Afraid of Her Shadow

by Carol Maloney Scott

  I approach and he leisurely stands up, reaching over and brushing his lips against mine. “Happy Anniversary, Love.”

  “Happy Anniversary, Honey.” I smile and instinctively reach up to wipe my lipstick off his face. “Can’t have you sitting here at this fancy joint with hot pink lips.”

  He squeezes me and we sit down. “I ordered you a glass of red wine. Is that okay? Merlot?”

  His eyes are doing the sweet crinkly thing when he smiles. I never used to think wrinkles were sexy, but I have happily surrendered my “cougar” status to stare into these melted caramel eyes all the time—even with the crinkles. Steve is turning fifty very soon, and he doesn’t know it but I am planning a huge party to celebrate.

  “Sure, that’s great.” I don’t drink very often now that my wild single days are over. I have always been a social drinker. In college, I went along with the crowd and did my share, but in my twenties and thirties it depended upon my circle of friends or boyfriends, and how much they indulged. Luke was a fitness nut and didn’t drink much, which had its benefits. After our breakup and I hit my forties, it was another story. Joining the Meetup group pulled me back to my younger days. The divorced middle agers especially love to escape in the bottle. With Steve I have finally found moderation and stability, at least when it comes to spirits. Liquid ones, I mean…

  The waitress arrives with our wine and Steve begins a toast. “To my beautiful, sexy Rebecca—you do look beautiful tonight…” He pauses for another feather light kiss. “…Happy Anniversary…here’s to many more.”

  We clink glasses and I respond with the same happy words. I do mean them, and I know he does, too, but this is the point in a relationship where I become anxious about the future. Everything is amazing, but we aren’t kids and after a whole year most people our age move forward in some concrete way. I am torn between worrying he doesn’t want to and afraid that he does.

  The waitress returns and rattles off the specials at a heart racing speed. I take a few deep breaths and order my dinner. Steve finishes his order, and as the waitress walks off, he leans forward. “Are you okay, Love? You seem distracted. Everything okay at work?”

  Work. That’s always an easy topic. I begin to explain my day and Harriet’s toilet paper conundrum. Steve cracks up and slaps his leg.

  “You do work with a bunch of wackos. Hilarious.” He makes a pouty face and continues, “I’m sorry, Love. I know it isn’t as funny when you have to deal with it. Kind of like when I tell you the ridiculous things my students do in class, and the silly questions they ask. You laugh your pretty little ass off, but I just hang my head in despair.” He smirks and sips his wine.

  Steve is an Entomology professor at the state university downtown. Yes, I am dating a nerdy science guy. Apparently, there are a handful of students who are passionate about bugs, or “insect biology.” I took Bio in ninth grade and I tried to be sick as much as possible during the bug study unit. Steve’s wife, Noreen was a high school Biology teacher. The love of creepy crawlies was something they apparently had in common. Something I can’t give him.

  “My ass isn’t little anymore, and I love your stories, except when you start to explain about the claustrophobic foundation and the genital grabbers.” My eyes cross when he brings up these topics, but it is an awesome insomnia treatment, especially when coupled with hair caressing. I just love having my head… “What did you say?”

  Steve is practically doubled over in his chair. “Love, its claustral foundation and genital claspers.”

  I look down and bite my lip. “Oh. Honestly, I don’t even see how the first one is different. Don’t the termite king and queen hide and make babies by feeding off their fat or something? And I know some other bug grabs its mate during sex. Claspers, grabbers, close enough.”

  He rubs his eyes beneath his glasses and smiles. “Hey, there’s something I want to tell you.” Steve gently places his wine glass on the table and rolls the stem between his fingers.

  My breath catches just in time for the waitress to appear with our food and all sorts of enthusiasm. Steve told her it was our anniversary so she is hamming it up. I want her to drop the crabs (which look like big bugs) and run, so I can hear this big announcement. He doesn’t have a little velvet box in…?

  He studies my worried expression and jumps in, “It’s nothing bad. There’s just a change I agreed to and I need you to be on board.”

