Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  So far, she thought, glancing at the cell phone beside her on the bed, the ring vibrating through her still more or less empty bedroom.

  It was Meg’s number on the screen.

  Be a grown-up.

  Answer it.

  Reluctantly, her hand went to the phone and even more reluctantly, she hit the talk button and put the phone to her ear.

  “We’re going up to the lake tonight. We’ll stop by and pick you up.”

  “I’ll come up tomorrow. I have some reports to finish tonight.”

  “On the day before the Fourth? You’ve got the whole weekend. Bring them with you. I’ll help you.”

  “It’s an inventory of some drawings. I’m matching them with a catalogue raisonne. But thanks for the offer. Tell Mom I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  “I can’t get you to change your mind?”

  “I’ll be up in the morning. The traffic won’t be so bad.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, promise,” Cassie lied, figuring she’d have all night to come up with a really good excuse. “Drive carefully.”

  Her mother must have been working her mental telepathy because Cassie had no more than clicked off the phone than it rang again.

  “I’m not going to let you sit home and mope on the Fourth. And your father agrees with me. Don’t you, Jim?” Mitzi shouted.

  “Hi, Mom.” Cassie pictured her mom in the kitchen at the lake and her dad out on the deck drinking a beer and reading his paper like he always did. Then he watched the evening news and ate supper. There was something comforting about the regularity of his schedule, undeterred by rain, snow, or dark of night. But not quite comforting enough to induce her to spend a weekend at the lake with her family when it was so much easier to remain immobile before her TV screen.

  “Your dad says you have to come up,” Mitzi commanded. “He’ll take you fishing.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I already talked to Meg. I’ll be up tomorrow. The traffic won’t be so bad.” Or in her case, nonexistent, but she wasn’t suicidal. She continued the lie. “Do you want anything from Tobie’s?”

  “That’s sweet, dear. A dozen of the raised donuts and some of those maple frosted long Johns your father likes. And drive carefully.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  How easy it was to lie over the phone. No one could see your eyes or whether you were blinking like crazy. Or that your bed looked like a garbage dump after a day in bed—she hadn’t dared tell her family she hadn’t been to work. Just like she hadn’t told anyone at work that she wasn’t really going up north early for the Fourth.

  Because getting in her car and driving up north would require she first work up enough energy to pick up the sticky ice-cream sandwich wrappers on her bed and the two almost empty bags of salt and vinegar chips and the nearly empty carton of malted milk balls—okay empty, but you couldn’t tell by looking so she was allowed her delusions. She’d thought about getting up and making herself a chocolate milkshake for a really long time, but that would have required mega-watts more initiative than she currently possessed.

  In fact, she was seriously wondering if she’d contracted mono, she was soo lethargic. Although the only person she could have possibly contracted mono from was thousands of miles away, oblivious of her and, let’s face it, so physically fit he couldn’t possibly be unwell.

  The reminder of Bobby’s superb fitness almost made her sorry she hadn’t been enough of a modern woman or pervert—depending on your view of sexual amusements—to have taped an evening or two of his splendid body and incredible endurance. If she had been so inclined, she would have had the additional possibility of becoming fabulously wealthy like that man who taped spring break in Florida and Mexico using all the drunken, half-naked coeds on the beaches and was now residing in a multimillion-dollar home in Beverly Hills.

  If it was possible to black out her face somehow, she would definitely be inclined to consider such a proposal because Bobby Serre really should be available for the masses. Or at least as long as he didn’t want her, he should.

  She wasn’t being vindictive—okay . . . maybe just a little. But really, if she had tons of money she might be completely happy again. Not that Bobby hadn’t been more than generous with Arthur’s money. All her bills were paid now, her bank account was smiling, and someday, when she felt more like shopping, she’d actually go buy some furniture for her house.

  She’d get the chair paid for by Bobby Serre and the couch paid for by Bobby Serre and the dining room table he’d wanted, kind of like the house that Jack built, only hers would be the house that Bobby furnished.

  Could she get on the Home and Garden Network with her makeover funded uniquely by hot sex? Was there a niche market for such a show?

  Don’t be bitter, she told herself. Think of yourself as the recipient of pleasure formerly beyond imagination. Think of yourself as Bobby Serre’s starlet in Minneapolis. Think of yourself as a thirty-two-year-old woman who will never again meet a man to compare. And I don’t care what anyone says, she thought. That would make anyone bitter.

  She desperately needed a drink or a chocolate bar or both.

  Sliding over her wrappers and crumpled bags, she rolled out of bed, walked into her kitchen, and rummaged through her cupboards. After a certain amount of cursing, she managed to ferret out a single bar of Valrhona hidden behind a tin of steel-cut oatmeal that had to be at least two years old, remnant of one of her temporary fits of good nutrition. It remained unopened.

  The Valrhona, however, was not.

  It was half-eaten. Damn.

  Like a recent escapee from a fat farm, she scarfed down the bar in a few seconds, licking the wrapping afterward for any small scraps that yet remained.

  She was becoming really pathetic.

  Get a grip, she silently commanded. No man is that good. No man is worth this amount of ennui and brooding. For God’s sake, not more than two months ago you’d resolved to remain celibate indefinitely.

