Paperback Romance

by Karin Kallmaker

  Alison gave a visible shudder and put her hand on Carolyn’s arm, pulling her past him. “Isn’t it amazing what they’re doing with plastic reptiles these days? It’s so lifelike,” she said loudly. She left the dusty print of her shoe on his leather loafer.

  “You constantly amaze me,” Carolyn said when they were securely tucked into their booth. “I never know how to respond to creeps like that. Not that I know why they bother.”

  “And you constantly amaze me,” Alison said. She looked over the candle into Carolyn’s warm blue eyes. She imagined that waking up next to that face would be like waking up to sunshine. “You don’t realize how much attention you do attract. You’re oblivious to it.” Like you’re oblivious to me and the way you make my heart and other body parts behave.

  “Every man in there was watching you,” Carolyn said.

  “I don’t care what any man wants,” Alison answered. She caught Carolyn’s gaze and held it. She opened her mouth to say what she’d been rehearsing for too many years.

  “Would you like a cocktail before ordering,” an unctuous voice interrupted.

  She slowly transferred her gaze from Carolyn to the waiter, adding what Carolyn had always called the Killer Laser Scan. The waiter wilted.

  “I’ll come back in a few minutes,” he said, scurrying away.

  “You should get those eyes licensed as a lethal weapon,” Carolyn said, color staining her cheeks and forehead—had she sensed some of what Alison was longing to say?

  “I wish they were sometimes.” She tried to smile despite the frustration of coming-outus interruptus. Just when she had finally found the right moment, and had the right words to say—well, who was she kidding? There had been right moments before. If only Carolyn weren’t so very dense. And if I wasn’t so afraid of losing her. “Sorry. You’re the host—I shouldn’t have sent him away.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t want a drink. But would you pick out something nice to go with dinner? I trust your wine palate implicitly.”

  “You may regret giving me carte blanche. Oh my, the fresh fish is lobster tails. Just the sort of thing the best agent in the world likes.”

  “I brought the credit card with the highest limit. Let’s pig.” Carolyn smiled and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. Alison found it utterly adorable and endearing—the gush of mushy feelings that coursed through her almost put her off her food.

  Alison fluttered her eyelashes and said, “There’s this wine I’ve been dying to try—”

  “It’s yours.” Carolyn closed her menu and snuggled against the cushioned back of the booth. “Want to split a Caesar Salad?”

  “Absolutely. They toss it at the table.” Alison let her eyes trace the line of the turquoise silk shirt that shimmered every time Carolyn moved. She followed the slender shoulders to the passing swells that made the palms of her hands itch. She wondered if she were no better than the pond slime in the bar, but decided she was because she loved Carolyn and would respect her in the morning, every morning, for the rest of their lives. “I think it’s supposed to be romantic.”

  “And garlic is supposed to be an aphrodisiac.” Carolyn laughed. “Remember that someone told us the fraternity guys would serve peeled garlic and green M&Ms at the parties—thank God we never went to one. Where do these mad ideas get started?”

  So much for my subtle lead-in, Alison thought. And so the conversation went on. She rarely felt that rush of connection she longed for whenever she was with Carolyn, but it happened just often enough to keep Alison hoping. And it happened infrequently enough to keep her praying for a cure.

  The food was ideal, however. The waiter had learned his lesson and approached with great caution. But ideal moments did not arrive. Alison knew their dinner out together was going to end as they all had since Carolyn’s marriage—no trip to the store for Sara Lee cheesecake. No Katherine Hepburn movie. No nothing. The cool night air and the ever present hum of the nearby freeway did great damage to the mellow glow she’d developed toward the end of the wine. Just as well.

  “So why won’t you tell me where you’re going?”

  “Because it’s a secret,” Carolyn said. “But I do intend to come home in one piece this time—physically and emotionally.”

  Alison reluctantly unlocked her car door, but she didn’t open it. She turned to look at Carolyn in the dim light of the parking lot. “If you don’t, you know I’ll help you put yourself back together.”

