Friday Mornings at Nine (28 page)

“Anyway, I’ll spend more time today gathering ideas for them and sketching a few design layouts,” she continued. “Tomorrow the owner will meet with me and tell me what she’s hoping to do with her site. We’ll brainstorm and then set a tentative date for completion. Then, I’ll just work on it until it’s done. Until the client is satisfied.” This was underplaying it a bit. Jennifer didn’t stop polishing a site until the client reached the point of all-out raving.

Tamara asked a series of follow-up questions that left Jennifer with no doubt her friend was rather determined to reenter the workforce. But, when confronted directly, Tamara hedged.

“I’m just gathering information,” Tamara claimed, a statement Jennifer didn’t believe in the least and one even Bridget found unlikely. “With Benji away at school now, I think I need some new challenges.”

However, from Tamara’s point of view, she was being partially honest, which was pretty close to fully truthful, right? To admit openly to her interest in being self-supporting would mean to acknowledge her plan to cut one of the ties binding her to Jon. It was safer to put the blame on her son’s absence, and hardly an implausible reason, after all.

The ripple effect these partial truths had on her friends would have surprised the Glendale Grove locals had they learned of it. Tamara’s determination to paint as insignificant her kiss with Aaron worked like a floodgate in reverse. All the details and confusion Bridget and Jennifer longed to pour out of their souls were whooshed back in, allowing only trickles of truth to dribble out.

Jennifer refused to discuss David’s text messaging or the silent stalemate with Michael, even when Bridget hinted that she’d sensed something amiss on Saturday evening. “It was just a really late night,” Jennifer deflected. “We were both really tired after the party.”

Bridget, however, had no intention of harshly judging Jennifer’s finely honed sense of discretion. Despite a few nebulous allusions, she couldn’t bring herself to divulge the brief but momentous occasion of Dr. Luke and Graham’s first meeting the day before. Nor did she tell her friends about Dr. Nina’s comments at the Wieners’ house or how that’d led to Bridget and Graham reaching a new level of understanding with each other. For one thing, it would seem like bragging. And for another, she would then be required to fess up about her luncheon date with Dr. Luke…and why would she want to unearth all of that?

She was just about to pop the last bite of muffin in her mouth when she realized she had devoured three-and-three-quarters sections. She dropped the last quarter of the last section on her plate like it was crawling with fire ants, and she bit her lip. Guess she didn’t have as much willpower as she’d thought.

Tamara, meanwhile, was pleased to have had, in her opinion, a very open conversation with her friends. Incapable of being truly elusive, she remained relentlessly herself, experiencing a rush of self-congratulation on her (nearly) unguarded disclosure. Her life was, really, quite a mess, though, and she knew it. But in attempting to wade through the ruins and create a small measure of order, she found little nuggets of joy. A joy so dizzying and brief it felt like the thrill of a roller coaster ride once the terror of the big plunge had passed.

The three parted ways after ninety minutes, having had three very different morning encounters:

Bridget—budding with new hope for her marriage but distrustful of most everything outside of it.

Tamara—dealing with those same qualities but neatly swapped. Long-term marital distrust, yes, but a fresh sense of hopefulness on the fringes of her environment.

And Jennifer—who would not have recognized any aspect of her life were it
not
cloaked in distrust, and who refused to give credence to the notion that hope could appear out of nowhere and sweep her away on its air current (that simply wasn’t rational), stayed in the safe cradle of her holding pattern.

Their choice in determining the next correct step varied accordingly. Jennifer returned home and began obsessing about the font style and page width for her new client. Bridget went grocery shopping—kiwifruit was in season! And Tamara drove to Aaron’s house and parked in his driveway. She was going to have it out with him.

Wednesday, November 3 through Friday, November 12

T
amara rang Aaron’s doorbell. No answer. She traipsed around to the backyard. No Aaron. She listened for the distinctive bark of a specific dog. No Sharky.

Bloody hell. Her confrontation would have to wait.

