Two of a Kind (15 page)

“Thank you for joining me,” he said, sounding more serious than he'd meant. “You really made it special.”

She said nothing, but began to look around. “I wonder if I can get a taxi up here; so many other people will be trying. Maybe I should walk downtown a bit. . . .”

“That's a good idea,” he said.
It was a terrible idea.
“We can head toward Columbus Circle, and I'll make sure you're in safely.” They began to walk down the stretch of Broadway that led from Lincoln Center to Fifty-ninth Street and Columbus Circle. Andy was frantically trying to think of a way to move into the next phase of the evening, the one he'd had planned for weeks. Should he suggest a nightcap? A carriage ride around Central Park—not that rides were even offered this late. She seemed unaware of his anxiety, her hair still tightly wound, the thing in her hair sparkling as she turned or inclined her head. Her lips, no longer so vividly red, still held a vestige of color and were formed into a half smile. Around her shoulders, she wore some sheer pink thing or other; it was pretty, but it prevented him from seeing her skin and he wished she would take it off.

Now they were just a block away from Columbus Circle. If he didn't think of something soon, now, he'd be putting her in a taxi back to Brooklyn and the magic of this night would be wasted. Without another word, he stopped and, in the fluorescent glare of a Duane Reade window, took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Can we go somewhere? To talk?” he said, still holding on to her arms.

“Is that what you want to do? Talk?” She raised her eyebrows in amusement.

“Among other things . . .” He was still holding her closely, but he wanted to get off this corner, and out of the light. Taking her by the hand, he stepped closer to the corner, raised his arm, and amazingly a taxi pulled up right in front of them.

“The Carlyle Hotel,” he told the driver.

“Andy, what—”

“You'll see,” he said, still holding her hand. “Just wait.”

“Can you tell me what this is about?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Let me surprise you.” When they arrived, he walked up to the reception desk. “I'm Dr. Stein,” he said. “I reserved a room for my wife and myself earlier and left the luggage here.”

“Good evening, Dr. Stein,” said the concierge. He nodded at Christina. “Mrs. Stein.” Christina, playing along, was silent. “Your things are upstairs and the bed has been turned down already. Will you be needing anything else?”

“I don't think so,” Andy said. He accepted the key and touched Christina's elbow. Since there was no luggage, they were able to go up to the room by themselves. Still, Christina said nothing until they were in the room, the door locked and bolted.

“Dr. and Mrs. Stein! Luggage sent up! Andy, what
is
all this?”

“A lot of people know me in this neighborhood, so I didn't want to use my real name.”

“That's not what I meant! Why did you reserve this room?”

Taking her by both hands, he pulled her gently to the king-sized bed. It was lavishly appointed with a down comforter and several pillows; the comforter had indeed been turned down and a small, beribboned box of chocolates sat on the swath of exposed sheet. “Because I was hoping you would be sharing it with me.”

She was quiet for a moment, but let her hands remain entwined with his. “What if I'd said no?”

“Then I would have paid for it and that would have been that.”

“Are you always this extravagant?” she asked.

“When it's important, yes.”

She did not reply, but looked around, eyes lighting on a small overnight case. “Dr. Stein's luggage?”

“Dr. and
Mrs.
Stein,” he said.

“What's inside for Mrs. Stein?”

“Why don't you find out?”

Christina got up and went over to the case. Inside was a change of clothes for Andy as well as a wrap dress in a navy and white print with the price tags from Bloomingdale's still intact.

“In the event that you stayed, I didn't think you'd want to wear that”—Andy indicated her black lace dress—“tomorrow morning.”

“Very thoughtful,” she said.

“There's something else,” he said. “Keep going.” From a nest of tissue Christina extracted a blush-colored lace bra and matching panties. “I hope they'll fit,” he added. “I had to guess at the size, but the saleswoman at La Perla was extremely helpful.”

“I guess I'll have to try them on to find out, won't I?”

“So you'll stay?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I'll stay.”

He got up and was across the room in seconds. “And your daughter . . . ?” he said, face nuzzling her hair where the glittering ornament still sat.

“Conveniently spending the night with her best friend.” She reached up and took it from her head. “How about Oliver?”

“Senior-class community service mission,” he replied. “Gone through Saturday.”

“So then there's no one expecting us. . . .”

“No one,” he said, kissing her again.

“But why here?” she asked. “Why couldn't we just go to your apartment if no one's home?”

“I wanted this night to be special,” he said. “Some place new—for both of us.” They remained in each other's arms for a few minutes and then Andy slipped off his jacket and began to undo his tie. “Do you need help?” he asked, indicating the dress. She nodded and turned her back to him.

