Love, Louisa

by Barbara Metzger

  His hands were busy too, under the back of the shirt, kneading, rubbing, learning the contours he’d glimpsed. He moaned again, right into her mouth.

  Tingle? Hah. She couldn’t remember she had toes, much less feel them. Was she even on the ground? This incredible kiss made the last one seem like Teddy’s batting practice. This was a World Series home run.

  Run. Home. She should. She couldn’t, not with his leg between her thighs. She would die first, which she was going to do soon anyway if she didn’t inhale. She pulled back, maybe a quarter of an inch. “So what”—she panted, taking a breath—“did you come here for?”

  Dante wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t thinking, that is, past whether he could make it inside to a bed, a couch, a chair, a rug. No, the wet, muddy grass was fine. Then they could shower together. What was she asking? For that matter, why was she talking? He kissed her again, or still, because he figured this was all one kiss of glory, with pauses.

  “Hm?”

  Damned persistent woman. He played her query back in his mind and answered between tongue touches. “I…to know…do you want me…”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “…to come to the party tonight.”

  A heartbeat or two went by. Louisa opened her eyes and looked into his, frowning. “That’s why you came?”

  Dante struggled for rational thought. He hadn’t come yet. Maybe it was the mud. “I didn’t come to seduce you in the shrubbery, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Louisa hadn’t been thinking either. That was the problem. She disentangled herself from his arms and stepped back. “Is that what this is, a seduction?”

  “You didn’t seem to need any— That is, no. This was just a, um, a moment of weakness.”

  She took another step back, the rosy color fading from her cheeks. “So you didn’t really want to make love with me?”

  Dante winced. What did love have to do with it? He wanted to roll in the grass, that was all. Trust a woman to ruin perfectly good sex with linguistics. He sighed. It wasn’t going to happen now, and maybe that was for the best. “No, not really. Not with you. We’re friends, right? Sex only complicates things. Why ruin what we already have?”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to screw you either.” She took the shirt off over her head and stood in front of him, proud, defiant, daring him to lower his eyes from her face. “Here, put this on. Then maybe I’ll believe you don’t want me, if I can’t see the bulge in your britches.”

  “I never said I didn’t want you.”

  “Well, one of these days you are going to have to figure out just what it is that you do want, Mr. Rivera. Meanwhile, if you do not come tonight Teddy will be disappointed, as will Mr. Bradford. More importantly, the library aides, Janie who cuts hair, and Jeanette from the animal shelter will all be devastated.”

  “Come on, what do they care if I’m there or not? They’re coming to see the fireworks, not me.”

  “That’s what you think,” Louisa said from her doorway. “They can see the pinwheels and starbursts from the beach. The Playboy of Paumonok Harbor is the real attraction.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  He was playing with her, wasn’t he? Angry, disappointed, and relieved she hadn’t done or said anything even stupider, Louisa was mostly confused. She could just add men to the list of incomprehensible elements in her life, like theology, metaphysics, thermonuclear dynamics, and tire pressure. Dante Rivera moved to the top of her list, right above Howard. She thought that jackass would have called by now, out of simple courtesy for the gift. Then again, he hadn’t had the manners to cancel their wedding. And maybe he didn’t like “Putz” written on his car. The truth hurt.

  The truth hurt so badly, Louisa would not examine her own feelings. Instead she stepped into the shower stall and washed away her confusion. And discovered a better way of washing the dog, where he couldn’t escape.

  Then she went to celebrate independence.

  *

  Wesley Bradford was a happy man. He was too old to go traipsing from overpriced restaurant to overcrowded art show opening every night. He was tired of his signature bow ties and linen jackets that made him look rumpled after an hour. He was sick of the sycophantic small talk that passed for conversation at the parties he attended. Half the time he turned his hearing aid off anyway.