  “I know,” Carolyn said quietly. “I know.”

  Suddenly, Alison’s fantasies came true. Carolyn reached for her, embraced her. Her breath whispered past Alison’s ear while Alison’s heart stopped at the press of Carolyn’s upper body against hers. The silk shirt transmitted the warmth of Carolyn’s breasts to Alison’s. She was no fool. She embraced Carolyn in return, pulling tighter. She wondered if she moaned as she drew Carolyn’s hips to her own, rocking slightly.

  “Oh, Ally,” she heard Carolyn sigh. “You’re the best friend a girl ever had. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  About thirty minutes later Alison looked blearily into the bathroom mirror, and marveled at how natural her laugh and ungay banter had seemed. It hadn’t been easy to let go of a body lock no lesbian would have mistaken for anything but the full-fledged Take Me I’m Yours. But Carolyn had been oblivious, as usual.

  She brushed her teeth, gums and tongue vigorously, but still woke up with severe garlic breath. It was not romantic.

  ***

  Carolyn slammed her ’65 Mustang into reverse and angled in for a perfect parallel parking job. She gave herself a high five for finding one of the two free parking spaces in all of midtown. She hadn’t told Alison where she was going because she didn’t know yet. She intended to spend the entire morning at the travel agency if necessary, until she found the right trip to put some momentum back into her life.

  The sun was hot on her back as she walked past 22nd Street. Every time she stepped into the shade of a tree, the temperature plummeted to fit March in Sacramento. Carolyn shivered, and remembered, without wanting to, the shiver she had felt when she had hugged Alison last night. Again she had a sudden rush of wanting to beg Alison to come traveling with her. Alison was her best friend, and—but—it didn’t seem right to cling to her so much. Thinking about Alison made her feel confused, so she replaced Alison’s image in her mind with the particularly stunning camellia that hung over someone’s fence. At this time of year in Sacramento it was easy to think “Oh, just another camellia,” but Carolyn stopped to inhale the delicate scent and appreciate the unusual silver-pink color. After a few deep breaths she remembered where she was and why she was going there—and couldn’t imagine why she had stopped to smell flowers.

  Alison had referred Carolyn to Linda’s Travel years ago and she had never been disappointed. Linda loaded Carolyn with stacks of brochures and left her to mull over options in peace. With her earnest desire to avoid a repeat holiday-romance situation, Carolyn rejected any brochures that featured hand-in-hand couples strolling down sandy beaches, reveling in sepia sunsets or bluer than blue waves. She was momentarily nonplused at a brochure that featured two women walking hand in hand—well, she thought, it’s not my cup of tea, but they look like they’re having fun. She studied the picture one last time before she set it aside. She put one brochure on Russia and another on New Zealand in the possibilities pile and reached for the second stack.

  On top was a brochure for the Orchestral Tour of Europe. She froze. It sounded wonderful, but did she really want to go back to Europe? Well, she could just avoid Paris. When she opened the brochure her fingertips prickled. She’d hear the world-renowned orchestras of Europe—Rome, the Salzburg Mozart Festival, Wagner in Munich. Alison would have hated it.

  She decided to trust her instincts. “This sounds wonderful,” Carolyn said aloud. Linda immediately reached for the brochure and examined the fine print. “I do know enough French, Italian and Spanish to get by. My German is pretty good.”

&n
bsp; “You should have been a linguist,” Linda said.

  “I didn’t want to spend my life traveling.” Carolyn gaped for a moment, then burst out laughing. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it, when I’m sitting here arranging for a long trip.”

  “Maybe you just didn’t know yourself then,” Linda said. “It’s never too late to change your life.”

  “You could be right.” The idea of traveling all over the world had scared her to death when she was seventeen and filling out college applications. It didn’t seem so bad now. “I don’t really want to go back to Paris, but—it wouldn’t kill me, I guess. I do want to go everywhere else on the list, like Amsterdam for example.”

