Me Tarzan, You Jane

by Camelia Miron Skiba

  Instead of going up to the top floor where Madame V’s office is, we stop on the second floor. Ella holds my hand as we follow Lucas into an office. Judging by the posters on the walls, it must be his, and I’m about to have a heart attack. In five out of six of them he’s naked down to his waist, facing the camera, or buck naked with his back to it. Not sure how much of his body is photo-shopped but, Dear. Lord. Do humans really have that kind of muscles? It’s not the size that strikes me but more their definition. I gasp and cover Ella’s face, dragging her out of the office.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?” She asks.

  “Um, nothing, let’s wait here,” I say, and mouth over her head at Lucas who scrunches his brows, “Are you out of your mind?” pointing at the walls.

  “Nice, huh?” He chuckles. “It’s all real, nothing airbrushed.” He has the nerve to wink while I fight an urge to slap him. Maybe then that minuscule brain of his would produce a decent thought.

  He takes us down the hallway into a smaller room where a receptionist with glasses looks up from a computer while continuing typing.

  “Bonjour, Lucas,” the brunette receptionist says, her skin whiter than milk, contrasting with flaming red lips.

  Lucas kisses her cheek, “Bonjour, Bijoux.” He points at Ella and me. “These are my friends from the States, Jane and her lovely daughter, Ella. Do you mind taking Ella to the playroom while Jane and I work?”

  Confusion and manners stop me from making a scene. Why do people think they can decide what my daughter does or what I do? Work with Lucas? What is that supposed to mean?

  Bijoux takes Ella and shows her to a room full of toys, books, and a few colorful plastic chairs and tables on a Sesame Street rug. Two girls and a boy play together, and Ella seems to forget about me within seconds. There’s a French exchange between Bijoux and the lady in charge of the kids.

  I follow Lucas in the opposite direction and we enter a conference room with people talking, and posters resting on easels. He forgets about me, which is fine, and I use my time studying the posters. While the articles are written in French, adjacent to the French version there’s an English translation.

  “What do you think?” Lucas stands next to me, a cup of coffee in one hand.

  “Looks good.”

  He snorts. “‘Looks good,’ that’s all you have to say?”

  “Interesting?” I test the waters, not sure what he expects me to say.

  “Not this,” he points at the poster, then makes a half circle in the air, “all of it. The magazine will come out the end of February with a simultaneous issue in the States, the first one in English. Five years in the making and counting. Cool, huh?” His elbow bumps me, a proud smile spreading over his handsome features like honey over bread.

  “Congratulations. That’s a great accomplishment.”

  Lucas stares at me as if trying to read my mind, and my pulse quickens under his kiwi-green stare. “Coming from you . . . that means a lot. You’re an artist, and I know pleasing artists is not easy. So thanks, Jane.”

  The moment turns thick. People surround us, yet I feel as if Lucas is the only person in the room with me. Maybe it’s because of his tall and hulky frame, maybe because of his intense, long stare, or maybe because of his voice, rich as melting chocolate and deep as a fountain. I need a diversion. Quickly, before I drown in his eyes or in the need to touch that rebellious black strand of hair waving on his temple. What’s wrong with me?

  “Uhm . . .” My voice sounds husky. I clear it and peel my eyes from his spell. “I found two misspelled words, one in this article and one in that one,” I point at the posters two easels away. “Of course I don’t know French but the English word ‘desert’ doesn’t have the apostrophe on the first ‘e’. And here,” I walk to the next poster, “it should be ‘massage’ instead of ‘message’.”

  Lucas bows to read the sentence and calls over a guy and a woman. They talk fast and I move out of their way. I roam again, read more, and browse through photos.

  Lucas takes down several posters. “Come with me.” He lays them on the coffee table in his office, except for one, which he places on his desk. “Here, sit down.”

  I sit in his chair as he perches on the desk’s corner.

  Holding a checkbook and a pen he says, “How much would you charge to edit all these articles? Tell me a number. Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.”

  “Edit the articles? Wait, why?”

