Summer in the City

by Irene Vartanoff

  “This is amazing. This is a gift from God. I never could have imagined that this would be true.” A tear coursed down his cheek. “Thank you. Thank you for having our child. For saving us both from mortal sin,” Edward said with complete seriousness.

  He kissed her reverently.

  She tried to turn it into more, but a few seconds later, he pulled his lips from hers. He was back to self-flagellation. “If only I hadn’t taken the easy way out. If I had said the hell with everything. If I had divorced Callie. If you and I had married and I had quit politics.”

  “That’s enough. It didn’t happen that way.” There were too many possible regrets, and regrets were pointless. “Make love to me,” she demanded.

  Chapter 20

  The next day, after her usual few unpleasant seconds with Linda, Susan dealt with the basics of her duties and then called Elizabeth Winsor’s assistant for an appointment. She wanted to explain what she had found in the files.

  Elizabeth was booked up completely, and then leaving town for two back-to-back writing conferences.

  “Oh.” She bent some persuasive efforts on possibly being fit in if Elizabeth had a moment, but Joanne said it wasn’t likely. Susan returned to her financial puzzle.

  Then she got an email from Michael.

  Hi, beautiful,

  Come to dinner at my place tonight? Plenty of privacy so we can talk.

  I must see you.

  Michael

  P.S. I can cook.

  He was tempting. She was still recovering from the high drama of her emotions over the past week. She wasn’t ready for an intimate chat, especially alone with him in an apartment with a bed nearby. She tried to let him down gently.

  Hi, Michael,

  Sounds wonderful. Some other time? I’m wiped today. I stayed up too late last night watching a classic movie with a guy who looks like you.

  Fondly,

  Susan

  Fondly? That sounded stuffy.

  Love? Oh, no. Don’t go there.

  After wrestling with it for at least ten minutes, she skipped the closing altogether.

  A few minutes later, he replied.

  How about tomorrow night?

  She wouldn’t commit. She had a strong feeling that their next meeting would change their relationship dramatically. She wasn’t ready.

  Ask me tomorrow.

  After that, he sent her an emoticon of an unhappy face.

  They went through versions of the same questions and answers the rest of the week. A couple of times, he called her. He texted her cell phone one afternoon, saying he was in a boring meeting and wished he could be with her instead.

  i miss u

  She could feel her resolve slipping, especially because he’d kept reassuring her that it was only dinner and talk she was committing to. Probably that was what the Big Bad Wolf told Little Red Riding Hood. Her fear was keeping her strong in resisting him.

  Then Thursday morning, he sent her a link. When she opened it, Michael’s smiling face came onto her computer screen, with what must be his kitchen in the background. He was wearing a huge white apron and a chef’s hat on the back of his head and waving a wooden spoon. “Hello, Susan. You’re invited to dinner at my place tomorrow night. I’m cooking up a special menu for you. Seven o'clock. Dress casual.” Then he proceeded to give a tour of his gourmet kitchen and a preview of the meal, including the chicken breasts, spices, and other ingredients. As if he was Julia Child. The camerawork was amateurish. What a lot of effort he had gone to.

  She had never thought chefs had sex appeal. This particular chef did.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again. “Did you get my email?”

  “Yes.” She hoped she didn’t sound as tremulous as she felt at that moment.

  “And?” His voice sounded huskier than usual.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she let it out. “All right. Tomorrow night.”

  “Finally! You are one tough lady. I haven’t worked this hard to get a date since I was a kid.” She could hear the smile in his voice. She loved the smile in his voice. Heavens. She was sunk.

  During the achingly long week, she had kept calm between tempting contacts from Michael by concentrating on her embezzlement trail. She had investigated—her polite term for hacking—the author contracts to eliminate as many possibilities as she could. The author contracts did not reside in a web-based file. All the computers in the office were running on the same network, but shielded from each other.

  She spent most of the week, off and on between her regular manuscript trafficking duties, searching for a way into the files. She finally found it. As eager as she was to blow the lid off the double dealing over the budget figures, she was even more eager to see Michael again. So she carefully took her jotted notes home with her, and left at her usual time early Friday afternoon. She had several hours in which to get ready. Lots of time to bathe and primp and examine every item in her new wardrobe and find the perfect outfit for an intimate but casual dinner with Michael. At his apartment.

  They did need to know more about each other. He had allowed her to do much of the talking when they were together. She had stuck to easy topics without revealing any of the secrets of her past. Michael had been reticent, too. Perhaps that was part of their attraction for each other. They were starting from a clean slate, without knowledge of prior failures and complications. They could view each other as perfect.

  She must not succumb to temptation tonight. Even if she was dressing to inflame him. Although not obviously. Her pair of navy slacks and a pretty patterned vee neck baby doll blouse were casual, as he had specified. True, she was wearing bold red pumps with an extremely high heel. She knew what they called that type of shoe, although she was too ladylike to say it out loud. As she looked at herself in her bedroom mirror, she didn’t see a lot of skin showing. Yet she felt supremely sexy. Being around Michael, thinking about Michael, had her in a state of arousal. The thought was intensely seductive.

