Save the Best for Last

by Bettye Griffin

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she hissed.

  He started to reply, then stopped when the driver pulled over. Her side faced the street rather than the curb, but since no traffic approached, she yanked the door open and got out. She paused by the driver’s door to glance at the meter, then added a few bills to the ones Livvy and Cesca had given her and handed them to him. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He gestured for her to cross to the sidewalk in front of him, which she did.

  Z.L. stood in front of the building, wiping his brow. The doorman’s summer uniform of standard-length navy blazer with pads on the shoulders and a gold braid trim was lightweight but nevertheless a wool blend. Genevieve sympathized with him.

  He broke into a broad grin at the sight of them approaching, his round cheeks looking even chubbier. “Jenishka! At last I get to meet the fine man you married.”

  “Yes. Z.L. Kaposi, this is my husband—” she hoped no one noticed how her voice choked a bit on the word—“Dexter Gray. Dexter, this is Z.L, who I’ve told you so much about.” She’d never mentioned the doorman to Dexter, but she knew he was sharp enough to pick up on her hint. “He’s been almost like a second father to me.”

  “I knew Mr. L’Esperance,” Z.L. said. “And a good man he was. Jen—uh, Mrs. Gray tells me you work very hard, full-time job plus law school.”

  “He’s already graduated from medical school,” Genevieve contributed, surprised at the pride in her voice. “He’s going to be a malpractice attorney.”

  Z.L. nodded. “I think that’s a good thing. A real man makes his own way in the world. But it’s all right if his wife helps him out.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly, Z.L. We’ll talk again. But if you don’t mind, I’m awfully tired. I’d like to go upstairs and go to bed.”

  Genevieve supported his attempt to limit their conversation, but his last sentence made her gasp. She quickly covered it with a feigned yawn. “Yes, I’m rather beat myself. We’ll see you later, huh, Z.L.?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, holding the door open for them. “A good night to you both.”

  “The same to you,” Dexter replied jovially.

  Genevieve gave him credit for being excellent at playing his role.

  They entered the lobby, and Dexter stopped to take in the domed ceilings, large hanging chandeliers, marble floors, and plump chairs flanking the fireplace, and finally the concierge desk, unmanned at this late hour. “I’ll say one thing for you and your friends,” he said as they stepped into the elevator. “All of you live pretty good. Did my grandparents miss out on something?”

  “Cesca’s father is a very successful financier. He took early retirement and lives in North Carolina now, but he kept the condo. You already know about my father’s chemistry career. They bought homes here on the Upper East Side because they could afford to.”

  “And Livvy lives near Cesca?”

  “Her parents don’t live in New York anymore, so she’s staying with Cesca. They lived a few blocks away when her father worked as a building super.”

  “So her family doesn’t have money.”

  “No.”

  “Is this why you didn’t want me to know your address, Jenny? You were afraid I’d see dollar signs and start scheming about how I could benefit?”

  “At first I did, yes,” she said honestly. “But I know better now.” The elevator stopped on Ten and the doors opened. “This is it,” she said.

  Dexter followed her down the hall, counting six apartments on the floor. He also saw several doors marked, ‘Deliveries.’ Apparently some of the units were large enough to warrant a second entrance, probably to the kitchen.

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open. “I guess it’s about time you saw where some of your belongings have been hanging out the last week.”

  He walked into the unit, taking in the tasteful but simple furnishings of the beige-orange-brown sunken living room, the splashy paintings hanging on the wall. “Not bad.”

  “My father had it decorated by a friend of his. He didn’t know the first thing about furnishings, and when we came to New York after my mother died he wanted everything new.”

  “She has good taste, your father’s friend.”

  “I didn’t say it was a she.” When he turned to her for confirmation she added, “But it was. She wanted to marry him, but he didn’t want to remarry. My mother was his one great love. They broke up before he took the Cabinet position.” She paused. “I heard she didn’t take it well.”

