A Splendid Obsession

by Cathleen Galitz

  “Dinner,” he announced, puffing his chest out in his best caveman imitation. “Breakfast, too, for that matter.”

  Drops of water slid off the fish’s tail onto Kayanne’s bare ankle. She bolted upright with a girlish squeal.

  “I didn’t know you were such a sissy,” Dave said with a disapproving shake of his head.

  “If you want to see real panic, just wait until a bear wanders into camp.”

  The revelation that he kept a .44 Magnum stashed away in the glove box for just such emergencies helped allay her concerns. That evening, they roasted s’mores over an open campfire and fed them to one another as if sampling the finest aphrodisiacs. And perhaps they were—if what followed shortly thereafter in the confines of a down sleeping bag was any indication.

  Falling asleep beneath a canopy of stars twinkling overhead was a dizzying experience. It was like falling into the universe’s mixing bowl. Kayanne felt something hard inside her chest crack open as the healing that had begun with an act of forgiveness and an amazing white light continued to work its magic into the farthest reaches of her soul.

  Eleven

  Unlike her more religious mother, Kayanne didn’t believe in signs from God in the form of stray pennies found on the ground or randomly turning to just the right bible verse for whatever ailed a person in times of need. She didn’t prescribe to the notion that AIDS was a sign of God’s displeasure with the world. Or in any of the splashy headlines about the fulfillment of Nostradamus’s end-of-the-world predictions with every natural disaster.

  Nevertheless, on the way home from her first camping trip, giddy with a newfound sense of joy, it was hard to dismiss the possibility that God just might be trying to tell her something. Coming out of the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains, a lone antelope stepped into the middle of the road and forced their vehicle to come to a complete stop. The buck deliberately turned his head to look straight at Kayanne, making it impossible to miss the black lacquered heart that his horns formed above his head. Squeezing Dave’s hand, she hoped she wasn’t the only one to read the magic into the incident.

  Of course, she told herself that if she bought into that kind of superstitious nonsense, she’d also have to assume the storm sweeping across the skyline in an ominous curtain of dark, swollen clouds was a portent of things to come as well. When the lowest lying of those clouds caught on the ragged tips of mountaintops and spilled their fury upon a panorama virtually untouched by human hands since the inception of time, Kayanne couldn’t help but shiver with a chilling sense of foreboding.

  If Dave shared her sense of apprehension, he didn’t show it. Ever since she’d burst into his life like a storm on the horizon, he’d felt happier than ever before. Life was suddenly wonderful. The colors of the sunrise made their way onto his pages and into his heart. As did the splash of raindrops against the window. And the smell of fresh cut grass. He heard himself whistling at odd times, glad to be carving out the life he wanted on his own terms. The smothering job awaiting him in the steamy South receded to a distant possibility instead of the crushing likelihood it had seemed just a few short weeks ago.

  Kayanne was present in everything he did. Not satisfied with killing off Jasmine to supplant her as the leading lady in his book, she took over his thoughts as well. Every heroine in every book Dave read became her. It didn’t matter whether the author was describing a short blonde or a delicate brunette; in his mind’s eye, she was a feisty redhead with cat-green eyes and a heart of gold.

  His own book was coming along fine, and he didn’t even miss liquor as he’d first thought he might. It had felt strange pouring himself a plain soda when it came time for a break from writing, but as the words began to flow onto the page almost effortlessly, without the aid of alcohol, he accepted the fact that Kayanne was all the inspiration he needed. Day after day, his fingers flew over the keyboard as he struck a rhythm that didn’t allow time for the painstaking revision that had marked his past efforts.

  His prose took on a more sensual, expansive tone as she taught him to look at the world differently. The wanton character who had so shamelessly taunted his hero at the start of his book became softer and more complex with each new chapter. Perhaps because of her faults and mysterious past, Dave knew his readers could no more resist falling in love with her than he could himself.

