Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (25 page)

  "Come here," he whispered again, as if his voice didn't work around her when she wasn't fully dressed.

  She stared at him, beautiful and naked on her bed, and didn't want to go. He'd taken all the fun out of it, all the playfulness, and all the . . .

  Safety. Shit.

  She was in over her head. He wasn't going to tumble her, or screw her, or fuck or force or humiliate or worship. He was going to make love to her.

  What had he said?
It's going to be about you and me
.

  Crap.

  She knelt on the bed and waddled toward him, let him draw her down and fit her to his body. Instead of jumping on board, he lay there, stroking her gently, her arm, her hip, her belly.

  "When I was in Portland, I bought a house."

  "Oh?" She was out of her element. Bizarrely afraid. Since when was Vivian out of her element in bed with a man?

  "A small two -story. A fi xer-upper close to downtown. The neighborhood is coming up."

  "Nice." Why was he telling her this now? His hands explored everywhere, warm and sure. She lay still, feeling she should be touching him, too, but not able to do it and not understanding why.

  "You'd like Portland, I think."

  Instant freakout. "What, so you're asking me to move there?"

  "Vivian. I just said you'd like it."

  "Oh." Why was she panicking? Why was she so sure he had her already in his Portland kitchen, wearing her grandmother's dress, baking him cookies?

  "Relax." He turned and kissed her, long, slow, dreamy kisses.

  She responded automatically, barely able to contain the urge to push him away.

  He pulled back and held her chin so she couldn't look away as she desperately wanted to. He knew. Of course he knew. Damn him. "Okay, what's up?"

  "I'm . . . scared." Harsh laughter burst out. "You're scaring me. This is so fucked, Mike. It's too soon, I don't know. This has never happened to me. Ever."

  A grin spread over his face, which had gotten so dear to her that it hurt. "You're fal -ling in lo -ove with me -e."

  He said it in the singsong way kids tease each other, and she adored him for that. Because it broke the weird intensity and she could playfully smack his chest. "In your dreams."

  "You are." He rolled her onto her back, grinning triumphantly. "Admit it. Say it. 'I lo -o-ove you, Mike.' "

  His words came out in a killer imitation of her voice, and she laughed so hard, her stomach started aching.

  "C'mon. It's true." He moved over her, supported on his rock-solid arms. "I lo -o-o-o-ove you, Mike."

  "Stop." She gasped the word out, tears rolling down her temples, perilously close to falling into her ears.

  "Oh, Mi -i-i-ike." He spread her with his fi ngers and pushed himself inside. "Say it."

  The sexual adrenaline hit. She gasped and lifted her hips to meet him. "Oh, Mike."

  She meant to continue the joke, but his name didn't come out that way. At all.

  He dug his arms under her, pulled her close, and moved in a slow, gentle rhythm, cheek pressed to her cheek.

  She hesitated only a second—who was she kidding?—then wrapped her arms around his strong, wide back and gave in.

Twenty

E - mail originally written by Erin, forwarded back to her from

her freshman year tutor, Fran Sterling October 29

Erin—A friend sent me this and it made me smile. I thought you might enjoy it.

Fran

Everyone knows David rose up to slay Goliath with a perfectly aimed blow from his sling. What the story doesn't tell you is that his mother made the sling when his father was too busy or too tired and the boy grew impatient.

It doesn't tell you that she had to nag him every

day to practice, that she took the time to help gather the smoothest and best stones for her son. Nor that she set up the targets, and gave him encouragement and praise as his skill grew.

  
Undoubtedly as he faced the giant, David called not only upon God, but upon his mother's faith in him, that he heard her voice along with the Lord's, telling him not to doubt his strength or his aim or his heart.

  
Nor should you, as you face your daily Goliaths,

hesitate to call on the women you know for the same kind of guidance.

  
Send this e - mail to all the underappreciated, powerful women you know.

  Erin secured the last white plastic skull from the pile she'd lugged into the Kettle High School gym, to the last piece of black rope she'd measured and cut that morning. At the Halloween party that night, when visitors to the haunted house rounded the bales -of-hay wall, the skulls, glowing with black light, would seem to swoop down to attack the intruders.

  Why anyone would pay money to be afraid . . . well, let's just say Erin got plenty for free. She'd agreed to help Joan set up the haunted house, but refused the job of dressing in black, lying on the floor, and grabbing the ankles of unsuspecting patrons with hands that had been clutching an ice pack. Scaring people that badly would probably make her sick.

  So Erin would serve punch on the other side of the gym, where the band played. She always served punch. Stood behind the table with the big plastic bowl, holding the big plas tic ladle and made sure high school kids didn't pour in grain alcohol, though the party would probably be more fun if she let them. Someone always tried. Yet another tradition, among too many in Kettle.

