can be officious, but even he wouldn’t dare bring this subject up. My private life is private.” Tyler sounded confident.

I shook my head at his naiveté but said no more. Some things a person just had to learn on their own.

And there were some things a person didn’t have to learn on their own! The cats had found out the identity of the Catholic car molesters. I told Tyler that rumor had it that it was the Wilson twins who had been getting up to mischief with the parishioners’ automobiles. The twins always smelled vaguely of Vicks VapoRub.

“The little devils. I’ll look into it to night. I should be going anyway,” Tyler finally admitted as the sun began to set, turning the living room windows to sheets of fiery glass. I knew that he was taking the six to two a.m. shift and needed to stop by his apartment to change into his uniform before he went to the station. “But let me help you with the dishes first.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll do them in the morning.”

“You’re certain? It was always a rule in our house that the one who cooked didn’t have to clean.”

I smiled. “I like that rule. But I don’t ask first-time guests to risk dishpan hands. The china has to be hand-washed, so it isn’t a quick job.” Also, Atherton was probably going to want to sample the leftovers clinging to the baking dishes, and I wasn’t sure if this would offend Tyler’s sensibilities. After all, his dead dog probably didn’t have a lot of disgusting eating habits.

“Next time, then.” Tyler leaned over and kissed me good night. After what had happened last time, I was prepared to be overwhelmed, but he kept it casual and brief. I wasn’t deceived by this show of restraint. I was certain that mentally he had me stripped naked and spreadeagled, hopefully on a bed because I am not big on sex
on hard furniture or in the great outdoors, and I had a sneaking suspicion that his thoughts often became manifest. Still, though his eyes were intent and his breathing a bit rough, he didn’t push, and I gave him high marks for patience. His actions said:
See, I can wait until we’re
old enough to join AARP if that’s what it takes. Hell, I can
wait until we’re drawing social security. I dare you to show
that much self-
control when
you
want something
.

“What are you thinking?” Tyler asked, his lips grazing my ear when I didn’t immediately pull away.

“I’m wondering if I should keep you at tongue’s distance,” I said without opening my eyes. I could feel the rails on the back of the chair pressing into my spine. “It seems wisest. This…this dating thing is a hurdle for both of us. Though I have to admit that my hurdle is probably a bit higher than yours.”

“And you’re thinking it’s a bad idea to just jump at the opportunity and see what happens?”

“Yeah, but I’m also having a hard time coming up with anything I’d like better.” I could almost hear my grandmother scolding me for this admission—no woman but a fallen one could want a man that much. And none but an immoral idiot would admit this out loud.

“No need to rush. I can be as patient as you like,” he said, telling me I had read his thoughts accurately. “Will I go down in your estimation if I admit that I find hurdles, even high ones, often surrender to coercion, and that I’d like to try some coercion with you? Only the nicest type, of course.”

“I guess that remains to be seen,” I answered. “Does coercion involve foreplay?” The chill that had been constant since Cal died was being driven back by Tyler’s heat. I had been freezing to death, but suddenly there was lifesaving fire. Beautiful fire. Potentially dangerous fire. But backing away was difficult, though my mind
said to beware. It would be even harder to back away if I actually gave in and let myself have Tyler.

“Foreplay? Always.” Teeth grazed my neck and he made a soft sound. “Not to hurry you, since I’ve been bragging about my self-control, but have you decided anything about tongues and distances?” he asked. Tyler sounded amused, but something else as well. I didn’t open my eyes to check his expression. In spite of his warmth, his breath on the side of my neck was giving me delicious goose bumps, and I wanted to feel, not see, what was happening between us.

“Decision? Just that I’m feeling reckless today.” I turned my head, took a deep breath and made the first jump. I must have cleared the hurdle. The fall into the kiss was a headfirst, high-momentum freefall into brain-melting lust, but I had no fear as I did it. Sensing this, Tyler also threw caution to the wind and let himself plummet. The chair toppled backward as I stood up. We ignored the clatter as we swayed toward the living room, arms locked around one another.

