Again (13 page)

And maybe, one day…not in the near future, but one day…she might let herself love again.

She picked up the monogrammed handkerchief she was mending for Lawrence. It had been a gift from Mother the first Christmas after Lawrence passed the New York bar. Much used, he was loath to throw it out.

The ringing bell caught her by surprise, made her prick herself. She quickly put the wounded finger in her mouth to suck the blood away, then walked to the foyer to open the door.

When she saw who was standing outside, her heart nearly stopped. It was as though she had summoned him with her thoughts. But how had he found her?

Her eyes scanned the surrounding street to see who might be witness to this unusual scene. But there was no one walking about. Lord knew there would be further scandal if anyone saw him standing on the stoop. And even more if she actually allowed him inside.

Still, she stood aside to let him enter. And Joseph Luce smiled.

Tyne woke up to the dark room, tried to remember the dream. But unlike other nights and other dreams, she found it hard to hold on to the tenuous impressions. The only thing she was sure of was that in the dream David had been smiling at her. And she had waited for him not with dread, but with a quiet anticipation.

T
he retiring sunlight skirted along the waves in long beacons of burnt gold. Because of their late start, David was avoiding the Kennedy, which was sure to be bumper to bumper with rush hour commuters trying to get home. Instead they were taking Lake Shore Drive where the traffic was slightly better. To the right, Lake Michigan was points of fire at intervals, a mirror to the sky’s blazing orange.

The coming evening promised cooler temperatures, and in anticipation David had brought an extra blanket. In the backseat sat the basket packed with a bottle of chilled Santa Margarita Pinot Grigio, salami, ham, turkey, olives, prosciutto parma, Italian bread, smoked salmon, and cream cheese. For dessert, there were slices of apple pie and small berries known as frutti di bosca. Just in case she didn’t want liquor, he had made lemonade, the way his mother made it. Tyne was bound to like something, and he was very interested to know what she would choose—and whether he had chosen well. She sat next to him, her perfume a distraction to his driving. Light, floral, he had smelled it that day at lunch and would now remember the scent as something uniquely hers. He talked inanely of his workday, concentrating on the project he had just bid on, leaving out the friction between him and his partners. All the while he talked, he tried not to think of the alluring contour of her thigh apparent in the dark slacks she was wearing.

She hadn’t asked about the headliner, and he hadn’t offered the information, hoping to surprise her and hoping that the surprise would be welcome. She was trusting him for a good evening, and he would do everything to provide it.

“How long had you known you wanted to be an architect?” she asked.

The question took him by surprise. He thought about it for a second. He had never pinpointed the beginning of his desire to design buildings, yet he knew he hadn’t always wanted to be an architect. He remembered a childhood fantasy about one day becoming a fireman. But that was long before the summer of the fire, the summer when everything went to hell. “I guess after taking a couple of drafting classes back in high school. I seemed to have a knack for it, and the ambition grew from there.”

He stopped short as they hit a stall. He bit back a curse, looked at his watch. Almost seven-fifteen. He had hoped to be there about seven-thirty, but at this rate, they weren’t going to make it.

She noticed the motion and again apologized for keeping him waiting for almost twenty minutes. He understood. She had already explained about the rewrite that had taken longer than anticipated. Some story about pollution in a depressed neighborhood. Even though he wasn’t looking directly at her, he could feel her enthusiasm as she talked, knew her eyes were beaming.

“Next week, I’ve scheduled a couple more interviews. I really think this is going to be a good story.” He liked the excitement in her voice.

“I want to thank you for passing on my resume. I might not have ever gotten anything this good.”

“Well, Sherry seems very happy with your eagerness and drive.”

“So, you two been talking about me?” The tone was more amused than paranoid, but he answered carefully.

“She just called to thank me for sending you over, that’s all. So there’s gratitude all around. Here, let’s have some music.” He reached over and turned on the radio. Al Hirt’s “Cotton Candy” was playing.