But when she was snug in her own house, her irritation gave way to second-guessing. Like an ace whizzing across the net, served by an opponent on the court, it surprised her and forced her to take a step back. It had been so long since she had been mired in any decision worthy of self-doubt, and the simple relief in having shared the kissing incident with her friends dissipated somewhat in the sanctuary of her living room. It left, in its wake, the unease of holding real human emotion in her hands. Emotion, in her case, that was astonishingly contradictory. She hardly knew herself.

Last night, she had spoken with Benji. He had sounded so happy. So full of possibility. And she was reminded of Aunt Eliza and her quest for joy no matter what a person’s age. That life was too short not to seek out its lighter side.

Aunt Eliza lived by her own wisdom, and Benji, her darling boy, was well on his way to embracing a similar philosophy. Tamara wished for him every nuance of happiness this life could offer. But—and here was where the oddly disgruntled voice in her head confounded her—she also wished some of that delight for herself. Fully and clearheadedly.

Despite her practical nature, she wanted to feel the elation of life seeping into her body, all the way from her highlighted locks to her professional pedicure.

Despite her acceptance of duty, she wanted there to be the potential for joy even in the midst of mundane tasks.

Above all, and despite her reputation as a woman who could down a few drinks, she wanted to achieve momentary states of happiness without needing to drug herself with 80-proof vodka to do it.

She checked the time. Almost eleven
A.M
. Might be possible to catch him before he went out to lunch. She snatched her cell phone and punched in Jon’s number.

“Everything okay with Benji?” he asked, even before saying hello. Unlike other husbands, he didn’t spot his wife’s number on the Caller ID and open with, “Hey, honey. How’s your morning going?” Nope. Not Jon.

“I think he’s fine. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh.” There was a pause and the sound of typing. Jon, ever the multitasker, wasn’t going to stop working for so much as forty-five seconds if he didn’t have to. “What do you need?”

“We haven’t updated the calendar for November,” she told him, referring to his work and event calendar they always kept on the fridge at home with the dates of his trips blocked off. “I don’t know when you’re traveling this month.”

He grunted. “Hang on.” More super-speedy typing. “I just pulled it up on my computer. Only two trips in November. The eleventh through the sixteenth and a short one just before Thanksgiving—the twenty-first through the twenty-fourth.”

“Thanks.” Tamara grabbed a pen and inked the dates on her hand.

“Okay. I’ll see you later tonigh—”

“One more thing, real quick,” she said, her words purposely rushed. “You know our neighbor Aaron?” There was a longish pause on the line, so she added, “Runner guy?”

“Yeah?” Jon must have resumed his typing because she could hear the clickety-clack of his keyboard in the background.

“He’s given us a lot of vegetables from his garden this fall, so I thought I’d invite him here for dinner sometime soon. To say thanks. Is that all right with you?”

There was a sigh. “You know, Tamara, I don’t care. Invite him if you want. I don’t have much to say to the guy, though.” More hurried typing.

Almost holding her breath, she said, as if it were the first time it’d occurred to her, “Well, I could have him over for lunch instead. Or for dinner when you’re on one of your trips. Would that be better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it would. Do that.” Another sigh and another burst of rapid-fire typing. “Look, I’ve gotta get some work done here. Do whatever you want with that Aaron guy, but I’d just as soon skip it.”

“Okay. No problem.” Tamara hung up, unable to neatly braid the mixed strands of emotions: disappointment in her husband’s indifference, glee at the cleverness of her machinations and uncertainty over what to tell Aaron. Her neighbor could no longer claim she had kept her objective of getting together with him from Jon. Jon, having stated it quite clearly, “didn’t care” what she did with Aaron…or when. Although, let’s be honest, Jon probably
would
care if he knew they had once done something more physical than steaming broccoli. Or toasting over a few drinks.

The following Thursday, late afternoon, her index finger millimeters from the doorbell, Tamara stood facing Aaron’s front door again, this time without any intention of confronting her neighbor and every intention of proceeding with their friendship as if it were a perfectly normal thing and not remotely an act of pushing marital boundaries.