  Though one untraditional element had been added this year. Vivian had shown up to help decorate, and to set up her makeover booth. Erin was surprised to see Sarah talking to her, and even laughing at one point. Something weird was going on with Sarah. She was manic or something. Erin had never seen her snap at anyone, and she'd nearly bitten Audrey Bender's head off for suggesting they bring her pumpkins indoors a day early. Sarah wanted to make a big entrance the day of the party.

  Nancy, not surprisingly, followed Sarah's lead and helped set up Vivian's booth, helped her paint it shocking pink with a big red kiss mark on the front, and a sexy black winking eye. Beyond that, she even offered to staff the booth so Vivian could enjoy the party, though Erin was pretty sure Nancy was just trying to get out of having to mingle.

  Even Betty, waddling along toward her due date, praising the Lord for this and that, put her considerable lettering skills to work on a
Make Yourself Over
sign to go on the table.

  So the decree had come down. Vivian had been if not accepted, then tolerated. Reporters and photographers hovered in the gym and outside, easily recognizable from their big-city clothes and attitudes. They'd find nothing to report today. Now that Vivian was keeping the lid on, Kettle was, as usual, about as devoid of tantalizing news as you could get. At least on the surface.

  Erin stepped out of the haunted house and peered around bales of hay set at the entrance. The sliding wall that would block off the haunted house and keep that side of the gym in darkness hadn't been closed yet, and she could see across the room. Vivian sat at her booth, arranging certifi cates and sample cosmetics. Even from this distance, even dressed down from her initial splendor, she glowed with beauty and poise. Erin was going to go talk to her.

  That morning Erin had nearly jumped out of her skin when an e -mail she'd written came back to her. The one about David and Goliath. She made that one up fi ve months ago, snorting to herself over how corny it was. But people ate that stuff up.

  Where had it gone? Who'd read it? She'd love to know what they thought, how many people were moved or delighted or slyly amused and passed it along, and how many skimmed it, rolled their eyes in disgust, and hit delete.

  She loved thinking she'd had an effect on so many people. People she'd never meet who lived in places she'd never go. Maybe some of them even wondered about the woman who wrote the note. It was as if in all these towns and cities outside Kettle, Erin had started to exist.

  She didn't usually believe in signs. Too many times she'd thought her luck was about to change, like when she fi nally told Mrs. Flatley about her father in grade school and thought she believed her. Like when she married, and when she carried Joy into the third trimester. Too many times she'd been wrong.

  But this wasn't a bad decision she'd made, this was the collective force of the world, the passing from in -box to in -box of an e -mail that had started with her, and that had made its way back like a large and powerful ocean salmon coming home to the stream where it began as a tiny wiggling thing inside an egg.

  So this sign she'd take. This sign told her she could walk up to Vivian and ask for a makeover. Joe would freak if he found out, but Erin didn't seem to care. She was in the grip of something that had started the day the jury found Lorelei Taylor not guilty, and she couldn't break free even if she wanted to. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was her own will—yeah, maybe she had one after all. She didn't know. She didn't care. She wanted to look pretty, even if it was for one afternoon of her life.

  Her feet must have moved her because she found herself standing in front of Vivian.

  "Erin, hi."

  "Hi." She glanced up and looked back down at the table. Damn it, why was this so hard? She knew what she wanted, she just needed to say it. But with Vivian there, looking so calm and beautiful and untouchable, the words froze in her throat.

  "Are you interested in a makeover?"

  "Yes." She was able to look up then. "I am."

  "Excellent." Vivian clapped her hands together. "You are stunning under that shyness; I've been dying to do you. Beautiful eyes. Very sexy cheekbones."

  "Thanks." She felt herself blushing. Beautiful? Sexy? Vivian was just being nice. Never mind that Erin suddenly wanted to be that way with the desperation of a preadolescent.

  "What's your costume tonight, Erin?"

  "I'll be a hobo." She was a hobo every year. Dressing as a

man was Joe's answer to the risk of letting her out among them.

  "A hobo? Are you serious? Do they even have those anymore?"

  "Probably not." She laughed, awkwardly, stupidly.

  "Screw hobo. I'm done here for now. Come home with me, and I'll do your costume." She stood and walked around to where Erin stood. "Come as you're not. I'll make you into a glamour girl, how's that?"

  "No." Erin took a step away from the pink booth.

  Vivian's perfect dark brows drew down in the middle. "You can change back when we're done if you decide you want to."

  "I don't think . . ." Erin swallowed. The denial had been automatic. She reminded herself that she'd had a sign that morning. That this was something she wanted. She didn't have to go to the party made up. Or let anyone see her but Vivian. "Yes. Okay. Thank you."