  “What happened to his old girlfriend? Does she know you’re here?”

  “Are you kidding? Never underestimate the grudge of a spurned woman, Dexter, even years afterward. She’s the last person I’d want to see. For all I know she’d turn me in.”

  “I guess you can’t blame her. For being angry, I mean,” Dexter hastily added after seeing her stricken expression. “She wanted their relationship to be official and your father wouldn’t do that for her. But I’m sure he had no problem expecting other things from her, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m sure he was square with her from the beginning. My father wasn’t the type to mislead people.”

  Dexter chose his next words carefully, recognizing the hostility in Genevieve’s tone at his criticism of her beloved father. “I’m sure he was honest about his intentions. But women have been known to believe they can change men’s minds about that sort of thing.”

  Men, too. Genevieve cringed at the memory of Barry telling her that she would grow to love him, and she cringed. Had her father felt as fenced in by his girlfriend as she did by Barry? “My parents married for life,” she declared.

  “So did mine.” Dexter looked toward the window, but Genevieve knew he wasn’t seeing the view. He was probably thinking about how his parents had died together.

  “I always wanted to do the same,” he concluded.

  She saw no point in reminding him that their sham marriage made that impossible. He was clearly referring to his next marriage being the one that would last.

  “Your place is real comfortable,” he said, in a change of subject that completely belied the serious matter of lifelong love they discussed just moments before. “It must have killed you to spend all those weeks in that one room at the Smith’s.” He cleared his throat. “Where do I sleep?”

  “What?”

  “Where do I sleep?” he repeated. “You wouldn’t want Z.L. to see me sneaking out to get on the subway, would you? At this time of night it’s bound to make him suspicious. It’s the evening doorman who’d be most likely to be questioned about me, if the INS wants to carry it that far. Is there someone on duty twenty-four hours?”

  “No, just six a.m. ‘til midnight.”

  “All the more reason for me to stay. It certainly wouldn’t hurt for the morning guy to see me, either. As for Z.L., I think he’s fond enough of you to lie if he’s questioned by the INS, but you wouldn’t want him to do that. He’d probably be putting his own citizenship at risk.”

  “He is a citizen. He’s lived here over fifty years.”

  Dexter grunted. “You could’ve fooled me. His accent sounded like he just got here last week. Where’s he from, anyway?”

  “Hungary. He owned a deli in Yorkville for years. Then he sold it, got bored after his wife passed away, and took this job just to get him out of the house. It allows him to talk to people, which he enjoys. He doesn’t want to be a burden to his daughters.”

  “He’s got to be over seventy.”

  “Seventy-three, I think. Retirement isn’t for everyone, I suppose. Besides, he only works a six-hour shift.”

  “What was that he called you?”

  Genevieve chuckled. “Jenishka. It’s a Hungarian version of my name. He remembers me when I was in high school, too young to be addressed formally.”

  Dexter nodded. “You answer to a lot of names, don’t you?”

  “Genevieve...Gen...Jenishka...” Speaking in a whisper, she added, “Jenny.�
��

  If he noticed her wistful manner he chose not to comment on it. “Z.L.’s here until what, eleven?”

  “Midnight.” She sounded strong and sure again.

  “That’s even worse.” Dexter looked at his watch. “Nearly two hours from now. I need to sleep uninterrupted, Jenny. I’m still holding down both my jobs.”

  She knew he was right, but the idea of him sleeping just a few yards away from her threw her into a panic. She hadn’t been in such close proximity to him since their trip to Maryland, and she didn’t think she could handle it. She groped wildly for an excuse. “I’m sure the city pays you a decent salary to work in the M.E.’s office. Dexter. Is it really necessary for you to work so hard, now that your tuition is paid?”

  “Not from a survival standpoint, but I don’t see the need to quit the hospital until school starts. Between school loans, my grandparents’ mortgage, and all that cash outlay you put out, I’m drowning in debt.”

