The man behind the desk had black hair, combed tall. Up, then back. He wore a tank top with the name of the club in black and silver, and every last bit of him was shiny and smooth. His face was freshly shaven; his neck, chest, and arms were hairless and clean. Charlotte wasn’t sure she had ever seen a man so moisturized.
“Yes?” he prompted. His teeth were white and perfectly rectangular.
“I’m here to sign up for a few sessions.”
“A few sessions of…? We have everything. And then some.”
What did that mean? Charlotte wondered. Then she said, “Personal training. My sister set it up.”
“Oh.” He chuckled. “You’re Charlotte.”
Her face flushed hot. “I am.”
The man lowered his eyes. “I have your paperwork right here. Or right back in the office, rather. Give me a minute.” He slid aside one of the chrome panels behind him and disappeared. So much for finding employment here, she thought. Everyone knew her life story. The pathetic tale of betrayal and damaged goods. The novelist’s wife. Maybe they would all read Caleb’s next steamy novel to see if there was any character who screwed around on his wife, so they could say, “Hey! I knew that wife!” The novel would go on and on, she was sure, about how it wasn’t his first affair, but his dolt of a wife was easily tricked.
The man re-emerged and she decided to refer to him as Slicky because, one, he hadn’t introduced himself and, two, because he looked to be so slick, so slippery. Charlotte often found herself making up names and concocting stories about the people she met. It was a habit that began when she was a child, too shy to introduce herself and to engage with others, and it continued into adulthood because, well, not much had changed. She was capable of creating entire make-believe worlds about people, quickly and easily. She decided that Slicky was a personal trainer to the stars. Also, a Calvin Klein underwear model.
“You’ll be meeting with Leopold Sokolowski,” Slicky said, reading from a file. His eyebrows lifted. “Five times a week, it says here. Could that be right?”
“I don’t know. But, if my sister said so, then, yes.”
He met her eyes then. His brows were arched and his eyes a clean shade of aqua. Like the water near those white-sand beaches she had seen in advertisements and magazines.
“I’m my sister’s project for the summer. Apparently, I’m Leopold’s project, too.”
Slicky smiled and put his hand on hers. His touch was soft and warm, which Charlotte found faintly surprising. She had expected his hand to be cold, like steel.
“You’ll be in good hands. Some say, the best,” he said.
“That’s what I hear.” Slicky’s touch had unnerved her slightly. “Are you talking about my sister’s hands or this…trainer guy?”
He laughed. “Both, I guess.” Then he paused and leveled his eyes at her. “And I wouldn’t refer to him as a ‘trainer guy.’ He’s one of the world’s pre-eminent athletes.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Or he was, in his day.” Then in a brighter, louder tone, “He was a sprinter and alpine skier on the Poland National Team. His name is pronounced Le-AW-pawlt. Emphasis on the second syllable. Not the first. Please don’t mispronounce it. Say it after me. Le-AW-pawlt.”
“Le-AW-pawlt.” She felt like a child.
“Sorry, it’s just…he gets very, very crabby about it. He doesn’t care for the Americanized version. He doesn’t much care for the Americanized version of too many things. You’ll see. I’m just warning you, so you know what to expect and you don’t come to me and complain that he was an asshole to you.”
Charlotte bit her bottom lip.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. He is an asshole, but he gets results.”
Should he be using that kind of word in here? To her? She looked around and realized they were alone. Maybe he was just trying to help her out.
He lowered his voice again. “Actually, he makes me say that. His bark is worse than his bite. Especially at first. And he is really working on the Americanized things…expressions and such, so help him out.” Slicky winked then and resumed his normal speaking tone. “You’ll be meeting with him five days a week for two hours. His first appointment of the day.” Slicky squinched his eyes. “Your sister must have really wanted this. It cost her a bloody fortune. Also, I hope she bought you a giant bottle of ibuprofen. You are going to hurt like a…”
She raised an eyebrow at him, and he stopped. Then he said, “All I’m saying is I’m glad I’m not working out with Leopold five days a week, Miss Amari.”
