“Got me. Honestly, I try to stay out of the public eye. Remember that time I chased the photographer away from Charlotte’s grave during one of our weekly visits to leave flowers? Floyd took care of that as well.” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop.
“It’s crazy. I know you’re an author and your mom is super famous, but it’s hard to fathom that you have to deal with these kind of invasions.”
I shrugged. “Comes with the territory. Roger is also in the spotlight a lot—locally at least.” I leaned on my forearms. “So tell me. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what to do.” She covered her face with both hands, nearly making me laugh. Out of the two of us, I looked like the one whose life was in chaos, not the well-put-together businesswoman across from me.
The shorter Italian behind the register plopped a half-closed box on the counter. Even though we made eye contact and he’d nodded for me to come get it, he slammed his hand down on the bell and yelled, “Order up!” Probably out of habit. No matter whether you ordered to go or dining in, every pizza was served in a flimsy white box.
After I returned with the pizza, two paper plates, and a plastic shaker with pepper flakes, I asked, “Is it as bad as I think?”
“Depends.” Sam sprinkled pepper flakes onto a slice until all I could see were circular discs of red and yellow. “What do you think is going on?”
“Nope, not falling for that. Either tell me or don’t. I’m not guessing.” I tore a triangular portion and set the steaming piece on my plate, licking the grease off my semi-burnt thumb and index finger.
Sam bit into a segment, instantly coughing and covering her mouth. After a moment, she clutched a plastic bottle of orange Fanta and tossed it back as if she’d been wandering through the Sahara for days.
I waited for her to recover. “Is this some form of weird punishment? Self-flagellation via pepper flakes?”
“Maybe. I thought I could handle it.”
“Famous last words. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be. Come on, talk to me.” I waggled my eyebrows. “You know you want to.”
She grinned. “That was a tad pervy.”
“Maybe, but it got you to smile at least.” I put a hand on hers. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” Sam whispered.
I nodded and waited patiently. I’d learned when Sam needed to talk there was no stopping her.
“I haven’t cheated on Lucy, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said in a firm tone.
“Wasn’t thinking it,” I lied before biting into another wedge of pizza that had just a smidgeon of pepper flakes.
“But…” She scraped some of the pepper flakes off the overly burdened slice.
I quirked an eyebrow.
She pinned me with her tawny eyes. Those eyes had captivated me in my teen years. Hell, they’d singlehandedly been the inspiration of many wonderful sexual fantasies that’d make most blush. Yet, today they were jam-packed with angst.
“I have the hots for my teacher,” Sam confessed in her gravelly voice.
“Are you singing the Van Halen song, because I don’t think you have the lyrics quite right. You used to sing in the choir. Surely you know the right words.”
She threw a wadded up paper napkin at my face. “Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m sorry.” I grabbed a clean napkin from the metal dispenser and handed it to her. “What teacher?”
“My tango instructor.”
“You’re taking tango lessons! Since when?” I chomped into a new slice.
“Last month. Lucy and I are planning a trip to Argentina next summer to visit Iguazu Falls and to explore some of their wine regions. Research for a novel idea, and I don’t know… Her idea for the novel is in its infancy, but she mentioned once that the heroine could tango. I thought it would be fun to learn.”
“I hear it’s a mandatory requirement to acquire a visa.”
She wadded up another napkin.
Before she could fire, I put my hands up in mock surrender and said, “Don’t shoot.”
Sam laughed. “Are you going to take this seriously?”
“I’ll try. So you like this guy. When’s the last time you’ve been with a man?”
“None of your business. And the teacher isn’t a dude.”
“A female tango instructor—how progressive of you.”
“Geez, is someone waving a shiny object behind my head or something?” She rubbernecked over her shoulder. “Focus, Cori. I have the hots for my teacher.”
“Is your instructor interested?”
“I think so.”
“How’d you find a lesbian tango instructor? Is she Argentinean?”
“She is, in fact. It’s amazing; lesbians can come from other countries, not just the US.”
“Who would have thunk it?” I smiled. “But back to the matter at hand, are you interested in a fling or a full-blown relationship?”
“I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong; I love Lucy, but…”
“Something’s missing?”
“I wouldn’t say that. It’s just that she can be so detached, logical, and unromantic. And, well…” Her eyes flittered away. “I’m a bit bored. Do you know what we did last Friday night?”
I shook my head.
“A jigsaw puzzle.”
“What image?”
“Paris at night.”
“That’s kinda romantic.”
“Going to Paris is romantic. Putting a Paris puzzle together is just… just… lame! And she’s already put the puzzle together and has organized all the pieces into plastic baggies. That’s totally weird, isn’t it?” She waved her Fanta bottle, causing the contents to fizz.
I thought it best not to say anything.
“And the best part, we didn’t finish, but the ever-prepared Lucy bought this fancy puzzle mat so we can save our progress and work on it this weekend. Oh, yay.” She clapped her hands together and fluttered her lashes.
I laughed. “Looking forward to it, are you?”
Her death glare was pretty clear.
“What did you two use to do for fun?” I sipped the Coke Sam had ordered for me before I arrived.
