She felt the lovely tingling and knew she would make it this time if there were no interruptions and if he’d just go slower. It had been so long. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been sexually fulfilled. It wasn’t Nolan’s fault, it just took her so long. But this morning would be different.
Her breathing became shallow, heavy. Please, she said to herself, please. So close ... almost there ... almost ...
He stopped abruptly. Nooo, not yet. She felt him stiffen, and knew that it was over for him. Then he was leaving her, and all erotic feelings seemed to evaporate with the void.
He patted her shoulder, smiling. “Happy Birthday, Luv.” He rolled over and climbed from the bed.
A half hour later. Donna critically studied her face in the mirror. She was thirty-nine today. Did she look any older? Completely devoid of makeup, she noticed fine lines around her eyes and mouth. When she smiled they deepened. Her skin had begun to look splotchy over the cheekbones. And was it her imagination, or did her eyes and mouth seem to get smaller with age? One day last week, as she and Nolan viewed the videotape, Nolan had said, “Try to watch how you hold your mouth when you’re not talking, it looks pinched —see there,” he said, pausing the play and nodding at the TV screen.
Now, looking in the mirror. Donna moved her lips; a smile, then repose. Before Nolan’s remark she hadn’t been conscious of that pinched look. Now it was with her all the time, everywhere. She found herself lifting the corners of her mouth to soften the line, wondering if she looked younger to those around her, or just plain simple-minded?
Just that morning Nolan had asked her what she thought of cosmetic surgery. Sometimes, unfortunately, he could be so much like her father.
Reminding herself that her father was coming today to take the boys to a tennis tournament at his club, she abandoned the scrutiny of her face and hurried to get ready.
An hour later Donna sat on the shaded deck, drinking coffee. Nolan cooked breakfast and the boys served it. He made her a mimosa, and even poured a small amount of champagne in Junior’s and Nigel’s glasses of orange juice.
After eating she opened her gifts. Junior’s present was a bottle of Evening Jasmine bubble bath. Nolan presented her with a generous gift certificate for Neiman Marcus, and announced that he’d reserved a table — with a view of the bay — at Angelino’s in Sausalito.
Nigel ran into the house and returned a moment later with a single pale pink geranium —the same color as the ones in the pot on the front porch — and a small tissue-paper package heavily laden with transparent tape.
“Did you wrap this yourself?” Donna asked with a tender smile.
He nodded.
She carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a stone with a high gloss appearance. On one side was a painted ladybug.
“It’s just an everyday rock,” Nigel said, “but I polished it with my rock polisher. Then I painted it.”
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, turning it over in her fingers. “I’ll make it my good luck stone.”
He seemed to beam. “Happy Birthday, Momma.” He threw his arms around her, hugging tightly. “I love you.”
Donna felt tears spring into her eyes. Nigel had a way of doing that to her. He was so sweet, so compassionate. Somehow his lovable nature made her feel a strange void.
Nolan unfolded the morning newspaper. “Donna, my shirts should be ready at the cleaners. Before you take any more in, call around and get some prices. I think they’re screwing us.”
“I could do them myself.”
“We’ve been through that before. You have enough to do at the station. In fact, I wish you’d look into getting help around the house. I don’t want my wife having housemaid hands and knees.”
“I’d rather do it myself. Really. I’ll wear gloves.”
“Amelia recommended a cleaning service. Why don’t you get the number from her.”
Donna inhaled deeply, but said nothing. How could she find fault with a man who wanted her to have more leisure time? He pampered her, spoiled her, made her feel important. If only Daddy—her thoughts were interrupted by a deep baritone voice.
“Greetings,” Stanley Cragg, Donna’s father, called out as he stepped through the slider, his arms filled with gift-wrapped packages.
Nolan quickly stood, went to his father-in-law, and heartily shook his hand. “Good to see you, sir. Can you stay a bit? We have champagne for a mimosa.”
“Not for me. You go right ahead though.”
Donna felt a surge of elation. He had brought her birthday presents. Making an effort to hide her eagerness, she crossed to him and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Dad, you remembered.” She touched the bow on the top package.
“How could I forget my grandsons. Sort of a belated Easter. Men,” he said to Junior and Nigel, “come and see what your grandfather picked up for you in New York.”
Donna dropped her hand, rubbed the palm along the side of her cotton slacks as she shifted uneasily from one foot to another.
The boys raced to their grandfather. The old man handed out the gifts and tousled their hair. “We’d better be going, men. We don’t want to miss the first match. Open your presents in the car.” He steered the boys ahead of him through the door.
“Oh, Dad,” Donna said. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but don’t forget brunch here on Father’s Day.”
A stricken look came over his face. “Good gracious, Donna, I’m sorry. I’d forgotten you’d made plans. Warren called and invited me to join him in a regatta in San Diego, and I accepted. I suppose I could ...”
“No, no, that’s okay, Dad.”
“Next year, I promise.” He waved and hurried through the door.
Nolan gathered up the discarded wrapping paper and headed toward the trash can. Donna slowly sat back down. She sighed, then began to pick absently at her nail polish.