  “Because I’m not good at it and don’t have time. You on the other hand, have a good eye for it. My staff here is French. They’re fluent in English but obviously they make mistakes. The magazine has to go into print tonight or the issue won’t come out in time in the States. There’s too much at stake to have it delayed. I can’t afford delaying its release. Please?”

  Lucas’s voice warms my insides. I know already the answer to his pleading, but try one more time. “What if I don’t catch all the mistakes? I’ll lose sleep over it.”

  “Then you wake me up and I’ll rub your feet, I swear.” He wiggles the pen. “Now, how much?”

  I push his hands away. “I don’t want your money.” I sigh, look at the article in front of me then up at Lucas who jumps off the desk’s corner and throws a winner’s fist in the air. “I need a highlighter.” As I say that I see a penholder to my right full of writing tools. I fish out a yellow highlighter and a black pen.

  Next comes the weirdest hug I’ve ever gotten. I’m still seated, but somehow Lucas gathers me in his arms, scrunching my face against his side, and placing an awkward and loud kiss atop my head.

  “You’re the best, Jane. I’ll bring you all the articles on a thumb drive.” He stops at the door, “Are you hungry? You need anything?”

  “Ella needs something to eat.”

  “Don’t worry about her. That’s the employees’ daycare. She’s in good hands, but I’ll stop by to see how she’s doing.”

  Lucas is gone for a while now and sensations slowly return to my body. Letters, words and sentences dance in front of my eyes. His hug and kiss might’ve been the strangest I’ve ever received, but coming from him, it leaves me winded, not to mention having a heartbeat resembling pounding hooves. I’m not delusional enough to think he likes me—he said he doesn’t, but I can’t help but wonder how it’d feel to be embraced and kissed by him for real.

  He returns with a thumb drive, a laptop, and a sandwich and I need to pull my head out of my heart or I’ll never finish the edits. I pretend to be deep in reading and he leaves as quietly as he came.

  The edits take a long time but when I’m absolutely, positively 110% sure that everything is mistake free, I wander back to the conference room. The lights are on and only two other people and Lucas are in the room: a woman with her blond hair in a bun secured with a pen atop her head and a man staring at a laptop and stroking his brown beard.

  I hand Lucas the thumb drive. “Done. I also made a few changes because some of the wording was choppy. But I kept the original version as well and named mine differently. It’s all here.”

  “Awesome. Thanks, Jane.” He stands, says something in French to the two, hands them the thumb drive then puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me out.

  “Aren’t you gonna check what I did?”

  “Nope,” he replies. “I’m sure you did great. Let’s see some dresses for you. We have a party to go to.”

  I forgot about the party. My eyes feel as if ants crawl under my eyelids. I’d rather go home and sleep than go to a party. Never thought it’d take me so long to adjust to another time zone.

  Instead of picking up Ella, we go around a corner then another one. Lucas opens a door and turns the lights on. I gasp at the display of clothing, shoes, and accessories, all arranged by colors, a rainbow of shades, each color its own rack. Never seen so many dresses in one place other than in a store.

  “What’s this?”

  “This,” Lucas walks to the middle of the room and waves both arms, “is every woman’s dream.
It’s the wardrobe for photos. Sometimes we get to keep samples from fashion houses. Publicity for them, money saved for us.”

  Lucas motions me to follow him. There are so many dresses to choose from I have a hard time. It’s even harder to find an appropriate length, neither too short or too long.

  “Here,” he brings one red dress and one green. “Try these.”

  “Thanks, but black seems more appropriate.”

  “Black’s for funerals. This is a happy party. Try the red one.”

  “No thanks.” I continue browsing, not looking at how the dresses really look but rather going by length.

  “You wore a red dress at the conference.”

  “Yeah, right,” I snort, “and you remember that why?” I bet he just throws that out there to tease me.

  “I’d rather pay attention to what’s beneath a woman’s clothing, except, at the conference when you pinched me . . . you wore a red dress. Remember that?”

