A Splendid Obsession

by Cathleen Galitz

  “Honey, I’m home,” he said, acknowledging how that old chestnut characterized every man’s need to make his presence known in his own home.

  The silence that met this announcement was unnerving. Usually Kayanne came running to give him a big hug and make him feel like the king of his humble castle. Today the only sound that greeted him was the clock on the mantel chiming out the hours. Three o’clock on a Saturday and no sign of Kayanne.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  Loneliness blew through Dave like a cold blast of wind. Where was she? He wondered how he could have grown so accustomed to her presence that even a short absence filled him with such a horrible sense of emptiness. He looked around for a note informing him of her whereabouts.

  Nothing.

  Just an open cupboard door.

  A trickle of sweat ran down his neck at the realization that that was where he kept the only bottle of booze in the house.

  “Please no.”

  Swallowing hard, Dave called out her name. His imagination raced faster than his feet as he searched the house room to room starting with the bedroom.

  Maybe she’d taken ill and was just resting.

  Maybe she was pregnant and didn’t even know it yet. Maybe he’d have to be the one to point out the signs of morning sickness to her. He’d been careful about using condoms, but Dave knew there were worse things than fathering children with the most beautiful woman on earth. The very thought puffed him up with sudden pride. He wondered how Kayanne felt about children. Surely she wouldn’t do away with an unborn child without his knowledge.

  Taking the steps by twos, Dave considered what kind of father he would be. Hopefully not one who would force his child into a profession he didn’t love. Nor one whose judgment might cause his children to hesitate about marrying the love of their life simply because of differences in social backgrounds.

  Get a grip on yourself, he told himself. You’re making yourself crazy for no reason.

  He’d never given much thought to marriage before. Just committing to living together had been a gigantic step for a man who placed a high value on his privacy and independence.

  Dave threw the bedroom door open. The room was empty. Completely empty of any sign that Kayanne had ever been there at all.

  Her things were gone. Her clothes and jewelry and fascinating, feminine fragrances.

  All gone.

  Dave hadn’t thought it possible to miss the sight of cosmetics taking up space on his bathroom counter, but at that moment there wasn’t anything he owned that he wouldn’t have traded for such a comforting nuisance. He sat down on the edge of the bed and faced the awful truth. Kayanne had left him.

  Just like that.

  Without so much as an explanation.

  She’d warned him that she traveled light in case the urge to move on ever struck, but it had never occurred to Dave that she’d vanish without even saying goodbye. Telling himself that something must have happened, that she must have been called away unexpectedly, he imagined the worst. Her mother had taken ill again and she was at the hospital. Giving blood. Or Rose was on her deathbed demanding to see Kayanne so she could make peace with her before crossing over.

  Dave knew that it must be a sin to wish for a catastrophe just to provide a legitimate reason for Kayanne’s disappearance, but he didn’t care. He’d take any thread of hope offered. Swamped by panic, he played the events of the day over and over again in his head. Had he said something to upset her? Done something insensitive? Not done something that he should have done?

  Had Forrester returned to carry her away on a magnificent black Harley-Davidson motorcycle with the promise of more wild, exciting times? Dave pictured Kayanne’s long hair blowing in the wind as she snuggled up against Forrester’s leather-clad back, both of them laughing at the idea of her ever settling down with anyone as ordinary as a college English professor. Acid poured into Dave’s stomach, eating him up from the inside out.

  There’s got to be a logical explanation. She wouldn’t do this to me. She just wouldn’t.

  But all Dave knew for sure was that Kayanne was gone. And he couldn’t imagine life without her. Determined to track her to the ends of the earth if he had to, he went in search of clues. It didn’t take him long to find one in his office: an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey with an empty glass and an AA token next to it.

  A sinking feeling caught him off guard, causing him to stumble. Looking down, he recognized a page from his manuscript at his feet. He bent down and examined it. It was from the chapter in which he’d first introduced Spice. Swearing, Dave crushed his own words into a ball and launched it across the room. Remedying this terrible mistake wouldn’t be nearly as easy as pressing the delete key.

  Twelve

  When Kayanne showed up on her mother’s doorstep unexpectedly, she discovered an unlikely ally in Suzanne Aldarmann. She took one look at her daughter’s face, enfolded her in a hug and welcomed her back home. What surprised Kayanne even more than the rare display of physical affection was the fact that her mother didn’t press for any details. She simply put on a pot of coffee and helped her move back into her old room. It was a process that didn’t take long.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t think I can, Mom. Not yet.” Kayanne swallowed hard. “Maybe never.”

  Suzanne patted her hand. “It’s never easy watching your child suffer heartache, and you’ve certainly had your fair share, honey.”

  It was funny how much that simple acknowledgment meant to Kayanne. Her throat closed around a solid lump.

  “I’d hoped this one was different,” Suzanne said, taking care to avoid mentioning Dave’s name specifically.

  “That’s the trouble,” Kayanne explained. “He was.”