  My mind races to figure out what the hell he could be referring to. Is he quitting his job? Going on sabbatical? Joining the circus?

  “Okay, I’m all ears.”

  “You know how Megan is living with Jeff?”

  “Yeeessss?” Megan is Noreen’s daughter. Noreen was married prior to Steve, and she has (had?), a teenaged daughter. She went to live with her father, Jeff, but it was a couple of years before Noreen died, and not because of her mother’s passing. Steve told me this crushed Noreen. I don’t ask too many questions, but apparently once Megan hit the teen years, she and Noreen clashed tremendously. I hated my mother at thirteen, but I had nowhere else to run off to—my parents have been married for fifty years.

  Steve sighs and continues, “Well, I talked to Jeff. It seems that he and Crystal are out of their minds with the triplets and he needs my help.”

  Does he want me to babysit triplets? Oh no! Even worse. Flashes of a teenaged girl living at Steve’s house with music blaring, temper tantrums and more whining and eye rolling than even Claire dishes out pop into my head. “Do you mean…?”

  “Yeah, they can’t handle the dog anymore. He asked me if I can take Elsa.”

  Elsa is Megan’s dog. She’s one of those big fluffy white things. It was on their Christmas card. The kind of dog who sheds so much you can make a new dog every day from the extra fur on the floor and couches.

  Narrowing my eyes and shaking my head, I say, “I’m confused. The dog is Megan’s. He bought the dog to pacify her, didn’t he? So now he’s giving her away? I guess Crystal meth...I mean Crystal, must be in bad shape.”

  The nickname is our little joke. Crystal is not a nice woman and actually it isn’t funny. She has an IQ you can count on your fingers and probably couldn’t keep a goldfish alive. And they have three BOYS! I wonder if the triplets are their punishment for casting Noreen aside and shacking up all those years ago. It couldn’t have been easy for Noreen on her own with a five- year old, and she was a young mother, too. I didn’t ask to be a part of a soap opera, but my “world is turning” alongside the other “characters.”

  “Yeah, the triplets were a big surprise and now they’ve really got their hands full. Megan is pissed about the dog, but I told her she can visit Elsa. I should be in closer contact with Megan anyway. Nor…her mother would have wanted it that way.” He looks down at his crab legs and picks up the cracker, then puts it down abruptly. “Can you say something, please?” His tone is not harsh. It never is.

  When I don’t respond right away he adds, “I’m sorry, Rebecca. This was supposed to be about us tonight, but I need to know if you’re okay with this. The American Eskimo is a very nice breed, but I’ll have to be home a lot more. I won’t be able to stay at your place all the time.”

  I finish his thought. “And I will need to spend more time at your place if we want to be together. Cats can be left alone, but dogs can’t, right?” This is a true statement, but I am not liking this idea one bit. Blue and Jewel won’t be too keen on it, either, but I have other issues.

  He smiles and takes my hand. “Yes, that’s right. I’m so relieved you understand. I promise we can make my house nicer for you. My house used to be immaculate, but I suck at cleaning. I can do better. This will be fun…right? And you still have your place when you need some time away.”

  I squirm in my chair and my food no longer holds any appeal. What can I say? I adore this man, and I was right that change was coming, only I wasn’t expecting a big fur ball to be the catalyst. The dog hair is just an insignificant part of the greater changes to come. Scary
walks down someone else’s memory lane. Weird jars of bugs everywhere. Who knows what else is lurking. It was dark when I was there and I tried to avoid…

  “Rebecca?” Steve looks more serious. “Are you going to be okay with this?” He gets up and moves his seat beside mine. “I love you so much, and I know this isn’t the way you expected things to move forward, but I do want us to be together, and I need you to face my home…I mean help me make it more like a home. So I can help with the dog and…” He runs his hand through his thick hair. His eyes are misty behind his professor spectacles.

  He had me at “I love you so much.” Damn it. “It will be fine.” I reach out to pull him close to my chest. My buttons are straining—maybe Claire is right and I do need bigger shirts. I’ll need a boob lift in a few years. At least I have that going for me. Perhaps he won’t notice my discomfort in his house if I just show more cleavage.

