Covet (8 page)

claire

I’m playing catch with Josh in the backyard. He’d prefer to throw the ball to Chris or Travis, but Chris is in Miami and Travis has a raging case of strep throat. All Josh has left are his mom and his sister and when Jordan refused he came looking for me. His timing isn’t the greatest because I’m right in the middle of cooking dinner, but he looks so hopeful that I can’t bring myself to say no. I turn down the temperature on the stove, deciding that the beef stew can simmer for a while longer. After shutting off the oven that had been preheating for the crescent rolls, Jordan’s favorite, I follow him outside.

I put on my glove and Josh winds up and throws.

“Good job, Mom,” he says when I catch it.

He smiles when I throw it back. We play for almost a half hour, but then I bend down to retrieve the ball that I missed and something pops in my back. I can barely straighten.

“Mom, what happened?” Josh asks, running over to me.

“Nothing,” I assure him. Trying not to grimace, I say, “I’m okay.”

It isn’t nothing. It feels like white-hot arrows of pain are shooting from my lower back to the top of my spine, pain that’s exacerbated by the slightest movement. “Let’s go inside,” I say. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

“Okay,” he says.

I take two Motrin and walk over to stir the beef stew. After preheating the oven I have to ask Josh to open it; I can’t bend down far enough to do it myself. “Thank you,” I say. “Stand back.” I slide the sheet pan of rolls inside, closing the door with my hip. When the timer goes off twelve minutes later I somehow manage to remove the rolls without dropping them.

Sitting hurts. Lying down hurts. The only thing that’s remotely bearable is to keep moving. Once I stop, it becomes even harder to get going again.

The pain is much worse the next morning and the three Motrin I washed down with my coffee haven’t put a dent in it. Julia calls to see if the kids and I want to meet her and her daughters at the park later this afternoon. “I don’t know,” I answer. “I did something to my back. I need a massage, but my regular guy is on vacation.” I’ve been going to Walt for years; he’s sixty-five, a retired marine, and he doesn’t try to manhandle me or press on anything too hard. I trust him implicitly.

“You should go to my guy. If you call him and tell him I referred you, he’ll get you right in.”

“Is he good?”

“He’s the best. I tip very well.” She gives me his number and I scrawl it on a scrap of paper. As soon as I hang up I call; Julia must have some pull because her massage therapist says he’ll shuffle things around and can fit me in at one o’clock. I call a babysitter to watch the kids while I’m gone.

The pain in my back has morphed into a dull, throbbing ache and the anticipation of relief prompts me to arrive early. It looks like a nice enough place, and the reception area is clean, though sparsely decorated. I thumb through a magazine and wait.

When he pops his head around the corner and calls my name, I’m relieved to discover that Julia’s massage therapist is a tall, athletically built man who looks as if he’s in his midtwenties. His handshake is firm, but not crushing, and once I’m on the table and he begins, I can tell he’s not going to be too rough. He asks me about my pain and focuses extra attention on the small of my back where it hurts the most. Gradually I relax, and I think I could actually fall asleep.

After a while he asks me to turn onto my back and I manage to flip over without dislodging the towels that cover the parts of me that are off-limits. He resumes massaging me, starting with my feet and working his way up. I start to doze, but then his fingers graze the inside of my thigh, which is weird because Walt never touches me there.

His hand moves a little higher.

Or there.

He slides his hand between my legs, cupping me, fluttering his fingers gently along my crotch, and I fly off the table, pain ripping through my back as I try to remain upright and keep everything covered.

Walt would
never
do that.

“What the hell are you doing?” I yell.

He holds his hands up in front of him and takes a few steps backward. “I’m sorry. Julia referred you. I thought you knew.”

What, that you give happy endings? No, I didn’t know that.

“Look,” he says. “I’m really sorry, but I’m putting myself through grad school and I need this job. I would never have touched you if I thought you didn’t want me to.”

Seeing his panic-stricken expression calms me down; his explanation rings true, and I’m open-minded enough to chalk the experience up to a misunderstanding. A really big one.

“It’s okay. I won’t say anything.”

Relieved, his shoulders slump and he takes a deep breath. “I’d be happy to work on your back some more. You look like you’re in serious pain.”

He seems sincere, but I say, “No thanks. I’m going to get dressed now.” Before he leaves the room I add, “Hey. I was never here.”

He nods, comprehending. “Okay.”

We walk to the park later to meet Julia and her girls. She notes my slow rate of speed, and my shuffling gait. Her hands are wrapped around a plastic tumbler that contains a clear liquid I strongly suspect is white wine. “Didn’t you call my guy, Claire? I told you he’d fix you right up.” She smiles knowingly.

“I called a chiropractor instead. I don’t think this is a problem that can be solved with a massage.”

And certainly not with an orgasm.

It’s not a lie. As soon as I got home I called a chiropractor and I’ve got an appointment first thing in the morning.

“You look like you’re in agony,” she says.