  Lucas’s low voice stops me with a hand smoothing over the front of a black lace dress. Blood rushes to my head as my cheeks catch on fire. That memory . . . well, that’s something I try not to remember. It’s on my sins list, my mind able to often visualize God’s scolding stare on Judgment Day, and no matter how regretful I am for what I’ve done, I can’t forgive myself.

  I move down the aisle to the next rack of black clothing. “That was a mistake. You shouldn’t talk about the past.” Words leave my mouth and I mentally kick myself for such a lousy remark.

  “I talk about the past?” Lucas follows me with the smirk that signals trouble inked on his lips. “You’re the poster child of the past. You live it, breathe it, let yourself be consumed by it. It limits your horizon.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I?” He throws the red and green dresses at me. “You’re hot in red. Stop being stubborn and try them on.”

  Chapter 14

  “I luuuub my dress, Mommy.”

  Ella pirouettes in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in Madame V’s dressing room, an entire floor reserved for it. Elegant design reflects screaming opulence with its expensive furniture, expensive clothing and matching shoes. One corner opens to a vault-type room for jewelry only, secured with glass doors. Lucas told me the room opens only with Madame V’s fingerprint. On another wall glass displays house several dresses with posters attached of Madame V wearing them at different events.

  Picking a dress for myself wasn’t easy. Challenged by Lucas to prove I’m not as uptight as he often accuses me of being, I selected a dress he grimaced at. I stand next to Ella, dressed in a metallic gray knee-length dress with a high waist. It’s strapless with sequins scattered over the front and ruffles starting right beneath my breasts.

  I gave in and let him pick the shoes. Didn’t tell him I like them with their five-inch heels, a string of warm pink satin flowers in the middle, and tied over my ankles. A feathered bolero jacket in the same warm pink finishes my wardrobe.

  On the way back to the estate we stopped at a boutique for Ella’s dress. Madame V called and said I was to get there as soon as possible to help her with the makeup. Pressed for time, we didn’t stop to eat, nor did I change into my party clothing until about ten minutes earlier when I was left with Ella to get ready.

  “You look beautiful, sugar pea.” I comb Ella’s hair and add the red headband that came with the dress. Red chiffon flutters in the air when she pirouettes until she’s dizzy. I steady her, squeezing her in my arms.

  “Mommy, you squeeze me too hard,” Ella laughs.

  “I know, but I can’t help it. You’re too cute.”

  “Can we go, can we go? I wanna play.”

  Ella doesn’t wait for my reply and skips to the door. I follow her down the spiraled marble stairs that take us into a foyer with a library to the right and a huge dining room to the left. Extravagant as always, Madame V puts on a show, bringing royal catering with spiffed-up waiters holding golden trays in gloved hands, a band playing jazzy music, and an open bar. A ceiling-tall Christmas tree dominates one corner with children buzzing around it, picking up gifts and opening them in a somewhat organized chaos, Zoé in the middle of it. Ella takes off as if I’m non-existent.

  My anxiety about being among strangers twists my stomach. Beautiful, breathtaking people, both men and women, crowd the room. I should’ve known that not only cooks, drivers and assistants would be here, but also an army of models. I recognize some faces from the office today. Dressed in a red and gold mermaid-type gown, a golden tiara in her hair, Madame V is the center of a small group of gorgeous men, including Lucas who looks dazzling in a black tuxedo with a white shirt, warm pink satin bowtie and a complementary handkerchief. Laughter comes from the group in waves, as if someone tells jokes.

  Accompanied by Lucas, Madame V walks to the middle of the room, claps twice, and everyone’s attention is on her. She says something in French which I assume has something to do with dancing, since people join her and move to the fast rhythm of the music. Between bites of food and sips of champagne, I steal glances at Lucas who partners up with Madame V, his skilled hands steering her around the dance floor.

  I load a plate with food, grab a bottle of water and search for my daughter. I find her with Zoé and a dozen other kids in the library. They sit on the floor, with Zoé in the middle reading from a picture book.