Warren again. This year she had asked her father well in advance and still her brother had won out. And she was certain her father remembered every one of Warren’s birthdays.
When Donna was eight and her brother ten, their parents divorced. Every other Saturday he picked them up and took them to his ranch in the country for the weekend. Stanley and Warren engaged in fishing and hunting, all male activities, not suitable for young ladies, her father said. Donna spent her hours with her stepmother.
Warren graduated with honors and went on to Harvard. Two years later when she graduated, also with honors, the final blow was yet to come. Her father refused to pay her tuition to college, saying that attractive women enrolled for only one reason, to snare a suitable husband. His offer to her was a new car and a trip to Europe. She could take it or leave it.
She took it. Then she sold the car, banked the $5,000 vacation check, and enrolled at San Francisco State, where she majored in theater arts. She went to school by day and bussed tables at Tarantino’s on the wharf at night.
A drama professor had encouraged her to enter the Miss Classic Pageant. Donna dreamed of winning the contest. If she accomplished something that her brother couldn’t do, just maybe her father would love her as he did Warren.
She was thankful he hadn’t shown up on the night of the crowning to see her fail so miserably. As fourth — and last — runner-up, Donna won $250 in cash and a year’s supply of Ingenue cosmetics.
CHAPTER 9
Tammy anxiously looked out the window of her new house on Strawberry Lane. She had told Brad 6:00 p.m. It was now 6:35.
She’d met Brad Segal at The Fitness Center the month before when he came to work there as a trainer. He had the body of an Atlas, but, she told herself ruefully, he could never measure up to Gary.
With a tooth-gnashing roar, a motorcycle pulled into the driveway. Her date, wearing faded Levis and a camouflage tank top under a denim vest, hopped off the bike. As he headed toward the front door, Tammy looked down at her aqua minisheath and pumps. She’d have to change clothes to match Brad’s scruffy attire. She opened the door, ushered him inside, and greeted
him warmly with a kiss, saying nothing of his lateness.
“Say, babe, would you mind if we stayed in tonight?” he asked. “Maybe call for a pizza or somethin’?”
Disappointment washed over her. In the four weeks they’d been seeing each other on a regular basis, he’d taken her out once —the first date. The rest of the time was spent at her house. “No, of course not,” she said, smiling.
“I could sure use a Bud to wash the bugs outta my throat.”
“Comin’ up.”
“Christ, it’s hot in here.” He walked to the sliding glass door that led to the patio and opened it. Before Tammy could shout a warning, Warrior, the Kowalskis’ black Labrador, raced around the side of the house, barking like a mad dog, and became airborne. Brad slid the door shut just as the dog slammed against it.
“Jesus Christ, I keep forgetting about that stupid beast,” Brad said.
“Sorry, sugar. He’s really very friendly. He’s just not used to you yet. Maybe if you—”
“Look, forget it, okay?” Brad said. “I don’t like him. He don’t like me. There’s no law says we gotta be friends.”
Brad flopped down on the recliner and, with the TV remote control, zipped through the channels until he found an English-dubbed Kung Fu movie.
Tammy ordered pizza. She made a green salad, set the table in the dining room with cloth napkins, candles, and a bottle of Chianti. At least it would be romantic.
When the pizza came. Brad made no move to reach into his pocket. He had invited her out to dinner that night, but she would end up paying. Again. She kept the refrigerator stocked with his favorite brand of beer and snacks. She bought his chewing tobacco, which he spit in her good glasses. She lent him money when he was short, loans he seemed to forget.
Feeling a tension headache coming on, she clasped her hands together and said, “Salad and pizza’s ready in the dining room.”
“Here’s fine.” He patted the arm of the chair.
While he watched TV and devoured the pizza, she went to the bedroom, changed into her jeans and a halter top, then returned to sit on the floor in front of his chair, massaging his feet and thinking about Gary.
When the movie ended they went into the bedroom. Although she had a blinding headache, it never crossed her mind to refuse. They undressed themselves. The slow, easy manner in which he shed his clothes made Tammy think of a striptease. He stood motionless, looking down at her while she kissed and caressed his body, his muscles jumping, flexing beneath her fingers. With subtle prompting, he cupped her breasts, rubbing almost absently, while she brought him to full erection. Then standing, facing each other, he entered her. Suddenly he came alive, turned into a sex machine, his fingers teasing, his moans filling the room, his slick muscled body moving rhythmically, like choreographed moves in dance. At one point amid his sighs and controlled thrusts, she stole a peek at his face to find his eyes open and directed at the dresser mirror, watching his own performance. Minutes later, when he cried out in orgasm, she felt a measure of happiness.
He dressed silently, facing the mirror. Tammy sat cross legged on the bed and marveled at his muscular form. The tight jeans hugged his buttocks and she was mesmerized by the circle of faded denim on his back pocket made by the canister of Copenhagen. He glanced up, caught her gaze in the mirror, and momentarily looked surprised, as if he’d forgotten there was someone else in the room.
“Do you think I have a nice body?” Tammy asked.
“Sure, you got a fine body. Especially for your age.”
“Yours is fine too.”