“Jazz man, are you?”

“I don’t think the word aficionado accurately describes my obsession. I probably have every jazz record, tape, and CD there is. I may start my day with Miles or end it with Goodman. Fall asleep to Coltrane, take a run with Jarreau. But jazz isn’t my only passion. There’s REO Speedwagon, Fleetwood Mac, ELO, EWF.”

“Earth, Wind and Fire? God, I love them! After the Love Is Gone, Love’s Holiday…”

“…The Way of the World,” he added enthusiastically, loving this meshing of the minds.

“I always liked the oldies, even as a teenager. I didn’t care too much for many of the groups out of the eighties. Anyway, I remember playing “After the Love” so many times following a breakup that my mother finally burst into my room and confiscated my CD player, told me she wasn’t having her daughter going crazy stupid over some slim-hipped jim who didn’t know how to treat me right anyway.”

“Yeah, I think we all had those types of breakups,” he chimed in. “Actually, mine happened in grammar school, and it wasn’t music but phone calls. I think I must’ve called her nearly seventy times, trying to make her take me back. Her mother finally called my mother and pleaded with her to make me stop. My mother disconnected the phone for a whole weekend and told me to get over myself, that if the girl didn’t want me, I better stop trying to force a thing that didn’t fit.”

They were finally on North Ridge Avenue, and the steady stream of cars had thinned a bit. He pressed down on the gas, and the speedometer moved up to sixty-five. Once they were on Green Bay Road, they would almost be there.

“Your mother sounds a little like my mother,” she laughed. “They’d probably get along great.”

A bit of guilt flitted through his conscience and he mentally swatted it away. His mother hadn’t returned his message, and he imagined her sitting, watching her reality show, already hitting her second package of Camels. Inwardly cursing her wayward son. Or probably putting a curse on him. Another thought he quickly shook away. His mother was not a witch. But, hell, she was as close as they came.

Jennifer pulled up to the address Mrs. Carvelli had given her. The woman was already there, waiting on the porch.

Jennifer got out of the car, walked up the path. Rhododendrons grew in profusion on either side of the stairs. The house was a St. Anne Victorian with a wraparound porch and bay windows. Much more old-fashioned and elaborate than she would have attributed to a single man. Maybe he bought it with thoughts of a family in the future.

Carmen Carvelli looked upset as she waited for Jennifer to climb the steps.

“So how are we going to do this?” Jennifer asked. “I mean we can pick out one or two of his things and try to get an impression that way, but, of course, direct personal contact is always best—if he’ll let me touch him, that is. The visions will be much stronger and…”

“We’re doing this without him,” Mrs. Carvelli said definitively, her eyebrows fierce straight rods, her eyes thunderous.

Jennifer looked at the locked door, confused. “But…”

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Carvelli said as she reached into her purse and pulled out a key. “I always keep a spare in case of emergencies. Despite my dense-headed son’s knack for avoiding the obvious, this is an emergency.”

She put the key in the lock, then after a couple of tugs on the knob, pushed open the heavy oak door. “He still hasn’t fixed that,” she said under her breath.

Then they were inside the foyer. Jennifer took in the cherry wood staircase, the large oriental throw rug, the antique table with phone and answering machine just past the door. Off to the left was the living room. Again, antique furniture, and an overall impression of dark woods. The whole effect was turn-of-the-century elegance.

Mrs. Carvelli headed for the stairs, then stopped and turned to Jennifer. “He built this, you know. Said it was for me, but he’s all through this house. I can’t explain it, but this house is him, and he doesn’t know it.” Then she started up the stairs and Jennifer didn’t have any other choice but to follow. She felt like a trespasser as she glimpsed the black-and-white photos lining the stairway wall. She recognized Babe Ruth, but not the others.