  “I’ll start calling hotels. It’s late to sign up, but if there’s space they might be giving good deals. We just might save a fortune. And I’ll see if I can get you out of the bus tour excursions. You know the languages so you won’t want to be stuck with a bunch of tourists,” Linda said. She wrinkled her nose in a teasing fashion as she handed back the brochure. “Here, read the fine print for yourself.”

  When Carolyn left three hours later she carried a thick packet of airline and train tickets and reservation slips at hotels Linda said were okay for women traveling alone. When she got home, Carolyn started packing. She was tempted to call Alison but the thought made her slightly breathless. Alison would try to talk her out of it. So she waited until she knew Alison was most likely to be gone and left a message with Devon.

  ***

  As she went up the jetway into the terminal at Orly International, Carolyn felt as if she were leaving a cloistered life behind. But the butterflies flitting around in her stomach took nose dives every time she thought about the last time she’d been in Paris. She had wanted to put Paris in the middle of the trip so it would seem like just another stop, but the fine orchestras of Europe had their own schedules and would not change them to suit Carolyn. Alison would think she’d taken leave of her senses. When she remembered what she’d done to herself that last trip—maybe she was crazy.

  Time for remembering later. She had left Paris immediately after the annulment, and this would be her first look at the city without r-o-s-e-colored glasses, as Samantha would say. Time to dredge up the memories later. For now, she was checking into her hotel and getting reacquainted with her French.

  She had always been able to pick up portions of the Romance languages easily—as long as everyone stuck to a conversational vocabulary and didn’t get too complex with tenses. German was the only language she had a true grip on, after English. Being multilingual made traveling a lot easier, and the itinerary suited her—from Paris she was going to Munich, Amsterdam (though her Dutch was shaky at best) and Madrid, then Salzburg for Mozart, and a final week-long flourish in Rome. The tour arrangers had gladly set aside Carolyn’s tickets for the concerts, but had been unable to get her a seat on the various bus trips and tours—oh, what a damned shame, Linda had said—that came with the entire package. She had all the advantages of a tour but no forced relationships and making small talk when she wanted breakfast alone.

  “Good afternoon,” the desk clerk said in perfect English. He smiled as she responded in her rusty French and handed over her reservation slip and passport. Her French was coming back to her—French was all in the cheeks.

  She was surprised when the clerk handed her an envelope with her name. Oh, her concert ticket. “I don’t suppose you know what is playing at the Opera House tomorrow night?” She extended her ticket to the clerk for his examination.

  He made an inimitable French noise of delight. “I was there last night. Simply incredible, you must go. The guest conductor is superb—a master. He is also staying in the hotel. You will have heard of Nicolas Frost, yes?”

  “No, I haven’t. I live in Sacramento. That’s in California,” Carolyn added as if where she lived somehow explained this apparently large gap in her knowledge of the music world.

  The clerk favored her with a pitying look. “Even so you will appreciate it.” He rang the bell and waved her key at the bellman. “Enjoy your stay in Paris, mademoiselle.”

  “Merci beaucoup.” Carolyn smiled at the bellman as they boarded the waiting elevator. As the doors began to close a slender, dark-haired man with a severe frown shoved his arm in and slammed the doors open again.

  “Pardonnez moi,” he muttered in an appalling accent, not looking sorry at all. “Neuf, s’il vous plait.”

  An ill-mannered American or Brit, Carolyn concluded from the accent. She conversed easily with the bellman, not at all reluctant to show that some foreigners did bother to learn the language and had manners as well. When they reached the ninth floor, Carolyn took a step forward, only to collide with the other traveler.

  “After you,” the man said with exaggerated patience. Definitely British. He sounded like Ronald Coleman or Alistair Cooke, though not as gracious.

  “Oh no, don’t let us keep you,” Carolyn said. She had no sooner said the words than the man hurried out of the elevator and rapidly strode down the corridor. Some people.

  Her room was delightful, however, and she settled in, then dined in the “afternoon” salon—a light but distinctly French meal of cheeses, grapes, consommé and a sweet white table wine. The French wine alone, after an exclusive California wine diet, brought back vivid memories.

