Just One Night, Part 1: The Stranger (11 page)

“Did I scare you that night?” he asks. “Please tell me I didn’t. I want to make you feel safe. It’s my job. Please tell me I didn’t mess up something so fundamental. Please.”

“No, you make me feel safe,” I say quickly. “Always.” I study the contents of my glass before taking another sip.

“Then what is it?”

I don’t answer right away. I’m busy gathering up my scattered bits of courage. This is the moment. I know that. It’s now that I need to tell him.

“Is it your sister?”

The non sequitur jars me, throws me completely off balance.

“You know we’re a week away from her birthday. Melody would have been thirty-seven, right?”

How on earth did we get
here,
from talking about the troubles in our relationship to talking about Melody? She has no place in this exchange.

“She died two days after her twenty-second birthday, right? That means we’re approaching the fifteenth anniversary of her death.”

I don’t respond. The conversation we had been engaged in ripped at my gut but
this
conversation is untenable. I know why Dave and I are having problems; that’s on me. But to try to blame this new distance between us on Melody would be worse than anything I have done so far. And it would be worse than all her sins combined.

“You were thirteen when she died,” Dave is speaking slowly as he tries to remember the details of a story that I so rarely tell. “It was a suicide.”

“
No,
” I spit out the word vehemently. “It was an accidental overdose.” I say this as if that isn’t a kind of suicide. Cocaine, ecstasy, tequila, men: my sister used them all to feed her self-destruction. Every line, shot, and brutal crush was no better than a violent slash of a knife.

And yet she said she loved them all. Her love of excess and recklessness was only matched by her hatred of structure and tedious commitments.

She accidentally overdosed. My mother said she brought it on herself.

Dave doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want this to be a monologue. He had hoped I would hold his hand. He wants me to once again lean into his embrace and tell him he knows me better than anyone else.

But this was not a reminder that will lead to that kind of affection. At the moment it’s hard for me to think of him at all because
, at the moment,
I’m not his fiancée. I don’t even know him. We’ve never met.

At the moment I’m nine years old and I’m staring out my bedroom window at a girl named Melody who can’t stop dancing. She’s dancing in the front yard to music no one else can hear.

It will be the last time I will ever see her. She came home to ask our parents for money and when they refused to open the door, refused to even acknowledge her presence, she had danced.

But I’m not going to talk about those things to Dave or anyone else. Instead I drag myself back to the present and pull my lips up into a small, practiced smile before I wrap my hand around his knee and stare up into his eyes. “This isn’t about her,” I say. “It’s not even about us. It’s about me being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” he repeats as if struggling to find a way to apply the word to me.

“You were right to walk out on me that night,” I continue. “I wasn’t acting like myself. Wedding jitters maybe. But it wasn’t right.” I lean into him, the way I used to, the way he wants me to. “There’s no percentage in being crazy or out of control.”

He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met in my life. You’re my Kasie, and you’re perfect. I said you weren’t that night we ate at Scarpetta’s. I lied.”

“No, that was the truth. But I’m sure there have been other, nicer lies that you’ve told me over the years. We all lie, occasionally,” I say. “And we make mistakes.”

“I suppose so,” he says uncertainly.

“Maybe what differentiates the good from the bad is that only some of us . . . when we lie, when we make a mistake . . . maybe some of us can pull it together and . . . and fix things.”

Again I feel the tears well up as he kisses my cheek but this time I let a few slip from the corners of my eyes and I don’t protest as he tastes them.

You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met in my life.

His words . . . and I like them. I like the idea of being completely unique.

It means that I’m nothing like her at all.

His kisses have traveled up to my forehead and then down again to my mouth. I don’t object as he takes the port glass out of my hand and places it on the coaster resting on the coffee table. I don’t pull away as he unzips my dress, pulls it off my shoulders, cups my breasts. I don’t challenge him as he cautiously removes my dress entirely and folds it over the arm of a chair along with his own sports coat and shirt. I don’t say no as he lowers me down on that sofa and lays on top of me, careful, oh so careful not to hurt me, bruise me, cause me even a moment of discomfort. He cherishes me. I feel it as he brushes his fingers over my stomach. I feel it when he kisses my hair; I feel it in the warmth of his smile. This is where I’m supposed to be. These are the rules I have chosen for my life. I had no right to offer myself to Robert Dade. He has no place in my personal life or in my thoughts.

And as Dave kisses my forehead, I try to ignore the images, the memories . . . I try to forget that only this morning I had lost control.

CHAPTER 15

D
AVE STAYS OVER
.
Of course he does. It’s hardly the first time.

It’s just that we haven’t been spending the night together for a few weeks. I’ve forgotten the feel of it. His gentle snores are jarring to me now.