Tyler’s erection was a bit disconcerting when I leaned into him and found it there between us. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Kiss, erection—they did tend to go together. I had just been enjoying a temporary amnesia that allowed me to forget that we were not innocents, and that kissing could and often did lead to actual sex.

“Do you have time for this?” I asked.

His laugh was soft. We sank to our knees on the living room carpet. That was good. I didn’t want to go to the bedroom or anyplace that would remind me of Cal.

“Are you kidding? I’ll find bud get for Farland’s overtime.”

I let him lower me to the floor. The rest I’m not going to talk about.

The room was almost dark as he smoothed the hair back from my face and separated our bodies. I hoped my mascara hadn’t run. It usually did when I perspired. At least I’d had the forethought to wear attractive panties. Not that there was much time for Tyler to see them.

“I’ve asked myself a hundred times what it is about you that I find so damned attractive,” Tyler said. “And I still don’t have an answer. In the end it probably doesn’t matter. Some things just are what they are.”

“It’s my winning personality.” I tried to keep it light. To either side lay my own Charybdis and Scylla: guilt at betraying Cal with another man, and fear of getting hurt again if I dared care for Tyler. I didn’t want to slip off the narrow path where things felt momentarily safe and pleas urable.

“No. I don’t think so.” He tugged gently on my hair.

“My scalloped potatoes, then?” I suggested.

“No—nor your ass. Though that is world-class.” I think I actually blushed. What are you supposed to say to a comment like that?

“I’m at a loss then,” I said.

“I’m not.”

And he was right. So what if he didn’t know why he liked me, and I didn’t know why I liked him? We could enjoy it without any deeper understanding. I rolled to face him. Our second time making love was more leisurely.

I discovered some things about Tyler that evening, among them that the three middle fingers of his right hand were marred by horizontal scars, a fleshly reminder that knives—especially when carried by twelve-year-olds hopped up on crack—can cut deeply.

The physical scars were the least of it, of course. He had lost much of the feeling in the tips, and had finally given up playing the fiddle because, though he might be
willing to be second-rate, he wouldn’t settle for third, and that was all he would ever be now.

Not sure what to say to this sad revelation made, I think, because it was dark, I finally suggested, “Perhaps you could follow your nephews’ example and take up the tuba. I don’t think a sensitive touch is required.”

“God, no. There are too many of them in the family already,” he answered, and then laughed. He reached up and turned on an end-table lamp. I could tell that confidences were over for the evening. The grin he wore when he turned back improved his looks at least five percent. That was about all the room there was for improvement, at least in my eyes. Tyler was growing steadily more attractive.

“I’m sorry I have to leave. The bud get only has so much discretionary funds, and Farland will be wanting dinner,” he said, finally glancing at his watch. His tone was chagrined.

“It’s okay.” And it was. Now that the hormonal shock wave had passed, I desperately needed some time alone to gather my scattered thoughts. And also to check on what I suspected was going to be a case of rug-burn.

“I’d like to take you to brunch tomorrow at the bed and breakfast in Knight’s Crossing.”

I was impressed. The only place to get brunch on a Monday was also the best place in the county—and priced accordingly. I considered making a token protest, but decided to go on being reckless.

“I’d love to have brunch with you,” I said, smoothing my clothes back into place. We hadn’t taken the time to undress completely and now I was grateful for it. Getting dressed is always a bit awkward after that first time, especially when someone is leaving immediately. Socks or panties or earrings—something always gets left behind.

“Good. I’ll see you at nine tomorrow—rain or shine.”
Tyler gave me a swift kiss as he finished buckling his belt and then he was gone, locking the front door behind him.

It took a moment for the last eddies of his cologne to disappear. I inhaled hard, enjoying each breath until they were gone.

“What the hell have I done?” I asked the stilling air.