“See movies, go dancing, hang out with friends—we were never wild and crazy, but puzzles? Are we eighty?” She put a hand on her forehead. “I’m not ready for retirement, and I don’t want to act like we’re living in an old people’s home.”
“Okay, let’s go back to the original laundry list. Was she always detached?”
“Not necessarily. But romance hasn’t been her strong suit—ever. She’s in her head too much with her stories.”
“Are you looking for more romance from her?”
She gawked over my shoulder and regarded the men making the pizzas. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“And your tango instructor probably oozes romance and sex appeal. I mean, just knowing how to tango proves it.”
“And other things.” Sam’s expression turned dreamy.
I sucked in a breath and slouched against the hard plastic booth. “I see.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a bad person.”
“I don’t think that. Not one bit.” I sat up straighter in an attempt to convince her I wasn’t fibbing. Cheating was such a sensitive subject for me. My aunt and uncle had their agreement, but I witnessed their unguarded moments, and it was obvious it affected them both. I saw the suspicion in Barb’s eyes every time Roger checked his phone.
“But?”
“No buts. I will caution you, though. Before you make a decision that could destroy your relationship for good, think about whether your feelings are based on love or simple lust. Lust isn’t sustainable over the long term, and it does more damage than it’s worth, in my humble opinion.” I placed a hand over my heart.
“How do I determine that, though?”
“Got me.” I ate another bite and then added, “You lost Lucy once, so remember how much it hurt. She may not be the most romantic—”
“The jigsaw proves that,” she interjected.
I put a hand up for her to zip it. “But she loves you. Real love like hers is rare.”
Sam sighed and stared at the half-eaten slice on her plate. “Can lust turn into love?”
“I’m sure it happens. Again, though, I have to ask are you willing to take the chance? All couples go through droughts. If relationships were easy, there’d be no need for divorce.”
“Okay, Ms. Relationship Expert. The first time you slept with Kat were you in love or lust?”
“On the road to love.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed.
“Listen, I know when most see Kat all they can think of is getting her into bed. It wasn’t like that with me. That’s why we’ve lasted.”
I ate in silence for a minute or two while Sam shredded a grease-stained napkin. A lone figure passed the front of the restaurant, a periwinkle scarf fluttering in the wind. The color reminded me of a periwinkle Beanie Baby from Blue’s Clues that I’d purchased for Charlotte the day of Kat’s first ultrasound. Charlotte never got the chance to choose a favorite color. Would it have been the color of her first stuffed animal?
Sam brushed aside her paper plate and rested her elbows on the table. “How do you and Kat do it?”
“Do what?” I lobbed a final bit of crust into my mouth. We had managed to devour three-quarters of the pizza. I’d done most of the damage. Good thing I went running every single day, no matter the weather or lack of sleep.
“Stay so much in love?”
“Jigsaw puzzles,” I deadpanned.
She slapped my hand.
I laughed and then slouched in my seat. “It’s not easy. We’ve had ups and downs.”
Sam blanched. “I know. I wasn’t saying that.”
I put a hand up. “Don’t worry. What I’m trying to say is relationships aren’t easy. They take a lot of maintenance. For us, we’ve learned to talk things through and we’ve established only one person can have a breakdown at a time—the other has to stay strong.”
“Whose turn is it now?”
“To stay strong?”
Sam nodded.
“I think Kat’s.” I tried to smile, but it fell before it had a chance to take. “Have you considered talking to Lucy? Let her show her strength.”
“And say what? I keep having these fantasies about Inez.”
That triggered a memory. “Inez Gonzales?”
“You know her?”
I palmed the top of my head. “She was one of my dance instructors years ago. God, I’d forgotten about her completely. I had so many dance instructors in my youth they’ve all kinda blurred together. I used to see her in dance clubs, but I haven’t for years. Thought she moved.” I closed my eyes. “She was in her thirties then. She’s got to be pushing fifty.” I reopened my eyes.
Sam folded her arms over her chest. “She’s forty-five.”
“I had no idea she was gay.”
“Not surprising.”
I shrugged off the fact that my gaydar never fully formed. “She was pretty hot back then. Got my teenage imagination going and then some.” I whistled.
Sam’s eyes flashed from anger to agreement and then back to anger.
“You’ve got it bad for her, don’t you?” I asked.
“I need to get back to work.”
“Don’t be that way. Don’t run off.” I squeezed her arm.
Her body relaxed a little. “I’m not. Really, I need to get back. I lied to my assistant and said I was meeting a client for lunch.”
So the lying had started. This wasn’t a good sign.
“Can we talk later?” she asked.
“Of course. I’ll walk you to the Reservoir stop.”
After we bundled up and ambled outside, Sam hooked an arm through mine and rested her head against my shoulder. “Promise you don’t hate me.”
“I could never hate you, Sam. You’re my best friend. No matter what.” We sloshed across Beacon Street through mushy gray snow.
“But you’d never consider cheating on Kat, would you?” Sam glommed onto the handrail at the T stop as she navigated around ice patches on the concrete stairs.
I didn’t answer, hoping the question was rhetorical.
