“He’ll thank us tomorrow for driving him and his car home.”
“I’m sure.”
“But can you speed it up? I want to get away from here.”
Tom drove faster. “I’m having trouble understanding you this evening. One minute you complain about debauchery, the next you appear disappointed that I’m not among the debauched.”
Kate gave him the silent treatment for a few minutes, until they were clipping along on the main road. She said, “You’re just not very passionate anymore.”
Tom said, “I’m not twenty-two anymore, either.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You could still be passionate at fifty-two if you had something to get excited about. If real estate development and extra-marital sex don’t do it for you, find something that does.”
“What about you? What excites you?”
“Me? I’m not the passionate type. I’m more down-to-earth and practical. You’re the one who’s supposed to have dreams.”
Alice parked her car and ran to the door of Chuck’s, fought down the fear she’d taken too long driving Mary Ann and Sam back to Oakdale, had left it too late, and Jake would be gone. Though it was only 11:15. Bands didn’t stop playing at eleven o’clock, did they? That’s what she’d told herself all the way back. There was lots of time still to make this her night. There had to be.
She swung open the heavy door and heard no loud live music, only the muted tones of the jukebox. The band’s instruments still seemed to be up onstage, on their stands. The table that the dinner club had occupied was empty, littered with dirty glasses and beer bottles. And there were maybe fifteen customers in the room.
She asked the bartender if Rhythm and Blues were finished for the night. “I think they’re coming back for one more set,” he said, with the face of someone who wished they weren’t.
Alice asked for a ginger ale as thanks for this information, and because her mouth felt dry. A ginger ale with lots of ice. The bartender slid the glass over to her, took her money, and said, “They’re sitting in the booth around the corner there.”
“Who are?”
“The band.”
Alice spotted the tops of heads over the edge of the booth in question, heard a gust of male laughter, could think of no good reason to walk over and interrupt the party.
They stood up and became recognizable as the drummer, the bass player, the keyboard guy, and Tristan, with a woman attached to his side who looked an awful lot like Phoebe. And there was Jake, at the back of the group.
“Hey, Alice!” Phoebe called. She turned to Jake. “I told you she’d come back.”
The others wandered off. Jake ducked his head — embarrassed? — and came over to Alice. “I wondered what had happened to you,” he said.
Alice sat on the edge of a bar stool. She was exhausted. “I had to drive someone home, and it took longer than I thought. I’m sorry I missed part of your song, but I liked what I heard. You have a lovely voice.” Shit. Was she coming on too strong? Did it matter anymore?
Jake said, “Wanna dance?”
“Now? To this?” This being early Rolling Stones.
“We’ll pick another song.”
He went to the jukebox and leaned over it. She leaned with him, and they read the list of selections while she worried about having sweaty armpits and dry mouth, and little prickles of excitement ran up and down her arms at the mere thought of touching him, being held by him.
Or were they going to fast dance?
“Pretty slim pickings,” Jake said, and she pointed shyly to a Bad Boys song, the group’s biggest hit. A ballad called “My Baby Tonight,” which Alice had a feeling had been composed expressly for middle school slow dances.
Jake said, “At least a few of those guys can sing.” He dropped in some quarters, selected the song, and took Alice’s hand, led her onto the deserted dance floor.
They stood still, facing each other in dancing position, waiting for the song to start. Jake said, “What happened to your friends?”
Alice released Jake’s hand for a second to cover her yawning mouth. “They’re not exactly night owls. Except Phoebe.”
Jake chuckled. “Tristan scores again. And here comes your song.”
The syrupy string-heavy arrangement began, and they started to dance, a simple step and sway kind of slow dance that incorporated a gradual turn. Jake knew how to lead, but his touch was too light on her back, his hands too cool. Their bodies were nowhere near close enough together.
Time to take control, do a Mary Ann. Alice tightened her grip on Jake’s shoulder, pulled herself closer, and started to sing — a small-voiced, mild kind of singing.