She had
permission,
after all. And she’d had eight days with which to think about the implications of Jon’s apathy. If he’d have cared more or acted even minutely interested or concerned, would that have had an impact on her behavior?

Hell, yeah.

Then her feelings of guilt might have been a reasonable thing, not some leftover hang-up from her childhood. She dropped her hand to her side and took a deep breath. She didn’t need to be all introspective and philosophical to recognize that she had grown accustomed to her parents’ frigid but long-lasting marriage. That she had managed to emulate it in her own. And that the relationship model Aunt Eliza had set forth contrasted greatly from her mom’s and Tamara’s, but her aunt’s way didn’t have the ring of familiarity she had come to associate with the state of marriage.

So, hey—finally—she was taking steps to be more like her beloved aunt and less like her neurotic mother. Nothin’ wrong with that.

She returned her index finger to its hovering point above the doorbell. She was an open, extroverted, candid woman of action, for chrissake! She could talk to Aaron without Jon present and without any allegations of wrongdoing—at least from her husband’s limited vantage point. She sighed and dropped her hand again. So, what the hell was stopping her?

This mental tennis match was driving her crazy. Back and forth. Back and forth. What should she do next? Whose court was the ball in now? She stepped away from the door and reconsidered: She didn’t
have
to ask Aaron over for dinner that day. It was only the eleventh and Jon would be gone until the sixteenth. She could come back tomorrow instead. Or even the day after. But where was this uncharacteristic cowardliness coming from? And why—

“You tryin’ to drive Sharky mad?” came Aaron’s voice from the window above her. She glanced up. Oops. Busted. “He’s going nuts in here, barking and jumping. Can’t you hear him?”

She forced a grin at him, finally tuning in to the sound of Sharky’s deep throaty barks. “Oh, sorry. I was just…lost in thought.” Even to her own ears this excuse sounded seriously lame.

“Well, stop thinking outside the house, would’ya? The door’s unlocked. Come in and pet the poor bastard before he hurts himself.”

“Sure.” She pushed the front door open and was immediately assaulted by a very excited pooch. She scratched between his ears as he licked her, and she rubbed down the fur covering his back, enjoying the special animal love that was so wholehearted, so physical and so blissfully uncomplicated. This moment required no second-guessing, thank God. Then, she caught her breath as she realized Aaron was eyeing her from midway down the staircase. “Hey,” she said. “How are you?”

“Hey,” he said back. “I’m not bad. You?”

Her heart rate escalated to speeds medical professionals would find alarming. “Fine,” she lied. Then she turned her attention back to Sharky for a few moments because, well, the dog wasn’t expecting coherent conversation. “Good, Sharky,” she murmured. A happy rumble in his throat and a wag of his tail let her know he, at least, was pleased with her arrival. She wasn’t yet sure about Aaron.

“So, what’s up?” he asked her, throwing a rawhide ring at Sharky to occupy him and running his fingers through his damp, dark blond hair to push it away from his face. Looked like he’d stepped out of the shower maybe ten minutes ago.

“I come bearing an invitation.” She smiled. She had rehearsed these lines in her head, oh, four thousand times in the past week. “I was talking to Jon about you.” She paused and let that information sink in to his handsome head. He studied her wordlessly, his brow creased in silent disbelief. “And I told him I wanted to ask you over for dinner. He said that would be no problem, and I was welcome to extend the invitation.” She paused again and had the satisfaction of seeing the astonishment in his expression. “Unfortunately, Jon left town on business today and won’t be back until Tuesday. However, he encouraged me to invite you over even in his absence, so I wanted to see what your schedule looked like. When you’re free. If you’d prefer lunch or dinner. This week with me alone or later next week when Jon can be there. It’s all open.”

He laughed in a burst of nervous surprise, the corners of his eyes crinkling like an old man’s, but the amusement in his voice when he spoke sounded very boyish to her ear. “Thank you, Tamara.”