“I’ll be fine.”

The kids scamper off, eager to play, Josh on the jungle gym and the three girls on the swings.

Julia leans in close, so I can hear her. “Make sure you call him sometime, Claire,” she whispers, and the fumes of chardonnay wafting from her mouth are so potent I’m surprised I don’t catch a buzz. “You’ll want to get on his rotation, especially now that Chris is gone all the time.”

“I’ll keep him in mind,” I say, but I’m flat-out lying because I’m not so desperate for the human touch that I’m willing to outsource it to a man employed by a massage franchise sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a video store in some strip mall across town.

Not yet, anyway.

claire

Justin and Julia’s swimming pool is finally done and she invites us over for an inaugural dip one day in early August. Josh and Jordan are thrilled and they run upstairs to change into their suits right after breakfast. Julia extends the invitation to Elisa and Bridget, too. When we arrive Julia turns on the waterfalls and points out the features of the hot tub.

“Everything turned out beautifully,” I say. “It’s heated, right?”

“Yes,” Julia says. “If the weather stays halfway decent, we’ll be able to swim until the end of October.” The kids cheer, ecstatic about the prospect of having a pool at their disposal, and the air soon fills with the sounds of splashing and laughter.

“What can I get you to drink?” Julia asks. “I have beer, wine, vodka. I can make a batch of margaritas. Oh, I almost forgot. I can do mimosas.”

“Do you have any iced tea?” I ask.

Her face falls. “Sure. I always forget you don’t drink much.” It’s true that I’m not a big drinker, but I can have one or two if I adjust my insulin accordingly. But it’s 10:03
A.M
. A drink doesn’t sound remotely appealing.

“I’ll take a beer,” Bridget says. “I accidentally walked in on Sebastian having some special alone time. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to erase that image.”

“Oh, God,” I say, laughing.

“A word of advice,” she says, looking at Elisa and me. “
Always
knock first.”

We groan. “I don’t think we’re at that stage yet,” I say. “At least I hope not.”

“I’ll have some tea, too,” Elisa says, and Julia walks into the house to get the drinks. When she returns she has a tray with a pitcher of iced tea, two glasses, a bottle of beer, and a full glass of wine. She sets the tray down on the table and hands out the drinks.

I take a sip of my tea and then spread out my towel on one of the four chaise lounges that Julia has arranged next to the pool. I strip off my cover up and lay down, rolling up another towel and placing it behind my head for a makeshift pillow. “This is fantastic,” I announce, feeling the warm sun on my skin. I shield my eyes and do a quick head count: all children are safe and by the looks of it they’re having a wonderful time.

“Are you still really busy, Claire?” Bridget asks.

“Not really. I’ve finished up a lot of my smaller jobs. I’ll add more when the kids go back to school. And I might have an assignment with the police department.”

“Doing what?” Bridget asks, slathering herself from head to toe with sunscreen.

“Designing a new logo. When the officer delivered the speed limit sign the other day we started talking and he asked me what kind of work I did. He told me they were interested in hiring a freelance graphic designer. I submitted a bid.”

“I think someone is a little sweet on our Claire,” Elisa teases. “She’s failed to mention that the officer is ridiculously good-looking and that the speed limit sign showed up mere days after she asked to get bumped up on the list.”

Julia spreads out her towel on the chair beside me and chugs half of her wine. “I want to hear more about this, Claire.”

“Why, are we fourteen?” I ask. “There’s nothing to tell. I’m sure he knows I’m married.” I hold up my left hand. “I’m wearing a ring. He didn’t do or say anything weird. He’s just a nice guy.”

Thankfully, they drop it. What I don’t tell the girls is how much I’ve enjoyed talking to Daniel. How easy I find it. I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing, the way I do with Chris.

Elisa settles in on my other side. She takes a drink of her tea and asks, “Can you watch Travis for a couple hours tonight?”

“Sure. Send him over,” I say. “We don’t have any plans. Do you and Skip have a hot date?”

“No. We’re taking a class tonight.”

“Couple’s massage?” Julia asks, laughing.

“Maybe Elisa has finally convinced Skip to learn line dancing,” Bridget says.

“No,” Elisa says. “It’s none of those.” She pulls a pair of sunglasses out of her tote bag. “It’s to learn more about getting certified to foster a child.”

I sit up. “Elisa. That’s wonderful.” I lean over and give her a hug. “Are you and Skip thinking of becoming foster parents?”

“Maybe,” she says. “There are so many kids who need good homes. A loving and stable environment. We’re still trying to get pregnant, but I’m starting to think that it’s not in the cards for us. When I mentioned it to Skip I had no idea what he’d say, but he was really supportive. I was worried about Travis, because he’s used to having us all to himself, but he said he always wished he had a brother or sister. We’ll see what happens. Tonight is just to learn more.”

I reach out and squeeze her hand. “You and Skip would be fantastic foster parents.” Bridget and Julia echo my sentiments.

