by E H Davis
Chapter Forty
Seated at the kitchen table where he liked to work when he was at the cabin in Jackson, Jens finished the line he’d been working on, gauging its specific gravity, its rhythm and import, before going to answer the phone on the counter nearby.
Seeing his son again had restored his will to continue with Forsake Me Not. He would write the best damn book he could — it was the least he could do to thank the gods for a son like Teddy, and the gift of immortality, bestowed by fatherhood.
Some days, he pumped out as many as fifteen pages, a record set with his first novel, when in the grip of his story he’d written an entire book in three and a half months. Now, some twenty years later, he was gratified and thankful for his current productivity. Whether the pages he wrote were good or bad, he did not know, though he suspected they hit the mark. He’d learned a long time ago not to prejudge or censor what he wrote until much later, when he could view it with detachment.
Aside from his lawyer, his agent, and the occasional telemarketer, no one called him on the land line except for local purveyors, whom he contacted for food and liquor deliveries when he didn’t want to be distracted from writing.
He picked up the phone. “If this is about life insurance, pain-free urinary catheters, or cremation at sea, I’m hanging up.”
There was a girlish laugh on the other end of the line. “I’m nervous enough as it is calling you.”
“Nola?” He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “How are you?”
“Before I answer that I want to tell you that I got your number from Trooper Morrison —”
“Dear Ferdie.”
“Ferdie, yes, she said you were up here on your own.”
“Did she tell you I’m on deadline and can’t be disturbed?”
Did Nola know about the divorce filing? he wondered. Had she heard about the restraining order and the accusations? There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Do you want to be disturbed?”
“Yes. No ... Yes.”
“Oh, okay, I’ll leave you alone.”
Ironic and serious, thought Jens. He liked that.
“Where are you?”
“Down the mountain from you — at the Wentworth Hotel,” she said, tentatively.
Jens looked at his watch, trying to decide whether he should put in another hour, reluctant to abandon his protagonist Cassie just when she was in danger.
He glanced at his watch again. “Give me half an hour.”
“I’ll be waiting ... on the veranda.” She hung up, leaving him to ponder whatever innuendo might be extracted from her factual declaration.
________
There’s nothing to feel guilty about. I’m just going to have a drink, one drink, with an ex-student, now a mature woman, who probably wants some advice or help with getting a story published.
Best not to nudge that white lie too vigorously, he told himself, concluding, sadly, that the capacity for self-delusion in matters of the heart is inseparable from the male ego, and only worsens the older one gets.
________
The rain was heavy as Jens parked in the lot behind the Wentworth Hotel, not wanting to be indiscreet by using the valets, notorious for rumoring about locals. He wasn’t sure if adultery could be used against him in the divorce, which was scheduled to come before a civil court judge in a few weeks. He’d have to ask Vinny.
For a moment he considered calling off the rendezvous. He wasn’t ready for this. He still had feelings for his wife, though she’d betrayed him in the worst possible way.
His reservations multiplied. What would this do to his writing? Would a lover distract him? How would this affect his relationship with his son?
What did Nola see in him anyway? The age gap was discouraging. Though fit, his body was starting to show embarrassing signs of aging, no matter how often or how hard he worked out. When he’d run into Nola at the hospital a little over a month ago, he’d been titillated and flattered, but he hadn’t expected things to go any further.
I can’t do this.
Her rap on the driver’s window shocked him out of his reverie. There she was, holding an umbrella against the wind and rain, her red hair framing her face, her eyes bright under arched brows, lips lush, poised.
She looked great.
“Come with me!” She pulled open the door. “It’s too late to back out now!” she added with a knowing laugh, as he scooted under her umbrella.
“Hi.”
Surprising himself, he kissed her before she could object.
She looked at him, smiled archly, but didn’t kiss him back. The rain pummeled the umbrella. A blast of wind nearly ripped it from her hands.
“Let’s get inside.”
She took his arm and drew him to the hotel’s rear entrance.
Jens couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made an awful mistake. There’s no fool like an old fool, he told himself. He walked alongside her, sharing the awkward intimacy of the umbrella, obsessed with the idea of extricating himself from this embarrassing situation as soon as possible.
Before he made an even bigger fool of himself.
________
In the restaurant, the glow of candles on the white linen tables seemed a message to Jens, that he was playing with fire, though he was grateful for the psychological cheer they imparted on such a cold, rainy day.
A waitress eyed them as they passed. Jens couldn’t help thinking that she disapproved or, worse yet, assumed they were father and daughter.
Vivian was not much older than Nola. Is this what people thought when they’d seen them together? That she was his daughter, too?
Nola, seeming to sense his thoughts, drew him to her in an embrace less than filial, her breasts brushing against him. She smiled and drew him to a cocktail area with low couches and a view of the garden. A fire blazed in the fireplace along one wall, and they sat down, side by side but not touching, facing the fireplace to thaw. The waitress took their order of a vodka martini with olives for Nola, and a scotch on the rocks for Jens, his winter drink.
