The Strangers on Montagu Street

by Karen White

  “But we’re just serving the cake! What’s wrong? Are you ill? Too much punch?”

  I shook my head. “It’s Jack. I think he might be in real trouble and I need to go to him.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Then go. I’ll make your excuses and take care of things here, and I’ll ask Chad to meet you out front to take you wherever you need to go. Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will.” I kissed her cheek and hugged her tightly. “And thanks for tonight. I know I complained a lot, but I’m glad you did it.”

  “You’re welcome. I just hope that it made up a little for all the birthdays I missed.”

  I kissed her cheek again; then I left the lights of the brilliant and fragrant garden behind me, stepping out into the darkness to find Jack.

  It was a lot harder driving in my gown and heels than I’d imagined, or I would have changed clothes after Chad dropped me off at my mother’s house to get my keys and purse. I’d been happily ignorant of any knowledge of where Jack spent his time away from me, but now I silently cursed my own stupidity, as if knowing where he was and imagining what he might be doing would somehow solidify or define my feelings for him. As if not knowing had mattered at all.

  With surprising clearheadedness, I drove to the one place I knew of—his condo in the French Quarter. The building had garage parking, so I couldn’t drive around looking for his car. Instead, I found a parking spot on the curb a block away and toddled to his building on my high heels. I earned a few admiring glances from male passersby as I concentrated on not turning an ankle, and wished again that I’d thought to change.

  Taking a deep breath, I pressed the intercom button and waited for Jack to answer and allow me entry. I waited for at least a minute, until I lost patience and pressed the button again. As I stood there holding my breath, a couple exited the building. Looking appropriately grateful, I pointed at my purse as if to indicate a lost key, then thanked the man as he held the door open for me. Maybe not changing clothes hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

  Humming the tune to “Fernando” to still my jumping nerves, I rode the elevator up to Jack’s floor, going over in my mind what my plan B would be if he wasn’t in his condo. Or if he was there and just wouldn’t answer his door. Or if he did actually answer his door. I drew a blank on all three scenarios, wondering how somebody who had her shoes and their monthly polishing schedule on a spreadsheet could show up at a man’s door at nearly midnight without a thought as to what should happen next.

  I stared at his doorbell and held my breath until I began to feel dizzy. Then, before I talked myself out of it, I pressed it hard with my index finger, making sure I could hear it inside before letting go. I waited for what felt like an hour but was probably just a minute or two before I raised my hand to press again, my progress halted by Jack’s door opening.

  He stood inside the open door, his jacket off, his shirt unbuttoned and untucked from his tuxedo pants, the suspenders hanging against his legs. His feet were bare, his blue eyes dark as they regarded me with surprise and something else that looked a lot like apprehension.

  I struggled not to purr or growl or whatever large female cats did when they came upon a gazelle or something equally tasty on the African plains. I closed my eyes to block out the vision, blaming my absurdity on all the punch.

  “What are you doing here, Mellie?”

  His question was innocent enough, but some underlying meaning lay couched behind it.

  “You left the party early. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “You could have called.”

  An unseen door shut somewhere down the hall. “Can I come in?”

  He didn’t step back or open the door farther. “Why?”

  I felt icy cold suddenly, remembering the last time I’d shown up by myself unannounced on his doorstep and found Rebecca in his bedroom. My voice seemed to rise in pitch. “Are you alone?”

  He almost smiled. “I’m alone, and I’m tired. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. It can’t.” I wasn’t sure which part of what I wanted to tell him was more important than the other, but either way I didn’t want to wait. “Please—let me come in?”

  His eyes slowly drifted from my face downward, past my chin, hovering on my chest, then dipping lower until he brought his gaze to meet mine again. “Are you sure you want to come in, Mellie?”

  Lightning bolts of heat were flung through my veins, and I expected to smell something smoldering. I knew I could turn and run, something I was overly familiar with. Or I could disobey what the logical part of my brain was telling me and walk forward into a place that was uncharted and couldn’t be organized on a spreadsheet. Maybe it was the fact that I was now forty years old and tired of feeling like I’d missed out on something important, or maybe it was the punch. Either way, I found myself pushing on the door until Jack let go and stepped back.

  I stood in the entranceway and watched as Jack locked and bolted the door, then turned to me warily. “Can I get you anything?”

  I wasn’t thirsty, but I needed something to keep my hands busy while I told him what Marc had said. And I wanted to look and see whether I found any evidence of alcohol. It wasn’t necessarily that I didn’t trust him. It was more because I’d grown up with an alcoholic father and learned it was always better to find out for myself.

  “Just water, please. If you have it.”

  He sent me an odd glance as he headed to the gleaming kitchen and took out a glass from the cabinet. He put crushed ice and water in it from the refrigerator door, then handed it to me. I took a sip, needing to cool off more than anything, especially with him standing so close and watching my lips as they touched the glass.

  “Why are you here, Mellie?” he asked again, his voice very, very soft.

  I wanted to tell him then about Marc’s book, and how I hadn’t known until tonight, but I hesitated. I knew how devastated he would be, and how it would make whatever was zinging between us right now stop.

