I ran downstairs and met Ivan, who raised his eyebrows. “You look hot.”
“Thanks.” I went into the kitchen, grabbed an apron and oven mitts and removed the turkey from the oven.
Patrick moved with quiet efficiency, putting items into the oven, keeping some aside for the microwave, lining up serving bowls and utensils. He and I made a good team.
I couldn’t worry about Ivan or what he might say or do for at least fifteen minutes. I had gravy to make.
I looked around the table of people laughing, eating and drinking, and allowed myself to relax. This was good, great food and drink with friends—and a few people I didn’t know well but who fitted right in.
“We didn’t say grace,” Kimberly said. She sat at my left—I was at the head of the table so I could make emergency runs out to the kitchen—with Patrick next to her. Ivan had managed to get the seat to my right, which I found annoying as I’d wanted to talk to the people I knew, but he was chatting away and not taking much notice of me.
“It’s a bit late for that now,” I said. Dishes of food were ending their first cycle around the table. “Besides, I think some of us are Jewish or Buddhist or both. Grace might take hours if we cover all faiths.”
“Then let’s do what my momma does.” She beamed around the table.
Oh, no. “Every year, you try to hijack us into a Norman Rockwell painting.”
But she was off. “Okay. Let’s go ’round the table and we’ll all say what we’re thankful for this year. We can do that while we eat. Jo, you’re hostess. You start.”
“As hostess, I veto it. Where did the stuffing go? I don’t have any yet.”
Patrick stood, lunged across the table and found the beleaguered dish of stuffing. He handed it to me with a smile.
“Go on.” Kimberly put on her brightest smile.
I stuck my tongue out at her. “Okay. I’m thankful for everyone’s company and the food, I think in that order. Thanks to Patrick for helping in the kitchen. And I didn’t get enough gravy. Where did it go? I’m thankful for friends and gravy and snow and the mountains and this really nice wine.”
“I brought the wine,” Ivan said.
“Thanks. Okay, Kimberly, you next.”
“Well.” She folded her hands and went into her usual long monologue about friends and good times and how blessed she was and how she loved her family back in Texas. The first time I’d heard it I found it moving, and since then, in subsequent years, I noticed her level of impassioned reminiscence bore a direct relation to the amount of alcohol she’d consumed. But as cynical as I was, she was my friend, and I loved her for the way she wallowed in heartfelt sentiment.
Patrick was next. He raised his glass. “To Jo. Thanks for having us.”
The table joined in raising their glasses and toasting me, and at that moment I loved them all, even though many of them had gravy stains on their fronts, or spoke with full mouths, or had put impossible grease stains on my antique drawn thread-work linen tablecloth.
Patrick continued, “I’ve had something of a rough year. But I’m happy to be here, and to have made new friends, some of them very dear and special to me.” He looked straight at me as he said that and I was breathless. “And for the first time in months I feel optimistic about the future.” He raised his glass, very slightly, in my direction, a gesture so subtle I wondered if anyone else had noticed it. For a moment the other guests faded away and Patrick and I looked at each other in a moment of profound anticipation and desire.
Then the moment was gone, and Ann, one of my volunteer announcers at the station, talked about her new kitten and her boyfriend, who’d gone home to the west coast for Thanksgiving, and how she hadn’t been able to afford to go with him, but this was almost as good. Although, she added, she missed her mom and dad and sister, and burst into tears.
Patrick handed her a napkin and gave her a friendly hug. Others clustered around to embrace her, and someone else dropped a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes, the ultimate comfort food, on her plate, in a practical gesture of support.
“I told you this wasn’t a good idea,” I said to Kimberly. “She’ll start a chain reaction of boo-hoos.”
“Bullshit. It’s what Thanksgiving is all about. Football and Americana and eating like a pig and wallowing in sentimentality. When do we get pie?”
“After we’ve finished your circle jerk-off.”
“And I thought you were my friend,” she said. “Where’s the dressing?”