  So indefinitely has arrived.

  Simply embrace it, she told herself, like some enlightened guru might or a yogi who was completely centered.

  There. She felt better. The no-man-is-worth-it mantra would be her guiding light.

  Having gently bitch-slapped her psyche, she took out a chilled bottle of champagne she’d been saving for an occasion, telling herself self-actualization and personal validation were certainly an occasion and man-handled the top off. Men always made twisting off a champagne cork look so easy. In her current easily irritated mood concerning men, that annoyed her, too—not as much as their seemingly innate need to be a rolling stone—but mildly.

  She would find something self-indulgent on TV to watch.

  She would soothe her bruised ego with this—mmm—very nice champagne while she watched. How opportune, she noted, checking out her cable guide—Exxon Mobil Masterpiece Theatre was showing Warrior Queen. That’s just what she needed—a story about an upstart female warrior in first-century Britain who takes her revenge against the might and power of Rome.

  Yay! Female power!

  You go, girl!

  The fact that Queen Boudica died a miserable death in the end, if she recalled her history, did not at the moment sabotage Cassie’s reinvigorated female power sensitivities.

  Had Queen Boudica not killed a great number of men who had done her wrong before her tragic demise?

  Such a soothing thought.

  FORTY

  BOBBY HAD VISITED FOR TWO DAYS IN Nantucket. The weather was perfect, the town was mobbed with tourists, and he was playing uncle to his brother’s kids and teaching them how to sail. Strange, though, despite a seemingly idyllic holiday, he couldn’t shake his discontent. No matter where he was or who he was with or what he was doing. If he didn’t know better, he would have ascribed his moodiness to overindulgence. But no monk could have lived a more austere life than he the last few weeks.

  Even his mother had asked, “Are you coming down with something?”

&nb
sp; His brother had said instead, “What you need is a night on the town.”

  That night consisted of several hours too many drinking in the local pubs and one helluva headache this morning.

  With his sour mood undiminished.

  But he took his nephews for their sailing lesson, and for a few brief hours, he forgot what was more or less constantly on his mind. Once back on dry land, however, his specters of gloom returned.

  He talked with his father that evening about the new manager at their estate in Avignon, told him he was going over soon, and they compared notes on what had to be done. He played the piano for his mother because she always insisted and he didn’t have the heart to tell her he only played when he was home. But he went through his repertoire of all her favorite songs, ignored his brother’s jibes, played one or two of his sister-in-law’s special requests, and excused himself for the night.

  “Something’s wrong,” his mother said when he’d gone.

  “He needs a haircut, for one thing,” his brother said, his own surfer locks short for easy upkeep.

  “I think he’s in love,” his sister-in-law said.

  Everyone thought what does she know, because his family knew him so much better. Even when Bobby had married Claire, no one had been under the illusion it was for love.

  “That’ll be the day,” his brother said.

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “Maybe Alexis is right,” his mother said politely, her PR background coming to the rescue.

  “If he is, he’ll let us know in his own good time,” his father said. A man of a pragmatic bent, he rarely engaged in the art of possibility.

  So as Bobby packed his carry-on upstairs, his family discussed him.

  When he returned downstairs, he stood in the arched opening between the front hallway and the living room as though already poised for escape. “I hired a plane to take me to the mainland. There’s a matter I have to look into. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “See,” Alexis proudly said.

  “Where are you going?” his brother asked.

  “West,” Bobby said.

  “Anyplace special?” his mother asked.

  “Leave the boy alone,” his father said.

  “I’ll give you a call when I get there.”

  The front screen door slammed a second later.

  “He won’t call.” Jake smirked at his wife.

  “Wrong, wrong, wrong.” Alexis had a feeling. “You just wait and see.”

  FORTY-ONE

  SELF-INDULGENCE WAS ALL WELL AND GOOD, Cassie decided, as long as an entire bottle of champagne wasn’t included in the scenario. She had a mother of a headache, and what little energy she possessed yesterday had entirely disappeared.

  Could she get a delivery of waffles with blueberry sauce, whipping cream, and a side order of Canadian bacon and fresh squeezed orange juice?

  She knew the answer, which further lowered her mood.

  She would be obliged to actually shower, dress, and drive somewhere to get the sustenance she desperately required.

  Just as she was debating whether her head would crack open if she moved, the phone rang—a particularly jarring sound in her current condition. She could neither move fast nor make the phone stop ringing by shouting at it, but eventually she was able to reach it and, hitting the talk button, grumpily said, “Hello.”

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Liv said. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “I wish, although not right now because my head is splitting open, which would no doubt deter any possible pleasure.”

  “Come with me to Drew’s party. A couple quick Bloody Marys and you’ll feel like new.”

  “Please . . . I’m going to barf. Do not mention alcohol ever again.”

  “Okay, fine, but get dressed and I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. Drew’s taking his yacht down to Lake Pepin. You’ll love it.”

  “You’ll love it, I won’t.”

  “Drew said he invited someone you have to meet. It’s only fair, he says, as you gave him my phone number.”