As he slowly unzipped Christina's long black dress, he had the image of her rising naked, like Venus from the sea, from a jumble of lace and sparkles. But when she turned, what he saw was equally arousing. She wore a simple white strapless bra through which her nipples—he was finally,
finally
, going to get to see them, touch them—were visible, and a white slip that grazed her calves. There was something both innocent and erotic about this attire; she looked like she'd stepped from the pages of a long-ago pinup calendar. He reached for her again, fingers on the bra's hook, which was conveniently right between her breasts. “May I?” he said softly.

“Please,” she said, and in an instant, the bra was on the floor.

The next morning, Andy was up before six. Even though he'd hardly had any sleep, his routines were so ingrained it was impossible for him to stay in bed longer. Anyway, he had to be at the office later this morning, though he had had the foresight to cancel his session with Cassie. Christina lay sleeping, back toward him, face nestled into her bent arm. Her hair—fine, straight, light brown—was spread out over her shoulders; it was the first time he'd seen it down. God, what a surprise she'd turned out to be in bed.

Andy grinned just thinking about it, and he continued to think about it as he first lathered, and then rinsed, in the shower.

She was up by the time he emerged wrapped in one of the hotel's thick terry cloth towels. “Good morning,” she said, her hands busy arranging her hair in its customary twist.

“Morning.” He sat down on the bed. “That was some night,” he ventured.

She looked down and then at his torso, where beads of water still clung. “You had a shower?” He nodded. “Can you wait for me to take one? And then we could have some coffee or breakfast?”

“You go ahead. I'll call up for room service.”

“That would be nice.” She let the sheet fall away and got up from the bed.

“Christina,” he murmured, running his hands along her body. He wanted to push her down and start all over again. But he had patients to see, several of them, and anyway, he was a little afraid of just how much he wanted her. He forced himself to step away.

While the water ran in her shower, he called downstairs for breakfast: coffee, poached eggs, fresh fruit, a croissant for her. She emerged before the food arrived, wearing the new dress. “Perfect fit,” she said, twirling so he could see. “And this too—” She reached into the dress and exposed the strap of the bra. “I'm impressed.”

“So am I,” he said, pulling her close for a quick, ferocious kiss. “So am I.”

S
tan
ding in front of her bathroom mirror, Christina applied the red lipstick Magda had given her. She hadn't gotten used to it, but Andy had liked it so much that she decided she would wear it again. She liked how excited it made him; she liked how excited
she
made him. He was coming over today. Soon. Since they both agreed not to tell the kids about the change in their relationship, spending the night together was not easily accomplished and so far they had not managed it. Once they'd met at his office, and ended up making love in one of the examining rooms. Another time, she'd met him for lunch at his apartment while Oliver was at school; they'd hastily eaten the sandwiches she'd brought and then repaired to the bedroom for a heated half hour. But today they would have more time. Andy was not on call and Jordan had two classes; she would be gone for hours. Christina could hardly wait.

After she'd finished her makeup, Christina put the last touches on the meal. Squash and apple soup, arugula salad, quiche with goat cheese and minced red pepper, cranberry walnut muffins. She'd set the dining room table with some of the linens she'd bought when they'd gone to that estate sale together and the flowered Spode dishes that had belonged to her mother; she'd made a centerpiece of bittersweet and mums from her garden. When Andy rang the bell—exactly on the dot of eleven, as they'd agreed—she was ready. “Hello, you,” he said. He carried an enormous bouquet of white roses and handed them to her with a flourish.

“You'll never let me forget that conversation, will you?” she said.

“You were so cold I practically got frostbite.”

“I didn't stay that way, did I?”

“No,” he said, leaning over to kiss her, “you didn't.”

Inside the house, Andy was effusive in his praise. He loved her paintings—an offbeat collection of sea- and landscapes, still lifes and portraits—her hand-hooked rugs, her show- and workrooms, her kitchen with its yellowware bowls and Spanish tiles, and her garden. “But what about the bedroom?” he said when she ended the tour in the dining room. “Don't I get to see that?”

“Later,” she said. “First we eat.” She began serving the food and as soon as he took a bite, he began to praise that too.

“I had no idea you were such a good cook,” he said, taking a bite of the quiche. “This is fantastic.”

“I'm glad you like it.” She reached for another muffin.

“There's just one more thing I'd like,” he said.

“Oh, what's that?” she said, looking to see what she might have forgotten. Salt and pepper were there, along with napkins, two kinds of preserves, milk and sugar for the coffee—what was missing?

“I'd like you to take your sweater off,” he said.

“My sweater? Off?”

“Your bra too.”

“Why?” she said, though the answer was obvious.

“So I can see you while we eat, and imagine all the things I'm going to do to you when we're done.”