I turn on my side and look at him. His mouth is slack as he sleeps.

Dave and I had been going out for a week before he kissed me, three months before we made love. He said he didn’t want to rush me, that he knew I wasn’t that kind of girl. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hadn’t waited half that time with the men before him. My first had been when I was twenty. I had been so desperate to get rid of my virginity, I hadn’t cared that he smelled of cigarettes, that he spoke in clichés, that he barely looked at me as he forced his way in. My second lover had been a smart, tall, beautiful lacrosse player wth roaming hands and a roving eye. The pain of the breakup had been sharp but fleeting. There had been plenty of Kleenex left in the box once I was done crying.

But Dave is different. He respects me. He thinks I’m precious. He honors me with outdated romantic notions.

And to top it all off he helped me get the job I wanted.

Dave has given me so much, it makes sense that he’ll be my first forever, the first thing in my life that will be more than a stage.

That constancy has value, right? Certainly more value than the illicit secrets that weave themselves into my dreams at night. I can never make love to Robert again. Never. I will force him out of my life.

Now if I could only force him out of my head.

*     *     *

I
T’S ONLY 7:00
A.M
. and I’m handing Dave his lunch and a travel mug full of a deep-bodied coffee before his unusually early conference call. He’s surprised, I’ve never made him lunch to take to the office before. It’s a Norman Rockwell kind of move, which is good. I need to incorporate a little Norman Rockwell morality into my life.

He kisses me on the forehead and I feel the completeness of his affection. As I watch him leave, I feel something else, too, something that springs from deep within me. I want it to be love.

But it feels a lot like obligation.

I was in Dave’s debt before, what with the job and his frequent kindnesses. But now that I’ve betrayed him, I owe him so much more, more than gifts or favors. I owe him happiness.

Almost an hour later, while I’m dressing for work, my phone rings and Robert’s assistant’s number pops up.

No, that’s wrong. It’s Mr. Dade again. I have to find a way to turn him back into a stranger.

“Miss Fitzgerald?” Sonya’s inquisitive voice melts through the phone. “Sorry to call so early.”

“It’s fine.” I sit on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but a matching bra and panties with the phone pressed to my ear. I feel exposed, which is silly. Sonya can’t see me. But she does know things about me that others don’t and I’m reminded of this when she tells me in a tone that is a little too intimate that Mr. Dade is requesting a meeting away from his office.

“13900 Tahiti Way, in Marina Del Rey,” she says. There’s something about this address that thrills her. I can tell by the way she whispers the numbers.

“What’s there?” I keep my own tone flat, emotionless. I want to wipe her memory away. . . . Has she imagined me with him? Has she imagined me with her? Did I call out when Robert let his fingers slide over my clit, when he kissed my neck, my breasts? . . .

Did she hear me when I lost control?

“Oh, I just figured you two had already worked out the details. . . . I didn’t ask specifically which part of the marina. . . . I mean, it’s not my business.”

And with that comment I know that she heard everything, imagined everything; to her I’m not just an associate of Mr. Dade’s. I’m the woman he fucked on his desk and it doesn’t matter what tone I use, what outfits I wear . . . she’ll always know me for my indiscretions.

I hate her for it.

I hang up the phone without another word. But then nothing else needed to be said. He knows I’ll come. It’s my job, my addiction, my temptation . . . it doesn’t really matter if it’s lust, ambition, or just plain ol’ curiosity that’ll get me there.

All that matters is that he knows I’ll come.

A trickle of foreboding works its way down my spine. I know where my place is now. It’s with Dave. I had my last hoorah with Robert Dade.

I’ll go to the meeting for the sake of ambition and in spite of the lust, which I will have to repress. I’ll go to the meeting to say good-bye.

I select a Theory suit, not as provocative as the clothes I wore the day he last saw me but significantly more stylish than my regular garb. I pair it with a satin blouse that could pass as menswear if it wasn’t for the fabric. He will not shake me.

Or if he does, he won’t see it.

It’s not until I’m in the car, plugging the address into the navigation, that Sonya’s words come back to me. The marina?

For a split second I consider removing the keys from the ignition. Why would I meet this man at a marina? The location is too soft, too romantic, whispers of too many fantasies of just sailing away from it all.

But he knows I’ll come and so I turn the key.

*     *     *

I
PULL INTO
the parking lot lining the peninsula. Moorings holding pleasure crafts are surrounded by high-rise condos and hotels. It’s fantasy meets urban reality—an appropriate metaphor for my current predicament. But I can’t have both. I have to give up the fantasy.

My cell buzzes with a new text message. It’s from him. He simply tells me where to park, where to walk, which gates to open. The text is eerily well timed. It’s as if he has a sixth sense when it comes to me.

