Now is the time to confess my history, the truth about my life here. I want to tell her. I need to tell her, but I don’t know how to do so in a way that won’t cause her to get up and run, as any logical person would do.
“Are you married?” The three word question pops out of her as if she has wanted to ask for some time, but wouldn’t allow herself to do so.
The irony does not escape me. My quiet laugh startles her. I shake my head. “No, Catherine. I’m not married.”
Relief dances across her expression, as if this is the greatest thing she fears, the worst thing she could think of as a reason not to be with me. And given her history, maybe it would be. But the real reason is far worse.
She runs her hand up my arm, leans in closer, her mouth scant inches from mine. “Oh. Okay. That is really good to hear.”
The words whisper across my lips, igniting a fresh heat inside me, the heat of desire, of need, of the kind of want I haven’t known for a very long time. Want based on a connection I’ve never imagined actually finding.
The beat of the music lifts my heartbeat so I feel it against the wall of my chest. I could ruin all of this with a few select words, blow it right out of the realm of possibility. Should I? Am I wrong not to?
She leans in and presses her lips against mine. Her touch is soft, feather-light, but it instantly erases all thoughts from my mind except the need to have her closer. I slip my arms around her waist and lift her onto my lap. She slides a leg on either side of me, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me now full on, her mouth letting me know I am welcome, that she wants me in the way every man wants to be wanted. With complete abandon and reckless need.
I take the lead now, kissing her full and long, pressing her back into the palms of my hands. I can feel her breasts through the thin material of my shirt, and all I know is that I want her against me, skin to skin, no barriers between us. She tightens her arms around my neck, opening her mouth to deepen the kiss. She leans back, pulling me into her, and all of a sudden, we are falling backwards, into the pool. I’m on top of her, the weight of my body pushing her deep into the water.
I panic now, reaching for her, pulling her up against me and kicking my way to the surface. When we break through, she immediately starts laughing. Relief floods through me. “I thought I’d drowned you,” I say instantly, anchoring an elbow against the wall of the pool and holding onto her.
She’s still laughing when she wraps her legs around my waist, and her arms are around my neck again, her breasts pressed to my chest. “I think we have a problem,” she says softly.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” Desire threads my voice, but I don’t see any point in trying to hide it now.
“I need to get you out of these wet clothes,” she says, starting to unbutton my shirt. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold. I mean, just think. You wouldn’t be able to teach spin. And you’d have all those disappointed ladies to contend with.”
“I certainly don’t like disappointing the ladies.”
By now, she’s reached the bottom button. She grazes the back of her hand against my skin, raking it up my abdomen while her gaze drinks me in. “How long did it take you to get that six-pack?”
“A while,” I admit.
“You’re a walking advertisement for your class.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
She slides the shirt from my shoulders and struggles for a moment to get my arms out. Once she wins the battle, she drops it on the tile floor of the pool.
“If you think that’s necessary for me,” I say, my gaze on her face, “I’d better get yours off too. A cold would ruin the rest of your vacation.”
“It would,” she agrees softly. “That would be a shame. Staying in my room eating soup with the sun shining outside.”
I smile at this and put my attention on the fact that she’s wearing some kind of fitted, sleeveless sweater, through which I can clearly see the outline of her lacy bra. I put a hand to the bottom of the sweater, raise one side, then the other. She lifts her arms straight up in assistance and takes it from me.
“Catherine,” I say, her name a hoarse plea in my throat. I can’t take my eyes off her.
She reaches one hand around to the back of her bra, unhooks it and sends it off into the night.
I swallow once. Hard. “You are so. Incredibly. Beautiful.”
She slides her arms around me again, and hides herself against my chest, as if she is having second thoughts about her brazenness. “It’s been a very long time since I felt beautiful.”
I tip her face up, forcing her to look at me. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”
“Well, I might have a bit of an idea,” she says, laughing softly. “But then I am half naked and throwing myself at you.”
“Is that how you see it? Throwing yourself at me?”
“A bit, I guess. I mean, I’m older, and you’re not. And-”
I don’t let her finish, slipping an arm under her legs and lifting her fully up against me. We’re at the shallow end of the pool, and I stride through the water as if it’s the only thing between me and having this woman I want so much.
Up the steps, across the travertine floor to the glass door that opens to my bedroom. It isn’t locked, and I slide it open with one hand, stepping through and leaving it open behind us. I don’t stop until we’re at the bed. I fling back the thick comforter and lower her slowly to the thick cotton sheets I’m suddenly glad I splurged on, kissing her now with none of the reserve I’ve shown her so far. I drive my tongue deep into her mouth, letting her know in no uncertain terms what else I want to do to her.
She moans softly and pulls me to her. And when I aim to slide in beside her, she steers me on top of her, one hand on each of my hips, letting me know now what she would like for me to do to her.
