Talk of the Town

by Sherrill Bodine

  The terrace lights revealed several new blooms and dozens of buds.

  “They’ve made a remarkable recovery tonight,” she declared innocently.

  He pressed a kiss on her forehead and a hot flash of sensation made her weak. “I feel the same way,” he said with a laugh.

  All the way to the front door he kept his arm casually around the area where her waist was located beneath her bulky robe. In the foyer he bent to pick up the plant food, which must have fallen to the floor in their mad rush to embrace.

  He handed it to her with great ceremony. “Remember, TLC. I want those rosebushes to live to a hundred and ten.”

  I must remember it is just a figure of speech.

  She wasn’t a thirty-year-old like Shannon, weaving fantasies about her dream man. David was flesh and blood, and she was old and wise enough to luxuriate in these feelings for as long as they were both enjoying the relationship. No more. No less.

  “I hate to leave. I’ll call you soon.” He lifted her chin with his thumb and tilted her head back. Her lips parted for his kiss.

  In that moment, she fearfully acknowledged she was enjoying this way too much for her own good.

  “You offered to cook Thanksgiving dinner for David’s family?” Harry’s wonderfully chiseled jaw dropped open, and he leaned back against his kitchen counter like he was too weak from shock to stand without support.

  “Don’t look at me like I’ve lost my mind.” Rebecca continued to putter around the kitchen like she did every Sunday afternoon, assisting Harry, the real cook, with the recipe for Wednesday’s Food section.

  “Come here, sweet pea.” He straightened, placed his hands on her shoulders, and, his face very serious, studied her. “A glitter in the eyes. Peachy flushed skin. Lips slightly swollen. Yes, you’re definitely giving off a vibe of sexual satisfaction.” He burst into a smile. “All symptoms of having had fabulous sex. Lucky you. David is a sly one, using sex to talk you into cooking Thanksgiving for a cast of thousands.”

  She smiled back, her body tingling with that satisfaction. “Including you and Kate and Pauline and the girls, it’s only ten people.”

  “Your oven hasn’t worked in months. How can we cook a turkey dinner for ten in your kitchen?”

  The we was not lost on her. She flung herself against his chest for a quick hug. “Thank you, darling. I knew I could count on you.”

  “Always. Now let’s plan the perfect menu.” He pulled cookbook after cookbook out of his library. Thumbed through them and made copious notes in his food journal.

  While he happily debated the merits of different sweet potato recipes, she called to have her oven fixed.

  Two hours later, Harry was still totally engrossed in recipes. Rebecca laughed. “Harry, I haven’t seen you this happy since you went to Paris last year for your medical convention.”

  “I’m thinking about going back to Paris, sweet pea.” He looked up and smiled gently. “There’s a cooking program I want to attend. The information arrived yesterday. It’s there on the desk. Take a look at it.”

  While she read through the booklet on the Cordon Bleu in Paris, she felt a hard catch of old fear about being abandoned. She’d be lost without Harry.

  “What are you planning to study?” she asked, trying to adopt a mature attitude.

  “Haute cuisine, nouvelle.” He glanced up and saw her face. He placed the cookbook on the counter and carefully marked the page. He walked to her and removed the booklet from her hands. “I’m not deserting you. It won’t be forever. I can’t be away from my practice for more than four months.”

  “I’m sorry, darling.” She hoped her wobbly fake smile hid the dull, heavy pain in her stomach. “If it’s something you want to do, you absolutely should pursue it. I read that we baby boomers reinvent ourselves every three to five years.”

  He looked down at the booklet and twisted it in his hands. “These days I’m happier cooking than with medicine.” He shrugged. “I still get great satisfaction when I can help someone who has had a catastrophic event to their face. But much of plastic surgery has become about injectable products. Botox. Collagen. Restylane. Radiance.”

  He reached out and took her hand. “If I go, it doesn’t mean everything will be different. We won’t be different.” A wicked grin curled his mouth. “Except I’ll be better. Change will recharge the old brain. I’ll be more fascinating than ever.”

