The Man I Love (44 page)

“No, I know what you meant.” He reached for another sandwich triangle, pulled it apart and dunked one part in his soup. “Did therapy give you any huge breakthroughs?”

She was in the middle of chewing, so she shook her head, the back of her hand to her mouth. “Lots of little ones,” she finally said. “I still hadn’t forgiven myself for what I did to you. I figured I would need to dig into why I’d slept with David in the first place. And like I told you, it turned out to be a whole lot of little reasons, not one big one. But no, I had no big revelation about how my inner child had been neglected or any such shit. I was always a pretty self-actualized person. You know my family. You know my relationship with my parents. I don’t carry a lot of scars from childhood.”

“You don’t have my baggage,” he said, touching his chest.

She held up her spoon, thinking a moment, then she looked at him. “I did a stupid thing,” she said. “I’d never been a stupid kid. I didn’t look for trouble. You know me, I looked for stillness. And my ballet teachers, all those Russian women I trained with, each and every one said at one point, ‘No stupid girls are in ballet.’ And they aren’t. You have to be smart or you’ll never make it.” Her eyebrows wrinkled, and she stared off at a far wall. “I was always so cerebral. Practical. I had a thing about not being stupid.”

“We all do stupid things,” Erik said.

She glanced at him, smiling. “I suppose you can analyze it and say I was having my rebellion moment. After the shooting, I felt like a victim, and I was struggling with the possibility of not being a girl in ballet. Therefore I could now be stupid.” She shook her head, and set her spoon down in her empty bowl. “But it doesn’t ring true for me. It was an egregious error of judgment. A royal fuck-up. And I needed to stop beating myself up over it. Let go of it. End of story.”

“As my therapist said, ‘Not everything has to be a thing,’” Erik said.

Daisy laughed now. “I cannot believe, after twelve years, we are sitting in my kitchen comparing anecdotes about therapy.”

He sighed. “I guess this is what we should have been doing thirteen years ago.”

She nodded, and sorrow shimmered in her eyes. He could see the words building up in their depths. An insight she was hesitating to share.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“I always needed to be strong for you,” she said. “Strong and still. But I was so weak after the shooting. Such a wreck inside. Maybe I couldn’t let you see me wrecked, so I went and was a mess with David. Or something. I don’t know.”

Erik stared, open-mouthed. “You could’ve been a wreck with me,” he said. But even as the words left his mouth he realized he could not think of a single time he had seen her shattered beyond her ability to pick herself up. His plans went to C and D, minimum, but Daisy’s war room left his plans in the dust. She had never cracked until the end.

As it dawned on his mind, she looked at him, her gaze still sad, but unblinking. “You only like when people behave the way you expect them to.”

He pushed his bowl away and put his forehead into a hand. A long moment of silence passed as her words pierced his skin like needles and their meaning pumped into his veins.

She fucked up,
he thought.
She
was
fucked up. She was young and traumatized. Weak and not in her right mind. Or maybe she just did something stupid. Either way, she didn’t act the way I expected. And I couldn’t forgive her. If it wasn’t perfect, it was useless. She cracked and I left.

She touched his wrist, breaking his thoughts. He rolled it up to her and her fingernail gently traced the daisy.

“I thought you might have gotten rid of it.”

“I almost did,” he said. “A few times. But I never followed through. I guess I needed it.”

“Like the sax.”

Staring at his wrist, watching Daisy’s fingertips, he thought about her tattoo, how the little red fish had never failed to thrill him. Every time he opened her jeans or slid her underwear down, it caught his eye like a surprise and he would think,
There I am.

I have set you in my presence forever.

A quiet desire slid arms around his shoulders, gathered him close.

“Do you want tea?” Daisy asked.

He nodded, wanting many things.

She smiled at him, then pushed her kettle onto a burner and lit it. She gathered the soup pot, ladle and spatula, set them in the sink and started running soapy water. She took off the apron and set it on the counter. She was so graceful. Even washing dishes. Relaxed and serene. A grown woman at home in her kitchen. At home in the life she had created.

Loving her felt like creating something. A cathedral. Spires and stained glass and bells. But she broke one window and I indiscriminately tore the whole thing down.

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Daisy said, drying her hands and coming to lean on her elbows.

“I hate what I did,” he whispered, looking back down at his tattoo.

“I hate what I did, too.” Her fingers came around his chin and she turned his face toward her. She was crying. “And I love that we’re here.” Her head came closer. She smelled like sugar. Her gaze shone blue-green like the earth. Her lips pressed his, soft and light, and she had him again.

He closed his eyes as she drew back.

Nothing man-made was perfect. Not even massive churches. A partnership wasn’t about being beautiful and adored in the spotlight, it was about incorporating the mistakes into the architecture and continuing to build something beautiful. Together.

She’s a generous, forgiving partner.