Jens began to recoup his confidence, commenting, like the academic he was, on the romantic wildness of the garden whipped by wind and rain. Pointing out to her the calendulas and larkspur bent over in throngs; the perennials and roses, petals stripped, pooling in red and pink drifts.
“Thomas Praz’s Romantic Agony comes to mind,” Nola said, following his gaze out to the garden. “The sublimity of untamed nature, wherein nature mirrors the moods of man —”
“— and vice versa,” Jens cut in excitedly. “Man reflects and amplifies nature.”
“Corresponding to the overflow of feeling —”
“Of awe, terror, apprehension and —” Jens glanced at her with anticipation.
“Horror!” she added dramatically.
“Lest we not forget erotic sensibility.”
“Stoker’s Dracula.”
She brushed a wing of damp red hair from her face, exposing it to the heat from the fireplace to dry.
“Dikstra’s Idols of Perversity.” She arched her brow.
She seemed to be enjoying their repartee as much as he, noted Jens. He smiled and pointed to her hair. “Red: blood and passion.”
“Corrupted by lust.” There was a twinkle in her eye.
“Hair as an effluence of feminine sexuality.”
“Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler.” She separated another lock of hair to dry.
“Now you’ve left the romantics for the realists.”
Their laughter drew glances from early diners filing in, staid couples and nuclear families with well-behaved, scrubbed children. Just then the waitress arrived with their drinks. If she had an opinion about their relationship, she didn’t let it show.
“Will you be dining with us tonight?” She directed the question to Jens.
He exchanged looks with Nola. She nodded.
“Then I’ll reserve a table for you.”
She smiled, gesturing to an int
imate table facing the French windows.
“Overlooking the garden,” she added, leaving no doubt in Jens’ mind that she had decided theirs was not a father and daughter dalliance at all, but the infinitely more intriguing liaison of winter and spring. Autumn and spring, Jens corrected himself.
“Thank you.” He turned back to Nola. “Where were we?”
“I believe we’d just abandoned passion corrupted by lust for a full head of hair.” She stroked hers unconsciously.
“Nola, I had no idea. You’re missing your calling. You should be teaching — and writing.”
She shook her head. “Thanks. You think so?”
“My word! You know a lot about the romantics. Where did you get it from?”
“From your Comp. Lit. class.”
“Really? And I thought nobody was listening.”
“I was.” She stared at him pointedly without blinking.
Feeling awkward, he sipped his scotch and she her martini. They stared at each other. Jens recalled his earlier discomfort when he’d kissed her out in the parking lot. He took a deep breath.
“My wife has filed for divorce.”
“I know.”
“Did you know that she has a restraining order on me — I’m not allowed within twenty-five yards of our home or her person?”
She nodded, adding uncertainly, “Okay.”
“She says I assaulted her — hit her and threatened to cut her face with a smashed wine glass.”
She stared silently into his eyes.
“I did not lay a finger on her.”
Again she nodded. “I know.”
“How?”
“Ferdie told me everything. What she did to you behind your back.”
Jens shook his head. “I don’t know what you want from me. I’m in deep financial shit, I’ve lost everyone and everything I love, I’m writing a book on a prayer, I’m older than —” He choked on his words.
“Hence the noble overflow of feeling.” She winked.
His laugh was charged with sorrow, an apt fusion for a man in his position, he thought.
“Blood and passion,” he answered, his voice growing stronger.
“Lust.” She smiled suggestively.
The waitress arrived and led them to their table, nodding with approval as she took their order. Later, they rented a room at the hotel, he going first, she following after a discrete time.
________
Jens lay awake in the king-size bed, luxuriating in its opulence, inhaling Nola’s intoxicating aroma, floating as though on a cloud of happiness and pheromones.
The place beside him was still warm from her body, and her pillow retained her impression. If he looked beneath the covers, he was sure he would find a snow angel where she’d lain, like the ones he and his brother made in the first snow of winter.
After bestowing a tender parting kiss, Nola had opened the window before she left for work at the hospital. The lace curtains stirred, brushing and caressing him. A diverse assembly of birds, active for some time, quipped back and forth, exchanging pleasantries. They echoed Jens’ state of quiet bliss.
He couldn’t remember being so happy, not since Teddy’s birth, not since his first book deal, and not since the Poe Award launched his career for real.
But this was different. There was no need for fanfare. This, rather, was the joy of stumbling upon one of life’s deepest mysteries — how the tuning fork of attraction sends shock waves of renewal down to the very roots of our being. Nola’s touch had riven and resurrected. Where it would lead, he did not know. But he would follow — oh, would he follow — of this he was certain.
But for now, he had a book to write, a divorce to resolve, bills to pay, and a son to keep on the straight-and-narrow, regardless of whether the boy was living with him or his mother. For now, there was very little he could do about most of his problems. As for the book, he was confident he was going to meet his deadline: he had one hundred pages to go and the chapter outline.
Jens rose and entered the shower stall. He let the water run hot until steam billowed, before turning it down enough to bear. He was grateful for the seemingly limitless supply of hot water provided by the better hotels like the Wentworth. His designer log cabin was short on hot water, and the undersized water heater took forever to reheat, especially after one of Teddy’s notoriously long showers. Often, Jens’ best ideas came to him here, in the shower, or in a steam bath, distracted by sensation.