  Liv and Drew had been seeing each other for three weeks, their instant rapport such that they were seriously thinking of buying into the soul mates theory.

  “Come on,” Liv cajoled. “You don’t want to sit home alone on the Fourth. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “No, no, and no, but thank you for asking for the thousandth time. I appreciate your persistence.”

  “It’s not good for you to be by yourself on the Fourth.”

  “Believe me, I’d ruin any party I attended. I’ve been in a foul mood for—”

  “Six weeks?”

  “Am I pathetic or what? Tell me to snap out of it.”

  “Snap out of it and come with me. You’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “I can’t . . . really. You have a good time for me.”

  Liv knew that tone, soft but final. Like all the other times she’d asked her to come along. “You’re sure now?”

  “I’m sure. Actually, I’ve been thinking of going to every movie at the Lagoon today. It’s dark in there so I can hide from the Fourth, those foreign films are slow moving so I don’t have to think too fast—which would be difficult today—and their popcorn has real butter on it. Not to mention they have espresso and prime chocolate.” Just thinking about the popcorn, espresso, and chocolate made her mouth water. Maybe she’d try to make the first movie at twelve thirty. Then she could eat her breakfast there.

  “If you change your mind, call me.”

  “Will do.”

  Both of them knew she wouldn’t.

  But mildly energized by the prospect of junk food, after she said her good-byes to Liv, Cassie gingerly rolled out of bed, managed to remain standing in the shower long enough to wash, and, after resting on the bed briefly, dressed. The summer air revived her somewhat as she walked to her car, and shortly after, she was on her way to the Lagoon.

  Two of the five movies on the billboards actually looked like something she’d like to see. The other three would tax her intellect or credulity, but she could always sleep in the slow spots. She looked like someone who binged on food as she gave her tickets to the usher, loaded down as she was with the super-colossal tub of butter popcorn, a grande espresso, three chocolate bars, and a Dove bar for good measure.

  Then she found a seat in the middle of the back row and settled back to wallow in her misery.

  The first movie featured an aging French film star she’d always loved, but the camera was not kind and the role the actress played unkinder still. Before the movie had reached its midpoint, Cassie was crying. Not just because the movie was sad but because the film star’s weathered face reminded her of how quickly life passed one by.

  By her third chocolate bar, however, her endorphins had kicked in sufficiently to raise her spirits to the point where tears weren’t streaming down her face. She was grateful, because she’d forgotten to bring Kleenex and the popcorn napkins were the kind that melted away when they became wet.

  The second movie was some kind of horror show and not the funny kind, but the really gruesome kind, so she spent the entire movie looking at the back of her seat. The only good thing about it was she didn’t cry once.

  By the third movie, she’d run out of food, but all those carbs had more or less put her into a semi-sleep state, so the male coming-of-age film served as backdrop to her nap.

  Revived by her brief slumber, she bought some jujubes—the Lagoon’s selection of candy was gigantic and dispensed from tall plastic tubes you could manipulate yourself. Her bag of jujubes turned out to be very large because she didn’t quite know how to shut the spout. But she consoled herself with the fact that jujubes didn’t get old, bought a small cream soda to wash them down, and entered the fourth movie resupplied.

  FORTY-TWO

  THE AIRPORT WAS DESERTED ON THE AFTERNOON of the Fourth, which would have been a plus if the cab stand outside hadn’t been deserted as well.

  Swearing bec
ause he’d spent the last twenty hours in various airports and airplanes trying to make connections on short notice, Bobby reentered the terminal and leaped down the escalator to the rental car counters on the underground level.

  Shit. Three were closed. One had a long line. Two shorter lines. He opted for the shorter line closest to him. And then he gnashed his teeth as the elderly woman in front of him insisted on a blue car instead of the white one they had. After way too long, she was finally convinced that insisting on a blue car wasn’t going to make one materialize in the Avis parking ramp and bitterly agreed to take the white sedan. Bobby almost said about ten times, “Give her a Mercedes and I’ll pay for it if she’d only move.” But he resisted the impulse because, knowing her, she’d spend another twenty minutes trying to get the right color upholstery.

  When he finally reached the counter, he said, “Give me anything. I don’t care.”

  The clerk’s eyes lit up.

  Ten minutes later, Bobby was driving out of the parking ramp in a loaded black SUV Navigator that smelled of weed and beer and cheap cologne. Rolling down the windows, he told himself it didn’t matter that someone had had a party in the car. He had wheels. He was finally in Minneapolis. And one way or another, he would put an end to the craving that had been screwing up his life.

  Although he wasn’t unduly optimistic about finding Cassie.

  It was the Fourth of July, after all.

  And most people other than he had somewhere or something to do.

  Or something they wanted to do.

  He drove to Cassie’s first, just in case he was lucky.

  He might have known the way his life had been going lately.

  No one was home.

  He called 411, got Meg’s phone number, and struck out. A message machine saying they were up at the lake wouldn’t do him much good when they wouldn’t be back for three more days.

  His tension levels were higher than high. But he’d had plenty of time in the last twenty hours to imagine Cassie in bed with someone else. A whole bunch of someone elses. Why he thought she might be home today anyway made him question his sanity.