  Again she admired his commitment to repaying his grandpar-ents, and herself as well. As uncomfortable as it made her, Genevieve couldn’t refuse his request. He probably didn’t get enough sleep to begin with, and every hour counted. He had regained the weight he’d lost and was looking much healthier these days, but she knew that in order to stay that way he had to get sufficient rest as well as nutrition. They were supposed to be helping each other. “All right,” she said. “You can sleep on the daybed in the office. I’ll get you some linens.” She made a face as she wiggled in an attempt to control the itching sensation she suddenly felt from the rash on her rear.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Do you find the idea of my sleeping here all that distasteful?”

  “No, that’s not it.” She paused before asking, “Do you know anything about pharmaceuticals?

  “Of course.” Concern etched his forehead. “What’s up? Are you not feeling well?”

  “I’ve noticed some dry, scaly patches on my skin. At first I just thought my skin had gotten exceptionally dry, but Vaseline doesn’t seem to be helping it, other than temporary relief. It itches something awful.”

  He glanced over her exposed skin, no doubt looking for the troublesome area. “Let’s see it.”

  She bristled. “I can’t show it to you. It’s...it’s not in an area you can see.”

  “In that case, you’d better make an appointment with your gynecologist.”

  “It’s not a GYN issue,” she said hotly. “It’s...well, if you must know, it’s on my backside.”

  “I repeat. Let’s see it.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her in a defiant stand. “I am not showing you my backside, Dexter. I just thought you might be able to save me a trip to the doctor by recommending an over-the-counter treatment.”

  “Jenny, there’s no one cure-all for any rash. What’s good for one type might worsen another type. What kind of doctor would I be if I suggested a treatment without seeing the affected area?”

  “You’re not a doctor, Dexter,” she pointed out.

  “I’m not a licensed physician, no, but I’m a bona fide med school graduate who did treat patients as an intern. There’s no need for you to feel uncomfortable. I’m a professional. Like you said, our relationship is strictly business.”

  Genevieve felt an immediate sharp stab of remorse between her breasts. What was that he’d said the night they got married? That he was done with being in the middle, and he’d called her Miss Riddle, a dig at her change of heart after the ambulance arrived to whisk the stricken guest to the hospital. She still felt she’d done the right thing...and he obviously meant what he said about never approaching her sexually again. Had he forgotten about the sensuous kisses they shared that night in Baltimore? The memory of those kisses was why she was so afraid to have him stay here with her. Fate had intervened the first time. There wouldn’t be a second. As Dexter had put it, using her own words, “strictly business.”

  Had her saying those words to him burned him as much as she felt right now, Genevieve wondered. But right now Dexter waited for her response, so she put those thoughts aside to concentrate on the matter at hand. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to have him take a look at her rash, which was growing increasingly uncomfortable. She’d just show him the part on the side of her hip. Her blouse would cover up the rest.

  She unzipped her jeans and pulled them down a few inches, along with her underwear, and stood with her side facing him. “See? It’s been getting worse these last few days.”

  He knelt to look at the portion of skin, red and irritated. Without touching it, he said, “It looks like you had a reaction to something. Not necessarily a detergent or perfume, but something that touched your skin directly. Maybe a new cream or lotion?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing new. I certainly would have remembered if I’d applied something to my butt, Dexter.”

  “Wait a minute. How far does this go?”

  “It’s a weird shape. It goes down my hip and then under my cheeks and then back up. It’s kind of shaped like a horseshoe.”

  “All right, I’ve seen enough.”

  She turned her back to him and discreetly pulled up her underwear and jeans. “So what’s the diagnosis, Doctor?”

  “My guess is that you picked up that rash from something on a toilet seat.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “A toilet! That’s ridiculous. I was taught never to sit on a public toilet, and I never have.”

  “I’m not talking about an infection from germs. You’ve got more of a contact dermatitis. In other words, your behind made contact with something that irritated it. You described a shape that matches sitting on a toilet. I don’t see what else it could be.”