  A meticulous author who tended to labor over every word, Dave was frankly uncomfortable with where this raging torrent of prose was taking him. But after weeks of struggling to get so much as a single paragraph down to his satisfaction, he simply buckled himself in as Spice took the driver’s seat and headed for an unknown destination. That wasn’t to say that Dave considered every word golden, only that he accepted there would be time enough for revision after his first draft was completed.

  His project was coming along so well in fact that he felt no remorse in turning off his computer every day the minute Kayanne came home from her shift. Rather than admit to hiding anything from her, he considered spending the rest of his day playing with her a reward for a day’s hard work. He supposed that was what had been missing from his writing all along: a sense of balance that only such a woman could bring to his life. It would be too easy for someone of his nature to bury himself in his work, cut himself off from life with other academics and offset his growing loneliness with a strenuous physical lifestyle. Perhaps that was why he’d chosen the least populous of the fifty states to settle down and write his next novel in virtual obscurity. Maybe he secretly subscribed to the notion that only tortured, lonely lives could spawn great literature.

  Possibly that was why he kept a lone bottle of whiskey secreted away in the back of his cupboard just in case his newfound inspiration failed him. All the rest he’d poured down the drain—over Kayanne’s protests.

  “You don’t have to do that on my account,” she’d told him. “I’m the one with the problem, not you.”

  Dave had lightly brushed off her concern. “It won’t hurt me any to clean up my life right along with you. I like feeling less tied to the bottle myself.”

  The indulgent smile Kayanne had given him had made him feel naive. His idea of being addicted was clearly much different than hers. A heavy weight that he vaguely recognized as jealousy had slowly begun to crush his spirit. It was an emotion he credited only to the pettiest characters in both the books that he read and wrote. He did his best not to think about Kayanne’s past, pushing aside any nagging doubts he might have. Though he avoided prying into her past beyond what she’d already told him, it bothered him to think about the men that she had been with before him. The thought of Kayanne leaving him for some glamorous playboy who knew his way around a camera played havoc with his guts.

  Forget it, you’ll make yourself crazy. What’s in the past doesn’t matter as much as what’s in the here and now.

  He freely admitted that Kayanne wasn’t like anyone he’d ever brought home to meet his parents. Fiery and passionate, there was also a delicate side to her that few people saw. Laughter didn’t come easily to her, but when she tossed back her magnificent mane of hair and let go of her inhibitions, the sound was pure music. And the fact that she was starting to trust him allowed that wondrous sound to fill his home more and more often.

  Although Kayanne believed that she would never ever completely conquer her desire for alcohol, she was down to attending an AA meeting once a week. She always returned home calmer and more grounded than when she’d left. And she never failed to thank him for his part in her continued sobriety.

  Dave was both touched and frightened by that. He was equally moved by the way she fretted over her clients, especially Rose, who still made an occasional appearance on his front porch. She hadn’t quite forgiven Kayanne for stealing her man. That bothered Kayanne more than anyone might imagine. Only Dave knew how hard she was trying to find Rose a more age-appropriate companion. And to liven up the stifling atmosphere over at the Evening Star Manor for all the residents for whom she was coming to care so deeply
.

  In her spare time, Kayanne devoted herself to designing a new line of clothing geared to older buyers. Dave was duly impressed with her plans. She didn’t want to jinx things by being overconfident, but all it had taken to get the ball rolling was a few well-placed calls to her fashion contacts in Manhattan.

  “I wish you’d quit your job and focus on your designs full-time,” Dave told her. “There are lots of ways to help your friends and make better use of your talents in the process.”

  Kayanne gave him a tired smile. “As much as I appreciate your support, I really can’t resign until I have the backers to turn my designs into something more than a pipe dream.”

  Dave suspected it was more than that. Kayanne’s current paycheck might not be much, but it kept her from feeling completely dependent on him. Even though she trusted him more and more each day, he committed himself to a gradual process of winning her over completely. So when he offered her money in support of her dream, he tried not to take her refusal personally.