“No, no, I’m a MacDougall. My sister is the Amari…by marriage.”
“And are you married, Miss MacDougall?”
She bobbed her head up and down, and then shook it side to side. He winked at her again. Surely he knew the story. How could he not know the story? Was he playing a game with her? Or was he interested in her?
“I just need to know for the paperwork. Leopold requires some very special paperwork.”
Of course he wasn’t interested. She was overfed, apparently. And invisible. She had given the best years of her life to a man who didn’t want them. Who didn’t care about them.
“I’m, um, I’m separated.”
“Ah, okay then. “He checked a box on a canary yellow form. She peered over the desk to get a closer look, but he had already slid her paperwork back in the file folder.
“Now I just need to take your photo.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Leopold needs photos. He has his reasons. His methods.”
“Oh.” She flashed a smirk while he pressed a button on his keyboard, and the camera atop his monitor made a clicking sound.
Slicky looked at his screen and tilted his head to the side. “Would you like to see the photo? Make sure it meets your approval?”
“Not really.”
“Okay then.” He shrugged. “Now I’ll give you a personal tour of our facility.” And then Slicky came from behind the desk and offered his arm. She hesitated for a moment, to ensure this was what he intended and then she placed her hand in the crease of his elbow and tried not to squeeze at his enormous bicep. “This way, please,” he said.
***
Caleb was, at this moment, driving straight down the street his wife had driven just two days before. He was seeing the same imposing peak straight ahead, with its jagged, snow peaked crests and valleys. But he was not imagining himself driving into a film of his new life, as Charlotte had. He was not creating a new personal theme song, as Hannah had. Instead, he was growling along to the Rolling Stones. Can’t get no… BAH-Nah-NAAAH…
Caleb particularly enjoyed punching the guitar riffs, letting them pop out of his throat in great grumbling bursts. BAH-Nah-NAAH.
He had to admit there were a handful of advantages to taking a road trip by oneself, without Charlotte and the girls. He could stop for tacos wherever he wanted, and he could fart as he pleased. But there were no Easy Cheese hearts. No one pouring him cups of tea from his Thermos. No one to press her hand flat against his lower back when it began to ache.
Should he stop by the college first, to get settled in? To meet the administrators, the other faculty, this Rachael Whitmore person, who had made all of these arrangements on such short notice? Or should he go by and surprise his wife? See his darling girls?
He suddenly could not decide. No matter which order he did things, Charlotte was going to get the surprise of her life. And she didn’t much like surprises. He got an image, suddenly, of her coming at him, wild-eyed, with a pair of box cutters. But that was ridiculous. Charlotte was one of the most placid, serene, loving women he had ever met. It’s what made him fall for her, the first moment she came to his office, so many years ago, with her wide, wondering eyes and her long silken curls. She was so calm and so quiet, with a quick wit that seemed to surprise even her, and a sexiness that was natural and instinctive and warm. Instantly, he felt like they had always been together, and they had been together ever since. Charlotte. His private, young harlot. He
would stop by to see her first. But what if she didn’t want him here?
***
Charlotte charged out of the health club with hope in her heart. She hadn’t eaten all day, and she felt great. Well, she could go for a Big Mac, but she wouldn’t. She would wait and see what kind of grassy foods Fiona had on her menu. A whole smattering of fruits and tubers, she imagined. A bounty of healthy goodness.
And tomorrow, she would go out, again, by herself, and she would get a job. Then, she would start her painting class. She had once loved to paint, she decided. The quiet scratch of the brush. The earthy scent of the paints.
Charlotte always felt energized after spending a chunk of the day alone. Electrified and empowered and a mite bit unstoppable. When had she stopped spending time by herself? With helping Caleb during the day and all the errands and noise of family life, she had forgotten how much she loved her time alone.
