by BETH KERY
“Yeah. It doesn’t have to be just about that. As you probably have guessed by now, I don’t need kink to turn me on. When it comes to you, I definitely could just focus on the basics, and be happy.” He circled his hand on her ass, pushing the cheek against his cock. He grunted softly. “Very happy. But it might be interesting, blending our kinks a little?” He squeezed her ass. “God knows all I can think about when you’re teasing me is tying your hands behind your back, bending you over and spanking your ass bright pink before fucking a good, hard lesson into you about the risks of being cruel.”
She turned slightly at that. “I’m not trying to be cruel,” she protested. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I did,” he replied, sounding exasperated. “Why else would I have leapt off the abstinence wagon without a backward glance?”
After their tense exchange, he’d made love to her again in the same position in which they’d talked, both of them on their sides, his front to her back. It’d been a heated, passionate exchange, but somehow tender, as well. She’d given of herself without restraint, and felt him straining to give in return.
Following the storm, Eleanor had fallen into a deep, dreamless, satisfying sleep for two solid hours.
But now, it was time to go. She was unsure how to make her exit. It wasn’t something she’d ever done before, engage in a purely sexual affair upon a prior mutual agreement. But she had work in a few hours. She dreaded the idea of waking him, of any awkwardness that might ensue. Perhaps he’d feel obligated to ask her for coffee or breakfast, but all the while, he’d be increasingly focused on the details of his day and wishing she’d leave. She didn’t want him to be annoyed by her presence. Best to just fade away, leaving him with the memories of their night.
Always leave them wanting more.
Very carefully, she eased out of his embrace. Her heart stalled for a moment when he moved restlessly, his long body curling toward her several inches, as if he missed her heat. But then he stilled and seemed to fall back into a deep sleep.
She inhaled deliberately, absorbing the unique, subtle scent of him . . . of their essences combined. She told herself to hold on to that evocative detail before carefully sliding off the far side of the bed.
Just one night with him, and yet already she despised the feeling of leaving his arms.
—
The museum was opening a Mary Todd Lincoln exhibit on the Tuesday following the Thanksgiving holiday. As the preservation and conservation librarian, Eleanor was not only in charge of gathering and displaying the Historical Society’s own Mary Todd Lincoln letters and personal belongings, but was also responsible for making sure that every last item that was donated to them from individuals’ collections and other museums was safely handled and exhibited.
She’d discovered something during the buildup to the exhibit that she was personally excited about, although she knew from experience that it would capture little attention from anyone else. A private donor had provided several books of fiction, religion and philosophy that had been owned by Mary Todd Lincoln. While examining the collection, Eleanor had discovered handwritten notes in the margins. Their handwriting analyst had confirmed it was Mary Todd Lincoln’s own hand. Eleanor had done extensive research, making sense of the handwritten notes and setting them in the historical, familial and personal context of Lincoln’s life.
No one really cared about her efforts, with the possible exception of her friend Jimmy, who as the director of special events was the prime organizer of the show. They both knew it was the “glamour items,” as Eleanor called them, that would make headlines and sell tickets, not Eleanor’s hours of research on seemingly mundane scribbles in old books. In her profession, she’d come to accept that sort of thing as a reality. She’d learned long ago to be proud of these little accomplishments, even if few people ever even noticed.
She was also proud to have negotiated a loan of Mary Todd Lincoln’s dresses, shoes and pieces of jewelry from the National Museum of American History at the Smithsonian. The dresses and the opulent jewels would be a big hit, even if Eleanor’s extensive research would likely go unnoticed.
That day before she left work for the Thanksgiving holiday, the museum staff, board and members of the press were given a private showing. Almost everyone, including Jimmy and Jimmy’s and her boss, had labeled the exhibit a resounding success. So by the time she left work for the long holiday weekend, Eleanor was in pretty good spirits.
She left directly from work to go to her parents’ house in Evanston. With all the bustle of the private showing that day, and then maneuvering through city holiday traffic, she didn’t have much of a chance to dwell or worry about what had happened with Trey Riordan.
It wasn’t until she drove through the familiar, sedate neighborhood where she’d grown up that evening that the detailed memories of the night before began to wash over her. It seemed right and adult of her to have snuck out before dawn without his knowledge.
It also struck her as cowardly and stupid.
He said he wanted to see me again . . . that we should undertake a sexual discovery that blended their kinks. He doesn’t even have my phone number. How’s he supposed to contact me, even if he wants to? Why didn’t I leave some kind of simple, evocative note behind on the bedside table with my phone number on it?
Because I’m crap at this, that’s why.
Her ruminations sent a rush of anxiety through her. Why did she always feel like she was on the very verge of either making something big happen with Trey Riordan or blowing it entirely? In reality, it was probably something in the gray area in between, where one stupid move on her part could leave him puzzled or turned off, all too ready to walk away with a shrug.
The recollections of her night with him struck her as sensually vibrant and intensely real, and at the same time, felt like she was having memories of another person’s life. The museum was Eleanor’s world, the basement archives, the temperature-regulated storage facilities, the endless rooms filled with precious ephemera. This was her world too—or at least it once had been—she thought as she drove down the tree-lined Evanston street with the attractive, older houses.