  I swallowed, wanting, too, to tell him what I’d figured out earlier, something I was afraid to name. It was still too new and too delicate to be allowed out in the open, especially when I was unsure of his feelings toward me. Instead, I said, “Because I was worried about you. About what you might do. I know how disappointed you must be about your book being pulled.” I looked back at him, searching for some sign that he knew about Marc’s book already, that he’d managed to put it all together.

  Instead, his face darkened, but neither one of us stepped back. He didn’t raise his voice, but his words were measured and very succinct, as if he wanted to make sure I understood. “Do you really think I’d start drinking again? That I would do that to Nola—my daughter? You asked me that same question when we were on the Battery, and I swore to myself then that I’d had enough of you and your lack of trust and faith in me.” He swiped both hands through his hair. “To answer your question, no, I haven’t started drinking again. I’d love to have a drink right now—several, in fact. But the truth is, I love Nola more.”

  I blinked my eyes rapidly, trying to stem the tears his words had made form in the backs of my eyes. There was so much about Jack Trenholm that I didn’t know, hadn’t bothered to see because I’d been too scared to look deeper, too scared to realize that Jack might be the one person worth jumping into the void with.

  I took a sip of my ice water, startled to find my hand shaking, and searched for the right words to say. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I shouldn’t have. But I know what it’s like to be hurt and to face it alone. I thought maybe you could use a friend.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes hard. “I don’t need a friend.” He took my glass and put it on the counter, then placed both hands on my face, cupping my jaw. “I need you.”

  All I could do was breathe, to try to understand the word “need,” to know the meaning in every bone. His lips hovered over mine for precious seconds until they touc
hed, tentative at first, like a bee discovering a new flower. And then I was pressed against the counter, his lips hard on mine and my arms trying to pull him closer. I opened my eyes, feeling dizzy and afraid I might pass out and miss whatever was going to come next.

  Jack pulled back, his eyes darker than I’d ever seen them. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. “I might have had too much punch. I’m feeling dizzy.”

  His lips lifted in one corner, as if he were trying not to smile. “The pink punch at the party?”

  I nodded, wondering why he was trying to get specific at a moment like this.

  I felt the laughter rumble through him. “I was drinking it all night. So were Nola and Alston. It was nonalcoholic.”

  I blinked very slowly, wondering how I’d found the courage to knock on his door without any spiked punch. Without thinking first, I said, “Then why do I feel so dizzy?”

  His smile faded as he brought his face close to mine again. “Is that all you’re feeling? Because I’m feeling a lot more than dizzy.” There was no initial hesitancy this time as his lips met mine, the edge of the granite counter digging into my back as he crushed my body against him. My mouth opened under his as I began to feel less dizzy and perhaps more of whatever it was that Jack was feeling.

  His lips drifted down my neck, leaving a hot, damp trail to my collarbone, and jelly where my knees had once been. His hands reached behind me to cup my bottom as his teeth did dangerous things to my earlobe and sense of reality.

  “Did your mother really buy you this dress?” he said into my ear. My body shuddered as his warm breath danced across the damp skin of my neck.

  “Yes.” I somehow managed to get the word past swollen and seemingly paralyzed lips.

  “Have I ever told you that your mother is a very, very smart lady?”

  I gasped as his hands smoothed their way up my back until his fingers found the zipper to my dress. I reached up and took his hand in mine, stopping him. “What are you doing?”

  He was breathing very hard and looking just a little annoyed. “Exactly what I thought you wanted me to be doing.”

  The familiar need to control the situation struggled to emerge from the slush that had become my brain. “Maybe we should talk about this first. What . . . this . . . would mean for you and me. For us. I know of too many couples who jump into bed together for all the wrong reasons, and then she gets hurt or he gets hurt, or they find out they shouldn’t be together anyway, or that the way she flosses in bed annoys him, or the way he leaves hair in the sink makes her want to kill him, so they grow apart and wonder what it was they saw in each other in the first place. And then it’s awkward at parties and bar mitzvahs or wherever they run into each other. . . .”

  His hand covered my mouth. “Mellie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Shut up. Please.”

  I frowned, then nodded.

  Lowering his hand, he said, “For once in your life I want you to stop thinking. Enjoy yourself and don’t think about anything except how good I’m about to make you feel.”

  If it were possible for people to self-combust, I’d be a smoldering pile of red silk burning a hole in the wood floor of Jack’s kitchen. I felt dizzy again and realized I needed to breathe or I’d pass out. Our eyes met and I knew that words weren’t necessary anymore, that everything we’d already said since the time we’d first met nearly two years ago had led up to this moment. All that wasted time.

  He reached for the zipper again, but this time I didn’t stop him. He slowly lowered it down the length of my back, his eyes never leaving mine even as the sleeves of the dress dropped from my shoulders, revealing the very skimpy and very red bra I’d picked up at Bits of Lace on King Street as a last-minute addition to my ensemble.

  I opened my mouth to tell him that tonight was about more than making each other feel good. I thought of how I’d felt standing in my garden, when I’d realized how, despite all my efforts to the contrary, he’d somehow managed to breach the wall I’d constructed all those years ago on the day my mother left me behind.