  Her mother handed her an entire box of tissues, stared straight into her daughter’s eyes and cut to the heart of the matter. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

  If AA had taught Kayanne anything, it was that she had to be honest with herself. After a lifetime of keeping secrets from her mother, she admitted with a sigh, “I love him, Mom.”

  Suzanne put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and commiserated. “You poor thing.”

  Kayanne supposed she hadn’t shared much about her romantic relationships with her mother for fear of shocking her. Mostly because in the past those relationships had been more about sex than love. Suzanne was far more qualified to discuss the latter, having considerable personal experience in dealing with the loss of her one true love and none in filling the void her husband’s death left with meaningless relationships.

  “Have you told him that you love him?” Suzanne asked gently.

  “No, thank God.”

  Not in words anyway.

  That, at least, was something for which to be grateful. Kayanne couldn’t bear the thought of those three little words making it onto the pages of Dave’s manuscript in some mocking manner. Especially considering that she’d never said them to another man except her father.

  Since there was nothing more that could be said that wouldn’t belabor her broken heart, the two women worked together in silence for the remainder of the afternoon, each tending their separate memories. Kayanne was making room for her suitcase in the back of her closet when she came across an old box of memorabilia.

  “It’s some of your old awards, report cards and diaries that I’ve been saving for you,” her mother said. She held up her hands to ward off an attack. “Don’t worry, I didn’t read any of them.”

  Kayanne was glad. What good could come from rummaging through the hurts of the past—unless it was to put the pain of the present into perspective? She’d survived her father’s death, her first sweetheart’s suicide, a disastrous relationship with a married man and countless ill-fated flings, including an ongoing one with alcohol. None of them matched the intensity of the anguish she felt over Dave using her.

  When a sharp rap on the door made her jump, she told her mother
in no uncertain terms, “If it’s Dave, tell him that I’m not here.”

  Suzanne didn’t argue. She just quietly went to answer the door, leaving her daughter alone to sort out her things and her thoughts. Five minutes later, Dave filled the doorway with his broad shoulders. Kayanne couldn’t imagine what he’d said to smooth talk his way past her mother, but she wasn’t pleased to see him. That in spite of the way her heart leaped to her throat threatening to divulge her body’s treachery.

  “Well, if it isn’t ’Enry ’Iggins come to make a respectable lady out of a poor flower girl. You’d best set the good china, Mum, for me gentleman caller,” she hollered in her best Eliza Doolittle imitation before her voice turned sharply bitter. “And I do use that term loosely.”

  “She’s not here,” Dave said. “Your mother was gracious enough to give us some privacy to work through our problems ourselves.”

  Afraid of falling back into his tender gaze and never being able to find her way back home, she deflected her gaze. Abandoned by the one woman in the world whose support she should have been able to count on, Kayanne dropped all pretense of good manners.

  “What is it you want?”

  Her bedroom was so small that Dave could touch both walls at the same time if he chose to. Knowing how dangerous it was being confined in such a small place with him, she considered rushing the door to escape. The likelihood was that such foolish action would simply land her on her back upon the old twin bed. And if the bed didn’t break beneath their combined weight, Kayanne feared that her willpower would. She couldn’t bear the thought of the humble little room that had nurtured her childhood dreams finding its way onto the pages of Dave’s next novel.

  “First and foremost I came to see if you’re okay.”

  Kayanne rolled her eyes. “By okay do you mean if I’m out ‘indiscriminately cavorting with a string of second-rate lovers’?” she asked, quoting a line directly from his work in progress.

  Dave winced to hear his own words thrown in his face. “I mean okay as in sober.”

  Kayanne was blunt. “What do you care? Don’t let the fact that you haven’t found me drinking myself to death in the gutter keep you from using it in your book.”

  Dave’s face darkened. He reached out to place the pad of his thumb under her chin and tipped her head, forcing her to look at him.

  “Whatever you think of me right now, don’t ever doubt that I care a great deal about you.”

  Kayanne jerked her head away. How could he possibly manage to sound so sincere all the while twisting the knife deeper into her back?

  “If you ever get tired of writing, you’ve got a great career ahead of you as an actor,” she told him. “It sure as hell takes a flair for the dramatic to waltz in here pretending concern when all you’re really doing is scoping out more sordid details for your next chapter.”

  She grabbed a diary out of the box she’d been sorting through and launched it at him. It bounced off his head.

  “Maybe you can find some dirt in there from my junior-high days that might be useful in developing a misbegotten gutter snipe as a foil for your perfect heroine.”

  Dave rubbed his forehead. “Now listen—”

  “No, you listen,” she said, taking as careful aim with her words as with the diary she’d fired at him. “I’m just fine. A little hurt and worse for wear. And, yes, to address your concerns, I did have to think long and hard about having a drink after reading your true opinion of me. But after careful consideration, I decided you weren’t worth it.”

  Kayanne read the relief in Dave’s face. And the hurt. Pouring that glass of whiskey down the drain had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. The smell alone had almost been enough to push her over the edge. Her white-light revelation hadn’t taken away her desire for alcohol, but it had given her the strength to defy her demons. Given the circumstances, that was as close to a miracle as she could hope for.