I can be one, too.

Her kiss still thrumming on his mouth, he opened his eyes. Daisy was by the refrigerator, reaching up for a cookie tin on its top. She pried off the lid and set the tin on the counter.

“I didn’t make a cake,” she said. “But I made these.”

He didn’t have to look. He had already smelled the orange zest and the faint overlay of black pepper. Thin rounds in a nest of parchment paper. Flecked with the promise of sweetness and spice. Golden and crisp with memory.

Daisy took one, put it in her palm. “Make a wish.”

This,
Erik thought, and nodded at her. She pressed her finger down on the cookie’s center. A soft crunch. A decision. A truth.

“It broke into five,” she said, holding out her hand.

He took one of the pieces. “Means no wishes come true, but we still have cookies.”

They looked at each other a long time.

“I still love that we’re here,” she whispered.

“I still love us,” Erik said. And took a bite of pepparkakor.

I remember when I was young, listening to my father pick out the chords of “The Man I Love” on the grand piano in our living room. It seems some stories are meant to be written.

I declared my intention to turn this universe of characters into a book in November of 2013. Since that time, so many people have given me their unrelenting support and encouragement. To them I owe my unending thanks and all my love. With you as my friends, anything and everything is possible.

Paul Preston came back to reveal the story, tell me about Meisner technique and show me there’s more to a scene than doing what’s required. When the emotion is there and the emotion is authentic, the genuine scene ultimately follows. It works onstage. It works on the page. It works in life. You must live the truth of who you are and what you feel.

If this book is my baby, then Ami Harju is my doula. She read the earliest incarnation, separated the few chapters from Erik’s point of view and told me, “This.” She went on to read every version of
The Man I Love
, providing sound advice and valuable feedback. We were born to be friends. And I love us.

Stacie Fuss has always been with me, even when we were out of touch. She also read early drafts cover to cover and was a tireless sounding board. Always ready with coffee or baked Alaska. Thank you, sugar.

Jen McPartlin and Julia Bobkoff: my friends since childhood, both creative, visionary and inspiring, and two of the bravest women I know.

Dr. Dan Gingold always informed me about the weather in Los Angeles as he patiently and thoroughly answered every medical question. Likewise Detective Anthony Spennecchia was more than generous with his expertise. Thank you, gentlemen.

Rebecca T. Dickson, editor extraordinaire, was tough, impossible, relentless, demanding, pushy and profane. I thought it would kill me. You only made me stronger. There aren’t (oops) sufficient words of thanks. Only four-letter ones.

I thank Desiree Wolfe for her wonderful guidance. And Tracy Kopsachilis for a beautiful cover design.

Ellen Harger is a brilliant writer and my one-woman support group. A dear friend. A needed friend. Best of all: a new friend.

My advance read army: Krista, Francesca, Donna, Kathy, Melissa, Mike, the other Mike, Julie, Mary, Patti, Francie—you are my betas, my behind-the-scenes crew. Without your show, there is no show. (And now I owe you all a dollar.)

I am grateful to my dance teachers and dance partners, past and present. I even thank the wolves. For not all of them come to kill you in the night. Some of them come to inspire.

My brother, Steve, whose plans go to Q, minimum, and who can take anything apart and put it together. My father, Bernie, who gave me a love of words and taught me to curse in six languages. My mother, Carol, who gave me the gift of dance and is my wisest, kindest friend and advocate.

My daughter Julie and my son AJ had to endure late dinners, missed ball games, distractions, outright neglect at times, and the constant sight of the back of my head and shoulders at the computer. And still they cheered me on, knowing what it meant to me. It is a privilege to be your mother.

And JP. The man I love. My soul mate. My partner on the path. My truth. We married in the shadow of Cathedral Rock. And I want no heart but yours to sleep under my hand.

I truly hope you enjoyed
The Man I Love.
Please consider leaving a review by going to
http://amzn.to/1rfDQIZ
because I’m interested to know what you thought and felt while you were reading it. It doesn’t have to be a thing. Just breathe yourself onto the paper…

You could also use Kindle’s built in “Before You Go” feature which will be on the last page of this e-book.  Either way, I’d be forever grateful.

If you have any questions or comments, feel free to send me an email at
[email protected]
.

Suanne Laqueur graduated from Alfred University with a double major in dance and theater. She taught at the Carol Bierman School of Ballet Arts in Croton-on-Hudson for ten years. An avid reader, cook and gardener, she has been blogging at
www.eatsreadsthinks
since 2010. Suanne lives in Westchester County, New York with her husband and two children.
The Man I Love
is her first novel.

Copyright © 2014 by Suanne Laqueur

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Suanne Laqueur/Cathedral Rock Press

Somers, New York

www.suannelaqueur.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Certain historic events, locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Design: Tracy Kopsachilis