Caleb understood this. He was probably the only person she could have married, especially so young, because he was even more introverted than her. And yet, there were the fantasies, which she could never tell anyone about. That, one day, there would be a firm rap at the door and when she opened it, a uniformed man with a pinched face would say, “I am very sorry to tell you that your husband has disappeared,” and, after she grieved for a time, she would be able to start again.
That probably wasn’t a good sign.
But, while alarming, she had always chalked up this fantasy to being a natural side effect of marrying so young. Of marrying the only man she had ever slept with. Of course she wondered what else was out there. Who else was out there.
Besides, it wasn’t like it was a wish. It was just a fleeting thought she had now and then. All married mothers probably had it from time to time, but it wasn’t something you shared over coffee cake at your friend’s house. Do you ever dream that your husband would somehow vanish, so you could start over? But when she had walked in on Caleb and that woman, a small and private part of her had said, resoundingly: “Free. Free at last.”
Charlotte’s chest lifted as she crossed the street. She wondered where she might go next. She felt like she was fifteen again, starting over. She could work at a flower shop or a bakery or a travel agency. She could storm into the corporate world, all pencil skirts and high, clicky heels. Or she could be a cheery barista, handing over steaming paper cups and a day’s worth of exuberance.
She could start dating slick underwear models who worked the front desk at health clubs. She could do anything, anything at all for the next ninety days. There was no trace or tie to her past here, beyond Fiona and the tales she had spun. And Fiona’s friends wanted to help her. They were on her side. She could trust them.
Trust. The word brought to mind a seminar she had taken with Caleb. A marriage retreat, deep in the Adirondacks. They had arrived two days before the seminar began, and they had made crazy love by a stream smack in the middle of a hike. But then the seminar began and they began to argue like they never had before. It was as though the seminar exposed things that were wrong with their marriage, which neither had ever considered a problem before.
One of the first exercises had been a game of faith and trust, in which you were to fall backward, into the arms of the person behind you. All you had to do was to let yourself go. Caleb went stiff as a board and, whoof, dropped straight backward into Charlotte’s embrace. But, when it was her turn, she found she couldn’t do it. At just the last moment, she would step her right leg back to catch herself, every time.
The facilitator had been a bearded man with a breathy way of speaking. He had a petite wife who came across as fairly well medicated, and he had made Charlotte try again and again. Each time, Caleb would mutter, “You trust me. I know you do. Just let yourself fall.” And the facilitator (she secretly called him Hairy McNabbit) and his wife (the Stoned Little Rabbit) looked back and forth and shared knowing smiles as if to say that they had seen their kind hundreds of times.
By the end, Caleb was yelling at her under his breath, his eyes large and rimmed with red. Finally, he simply pretended that she had done it, so the rest of the couples would stop watching them. So they could move on. But he hadn’t even looked at her for the rest of the evening. And she realized then, and perhaps so did Caleb, that the only person Charlotte trusted, the only person she felt she could always fall back on, was herself. It wasn’t Caleb’s fault. It just was.
***
Caleb was reconsidering. He had planned to drive straight to Fiona’s house. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that perhaps he needed to take more time to determine the course of action that would give him the best chance of success. Fools rush in and all of that. So he decided to get settled in first. To get some flowers and maybe some chocolates for Charlotte and a shower for himself.
Rachael Whitmore was kind enough to meet him when he first arrived and to show him the place she had arranged for him to stay. She had instructed him to call her just as he was passing a particular gas station, five minutes outside of town. Then she would meet him in the parking lot of the college, and they would go from there.
He thought he might remember her after seeing her again, but he didn’t. She was wee. Her hair, almost purple in color, was cut sharp against her jaw line. Her lips were matte and mulberry, as though she had been binging on pomegranates. Everything about her was tight and coiled—even her voice, which burst and cracked out of her tiny frame.
