One More Time

by Deborah Cooke

  Matt had had a general sense of the house being vividly hued when he had arrived the night before, but when he’d returned this afternoon to find it in full sun, his eyeballs had nearly melted.

  Inside was much the same. The living room walls had actually been gilded, as far as he could tell, for they gleamed the gold of the actual metal. The drapes there were crimson velvet, trimmed with gold fringe, and so elaborate that they made him think of old movie theaters.

  Maybe that was where they had come from. There were a lot of candlesticks in that room and not much furniture, some cushions on the pine floor in luxurious fabrics. There were also a couple of creepy wooden sculptures, shoulder-high figures with chipped paint and gilt that must have been saints from churches. One offered her eyeballs on a tray, like hors d’oeuvres.

  Maybe she’d been shocked at the color of the house, too.

  Either way, Matt wasn’t a fan of the living room.

  The dining room was full of canvases, many large ones stacked against the walls. They were turned to face the walls and embellished with a good layer of dust. Matt didn’t want to pry by looking at them, but they made him realize that none of Sharan’s work was hanging on the walls.

  In fact, it didn’t look as if she’d been painting lately. A jar on the sill filled with brushes had clearly been there for a while: the turpentine had evaporated, leaving a ring on the jar and a bunch of dried misshapen brushes within it.

  Once, Sharan had been fastidious about her tools. Matt guessed that there was a story behind her decision to get a job, and maybe a story he didn’t want to know. He was concerned about these signs, because one of the reasons he’d sought her out was because he’d been sure she’d understand.

  He’d thought she could show him how to live a comparatively normal life while following a crazy creative dream. He’d thought they would be kindred spirits now that he had the drive to create himself, but that dried-out jar of turpentine made him wonder.

  The spare room was spartan, a cast-iron daybed on one side, a kitchen chair on the other. Clouds had been painted on the ceiling, but the room was otherwise unadorned. There were four hooks in the wall beside the chair. Matt left his suitcase there, the one he had retrieved from the hotel, along with his briefcase.

  He wasn’t going to make assumptions about where he would be sleeping. Funny but now that he was so far from home, he found himself thinking about Leslie, not Sharan. Funny how he didn’t seem to know what the heck he wanted anymore, when once it had been so clear.

  Or maybe it wasn’t funny at all.

  One thing was as clear as crystal. He thought of his novel, secured in the basement ceiling in Massachusetts, and felt the rush of pleasure it always brought him.

  His luck, the house would burn down while he was gone.

  Matt grimaced. He was tired, that was for sure, and unsettled from that interview with Zach. And he was getting too sober for comfort.

  That must be why he was so tempted to call Leslie. He’d missed the sound of her voice earlier, though it had been good to talk to Annette. He could call back.

  One more time.

  Because only a loser would lead his wife to believe that more was possible than was really the case.

  This was where he belonged.

  So, why didn’t he feel as if he fit here?

  Matt retreated to the kitchen, which was easy to identify and even easier to like. It had a terracotta tile floor that was cool under his feet and the appliances were small and vintage. The cupboards were old and piecemeal, bits and ends snagged from different places and all painted a creamy yellow. The tile backsplash was red and yellow, the tiles making up larger patterns by the way they came together. There was an old fireplace still in one exterior wall, fascinating because it was so high and narrow. Sharan didn’t seem to use it: dried palmetto fronds were arranged in front of it.

  He liked the unexpectedly generous expanse of counter, which seemed bigger because there was no clutter. He liked the deep enamel sink, and the old wooden kitchen table with its mismatched chairs. It was funky and artistic. Sharan seemed to have bought most of her kitchen equipment from restaurant supply companies, which suited Matt just fine. Her knives were impossibly dull, but she had a stone and he hadn’t really expected much different from her.

  He hung up his suit on a hook in the spare bedroom, put on some shorts and a T-shirt, and went barefoot into the kitchen to get to work. It was reassuring to sharpen the knives, more reassuring to grant himself a shot of tequila.

  Matt was chopping cilantro when the screen door opened and slammed. The ceviche was chilling and he was moving on to the main course. He jumped at the slam of the door, having lost himself in the reverie of food preparation and almost forgotten that he soon wouldn’t be alone.

  “Hi!” Sharan waved, her face alight with pleasure at the sight of him.

  “Hi.” Matt smiled in return, but it was a dutiful smile and he knew it.

  “I had the worst day,” Sharan said and he heard her kick off her shoes. “I couldn’t believe how many palm branches they need for this krewe’s float. I mean, really, you’d think it was Jesus riding into Jerusalem that they were staging or something. Every time I’d get done, they’d come down with another armload to paint. Boring!” She drew this last word out to a paragraph.

  Matt heard something hit the floor. He glanced over to see the floral dress in a pile on the terracotta tile. Sharan, meanwhile, was wriggling out of her panties.

  They were plain white cotton, perfectly decent panties, and they were dispatched to the floor as well. She was nude and tanned and slender, smiling in invitation. She wore no bra, a fact that Matt found ridiculously disappointing. Her breasts were round and firm, the nipples high and pert. There was absolutely nothing about them that wasn’t perfect—even their tan was flawless.