This was someone’s home, someone who didn’t believe in the paranormal, let alone psychics. She could only guess what his reaction would be if he knew that she was now approaching a door that opened on what looked like his bedroom. But his mother was leading like an advance scout of an infantry, marching steadily on with the fierce determination of battle heat. Jennifer began to wonder what she had gotten herself into.

She watched as Mrs. Carvelli beelined to a bureau, pulled out a drawer and searched through its contents before retrieving a navy-and-gold striped tie. The woman turned and held it out to Jennifer, a fire in her eyes. Jennifer fought an urge to step back, to shrink from the mania that had overtaken the woman. Instead she tentatively took the silky material in her left hand, closed her eyes. Let her mind go blank, tried to receive an impression. But seconds passed and there was still nothing.

“Are you getting anything?” Jennifer heard the voice through her haze. “That’s the tie he had on that evening at my house—when he turned into someone else. Or at least, that’s what I thought I saw.” Jennifer detected the uncertainty in the older woman’s voice, the first sign of withdrawal. Maybe the woman was only now realizing she had overstepped some invisible boundary, a trust broken between parent and child.

“No,” Jennifer answered simply. Mrs. Carvelli’s face fell a little, her determination petering out. But then a second wind came from somewhere and Mrs. Carvelli turned to the dresser. She opened a wooden box that sat on top, pulled out the first thing she touched. A diamond stud earring. Jennifer was confused for a second, until she realized the earring belonged to David. She knew men pierced their ears nowadays, but she hadn’t realized that Mrs. Carvelli’s son was one of them. Jennifer held out her hand, and Mrs. Carvelli dropped the delicate piece of jewelry into it.

Immediately, Jennifer got a flash of a woman. Auburn hair, blue eyes that glittered as she fastened the earring into the man’s ear.

The flash ended. It was something, but not what they needed. It didn’t tell them anything that might or might not stave off the impending storm that seemed to be hovering above them. She felt Mrs. Carvelli staring at her. Jennifer shook her head. But the woman only turned and looked over the canvas of the dresser, searching for something else.

Jennifer started toward the dresser to put the earring back in its place. Her nervousness made her legs quaky, and she accidentally brushed against the edge of the bed.

Mrs. Carvelli’s son, David—his face contorted in pain, sorrow—thrashed in his dreams. And then his face morphed back and forth into another’s. The face she had seen superimposed over his photo. He was murmuring something—a name—Ra…Rachel?

Mrs. Carvelli was shaking her. “What is it? What did you see?”

Jennifer shook off the remnant of the vision before telling the woman about the alternating faces.

The older woman nodded. “I bet you it’s the same man I saw. Did you see anything else? Hear anything?”

Jennifer hesitated, not sure of what she’d heard. “He seemed to call out a name. Someone named…I think, Rachel.”

Mrs. Carvelli pondered this before reaching inside the large, black handbag hanging from her shoulder. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one, lit it. Then through a curl of smoke, said, “Must be someone he knows…or knew. But at least we have more than we had before.”

Rachel. Jennifer wondered if that was the name of the girl Mrs. Carvelli had mentioned in their phone conversation the other evening. A young woman Mrs. Carvelli said she had a vision of a couple of nights ago. She’d said the girl was in her late teens, early twenties, reading through a bunch of letters. Mrs. Carvelli didn’t know how the girl figured into all of this, but that she was somehow a key to something missing.

Could she be Rachel?

And if not, then who?

A
slight breeze tickled her hair, sweeping a tendril into her eye. Tyne pushed it away. The smell of crushed grass joined the medley of deli aromas from hundreds of picnic baskets. From a full expanse, she could see hundreds of heads swaying to the rhythm of the saxophone as couples lay in various positions of repose. On the Pavilion stage, Wynton Marsalis fronted the Chicago Jazz Orchestra, and their horns filled the evening with the strains of Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train.” She and David sat along the edge of the lawn, and were among the lucky few who could actually see part of the stage. Along the perimeters, a state-of-the-art sound system broadcast the concert to the rest of the listeners.