  “I know, darling.” She squeezed his fingers and held on. “I know. It’s just old me. Being afraid of losing the people I love.”

  Chapter 18

  On Monday morning, exhausted from a fitful, unrestful night of thinking about Harry leaving and already missing David, Rebecca walked into the Daily Mail lobby to find a blissful Pauline.

  “Oh, what do you think?” Pauline twirled around so Rebecca could see the sleek, shiny, brilliant red hair that now only brushed Pauline’s shoulders, instead of hanging down her back. Not a curl in sight except for the ends turned under perfectly.

  “It took me an hour to blow it dry. My new stylist showed me how. She’s the one who cut it. I decided to do something for myself with the extra money from my raise.” A frown twisted her plump, glossed lips. “Don’t you think that’s okay, to do something for myself?”

  “Absolutely! You look stunning. Love it! Turn around again.”

  Laughing, Pauline twirled, looking dazzling.

  “Have you lost weight, too?” Rebecca asked, her mouth curling into a conspiratory smile. “Looks like you’ve decided not all men are bastards like our ex- husbands and you’re on the hunt.”

  Pauline blushed. “Maybe. Oh, Rebecca, you found Mr. Sumner. He’s wonderful. It’s given me new hope that there’s someone for me to love. Like the way you guys feel about each other.”

  Warmth filled every pore of her body just thinking about David, but she tried to be discreet. “Well, that’s not exactly the way it is.”

  “Oh, sure. Stop!” Pauline rolled her eyes. “What about the rosebushes? If that wasn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what is. And the way he looks at you!”

  “Yes, we have become closer friends lately.” Rebecca tried to sound nonchalant, but even she could hear the thrill in her voice.

  “See. I’ll bet you’re not worried this time that he’s gone and so is Shannon.”

  “Again?” She’d accomplished her goal with George, and her own heart repair had taken quite a different delightful path, but she still had to confront Shannon. “Didn’t she just take a vacation?”

  “Sick days.” Pauline leaned closer, and her new sleek hair fell charmingly across her cheek. “Maybella told me Shannon is suffering from a severe migraine. She’ll probably be out the rest of the week. Something traumatic happened to her over the weekend to bring it on.”

  Rebecca knew from personal experience that reality was a nasty dose to swallow. There was no other choice but to wait until Shannon returned for her woman-to-woman talk. Rebecca didn’t have the heart to accost someone prostrate in their bed with a headache and a heartache.

  Rebecca arrived in her office to find a short stack of mail on her desk. On top was a blue envelope addressed in large, flourishing handwriting.

  It was a thank-you note from Martha Bartholomew, raving about the birthday gift and gushing that every time she used the silver bookmark she thought fondly of Rebecca. It ended with hopes from both Martha and Charlie that they would see one another soon.

  She tapped the note against her desk, debating her choices.

  “Rebecca,” Kate said from the doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt. You appear deep in thought.” She walked into the office.

  Feeling guilty for fraternizing with the enemy on Daily Mail time, Rebecca slipped the note under her pile of mail.

  “I need to hand over a few assignments to you this week.” There was a new freshness to Kate’s walk.

  Rebecca thought she knew why. “Did you get the voice mail I left you early this morning? Your finance col
umn in this morning’s paper was brilliant!”

  Kate’s eyes looked brighter, more rested. “Thank you. I did get it. Several other people called or sent e-mails, too.”

  “I’m not surprised. I called my banker this morning and changed two of my accounts because of your column.”

  Kate’s laugh sounded fuller and deeper than Rebecca had ever heard it. “That’s funny. Two of my other callers told me the same thing.”

  “You’re the baby boomers’ new financial guru. Since we’ve vowed to stay young forever, we need the money to do it. You should write a book,” Rebecca declared, warming to the idea.

  The light went out of Kate’s eyes. “Actually, I had a book contract before my breakdown. The project is outlined, researched, ready to be written.”

  “Then you should write it, Kate.”