  But they hung bare and loose, which made him think of the photographs in National Geographic magazines. And that didn’t turn him on.

  “You’re not wearing a bra,” he said without meaning to do so. He’d gotten spoiled with Leslie, with the daily revealing of what he called ‘Leslie’s secret’. He frowned and chopped cilantro with more vigor.

  Unnecessary vigor.

  Sharan laughed. “Never do. It’s a mark of the patriarchy to insist that women bind their breasts. I don’t play that game. I thought you’d remember that.”

  Matt didn’t know what to say to that.

  Sharan watched him for a moment, then smiled. “Oh, I get it. You’ve been in the conservative world so long that you’ve gotten to like all that tarty stuff.”

  “No, it’s not that…”

  “Or did she put out so seldom that you had to get it off with lingerie catalogs?”

  “Look, Sharan, I don’t want to talk about the past…”

  “Neither do I. Here I am, present and accounted for.” Sharan’s hands slipped around Matt’s waist and he felt her press against his back. “So, aren’t you glad to see me?” Her hands slid into his shorts.

  “Hey, wait, I’ve got a knife here!”

  “So, put it down.”

  Matt glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t you want dinner first?”

  Sharan grinned up at him. “Life is uncertain: have dessert first.”

  Matt returned to his work, irritable for some reason he couldn’t name. “Well, I’m hungry even if you’re not.”

  “Oh, I’m hungry too,” she said, then bit him playfully on the shoulder.

  Matt put down his knife and turned around. “Look,” he managed to say before Sharan kissed him. Her arms were around his neck, her fingers twined in his hair, her tongue between his teeth. Her breasts were pressed against his chest and he would have had to have been dead to not have responded to her caress.

  She lifted her lips from his and smiled. “Phew! Some magic never fades.” She licked her fingertip and made a sizzling sound as she touched it to his shoulder. “You are one hot piece of work, Mr. Coxwell.”

  Matt put his han
ds on her waist and managed to put an increment of space between them. “Look, Sharan, I’ve got to finish getting dinner ready…”

  She took a step back, watching him with narrowed eyes. “I’m definitely picking up a cool vibe from you. What’s going on?”

  “Well, dinner!”

  She laughed. “That never used to stop us. That’s why they put those really low settings on stove dials. See?”

  “Sharan, I’m serious.”

  She gave him a shrewd glance. “Maybe it’s time for a review. Why exactly did you come here, if not for fabulous wild sex?”

  “I wanted to see you, of course, and talk to you.”

  “Well, that’s a good start. What’s wrong with touching me, then? It’s not as if you don’t know how, we both remember that.”

  “Well, I’m married for starters…”

  Sharan laughed. “Is that all?” She leaned a bare hip against the counter and stole a piece of red pepper from his array of chopped vegetables. “That’s not fatal. In fact, it can be fixed…if either of us really cares.”

  Matt glanced up in surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, come on, Matt, you must have cheated before.”

  He shook his head, stoic. “No. Never.”

  “You never cheated on Leslie?” That she was so incredulous made Matt unexpectedly angry.

  “There are things you don’t know about her…”

  “I guess so. But in the end, it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re here and she’s not—I figure that what I don’t know about her won’t hurt me.” She was laughing at him and he knew it, but he couldn’t help bristling.

  “There’s a lot more to Leslie than you think…”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, she’s driven and passionate about her work…”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you thought she was passionate about you.”

  There was a truth in that, one that silenced Matt. He looked back down at his cilantro and tried to remember why coming here had seemed the best, if not the only, possibility.

  Sharan watched him with knowing eyes, then rapped him in the chest with an imperious finger. “Well, here’s the thing: we’re not inventing extra-marital sex. You’ll have to trust me on this, but people do it all the time.”

  “I’m serious. I made a vow…” He tried to figure out, on some level, why he was fighting this so hard and failed.

  “And vows can be broken. It’s not exactly a rare occurrence. Besides, you left, so that vow is already moot. If you figure you’re going to live here until you get divorced, then wait until we get married before we do it, then be warned: I’m going to need dessert before that.”

  “That’s not what I mean…” he began to argue, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he did mean. “I’m just not ready for this.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Ready for sex, when we haven’t seen each other in eighteen years and haven’t talked yet.”

  “I thought it was women who needed foreplay.”

  “Looks like it’s the other way around here today.”

  Sharan braced her hands on the counter and stared at him. “So, was it marriage, fatherhood, or life in gloriously suburban Belmont that made you bourgeois? Because you didn’t used to be, you know.”

  “It’s not bourgeois to keep your word,” he said, with unnecessary force. “It’s honest.”

  “Honest?” Sharan laughed again. “Is that what this is about? Well, don’t feel any need to lie on my account. You want to confess? You want to tell Leslie?” She crossed the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Let’s just give her a call so she’s in the loop. What’s the number again?”

  Matt seized the receiver and slammed it back into the cradle. “You can’t mean that.”

  “Well, actually I do.”

