One More Time

by Deborah Cooke

  “Do you know what I had to pay headhunters to find those two?”

  Leslie laughed.

  “That’s better,” Matt said with approval. “I’ve missed hearing you laugh.”

  “Then maybe you need to make better jokes.”

  That surprised him into a laugh of his own. Leslie might have felt a moment of triumph, if Sharan hadn’t suddenly breathed into the phone. “Listen, Leslie, it’s wonderful that you and Matt are talking, but this is my phone and my time. Dessert is served, Matt so say night-night to your wifey.”

  And the connection, not surprisingly, was broken.

  Leslie listened to the dial tone and wished she knew who had hung up the phone.

  On the other hand, did it really matter?

  * * *

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Matt said to Sharan. She stood right beside him, her thumb on the phone from breaking the connection. He was still holding the receiver, though that seemed kind of pointless now.

  And he was still trying to wrap his mind around Leslie’s words.

  “Why not? Years ago you dumped me and broke my heart. Now you’re here, in my house. I get to gloat,” Sharan said stubbornly.

  “You don’t have to be mean.”

  “You came here, remember? You were looking for something and I don’t think it was a telephone.”

  “You’re right.” Matt hung up the receiver. “I did come looking for something, but what I found was different from what I expected.”

  And what he had left had been different than what he expected.

  In fact, what he’d been looking for had been his already.

  It was a startling realization and one that left him blinking.

  “This is not just about my painting…” Sharan began furiously.

  “Yes, it is,” Matt insisted, realizing that he had another purpose here with Sharan. It was a different one than he’d expected, but was every bit as vital. “It’s exactly about your painting. You need to paint, Sharan. It’s a part of you, it’s a gift that you were given so that you would use it. So long as you’re not painting, I’m not sure of who you are.”

  “Art isn’t all of me!”

  “Would you have said that twenty years ago?”

  “I didn’t know anything twenty years ago.” She folded her arms across her chest and spoke through gritted teeth. “Art isn’t all of me.”

  Matt held her angry gaze. “Isn’t it? Then who are you without it? You’re more than a palm leaf painter, Sharan, and we both know it. You’ve got talent and it’s your obligation to use it.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she snapped. She pivoted in the doorway to the spare room and glared back at him. “You think you can just come here and shake everything up, toss around whatever you think is the truth, and everyone will dance to your tune. Well, I’ve got news for you, Matt. I’m not going to play your game. I like sex and I like you, and if you’re not going to ante up some physical affection, then you can leave.”

  Matt turned off the stove and moved the pot from the burner. He moved with surety, not wanting to anger her, but knowing he would do so anyway. “Fair enough,” he said softly.

  Sharan was shaken by his agreement, he could see that. “Most people think sex is easy, Matt.” She tossed the words at him like grenades. “Most people would be glad to put out a bit to get what they want.”

  “Lots of people think sex is an important part of something bigger.”

  Sharan grabbed her purse, shoved her feet into her sandals, and headed for the door. “I’m going out. If you’re not going to change your mind, don’t be here when I wake up in the morning.”

  They eyed each other for a long moment, and he knew that she was expecting him to bend to her will. He knew what he had to do, though, and clearly saw his course forward.

  Sharan must have seen something in his eyes. “Haven’t you heard, Matt?” she asked, her words ragged. “Home is where the heart is, so get your ass out of my house.”

  He dropped his gaze, realizing that she’d uttered more truth than she knew.

  Sharan swore, then spun out the front door. It slammed behind her and her little car started with a vengeance. The tires squealed and she was gone, only the hum of insects and the sound of a distant television carrying to Matt’s ears.

  He could have told her that she couldn’t run away from what was frightening her. He knew that now, knew what he hadn’t known just days before.

  Sharan wouldn’t have listened, though. She had to find the truth in her own way and in her own time, or not at all.

  Maybe he could give her a nudge. Maybe he already had. Maybe that was what he owed her for old time’s sake.

  Matt considered the bottle of tequila and decided against it. He didn’t want to be drunk tonight. He didn’t want to dull his senses or cloud his thinking. He was filled with purpose and an optimism that he’d been sure he’d never feel again. Leslie wanted to try. Leslie was willing to make changes. Leslie still loved him.

  And, albeit a little bit late, Matt realized that that was all he’d wanted. He’d been afraid to ask her for the one thing he desired of her, afraid she’d deny him. The fact that she had offered it of her own accord was a more precious gift than he’d ever imagined he’d find.

  There were still, however, a few things he had to do.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Runt dunt dada dadala dunt da.

  Leslie fights against the dream, knowing this battle is lost. She’s in the big top, standing before the tightrope.

  But something’s wrong.

  Her father’s not here.

  She looks around, but there’s no sign of him. The music is insistent, persistent; the barker makes her introduction with a flourish.

  But where is her father?

  Leslie lifts one foot to step onto the tightrope, but the cable wobbles in front of her and she loses her nerve. She pulls back her foot, to the dismay of the crowd, then pivots and runs as they boo and hiss behind her.