  “I’ve decided it’s time to get rid of all the poison in my life—starting with you,” she stated flatly. “So now that you’ve relieved your conscience as to the state of my sobriety, why don’t you just run on back to your life and finish your masterpiece without any more inspiration from your trailer-trash muse?”

  Dave struggled to keep his voice level. “I know you’re hurt. And I want you to know how proud I am of you for resisting temptation, but you’re walking a thin line here so be careful not to say anything today that can’t be taken back tomorrow.”

  That said, he risked life and limb by taking another step toward her. One more and he’d be right on top of her. Kayanne jumped up off the bed to face him toe-to-toe.

  “Why shouldn’t I? You have no compunction in how you use your words. You can change anything I say with a few lousy keystrokes. You can twist my words to fit your purpose or put your own words in my mouth for that matter. I can’t believe you have the gall to tell me to be careful what I say. How about you being careful what you put down on the page for posterity? For everybody and his dog to read.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he told her.

  Even if that was true, Kayanne wasn’t sure that was reason enough to forgive him.

  “Maybe not,” she said. “But the bottom line is that you weren’t even as honest with me as the paparazzi scum who sell their garbage to the tabloids. Even they have more integrity than to literally screw somebody before doing the same to them in print. As far as I’m concerned you can go right on living the rest of your life vicariously through me if that’s what you really want to do. But don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you can control me off the page.”

  Kayanne took some satisfaction in seeing his eyes cloud with pain as her words hit their mark. He was lucky. If she’d been a man, she likely would have backed up those words with her fists.

  Dave shook his head adamantly. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to control you. I just want to be with you.”

  Kayanne hated herself for secretly thrilling to the endearment he tossed her way. Dave looked so convincingly sorry that she was almost tempted to buy the cheap remorse he was peddling. Almost.

  When he reached for her hand, she drew back as if to slap him. To his credit, he didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Go ahead,” he told her. “Hit me if it’ll make you feel better. Looking at it from your perspective, I suppose I deserve it.”

  “You suppose so?”

  Kayanne despised the pettiness that marked her tone. As tempting as it might be to leave a red mark across his handsome face, she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction—especially since it would just lead to a wrestling match in her bedroom. Not a good idea given the fact that anger and passion were so closely linked. She didn’t dare risk the objectivity needed to maintain her present level of fury. Nor could she afford to squander her remaining shred of dignity on one last roll in the hay—one that might very well deposit her back into the bottle and put a cork in it for good.

  “I’d like you to read the rest of the book. It’s almost finished,” Dave said, tentatively broaching the subject. “Spice isn’t at all what she seemed to be in the first few chapters, the ones that you read. In fact, I’m hoping that you and the rest of the world will fall in love with her—just like I did.”

  Kayanne’s heart did a slow flip inside her chest. Was he actually admitting that he loved her? Or simply referring to the woman of his imagination, the one he’d christened Spice as a play on her own name? How could she trust anything this man said? He could simply be trying to pacify her so that she didn’t sue him to stop publication of his book.

  Did he really believe he could make things better just by writing a new ending to his story? Dave may not be vain about his good looks or his privileged background, but Kayanne had never met a writer worth his salt who didn’t lay his ego on the line with every word he wrote. Striking out in anger, she landed a hit below the literary belt.

  “Better yet, why don’t you just kill off Spice, resurrect the impeccable Jasmine, and put
her back in your bed where she belongs? You obviously prefer making love to a fantasy over a real woman who is less than perfect. One who actually might have had an interesting life before meeting you.”

  All the air left Dave’s lungs in a single whoosh.

  “And while we’re on the subject of Jasmine,” Kayanne continued, not heeding his advice about watching what came out of her mouth in a fit of rage. “I’m glad I killed her. She was a simpering fool. And as fake as half the boobs on a Los Angeles beach. As far as I’m concerned, she deserved to die, along with all the rest of the one-dimensional characters that men dream up to flatter their big old egos.”

  Kayanne was surprised to see a tiny smile toy with the edges of Dave’s lips.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “About everything. Right about me using you to advance my story. Right about Jasmine. And most of all, right about me living vicariously through you. The question now is whether or not you’ll ever be able to forgive me.”

  Like a light switch being flipped off, all the fight went out of Kayanne. She understood that part of her struggle with substance abuse was a driving need to be right. Suddenly, being right didn’t seem nearly as important as being happy. Especially since that long-term rancor was only going to lead her straight back to the bottle.

  Kayanne dropped onto the bed in a posture of defeat. She sat on the edge holding her head in her hands, trying to come to terms with the person she wanted to be. That most definitely wasn’t the world-weary cynic that Dave described in his book. There was no white light involved in this acceptance—just an understanding that she, of all people, was obligated to grant forgiveness when it was asked of her.

  Especially when she so deeply loved the person asking.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, looking deeply into his eyes and trying to memorize the golden flakes floating in those dark irises. “I won’t do anything to stand in the way of getting your book published. Whether or not I took exception to what I read, it was good. Really good. A great improvement over your first book.”