“Thanks,” she says. “We’d try very hard to do our best. I know it won’t be easy.”

“Keep us posted,” I say. “I really hope it works out.”

“Thanks, Claire.”

“Who needs a refill?” Julia asks.

“I’m good,” Bridget says. “I have half a beer left.”

Elisa and I are still working on the pitcher of iced tea, so Julia takes her empty glass into the house and emerges with a refill. At noon, the kids take a break for lunch. We make them get out of the pool while we’re inside Julia’s kitchen making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Julia drops the jar of grape jelly on her ceramic tile floor and it explodes upon impact, making one hell of a mess. It doesn’t seem to faze her, and Bridget grabs a dishcloth and helps her clean it up.

“Do you have any fruit?” I ask.

“There are apples in the fridge,” Julia says. When I grab the apples I notice that the jug of wine on the top shelf, the one that’s equal to two normal-size bottles, is halfway gone. Maybe it was already open when we arrived. Because if it was a brand-new bottle and she polishes it off, she is going to be smashed. I shut the door, wash the apples, and slice them for the kids.

It turns out I was wrong. At a little after three thirty, Julia bypasses smashed and goes straight to passed out. Her five-year-old daughter, Hillary, tries to rouse her. “Mommy. Mommy, I’m thirsty.”

I look over at Julia’s chair and I’m alarmed to see that she isn’t moving.

Julia’s three-year-old daughter, Beth, walks toward her sister and says, “Is Mommy sleeping?”

Elisa and I jump out of our chairs, and Bridget tells the girls to come inside. “I’ll get you a drink,” she says.

Elisa gently shakes Julia, but she’s out. My heart pounds when I think about Julia passing out when she’s home alone with the girls. Maybe while they’re in the pool.

“Do you think she’s just normal passed out, or the kind of passed out where we should be worried?” I whisper.

“Why are you whispering?” Elisa asks.

“I have no idea,” I say. “Maybe we should call Justin. Ask him to come home.”

“I agree,” she says.

“Mom?” Travis says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Why don’t you all go inside and tell Bridget you need a snack,” Elisa says.

After they go in I ask Elisa if she knows Justin’s number.

“No,” she says. “But Skip does. He calls him sometimes to play golf.” Elisa calls Skip, explains the situation, and I program the number into my phone when Elisa repeats it out loud. I hit the button to call Justin and get his voice mail.

“Justin, it’s Claire. Um, Julia’s had a lot to drink. I think you better come home.” I disconnect and look down at Julia, shaking my head. I’d like to think that she was just excited about the beautiful day and the pool being done and all of us being here. But who knows what’s going on inside her head.

Justin arrives twenty minutes later, red-faced and clenching his teeth so hard I instinctively move out of his way. I’ve never seen him so angry before. “Julia,” he says. He shakes her shoulder, and he isn’t all that gentle about it. “Julia!” He runs his fingers through his hair and exhales loudly. She remains as still as a statue, albeit one who is in a reclining position.

“I can take the girls home with me,” I say.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll take them inside and give them a bath. They can watch some TV after. They’ve probably had enough sun today.” He glances down at Julia. “She can sleep it off out here for a while.”

Elisa and I gather up our things and collect the kids’ towels and pool toys.

“Did you see her eat anything today?” Justin asks before we go.

Actually, now that I think about it, she didn’t. We made turkey sandwiches for ourselves but Julia said she wasn’t hungry. “No,” I say. “I don’t think she did.” She drank instead.

“I’ll go inside and get the kids,” Elisa says. “We’ll go out the front door and take the sidewalk home.”

“I’m right behind you,” I say. I turn back toward Justin.

“Thanks for calling me,” he says.

“Sure.” I hesitate but then I say, “Have you talked to her about it? The drinking?”

“Yes. She knows how I feel.”

I think Julia knowing how Justin feels and him doing something to help her are two totally different things, but maybe now is not the time to push. He looks spent, miserable. “Take care,” I say.

He musters a weak smile. “I will.”

The last thing I see when I look back on my way out is Justin rolling Julia onto her side so she won’t choke in case she vomits.

At home, I tell the kids to take a shower. My cell phone rings, but I don’t recognize the number. I punch the button to answer it. “Hello?”

“Hi, Claire? It’s Daniel Rush.” His voice sounds warm and friendly on the phone.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. I just wanted to let you know the logo design job is yours if you want it.”

“Really? That’s great. I’m sure your recommendation helped.”

“Actually, we didn’t have very many applicants. It wasn’t widely advertised and it’s a pretty small job. But I still put in a good word for you,” he quickly adds.

“I’ll mock up a few designs. It shouldn’t take me long. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Keep track of how many hours you spend on it and I’ll make sure you get paid.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Talk to you soon,” he says.

“Okay. Bye, Daniel.” When I hang up I add his name and number to the contacts in my phone, feeling a bit guilty at how happy it makes me feel.