She pulled into the driveway and put her car in park. For a minute, she just sat there, staring out the windshield at her childhood home. Hers and Caddy’s.
After Caddy’s death four months ago, Eleanor had been to the house almost every day for weeks on end. Quite a few relatives had stayed there during Caddy’s last days, and then through the funeral. Eleanor had been there to help out her parents, provide meals, drive people back and forth to the airport and hospital, pick up the groceries—all the minutia and details that gave structure to a day and helped a person cope when death loomed. After Caddy had passed, and the house had cleared out, she’d also returned frequently. She was uncomfortably conscious of just how empty the house would seem to her parents, all too aware of how that ringing silence could just crash down on you one day.
Over the past two months, however, she’d come here less often. There didn’t seem to be as much need. Her parents had returned to their normal routine and functioning. On the surface, anyway.
But here it was: a holiday. And suddenly Eleanor knew with absolute certainty why all the psychological experts said the first holidays and anniversaries without the loved one were the hardest. Last year on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, she’d pulled up into this very driveway just like she had ever since she’d left for college at eighteen.
None of them had had a clue about how their lives would change forever that following year.
She glanced over at the empty passenger seat. Last year, Caddy had sat there. She recalled her sister had been going through the pros and cons of taking a partner position in a legal practice in Los Angeles.
“Yeah, it’s an amazing salary and opportunity . . . but come on,” Caddy joked as Eleanor put the car in park.
“What?” Eleanor asked in confusion.
“Me? L.A.? We just don’t mix,” Caddy said with a sideways grin as she gathered up her purse and discarded coffee cup. She noticed Eleanor’s puzzlement. “Okay, for one thing, people in L.A. drive everywhere. I like to drink, Nora, but I don’t drink and drive. Nobody walks there. Nobody takes mass transportation.”
“You’re not going to take this fantastic job because of alcohol?” Of course Eleanor knew that wasn’t the truth. There were likely tons of good reasons Caddy wasn’t going to take the job. But Caddy wasn’t one to hash out boring details and get all serious . . . even on a serious topic, like a job change.
Caddy just rolled her eyes humorously and opened the car door. “I’ve turned down jobs for much less of a reason. Oh, here comes Catherine the Great,” Caddy hissed over her shoulder. “Don’t say anything to Mom about L.A. She’ll dig her teeth into the topic and gnaw it to pieces by the time we leave on Friday. I’ll have no choice but to take the damn job just to contradict all her arguments against it.”
Eleanor gave a sad smile at the memory. Caddy always did have a way of stating the truth with hilarity.
—
It was a Thanksgiving tradition for Eleanor and Caddy to watch the Dallas-Detroit game with their dad while her mother did the post-meal cleanup. On holidays, Catherine Briggs got out her good dishes, and no one in existence could handle, wash and store them in the way she wanted. Caddy, Eleanor and their dad had learned long ago to leave her to fuss over her china and crystal while they sought safe refuge in front of the TV.
Today, the chair where Caddy usually sat in the family room seemed almost obscenely empty.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Eleanor heard her mom call loudly over the sound of rattling dishes and the cheer of the crowd on the television. “We’re going to watch the video I found in the attic!”
Eleanor gave her dad an “oh no” look. Her father grimaced in shared understanding.
“She found an old video of a ballet recital in the attic, and insisted we watch it while you were here,” her dad said under his breath.
“Of both of us?” Eleanor asked quietly, meaning Caddy and her.
“That’s what your mom says,” he muttered resignedly, turning up the volume on the television.
Last night and today, an alarm had started to wail in Eleanor’s head in regard to her dad. David Briggs seemed largely his wry, brilliant, jocular self, but there was an indefinable heaviness to him that was only growing since Caddy’s death. His complexion looked a little gray. Of the three of them, Eleanor worried her father had taken the loss of Caddy hardest. Eleanor had always been the quiet, serious, bookish type. Catherine’s intensity and passion were unquenchable. It was her father’s cheerful character, his light-hearted tendency to find a joke or a bright spot in even in the most serious of situations that was most similar to Caddy. It was the part of his personality that seemed to wither a little after Caddy had passed.
Her dad was a physicist, so a lot of people assumed he’d be an academic bore. He always proved them wrong, however. He was urbane and knowledgeable about everything from art to pop culture to good food and gracious entertaining. As a graduate of the school and a longtime professor, he was a huge Northwestern sports booster. Some of Eleanor’s earliest memories were of their fun, well-attended tailgate parties before football games, her dad relishing his role as chief cook, her mom’s homemade Russian kolbassa and his burgers sizzling side-by-side on the grill.
Over Thanksgiving, Eleanor noticed that her dad didn’t laugh as frequently as he used to. He was just a little more terse and short with his wife.
“We don’t have to watch the video,” Eleanor said after a moment, picking up a magazine from the table and pretending to be interested in the cover. “I’ll tell her it’ll upset me.”
“Will it?” her dad asked, his green eyes going sharp on her behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
“No. I just meant . . . if you don’t want to.”