The lyrics of the song were so bland they were almost meaningless, full of rhymes like blue and you, and me and see, and sprinkled liberally with the word baby.
Alice could drop every baby and darlin’ into its rightful spot in the song, but she’d laugh in the face of anyone who tried to address her that way in real life. She wasn’t laughing now, though. Now that Jake had started to sing the chorus, had moved his mouth close to her ear, had picked up the lines that belonged to the Voice, was harmonizing with the Voice’s raspy delivery, was crooning to her with a gentle affection that made her close her eyes and press her forehead into his shoulder, that slowed her pulse to the tempo of the music, that aroused every nerve ending on every inch of her skin, that made her want the song to never end.
22
November 21, 2010
Sam woke up first, coughing. He stopped coughing to breathe, looked at the clock, saw it was three a.m., and realized with a shudder that the naked woman sleeping beside him was not Hallie, but Mary Ann Gray, with whom, if he was recalling the events of the last few hours with any accuracy, he had recently engaged in a bout of rip-roaring sex. Holy fuck.
He crept out of bed, careful not to wake her, ducked into the ensuite bathroom, closed the door behind him, turned on the dimmer switch very low, peed for about an hour, flushed, and checked his reflection in the mirror.
He looked terrible. His hair looked like someone had sat on his head (understandable — someone had). His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, his skin — even in the dim light — had a greenish tinge. And he could smell the booze coming out of his pores. Not surprising considering how much he’d had to drink. Sparkling wine before dinner, several glasses of red with a couple of shots of whiskey at the bar. Enough alcohol to screw up his digestive system. To send him over to the toilet in a hurry, so he could kneel down and throw up all the rich food he’d eaten, throw up like some underage punk who gets wasted and can’t hold his liquor.
If only his daughters could see him now.
When he was finished retasting everything he’d eaten — he wouldn’t be going anywhere near that butter-soaked pommes Anna dish for years — he washed his face, brushed his teeth, swished with mouthwash three times, showered, put on a bathrobe, went downstairs, drank a gallon of water, poured himself a tall glass of orange juice, and collapsed into a chair in his study.
He visualized his marriage kaput, the house sold, his daughters no longer his daily companions. He saw his family circle turned into some complicated custody arrangement, the girls polite and distant with him, the way they acted with strangers.
What had he done?
Or to put it another way, what hadn’t he done? Without allowing the weight of the guilt bearing down on his chest to lessen by even an ounce, he thought back to the sex with Mary Ann. It had been wrong and immoral and not the kind of activity he’d want to indulge in on a daily basis, but man, they’d had a good time. Mary Ann had been so enthusiastic. And responsive. Unbelievably so. Plus she kept telling him he was gorgeous. And sounding like she not only meant it, she found this alleged gorgeousness of his to be exciting.
No one had ever called him gorgeous before.
Cute, maybe.
Hallie used to think he was cute.
Hallie, his wife, the mother of his children, the woman he loved and had no desire to leave,
opportunities for rip-roaring sex with Mary Ann notwithstanding.
What had he done?
Mary Ann woke face down on the mattress. She felt around on the bed beside her — no one was there. She sat up, looked for a bedside clock, found one glowing on a night table. 4:14 a.m. She reached for a pillow and grabbed hold of a big down-filled square covered with a damask case. Hallie’s pillow probably, which was kind of weird if you thought about it. Mary Ann didn’t feel like thinking about it. She stuck
the pillow behind her head, leaned back, and checked her vital signs.
Head was foggy and fuzzy, clear thinking a strain. Still half cut, then. Upper body was naked under the sheet, skin a little chafed, rubbed — a not unpleasant sensation. Like after a mud wrap at a spa.
Her stomach was sending out signals of instability. Could they be hunger pangs? They could. She hadn’t eaten much dinner, except for a few spoonfuls of soup. She’d been too excited to eat, too raring.
