Just Desserts

by Barbara Bretton

  She and Finn had exchanged a flurry of late-night e-mails the last two days. What had started as a lighthearted commentary on the quirks of her Lakeside neighbors had quickly become the highlight of her day. He was funny, self-deprecating, razor sharp yet kind. His wit had an edge to it but was never hurtful. He was the kind of man you could let down your guard around and not live to regret it.

  She had typed up the story of the septuagenarian Stiles groupie but then decided at the last minute against sending it. Tommy’s Lakeside demographics might not seem so comical to a man whose income was dependent on his client not outliving his fan base.

  One good thing about the outbreak of Stiles mania in town was that it had diffused some of the curiosity about Finn’s impromptu visit on Sunday. There were only so many gossip-worthy hours in the day and rock star trumped bakery owner’s love life every time.

  She had to admit, at least to herself, that she had been the tiniest bit dismayed when everyone eagerly accepted her explanation that Finn had driven down to see her on business. You would think at least one of her incredibly nosy and imaginative neighbors might have held out a little longer in favor of a romantic assignation.

  But no. They were perfectly content with her story about prototypes and last-minute details.

  Which should have made it easy for her to concentrate on the task on hand, but it didn’t.

  Under normal circumstances she had no trouble zeroing in on what she was doing and working toward her goal. Nothing ever knocked her off course. Not family troubles or financial woes, not even the time she slipped on a broken egg and broke her right hand.

  She had never once missed a deadline, never kept a customer waiting. She delivered what she promised when she promised to deliver it, and she had little doubt that the reliability factor was every bit as important in her growing success as the beauty and general deliciousness of her baked creations.

  So why now, on the brink of a major career breakthrough, did she feel as scattered and distracted and giddy as a teenager? Okay, so maybe it wasn’t every day she spent a long, laugh-drenched afternoon in the arms of a gorgeous man who somehow managed to mingle the bad-boy vibe with a good heart that was visible even on short acquaintance, but that was hardly an excuse for staring off into space with a silly smile plastered across her face.

  Or was it?

  When a woman hadn’t kissed a man in a while, she tended to forget the power of that simple act. When a man came along who actually knew how to kiss (and seemed to enjoy it), what woman wouldn’t be knocked sideways with feelings she thought she had left behind in high school? Was it any wonder they ended up in bed?

  Who would have guessed sensuality and easy familiarity could be such a powerful combination? In the past, sexual chemistry had been equal parts uneasiness and desire. Laughter had been shadowed with self-consciousness and a touch of fear. Throughout the years of her marriage, she had managed to keep her true self so under wraps that she had forgotten who the real Hayley Maitland Goldstein was. Before long she couldn’t tell where that emotional high-wire act ended and where real sexual desire began.

  She had been herself with Finn, her muddy, unkempt, wet-haired, cellulite-rippled self, and he hadn’t even blinked. In fact, if you judged by their lovemaking, he actually liked that rumpled self. Was it possible that the whole man/woman thing could be this easy, this much fun?

  An e-mail had been waiting for her when she logged on that morning. A sexy, silly message shot through the ether at three in the morning while she slept, designed to make her laugh softly as something close to delight rippled along her spine.

  No wonder she was having trouble concentrating on work.

  “Get a grip,” she ordered herself, then wished she hadn’t when she caught the looks being sent her way by her employees. “Not you,” she said. “I was talking to myself.”

  Maureen shot a look at Frank, who shot a look across the kitchen to Terri, one of their interns, who pretended she was engaged in an epic battle with a tray of doughnuts in desperate need of glazing.

  Hayley had never been so glad to hear her cell phone warble in her entire life.

  “You sound terrible, Michie,” Hayley said in greeting. “What are you doing on the phone?”

  “Tommy Stiles is on the E! channel talking about the benefit concert. Put on the TV now!”

  Hayley raced for the back stairs. “Which one is E!?”

  “You know…True Hollywood Story…101 Fashion Mistakes…When Good Actors Make Bad Movies—” Michie stopped to cough up a lung.

  Hayley winced. “Don’t talk, please! I feel like I should be calling nine-one-one for you.”

  “I hope I didn’t give it to Lizzie. She stopped here yesterday on her way to her party.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” Hayley said, mentally putting her fingers in her ears. “We definitely don’t have time for a sick kid around here.”

  She leaped over a pod of sleeping cats, dodged an enthusiastic Rhoda, then switched on the television in the living room.

  “Discovery…A and E…Food Network…okay, there it is.”

  “You’re out of breath,” Michie said between bouts of coughing. “You need cardio.”

  What she needed was oxygen but she wasn’t about to admit that even to Michelle.

  Stiles was talking to one of the station’s interchangeable hot chick reporters who was probably old enough to be his next fiancée but too young to have any idea who he was.

  “He looks pretty hot for a guy in his sixties,” Michie said.

  “Come on, Michie,” she said with a groan. “He’s been nipped, tucked, and lifted.”

  “You don’t know that for a fact.”

  “They all do it,” she said. “Famous people can’t grow old in this country. It’s against the law.”