“Well, I’d save the thanks until you’ve actually eaten something I’ve made, but you’re wel—”

“No.” He shook his head for emphasis. “That’s not what I’m thanking you for. Thanks for having that conversation with your husband. And thanks for telling me about it. Since I can’t actually imagine Jon wants to bond with me over burgers, I might just take you up on a quick lunch sometime. We can compare strategies for next year’s garden or something.” He ran his fingers through his hair again, the hand nearest to her catching her eye because she saw a tremor run through it just as it skimmed above the dampness. “Nice of you to ask me,” he added.

“Well, pull out your calendar and let’s take a look then.”

He shook his head. “Don’t need to. I’ll make myself free. You choose the date and time and let me know. I’ll be there.”

She took a step closer to him and saw the tremor in his hand again. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”

He must have caught her staring at his hands because he shoved them in his jeans’ pockets and took a step back. “Yep.”

“Well, I—I don’t wanna keep you if you’ve got work to do. Lots of magazine stuff to organize today?”

“Not any more than usual. And, Tamara, you’re not keeping me. I
like
talking with you. Sharky loves having you visit. It’s…always a pleasure to see you.”

She took another step toward him and, again, he backed away.
What the hell?
“Uh, thanks. Likewise.”

Then, for what felt like two hours (even though it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds), the two of them just stood there and looked at each other. He seemed to be scanning her hair and her mouth and she wasn’t entirely sure what else because she stared first at his eyes, then his jaw, then her gaze traveled down his chest and—this was crazy. She was a woman of
action,
not endless, pointless rumination. If she wanted to take a step forward—literally, figuratively—she could, dammit.

She inhaled, moved toward him one more time and reached out to snag his arm with her fingers before he could try to slide away again. Oddly, this time, he didn’t try. He was so completely motionless she wouldn’t have known he was breathing had she not noticed the slightest rise and fall of his chest.

Her gaze returned to his face, his jaw, his lips. The flesh of his arm warmed under her fingertips. His neck muscles tensed as he swallowed and she moved fully into his embrace. Only when there was absolutely no uncertainty left about the direction she was headed did he break the statuesque pose, pull his hands out of his pockets and wrap his arms around her. Not tightly, but it was at least a show of open acceptance in her being there.

By contrast, Tamara exhibited no such restraint. She pressed her body against his, dug the pads of her fingers into his back and touched her lips to the corners of his mouth repeatedly until his lips parted and he finally kissed her in return. At last, his grip on her tightened, and she felt his hands roaming across her lower spine…and without the least hint of a tremor.

If Tamara had any lingering convictions that what she had experienced the night of the Hallowiener Party was the direct result of too scant a sense of judgment and too high a dosage of Appletini mix, this was soundly axed when their tongues met and her groan of desire matched one of Aaron’s. For a split second, she visualized herself back in her bedroom, alone—her vibrating bunny turned on, her eyes shut, her mind projecting Aaron onto her imaginary screen of passion. How many times had she played out that fantasy? She tried to open her eyes and face the reality of that lonely bedroom, but she couldn’t. Her eyes were already open. The moment was real, and she was here. With him.

He broke away from her and sighed. “Look, I’m not apologizing to you right now because
you
started it this time, but we can’t…do this.”

“Maybe not,” she said, understanding finally what her fantasies had been telling her for months. Aaron’s body may have been mixed in with those fantasies (
heavily
mixed in, if she were being completely truthful), but the jolt of physical attraction she had felt toward him wasn’t the only part of those visions. She needed to end the loneliness she felt in that bedroom. In that
life
. Daydreaming about Aaron touching her was really nice, but being trapped in a bleak and lonely world—one decades in the making—was no longer tolerable. Aaron or no Aaron, she had to distance herself from
that
.

“You’re married, Tamara. There’s no maybe about it.” He withdrew his arms and crossed them, putting half a foot of empty space between them again.

She nodded. “Yeah. But I won’t be staying that way.”

His arms dropped to his side. He cocked his head and squinted. “What?”