Barefoot Beach (35 page)

He was waiting for my answer. I ended my sweeping appraisal with a deep breath and a husky, “Done. Now will you make love to me, please?”

And so we moved in an improvised dance to the bed. Where for the next timeless hour we discovered each other as new lovers do. We were very busy.

We did stop once, when, tangled in the sheets, I banged my knee against the shell of his prosthesis socket. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

“Fine. I just have to remember you've got extra hard parts.”

“Ah, you noticed.” He chuckled and I heard relief behind the laugher. “Seriously”—he smacked his left leg—“on or off.”

“Your call.”

“Off, then. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Plus, it's more weight to haul around. And”—in the glaring light, I saw a smile curl—“we don't want one long, hard shaft getting in the way of another long, hard shaft.”

Cocky? No, confident.

He pivoted so I wouldn't witness the mechanics of the final reveal. The peeling back of the sleeve, the roll of the sock liners, the release of the vacuum lock, the detaching. It would take him time to realize that none of this shocked me or turned me off. But that was for later. He didn't look at me as he reached for his robe at the foot of the bed and draped it over what had been a vital part of him and now lay on the floor, covered like a lifeless thing.

Swiveling, he was back with me, the all of him that really mattered.
We explored sweet spots and hot spots, new territory for both of us, getting lost in each other. When he entered me it didn't feel like invasion; it felt like liberation. My emotions, kept in check for a very long time, exploded when he did. My release came with a shudder.

Afterward, we lay thigh to thigh, exhausted and exhilarated in a pool of purple dusk. We'd outlasted the sun.

“You do know we're being watched, right? Marsha Felcher hasn't taken her eyes off us since the cha-cha,” Scott whispered in my ear Tuesday night. “She claims to be retired from some federal agency—I think she said the Department of Agriculture. But I detect the pungent odor of horse manure and a cover for the CIA.” He grinned, and as Marsha spun off in another direction, Scott pulled me closer than was appropriate for the American Smooth dance style I taught. “You, on the other hand, smell delicious.”

We were waltzing to “Rainbow Connection,” sung by Kermit the Frog, our time-honored choice for the last dance of the last class of the summer session, a get-together at the Turquoise Café to follow. For this finale evening I'd chosen, all by myself with no input from my fashion maven, a pale green halter dress that brought out the Irish in me. My hair, brushed loose to the shoulders, was freshly colored copper and as shiny as a newly minted penny. I must have been wearing a smitten look, because it wasn't only Marsha picking up vibes. Tom Hepburn was sending us sly, fond glances. The old roué knew a romance in session when he saw it.

At least I was trying to keep it under wraps. Scott didn't bother to suppress his smile. “Don't sit next to me at the party,” I said. “Seriously. You're going to give us away.”

“You're just afraid to play footsie with my power leg. And ‘seriously' back at you, why do we need to hide?”

“Because this is my business and I don't think it's good practice to mix business with pleasure.”

Which was probably a moot point anyway, because there might not be a business after tonight. On my way into Hot Bods, I'd picked up the mail in my cubby and found a manila envelope with “Now or Never” scrawled on top. Sal Zito. I'd been ducking my landlord for the last week, but he'd outsmarted me. The envelope was heavy. I didn't open it then. Didn't want to foul my mood. I knew next year's contract was inside and I had no idea if I was going to sign.

Scott, a welcome distraction, was saying, “Pleasure. You are that and so much more to me.”

So much more. I felt that, too, as Kermit sang about lovers and dreamers and Scott drew me closer. Closer was different now. Sunday in bed had taught us things about each other that only the best sex can teach. Such as my lover was generous. Also adventurous. Which brought out a long-suppressed daring in me. I'd forgotten how much pagan a good Catholic girl could store beneath the surface. I'd never been a wild child, though in my marriage I'd followed a sensual lead. But I was all grown-up and on my own now, and what we'd seen without the artifice—and liked—had created a new intimacy between Scott and me. It showed up in the way we moved together. Perfectly, and with soul.