From there, Rachael had shown him the home she had rented on his behalf, within walking distance of the college. It was grandly appointed with plenty of rustic and glazed logs, imposing furniture, plush rugs, and massive fireplaces, one in the great room and another in the master bedroom. She led him around, standing for perhaps too long in the master bath, presenting the jetted tub and the perfectly transparent glass shower doors. Caleb caught her eyes once, and then made his way down the hall toward the kitchen.
“I have taken the liberty of stocking the Subzero with a selection of the finest microbrews from the area’s award-winning brewpubs, as well as an assortment of cheeses, gourmet mustards, meats, fruits, and vegetables,” Rachael said. When Caleb crossed his arms in response, she continued, “I have a particularly light class-load this summer. Two afternoons a week, in which I will teach painting to students who have no interest in art. You will soon discover that the only activities our students truly care much about are skiing and smoking weed. I do try to scare the shit out of them on the first day, and this usually helps.” She raised her hands to her hips. “Don’t you despise it when students fail to take your class seriously?”
Caleb gave a little grunt. This was one intense chick. She held his gaze and beat her eyelashes. Were those lashes real? They couldn’t possibly be. And who wore false eyelashes to meet someone in a parking lot?
“And that means I can show you around. At your will,” she continued. “What would you like to do now?” She rubbed one of her calves against the other. Was she wearing hosiery? And were those boobs real? They were like torpedoes, and her waist so tiny. He recoiled inside. This place was just as he imagined Hollywood to be: Everyone weighed forty-eight pounds and had twenty-six-pound tits. He shook his head.
“I need some time to get settled,” Caleb said, “To call my wife, who is in town, too, visiting her sister.”
“Oh.” She looked away for a moment, then set her jaw and squinted. “Her sister. Who might that be?”
His mind went blank for a moment. “Amari.” It finally came to him. “Fiona Amari.”
“Amari as in Kamal Amari?” she asked.
“Yeah, I think that’s it. Do you know him?”
“He owns half the damn town.” A weird expression came over her face. Spite, anger, vengefulness.
Wow. Where had he landed, exactly? He rubbed his palms on his thighs. “Well, thanks for helping me get set up here.”
She sighed, examined his face, and then whipped a business card from the pocket of her skirt. “If you need anything
, here’s my card. My home number is on there, too. And my Skype. And my cell.”
“Okay,” he chuckled. “Well. I guess I’m in good hands.”
“You could be.”
He lowered his eyes then, to study his shoes.
“I am available any time of the day or the night,” she continued. “And I am discreet.”
He felt a sudden empty space all around him. When could he see Charlotte?
Chapter Five
“Time to start The Transformation Project, Mama.” It was half-past four the following morning, and Gracie was whispering in her ear.
Charlotte took the covers with her as she rolled away from the sound. Gracie spoke again and Charlotte buried her head.
“I’m not going away until you get up.”
Charlotte rolled again and blinked her eyes open. She could just make out Gracie’s form, in the darkness, looming over her bed. That familiar posture. That sweet, feathery voice.
“Did you set your alarm, Gracie, just to help me get up?”
“I did.”
“I guess that’s a good thing, since mine never went off.”
“I already turned it off for you. Before it rang. I figured you would rather wake up to a human voice than that horrible buzz.”
Charlotte swung her legs out of bed. “Thanks, honey, I’m up.”
Gracie turned to leave.
“You can stay while I get ready, if you want,” Charlotte said.
Gracie grinned and plopped on the bed. “How long do you think you’ll be there?”
“I have no idea. But I think Slicky told me.”
“Slicky?”
“My name for the guy at the front desk.”
“Ah.”
“I think he said two hours. But that sounds like an awfully long time for a first session. It will probably be only an hour. I mean, he has lots of clients, so, yeah, no more than an hour.”
Gracie smoothed at the duvet with her palm. “I wish I could come with you.”
“I wish that, too, Gracie. More than you know.”
Shy Charlotte’s Brand New Juju (Romantic Comedy) Page 6