  “I like his hair,” Michie said around a sneeze. “I wonder who does his highlights.”

  Nice eyes, she thought as she raised the sound. Some crow’s-feet and laugh lines but they were a beautiful shade of blue-green that reminded her of Lizzie’s.

  “…Always a Jersey boy…” he was saying to the clearly smitten reporter. “We believe in giving back and the South Jersey Children’s Hospital Network is a cause worth supporting.”

  He looked like an old rocker with a bad-boy vibe but he sounded like somebody’s suburban dad, which made Hayley laugh just a little.

  “He seems like a nice guy,” Michie said.

  “That’s what Finn says.”

  “Finn’s the lawyer, right?”

  “Yes, and Anton’s the drummer.”

  Michie launched into an almost operatic bout of coughing that made Hayley’s throat hurt in sympathy.

  “We could double date,” Michie said. “I get the drummer. You get the lawyer. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

  “You’re married,” Hayley reminded her. “I think Charlie might frown on extramarital dating.”

  “I told him I’d give him a pass if Angelina Jolie ever comes to town. The least he can do is let me go out for dinner with Tommy Stiles.”

  “I thought you were talking about Anton.”

  “I dream big,” Michie said, laughing. “It’s Stiles or nothing.”

  “Forget it,” she said dryly. “I think you’re too old for him.”

  They cut to a short clip of hospital footage meant to inspire then jumped into a discussion of Tommy’s upcoming marriage.

  “Have they mentioned the concert?” she asked Michie.

  “I missed the very beginning but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

  “I don’t think he’ll mention the after-party, do you?”

  “Honey, he’s a grown man. He’s not going to talk about cake.”

  But he was going to talk about his latest woman.

  “Willow is successful in her own right,” Stiles was saying. Yadda, yadda, yadda. She wanted to hear more about the concert, which might inspire him to talk about the after-party and the fantastically wonderful cake decorator who was g
oing to rock the guests with her creations.

  The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the perky young reporter.

  “Look at her!” Michie croaked. “She’s actually flirting with him!”

  “He’s famous,” Hayley said. “When he’s famous it doesn’t matter if he’s old enough to be your grandfather.”

  “Think she’d be working it quite so hard if Stiles managed the produce department at ShopRite?”

  “Or worked with Lou at the dry cleaner?”

  “I can see it now,” Michie said. “Old man Dennison from the gas station thinking he had a chance with Trish or Keisha.”

  “Wash your mouth out,” Hayley said through her laughter. “That’s downright obscene!”

  On screen the perky reporter was wrapping things up. “Tommy Stiles and the After Life will be appearing Thursday in Atlantic City. There are still a few tickets available but you’d better hurry! Tommy’s newest CD, Best of the Best, is available now—”

  Click.

  “So much for free publicity.” Hayley sighed. “I’d better get back to work.”

  Michie sneezed three times in a row. “I’d better get back to writing my will.”

  “Put me down for your Coach shoulder bag.”

  “Not funny,” Michie said, laughing through her coughing/sneezing fit. “You’ll be sorry when I leave you my kids instead.”

  “Speaking of your kids, I’ll pick Jackie up after school and get him to the allergist,” she said as she raced back downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Bring him back when he’s twenty-one and I’ll toss in my vintage collection of Tupperware lids.”

  Talk about an incentive.

  Manhattan—Upper East Side

  “I’m going downstairs in search of the Times and a cup of tea,” John said as Jane settled into the narrow bed. “If I can find a cup of your favorite Earl Grey—”

  Jane shook her head. “Water only, love. The tests…”

  He nodded his great leonine head. “But there must be something that would help pass the time more quickly for you.”

  “Just hurry back,” she said in a rush of love and longing that would fell a younger woman. “Your company is all I want.”

  She meant it. His presence in her life was sustenance for body and soul.

  This three-day visit to Memorial Sloan-Kettering had been John’s idea. She already had her diagnosis. She understood that the only measures available to her were palliative in nature, not curative. She had accepted the fact that her time was limited.

  John, however, had not. He had called in a favor from a colleague here at MSK who had scheduled two full days of tests followed by an interdisciplinary evaluation and treatment recommendation.

  She envied John his ability to transcend facts and cleave to hope but she was a realist. She had seen the preliminary reports on her condition and the outcome seemed inevitable and relatively imminent. Two years, the doctors had agreed. Two years could be enough if you lived them an hour at a time.

  John would come to accept this on his own terms. Sooner than later, she hoped, but acceptance would provide its own comfort.

  She wasn’t a fanciful woman. Interpersonal relationships were terra incognita to her. She believed in what could be calibrated, analyzed, dissected into its component parts so the structure could be understood.

  People defied her scientific training. They ignored what was there right in front of them and chose to believe what they saw only with their heart.

  For the first time in her life she wished she could be one of them.

  “Dr. Maitland.” One of the residents appeared in her doorway. She wore her stethoscope like a diamond necklace. “I’m Dr. Tomarchio. I wanted to let you know they’ll be doing some preliminary blood work later so you might want to stay close by.”