  Tonight the party was coming to him and he was delighted, sitting on his own deck, wearing his comfortable old sweatpants, surrounded by people he liked. For once he wasn’t on exhibit, one of the lions at the zoo. All the children Louisa had invited couldn’t care less that he was rich and famous, only that they get enough hot dogs and ice cream and a good seat to watch the spectacle. The adults had come to see the fireworks, to relax for a change, not put on a show of their own.

  If there was a show, then Louisa was the star. Mr. Bradford thought he’d never get sick of watching her move with her quick, energetic grace. He knew he’d never grow tired of that smile she flashed him every few moments, checking to see that he had everything he needed, food, drink, good company. Hell, maybe he wasn’t too old for her after all.

  He watched as she greeted his former magazine editor, the editor’s wife and grandchildren with as much warmth as she welcomed the gardener and his family. The Pulitzer Prize nominee got the same friendly treatment as the garage guy, except Alvin had a soda put in his hand, not a beer.

  He kept watching as she herded the kids toward the pool, where she’d tossed in a bunch of floating rings and balls, for some kind of game while the barbeque grills were heating. She even got his editor’s prissy granddaughter to play. Young Teddy was bursting with pride, acting as host because he got to swim here twice a week, and some woman named Jeanette volunteered to act as lifeguard. The sounds of the boys laughing and the girls squealing reminded him of his own youth, days too long gone. He’d have to tell Louisa to remind him, to put some of those memories in the book.

  His autobiography was going well, now that Louisa had that organized too. She had him writing more the way he thought, rather than the pedantic style he’d been using for articles and lectures. She said that kept him distant from the readers, putting himself above them. There was nothing pompous about Louisa, and Mr. Bradford appreciated that.

  She could be elegant and dignified when they went to black-tie affairs, but she was always Louisa, thanking the waiters, joking with the valets, trading dog stories with an ambassador’s wife. She was giggling now, and Mr. Bradford was glad he had new batteries in the hearing aid. That last concert they’d attended hadn’t sounded half as sweet to his ears.

  She was urging the adults to try out the hula hoops she’d put on the lawn—even his former editor’s country club wife. And Louisa herself, swiveling her narrow hips, was a sight to stir an old man’s blood.

  After supper she had them all, children and adults, tossing Frisbees, red, white, and blue ones, like a patriotic gyroscope. The dog grabbed as many as he could catch, which made everyone laugh more. Alvin and Cora Alice discovered the pool table in the game room and squared off for a match, and Francine took some of the children down the steps to the beach to hunt for shells. Dante’s former wife had announced her pregnancy and was being congratulated by all the women, given the chaise longue of honor on the front of the deck, and reveling in the attention.

  They sang “You’re a Grand Old Flag” and “America the Beautiful,” by the flagpole at dusk, and Louisa had discovered that the gardener’s son was taking trumpet lessons at school, so she had him blow taps.

  There were chairs on the deck, cushions on the stone patio, blankets on the lawn. Tables were set up through the glass doors to the sunroom, with more food and drinks and tiny American flags everywhere, between the citronella candles. The children kept asking if it were time yet. It never was, Mr. Bradford recalled, never soon enough. Then it was over too fast.

  He watched Louisa going from place to place, making certain everyone was warm enough, full enough, had a good view. Despite her best ef
forts, the local people were bunched together, the summer people in separate groups. Rico and Marta were sitting with the gardener and his wife, speaking in Spanish. The only other one who crisscrossed the yard was Dante Rivera, who was invited to share the blanket with the silly girls from the library, offered a seat next to Mr. Bradford’s retired movie starlet neighbor, and handed a Cervesa by the group near the fire pit.

  Louisa would be disappointed, Mr. Bradford thought, her silly, sweet idealism hoping one night could bridge centuries of differences and prejudices. At least the children were still playing together, except for the little twit sitting in her grandfather’s lap. Maybe the next generation could do things better.