“How is it?” The sudden rush of words brushed her ear and a tingle vibrated down her spine. She turned and his face was so close, she found herself looking at the indentation in his chin. She scanned the slightly full lips, traveled up to the eyes, their color dark in the night. But they reflected the lights all around them. She had to bend in close to his ear to speak.

“It’s great. I really like Wynton Marsalis. How did you know?”

He shrugged to say he didn’t. They both turned back to the music, and the night. Even as she listened, her body throbbed with the music, with expectation. No, she wasn’t going to sleep with him. Not tonight. Yet, she had to admonish herself for peeking at the hard line of muscle visible through his jeans, the impression of pectorals through his shirt.

She knew that on occasion, throughout the performance, he peeked at her, too. She knew that his eyes searched her profile, sometimes traveled the length of her body, explored her curves. She was wearing slacks, so there wasn’t much to see. Yet, she felt as though he saw her bared and open.

After the first set, the orchestra segued into “Get Close.” A hand appeared, holding a small berry to her mouth. She was already stuffed from the various meats, cheeses, and breads he had packed. She had drunk glasses of both lemonade and a light wine, tasted a scrumptious slice of apple pie. She barely had room for anything else, but she opened her mouth to let him move the berry in. Her tongue brushed his finger, and she felt his body stiffen inches away.

There was an eclipse as his head blocked the light. He touched her lips lightly with his tongue, left a trail of moisture across them. He smelled of berries and wine. An accompanying moisture crept from the crevice of her other lips, and she resisted a compelling need to pull him to her. Instead, she moved her head back to break the spell of intimacy he was creating.

He moved back then, but his eyes bored into her, as though he needed to find some way to penetrate her. She wanted him to penetrate her—with tongue, fingers, penis. She wanted to feel his mouth discovering those curves he had only so far explored with his eyes.

Not tonight she told herself again, tried to tell him with her eyes. But they both knew she lied. Thank goodness she had packed a box of condoms. She bought them the other week on a whim she hadn’t wanted to explain to herself. That same whim had made her pack them into her purse only days before. It’d been so long, she no longer had a prescription for the pill. Strange how the subconscious makes the conscious self submit to its desire. How denial gives way to acquiescence, surrender.

He turned back to the music, and she let her eyes go to the stage. But she no longer saw the musicians, barely heard the music. Only felt his fingers close over hers. They stayed that way for the rest of the concert.

David held her hand as he forced the key to turn in the lock. He always had trouble with the knob and it usually took two hands to maneuver. But he refused to let her go, and had to put some extra single-handed muscle into the tug before the knob finally turned. This was on his to-do list, but with everything going on, he hadn’t had time for minor fix-its around the house. At the moment, he had other matters on his mind.

He had been careful not to pressure her. In the car, he simply asked whether she would like to see the house he’d built for his mother that he was temporarily living in. Because that was how he saw it. A temporary arrangement until he could finally convince his mother to take his gift—or sell it.

She hadn’t answered right away. He had taken her silence as a flat-out “no.” But then she turned to him, and said so softly he wasn’t sure he heard her, “Yes.” Both of them knew she was answering the tacit question hidden beneath the spoken one. For the rest of the ride, they were quiet, simply listening to the local jazz station, each lost in anticipation.

Now he studied her as she studied the living room. He was pleased at the awe he saw in her eyes.

“You designed and built this? God, I’m impressed. It’s beautiful, David, it really is.”

He liked the way she said his name. “I actually built it for my mother, but she said that it was more me than her. I don’t see what she’s talking about.” He thought about fixing her a drink, decided against it.

Tyne nodded. “I do. I see exactly what she’s talking about,” she said as she swiveled around, looking at the wood beams, the bay windows, the hardwood floors. “There’s just something, the strength of the lines, maybe even the antiquity.”