We kiss for a long time, wild and out of control, like two people starved for physical contact, but not just with anyone. The kind of contact that has meaning behind it. And I feel that it does. This isn’t casual. It isn’t thoughtless. And more than anything else, that scares the hell out of me.
I roll off her, stare at the ceiling, breathing hard, one arm thrown above my head on the pillow.
She moves onto her side, places a tentative hand on my stomach. “Hey,” she says. “What is it?”
“Catherine. Dear God. There’s so much you don’t know about me.”
“I know I want you.”
I reach a hand to the side of her face, rub my thumb across her chin. I want to ignore my own misgivings, strip the rest of her clothes off and show her that all the reasons she’s thought this shouldn’t happen have nothing to do with how much I want her.
She leans in and kisses me softly. I feel the pleading there. She takes my hand, laces my fingers with hers. “So tell me,” she says. “What else do I need to know about you? What could be so awful?”
I want to tell her. And I will. But not here. Not like this. Not so that her memories of what almost happened between us will be forever tainted by words I know she never expected to hear.
I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll find your clothes and take you back to the hotel now. I’m sorry, Catherine. But it really is the best thing for you.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“All serious daring starts from within.”
― Eudora Welty
Catherine
WE DRIVE BACK to the hotel in complete silence.
I keep my head turned to the night dark flowing by outside my window. I try not to think, to keep my mind blank. I pinch the palm of my left hand, willing myself not to cry. I will not cry in front of him. I. Will. Not.
It takes forever to get there. I feel him wanting to say something, but I don’t want him to. Please don’t. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head. It will only make it worse. There’s nothing to say, anyway. All the reasons are obvious. They have been from moment one. It’s not as if I didn’t know that
. I even tried to tell him I knew what they were.
What I don’t understand is why he didn’t listen before we. . .before tonight.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pinch my palm harder.
Well, it’s not as if I don’t know what rejection feels like. I do. But the pain from my past had at least dulled to a level that made it feel like the thing from my past that it is. But this. This. Somehow this is almost worse. I feel like a fool. Like a woman old enough to know better. A woman who had begun to hope for something that wasn’t in the realm of possibility. Who took a shot and went for someone way out of her league.
The gate to the hotel flashes ahead in the lights of the Defender. I have never been so relieved to arrive anywhere as I am here and now.
Anders stops the vehicle at the front entrance. One of the hotel employees starts to walk around the front to get my door, but I’ve opened it and slid out before he can get there.
“Catherine.”
I hear Anders call my name, a quiet plea, but I’m running now, through the marble foyer of the front desk, down the hallway to the stairs that lead to my room. I take them two at a time for as long as I can, and then one by one because my chest is heaving with the effort of holding back tears I can no longer hold back at all.
*
HOUSEKEEPING HAS BEEN in to do turndown service. The quiet luxury of the room is the haven I need at this moment. The heavy curtains have been pulled. A single lamp is on. I flick it off and throw myself on the bed, face down on the pillow. I consider suffocating myself with it and then stifle back a sob for the ridiculous position I have put myself in. And I have put myself there.
What was I thinking?
I’m forty years old. Started and sold a surprisingly successful company. I’m divorced. I’ve been cheated on. I know what heartache feels like. Why did I set myself up for more?
I roll over on the pillow, stare into the darkness, my eyes open now, tears of self-loathing streaming down my cheeks. I swipe them away, resenting the fact that they’re there, and I can’t stop them.
Am I a cliché? Cougar after a younger man?
I squirm on the mattress at the visual I have created for myself.
I hate the word and all its connotations. I think of the TV shows that have been created around the modern day idea of older women luring younger men to their beds, and I blush hot and hard. Or maybe it’s a hot flash. Have I just catapulted myself into menopause tonight?
I sit up on the bed, run my hands through my damp hair.
Stop.
You’re being ridiculous.
I think about what actually happened tonight and wonder if I am blowing it out of all proportion.
I made out with a younger guy. Check.
He decided it wasn’t a good idea for us to have sex. Check.
And I have absolutely no doubt he is right.
It’s not as if I’ve ever had an actual fling. I’ve been with one man in my life. My husband. Ex. Husband.
Did I really think I had it in me to do a vacation romance? A vacation fling? Whatever it would be called. Because there was never any doubt that is all it would be.
I’d be fooling myself to act as if I’m a woman who could leave this island with her heart intact after giving herself to a man like Anders.
I would have left here with my heart in tatters.
Some Cougar I am.
I wipe my hands across my eyes and realize it is time for me to go home. A two week vacation was a terrible idea anyway.
I slide off the bed, walk over to the desk and flip open the lid to my laptop. The screen is bright, and I blink against the shock to my eyes.
I type the airline into the browser and wait for my account to come up, hoping I can change my flight for tomorrow. Please let this happen so I do not have to see him again. I’m not sure who I’m offering the plea to but I repeat it in case anyone is listening.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.”