Her lower body was also naked and ached internally — ouch. The insides of her thighs were slick with bodily fluids — yuck. And gross — her hands smelled like latex.
She shivered. At the thought she’d had sex at all, after nine months without. And with someone not only new but married. In Hallie’s bed. Not such a horrible thing, when you considered what Hallie had been up to with Drew, right?
She got up, turned on a light, found and put on her bra, opened dresser drawers until she located Sam’s T-shirts, put on a not-brand-new not-too-old one that was long enough to cover her ass, wandered into the hallway, found a linen closet and took out a towel, went to the bathroom and washed up, wiped away with a tissue the more obvious mascara smears on her face, brushed her teeth (she’d brought a toothbrush in her tote bag), attempted to sort out her hair, slipped on the clean underwear and the knee-length nightshirt she’d packed, went downstairs and found Sam in his study. He was wearing a bathrobe and writing on a pad. A glass of orange juice sat on the desk.
“Hi, doll,” he said. “You couldn’t sleep either?”
Mary Ann smiled at the doll part. “I woke up from this wild dream about you and me having incredible sex. Together. Isn’t that weird?”
“Oh, Mary Ann. What am I going to do with you?”
“How about sharing your orange juice?”
He passed her the glass, and she took a sip, but stopped herself from drinking it all. She was so thirsty. And hungry. She gestured to his writing pad. “What are you doing?”
“Other than feeling guilty as sin, and worrying what will happen to my marriage when Hallie finds out what we did? The marriage that I have no desire to break up?”
“Your marriage can survive a one-night stand. But what were you writing?”
He looked down at the pad, as if he’d forgotten. “I was making a to-do list.”
“For your novel?”
“No. I’m thinking of embarking on a new enterprise — a prepared food shop, right here in Oakdale. Did I mention it to you last night?”
“No, you didn’t. And I’d like to hear about it, but I don’t think I can talk about food unless I’m eating some. Would you think I was rude if I scrambled some eggs?”
“Go ahead. There’s challah for toast, too, if you like.”
“You want some?”
“No thanks. Juice is about all I can handle right now.”
They moved into the kitchen, she made herself eggs and toast, and Sam sat on a stool at the counter and told her about his and Danielle’s idea for turning the Oakdale Dinner Club into a shop.
“It sounds promising,” Mary Ann said when he’d done talking. “And I’m sure you can make it work. But I have one question.”
“What’s that?”
“Any way we could have sex again before I have to leave?”
Alice couldn’t sleep with Jake in her bed, with Jake in her apartment. She was too used to having the whole mattress to herself, or to at least being the only adult in the bed. So at five a.m. she sat on her enclosed porch, dressed in her sweats, wrapped in a blanket, and exhaled frosty breath. Sat there alone and felt fatigue tug at her face and pull it down and to the sides. She knew sleep wouldn’t come until Jake was gone.
She reviewed the evening, the night. The dinner club part had gone well, hadn’t it? She’d supplied enough food and chairs and forks, and her oven hadn’t blown up, no fire had started. Everyone seemed to get along, and it didn’t matter anymore that her efforts to prevent Tom from seeing Mary Ann seduce Sam were unsuccessful. Not after the performance they’d put on at the bar.
But there was something Tom had said when she’d talked to him earlier that had sparked an idea. Something — was it about the apartment? — she’d made a mental note to file away and think about later. She exercised her tired mind, tried to find the note, couldn’t.
She saw the sex with Jake, the sex that had been so sensuously quiet and slow. She rocked a bit in her chair at the thought of the slow dance at Chuck’s — the spinning room, her twirling head. She laughed about Mary Ann and her crazy telepathy. Where had that come from, and after how many years? Twenty? Twenty-four?
Jake called Alice’s name softly from the living room. She turned around, saw his shadowy figure. He was fully dressed.
He stepped onto the porch, sat down in a chair beside her. “You okay?” His voice was modulated to the hour, to the stillness.