  She realized he was right. How else could she come down with a rash shaped like a horseshoe? Then she snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute! I remember last week. I sat down and the seat was wet. I did wipe it down with a dry cloth, but...”

  “Then this rash developed within a few days,” he finished.

  “Yes.”

  “Um...I’m afraid that was me. Usually I wipe everything down with disinfectant and let it air dry. I guess I should have wiped it dry.”

  “I’ll say you should have. You never dry anything. After you finish cleaning, every surface looks like it’s been shellacked.”

  “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I know it’s uncomfortable. Tell you what. I’ll get you samples of a cream that should clear it up.”

  “If you just tell me what you recommend, I can get it myself.”

  “Those over-the-counter remedies aren’t going to do it, Jenny. You need a prescription medication. I’ll get you a sample tube from the hospital. I can have it for you tomorrow.”

  “You won’t be breaking any cardinal rules, will you?”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “Nothing greater than the one I’ve already broken.”

  Genevieve averted her eyes. She couldn’t argue with what Dexter just said. How could arranging to get hold of a sample tube of cream compare to the rule that said you married for love, and only love? She’d always tried to follow simple moral guidelines. So what, no commandment said, Thou shalt not engage in sham marriages. That didn’t make it right.

  “I think I’d better get those linens so you can get to sleep,” she said wearily. She had her hand on the doorknob to close it behind her when he spoke.

  “By the way.”

  She opened the door “What?”

  He winked. “Nice butt.”

  When Genevieve returned a few minutes later with fresh linens for the queen-sized futon, she was surprised to find that Dexter had already moved it into the reclining position. He had turned on the TV to the early news.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I was just about to have my cake. Would you like some?”

  “What cake?”

  “I got a piece of yellow cake with coconut icing from the restaurant where I had dinner. It’s an awfully big piece. I’d be happy to share.”

  “How come you didn’t eat that before you
r dinner?”

  “Because I was drinking. Cakes, pies, brownies and ice cream ...none of that goes down smoothly with beer.”

  She clutched her stomach at the nauseating combinations. “I’d have to agree. Thanks for offering to share, but I can’t eat this close to bedtime. Bad for my figure.” Deciding she didn’t like the way that sounded, she hastily added, “I have to watch my weight.”

  His eyes lazily roamed over her body. “If you ever get tired, just let me know. I’ll watch your figure any time you’d let me.”

  She felt her face growing tight, felt the familiar feeling of being torn between her desire for him and her need to do the morally right thing. Her inner struggle must have shown on her face, for Dexter spoke in a gentle tone. “Jenny, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I find you attractive. I’ve never made a secret of that. Is that such a crime?”

  “Of course not.” But the room was starting to feel awfully small all of a sudden. She didn’t dare tell him that she felt the same about him. “It...it just makes me feel funny, for some reason.”

  “Because you’re attracted to me, too?”

  “It’s a complication neither of us needs, Dexter.”

  He shrugged. “At least you’re not denying it.”

  “I think both of us know that would be pointless,” she said in a small voice. “Good night, Dexter.” She backed out of the room, suddenly self-conscious about the backside he’d so admired, and closed the door.

  Dexter had a hard time falling asleep. The pillow, sheet, and lightweight blanket Jenny provided him with would have made him reasonably comfortable under any other circumstances, considering that the futon was too short. The beds he slept in, both at his grandparents’ home and in his rented room, were also not long enough to hold his six-three frame unless he bent his knees. One day, he thought, he would own a king-sized bed, which his feet wouldn’t dangle off of.

  He laid on his back, his knees bent, wondering what kind of bed Jenny slept in. She’d shown him every room of the unit except the bedroom, which she dismissed with a casual, “And there’s a bedroom and another bathroom in there.” What he would give to be able to make love to her until they were both exhausted, and to sleep with his arms wrapped around her.