Kermit sang about the Rainbow Connection, and I thought maybe—please God, one day I would be miraculously cured of this plague of maybes—just maybe, I'd found it.

And then Kermit paused the lyrics, our background was all music, and Scott backed up an inch to say, “Okay, I was going to wait to tell you at the café, but since I'm being exiled, I'd better do it now. I got some good news today.” He waited two beats for my prompting nod. “I landed that job I've been interviewing for. Consultant to a defense contractor in Bethesda.” He was beaming. “It's a great fit. Full-time, though I can work at home on certain projects that aren't top security. And they gave me a signing bonus.”

“That's fantastic. I'm so happy for you.” I thought I was, but there were implications. Would that mean he wouldn't be back in Tuckahoe next summer? Then again, would I?

“Thanks. I'm pretty excited about it. We should celebrate.”

“We're going to. At the café.”

“That's a good-bye party. I'm talking about a new beginning here. You know how you christen a ship? You bang it with champagne.” The double entendre made me giggle. “I love your laugh.” His blue eyes went to velvet. “I've a bottle of Dom in the fridge and”—pause for dramatic effect—“I've left all the lights on.”

Ah, another après-party party. The invitation was not entirely unexpected, and this time I was dressed for it on all layers. Whoever invented the thong should be strung up by it. Uncomfortable as hell, a vine climbing into a crack. But sexy. Somehow, inexplicably, and incredibly, sexy.

The Turquoise Café was especially beautiful at night with its swags of gauze drifting like iridescent clouds from the ceiling and the misty light from the patio lanterns casting soft shadows on the walls. It was late on a weekday and the place was only half full. Em, working the espresso machine behind the service counter, looked haggard. When she spotted me at the head of our little parade spilling through the door, she gave her head a slow, mournful shake and slid her gaze toward the force of nature barreling toward us. Selda, the mother-in-law from hell—corset trussed in a stylish black dress at least one size too small, pearl necklace swinging—flourished a hand in greeting. “Welcome to the Turquoise Café. We've been expecting you.” She should have been. I'd booked our party with Em a month before.

Selda herded us to the restaurant's largest table. Scott slipped into the seat directly across from mine. His wink was discreet, though I heard what I thought was a whisper of
aha
coming from Marsha on my right.
Selda handed out laminated menus decorated with line drawings of Turkish specialties. The menus with a professional polish were an innovation. Customers had always relied on the big board, chalked with the day's features, or the carry-out trifold Adnan printed out himself.

When the buzz of settling in didn't quiet immediately, Selda clapped us into silence. “You are ready to hear tonight's specials,” she informed us. I'd been scanning the menu. It listed some items I'd never seen before:
tavuk adana
, skewered ground chicken, and a grilled mixed-meat kebab. At least no calf's liver with sumac. “Tonight's special is
sucuklu pide
, pita bread stuffed with Turkish sausage. The sausage is homemade.” Selda touched a finger to her enormous brooch and dipped what was supposed to be a modest bow. “By me.” She pointed to the door behind the service counter. No wonder Emine was looking as frayed as an antique Turkish carpet. Selda had taken over her kitchen.

Suddenly, its swinging door flew open and Meryem Haydar flashed an outraged glance at her mother before charging through the dining area like a rogue elephant. You could almost see steam rising from her as she worked to juggle a sponge, a trash bag, a roll of paper towels, and a spray bottle.

“And you, the picky one, what will you have?” Selda pulled me back to the menu. She'd made the rounds of the rectangular table and I was the last holdout, unable to decide between custard and cake. She drummed a pencil impatiently against the order pad.

I chose the
kűnefe
, a cheese pastry made with shredded phyllo. “With extra whipped cream,” I said. It was an “I dare you” addition. I waited for a comment on the width of my hips, but she shrugged and wrote, then couldn't resist a minor jab. “Extra, extra everything,” she said. “Only in America.” She pronounced it dismissively, as if we were a country of savages.