  His hands stopped removing my arms from the dress. “Mellie? No talking anymore, remember?”

  I closed my mouth and nodded, unable to find any words at all as the dress slid to the floor. Jack reached behind me and hoisted me up, leaving me no choice but to wrap my legs around him. Not that I would ever tell him, but I’d had dreams just like this, and not once had any of them compared to the feel of Jack Trenholm in the flesh through just the thin silk of lingerie.

  Our mouths met again and I closed my eyes, aware of him carrying me a short distance. When I felt soft cushions beneath my back I opened them again in surprise. “The couch?” I asked.

  “For starters,” he mumbled against the soft skin between my breasts.

  My hands pushed at his shirt until Jack sat up and pulled it off along with his undershirt, throwing them onto the floor. He’d just begun to work at the straps on my bra when he suddenly stopped. Lifting his head, he met my eyes. “Just one question.”

  I propped myself up on my elbows, wondering—since this was my life, after all—whether this was the moment he was going to tell me he was gay. Or a woman. “What?”

  He thought for a moment, as if trying to get the words right. “The dead people you see, you know when they’re around, right? Like right now—you would know whether or not we’re completely alone.”

  I relaxed back against the cushions again. “Not that I have a lot of experience as far as that’s concerned, but yeah, I’d know.” I reached up for him, my hands on his bare shoulders. “And right now, it’s just you and me.”

  He looked relieved as he lowered his head to mine again and kissed me with surprising tenderness. I sighed, seeing thousands of twinkling lights behind my closed eyelids, and imagining a word softly whispered from very far away. Finally.

  CHAPTER 25

  I awoke before dawn with the familiar feeling of a warm and fuzzy body in the bed with me, except this particular body wasn’t quite as fuzzy and had only two legs instead of four. And was a lot more fun to sleep with.

  Jack’s hand traced slow circles on my bare hip under the sheet, and I became aware of his rising interest in continuing our energetic pursuits of the previous evening. My body tingled in places I hadn’t known existed, and my heart hummed with a new and unfamiliar rhythm, giving me the odd compulsion to sigh and laugh and cry—all together. For the first time since my mother had abandoned me, I was content where I was, my head not already spinning and going down the lists of everything I needed to accomplish for the day. I was with Jack, and that was all that mattered.

  I wanted to lie there forever, cocooned in the darkness where no words were needed, where I could show Jack what I felt without complicating everything with those infamous three little words. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be the first to say it, or even that I was unsure of Jack’s feelings toward me. My hesitation had more to do with having to tell Jack the news about Marc and his book, knowing that I couldn’t tell him one without telling him the other.

  I turned to face him, to try to read what was in his eyes, but his face was in darkness, backlit by the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. I was almost relieved, unsure of how I could look him in the eyes without blushing after the previous evening. It was the perfect moment to tell him what I’d discovered about Marc, and to let Jack know that I was on his side, that I would be there to help him through this. And that if he needed help in making voodoo dolls or concocting elaborate dismemberment schemes where nobody would be permanently maimed or go to jail, I’d consider assisting him.

  Instead, my gaze settled on the clock behind him, the glowing readout indicating it was almost five thirty in the morning. My head jerked up off the pillow. “Crap.” After kissing Jack quickly on the lips, then flinging the covers off, I began to scramble around the room, and then into the hallway, dining area, living room, and kitchen, searching for my clothes and shoes, shyly h
olding up a pillow from the sofa as a modesty shield.

  Jack stretched lazily in the bedroom doorway, completely naked and apparently finding my running around without clothes oddly exciting. “What’s the rush, Mellie? Didn’t you take today off? I thought we could spend the day . . . inside. Where you won’t need your clothes.” He gave me a long and appreciative look. “And why bother hiding behind a pillow? I’ve seen everything already.” His smile was smug and not a little self-satisfied.

  I was very tempted to stop my search and return to Jack’s bed and ignore the rest of the world a little longer. Instead I snapped my bra off of the floor lamp behind the sofa and struggled to put it on as I searched for my underwear. “Jack, as much as I’d like to, I’ve got to get back home before everybody’s up and sees me coming in wearing what I wore last night. Especially since my mother knows I was coming to find you when I left the party.”

  I found my dress in the kitchen and was stepping into it when Jack joined me, standing behind me and kissing me on the back of my neck and shaking my resolve. “You’re forty years old, Mellie. I’m sure your mother will understand.”

  I turned in his arms and kissed him, feeling how eager he was for me to stay. “What about Nola? What’s she going to say?”

  His eyes widened. “You’ve got to hurry.” He whipped me around and began zipping my dress. He ran back to his room while I went in search of my purse, and returned wearing shorts and a T-shirt and carrying both of my shoes. He held them up like trophies. “Sorry it took me so long. These were in my bed for some reason.”

  I blushed, remembering how they got there. “Thanks,” I said as I took them from him and began to put them on.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  I shook my head. “That’ll look worse if somebody sees you dropping me off. Besides, I have my own car.”