Now or Never: A Last Chance Romance (Part 1) (2 page)

My entire street is dark when I pull up to my house.  Eleven o’clock is an hour my neighbors rarely see.  I’m the young whipper snapper on a block full of retirees.  I’m not sure how this happened, but I’m not complaining.  The neighborhood is safe and quiet and decidedly lacking in the nosy drama in some suburban enclaves.  My home is one of the few things I’ve never had any regrets about.

While my parents weren’t exactly emotionally supportive when I ended up a broke, single mother at age twenty-four, they did help with the down-payment on the three-bedroom, white colonial.  It was a gesture of generosity that changed my life — a place to raise my son.

It feels different now that Max is gone.  Sometimes, I feel nervous coming home to an empty house.  Even though Max didn’t spend much time at home by the end of last school year, the fact that he lived here was still a comfort.  Now there’s a strange quiet to the place, an unsettling void that I fill by turning on lots of lights and the television every time I walk in the door.

“Oh!  You’re out here now, you rascal.”  I nearly trip over the tuxedo kitten sitting on my front steps.  It showed up a month ago at my back door, a few times a week.  I tried to ignore it, but during a violent rainstorm one night I felt so sorry for it, I opened the garage door and put out tuna and fresh water.  That, as they say, was the end of that.  The cat never left again.  Now I feel responsible for it.  And I’m alarmed to see her — I’m convinced it’s a her — in the front yard.  She could wander into the street and get hit by a car.

She follows me to the edge of my front door, as if she’s coming inside.

“I have my boundaries.”  With a pang of guilt, I close the door on her small white face.  Just what I need, something else to feel badly about.

I turn on all the lights in the living room, along with the TV, and walk straight through to the kitchen for a can of tuna.  I open the back door, and tap a spoon against her glass bowl.  Sure enough, she trots back and eagerly dips her head into her dinner.

“Stay here, in the backyard.”  I duck inside, wash my hands, and shake my head at the idiocy of getting emotionally involved with a stray animal.  Then I plop myself in front of the television.

I flip to the cooking channel and find a repeat of Chopped.  They are opening the dessert basket — my favorite part.  But even the crazy ingredients —kale, Wonder Bread, lychee, and orange sorbet — can’t get my mind off the reading salon, and the kinky things those women wrote.

Even when I was young and attractive, my sex life had been pretty vanilla.

I enjoyed sex and never felt self-conscious about my body.  I wasn’t
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model material, but in my twenties, I had a decent body.

What is it about turning forty that makes everything seem to instantly droop a quarter of an inch?  My breasts, my ass.  The inside of my thighs are in constant contact these days.  And heaven forbid I look at what’s going on with my elbows.  Is this physical downslide real?  Or am I imagining it after years of being unwanted and untouched?

The women tonight certainly did not seem to feel undesirable.  Are their stories fiction?  Personal experience?  I don’t know.

The question leaves me rattled.

*** ***

In the morning, standing behind the Chanel counter at Macy’s department store, I feel peaceful, in control of my little universe of color and skin care.  I like the order of my day.  Opening the register, checking the product log to make sure what I sold yesterday is in sync with what I have in the bays and countertop.  I enjoy talking to my regulars.  And I like seeing new faces walk in the door, women I can introduce to a smudge-proof eyeliner or better matching foundation.

When I moved back into my parent’s home, divorced and unemployed with a toddler, I didn’t have many employment options.  I’d worked at make-up counters during high school as a part-time and summer job.  I never imagined it would turn out to be my lifelong career.  But it’s worked out just fine.

I’ve heard that lipstick is one of the few recession-proof items, and I believe it.  Through the years, I’ve seen lean times hit the designer shoe department hard.  I’ve seen the handbag department — directly across from the cosmetics department — get very quiet for weeks at a time.  But my customers never disappear.

Friday afternoons are busy at the Macy’s Ardmore, Pennsylvania.  It’s the anchor store in Suburban Square shopping center, directly across from the free parking lot.  It’s often people’s first stop on the way to other errands.

Twenty years ago, when I started as a part-timer selling make-up at the Prescriptives counter, this store wasn’t Macy’s.  It was the family-owned department store Strawbridge & Clothier.  Now Prescriptives is out of business, and Strawbridges no longer exists.  But I’m still here.

I pull eyeliner, shadow, and lipstick out of my handbag.  Sometimes when I’m running late I end up doing my own make-up at the counter before the store opens.  I actually prefer the store’s bright lights and oversized mirrors to my own bathroom.

My figure might be on the decline, but I can’t complain too much about what’s going on from the shoulders up.  I have strong eyebrows that do a good job framing my dark brown eyes.  My hair, wavy and thick, is still a natural deep chestnut.  I have good skin.  I doubt I would ever succumb to the Botox craze, but as of now, I don’t even need it.  I look young for my age, but it’s difficult to enjoy that illusion now that my body is in crisis.

Across the floor, Patti waves me over.

Oh no.  She wants a report on last night.