  "Good." Vivian smiled and picked up a lock of Erin's hair, testing it between her fingers and thumb the way Erin's mom used to test material in fabric stores. "You're going to look fabulous. Let's go."

  In a daze, Erin walked beside her toward the double doors with the red exit sign above them. People were noticing the two of them together, throwing them looks. Already Erin had started doubting her decision.

  "Erin." The familiar bark made her skin contract and the hair stand up on her arms.

  Joan. Shit.

  She turned back, stiff and stretched tall, imagining Joan as

a giant cyclops, wishing for a sling and a smooth round stone. "What."

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  "The haunted house is finished. You said I could go when it was fi nished."

  "Home. To Joe."

  "Joe is at Rick's."

  Joan's black -lined eyes narrowed, which made them about the size of a normal person's. "You're asking for trouble."

  "I'm sorry, are you Erin's keeper?"

  Joan didn't turn her head. Didn't even acknowledge that Vivian had spoken.

  Erin put her hand on Vivian's arm, surprised at how tense the muscle was. But she shouldn't be surprised. Vivian had lived this, too; her reactions would be deeper than most people's. "I'll be home in time. He'll be at Rick's until dinner."

  "What's he going to think of you tramping off with this woman?"

  "How is he going to find out?" This from Vivian, a direct challenge. Both Joan and Erin ignored her. The battle was between them, over patterns established too long ago.

  Erin lifted her chin defiantly. Which for her meant she barely met Joan's eyes. More like she met Joan's nose. "I'm sure Joe would
love
me to do something that makes me happy."

  Vivian snorted next to her, and Erin tightened her grip on Vivian's arm, not sure if she was restraining Vivian or if Vivian was propping her up.

  Joan's arms crossed over the Mickey Mouse head smiling on the front of her pink sweatshirt. A blob of black paint had fallen on its cheek, like a mole gone bad. "I hope you know what you're doing."

  "I hope maybe I finally do." She turned and walked away, thinking she had just dropped the most perfect movie exit line ever, and wishing she could be wildly proud of herself. The truth was, her legs were shaking, and she suddenly understood what people meant when they said you could feel someone's gaze burning into your back. Joan would tell Joe. Joe would come down on her when he got home. Worse, he'd be drinking at Rick's all afternoon. Was lipstick and mascara she'd never get to wear again worth all that fear and pain?

  The gym doors swung shut behind them, the damp air felt like a release. Vivian burst out laughing and held up her hand for a high -fi ve Erin felt dumb giving her. "You go, girl."

  "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

  "Why?"

  "You know why."

  "Look." Vivian turned so she was standing right in front of Erin, and Erin could see her perfect skin and smell her fresh scent. "You always have a choice. You can bend over and take it or you can fight. Sometimes it's a new choice every day, sometimes twice a day, sometimes more. Sometimes the old choice will stick for a while, until it's too much and you need to switch. But every new second and every new day you have the power to make a choice again."

  Her eyes were deep and intense, and a thrill scurried through Erin's chest. She'd never thought of her situation that way. She'd always felt locked into a black -and-white life sentence. Either she stayed or she left. She liked Vivian's version better. She liked to think that she was choosing to stay. Or choosing to fight. And that the choice was always open to her and would always be open to her.

  That feeling made the world around her brighter and more hopeful, even though the clouds obstinately covered the sky and the dampness made the air colder than it was.

  "Okay. I'll do it."

  "Good for you!" Vivian hooted, and Erin felt as if she'd won a coveted and special prize she'd been wanting for years.

  The feeling lasted all the way up to Vivian's house and into the kitchen, touched up so it looked more like a place Vivian would live, ditto the living room, and up to the faintly paint-smelling bedroom where Stellie had slept, now pale blue-green instead of the too -busy dull wallpaper that had been there.

  The dollhouse still stood in its corner by the closet. Erin caught her breath, treating herself to the precious memories of the day she and Vivian first met, of Vivian's deliberate casualness sharing the treasure, of Erin's awe. She approached the house now, three floors, six rooms, as tall as she was, and picked up one of the little figures who'd been stuck with his head in the toilet. She didn't ask why. "Nathan, wasn't it?"

  Vivian came back into the room with a makeup case the size of a suitcase and laughed. "Probably. I haven't a clue. Did Gran have you back here to play after I went home to Chicago?"

  "Until Dad made me stop."

  "Why?"

  "He was perverse that way."

  Vivian scowled and heaved the case onto the bed. "Mine was perverse, too, in ways that involved me."

  She said it offhandedly, as if she was talking about her grocery list. Erin nearly dropped Nathan. How could she talk so easily? Erin couldn't. Not even to Vivian. Not always even to herself. "I'm . . . sorry."