Domestic Secrets

by Rosalind Noonan

  As the intimidation of the cop car wore off, Rachel fell into an easy patter with the sheriff. There was something open and All-American about his broad shoulders, low-key demeanor, and wide, easy grin. The conversation was so relaxed she found a graceful segue to the topic of his wedding ring. “Are you not allowed to wear it on patrol?”

  “I’m not married anymore—divorced three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, pausing before adding, “I guess.”

  Her timing was perfect. He turned his head aside and chuckled. “No need to be sorry about that. Believe me, it was a good thing; sometimes people are better off apart.”

  “Well . . .” She smiled. “That explains your haircut.” No woman would let her husband neglect his hair like that. “Stop by Holy Snips sometime and I’ll clean you up back there. Your hair is hitting your collar.”

  “Is it? Time to go to Larry’s. You know Larry, the barber over in West Green? That’s where I go.” He rubbed his chin, a spark of mirth in his blue eyes. “That’s where manly men go for a haircut.”

  “Apparently, not often enough.” She directed him to her house up ahead, and he laughed softly as he pulled up to her driveway.

  “You got me. Maybe I will stop by your place sometime. Maybe I can get you out of the shop for a cup of coffee.”

  “Maybe.” She slid out of the dark car, her heart trilling in joy. She’d just made a date for the first time in years.

  Ariel moaned as their entangled bodies dropped onto the quilt that had been spread on the studio floor. Saturated with pleasure, she rested in the thrum of deep satisfaction.

  As he gently stroked her hair away from her face—he always did that in the afterglow—she soaked up the excitement and fear of possessing him, of treading into forbidden territory.

  Sometimes it seemed ridiculous that her involvement with a younger man had the potential to bring her entire world tumbling down. Really. She could see the leagues of disapproving women, the Timbergrove moms, pointing her out on the sidelines of soccer games, whispering over the potatoes in the produce aisle at Safeway, smirking as they lined up behind her at the ATM.

  Oh, she’s the one.

  Sex with a younger man. In fact, more than one.

  She was their tutor. Apparently, she gave them more than voice lessons.

  In the so-called age of tolerance, her sexual appetite should not be such a big deal. The new political correctness dictated that it was fine to be gay and lesbian, black, Hispanic, and mixed race. Every individual was supposed to celebrate his or her identity; fly the banner high! One Oregon high school had just built a special restroom for transgender students. Everyone claimed to be “free to be you and me.” But when it came down to it, any deviation from the “norm” could be toxic. Sometimes she felt like packing up and hightailing it out of this town, but then she reminded herself that she would encounter the same disapproval wherever she went. Besides, there were the kids, Trevor and Maisy, and she knew that the teachers and parents of Timbergrove gave them the stability that their mother couldn’t offer. Since Oliver’s death, it had taken most of her energy to keep herself functioning. She had little left over for nurturing the fledglings.

  But this, these sessions of stolen pleasure, were utterly invigorating. Who knew?

  Five minutes of stretching and relaxing, like cats in the sun, and he was ready to go again. Ariel liked that about him, the fact that he could get hard just looking at her. She wanted to believe that it was her luscious breasts and soft curves that stoked his fires, but she knew that his age figured into it.

  “You young guys, you get hard when the friggin’ wind blows,” she said, looking down at him.

  “Doesn’t seem to be a problem for you.” He leaned down and covered her nipple with his lips, evoking a tug of desire deep in her groin. How quickly he had learned how to melt her resolve.

  He was right. She was always up for a second helping. “It’s all good now,” she said on a sigh. “But someday, when you’re older, all this is going to go away. Hard to believe, I know, but the wood just wilts.”

  “Yeah? That’s gotta suck.”

  “Sucks for you,” she teased.

  “But you won’t care.” He propped himself on one elbow, latching his gaze on to her eyes with that weird X-ray vision of his. “You’ll stay with me, no matter what.”

  “Nope.” She didn’t want him mistaking sex for a relationship. “You’ll be on your own, bud.”