The woman had 360-degree vision and now she hissed, “First the sponge and then the paper, Meryem.” Merry was cleaning the table behind us. Teeth clenched, the girl wrung the sponge with extra fervor, as
if it was her grandmother's neck. I tried to catch her eye, but her head was down, chin resting on her chest.

Selda gave Merry a sharp look and muttered, “‘One who does not slap his children will slap his knees.' True Turkish saying.”

“Who or what was that?” Marsha asked, when the battleship had sailed, leaving a froth of astonished chatter in her wake.

“That,” I said, “was Emine's mother-in-law.”

“She's the spitting image of a sergeant I had when I first joined the Marines,” Tom Hepburn said.

“And the cleaner is the granddaughter?” Yolanda Powell said. “Poor thing.”

That's when I decided it was time for an intervention or two. On my way to Em, I stopped at Merry's table. “Sweetheart.” I put my hands on her shoulders and leaned in. “What's going on? You okay?”

“I'm Cinderfuckingrella, so, like, how can I be okay?” She was spritzing and scrubbing. “Is she watching me?”

“No, she just went into the kitchen.”

She put the bottle down. “Look at me, Aunt Norrie. I'm a freak of nature, thanks to her. How do you like the hair?” Her creative spiky do, back to its natural brown and highlighted by Margo's hairstylist at Margo's expense, was slicked back and reined in with a headband. “She wanted me to wear something called a hairnet, but my wuss of a mother finally put her foot down on that. And this penguin getup?” Long-sleeved white blouse, black skirt that fell below her knees. “This is what Adnan calls a compromise? Selda actually wanted me to wear a uniform. An all-white dress, like a nurse or something. She has me working three nights a week. Plus two afternoons. And I get paid squat. Less than the minimum wage. I Googled it. Now she's talking weekends. Like Saturday nights. If she thinks she's going to take away my Saturday nights . . .”

Merry's breath had become shallow and punctuated with quick little gasps.

“Hey. Slow down,” I tried to soothe her.

“I'm . . . not . . . allowed to . . . slow down,” she said. “I don't know how much more of this I can take. And my mom. I don't blame her for everything. I really don't. Selda's worse to her than to me, even. It's my dad. He's, like, bought into all this shit. He thinks his mother is some kind of god. And now she's talking about staying forever. I swear I'd rather go to Turkey and stay with Mom's mom, my
anneanne
, who doesn't even wear lipstick. I'd rather be anywhere than here.”

The last time I'd seen Merry cry, she was six years old and fell off a swing, skinning both knees. This wound was deeper. Twin rivulets of tears trailed her cheeks. She swiped them away.

Selda, wearing a prune face, swept by us on her way to our table with a
meze
plate. “Wasting time, Merry.” The wicked witch and I traded glares.

“As soon as I can get your mom alone, I'll talk to her,” I said.

“Thanks, Aunt Norrie, but it won't do any good. She's a lowly
gelin
, a daughter-in-law. The only person Selda listens to is my dad. And he's drunk the Kool-Aid. I'm doomed.”

I finally cornered Em on our way out.

“I know, I know,” she said. “Merry's right. She calls me a wimp. But I have tried. I have even confronted. It does no good. Selda has the last word. Her son gives her that. On a platter.”

The espresso machine hissed disapproval in the background.

“The plan was she'd be leaving right after Ramadan, and then we are back to normal. I told Merry, it's only two weeks more. The light at the end of the tunnel. But now the tunnel is dark and stretches to eternity. Last night Selda announced she needs more time to whip Merry into shape. Whip? She says whip about your child, I tell Adnan. He says he will talk to her but that one has to handle these things carefully, with respect. She's his mother, after all. And where's the respect for me, your wife, and for our
child, I ask. Be patient, he tells me. Well, my patience is at an end. Tonight I watched her—look now, how she is shaking a finger at Merry. What? My daughter didn't wipe off the napkin caddy to suit her?”