We stood on the platform while the D-line train squealed to a halt. Sam climbed aboard and waved without saying anything more as I waited for it to pull away. A smattering of passengers got off and on, and within a minute, the train departed. I tarried until it was out of sight, looking like a lonely fool. But I secretly hoped I’d gotten my message across to Sam: cheating only led to a long, painful, and drawn-out good-bye.
Chapter Four
“What would you do if you thought I was cheating?” I asked Kat later that night. We were in the back of my aunt’s art studio in the workroom, well after closing. Kat, wearing a tight, paint-splotched T-shirt and ripped jeans, was busily applying paint to a canvas while I reclined on a divan, thumbing through a stack of art magazines to keep my brain occupied.
“Are you confessing?” Kat, brush still in hand, peered seductively around the easel and arched a dark eyebrow in the way only she could.
I shivered.
“Sorry, I forgot.” She waltzed by the metal desk next to the easel and yanked one of the four drawers all the way open. Tubes of paint, brushes, paper towels, tattered rags, coffee cups, and other odds and ends covered every square inch of the desk’s surface. She’d flipped on a space heater. “Can’t have my model freeze her tits off.”
I rounded back to her accusation. “Come now, you know how I feel about it.”
“And I thought you knew how I felt?” She repositioned herself behind the canvas.
“Good point. Rip my toenails off.” I tossed a magazine on the hardwood floor and picked up the next in the pile.
“That’d be a start.”
“Just a start? Yowsers!”
“Does this have anything to do with your lunch today with Sam?”
“Maybe.”
“Lucy or Sam?” she asked.
“Sam. At least Sam told me Lucy suspects. She, of course, asked me to stay mum on the subject.”
“Do you think she’ll confess?” The easel was set up at an angle from my position, so I could only catch glimpses of Kat’s brush flying across the canvas as if the paint directed where it should be placed. Kat’s fearless style was doing wonders for my libido. There was something so sexy about a woman who knew what she was doing.
“I don’t know. I’m having a hard time believing Sam would do such a thing. I mean, just a few years ago, she fought to get Lucy back after they separated. Why throw it away now?”
“Fought? I don’t remember it that way.”
“Because you were too busy imagining her chasing after me.”
“I lost my head for a bit.” She casually hoisted one shoulder as a way of apology.
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“How would you put it?” she asked.
“Guilty by association.” I squinted at the page in the catalogue showing one of Kat’s Picasso-esque paintings of a woman and a peacock. It was hard to decipher where the woman stopped and the peacock started.
Kat held her brush in midair, biting her lower lip and half closing one eye as she looked at me. If I had my phone out, I’d snap a photo. Some moments, her beauty still knocked the breath out of me.
Without apologizing or defending herself, Kat slowly pivoted her head back to the canvas.
“I can’t blame you, really,” I continued. “If word about Roger got out, the press would probably hound the family day and night, or at least hungry, desperate bloggers looking for a quick buck and a huge splash would. Shit, I might even be on the chopping block, given that incident at Fenway. Fingers crossed G-Dawg or Finndale—wh
ich is the evil one?”
“G-Dawg. Finndale came to your mom’s defense when G-Dawg attacked. In the Shadows is your super fan. This is why Harold doesn’t let you near your social media accounts—you can’t keep all this straight.”
“Whatever. Let’s hope G-Dawg or whoever doesn’t latch onto that.”
“They say everyone gets their fifteen minutes of fame, but you already know that.” She made no attempt to mask the smile in her voice.
“It wasn’t how I imagined mine. I was hoping for something along the lines of winning a Pulitzer.”
Kat’s hand continued to sail over the canvas, leaving faint traces of color. “Oh, trust me, your fifteen minutes was viewed more than if you had won a literary award. I’m pretty sure SportsCenter wouldn’t have aired you receiving an award.”
“But getting beaned in the head with a foul ball at Fenway during a Yankees’ game gets international coverage for days. And now it’ll live forever on YouTube.” I angrily flipped a page, nearly tearing it.
“It wasn’t just you, darling. You also spilled your beer all over me, and I was wearing a white tank without a bra, if you remember.”
I smiled. “Oh, I remember. I’ve replayed that part a million times on YouTube.”
Again, she scouted around the canvas. “Perv.”
“Guilty as charged. You have fabulous tits, my dear.” I failed miserably to stifle a yawn.
“Goodness. How am I supposed to believe that line when you follow it up with the yawn of the millennium?” The lilt in her voice and her casual glance back at me made it clear she wasn’t lacking in confidence.
“Oh, please. You know you do. And I’m more than willing to take you home and prove it. How are you coming along?”
“Just a few more minutes for tonight. You getting cold?”
Kat’s new rage was nudes, and she’d enlisted me as one of her models.
“My nipples could cut glass.”
“Oooh… we may have to test that. I’ve been considering performance art.”
“Come now, I have enough bad press at the moment. I don’t need the world laughing at my pitiful offerings.”
“Don’t ever say that about your chest. Never ever. I happen to love your itty bitties.”
I laughed. “Calling them itty bitties doesn’t help my self-esteem.”
Confessions From the Dark Page 5