  For now, everyone was where they wanted to be, including him. He had a cigar in his hand—unlit—and a half glass of wine left in the other, which did not tremble half as much as it had last month. Life was good, and could get better. He raised the glass in a silent, secret toast to Louisa, giving her a lot of the credit. He’d thought the book was enough, that he’d write down all his memories and be done. Now he was thinking that an old man’s ramblings were well and good, but maybe he should make some new memories.

  He had plans, and he’d asked Louisa to think about some of them. Fall was months away, but a man in his seventies knew better than most how quickly time could skip past. He’d told her merely to consider his offer; they’d talk more when the book was finished. Now he looked around for her in the near dark, and finally spotted her bright blond hair among the children. Dante’s cousin was reassuring the squirming brats that the wait was worth it, that the marshmallows would keep until afterward.

  Louisa was good with kids too, he decided. She was not as confident and casual as Francine, but treated the children the same way she did everyone she met, with respect and courtesy and interest. Young Teddy adored her, Bradford knew, wondering if that might stop her from going with him at the end of the summer. Not that one little boy in particular could hold her back, but wanting a family of her own might. She wouldn’t find that with an old fogey like him. What did he want with squalling infants at his age?

  Some men started families even later in life, he knew, but then they lost the young mother’s undivided attention and company, so what was the point? To leave something to posterity? Mr. Bradford intended to leave his book and his money.

  He watched Louisa move across the patio to the tattooed cretin’s shoulder and quietly hand him another fake beer. No, Mr. Bradford might not want babies, but he could offer her everything else any rational, practical woman would value.

  Then he watched her pass by Dante. Now there was real competition, Mr. Bradford thought, except that the two seemed to be avoiding each other. Dante had looks, youth, money and brains. Hell, if Wesley Bradford were a young woman, he’d fall for him, too. The charming bastard even loved kids. Of course Dante had sworn he’d never get married again, but he’d never been close to Louisa Waldon before.

  Mr. Bradford intended he never get close to her now, either. When Dante started to stroll beside her, likely to find a double seat for the light show—was the deuced thing ever going to start?—Mr. Bradford called him over. The way to most men’s hearts might be food; for Dante Rivera it was his beloved hometown. Mr. Bradford would give him something to think about besides his assistant. “A word, Dante, if you will.”

  Louisa kept going, pointedly sitting beside Susan and Cora Alice, where Dante would never go. Dante raised an eyebrow, but pulled a chair next to his host’s. “Great party. I can’t remember a nicer one.”

  Mr. Bradford did not want the talk, or the credit, to wend toward Louisa. If Dante was too blind to see the treasure under his nose, Mr. Bradford was not going to draw him a map. Dante could work on plans for the town. Bradford had plans for the woman. “Yes, but I wanted to discuss an idea I had. You know how the village has been trying to raise money for a youth center?”

  Of course Dante knew. He was the treasurer of the committee, and the chief contributor. Mr. Bradford had also been generous. “We are getting closer to the goal.”

  The older man nodded. “So the kids can have an indoor pool for the winter, and a basketball court and a hockey ring.”

  “And a computer room for homework help. We’ve got too many kids whose parents both work, so no one’s home after school. The kids need a place to go.”

  Mr. Bradford held up his hand. “You can stop now. I read all the literature and the statistics about working mothers and day care. But I am thinking Paumonok Harbor should have another center, one for the arts.”

  Dante stopped watching Louisa laughing with his ex-wife and leaned closer. “The arts?”

  “You know, painting and crafts, a small theater for drama productions, music studios so kids don’t have to aggravate the neighbors by playing in garages. Those things are just as important as sports to children. More important to some.”

  “Francine would love to have Teddy take drawing lessons. Since he’s been coming here, the paintings and art books you’ve shown him are all he talks about. Heaven knows he’s no athlete.”