  She was exhausted and jetlagged, but she wouldn’t sleep until she faced the ghosts. She walked to the Arc de Triomphe. She looked around. It seemed that nothing had changed. Boy and Girl had flagged the same cab and after a little arguing, decided to split the ride. Dinner together every night for the next week and dancing until dawn and walking in the parks and meandering through museums with eyes only for each other and so forth—it had seemed the height of romance.

  And here, under the Arc, he had proposed, down on one knee, the scent of roses in the air, his fair, golden good looks—the contemplation of which now made her slightly nauseous—radiating in the moonlight. It was the perfect romantic setting, one Carly Vincent wouldn’t have written because it was too perfect. But according to Carly’s books, the heroine always said yes in perfect romantic settings. So Carolyn had said yes and extended her vacation so they could get married in Paris, the city where they had met. What more could a girl have wanted?

  Shivering, she walked back toward her hotel, deep in reflection. On her wedding night she had waited for passion to arrive and sweep her away. After the first week the only thing that had arrived was a bladder infection, followed by a cessation of conjugal activity. After the second week, when it had become apparent he also felt they had made a mistake, she had stopped trying to please him. There was no spark for her and she couldn’t pretend. She didn’t know why she should have to.

  She knew he’d find release anyway—it seemed so much easier for men. The proof of his arousal was always evident, but she had somehow never believed she was the cause. He’d been hurt when she’d tried to talk about how—unessential she felt. It was easy to pretend the marriage had never happened, except she knew it had. She sometimes wondered if he thought about it too, or if he’d gone back to Chicago and gotten married to a woman who could please him. And she was devoutly grateful she had not gotten pregnant.

  She hadn’t set out to retain her virginity for thirty years, but she had. Squirming out of embraces had been an instinctive reflex because she’d believed that waiting meant her wedding night would be so much more wonderful. Romance had been in books and movies and pop records during her teen years. She had worked happily in her father’s construction firm as Woman Friday while she completed her English and languages major, then went on for her master’s in English.

  She’d met Alison in college and their enduring friendship had blossomed into a strong business relationship as well. It was Alison, after going into business for herself, who had encouraged her to spin out one of her short stories to a full-length romance novel, and then had used her own talents of persuasion to sell it. Exhilaration had been tinged with grief—
her father’s death, following only a year after her mother’s, and the contract for her first book had come within weeks of each other.

  Writing, reading and watching movies had been her existence ever since. In all that time she had never felt that elusive spark other women seemed to talk about all the time—the spark her heroines supposedly felt. The same spark Carly Vincent had been able to describe so vividly because Carolyn had thought it existed. But in practice, Carolyn had found Alison’s company a lot more interesting than any of the men at the gym Alison dragged her to.

  She stopped in an all-night bakery for some eclairs and, on the last block to her hotel, decided again that she must be frigid. It was the only thing that made sense. She didn’t exactly know how to go about proving her theory, but she accepted it as fact. Her fantasies had always been hot, but she couldn’t even get up much interest in her old tall-dark-and-handsome fantasies anymore. The only rush of emotion she’d felt lately was overwhelming friendship for Alison. But that was completely natural.

  Back in her room, tired to the bone, Carolyn stared at her reflection in the mirror. So very ordinary to look at: her eyes were a faded blue, and her hair was dishwater blonde no matter what Alison said. Alison—she could understand why anyone would go for Alison. She really did have that raven black hair and a womanly figure that had driven poets mad for centuries. She didn’t have Alison’s strength and vitality, nor Samantha’s panache and glamour. She chuckled. Nor did she have, to her immense relief, her brother’s ears.

  She gobbled her eclairs greedily as she pored over the map of the Palace at Versailles. This trip she would be a tourist and nothing else.

  Chapter Three

  Fanfare

  “But what the hell am I supposed to do about the performance?” Nick roared. Her voice almost broke with the effort, but she had the satisfaction of seeing almost everyone in her line of sight wilt around the edges. She’d worked on that roar.