And so we went around the table. There were a few tears, but not the torrent I feared, some hard-luck stories, good news about work and family, talk of people and friends far away.
By the time we got to Ivan I was working up quite an appetite for dessert and wondering what would happen late at night when I returned from work and it was just me and Patrick in the house.
Ivan raised his glass. “To Jo, a lovely lady. And to new beginnings, because Jo and I have a complicated history, and I think this Thanksgiving marks the start of something very special between us. So, Jo, you’re the one I’m thankful for.” He reached for my hand and my fork clattered onto my plate.
I pulled my hand away, flushing with embarrassment as the table erupted into a chorus of sighs and applause. Opposite me, Patrick gave a small, sardonic smile.
“It was him? Your mystery man?” Kimberly whispered. “He’s gorgeous. So sweet. He was telling me all about—”
“Time for dessert.” I sprang to my feet and my gravy-laden knife tipped off the table and slithered all the way down my dress. “Let’s get these plates together. Pass them down to this end of the table, please.”
“Sure, honey,” Ivan said, although I’d deliberately not looked at him when I spoke.
To my annoyance, no one else offered to help, obviously thinking that some heavy making out or misbehavior with the whipped cream was going to take place in the kitchen. Instead, when we got there, I slammed my load of dirty plates on the counter and hissed at him, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, come on, Jo. Don’t be mad. It was a joke.”
“It was not a joke. I’m going to have to do a hell of a lot of explaining to my friends. Who put you up to this?”
“Calm down, honey. Or are you afraid lover boy will get mad?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Since you’re out here, you may as well make yourself useful. The dishwasher is there to your right and the detergent is under the sink.”
“Okay, okay.”
Ivan whistled annoyingly as he rinsed plates and loaded the dishwasher.
I started the coffeemaker and filled a tray with cups and saucers, the best china I so rarely used. One thermos jug was already full of coffee. I added cream, sugar and teaspoons to the tray and took it out to the dining room. Some of the guys already looked antsy about missing the game.
Kimberly gave me a look that indicated she wanted full disclosure and I gave her a bright smile. “Give me a hand?”
“Sure.” She came into the kitchen and, joined by Ivan, we brought the usual huge assortment of pies to the table, along with whipped cream.
Despite cries that no human being could possibly eat that much pie, we made a valiant attempt. Or at least, everyone else did. I picked at mine, finally pushing my plate away. “Too full,” I explained to no one in particular.
Ivan meanwhile was being bombarded with questions about our alleged relationship, and I sat silent and let him do the talking. He was really good; he gave the impression we’d known each other for some time, until a mysterious rift had driven us apart.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Liz said.
“Yeah, it was when the tentacled aliens swept me up to another solar system to be their goddess,” I said, which elicited a peal of laughter.
“So this was before Hugh? Before you bought the house?” Kimberly asked. “Jo, I thought you were dating that rock-climbing guy.”
“Oh, yeah, him,” Ivan said. “Tell them, honey.”
“I
have a real talent for picking jerks,” I commented.
“How lovely that you’ve gotten together again.” That was Liz, formerly Patrick’s number-one fan girl.
“Oh, it’s early days yet.” Ivan reached for my hand.
“Oh, my God, look at the time. I have to go to the station.” I smiled at Kimberly, who’d offered to take over as hostess when I left. “Stay as long as you like, everyone. Eat everything, please. Kimberly will force leftovers upon you all.”
Kimberly accompanied me to the kitchen when I left with my plate. “So you were runnin’ around with our boy Ivan when you were still with Hugh.”
“No.”
She looked at me, cool, judgmental. “And here I was wasting all that sympathy on you. You could have told me. No big whoop. I thought this secrecy stuff was recent but perhaps it isn’t.”
“I first met Ivan a week or so ago.”
“Oh, yeah?” She nibbled at a piece of piecrust on my plate. “Then why’s he sayin’ all this stuff?”
“To jerk my chain.”
“So tell him to get lost. What’s the matter with you? Patrick’s really pissed about Ivan all over you like a cheap suit. You might have more on your hands than you want to if you keep this up.”