  She wants to fly the way she did the last night, but has to find her father first. She runs through the working areas of the big top, pink leather slippers scattering sawdust. She ducks under the elephant’s trunk and races around the clowns. She bursts out of the back of the tent to find a Midwestern landscape stretching flat and golden in every direction.

  The wheat is ripe, that’s what she thinks, though she knows less than nothing about farming. It’s warm, a sunny afternoon in the late summer. She looks down and sees that she’s an adult now, an adult in a child’s tutu, her heels bursting out of those treasured ballet slippers.

  Her father stands just ahead of her, his foot braced on a guy line. He’s smoking his pipe, staring across the flat expanse of land. The music of the calliope is muted behind them, but loud enough that she thinks he won’t hear her approach.

  She lifts a hand to put it on his shoulder and he moves away, sensing her pending touch.

  “It wasn’t what you were supposed to do, was it?” he growls and she pulls her hand away.

  “I thought you wanted me to succeed.”

  “Not at that. Not like that.”

  “I liked flying.”

  “I don’t care! It’s not what you were supposed to do. You were supposed to walk the tightrope.”

  “But, but…”

  “Get away with you now,” he says gruffly. “You had to go and do what you wanted, didn’t you? You couldn’t think of others.”

  “But…” Leslie could not understand why her father didn’t want her to be happy, not until his words took a familiar turn.

  “You had to marry him, didn’t you? You had to stretch too far. I told you that it would end in tears. I told you that it would come to grief, but did you listen to me? Did you give any credit to what I said to you?” He turned and looked at her, accusation bright in his eyes. “Do you see yet that I was right?”

  Leslie shakes her head. “It wasn’t all bad…”

  “No? And now you have a chil
d and houseful of obligations and no man at your side. I told you this would happen. I told you that a man like him could not sustain any interest in a woman like you. I told you that you were just an amusement for him, but did you listen to me?”

  “You told me to pursue my dreams. You told me to become a scholar…”

  “You were supposed to find a man to take care of you, not find a man who amused himself for a while in having you take care of him. This was not what I wanted for you!”

  “What about love?”

  “Love has left you where you are, and where is that?” He looked her up and down. “You don’t want my advice. You don’t listen to me, and you have no respect. Go ahead and destroy everything I’ve tried to give you.”

  “I love him.”

  “You’re too smart to make choices on that basis alone.” He spared her a glance. “At least my daughter was too smart for that sort of stupidity.” There was challenge in his eyes, challenge and condemnation. “Get away with you then. Go ahead and do whatever you want. That’s what you’ll do anyway, ungrateful child. I don’t need to watch you destroy yourself.”

  And he turned his back upon her.

  Exactly the way he had turned his back upon her sixteen years before.

  Leslie awakened with a gasp and a catch in her throat. She hadn’t forgotten a single word of that last exchange with her father. It was every bit as painful to hear his dismissal in a dream as it had been in real life.

  And just as she had all those years ago, she started to cry. Who could have guessed that his approval had really been hinged on her marrying an approved choice?

  It still hurt, still stung that who she was and what she had done was less important to her beloved father than who she might marry. Leslie rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. She supposed that if she was going to cry, this was a good time to do it. No one would see her, no one would hear her, and her eyes wouldn’t be puffy by the time she got to work.

  Because the thing was that she still believed she’d been right. Love did count. Even if she had known that Matt would ultimately leave her and their marriage, she wouldn’t have chosen differently. They had laughed together and loved together and been happy together, at least until recently. There had been the Java Joint and that first horrible apartment and a thousand other sweet memories, so treacherously precious that they would make her cry again.

  And there was Annette. It was impossible to imagine her life without Annette, impossible to imagine Annette not existing.

  Her father had managed that trick, though. Leslie cried that he had never seen his own grandchild, that her mother had been so afraid of his disapproval that she hadn’t seen Annette until he had died.

  Annette, mercifully, had been too small to understand, much less to remember. Beverly Coxwell might have been a snob about her son marrying down, but she hadn’t forbidden him to do so. She hadn’t stayed away. She hadn’t made absolute decisions.

  Who’d ever heard of someone being a snob about their child marrying up?

  It was so unfair. He’d only met Matt briefly once, had made his decision on the basis of Matt’s surname and the cut of his suit. He hadn’t cared what Leslie believed, what she thought or felt. It had been a final, non-negotiable decision.

  The mattress bobbed before Leslie could wallow too much in this hard truth. She thought at first that it was her imagination, but then it happened again.

  A distinct thump. Or a nudge.

  She glanced over her shoulder and Champagne wagged her tail. The dog had her chin resting on the mattress and as Leslie made to roll over again, she thunked it on the mattress once again. The whole bed vibrated in response to this bid for attention.

  “I suppose you want something.”

  Caviar appeared then, alongside her companion, tail wagging as well. They had nudged the door open just enough to slip through the gap. Champagne stretched to sniff Leslie, but Leslie recoiled.

  “Don’t lick me. I don’t like dog spit first thing in the morning. Or ever, actually.”

  Undeterred, Champagne disappeared for a moment, ducking her head toward the floor. Leslie watched, intrigued until the dog deposited a black leather leash on the bed.