  I wish for my camera to snap photos of Ella. She cups her flustered face in her chubby palms, eyes closing slowly. Then her eyes snap wide open only to droop the next second, all the while paying attention to every word said by Zoé. The funny part—Zoé reads in French, and I know for a fact my daughter doesn’t understand one word. She sees me and waves, and I motion her to come eat, but she shakes her head and puts a finger over her lips. I should be quiet.

  “Trying to escape?” Lucas’s whisper lifts the hair at the nape of my neck. His body radiates heat behind me, so close his smell of green walnuts, leather and coffee beans tantalizes my senses.

  “Escape what?” I turn and hold the plate between us, a distance I desperately need from him.

  “Escape me. Come, let’s dance.” He grabs my elbow but I resist. “What’s the matter?” His dark eyebrows push together.

  “Nothing, I must feed Ella.” I glance at her and see her resting her head over her palms, sleep finally winning. “I better take her home.”

  Lucas removes both the plate and bottle of water from my hands, and places them on a coffee table. Next he walks over sleeping children, careful not to step on them, picks up Ella and deposits her on a nearby sofa, covering her with a blanket.

  The argument I’m about to verbalize remains unspoken when Lucas presses a finger over my lips. “Sshh. You’ll wake up Ella.”

  “But—”

  “Come on, be a good sport.” Lucas takes my hand, walking me to the middle of the ballroom. He faces me, stretches his bowtie, dusts off his handkerchief and says, “I didn’t wear a pink bowtie tonight to show my feminine side. I did it to match you. May I?” Deadly charming, with an even deadlier smile teasing the corners of his mouth, Lucas lifts my hand and kisses it.

  It’s a bluesy song and couples move to its rhythm. Contrary to the slow pace of the song, my heart beats at a crushing speed. If Lucas hears it, I expect him to tease me about it. I feel clumsy, stiff like a wooden doll. I haven’t danced for so long . . .

  I used to love dancing. Evan and I often danced while prepping dinner. Who cared if the meal caught on fire a time or two, we just danced, forgetting about the world.

  Those times are gone and no matter what I do, I can’t bring my husband back. Nor can I hide behind memories of him now, here in Lucas’s arms. It’s not working. Evan’s memories fade with Lucas’s body, breath and scent, pushing them deep down in my mind, blurring them into thin air.

  I struggle to remember how Evan’s embrace felt. It was my refuge, my sanctuary. I should always remember how I felt in my husband’s arms. I should. I must. I need . . .

  Somehow I
lose the battle. Instead, here I am in Lucas’s arms. I feel them. I feel him.

  “Jane. Don’t pass out on me.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve held your breath since we started dancing.” The hand holding mine lets go. Lucas shakes it a few times closing his fist in and out. “I’ve lost circulation in my hand, you squeezed so hard. If they have to amputate it, you’ll have to feed me for the rest of my life. I’m not ambidextrous.”

  “I’m sorry, I—” I can’t find what to say next without getting all emotional, my voice quivering like a leaf about to fall from a tree. I struggle to compose myself.

  “Yeah, I know.” Lucas holds me closer, placing one hand on my lower back, “Damn memories come when you least want them.”

  “What do you know of memories?” Bitterness fills the back of my throat.

  “You’re not the only one who’s lost a loved one, Jane.”

  I feel bad for snapping at him. “I’m sorry, I’ve no right to—”

  “The only difference between you and me is that I don’t live in the past. And I don’t let it control my here and now. I do believe in second chances. We’re supposed to get out there, love and explore. Your husband wouldn’t want you living as if you were dead, would he?”

  “I’d rather not talk about my husband.” Another song starts, but Lucas continues to hold me.

  “Why not? You think about him. You’ve thought about him ever since we started dancing, have you not?”

  “Yeah, right,” I chuckle. “Like you can read minds.”

  “I don’t read minds.” Lucas’s voice edges on sadness. “I read people’s faces and rigid bodies. I know a sad person when I see one.”