  “You’re kidding.” He rolled on top of her, and she relished the feel of skin on skin, as well as the curves of his shoulder muscles as he held a plank position over her, his strong arms flexed. “You’ll never leave me. We belong together.”

  She was about to deny that—reality check, kid!—but he was already working her, nuzzling her, finding his way in. Conversation was lost in the art of the moment, the swing and sway and rocking of their search for pleasure and release.

  Later, she would wonder if she was giving him the wrong idea about their future together. They had no future as a couple.

  Later, she would fantasize about a true relationship with him, a sweet romance that would breathe new life into her deflating hopes.

  Later.

  Chapter 12

  “Our last dress rehearsal. Ever,” Ariel said when Rachel picked her up to drive to the high school Sunday evening. She let out a wistful sigh as she buckled her seat belt. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “It’s hitting me harder than I expected,” Rachel admitted as she pulled away from the curb. She was feeling the shift more acutely than Ariel, but then she was a few years older, and Ariel still would have two younger ones in the house after graduation. “You may have another few rounds of this if Trevor and Maisy decide to try out for Gleetime.”

  Ariel pressed her palms to her face as she sank down in the seat. “Don’t remind me. Little Miss Maisy is already showing a theatrical bent. The other night as she went up the stairs to bed she sang ‘So Long, Farewell’ from The Sound of Music. That kid kills me.”

  The Gleetime kids were in high spirits when Rachel and Ariel arrived in the green room. Most kids were already in costume for the opening number, Simon & Garfunkel’s “59th Street Bridge Song,” better known as “Feelin’ Groovy.” The bright colors and wild designs of the “hippie” costumes seemed to vibrate with energy. Some kids gathered for group selfies, while others stretched and danced to the music.

  “We got a sixties explosion going on here,” Ariel commented, placing her makeup box on the long counter in front of the lighted mirrors.

  A few of the moms had already hung sheets to screen off two changing areas in opposite ends of the green room, where they assisted with quick changes. Traci Harper was the enforcer, batting boys away from the girls’ section. As if these boys weren’t getting near-naked views of these girls with the pre-summer attire the kids trotted around in this time of year. Nora was stitching something by hand, while Nan Lee pinned up the hem of a formal gown.

  Dawn Opaka and her posse sat at a round table, sipping iced latte drinks and poking at boxes of donut holes that they had pretended to bring in for the students. “Anything consumed while in the line of duty does not count for calories!” Dawn insisted, prompting laughter from the moms at the table who had parked their asses as if they were waiting for a show to begin.

  Whatever. Rachel would be happy to be free of that crew after Jared graduated. She turned away and dug into her bag of hair supplies, determined not to let the sluggards get to her. This was going to be a fun show, made even better by working backstage with her best friend.

  Someone was playing sixties music on portable speakers, tunes like “For What It’s Worth” and “Fortunate Son,” and Ariel had jumped into the fray of dancing kids to demonstrate classic moves like the Twist and the Mashed Potato. Malika was whooping it up with Riley, and Tia was jitterbugging with Sophia. Jared was in that group, laughing with his dance partner, Allison Samwick, as they tried to do the Mo
nkey. Dressed in faded jeans and a multicolored mod shirt, Jared seemed to fit right in with the other students.

  Such a huge improvement from a few years ago, when he had been targeted, bullied, and isolated. Jared, the shy nerd, who would never match up to his older brother. She still felt bad about her lack of involvement in those early days when she had thought the bully phase would pass without her intervention. By the time it blossomed into an excruciating situation for Jared, Rachel’s mind had been elsewhere, wrapped up in Jackson’s diagnosis, his treatment. His illness had knocked her off her feet, sent her tumbling in the surf. Even now, years later, she sometimes felt the sands shifting beneath her feet when she tried to move ahead.

  Rachel turned away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring by her son, who was less than thrilled with her involvement here. “You don’t embarrass me,” he had told her a few weeks ago, “but I need my own space.”