Atherton had been a gentleman and excused himself when things turned passionate, and I found that I didn’t like talking to myself even when my questions were potentially embarrassing. I could feel shame and guilt still hovering nearby, tugging at the thin leashes of compassion and reason that held them back. They were looking for an opening into my addled head where they could break in and feast at will on the conflicts there. But I had enough junk in my head weakening me already, so I refused to give them any opportunity to enter by dwelling on the fact that I’d had just had sex—protected sex, thank God—with a man that I barely knew, and that we had been in such a fever-sweat to get at each other that we hadn’t bothered taking our clothes off. And now he was gone, and though I knew about the scars on his hand, I didn’t know about other scars on his psyche…or even if he had hair on his chest. Or anywhere else.

Of course, on the bright side, I’d just had sex with a man I barely knew and we had been in such a fever-sweat to get at each other that we hadn’t bothered taking our clothes off. Surely this was some kind of progress—at least movement from one ring of hell to another.

Suddenly I was ravenous.

“Atherton,” I called, rubbing at my abraded backside, “would you like to try some ham and scalloped potatoes?”

After Tyler left and I’d had my second dinner, I wandered the house, turning lights on and off, straightening chairs that didn’t need adjusting, and generally feeling restless. I passed the refrigerator as I paced through the kitchen and noticed the school pictures of my niece and nephew—a year out of date, but at least I finally had them up.

Cal and I never had children. It wasn’t even an option for us, and we’d had no regrets about this, not even at the end. And I had none now, because I knew I wasn’t fit to have the molding of a child. What chance would the kid have with no dad and a mom who heard cats talking to her? No, it was best we’d never had any children. Still, there were days when I felt very alone, and that time was eddying by me and I had no way to mark its passage. Unlike my neighbors, I celebrated no graduations or birthdays or anniversaries except the one marking Cal’s death, and that I would just as soon not remember.

Feeling a bit melancholic, I wandered into Cal’s office, a room that I was half-heartedly converting into a
spare bedroom—for whom, I couldn’t say. I didn’t want anyone to visit me. The job was taking forever because the cartons seemed intolerably heavy as I carried them from closet to desk, where I still expected to find Cal at work. It was probably the weight of history, the past—mine and Cal’s—refusing to pass quietly into the long night of storage that led to the Salvation Army and then total oblivion.

I was standing on the median of the highway of life. Cal’s memory was in one lane and Tyler in another, and I was balancing on a barbed wire fence between them.

“I need a sign, Cal. Tell me what you would do.” I spoke to an empty room and, of course, no one answered.

Being at loose ends and wanting to keep the encroaching depression at bay, I opened another box and began going through the papers. This one was boring: copies of old tax returns. But in the bottom I found a treasure. It was a photocopy of the first story that Cal ever published. It was called “The Kiss.”

Cal and I are—were—what you would call omnivorous readers. And we were the same in our writing. We did it all except novels, and I would have done those if there was better money in it. Cal’s tastes were even more eclectic than mine, and one of the things he loved was romantic comedy. “The Kiss” was his first, and I thought best, attempt. The magazine he had sold it to had agreed with me and published it in their Valentine’s Day issue six years ago.

I laughed softly as I pulled the yellowed pages from the box.

What is that?
Atherton asked. He had followed me around silently, a sympathetic shadow as I paced the house.

“A story. Shall I read it to you?” I asked impulsively. “It’s very good. My late husband wrote it.”

Yes, please
. Atherton hopped up on the desk and made himself comfortable among the piles and boxes. I’ve noticed that cats have a natural capacity for looking at-home almost anywhere.

“Okay. It’s called ‘The Kiss’ and it’s loosely based on his childhood when he was growing up in a huge city called Los Angeles.” I pulled out Cal’s old beanbag chair, now sadly deflated, and propped myself up against the wall.

I began reading aloud. My voice spoke the words, but my ears heard Cal talking in his familiar gentle voice. My heart began to ease.