  ***

  Louis met up with Rona at their favorite bar late that afternoon. It was a man’s bar, dark and without frills, with bar stools and booths for serious drinking and quiet conversation.

  “Okay, girlfriend, what’s the trouble?”

  “Edward is driving me crazy.” She took a look at the martini she had ordered, but strangely felt no desire to toss it down as she usually did with her first drink. Getting buzzed wouldn’t change anything. The problem was that Edward still harbored a huge amount of guilt.

  “He wants to meet Nancy. He’s talking about flying out to Chicago to see her.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “If Nancy had wanted to meet him, she would have done it already.” She fretted. “His feelings are going to be horribly hurt.”

  “This bothers you because?”

  “He’s a strong man, but he seems vulnerable, even fragile these days.”

  “Hmm. What do I know about Edward being vulnerable? Oh, that’s right. Nothing,” Louis said with sarcasm obviously intended. “He kept the affair with you a complete secret, and he broke your heart,” Louis finished angrily. “Why do you care if he gets snubbed by Nancy? Who, by the way, is one feisty sweetheart and could do it easily.”

  “Down boy. I’ve got enough residual anger for both of us. If I can forgive him, you can.”

  She brightened. “You’re right about Nancy. She doesn’t take any shit from anyone. I don’t know how Susan and Rick managed to make her so tough; they’re both so polite and careful and kind.”

  “She’s got your genes. She was born a fighter.”

  “Thanks. Maybe it’s true that heredity is as important as environment.”

  She sighed and lost the brief animation that talking about Nancy had brought on.

  “But?” Louis prompted.

  “I hate to think of Edward being rebuffed. I still love him,” she confessed. “Despite what he did to us.”

  “You’re sunk,” he said with glee.<
br />
  “That I am,” she agreed. “I haven’t had sex with another man since he called me. Haven’t wanted to.”

  “Damn. When’s the wedding? Do I get to be a bridesmaid?”

  “Louis,” she said in a warning tone. He subsided.

  “We haven’t talked about it. Edward has many guilty feelings weighing him down. Besides, there are his children to consider.”

  Louis frowned. “Did he say that?”

  “No, but why else would he hesitate?”

  “Has he said he wants a future with you?”

  “He says he loves me. He apologizes for the past, endlessly. We always have sex.” She arched an eyebrow. “My doing.”

  Louis motioned to the bartender and ordered another drink, though hers was still untouched. “This could be more complicated than I thought.”

  After hashing it out six ways to Sunday, they gave up. She would have to push Edward into committing to a future with her. Or not.

  ***

  Susan took a cab up to Michael’s address on the Upper West Side, feeling very daring. She was strung out with nervous anticipation, knowing that their intimate dinner could lead to much more.

  “Susan.” Michael greeted her at the door with a kiss but kept it light. He wasn’t wearing his chef’s costume. Instead, he was in blue jeans and a polo shirt. He looked casual and sexy as hell. When she couldn’t help clinging to him as he kissed her, Michael was the one who carefully broke it off. He nipped her earlobe and said, “Hold that thought, darling. Talk comes first.”

  Then he showed her around. His co-op was the rare, spacious kind of apartment that mostly had long since been cut up into mean little one bedrooms and studios. Not his. The rooms seemed to go on forever. “There’s even a private guest suite,” he said, directing her past the big kitchen. “Used to be the maid’s. I had it updated for when my son visits. If you ever feel you can’t stay at your apartment for another second, you can come here.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” she said, taking in the beautifully appointed, spacious room and adjoining bath.

  “How did it go this week with Bev?” he asked.

  “Much better. We’re keeping out of each other’s way. She told me she was concerned that I was leading you on.”

  “I take issue with the idea that you’re doing the leading.”

  With that, Michael ushered her into his large living room with its comfortable furniture and view of Amsterdam Avenue.

  “Freshly squeezed orange juice,” he said, presenting her with a tall glass filled with ice and yellow liquid. He had an amber drink, probably whiskey. She perched on a comfortable leather couch in a warm palomino color. Instead of sitting across from her in a matching chair, Michael chose to sit next to her.

  “Dinner in a bit, but first, it’s time for you to tell me more about Susan. Start with when you were a dimpled toddler,” he smiled, “I love baby stories.”

  Seeing that he meant it, she complied. “I had a normal childhood. It wasn’t interesting. I have a brother and a sister, each living far away now. We’re not close emotionally. I’m sure I come across as kind of a priss. Midwestern and naïve. I’m not, not really.”

  “I love your naiveté.”

  She humored him with a few anecdotes from her childhood, but then let a more serious expression cross her face.

  “I haven’t led a charmed life.” She looked at him seriously. “Do you really want to know what makes me tick?”

  “Yes,” he replied, equally serious.

  “Then, may I tell you about my son, Kyle? Everything I am today is a reflection of our short time together. I warn you it doesn’t have a happy ending.”

  Michael took her hand in his.

  “I want to hear it all,” he promised, “Every detail.”

  She took a deep breath. “He was our miracle baby. We’d thought we couldn’t have any children, so we adopted Nancy. Then, years later, after some medical intervention, there was Kyle. He was perfect from the day he was born.”