  Already committed to helping out with Gleetime, she had promised to keep her distance. She didn’t want to do anything to disrupt the good mojo that had begun to swirl around Jared recently. Finally, in the last few months of high school, kids began to value academic achievement and talent. The kids who had once dominated because they were captain of a team or because Daddy owned a house with lakefront property now took a backseat to students being courted by prestigious colleges because of their accomplishments and skills. The kids who had once mocked Jared relentlessly for yodeling in a song from The Sound of Music now whooped it up when he belted a lyric to “Fortunate Son.”

  Rachel allowed herself a quick, proud glance at the young man who had come so far; these days Jared seemed happy with his life. Granted, Rachel still checked that drawer in his desk, her eyes on alert for any sign of plastic bags or rubber bands or drugs. But these days she checked more out of habit than fear. Somehow the act of checking seemed to ward off the irrevocable choice of death. Somehow, her vigilance seemed to guarantee that the laughter and joy of that young man dancing with his friends would go on. Doug Harper backed toward Jared, doing “the Bump,” and the two guys cracked up.

  Smiling, Rachel got to work helping some of the girls with their beaded headbands. The whole scene brought back a fond memory of working on a revival of Hair during her crazy years in New York City. Those had been good times, free times. Well, it had been a blast in the first few months, before the financial reality of city living had hit her. The last month there, she had probably gone through cases of beans and ramen noodles. The allure of New York City had worn thin when she’d returned home for Christmas to find her high school boyfriend, Gage Whalen, looking better than ever. His uncle had gotten him a job in construction, framing houses, and the hard labor had pumped up his muscles and filled his wallet with cash. Good Lord, they’d both been kids then, just a few years older than Kyle James was now, but Rachel had thought she’d had it all together. Rachel had fallen hard, choosing the security of his strong arms and the thrilling sex in his silver RX-7. So much sex and beer; she should have realized it was a toxic combination.

  “Are you really Jared’s mom?” A tiny wisp of a girl with white-blond curls brought Rachel out of her reverie. A new face.

  “Indeed. I’m here to do hair, but you look like you’ve already got it going on.”

  The girl raked back her bouncy curls with a smile. “Thanks. I just love Jared in the rain song. I think it’s the best song in the show.”

  “Thanks. Did you mention that to him?”

  The girl looked away. “He doesn’t really know me. I’m just a junior.”

  “I’m sure he knows who you are.” Rachel talked a while with the petite girl, Miranda, who obviously had a crush on Jared. Although Rachel knew he had a girlfriend, her heart swelled at the realization that Jared’s cachet was on the rise.

  Bell-bottoms in plum and lime green and passion pink were the pants of choice, broken up by some worn jeans. There were large, clunky, peace symbol medallions and fringed vests over peasant blouses. A few of the girls wore mod-print dresses with white go-go boots that seemed to be absolutely authentic.

  “I just can’t get over your costumes,” Rachel told Remy as she parted the girl’s thick dark hair down the middle and began to tie off pigtails. She noticed a shiny gold-leaf tattoo that formed a band around Remy’s arm. “Is this new?”

  “It’s temporary. It’ll be gone before the show,” Remy said. “But I thought it was very Cleopatra.”

  “Let’s try these pigtails with your flower-power headband. I’m really impressed with the costumes. Did Mrs. Luchter put all this together?” Even with a talented seamstress like Shelly Zinnert you couldn’t come up with all this.

  “Shelly sewed the dresses and bell-bottoms. But Mrs. L gave us money to go shopping in thrift stores. Rosie totally organized everyone to do a sweep of second-hand shops around Portland. She researched the hippie era. You can find a lot of photos on Google. Rosie called around and found out where to get the boots and stuff.”

  “Mrs. Whalen, have you ever heard of Goldie Hawn?” Tia Harper interrupted, brushing her blond bangs back and making googly eyes in the mirror. “My mother says I look like Goldie Hawn.”

  “From Laugh-In.” Rachel grinned. “Yes, I see the resemblance, especially when you’re looking so groovy.”

  “I don’t even know who that is,” Tia said, flustered.

  “It’s a compliment. She’s Kate Hudson’s mother.” Rachel used some mousse to tamp down the flyaway hairs around Remy’s face. “Finito.”