  The waitress comes back and asks if we want dessert, beaming at our anniversary joy. If she only knew…

  We order a chocolate mousse tart to split and Steve says, “Thank you, Love. I promise we will make everything right, and eventually we’ll figure out how you can bring the cats to my house, too. The dog is very sweet...I’ll pick up my bike from your place and maybe you could bring my clothes back…”

  Gina was right about hauling the crap back and forth, but I have a feeling that I will only be hauling things forth, and not looking back.

  We drive separately back to my house (at least he isn’t making me face his place on our anniversary), and as soon as I put my car into park, Steve jumps in and starts rubbing my hair (how did he park that fast?), which momentarily erases my worries. Before Steve came into my life, I used to go to the hairdresser’s sometimes just to get my hair washed—scalp massage is my favorite form of touching. Okay, maybe not, but it’s a close second for sure.

  Now I start to slowly undo the buttons on Steve’s shirt, enjoying the hair on his broad chest. We both seem to have a thing for hair…oh, that makes me think of that white beast and the wrong kind of hair.

  Steve secretly (or not-so-secretly) hates this trendy side of town, which is right in the middle of the area’s shopping mecca. I heard him telling his sister that he doesn’t understand why someone would want to live above Williams Sonoma (the apartments are above stores, not my townhouse style condo). Sure, it’s much better to live near the airport in the woods in a house that looks like a dentist’s office and is full of bugs and his…

  Once I turn off the ignition and make a move to exit the car, Steve grabs me and starts destroying my hair. As we kiss more passionately, we decide it’s time to go inside. The air is still, without a peep. It’s only ten o’clock, but my neighbors are quiet early. Actually all the time, as if no one lives here. Violet’s light is on, but she won’t come over since she knows Steve is here to celebrate our special day properly.

  After a couple of hours, and lots of pleasure, I kiss Steve goodbye at the door, wearing my eggplant satin Victoria’s Secret robe. I’m one of their best shoppers and I have the bills to prove it. I just can’t get enough of lingerie. Steve wears a silly grin as he whistles on the way to his car.

  “Shhh…you’ll wake the neighbors.”

  He glances around. “You don’t have any real neighbors. This is a movie set.” Tickled with himself, he climbs into his old Honda Accord (almost two hundred thousand miles and still going strong!). I see him adjust his mirrors and then his glasses, which are crooked from vigorously saying goodnight.

  As he pulls out of his spot, my dreamy reverie is sliced apart by a loud “psst” in a foreign accent. My heart leaps.

  “Damn it, Violet, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Don’t blame me. It’s the professor who has your heart in a jumble.” Violet whispers and comes running into my place without asking. She’s wearing a white eyelet lace nightgown and clogs. I grin and suppress a giggle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “A Dutch wedding planner wearing a white dress and wooden shoes. Where’s your veil and windmill?”

  She narrows her ice blue eyes. “Well, I don’t have a guy to dazzle with fancy lingerie.” She picks up all my folded laundry and moves it to the coffee table, plopping herself on my reproduction Victorian couch. That’s if it’s possible for a girl the size of a sparrow to plop. “I’ll make this quick, but I have scoop for you.”

  Violet looks just like Claire, except for the eyes. Actually, I think she’s shorter. Her Dutch accent sounds German to me, which makes her seem much sterner than she looks.

  My cats, Blue and Jewel, come slithering out to greet my guest. Cats are often aloof, but mine just love Violet. She is a bit feline looking, all sleek and furtive.

  “Hello, baby kitties.” She rubs their backs simultaneously. Blue’s white fur and bright blue eyes almost make him Violet’s twin.

  “Okay, I’m waiting. What’s the scoop? I need to get to bed. I have so many loo—”

  “I know. The loonies.” Now Jewel has planted her shiny black self on Violet’s lap. She peers at her brother out of her emerald green eyes and purrs, as if to say, “Haha, I got the lady’s lap.”

  “Sooo, I was watching the news tonight, which I know you never do, and I saw someone you might remember.” She bites her lip and widens her eyes.