He shook his head. “That’s just it. I’m Mr. Modern. Give me clean lines and surfaces, a bareness and minimalism.”

“Which explains the Victorian furniture,” she said teasingly. “I can see the minimalism in the detail of the brocade here, the finely detailed carving of the wood”—she traced the material of a wing-backed chair, looked around—“the oriental rugs, the hurricane lamp.”

He chuckled. “Well, it’s not exactly Eero Saarinen, I have to admit. Actually, I did buy the furniture with my mother in mind…but it’s kind of grown on me.”

He walked up to her, caught and deliberately held her eyes, traced a finger along her cheek.

“Well, I like it,” she said softly. Her eyes were warm, liquid desire.

“What else do you like?” he asked, his breath shallow, his throat constricting. He heard the pounding of blood in his ears. The pace quickened as she smiled. He throbbed with need, resisting an urge to rush. He wanted to savor every second, to take it so slow it hurt.

“About what?” she whispered, her voice breathless.

He didn’t answer. Instead he lowered his lips to hers, tasted the tart and sweet, the sugar and spice, deepened the kiss to taste more and was rewarded with a soft moan that vibrated through him. He drew her into his arms, pressing his growing tumescence into her stomach. The discomfort only added an edge to the pleasure. His hand wandered down the arch of her spine, settled on the roundness of her behind, squeezed lightly. Heat emanated from her flesh, seared through his own.

It was as though he were drowning again, only this time he eagerly welcomed the death that awaited him. She was pulling him into her depths with her lips, her hands that moved along his back, the feel of her body yielding to his.

He stood there for more moments than in a span, entirely lost in her. When he pulled back, it was to get much needed air. He saw that her state was not much better than his. Her eyes were glazed and hooded, her breaths soft pants, her lips moist from the kiss. She stepped back unsteadily.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he offered between his own quickened breaths.

“No. The pace is just fine.” She smiled, then became serious. “I have some—I mean in my purse.”

He knew where she was going. “I have my own upstairs. Ready to see the other parts of the house?”

She chuckled. “Now why do I have the feeling you’re not inviting me to see your kitchen?”

He smiled back. “Your call. I got a real sturdy table…” Then he stopped. “Sorry, that was crude.”

“Only if you’re a prude, which I’m not. Look, I want to do this just as much as you do. So, let me see whatever room you got to show me.” He heard an avidity in her voice that matched his own. He hadn’t realized until this moment how starved he had been.

“OK, then.” He took her hand, led her to the stairs. The trip was the longest he had ever taken, and it seemed they would never reach the top. As he passed the picture of Mantle, it seemed as though the man winked at him. An illusion. Yet the smile appeared brighter than usual.

“Here it is,” he said with unneeded fanfare as he pushed the door open and hit the light switch on the wall. He stood at the entry to let her enter first and he followed. He stopped, wondering at the scent of Tabu in the air. He thought of his mother, then shook the thought from his head. Another illusion. Yet the smell seemed strong, and it threw him for a second.

“Hhmm, smells good in here,” she said, turning to him. “But it’s a little lighter than what I’d expect you to wear.”

Then he knew. His mother
had
been here. He only parsed the thought for a second. He would deal with that later. But for right now…

“My mother. She has a key. She must have dropped something off,” he said quickly, maybe too quickly because her right eyebrow went up a little.

“You don’t have to explain. Your business is your own.”

“I don’t sleep around,” he said, feeling defensive now.

“Neither do I,” she countered. “As a matter of fact, it’s been awhile.”

“Oh?”

“About two years,” she said cautiously, looking at him to gauge his reaction.

“It’s been a few months for me, which, for a man, is saying something. I came out of a long relationship. It was a bad breakup.”

She nodded. “Me, too. But I’d rather not talk about it, not now anyway.” He understood and closed the space between them. His fingers played with a tendril of hair that fell over her eye. Then a finger trailed down her cheek, her chin, detoured down her throat, to the crevice exposed by the opened top buttons. The finger paused as he waited for a protest that didn’t come. Instead, there was a small catch of breath. A breath of anticipation.