  “Thanks.” Remy popped out of the chair with a smile that faded when she looked over Rachel’s shoulder.

  Rachel was pretty sure she knew what that was about. Glancing behind her, she spotted Cooper Dover with a dour expression. You’d think the boy had just eaten dog doo. Rachel and Ariel had talked about that boy and the difficult breakup. Some kids handled breakups worse than others. Ignoring him, Rachel leaned close to Remy, as if sharing a secret. Well, it was, in a way. She didn’t want Jared overhearing.

  “Honey, I can’t thank you enough for working with Jared on the duet. Mr. Schulteis thinks it’s fantastic, and I’m so excited about the prospects at state. You’re a lifesaver.”

  That spark of enthusiasm returned to Remy’s eyes. “It’s been fun. Jared has changed a lot.”

  “You think so?” Rachel looked down, trying not to show her delight that Remy had noticed. “The mom is always the last to know.”

  “He’s confident now. He seems to know what he wants. Do you think he’ll get that scholarship?”

  “You never know. But if he does, he has you to thank.”

  “Nah. He’s his own person. I’m just a partner.”

  “Well, I’m very grateful. It’s got to be hard to do all these extra things when your scholarship to SOU is all wrapped up.” Remy was shrugging when the air in the room seemed to change as Estee Sherer blew in the door.

  “Okay, boys and girls, attention please!” Estee was toting two large paper shopping bags, which she put on the table smack in front of Dawn. “Here are the flowers for the opening number. Everyone needs to wear one if you want to maximize the blacklight effect.” Estee looked down at Dawn. “You. You can hand them out.” With that, she left the room.

  Dawn’s face scrunched up in disdain as kids surged forward, each vying for a paper flower.

  “Wonders never cease,” Ariel muttered in Rachel’s ear. “Estee finally stepped up and did something. And Dawn’s about to get her donuts squashed.”

  Rachel laughed aloud, biting back a comment as kids began streaming back to the mirrors, trying to figure out a way to get the flowers to stay put in their hair. Nora Delfatti, always prepared, produced a box of safety pins so that some of the kids could pin a flower to their costumes.

  Meanwhile Dawn was making a scene, objecting when her daughter Sunshine complained about the positioning of the flower in her hair. “They say girls are easy, but this one is never happy. I’d take a houseful of boys any day,” Dawn said as she dropped back i
nto her chair, leaving her daughter standing there on the verge of tears. Rachel gestured for Sunshine to come over, and she helped the girl solve the problem, rubbing the center of her back to soothe her. She would definitely not miss having to deal with the Dawn Patrol.

  As the stage manager, Sophia Nyro, called the kids out to the stage to begin the run-through, Ariel and Rachel began taking photos with their cell phones, trying to document as much as they could for continuity and future promos.

  “You guys sure look groovy to me,” Ariel commented as she hustled kids out to the stage, reminding them to tuck their cell phones into a cubby.

  “But what if someone takes it?” one girl asked. “My parents will kill me if I lose my phone again.”

  “Don’t worry,” Patti Cronin intervened. “We’re going to be sitting right here. We’ll keep watch.”

  “See that? The Dawn Patrol has finally found a mission,” Ariel said under her breath as she patted the girl on the shoulder and shooed her out the door.

  Rachel bit back a laugh. “What’s the second number? Have you seen a set list?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. Come on.” Ariel took her by the hand and pulled her out the door. “We are gonna get us some front-row seats.”

  They moved past the craziness of kids taking their positons on the stage and escaped out the side stage door and into the dusk of the auditorium. Craig sat alone, sixth row, center, with three students hunching in seats in the row behind him—his assistant directors. None of them looked too happy.

  “Hey, there, Craig.” Ariel cocked her head to one side, cordial and warm. “How’s it going?”

  “Not quite on track yet. We’ve got to finalize lighting and blocking and choreography, and we haven’t even run the opening number. I’m getting ready to tear my hair out here.”

  “You always manage to pull it together, Craig.” Ariel didn’t let his tension ruffle her. “The kids were taking their places when we snuck out here. I think they’re ready to go.”