  “You’re just trying to tick me off…”

  “No, I’m trying to get some honesty out of you,” Sharan retorted. “I don’t care who knows what I do. I don’t answer to anybody, especially your dear wife. And if she’s so fucking important to you, then what are you doing here?” She flung out a hand. “Why were you sleeping on my porch? Why are you cooking in my kitchen?” She stepped closer, eyes flashing. “And even if it’s honest, it wouldn’t be smart to tell me that I’m just a convenient solution to your marital problems.”

  Matt shoved his hands through his hair, abandoning the cilantro for the tequila, probably for good. “I wanted to see you.”

  Sharan spread her hands, displaying her nudity to him. “And here I am. There’s no more than this to see. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

  He swallowed tequila, watching her, then shook his head. “I want to talk to you.”

  “And I want to have sex with you. Honest enough for you?”

  Matt shook his head. “I’m not ready for that yet, Sharan. It’s not you, it’s me.” He drained his glass again, under her watchful gaze.

  She folded her arms across her chest and sighed. “You’re lucky I’m crazy about you,” she muttered, then shook her head. She took his next shot of tequila, knocked it back and winced. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  Matt glanced toward the dining room and the inventory of dusty canvases. They stopped the words in his throat, so eloquently did they speak of surrendering the fight he was embarking upon. “I wanted to ask you how much a person should give up for their art. I wanted to ask you how you keep going, how you find the strength to create when there are so many other things we’re supposed to do.” He shook his head slightly. “But I’m not sure anymore that I should ask.”

  “You saw the canvases.”

  “They’re hard to miss. You gave me the house keys.”

  Tears welled in her eyes before she turned away and dropped the glass onto the counter. “You want honesty, Matt? Well, here it comes. I don’t know that answer to that, except that it’s more than I wanted to give.”

  “You shouldn’t have stopped.”

  “Is that right? Thank you for the advice, Matt Coxwell. What was I going to eat while I kept painting canvases that no one wanted to buy? Where was I supposed to live after my first solo show bombed and my agent ditched me and my gallery reneged on everything they’d promised me?”

  “I’m sorry, Sharan, I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t know because I didn’t tell you, and I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed. So, there you go. There’s all the truth I have on tap today. Sex now or sex later?”

  “Sharan, I didn’t mean to start a fight. I just thought you’d be the one person who’d understand.”

  “Understand what? That creating makes you feel like a god, then leaves you to starve in a gutter? That not creating is worse? I don’t need the executive review: I’ve been living this nightmare for a decade and if I ever figure out what the hell to do about turning it around, I’ll let you know.”

  “You should paint again.”

  She grimaced. “I don’t think so. Here’s the compromise position, pun intended: I’ve had eighteen years of foreplay, eighteen years to think about you since you dumped me, and a whole day today to think about getting it on with you. I like sex. I want sex with you. I thought you wanted sex with me. I came home, expecting to have sex with you. Are you with me so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, sex or not?”

  “Let’s eat something first.”

  “No, let’s fuck first and eat later.” She was challenging him, deliberately choosing a vulgar word to get a rise out of him. Matt knew it just as well as he knew that he wasn’t going to be with her tonight.

  “I need to talk to you first.”

  “I don’t want to talk, and I especially don’t want to talk about giving things up for art—or even about giving art up for everything else. Reviewing my inadequacies is not going to turn me on, that’s for sure.” She met his gaze, daring him to take advantage of her offer.

  Matt turned off the stove. “This was a bad idea. I�
��m sorry, I made a mistake. I should go.”

  She plucked her dress off the floor and put it on, not bothering with her underwear. He stepped past her, sickened that he had brought her pain to the surface in his own quest for understanding.

  He couldn’t be so casual about sex. He couldn’t just leap into bed, not with a woman who had become a stranger. There had been a time when he hadn’t understood Sharan’s passion for her work, a time when he couldn’t fathom how she could paint for hours, all through the night even, and remain on a jubilant high until she was done. He had been certain that they’d make the connection that had proved so elusive years before.

  But she was a different person than he remembered, a much angrier person than ever could have expected from her cheerful letters. If Sharan’s house had been full of paintings, if it had been a crummy apartment or a loft filled with her art, if she had been filled with the joy of creation that he remembered so well, maybe his response to her offer would have been different.

  If she hadn’t been bitter, it would have been different.

  And he could see in her eyes that she knew it. He got to the spare room before she called after him.

  “Matt. Don’t leave.” She sounded tired, resigned.

  He glanced over his shoulder, tequila making his head swim. “I think it’s better if I do.”

  “And I think it would be better if you stayed. We were friends first, and I’d like the chance to be friends again.” She put out her hand, offering to shake, and Matt hesitated only a moment before taking her hand in his.

  “But I’m going out.” She heaved a sigh, swallowed, and looked around the kitchen, as if seeking an answer amidst the clutter her had made on the counters. “I have to go out, but I’d like it if you were here in the morning.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re not done with each other yet. Because I’ve loved you for a long time, and you came here because you needed me.” She smiled ruefully. “Just because you don’t need me in the same way that I need you right now doesn’t mean that I should let you walk away. I’ll talk to you, but not tonight.”