  She was more open to other kinds of help.

  “Good news,” he announced one evening after she’d just hung up the phone with a local seamstress who’d volunteered to sew samples of her designs. Kayanne was hoping to take them to the center and do an informal market analysis herself. “I think I met somebody today who just might be perfect for Rose.”

  Kayanne looked at him hopefully. She was so frustrated with the local pool of eligible men that she had even considered hooking Rose up via an Internet dating service.

  “Does he have a pulse?” was all she wanted to know.

  “His name is Joe Hansen. He works at Wallyworld as the greeter. Been retired for years and went back to work to keep busy. Says he’d rather wear out than rust out. Heck of a nice guy.”

  Kayanne was so encouraged by this news flash that she proceeded to show her gratitude by scattering kisses on Dave’s neck and slowly working her way down his chest. She undid his top shirt button with her teeth before allowing him to do the rest.

  “You’re awfully tough on my shirts,” he told her in a voice that let her know he didn’t mind at all.

  After divesting him of his shirt, Kayanne opened her own blouse and gently directed his head down to the hollow between her breasts where he greedily indulged. She didn’t have to stroke him to make him as hard as a rock, but she did anyway, and in the fading light of day proceeded to satisfy him completely right in the middle of the living-room floor. Spilling into her, Dave gave every ounce of his entire being to her: marrow, bone, flesh, blood, memories, hopes and dreams. Their love-making transcended the physical to reach a higher plane where soul met soul beneath slick, hot flesh.

  Dave knew that there would probably always be places inside Kayanne that he’d never be able to touch. But when she curled up beside him naked on the rug in front of a cold fireplace and smiled at him, he rejoiced to see the wounded look in her eyes was gone. He never wanted to be responsible for putting that look back on her face again.

  Luckily, Kayanne didn’t have to wait for the bookstore to call with information on her ordered copy of Dave’s first book. One day while cleaning, she found a copy unobtrusively stuck on his bookshelf. She read it all in one sitting but didn’t bother to mention it to him later because it had left her feeling so sad. His words were like poetry on the page, but the scenes he painted of the South—dripping magnolia blossoms, gracious living and the rich loam of dirt stained by the blood of a civil war—made her feel separate from the man whose bed she shared. His beautiful words divided their two worlds as neatly as a math problem and reminded Kayanne that they were from as different backgrounds and experiences as one could imagine.

  Wondering if she was having any impact on his writing at all, she hoped that his latest work in progress lacked the elegant aloofness that marked that first novel. Kayanne wanted his next hero to be characterized more by genuine love and less by longing for the kind of woman who existed only in the fantasy world of the male ego. And she wanted a heroine to relate to as well. Someone of flesh and bone with an interesting past and enough flaws to make her worth cheering for. Someone she didn’t resent for perfectly coifed blond hair, neatly manicured nails and impeccable manners. In short, Kayanne wanted somebody real to read and care about.

  And she wanted a happy ending, too. Not the kind of depressing conclusion that pandered more to literary critics than avid readers like herself. She wasn’t looking for some gossamer ending that implied there would be no bumps on the road beyond the last page, but if Kayanne was going to invest her time reading a book, she wanted a satisfying conclusion that gave her hope of finding lasting love herself.

  A closet romantic, she didn’t want to discuss Dave’s first book with him for fear of appearing jealous of a fictional woman that she detested. Besides, whenever she asked to see his latest project, he always found some way to put her off. She noticed that he never worked on his book when she was around, always taking care to shut down his laptop completely whenever she was in the room.

  Kayanne supposed he was entitled to be protective of his work, but that didn’t do a thing to lessen her curiosity. In fact, it only heightened her desire to see what he was writing so diligently while she was off at her job. She didn’t know his password and would never have violated his privacy by trying to break into his files, but when the day came that she stumbled upon a printed draft of the first few chapters, she didn’t talk herself out of reading them, either.