He found himself picking up the thread of yesterday’s writing. Cassie had managed, with Tommy Flaherty’s last minute intervention, to extricate herself from the trap Orozco had set for her at a condo in Puerto Vallarta. Today. Jens planned to set the stage for the “honeymoon scene” — the sequence in a thriller when the action slows enough for the protagonist to take stock. The lull before the storm, often taking the form of a romantic interlude.
Cassie had been wounded in the confrontation — a flesh wound luckily — which Tommy insisted on doctoring himself, as he didn’t trust the local doctors, or so he said. The bullet had grazed Cassie’s thigh, providing the requisite romantic circumstances to unfold in Cassie’s timeshare at the shore.
Jens turned off the water and toweled off, satisfied that he could see far enough into his story to have a productive day, bringing the work closer, brick by brick, to meeting his deadline.
As for the quality, he’d have to trust the muse with that. He smiled to himself as he dressed, warmed by the thought of his new muse, Nola. How different and rewarding it would be to have someone who understood him. They had talked long into the night, riding the crest of exhilaration, speaking their hearts.
He knew what she wanted — he was no fool — she wanted to become a writer. Theirs was to be an old-fashioned mentoring relationship, not unlike the kind he’d sought but hadn’t found in Los Angeles, during his screenwriting apprenticeship. He knew their romance would flare and fade. He was a father figure, a teacher, and incidentally a lover. How long would it take for that part to play out? Months? Weeks or even days? What did it matter? His troubles would always be there. But this, this was special.
Dressed, his hand on the doorknob, he turned back for a final glance at the love-rumpled bed, the wind-riffled curtains, the tepid moisture from his bath, now settling about the room like a metaphor for the aftermath of love.
Chapter Forty-One
The land phone in the kitchen rang and rang, awakening Jens with a start, his heart pounding. He stumbled in the darkness, down the hall to the breakfast nook and the phone.
“Hello.” Silence. “Hello!”
Annoyed, Jens was about to hang up.
“Is this Corbin? The Jens Corbin?”
The voice that snaked over the wire reminded him of his deceased brother Nils. For a moment he wondered if he were hallucinating. He pushed aside his panic.
“Who is this?” he said, unable to suppress the tremor in his voice.
“Are you a thief, my friend?”
Jens could hear murmuring in the background, like someone giving instructions.
“What? What did you say?”
Nola, who had been asleep in his bed, came into the room, fully awake. Jens barely registered her hovering beside him.
“Prank call?” she mouthed.
He positioned the phone so she could hear.
“I said,” the voice growled, “are you a thief, Corbin?”
Jens recognized the speaker’s clipped vowels and sharp nasals typical of the North Country, where his wife — soon to be ex-wife — was from. Where Laurent was from.
Jens was wide awake now. “Tell me who you are or I’m hanging up.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, pardner.”
“I’m not your pardner. If you call back, I’ll have the police trace you.”
“You stole my lady. I’m going to make you pay.”
Jens looked at Nola. She shrugged. Nobody she knew.
“Laurent? Is this you? Are you talking about Vivian? Is she
there with you?”
Nola touched his arm. “What should I do?” she mouthed.
He motioned for her to get his cell phone, hoping for at least one connecting bar.
“Call 911,” he whispered. “What do you want?” he growled to Laurent.
“The police are tracking you down. You’re making a big mistake.”
Still, he ignored Jens calling him out by name.
“I want you to be smart, Mr. Crime Writer. No police.”
“Is this a shakedown, Laurent? If so, you’re wasting your time. I get it — you’re a wannabe writer. Is this your idea of a pissing match?” What was keeping Nola? he wondered.
“How’d you like me to come over there and do that redhead you’re with?”
Jens anxiously scanned the woods beyond the kitchen window.
Where is he?
“The cops are going to get you, Laurent — your cell phone is traceable. You’d better get the hell out of here. And leave me and my family alone,” he shouted.
Nola came back with his cell phone, shaking her head, indicating there was no service. He pulled her down, out of the line of fire.
“I’m talking to you! I know everything about you. I can hurt you good,” croaked the voice on the line.
“Vivian put you up to this, didn’t she? The cops are on their way. You’re going back to jail.”
“Tell you what — that kid of yours — Teddy? I know where to find him — oh yeah. Bus from Oyster River High every day at 3:15, drops him off on Mast Rd. Got your attention now?”
“You lay a hand on him, I swear I’ll find you —”
“Listen to me — $300,000 ought to keep him healthy. I know you can raise it.”
“You must be joking. Look, I don’t know what Vivian told you —”
“The cabin, your corporate shell — sell it off. Otherwise...”
Jens was in shock. How could he know about that?
“I’ll call you with instructions where and when.”
“It’s going to take time to find a buyer.”
“Leave the cops out of this if you want to keep your son healthy. You dig?”
“How do I know this isn’t a prank?”