  “Who would I know on the news?” I pause and blurt out, “NO!?”

  “Yep. Luke Mendes is on the Channel 8 evening news.”

  I sit in my lavender velvet side chair and take a deep breath. “How is that possible? He’s been on that entertainment show on cable for at least four years now. He started not too long after we broke up and he moved away. Why would a ‘sort of’ TV star come back to Richmond to report on fires and armed robberies? Are you sure it was him?”

  “Absolutely. I couldn’t forget that face. I only wish I had lived here when you were dating him to see it in person.” She leans forward and pulls out her iPhone. “Plus I Googled him to see what’s going on.”

  “And?”

  “His story is that he wants to pursue his other passions, which include music and writing a screenplay, and his schedule with the other show wouldn’t allow it. The rumor is that he was having an affair with the producer’s wife and he was about to get fired.”

  “The latter sounds much more like Luke. He is only thirty…seven now, I think. I am guessing the producer’s wife is a lot older?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s got a thing for cougars.”

  “Are you going to get in touch with him?”

  “No. Why would I do that? I’m very happy with Steve.” My stomach flip flops when I remember our conversation. He asked me if I can take Elsa. I glance longingly at my low maintenance cats. It’s too late at night to start relaying Steve’s surprise to Violet. Besides, Luke Mendes is in town and pet issues now pale in comparison.

  “I’m not saying you should try to get him back. I was thinking you could introduce us,” she says expectantly. “I mean, his show sucked and he seems pretty full of himself, but look at him!”

  I burst out laughing and take in Violet’s youthful, dewy skin and perfectly firm breasts. “No, you’re about ten to fifteen years too young.”

  “I just turned thirty!”

  “Go ahead and Google the woman he was supposedly having the affair with. I am betting she’s older than me.”

  “Does he have mother issues?”

  I take Violet’s arm and walk her to the door. “Sweetie, he has LOTS of issues.”

  She folds her arms in front of her perky little chest and pouts. “But I LOVE Spaniards... I spent a summer in Madrid in college—”

  “He’s Portuguese.”

  “Oh, I don’t care! He’s hot, and the men in this town are not much to look at. They dress like big children. Like their mommies put them in polo shirts and khaki pants for church or Boy Scouts.”

  Violet should not have any problem meeting a man, but I know what she means. Being a weddi
ng planner makes it all the more exasperating for her.

  “We need to find you a nice guy…but not Luke!”

  She stomps her little wood encased foot. “Fine, I’m going to bed.” She takes a step out the door and turns around. “You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks, Violet, but trust me. Luke Mendes is trouble for any of us. I’m sure Grandma, I mean the producer’s wife, would agree.”

  “I’m still going to Google him and—”

  “Shh…,” I wave Violet back to her doorstep and gently shut the door.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A wonderful anniversary night blemished by the news of a canine interloper, a future spent in an almost certainly haunted house, and now…Luke is back.

  I haul myself off to sleep with two felines at my feet. We settle into my Ethan Allen four poster bed, under the down comforter, and I shut my eyes tight, as if that will erase the night’s revelations and summon slumber. All I know is, I love Steve and I’m not going to let anything stand in our way. Unfortunately a line of things seem to be forming.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I awake to the sounds of music in my dream. What is that tune in my head? Uh oh…It’s that damn Fado music. Luke used to sing it to me in Portuguese. Luke was born in the US, but his parents are Portuguese immigrants, and he speaks the language fluently while maintaining a perfect American newscaster accent. I never understood most of the lyrics. I just know it’s a very melancholy form of music popular in Portugal. And in our bed. At that time. He explained it tells the tales of unrequited love.

  Of course I would dream about something like this. I haven’t thought about Luke in a long time, and I was glad he moved away. Now he’s filming the evening news ten miles from my condo.

  I get to the office early, and grab my milky coffee. Rhode Islanders enjoy a drink called coffee milk, but I don’t have the syrup used to make it, so I settle for lots of milk in my coffee. It drives my mother crazy that I don’t order the syrup, but my poor substitute gets me through the mornings.