  Dave was at the college setting up his office, so there was no reason to rush through the stack of papers while looking over her shoulder. If the chapters were good, she would casually mention it to him before kissing him senseless and making him forget all about any little breach of privacy on her part. If they weren’t, she’d keep her disappointment to herself and kiss him senseless anyway.

  They were good.

  Good enough to make her long for the smooth bite of liquor to erase his cruel, poignant words from her mind forever.

  Kayanne felt blindsided. All this time, she’d been under the impression that Dave actually had tender feelings for her beyond what they shared physically. Having fallen hopelessly in love with him, she was embarrassed that in weak moments she’d actually allowed herself to consider the ultimate fantasy of marrying him and having his children.

  All the while he’d been playing her for a fool.

  She’d never met a more calculating person in her whole life than this man with his lying, generous smile and magical hands. The whole time she had been falling for Dave like some stupid schoolgirl, he had been standing back, observing, and putting every unflattering, minute detail of her so-called life down on paper.

  Laughing at her.

  One didn’t have to be a genius to see how he had connected her to his trampy female protagonist. It didn’t take a great leap of the imagination to link their names together, either. Or the fact that they shared the same red hair, green eyes and questionable pasts. Dave captured perfectly on the page the way Kayanne walked and talked and mistreated his poor, suffering hero—some stupid SOB who kept mooning over a Barbie doll by the name of Jasmine.

  Kayanne read only to the end of the scene where she found herself implicated in Jasmine’s death before putting the manuscript down in disgust. She didn’t think she could suffer through the love scenes, seeing her heart and her legs splayed for the entire world to gawk at. Having been taught to guard her heart by some of the best con men in the business, Kayanne chastised herself for not seeing this treachery coming long ago.

  Hurt, embarrassed and angry, she baptized the next New York Times bestseller with the flow of hot tears. Then promised herself it would be the last time she cried over a man. This particular one would damn well never see her tears. Forrester might have scared and humiliated her with his fist, but the emotional blow Dave delivered was far more crippling. For Kayanne, trusting him at all had been a tremendous leap of faith.

  Out there in the big old cold world, she’d encountered many men like
Jason DeWinter and Forrester who all wanted something from her. Prestige, money, contacts, sex. Those were things Kayanne could understand, if not accept. But this? How was she to deal with a literary rape that left her feeling more violated than any physical act of violence? How was she supposed to compete with another woman who was made of nothing but words? It wounded her to think that all the while she’d been making love to Dave, he had been dissecting her performance right along with her motives. And judging her.

  Never had Kayanne been more insulted and hurt in her entire life. And she’d had more than her fair share of humiliating experiences from which to draw a comparison.

  A literary whore, she felt dirty. She kicked the coffee table and screamed. She tore at her hair. And when she was done, she felt gutted. But no closer to knowing how to proceed than before venting all her emotions on an empty room.

  Should she confront Dave when he walked through the front door by waving the evidence in his face?

  Should she burn it? Light up the old fireplace, toast marshmallows over his laptop, and let him try to reconstruct his precious masterpiece by memory?

  Perhaps sue him for libel?

  Knowing it wouldn’t be wise to rush into any decision feeling the way she did right now, Kayanne reached for an old friend as she headed for the cupboard where Dave had a bottle of whiskey with her name on it stashed away.

  “Anybody home?”

  Dave’s voice echoed through the house. Although he’d done it for years, he hated coming home to an empty house. He’d easily gotten used to being welcomed home by a woman whose eyes lit up the instant he hit the front door. Breathing in the scent of homemade minestrone soup simmering in a Crock-Pot, he marveled anew at the fact that Kayanne took such pleasure from cooking for him. Nothing could have pleased him more than seeing his supermodel lover immersed in domestic bliss. Just watching her bend over his long-neglected flower garden was enough to send him into erotic fantasies.