I shook my head. “Where’s your mystery man? I was hoping you’d bring him.”
“With his family,” she said quite calmly.
“He’s married?”
“Divorced. He’s with the kids and grandkids. We didn’t want to spring it on them just yet.”
“Oh.” My feeble attempts at moral superiority had fallen flat. “I’ve got to change clothes.”
I ran upstairs to change into my winter bike gear. When I came downstairs I spent quite a bit of time saying goodbye to my guests in the kitchen as I made myself a turkey sandwich for later.
I put the sandwich and an apple in my backpack and reached into the hall closet for my helmet and the bicycle itself. Normally I kept it in the entranceway, but with this many guests we needed the space. As I propped the bicycle against my hip to fasten the helmet, Ivan came out of the living room, where most of the guys had clustered to watch the game.
“I don’t want you to be here when I come back,” I said. “And I don’t want you to come to my house ever again.”
“Heck, Jo, I thought we did pretty well.”
“Pretty well? Half my friends now think I was fooling around with you on the side when I was with my boyfriend.”
“I feel we have a real connection, Jo.”
“Not here. Not in real life. We’re supposed to ignore each other in real life. Did Harry tell you to come here?”
He lounged against the wall. “Yeah, he said it might be a good idea.”
I pulled on my gloves and wheeled the bicycle to the front door. “’Bye, Ivan. Remember what I said.”
He opened the door for me with just a hint of mockery in the gesture. “Be safe, Jo. And talk to Harry.”
He leaned in to kiss me but I dodged and hit his face with my helmet, a small gesture that pleased me immensely. I rode out into the quiet night, seeing the warm glow of houses where the holiday was celebrated, taking the center of the road to avoid the larger-than-usual number of parked cars. I turned off onto the bike path and the only sounds were the hiss and whirr of my tires and my breath. I stood on the pedals to build up speed, feeling the pull and stretch in my quads and calves, the sense of power and freedom that riding my bike in the dark always gave me.
The station felt like home; a different sort of home. I put my turkey sandwich and fruit into the refrigerator, and went into the studio, where the announcer was eager to leave and be with her family. I cued up music, checked for breaking news and weather and turned almost all of the lights off, so I sat in a pool of light at the board.
Of course I had work to do—paperwork, programming plans, creating schedules—but today was a holiday and I could take time off. I had a few pieces programmed, but announced that I would take requests, and spent some time answering calls and tactfully refusing to play some of the more outlandish choices. I wondered whether Mr. D. would call, or Harry, but to my relief—I think it was relief—neither did.
I shut down at one in the morning and left with a fizzing expectation in my gut. I was going home, where I had some explaining to do. I noticed a car in the parking lot as I left; parking spots were jealously guarded, as close to the campus as we were, but it must be someone who was a guest at a house nearby and had taken advantage of the space. As I glanced at the car I saw a sign of movement at the driver’s side.
I swung my leg over the saddle and pushed off, rising on the pedals to accelerate, and swung across the parking lot onto the bike trail. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all. I even doubted I had seen anyone in the car, and if I had, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation.
And then, as I gulped in the crisp air scented with wood smoke and sped forward, I forgot about the car and its illogical menace, because I was going home.
Home to Patrick.
18
I APPROACHED MY HOUSE AND SAW A LIGHT ON over the garage. So Patrick was still awake. I hoped he was waiting for me.
I opened the front door and pushed my bicycle inside, unsnapping my bike helmet and hanging it from the handlebars. Brady approached, making the affectionate sounds he always made when he was hungry, and I accompanied him into the kitchen to check on his food supplies. The kitchen gleamed, tidy and clean, although the scent of Thanksgiving dinner lingered in the air.
I left the house again through the front door, clicking it closed behind me, and dropped my keys into my jacket pocket. As I mounted the stairs to Patrick’s apartment I could hear soft jazz playing. I tapped on the door.