I’m dreading this conversation.  I don’t like lying to my best friend, but she’ll be so disappointed if I admit I didn’t go to the support group.  Even if I explain I accidentally wandered into the wrong room, she’ll tell me I was subconsciously avoiding the breast cancer support group.  Patti is big on pop psychology.  If she had things her way, she’d be a therapist.  “But I suppose helping people with their retail therapy isn’t a bad Plan B,” she always says.

“So, how did it go?” she says with a big smile.  Patti is an attractive woman — maybe not in a movie-star sense, but for a regular gal in her mid-forties, she looks, as her devoted husband Geoff says, “damn good.”  She has thick, shoulder length brown hair  with bangs.  The same style she’s worn since nineteen years old.  She has big hazel eyes and very good skin, aside from unusually deep crow’s feet she says are genetic and defy even the best anti-aging eye-cream in the department.

“You know, it wasn’t that helpful.”  This is true.

“Oh, Claire.  Really?  Will you give it another try?”

“Definitely not.”

Last night was, as my son Max would say, an “epic fail.”  Listening to those women tell their erotic stories made me think how very much I’ve been missing.  It brought home the fact that I’m forty, my life has passed me by.  And it’s not going to get better from here.

Worse, I found myself thinking about blue-eyed Justin from the AA group.

Thinking about him
a lot.

I don’t need this shit.  I haven’t needed it all these years raising my son and working my way to counter manager at Chanel.  I certainly don’t need it now, when I have this health stuff to deal with.

“Claire, I’m glad you gave it a try.  I’m proud of you.”

“Oh stop, Patti.  Really.  It’s nothing.”

“Not just about you going last night.  I mean the way you’re handling this whole thing.  A lot of women would be curled up in a ball right about now.”

“I
was
curled up in a ball that first night you came over.”

“What are you talking about?  You made lasagna.”

I don’t remember.  The day I found out The News is pretty much a blur.  And by The News, I don’t mean that I have breast cancer.  That was a shock, yes.  But I caught it early, I’m ‘lucky.’  It’s non-invasive — just surgery and radiation and Tamoxifin and I’ll be fine.

It was the second phone call from the doctor that sent me into a tailspin.  Test results showed I carry the so-called breast cancer gene.  The one that significantly increases the chance of breast and ovarian cancers.  So significantly that many women opt for preventative mastectomies and hysterectomy.

I have decisions to make.

Dr. Martell’s office is across the street from Bryn Mawr Hospital.  It’s a four-story brick building that no doubt had once been a large single family home.  It’s only a ten minute drive from work so I make these appointments on my lunch break without anyone realizing I’m gone.  Still, I told my department manager, Aimee, what is happening.  I felt I had to, though I was loathe to do it.  Aimee is young and ambitious and already looks at some of us like we are old work horses ready to be put out to pasture.

“Have a seat, Mrs. Romi.  He’ll be right with you.”

My last name is always a quagmire.  I’m not a Mrs. anymore, and I was never Mrs. Romi—that’s my mother.  I went back to my maiden name ten years ago, trying to shirk the last of my baggage left from my ex-husband, Peter McKenna.

I pick up a
People
magazine but barely get to the Kate Middleton cover story when Dr. Martell’s physician’s assistant calls me back to his office.

My breast surgeon is a handsome, silver-haired gentleman, and I do mean gentleman.  He is a Southern transplant, who wears a suit and tie under his white coat, and has an impeccable bedside manner — polite, respectful, but warm.

He stands when I enter the room and smiles.  I sit in one of the comfy chairs in front of his desk, and he takes his own seat again.

“How are you doing, Claire?”

“Fine,” I tell him honestly.  This is one person with whom I don’t have to put on a brave face.  But around him, I feel brave.  There’s a problem, and he will help me solve it.  That’s the bottom line.  There are two types of problems in life.  Fixable, and not fixable.  As long as you are faced with the former, there’s not much to worry about.

“Have you come to any decisions?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tell him.  “I’m going to do the double mastectomy.”

He nods.  “I think that’s a good decision.  And reconstruction?”

I hesitate.  “Is it worth it?  Or am I just holding on to something that…”

“Claire, you’re a young woman.  The reconstructive procedure is extremely refined these days.  We’ll get it started at the same time as the mastectomy and in a few months you’ll be as good as new.  The results are fantastic.”

“Um, okay.  And they’ll be the same size and everything?”

“They can be any size you want.” He smiles.  “Many of my patients see that as the silver lining.”

“Okay, well, I have to think about.  The reconstruction I mean — not the…size.”

He holds up his hands.  “Nothing you have to decide right now.”

I nod.

“In six to eight months, you’ll do the hysterectomy.”

“How soon should I do the…” I can’t say the word mastectomy.  “Breast part?”

“Carol Ann keeps my surgical calendar.  We can walk over there and get something set up.  What are you comfortable with?  There’s no rush.  Breast cancer is a slow growing cancer.  My rule of thumb is that I like to have at least a plan in place six weeks from diagnosis.”

I nod.  “Um, so back to the hysterectomy, what happens?  I mean, what’s that recovery like?”