  “The contract was canceled. My stay at the hospital was longer than expected. There was also the fact I no longer had my power base at Wealth Weekly behind me.” Kate shrugged as if wanting to shake off those memories. “Yesterday’s news. Now, for Friday, I need an article on the ultimate hostess gifts. And for Saturday, the best ways to store your summer clothes for the winter.”

  “Of course, I’ll take care of the pieces. Don’t give them another thought.”

  It gave Rebecca comfort to give in to her natural inclination to take care of others. It felt right to help Kate for as long as she needed her.

  Harry didn’t need to worry about Rebecca not taking care of her own needs. Like her quintessential heroine, Scarlett O’Hara, she’d think about what was good for herself tomorrow.

  On Saturday afternoon Rebecca had to give serious thought to taking care of her own well-being. She caught the first wave of flu sweeping through the newspaper office.

  Feverish, head pounding, her chest feeling like an elephant was sitting on it with the trunk wrapped around her throat, Rebecca lay spread-eagled, miserable on her bed.

  The phone rang, and with a groan she rolled over to answer it. “Hello,” she croaked, her voice nearly gone.

  “Rebecca? You sound awful.” David sounded very far away.

  “I have the flu. Where are you?” She tried not to cough into his ear.

  “On my jet. I’ll be in Chicago for five hours tomorrow before I leave for the West Coast. I’ll come see you.”

  “No!” The thought of him seeing her lank, oily hair, red, blotchy skin, and weepy eyes and nose made her feel sicker. “I’m contagious.”

  “Who’s taking care of you?” He sounded alarmed, like he truly cared.

  She curled up in a fetal position, feeling incredibly happy for someone with a hundred-and-two temperature. “I am. Pauline and Kate both have the flu, too, and Harry’s got several surgeries scheduled this week. Can’t take germs into the operating room. I’m fine.”

  “Stop talking. I can hear how much it’s hurting you. I’ll be in touch.”

  The phone rang early Sunday morning and woke Rebecca up. She didn’t mind, because she thought it might be David.

  She cleared her throat, hoping her voice would sound stronger. “Hello.” She still sounded like a sick frog.

  “Miss Covington? This is Malcolm. There’s a Miss Gilda Parlinski from the Loving Hands Nursing Agency down here who says she’s supposed to take care of you.”

  “What?” she croaked and sat up. She felt so light-headed. If she hadn’t been in bed, she would have fallen down. “I didn’t call any nursing agency. I only have the flu.”

  “She says to tell you Mr. Sumner hired her. She has a message from him for you.”

  Is this how it feels to be swept off my feet? If she could see herself, would her eyes be sparkling with this beautiful, joyous feeling of being cherished? Or was it just the fever making her hallucinate? “Send her up. Thanks, Malcolm.”

  Rebecca stood up gingerly, and the room tilted a little to the left. Moving at the proverbial snail’s pace, she managed to struggle into her robe. It felt too heavy on her weakened muscles. With great effort, she shrugged it off.

  She decided she’d have to greet Gilda Parlinski wearing just her “If All the World’s a Stage, I Want Better Lighting!” sleep shirt.

  She made it to the living room and collapsed on the couch, resting until the doorbell rang.

  When it did, the sound pierced her throbbing head like someone was sticking it with big, thick needles.

  By the time she unbolted the door and pulled it open, she could hardly stand. “I surrender. Please come in.”

  Miss Gilda Parlinski had an ageless face and fair- colored hair and was dressed from head to foot in white. In Rebecca’s weakened state she looked like an angel.

  “Hello, Miss Covington. I’m Gilda. Mr. Sumner called in a message for you. I wrote it down.”

  Leaning against the mirrored wall, Rebecca read it: “Don’t argue. For a change let someone take care of you. I’ll be in touch. David.”

  She clutched the note to her bosom like it was a love letter instead of orders. He cares. There was simply no way she could talk herself out of the truth.

  “Time to go back to your bed, Miss Covington. Rest is what you need. I’m unhooking the phone in your bedroom.”