  “I didn’t realize I had a choice in the matter.” She said it lightly but the hint of irony was unavoidable.

  The young doctor smiled. “You’re a patient, not a prisoner. You’re more than free to roam.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  They chatted a few moments longer, then Dr. Tomarchio moved on to her next patient.

  She glanced around the spacious, airy room but saw nothing beyond the fact that John wasn’t there. Every minute with him was precious beyond reason. Every minute without him felt like an eternity.

  A large flat-screen television hung from the wall. She reached for the remote control device on the bedside table and pressed the power button.

  “…This is Channel Seven Eyewitness News with…The News4 chopper is over the scene…Watch CBS for Katie Couric’s interview tonight with the president of Venezuela…Bravo brings you…This is CNN…Tommy Stiles and the After Life will be appearing Thursday in Atlantic City. There are still a few tickets available but you’d better hurry! Tommy’s newest CD, Best of the Best, is available now…”

  He was older, of course. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there that long-ago night, but he still had the same smile.

  How strange that across the years it was his smile that she remembered. Not the eyes, although they were mirrored in both her daughter’s and her granddaughter’s faces, but that wide and guileless smile that had touched her heart for a weekend all those years ago.

  Princeton, New Jersey—Early Spring, 1970

  The phone rang at three minutes after noon.

  Jane had just settled behind her desk to eat a cup of yogurt while she prepared for her lecture. Earth Day was on the horizon, a new concept that was being met with much cynical comment among her peers, and she had been dismayed by the lack of enthusiasm and information among the general population. Granted, the horrific images from places like the Mekong Delta and Da Nang that filled the news each night created an urgency that the supporters of Earth Day had been unable to match, but she hoped to at least capture a few hearts and minds in the weeks ahead for their cause.

  Unfortunately, until Hallmark acknowledged Earth Day with a series of greeting cards, universal acceptance was unlikely.

  “Dr. Maitland, this is Dr. Woodruff’s office calling. We have the results of your pregnancy test.”

  She had forgotten. That seemed impossible even to Jane but she had been so busy that the test had slipped her mind.

  “Negative, of course,” she said. She was a forty-year-old woman. Early menopause ran in her family.

  The long silence should have told her something, but she lived her life among academics and sailors, neither of whom were known for a facility with emotional nuance. Long silences were lost on her.

  “The test was positive,” Dr. Woodruff’s nurse said. “You’ll need to make an appointment to see the doctor for a prenatal workup as soon as possible.”

  The nurse continued to talk but Jane couldn’t hear the words through the roar of the ocean inside her head. She must have made the necessary noises because the next thing she knew she was out from behind her desk, running flat out down the musty hallway, past her astonished colleagues, her equally astonished students, out the front door, down the stairs, and up Nassau Street until she couldn’t run anymore.

  Everywhere she turned she saw a familiar face, someone who knew her or knew of her. Someone who would judge her in ways she wasn’t willing to be judged. She needed clarity. She needed distance.

  The world was changing. In the not-too-distant future an unmarried professional woman would be able to have a child without facing the censure of a critical world, but not yet. Her life, her future, hung in the balance.

  She drove down the shore that afternoon. Proximity to the ocean made it easier to think.

  She knew it was ridiculous, the sort of thing a much younger and less experienced woman would do, but she stayed in the same beachfront motel where she had stayed with the young man who was the father of her child. She had met him in a pub near the university. A group of her colleagues had thrown a bash to celebrate someone’s marriage or baby or dissertation and Tommy Stiles and three other young me
n were the bar band that night.

  The professor/student dynamic was a classic one. How many of her friends had stumbled into relationships with students young enough to be their children. It had always struck Jane as an abuse of privilege and she kept the lines clearly drawn and inviolable. Besides, she preferred to socialize with people whose frames of reference included Eisenhower, Truman, and FDR.

  But this young man was not a student. He was a musician. The world of academe meant nothing to him. Her doctorates, her research grants, her published works, were all but invisible. When he took the stage the world around her stopped spinning. The clamor and conversation in the room ceased.

  “I hear they’ve signed a contract with Epic,” one of her colleagues said during a break. “We’ll be able to say we saw them when.”

  For all that she was a scientist who believed only in that which was quantifiable, there was no denying the stardust that surrounded those local kids.

  Especially Tom Stiles. The blue-collar high school dropout was on the verge of something wonderful. One of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that change a person’s life forever.

  She told him how transcendent his music was. He told her he wanted to live by the ocean one day. The conversation extended past last call, into the parking lot, then all the way down the shore in the first light of morning.

  But this time there were no long walks on the beach listening as he spun his dreams out for her to admire, no interludes of pleasure as she taught him things he would one day thank her for.

  That weekend she slept and she cried. Her entire life had been turned upside down with the words you’re pregnant. Her direction. Her plans. Her future. Everything had changed. For two long days and nights she searched for answers that only the years would provide.

  “Nice weekend?” her TA asked when she returned to her office Monday morning.

  “Informative,” she said with a quick smile. After all the tears and all the hours spent trying to see through the fog of surprise and wonder, she realized that there was only one thing she knew for sure.