  She told a few favorite stories, smiling as she remembered. Then she lost her smile.

  “The cancer came on insidiously. By the time we realized something was wrong, that being out of breath all the time and getting bad bruises meant something, it had spread throughout his body. Yet the doctors told us many childhood cancers were curable. The chances were very good, they said.” She sighed.

  Michael tightened his arm around her.

  “We found the best treatment for our son. We searched out specialists and special hospitals and special treatments. Nothing stopped it.”

  Michael wiped away a tear that was rolling down one of her cheeks.

  She sighed again. “I held it together month after month, trying to hope, seeking treatment, trying to help him endure treatment. I advocated for him. I nursed him when he could live at home. I home schooled him when he could still concentrate on assignments. When he had to be in a hospital, I sat by his bedside all day. Sometimes I slept there, too.

  “I teased Kyle into smiles when he was hurting. I scoured stores for imaginative gifts to occupy his long tedious hours away from his friends and any semblance of normal life. And more.”

  She pushed a piece of her hair behind one ear. “I didn’t forget my husband. I comforted Rick’s tears and helped him hang on. I was strong for our daughter. Nancy was away at college most of the time but terribly concerned.

  “I did it all. I was the perfect supermom from a made-for-TV movie, a fighter in every way. Except our story didn’t have a happy TV ending. Kyle died just two days past his twelfth birthday.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Michael said.

  “What followed was the most shameful period of my life. I took the pills the doctors gave me, and I ignored everyone and wallowed in my grief. I turned myself into a zombie from the drugs, and I stole to get more. Finally, Rick and Nancy sat me down in a classic family intervention. So I went into rehab. They got me off the drugs. When I stopped crying through every single therapy session, the psychologists said I had turned a corner.”

  She stirred restlessly. “I didn’t feel better. I felt worse. I was sent home anyway. I immediately found a bottle of pills and downed them all. Only Rick’s coming home early from work saved me from dying in my own vomit.

  “Not pretty, is it? Not ladylike and matronly and reserved, like Ohio.” She didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of her tone.

  “Back I went to the mental hospital, where the psychologist explained I’d tried to kill myself because I was recovering. I continued to spiral downward, acting out in one unpleasant and obstreperous way after another. I lost count of the number of times they put me in isolation, in a room with padded walls and no furniture.

  “The psychologist insisted I was improving. She said I behaved inappropriately because under the grief was so much anger. Anger because my child died. Anger because he could not hold on even though I loved him so much. Anger at every rotten thing that had ever happened in my life.” She let out a long breath.

  “Eventually, the anger wore itself out. One day, I looked at myself in the glass of an office at the rehab center—I wasn’t allowed a mirror in my tiny room—and finally saw myself. A sad woman who had tried to make the world go away because her beloved son had died. It hadn’t worked. He was still dead.

  “I had to decide. Would I stay as close to him as possible by refusing to let any particle of my grief subside? Or would I let him go—and get him back by living myself? I finally chose to live.”

  She told him more about Kyle, about what a wonderful boy he was. She cried. She laughed. Finally, she wound down and stopped speaking. Michael had his arm around her by then, and he was holding her close.

  “He sounds like a great kid,” he finally said.

  “He was.” Then she shook off the sorrow determinedly. “Now you know most of my life story. I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”

  Michael had cooked a gourmet meal. The portions were moderate, and the side dishes were healt
hy choices. He’d obviously noticed how careful she was with food. “Good enough?” he asked.

  “Perfect. You were so tactful the first night we met, at the theater. You acted puzzled instead of saying the obvious, that I had been huge before.”

  “Huge is in the eye of the beholder, darling.”

  “That’s sweet. You’d better mean it. Underneath my new skinny clothes is a ton of wrinkly skin where there used to be fat,” she warned darkly.

  “I’m looking forward to the opportunity to check every saggy inch,” he grinned.

  “Wretch.”

  She couldn’t resist flirting with him, even if she was leading him on. When she was with him, she felt charming and desirable, and the heady combination turned her flirtatious. When she wasn’t shivering with desire.

  After dinner, they went up to the roof of Michael’s building, which had been turned into a patio with benches and a pot garden. The most had been made of the space. Tall ferns and Northern pines in gigantic pots made the roof into a private forest. They went near the edge and enjoyed the breathtaking view of Central Park and the tall buildings at the south end of the park.

  “This is marvelous!” she said.

  Twilight descended, and she saw twinkling lights far to the south, possibly the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. She sighed. “It’s so beautiful.”

  When Michael didn’t reply, she looked up at him. He was gazing at her, not the skyline.

  “It’s a total cliché, but you’re much more beautiful,” he said. He drew her into his arms and kissed her.

  She felt the rightness of it in every part of her body. They fit together perfectly. As his lips wooed hers, her breasts strained toward his chest, aching with the need to be crushed into him. His tongue caressed her. His lips nibbled on her. Her legs grew weak. He continued kissing her. Michael put his hand on one of her breasts. A jolt ran through her. She was on fire and so was he. They might have made love right there, but despite the seeming privacy, they could be seen from other rooftop gardens in other buildings, from windows, and by any neighbor of his who happened to come up to the roof.