  “I wasn’t, either. I learned to swim, of course, but debating club was the closest I got to a team sport. Who’s watching out for those kids? And it wouldn’t have to be just for children. Senior citizens could use the facilities during the daytime, the same way they were promised the pool, so they’d vote for the bond issue. The way I envision it, anyone who can afford to pay can help subsidize it, but after-school art lessons would be free. I bet the place could make a profit in the summer, teaching bored, rich adults, the ones who don’t play golf or tennis. I know a few artists who would volunteer a couple of hours, maybe give guest lectures to get it going. Those art students whose graduate school scholarships I underwrite could work part-time. We could even hook up with Southampton College or Stony Brook in a work-study program.”

  “I can tell you’ve put a lot of thought into this, and it sounds great, but where’s the money going to come from? You are talking land, a building, a full staff, supplies. To say nothing of insurance, permits, and the rest of the incidentals. We’re having a hard enough time getting grant money from the state for the sports center.”

  “No, this should be done privately. I have donated to enough worthy causes to call in the return favor. Besides, I have far more money than I can use in my lifetime, with more coming in every time they rerun that art appreciation program I did for TV. I’ve got no one to leave it to. My only sister is in a nursing home, and both her kids are doctors. Coldhearted bastards, but rich. They’ll get the art collection, after some pieces go to museums that have already asked for them. Speak of coldhearted bastards, I get letters from museums every day, asking to be remembered in my will. You should have seen the boxes full after I had the stroke. Anyway, the new book is going to earn a wad, too, they tell me. There’s already talk of an auction for the movie rights.”

  “That’s great. Congratulations.”

  “Unless they pick some jerk to play me, and some box office bimbo to play my first wife. Maybe they’ll wait ’til I’m gone so I don’t have to see it. Either way, I’m thinking of dedicating the book to the town, with the royalties and subsidiaries going to an endowment fund. I know you own some parcels of land near where they want to put the youth center, so you’d give me a good deal. You care more about the kids of this place than their parents do.”

  Dante was calculating square acres and side lots. “It might be doable. You’ll have to give me numbers to work with.”

  “I’ll have my accountant call you next week.” He gummed the cigar, wondering if Louisa or Marta would see the smoke in the dark if he lit it. He decided to wait for the fireworks, whenever the fool things finally started, to lessen the chance.

  “And I’ll look at the surrounding property.”

  “Hmm. The Wesley Bradford Arts Institute.” The older man rolled the name off his tongue slowly, like honey. “My gift to the ages.”

  “It would be cheaper by half if we attach it to
the youth center.”

  Mr. Bradford nodded. “All right, I can accept that. The Wesley Bradford Arts Center Wing. But with its own independent budget, its own programs. I don’t want any steroid simian deciding the art studio would be better used for wrestling practice as soon as I’m gone. Or my money paying for a new basketball hoop when they run in the red.”

  “That means a separate staff, too.”

  “I thought we could hire your cousin to run it. Not to give the classes, of course, but to act as administrator. You said she’s between a rock and a hard place, yet won’t take your charity. I admire that in a person.”

  “Francine? She’s great with kids, but she’s got no experience.” Dante looked across the deck, to where Louisa was leaning against the railing, looking up at the stars. “I love my cousin, but Louisa Waldon would be a lot better choice for the job.”

  “Louisa is coming with me.”

  Boom!

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Louie, we’ve got to talk.”

  “No, not tonight.”

  All of the guests had gone home, exhausted, full, happy. Rico was in the kitchen helping Marta put things away, and Mr. Bradford was closed in his office, working out plans for his name-bearing bequest, making lists of people he could hit up for donations. Louisa had been cleaning the deck while Dante carried blankets and cushions into the pool house shed. He’d joined her on the deck, where she was leaning on the railing, looking out at the bay.

  He could hear the waves on the shore, and still smell the lingering smoke from the driftwood fires along the beach, mixed in with the tide and the honeysuckle that grew on the hill. A firecracker occasionally lit up the sky, from unauthorized and illegal celebrations that would go on all night. The stars were out, and the moon cast slivers of chrome on the quiet water.

  “This night is too perfect to ruin with talk.”