“Yeah. Tired. You?”
He produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, offered her one.
“No thanks.”
He lit one, and she watched the lazy white smoke drift out of his mouth.
He touched her cheek. “I feel bad about leaving so early.”
“Don’t feel bad.” Any minute now, she’d be able to run to her room and jump into her bed. Alone. “I understand.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m back from the trip.”
“You’d better.”
“And I’ll email you from Thailand.”
“Will not.”
“Will too.”
“Wanna bet?”
He set his cigarette down in the ashtray and reached out a hand to shake hers. “Winner of the bet pays for our next dinner out.”
“Done.” Alice stood up, pulled him up with her, and hugged him — a long, deep one.
The phone rang in Alice’s dream, and even after she answered it, it kept on ringing. At the same time, Mary Ann knocked on the door and yelled, “Alice! Alice, are you there?”
Alice wanted to scream, it was so annoying. She woke herself up instead, heard the real phone ring, lifted the receiver, mumbled hello.
“Finally!” said Mary Ann’s voice. “I didn’t want to call, but when I tried contacting you on the telepathic line and it didn’t work, I figured I had no alternative.”
Alice groaned, rolled over onto her back, and held onto her head with her free hand.
“Say something, Alice.”
“I feel like shit.”
“Tell me about it. I got four hours of sleep last night. My body’s currently running on the fat stored in my inner thighs.”
“Nice image. What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock. Time to return to the world of parenting. Sam has to go pick up his girls from my house. And you have to drive me home and help maintain the fiction I slept at your place last night.”
“Oh god.”
“I know. Is Jake still there?”
“No.”
“Didn’t he stay over?”
“Yeah, but he left.”
“Then get up and come over here real quick.”
Alice groaned again. “Will there be coffee?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Mary Ann lowered her voice. “So how was it?”
“I’ll only hurry if there’s coffee with real cream. Not milk.”
“All right, all right. Bring a mug.”
Mary Ann said to Sam, “Your turn,” and went to deal with the coffee while Sam called Mary Ann’s house.
&nb
sp; He talked to Melina, asked if Mary Ann was back from Alice’s yet, and how were his girls doing. “They just woke up?” he said. “How about I come by around ten to get them, then? Okay, good. Thanks.”
Mary Ann said, “So we’re all set. Our tracks are covered.”
“I hope so. It would be terrible if Hallie found out about this from someone other than me.”
“You could just not tell her.”
“And add insult to injury?”
“How do you know she hasn’t cheated on you somewhere along the line?” His face fell, and she said, “It’s possible, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Hallie? Hallie wouldn’t — shit. I didn’t think she would.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to sully her name.” Yes, she was, but she’d stop now. “I just don’t want you to feel too bad about what’s happened.”
“I know.”
Gorgeous but tormented, that’s what Sam was. Mary Ann rubbed his back, soothed him the way she would one of her children, then tapped him lightly, twice — the signal for hug’s over. “Do you have cream for Alice’s coffee?”
Alice rang the doorbell at Sam’s house, walked past him without speaking when he admitted her with a cheery good morning, found the kitchen, poured coffee into a large plastic travel mug, added cream. Stood there, bleary-eyed and silent, sipping it, and didn’t ask where Mary Ann was.
Sam said, “So, Alice, if there was a food shop on Main Street that served Mary Ann’s soups and Danielle Pringle’s salads and mains and Sarah MacAllister’s desserts, would you buy your meals there?”
Alice turned toward him. “What?”
Mary Ann came into the kitchen. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Alice grunted.
“Mornings aren’t Alice’s best time,” Mary Ann said to Sam, and pushed Alice out the door.
In the car, Mary Ann said, “There are so many things to say about last night, I don’t know where to start.”
“That’s okay. I’m not up to talking.”
“You know what I don’t understand? Why did the telepathy came back?”
The Oakdale Dinner Club Page 20