“Andy . . . ,” she said. She did want to, she truly did. But even though she had fallen away from the strict faith of her girlhood—she had started attending the Dutch Reformed church on the corner of Carroll Street years ago, with Will—Sister Bernadette's counsel about the beauty of modesty was deeply ingrained.

“Will you, please? For me?”

Instead of answering him, she began to unbutton her ribbed gray cardigan, one tiny, pearlized button at a time. When she was through, she took it off and hung it over the back of her chair. Then she reached around to unhook the bra—it was the lace one he'd bought her from La Perla—and took that off too.

“There,” she said. “Would you like some more coffee?” It was chilly, sitting there topless; gooseflesh was rising on her skin.

“I think I would,” he said, eyes fixed on her. “Thanks a lot.”

If Christina had thought Andy would rush through the meal so that they could go to bed, she was wrong. He ate slowly, even deliberately so, to prolong the game. She matched him, bite for leisurely bite, all the while feeling the excitement building so that when they finally did leave the table, she was ready to explode. They left a trail of clothes behind them, and had just sunk onto the bed together when Christina heard the unmistakable sound of the key turning in the lock downstairs.

“What's that?” Andy said; clearly he had heard it too.

“It must be Jordan. I have no idea what she's doing home.” She got up and grabbed her robe. “Quick!” she said. “There's no time to get dressed. You have to hide!”

“Where?”

For a second she was paralyzed. Here was her lover in her bed, and her daughter on the way up any minute. “In the closet!” she hissed. “Now!” Still naked, Andy scrambled into the closet while Christina ran around gathering all the clothes they had dropped. Pants, boxers, shirt, belt, skirt, shoes . . . She took the whole wad and stuffed it under the bed, straightening up just as Jordan came into the room. “Hi, sweetheart; I thought you would be in class all day.”

“That's where I should be!” Jordan looked furious.

“So what happened?”

“There was some kind of accident—an electrical malfunction or some
stupid
thing like that. All the power in the building went out and they had to send everyone home. Isn't that the worst?”

“Oh, that's too bad,” Christina said. She was keenly aware of Andy, trapped just behind the closet door.

“Hey, why are you in your bathrobe? Is something wrong?” Jordan touched her sleeve.

“Yes, I had brunch with Misha and Stephen”—she wanted to explain the dishes still on the table—“and afterward I wasn't feeling well, so I came in here to lie down.” Stephen and Misha were actually in Sag Harbor this weekend; did Jordan know that? She hoped not.

“Poor you,” Jordan said. “Is it because you're worried about money? I thought you had some more jobs now.”

“Yes, I do. But this isn't about money anyway, sweetheart. It's just a headache; I don't want you to worry.”

“Okay . . . ,” Jordan said uncertainly. “I just don't want you to be sick or anything.”

“It's nothing serious,” Christina said. “In fact, I'm feeling better now. Much better. I'm even going to take care of all the dishes.” How she hated lying, the backtracking to cover herself, the fumbling for excuses.

“I can help,” Jordan said. “You go back to bed. I'll do the dishes.”

“That's very sweet of you, darling,” Christina said. “But it's not necessary.” Her bra and sweater were hanging off the back of a dining room chair and she did
not
want Jordan to find them. Yet she also wanted Jordan to leave so she could get Andy out of there. Before she could resolve this dilemma, there was suddenly a very audible sneeze.

“Was that you, Mom? Maybe you are coming down—”

There was another, even louder sneeze. Jordan looked horrified. It was clear that her mother was not the one who had sneezed. “Who
was
that?” she said in a tight, terrified voice. “It sounded like it was coming from the closet.”

No,
Christina thought wretchedly,
no, no,
no.

“Mom.” Jordan's voice had dropped to a whisper. “There's someone
in
there; we have to call the police!”

Christina looked at her quaking child. “Yes,” she said, “there is someone in there.” She walked over to the closet. “You can come out now.” The door opened. Andy stood wrapped in a sheet he'd found on a shelf above his head. Under the circumstances, he looked quite dignified.

“Him!” Jordan said. Her face visibly paled. “Why is he . . . I mean, did you really . . . Is he—” She turned to Christina. “How
could
you?”

“Jordan, I'm sorry you had to find out about my relationship with Andy like this. But you have to believe I never meant to hurt you—”

“Hurt me! You haven't
hurt
me—you just
disgusted
me!” And with that, she fled.

“I'm so, so sorry,” Andy said as he stepped from the closet. “There was something in there that made me sneeze, some scent. . . .”

“Lavender,” Christina said. “I have all these sachets; they keep the linens smelling nice.”

“Well, I guess I'd better be going,” he said. “That is, if I can find my clothes.”