He grinned, winked. “Gotta go,” he said.
“It’s early.”
“I’ll call ya.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow or the next day.”
“Come for dinner on the weekend,” she said. “I’ll rent some Stallone movies.”
“Yeah ... sure. Sounds good.”
“What night?”
“I’ll call ya.”
“I’m going to be on TV Friday,” she said proudly. “Actually, it’s taped on Friday and aired on Saturday.”
Without comment he sat on the bed and laced up his boots.
“Maybe you could come over and watch it with me, huh?”
“Maybe.” He squeezed her knee and rose. “See ya.”
To his broad back as he walked down the hall, she called out, “Saturday at four.”
He stopped, turned halfway to her, and said, “Hey, if I can’t make it, don’t get all bummed out, all right?”
“No, no, I won’t,” she said too quickly. “If you can’t, you can’t. I know how it is. It’s just that... well, I told you how my husband was trying to get back with me. I thought if you were here, he might take the hint that I don’t want to see him, and, y’know, stay away.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, well ...” He turned and continued down the hall.
Before the sun had set completely he was gone.
Alone now, lying there, she thought he wasn’t so bad. At least he smelled okay. And he wasn’t rough or abusive. He could pay a little more attention to her body, though. She had worked damn hard to get it in shape. And what she couldn’t build naturally, she bought. It wouldn’t kill him to say something nice about it once in a while without prompting from her. A tear spilled out of the corner of her eye. She ignored it.
All she ever wanted was someone to notice her, someone to say something nice, someone to appreciate her efforts.
At the age of seventeen Tammy Blanco entered the 1970 Miss Classic contest. The top prizes included a cashier’s check for $1,000, a new wardrobe, a fur coat, a Hollywood screen test, and a Pontiac GTO. Her prize, as third runner-up, had been $500 and a Catalina sports wardrobe.
A barking dog brought her back to the present. It was Warrior, running across the rear yard, barking furiously.
Maybe Brad felt bad and had decided to come back, to take her out for a drink or a ride on his Yamaha.
She went to the living room and looked out the front window. No motorcycle. All she saw was a dark car several houses down slowly pulling away from the curb. She let the sheers fall back and went to the sliding glass door in the dining room.
“Warrior,” she called.
The dog raced around the corner of the house, tail wagging with excitement, and charged inside. Tammy knelt down and hugged him. Warrior yipped happily, licking her face and bumping against her. “We don’t ask for much, do we, ol’ boy?” she said, patting his oscillating backside. “Just a little attention now and then. Just a little love and affection, and to know we’re appreciated.”
Warrior whined in agreement.
CHAPTER 10
Amelia slowly scanned the vacant executive suite. A frown marred her classic features. With long strides, she walked across the large office, high heels sinking into the gray wool carpeting. She reached the windows and looked down. Nineteen floors below on Clay Street people scurried about as traffic moved west in stops and starts.
“You feel we can afford this?” she asked Fletcher Kincade, her breath fogging a patch of the tinted window.
Fletcher, thirty-years-old, five foot eleven —only slightly taller than Amelia if she wore medium heels—had a boyish face with keen, intelligent brown eyes. His sandy blond hair curled over the top of his dress shirt. Today he was dressed in an expensive light blue suit.
“We have to. We need the address if we want this business to fly.”
“There are perfectly good addresses in lower rent areas. Christ, Fletch, this is the heart of the financial district.”
“I know that, Amelia.”
“Look, honey, I don’t mean to challenge your expertise in these matters, but we really don’t have all that much capital. My eighty thousand would melt away in no time just paying for office space in this neighborhood.”
“Don’t forget I’m matching that eighty grand. Amelia, we agreed I would handle the business end. It has to be the best of everything or it’s doomed from the start. Globa
l Model Enterprises will be the biggest agency of its kind, internationally, and we can’t do that by opening our doors in some tacky, low-rent district.
“Once we’ve set up shop, the out-of-pocket money will be minimal. The models work outside the office. We send them to Carl Santos for their agency photos. He’s willing to do work on the same pay procedure as the models—when the client pays us, we pay them. The only way we can pull that off is to look like we’ve already arrived. With aplomb, savoir faire.”
“Well...” she said tentatively, still staring out the window.
Fletcher crossed to her and embraced her from behind. “With ten years experience in this business, I think I know what I’m doing. Now if you’re concerned about your money, if you’re having second thoughts...”
“Of course I’m not having second thoughts,” she snapped. She felt his arms around her stiffen. Patting his hand, she said quietly, sweetly, “I trust you. The money is nothing. I just want it to work. It has to work.”
She lied about the money being nothing. It was everything. In her eighteen years of marriage to Matthew she had begged and stolen from him to amass her nest egg—her freedom money. Each and every dollar she’d had to hustle for was one dollar closer to emancipation. Early on she had begun to invest in blue chip stocks and it had proven to be a wise move. But it was still risky and too slow. Fetcher had the experience, the contacts and the savvy to make it work. All she had to do was match his eighty thousand dollars. The day she could tell Matthew to go to hell was a day she looked forward to with great exhilaration.
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