Her dad smirked and looked back at the television screen. “You don’t have to make excuses for me, bug.” Eleanor flipped randomly through the pages of the magazine, her dad’s pet name for her ringing in her ears and making her eyes burn. “But thank you for the thought anyway,” her dad added gently after a moment.
She glanced up and they shared a smile.
“Dad, have you been to see Dr. Chevitz recently—”
But her query into her dad’s health was cut off by the entrance of her mother.
She came bustling into the living room, a box cradled against her body. She set down the box and pulled an old video tape player from it. While she talked, she quickly hooked it up to the television.
“You’re going to love this, Eleanor. You’ve never seen it before. It’s of Caddy’s sixth grade recital. Your dad and I didn’t record it; Mrs. Kandiver did,” she said, referring to Caddy’s and her childhood ballet teacher. “She gave it to me years ago because she said she thought I’d like it more than anyone, but I didn’t pay much attention. I thought she gave it to me because Caddy was the star of the show, but I knew Dave was filming from a better angle than Mrs. Kandiver. So this tape got stuck in a box in the attic. I just rediscovered it last night, when I was pulling down the Christmas decorations.”
Her mother hit a button and an image resolved on the screen of eight tutu-wearing little girls moving in an approximate synchrony to the beginning of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. Mrs. Kandiver was filming the recital from stage right. Jeez . . . that old, polished oak stage they’d performed on at the dance studio on Dempster Avenue, those dusty red velvet curtains . . . and there was Caddy, front and center, skinny as a rail but uncommonly graceful for an eleven-year-old.
“I thought you said Eleanor was in it too,” her dad said.
“Just be patient and watch,” her mom said with a smug smile.
It was about then that Eleanor realized that the camera angle allowed them to see all the way across to stage left. There was a little girl with a brown ponytail and bangs sitting on the floor between two curtains, her knees drawn up and a book in her hand.
A smile flickered across her mouth at the unexpected image. It was her—Eleanor—six years old and staying after her kiddie lesson to watch her big sister’s recital. Mrs. Kandiver had allowed her to observe from behind the stage. Unlike the girls adorned in white on the stage, Eleanor wore a black leotard and tights along with a pair of white Keds and a bright red sweater. As the dance progressed, the little girl huddling in the curtains put down her book.
“Do you remember it, Nora?” her dad asked, and she heard the smile in his voice.
She nodded. “Vaguely. Some of it clearly. I remember the music perfectly and Caddy’s dance. She practiced it nonstop for the whole summer. I even remember what book I was reading,” she mused wistfully. “Eloise in Moscow.”
“Just like you to remember the book. Do you know what happens next?” her mom asked to the left of her.
Eleanor shook her head, bemused.
As the music built, the little girl across the stage stood up.
“Look how serious you are,” her dad said fondly.
Eleanor grinned. Little Eleanor clearly had no idea she was being filmed. She wore the kind of serious, yet faraway look a child gets when she’s dreaming.
And suddenly she recalled what happened next . . . or rather, she recalled what that little girl’s dream had been. It’d been to be the star ballerina, like Caddy.
Little Eleanor leapt into life, twirling and going up on her toes in her Keds, all within the confined space between the curtains. Her dad laughed at her impromptu little performance. Her mother crowed.
“Isn’t it priceless? I told you two you’d love it. Look how talented you are, and only six years old!”
“Seriously, Mom,” Eleanor muttered repressively.
“Do you
remember learning the dance with Caddy?” her mother asked.
Eleanor shrugged. “I guess. I told you she practiced it every day for a whole summer. I was always with her. It’s only natural I soaked up parts of it. I always wanted to do whatever she was doing, always wanted to be as good as her . . .”
She faded off, suddenly feeling self-conscious. One furtive glance told her that her mother was giving her one of those sad, meaningful looks Eleanor dreaded. She recalled her mother’s allegation that she’d been dressing like Caddy lately, playing the carefree, sexually confident, bold female because it was her way of mourning Caddy.
“Look at you,” her mom prompted. Against her will, Eleanor glanced back at the screen. “You were every bit as talented as your big sister.”
“You were certainly more determined,” her dad joked. Little Eleanor started to spin and leap so stridently, she kicked the curtains and made the sconce above the performing ballerinas quiver. Her dad snorted with laughter. Eleanor couldn’t help but smile at his honest amusement. “You look like you think your dance is going to alter the course of the entire planet.”
“That’s passion, David,” her mother admonished.
Eleanor rolled her eyes, pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, and laughed. “Give me a break, Mom. That’s nerdiness, pure and simple.”
“Nonsense,” her mother exclaimed. “I was proud when I first saw this yesterday . . . proud of your talent and your fire.”
“Fire? I was dancing around in the curtains. Don’t make a bigger deal of it than it is.”
“You’re embarrassing her, Catherine.”
“You were magnificent,” her mother said, golden brown eyes sparkling.
“I have to agree, bug,” her dad said with an apologetic smile at Eleanor. “You’re adorable. This was quite a find, Catherine. Both girls dancing together.”
Caddy center stage, Eleanor on the sidelines . . . like always. Only now, center stage had been left empty.