  Meekly, Rebecca followed Gilda’s orders, too.

  She slept until three p.m., when Gilda brought in homemade chicken soup from groceries she’d ordered from Whole Foods and Malcolm had picked up.

  After consuming half the soup, Rebecca fell back on the pillows and closed her eyes. The next time she opened them, the clock said two a.m. There was a fresh box of Kleenex on her bedside table beside a pitcher of ice water and a glass.

  When she woke at five a.m., she felt well enough to stagger to the tub for a quick bath. It made her feel cleaner but weak as a noodle. Wrapped in a dry bath towel, she fell back into bed.

  When she heard the door open, she lifted her heavy eyelids and quickly let them drift shut. “I shouldn’t have taken that hot bath. I’m so weak I’m hallucinating. You look just like David.”

  “I’ve been called many things, but never a hallucination.” David’s voice was unmistakable.

  She groaned and covered her head with a pillow. “I told you not to come.”

  “I would have been here last night, but the airport was socked in. We couldn’t land the jet until two this morning.”

  She felt the mattress give as he sat on the side of the bed.

  “Take that pillow off your face before you suffocate. I’ve seen you without makeup. You’re adorable.”

  Too weak to resist, she pushed it aside and stared up at him. “Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?” Rebecca asked in a small voice because her throat hurt again. This time it wasn’t the flu but happy tears pooling there.

  “If I get sick, you take care of me. Deal?”

  Afraid to open her mouth for fear she’d start crying, she nodded.

  “Glad that’s settled.” His eyes swept across her feverish face as he gently pushed her limp hair off her forehead. “Now eat the breakfast I made you.”

  Only then did Rebecca pay attention to the tray on the table. “Did you cook this yourself?” she croaked.

  “I did.” He moved the tray to the bed and handed her the juice. “Don’t talk. You need to eat to keep up your strength.”

  She tried to remember if anyone had ever taken such tender care of her. Feelings she was too terrified to name swelled in her chest, making it hard to swallow the tiny bits of food David fed her.

  Afraid she couldn’t hold back her feelings another second, she shook her head. “I can’t eat any more. I’m too tired,” she whispered.

  “Sleep.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll be in the other room until I have to leave at midnight.”

  Blinking back tears, she watched him close the door. Only then did she shut her eyes and cry herself to sleep, because deep inside she knew happiness like this couldn’t last forever.

  Every fifteen minutes David walked carefully into Rebecca’s bedroom to check on her. She looked c
omfortable to him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes closed.

  He brushed her hair off her forehead, pleased she felt cooler. He pulled the comforter higher, tucking it around her shoulders, before backing out of the room.

  Shortly before midnight, he rose from the couch where he’d been working and headed toward her bedroom again. Gilda Parlinski’s chuckle stopped him.

  “Don’t worry so, Mr. Sumner. Miss Covington only has the flu. Nothing life-threatening.”

  Memories stirred and his heart ached. At first the doctors thought Ellen’s leukemia was a lingering flu.

  He nodded at the nurse but still opened the door and entered Rebecca’s bedroom.

  He sank onto the side of the bed, and his eyes roamed over her, lingering on her mouth. He smiled, thinking of how she curled her lips when she was happy and how she thrust up her chin when defying him. Rebecca was clever and beautiful and special, and he cared about her too much.

  Here with her, it was easy to forget the world outside and the promises he’d made himself.

  He ruthlessly tried to push aside his feelings. He was too raw, too vulnerable to the pain of loss. He hadn’t forgotten how it felt to lose the person he loved most in the world.

  What if something happened to Rebecca? Fear seared through him. He’d come so far, he wasn’t sure if he could back away from her.

  He stood, watching her sleep, the even rise and fall of her breasts under the covers. He had to leave her now, for a short while. It would be good to put some space between them. Give him time to think.

  He pressed one more kiss on her warm cheek and backed out of the room.

  She slept until the next morning, when Gilda came in carrying another breakfast tray and her phone. The instant it was turned on, it rang.