He let the finger travel down the warm chasm between the soft mounds of her cleavage. His other hand began to maneuver the buttons, to free her flesh. With each opened button, the blood rushing in his ears, his head, became louder until he thought that she must hear it, too. Every motion was new; every motion familiar, resounding with the echoes of his dreams and something else.

He released her from the constraints of a lacy, low-cut bra, caught his breath as he stood enthralled by the sight of cinnamon tipped with cocoa. A temptation for the lips. His mouth closed eagerly over a nipple, eliciting a soft gasp, a small wave in the ocean pounding in his head. He suckled like a newborn babe tasting his first milk. The taste was exquisite. Hands raked his curls, pulled his head in closer. He had to steady himself with his hands straddling both her hips. She pushed into him, nearly knocking them both over. He released the nipple, only to begin a slow baptism of the other one.

After several excruciating moments in which he didn’t know that time still moved, he reluctantly released the nipple, but eagerly found her lips again. Unlike the first kisses that had been firm, but controlled, his exploration now was almost brutal. His tongue grappled with hers, advancing like an invader instead of a guest. Melded together, he deliberately backed her to the edge of the bed, then moved his weight to force them down onto the mattress, which gave way with a slight groan.

He buried his head in the crook of her neck, his lips leaving a trail of moisture as he moved to the luxuriant softness between her breasts, his hand busying with the button on her slacks. He found the zipper and eased it down, then sat up as he pulled the pants over her hips, tugged them until they came off. Then he eased fingers beneath the wet crotch of her panties, found a pool of viscous moisture, a well of hot silky cream. He softly touched the soaking lips, moved up to the clitoris, began moving in a purposeful rhythm.

“Ohhh, God.” He heard the tortured sound from far away, from a distant shore. He pulled down her panties, then navigated southward, his lips moving along the island of her taut stomach, to the curly thatch that teased his nose, his tongue. Her scent was sweet, sweaty. He touched her clit lightly with his tongue, felt her hips jerk. He held them steady, holding her prisoner to his ministrations. He grazed her with his teeth, alternating nibbles with licks around the tiny orb until he felt tremors moving through her. Her gasps sounded like the sobs of the tortured, but he would not stop. Her cream was oozing into his mouth and he drank liberally, slaking a thirst he had let go unquenched too long. He pushed his tongue inside her.

He felt it when she came, felt her walls spasming, heard the unintelligible gurglings, as though she were ululating in some unknown language. He reluctantly released her to stand up and quickly shed his own clothes. As he took off his layers, he watched her, taking in her beauty as she lay prone trying to recover from her first orgasm. But he wasn’t about to let her.

She could barely move. The pleasure was too paralyzing. She heard him taking off his clothes, felt the air vibrate at his approach. She lifted her head, saw him hovering over the bed naked. He wasn’t the specter of her dreams anymore. He was here, flesh and blood. Blood moved through his flesh now, suffusing his penis until it stood erect from his body, turning the head a reddish purple.

“I’ve waited for you,” she thought she heard him whisper, but quickly dismissed it as something she’d misheard. There was too much going on in her head, not the least of which was that she was about to make love with someone she barely knew—and yet she did know him, knew him just like this, as he stood now reaching inside the drawer of his nightstand. He pulled out a square package, tore it open with deft fingers, and she watched in studied fascination as he pulled and stretched the latex over his elongated member. She throbbed with a renewed need.

He sank his knees into the mattress on either side of her, positioned himself until there was no view but his face. He filled her visual world as he would soon fill her. The nerves in her body called out to him, and she knew he heard. Knew he smelled her anticipation. She saw moisture on his face and didn’t know whether it was his sweat or her juice. Slowly, he lowered his body and shifted until the head of his penis pressed against her opening.