Patrick opened the door. “Jesus Mary, Mother of God!” He reached out and removed my balaclava. “You look like a fucking terrorist in that thing.”
So much for an erotic charge to my visit; a pity, because he looked good, in a pair of soft cotton pants and a T-shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms, all of which reminded me of the boys in the Great Room. But I didn’t want to think about that now. He was barefoot and slightly tousled. He looked gorgeous and I wanted him to take off more than the balaclava. I couldn’t believe I’d once referred to him as a leprechaun.
“Sorry, I forgot I had it on.”
“Well, come on in, then. Don’t stand there letting the cold in.”
Yeah, real sexy, Patrick. But I went in anyway.
“I was having a cup of tea. I’ll make you one, too.”
Even worse, but at least I was inside the door. I unzipped my jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door, on top of one of Patrick’s jackets.
“I enjoyed the show tonight,” he said, his back to me, as he switched on the electric kettle in the tiny kitchen alcove.
“There was a nice, friendly vibe. I had a lot of callers. Only one got upset and that was because I wouldn’t play any Charles Ives. We compromised with some Copland.”
The kettle whistled. I heard the clink of the teaspoon as he stirred the tea bag in the mug and then had the opportunity to admire his ass as he bent to retrieve a carton of milk from the refrigerator.
“Sit down, woman,” he said as he turned, mug in hand, and I saw why he’d kept his back to me: he had a huge erection in those loose cotton pants.
Naturally I pretended I hadn’t noticed, but took the mug and settled into the armchair he indicated. I could see, beyond the screen, that his bed was mussed, as though he’d been asleep, or had gotten up recently. An electric charge zoomed between my legs as effectively as if I’d sat on a vibrator.
But I was here to talk, I reminded myself.
Patrick, mug in hand, pulled out a chair similar to mine and hooked a small ottoman forward with one foot. He lifted the top and flipped it over, converting it into a coffee table.
“Thanks for dinner tonight,” he said.
“My pleasure. Thanks for your help.” I really had to stop
seeing innuendos in everything I said. Pretty soon I’d be incapable of having any sort of conversation with him at all. “And thanks for the kitchen cleanup.”
“Kimberly organized it. She made Ivan do most of the work.” He grinned.
There was my opening. “Yeah, I wanted to tell you about him.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you really don’t have to.”
“But I think you should know.”
He flapped a hand at me. “It’s not necessary.”
He had that sardonic twinkle in his eyes again, enjoying my discomfort. First Ivan jerking my chain, now Patrick. I ignored him and kept talking. “Whatever he said is mainly untrue. We haven’t known each other that long, whatever he claimed, and we don’t have any sort of long-term relationship, and certainly no commitment to each other.”
“Ah.” Patrick took a sip of tea. “And would Ivan possibly be connected with that night you came home looking like an extra from a porn film? Just a wild guess.”
“Yes.”
“Ha.” He put his mug on the improvised coffee table.
I waited. I didn’t want to get into the whole Association debacle with him. Not now. Should I thank him for the tea and leave? I looked at the toffee-colored brew and wondered about its caffeine content. I didn’t want to lie awake, jittery and dissatisfied in all senses of the word.
“So I wanted to tell you… You said when I was ready, I… And at dinner today…” I stopped in terror, finally realizing the enormity of what I was about to do. Only a few weeks ago I’d told Mr. D. I wanted to be solitary, that I didn’t need the baggage of emotional involvement in a real relationship, or want the sorrow that would inevitably follow. And now another man had made a public declaration to me—Patrick’s gaze meeting mine over the dinner table and the moment of recognition between us—and it could be too late and I was about to become horribly embarrassed—
He pushed the ottoman aside and scooted his chair forward. “Shh,” he said as his knees bumped against mine. “You’re about to hyperventilate. Breathe.”
He took the tea from my hand. I could barely move, paralyzed by lust and fear. I breathed out and sucked in a great mouthful of air as I did when I first built up speed on my bicycle, but this time the air was full of Patrick’s scent and warmth.
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