  “Ooof,” the dog said, a low bark of emphasis, almost an exhalation.

  Caviar wagged as if in endorsement of this splendid idea.

  “It’s five-thirty.” It was nuts to talk to a dog as if it was a person, but the gleam of intelligence in the dog’s eyes made Leslie believe she might be understood. “It’s too early.”

  The dogs exchanged a glance, then Champagne nudged the leash closer with her snout.

  “Ooof,” she insisted.

  The dogs sat down and fixed Leslie with an unblinking stare.

  “You have staff,” she informed the dog. “Check across the hall. The door on the right. You’ll find your minion there.” Leslie pushed the leash off the bed and buried herself in her covers.

  All to no avail. The dogs came around to the other side of the bed. Champagne put the leash on the bed, exhaled “ooof” and the pair sat back expectantly.

  “You have a fan club,” Leslie said this time. “Across the hall, the door on the left.” Again, she dumped the leash off her bed so that it hit the floor with a clatter.

  “Ooof.” One peek revealed that the leash was back on the bed, along with a second leash. Champagne sniffed the leash in front of her, then pushed it closer to Leslie again.

  To Leslie’s amazement, Caviar was looking toward the window, almost with yearning. She followed the dog’s gaze and saw that it was snowing.

  The dog was watching the snow fall. It was early and the snowflakes swirled white out of the slate blue cloud-filled sky. The fact that it was snowing at all meant that it couldn’t be too cold outside. There was no wind, the snowflakes appearing to dance as they came to earth.

  “Ooof.” Again the leash was nuzzled and pushed closer.

  It didn’t look as if the dogs were going to leave Leslie alone.

  Maybe they really had to go outside to do things that people did in the bathroom. She hadn’t paid attention to when they had gone out the night before. And if they made a mess in the house, Leslie knew who would be cleaning it up.

  That made the decision for her.

  She rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. A short walk might even be good for her, might work off those extra chocolate bars.

  It was, however, hard to get her socks on with two excited poodles circling her in their enthusiasm.

  “Well, bring your leashes,” she said to them when she left the room, and to her surprise, they did so. Both girls ran back into the bedroom, picked up a leash, and galloped after Leslie. Champagne body-checked her into the railing on the stairs when she passed on the right, then Caviar did the same from the left.

  “Hey!”

  They both leaped the last four or five steps, landing in the foyer with a thump, then trotted to the kitchen, tails wagging like banners. Leslie had a hard time keeping up.

  By the time she had her boots and jacket on, both dogs were practically tap-dancing at the back door. Maybe this was a matter of some urgency. She opened the door, not accustomed to dogs and assuming that they would wait for her to put on their leashes.

  Instead, they bounded out into the snow so quickly that she panicked. Fortunately, the back yard was fenced. Caviar skidded across the low deck, slipped off the low edge and landed in snow that went up to her belly. Champagne leaped off the deck, looking for all the world like a dressage horse. Leslie shouted and they stopped, looking back at her with snow on their snouts, apparently surprised by her call.

  Champagne trotted back to her and nuzzled Leslie’s mitten, as if to reassure her, then bounded after Caviar and pounced on a snowflake. The two dogs ran circles around each other in the snow, playing like children. Suddenly, they pivoted and looked at her expectantly, the snow gathering on their backs, tails wagging.

  They wanted to play. Leslie u
nderstood as much from the mischievous gleam in their eyes, by the way they tried to catch snowflakes, by the joy in their every move.

  “You got me out of bed so you could play in the snow,” she accused with mock indignation.

  Champagne’s merry bark seemed to be an agreement. Both tails wagged so quickly that they seemed to blur. Caviar bowed down—chest on the ground, rump in the air—and gave a low playful growl.

  That gave Leslie an idea. It was perfect packing snow and dogs like to chase balls, as far as she knew. She bent to gather snow for a snowball and Champagne barked with anticipation. The dog bounced closer as if unable to contain her excitement.

  Leslie threw the snowball and Champagne jumped to snatch it out of the air. It was impressive how high she could jump. The dog shook the snowball playfully, then took a bite out of it. She held it down with one paw, eyes dancing, tail wagging, as she ate it.

  Then she barked for another.

  Caviar barked, as if to say “me, too!”

  Leslie found herself laughing, just moments after she had been crying. She threw snowball after snowball, and the dogs never seemed to get tired of the game. They jumped and barked and chased snowballs, ate a lot of snow, and generally had the time of their lives.

  Leslie was surprised to realize that she was having a good time, too. She couldn’t make other people happy—she’d tried that and failed. Other people had to make themselves happy, and if that meant that they withheld their affection or moved out of her life, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot she could do about it.

  That hurt, but the truth tended to be like that.

  What she could do was make herself happy, take responsibility for her actions and choices, communicate effectively to those around her about her desires and needs. She’d messed up her marriage by not talking more to Matt. Maybe she’d get another chance, maybe not.

  It looked like not, but at least she’d told him what she thought first. That might make a difference. She could only try.

  Maybe she’d be better off making herself happy first.