He takes off his glasses.  “The biggest impact is that you’ll go into instant menopause.”

The words
instant menopause
are like a bullet.  My brave face is immediately gone.  Tears fill my eyes.  Menopause at forty-one.

I had barely admitted it to myself, but I can’t deny it now.  Somewhere along the line, I’d made a deal with myself — a penance for my sins.  I would focus on being a good mother for Max.  I’d work hard.  And then someday, I would dip my toe back into the waters of having my own life.  Of being not just a mom, but being a woman.

And now it’s too late.

Dr. Martell squints at me in concern.

“Claire, I know this is difficult.  But the important thing is your cancer is treatable, and you’re able to take preventive measures to keep it from returning in a much more onerous form.  Carol Ann has great information on support groups.  I think you should consider trying one.  I hear they work wonders.”

*** ***

“His cock is a live wire in my hand.  I feel powerful as I stroke it, knowing we are both going to get what we want.  And I stroke, and I stroke, my thumb brushing over the bulbous tip.”

Dylan is reading.  She was introduced as a “writer and stripper — not necessarily in that order.” I shift in my seat.  The more she reads, the more I imagine that the man in her tawdry scenario is the guy I met last week from AA.  It’s been that way for the entire hour, during every reading.  He takes center stage.  Each time a reader speaks of a muscular body, of an “engorged” cock, it’s him.

“He moans, his head back, his breathing heavy,” Dylan says.  “I touch my tongue to his shaft, licking it — just a tease.  I don’t know if I’m going to let him fuck me.  I don’t know if I’m going to suck him off.  All I know is that I am going to empty his cock, and he is going to empty his wallet.”

Dylan finishes her piece with a flip of long dark hair so thick and lustrous it almost looks like a wig.  She smiles at us, the audience, makes a loud crack of her gum, and returns to her seat, two away from mine.  She brushes past, and a whiff of perfume smells like cherries.

The host, whose name I’ve learned is Suzanne, takes the mic.

“Thank you, ladies — oh, yes, and you, Roger.  Didn’t forget.  Another great week of brilliant and ballsy, no pun intended, writing and sharing.  Before we move upstairs for coffee, let me read off the names for next week.  And remember, if you’ve signed up to read but know you won’t be able to make it, email me so I can tell someone on the waiting list.  No-shows will be suspended from reading for a month.”

Suzanne runs a tight ship.  Each person gets five minutes, and Suzanne holds strictly to five minutes, and after the first hour there’s a break for trivia and a raffle —usually for a novel that a romance author donated through the salon’s website.  Then another hour of five-minute readings.

When Suzanne’s housekeeping is finished, we file upstairs.

I’m trying to be casual as I look around, scanning the room for Him.  I drift over to the donut table, where Suzanne intercepts me.

“I don’t think we’ve met, have we?  I’m Suzanne.”

“Claire,” I say, and we shake hands.  Her handshake is firm, her eye-contact steady.  Something is comforting about this woman, something no-nonsense, yet incredibly warm.  I would guess she’s in her late fifties.  Her ash-blond hair is threaded with gray, and cut in a blunt, chin-length bob.  She wears ropes of clunky turquoise around her neck.

“So happy to have you joining us.  I’m wondering if you want to sign up for a reading slot.  The salon is booked next week but I could put you on the twenty-third?”

“Oh, no.  Thanks.  I prefer to just listen.  I mean, if that’s okay.”

“Of course!  The more audience, the merrier.  I just don’t want you to be shy about getting up there yourself.”

“I’m not shy.  I’m just…I’m not a writer.”

“Well, perhaps a few more nights with us will change that.” She winks and moves to the spread of coffee and pastries.

“Ah ha,” someone says behind me.  I know without looking that it’s Him.

“Mystery solved,” he says.

I turn around.  He’s grinning, all dimpled cheeks and bright blue eyes.  There’s gold stubble along his jaw.

“What mystery is that?”

“You’re here for the sex group,” he says with a grin.  He’s even more handsome than I remember from last week, and this, combined with the past hour of highly sexualized monologues that somehow in my mind became all about him, leaves me extremely flustered.

“It’s not…that’s not…it isn’t a sex group.”

“I walked by the room once.  The door was open.”

“Well, it’s fiction.  It’s for writers,” I say, indignant.

“Yeah.  Fiction,” he says as if he doesn’t believe me.  “What’s your name?  Or do you go by secret pen names in there?”

I laugh.  “I’m Claire.  And for the record, I’m not a writer.”

“You just like to watch.  I get it.” He’s teasing me.  I’m blushing and should make a graceful exit.  But I’m enjoying this guy’s attention way too much for my own good.

“Yeah, well, excuse me.  I’m going to get some coffee,” I say.  “All that voyeurism can be exhausting.”

“I can’t have caffeine after five o’clock.  Keeps me up all night.”

I nod.  “That can be a problem.”

“Wanna get a drink instead?” he asks.  I look at him, then glance around the room.

“I thought you’re in AA,” I whisper.

“Nah,” he says.  “I just come here to meet women.”