Christina knelt and retrieved the bundle from under the bed. As she disentangled his pants from her skirt, her sweater from his boxers, she began to giggle. What an inappropriate response; Jordan was so upset, and she was giggling? But when she looked up at Andy, in his self-styled toga, she couldn't help it—she burst out laughing, and then he started laughing too. She laughed so hard that tears really did start to trickle from the corners of her eyes down her cheeks and she could not catch her breath. “Okay,” she said at last. “Okay. I've got to stop.” She handed him his clothes and he hurriedly started to dress.

“I'll call you,” he said, as he tucked his shirt into his pants. “Now go talk to your daughter. That look on her face when she saw me . . .” He shook his head. She saw him to the door and then went back upstairs, where she dressed, fixed her hair, and made sure there was not a trace of red left on her lips before knocking on Jordan's door.

“What?” Jordan said.

“I'd like to speak to you,” Christina said. She would ignore the rude reply.

“About what?” Again that sullen tone.

“You know perfectly well about what.” She waited.

“Come in.”

The room, with its curly maple dresser, rag oval rug, walnut rocker, and framed Degas reproductions on the walls, was, as ever, immaculate. Jordan lay stretched out on her neatly made bed with her laptop open and the rabbit nestled beside her. Jordan was smitten with the creature; for all Christina knew, she slept with it.

“I was going to tell you,” she said.

“Uh-huh.” Jordan's eyes never left the laptop.

“I know you don't like him—”

“No, you're wrong about that; I hate him!” She looked at her mother then. “And I hate his pothead son too!” She snapped the laptop shut with a vengeance.

“Pothead son? What are you talking about? How would you know something like that?”

“I ran into him near Dance West over the summer. We walked through Central Park and he pulled out a
joint
. It was broad daylight with, like, a million people around. And it didn't seem like the first time either.”

“Oh,” Christina said. “Oh.” She remembered Stephen had said the same thing about Oliver; it seemed apparent to everyone but her. And Andy. She looked at the rabbit, which was positioned on Jordan's stomach like a sphinx. There was something unsettling about its stillness, and its preternaturally bright, unblinking eye. “But what does that have to do with Andy?” Whatever she was going to say to Jordan had grown obscured now, misted over by this information about Oliver.

“I don't know!” Jordan said. “I just don't like him, Mom. I don't like him and I don't want him in our lives. He's like . . . a bulldozer, mowing people down.”

“He's forceful; that's true.”

“I can't talk to you! It's like you've gone crazy or something.”

“No, sweetheart,” Christina said. “Not crazy.” Her face broke into a smile. “I think I'm just in love.” And to her amazement, she was.

Jordan could not hide her disgust. “Whatever,” she said, and opened her laptop again.

Christina waited and when it was clear the conversation was over, she went downstairs, where she began to gather the plates that were still on the dining room table. Her attraction to Andy really
was
unexpected; even though Jordan did not remember much about her father, he had been so very different. Will had had a gentle soul; everything with him had been in soft focus and pastels. This had not been a failing, though. No, it was a respite from the ever-simmering tension of her childhood, the tiptoeing around her father lest she set off one of his explosive, alcohol-fueled outbursts—sometimes the smallest thing, like an unwashed glass left on a table, could set him off. Aunt Barb tried to shield her from him as best she could. And her life at school, with her adored nuns, helped too. But she knew, even back then, that she wanted something else, and Will, soft-spoken and mild-mannered, had given it to her.

Christina opened the back door and shook out the tablecloth; a host of sparrows instantly appeared. Will's ideal Sunday would have been spent lazing over the paper, reading a book, and going out for a late-afternoon stroll; Andy's would involve a run, a swim, and a game of tennis—all before lunch. In bed, the differences were even more marked. He made noise—
lots
of noise. He wanted the lights on—
So I can see every inch of you,
he had said. He was demanding, critical, quick to ignite. But unlike her father, he got over his huffs quickly. He was willing to say he was sorry. She thought of how he'd stripped off his shirt and handed it to her that day they were caught in the rain—he was a gentleman.

Christina stood watching as the birds made short work of the crumbs and then flew off to their nests. She thought about what it might be like to be married to Andy.

Life would be less serene than it had been with Will. But it would be vivid, intense, and possibly quite wonderful. And when she thought about what it felt like to be in bed with him, she knew it would. She believed she could accept most of Andy's faults and forgive the ones she couldn't.

But even in her romantic reverie, Jordan was a sticking point. Because no matter how compelling Andy Stern might have been, Jordan's antipathy was a deal breaker.

Folding the cloth into a neat rectangle, Christina went back inside. Could Jordan be won over? Would Andy have the patience and tact to accomplish it? Because if he didn't, there was no way it was going to work between them, no way at all.