― Eleanor Roosevelt
Anders
THE HALLWAY IS endless. The lights in the ceiling overhead are so bright I squint to see my way along the corridor. I put a hand to the wall, feeling as I go.
I’m being pulled forward by a force stronger than myself. I don’t want to go wherever it is taking me. I know it’s somewhere terrible. But I don’t have a choice. It won’t let me stop. Its pull seems to be originating somewhere inside me, from the center of me. Almost as if I am pulling myself. It sounds crazy. Maybe I am crazy.
I open my eyes wider and stare as hard as I can at the end of the hallway in the far distance. I have no idea how far away it is. Or how long it will take me to get there. But I keep going. There is no option of turning around. I want to turn around. I want to go back. Behind me is the life I once had. That life is gone though. I know this as someone who has accepted the death of a loved one, knows they will never be back.
I don’t know how much time passes before I get close enough to the end to see where I am going. And then I recognize the room. The chair by the window. The IV stand sitting next to it.
My heart drops. I’m sick again. The cancer is back.
I reach the doorway and stop, my gaze taking in the two dozen people sitting in loungers with IVs attached to their arms.
I search the faces, but I don’t recognize anyone. All the people I had seen and met during my treatments are gone.
I wonder if they have died. A large knife of grief cuts me through the chest. I turn to run back down the corridor I’ve just traveled through. My feet won’t let me though. They walk me forward to the chair by the window. The nurse who I remember from before is standing at its side, waiting for me. He smiles, but the smile is distorted. His face blurs before my eyes, but his voice booms in my ear. “Welcome back, Mr. Walker. Please have a seat.”
There is no fight left inside me. I drop onto the chair and sit docile while he inserts the IV needle into my arm. I don’t flinch at the pinch, remembering now how used to the brief pain I had gotten. I watch the drip as it begins its toxic flow into my veins. Resignation pours through me at an equally rapid rate. I realize that I had known all along I would be back here one day. I wonder how quickly my hair will fall out this time.
I force myself to look in the mirror on the wall opposite from my chair. The same mirror I had grown to hate before. I stare hard, trying to focus in on myself. I move my head to the side, searching for my reflection. It isn’t there though. I’m not there. Along with everyone I met in this room three years ago, I am gone.
*
I BOLT UPRIGHT out of sleep.
I am breathing as if I’ve just finished a sprint on the beach.
The room is dark, and I stare into it, trying to remember where I am.
I’m in my house. In Barbados.
I’ve been dreaming.
I fall back against the pillow, breathing hard, willing my mind to reject the nightmare.
It does not release me easily. Fear makes my heart pound.
I wait for it to slow, forcing myself to picture things that make me feel peaceful, hopeful. I picture the sunrise as it will look outside my house in a few hours. I picture the hatchling turtles swimming into the ocean toward their future. And I picture Catherine, the softness in her eyes when I had laid her across my bed last night.
My heart has reached a rhythm I can no longer feel against the wall of my chest. My mind has found a foothold outside the fear. But lying here, staring into the dark, I realize that I’ve been living a lie. Telling myself I beat the cancer. I haven’t beat it at all. The possibility of its return has been dormant inside me, waiting for me to want something badly enough that it could grow out of my fear of losing the thing I want.
The thing I want is to be normal again. To let myself hope for a future. To know love and return
love.
I realize that’s what I want with Catherine. To give what we feel a chance.
My fear controls my life. By keeping my past a secret inside me, am I giving it power? Is that really living?
But I don’t have to think about this. I already know the answer.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.”
― Joseph Campbell
Catherine
I WASN’T ABLE to get a flight out today. The soonest available seat is tomorrow morning at seven a.m. I’ll have to get up in the middle of the night, but at this point, I don’t care.
I’m up with the sunrise this morning, anyway. Sleep never fully came. I tried for a few hours, but stayed awake in a thin veil of consciousness, self-recrimination pounding in my brain, filming my skin in a heat of sweat.
I get up at five-thirty, order a pot of coffee and stand under the shower while I wait for it to come. I make the water as cold as I can stand it, letting it sluice over my face and body in a punishing assault.
I finally give myself a break and step out, wrapping one of the hotel’s enormous towels around me.
I’ve just slipped on a thick, terry-cloth robe when the doorbell rings. I answer to the same cheerful waiter who’s brought my coffee each day, and I try not to bring his mood down with my own, smiling and agreeing with his comments on the predicted brilliance of the day ahead.
But once he leaves me on the terrace with a fresh cup poured in front of me, I set my gaze on the pink-tinged skyline at the far edge of the ocean and determine that it is time for me to get back to real life. Back to doing what I do best. Running ActivGirl. At least for another two years to finish out the term I agreed to when I sold the company. Beyond that, I have no idea what my life will look like, but I feel an urgency to get my wants and hopes back under control.
That Birthday in Barbados Page 14