I study his words again. He’s instructing me. Just as he instructed me that one night in Vegas . . . just as he had instructed me when he had watched me through his computer screen. But perhaps these instructions are more benign?

No, not benign. Nothing about Robert Dade is benign. And neither is my eagerness to follow his directives.

As I walk away from my car to the gate that he told me to walk through, the Ritz-Carlton to my left, the ocean to my right, I find myself wondering what he’ll ask me to do next.

It’s hot; the jacket comes off. Even satin isn’t right for this setting but it’ll have to do. I follow the steps and go down the dock, passing sailboats, restaurants, tourists, and palm trees until I find the place where I’m supposed to turn . . . toward the horizon. And I see him, standing on top of a small yacht, wearing another cheap T-shirt, charcoal gray this time so it matches his hair; his jeans are faded. . . . I can’t tell if they’re old or simply designed to look that way. Doesn’t matter.

I walk to him, just as he asked, but stop when I’m still several feet away from the boat.

“Are we meeting in the yacht club?” I ask from the dock.

“No, come aboard.”

I’m pained by how much I want to heed his request. I want to let him take me on yet another adventure. I want to follow my devil’s lead.

But I shake my head. “There are plenty of restaurants for us to have our lunch meeting.”

He studies me for a moment. “Is everything all right?”

It’s a good question. Maybe it isn’t right now but surely it will be if I just stay strong. I press my lips together and give a stiff nod.

“If I come down there, I will not be a gentleman.”

He’s teasing but the threat scares me anyway. Everything has changed. I am now officially engaged and everyone, my friends, my parents, my colleagues, they all know it. If Robert does anything to give me away, the consequences will coat my world with humiliation. I can’t even let myself think about it.

“I could turn around and leave right now,” I say. The wind picks up and lifts my hair with a silent force. I wore it down again and I’m getting used to the way it feels when it moves. I’m getting used to the way Mr. Dade’s words move me, too, and that’s a problem. I will myself to turn away from him. “I’m not here for that, Mr. Dade.”

“Ah, so we’re back to formalities.” There’s a question there. He doesn’t understand the degree of the shift. He thinks I’ve just gotten a little scared . . . or that maybe I’m teasing him back.

“I think . . . for a lot of reasons, we should strive for a more . . . professional decorum. I . . . I’m afraid I let things get a little too familiar. It won’t happen again.”

He pauses, studies me. “I assume you’ve heard the story of the boy who cries wolf?” he asks, deadpan. “You realize that you don’t have a lot of credibility in this area.”

“I’m serious this time.”

“As opposed to last time, when you were just joking?”

“I’m not getting on the boat.”

I roll back my shoulders and meet his gaze. I wait for the anger, the hurt, the bewilderment that must be coming. But his poker face is flawless. I can’t predict what hand is about to be played. . . .

Until he smiles—it’s the smile I get when I realize I’m playing chess against a worthy adversary. It’s the smile of someone who knows he’s about to win against the best.

“If I come down there, Miss Fitzgerald, I will kiss you”—he raises his hand as I start to protest—“and I won’t stop there. I will touch you the way you want me to touch you.”

“Quiet!” I hiss.

I look around self-consciously. I don’t see anyone on the nearby boats but that doesn’t mean anything. We’re in public, his voice is strong, I can’t count on the ocean breeze carrying his every word out to sea.

“You do want that, don’t you, Kasie?” He says, his voice keeping the same steady volume—the tenure low, insistent, confident. “You want me to touch you right here, in full daylight so that everyone in that bistro only a stone’s throw away would see you. You want the audience. You want me to pull off the mask in front of everyone.”

“I can’t get on the boat,” I say, but now it’s my voice that’s getting weaker. He has no right to say these things to me . . . and I have no right to want them.

But the fantasies are tiptoeing into my consciousness. On the desk in front of my team, on the couch in front of his friends . . . walking through a casino wearing a Herve Leger dress, everyone looking at me, seeing me as the woman I’m not supposed to be.

“Come aboard,” he says, softer, kinder. “Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen. Remember, all you have to do is say no.”

Hadn’t I said no? Hadn’t I said
I can’t get on the boat
? Wasn’t
can’t
the same as
no
?

But it wasn’t.
Can’t
spoke to what I was capable of doing and what I wasn’t.
No
wasn’t about capabilities; it was about desire.

I had no desire to say no.

Carefully, I find my way onto the boat.

He meets me, kisses me innocently on the cheek, but his hand slips between us and I gasp as he applies a slight pressure to the one spot that will always give me away.

“I didn’t come for that,” I say, stepping away.

“No, you came to work.” He walks over to a bottle of sauvignon blanc that’s been chilling in a bucket. “You would never come here just because you want me to touch you again, although you do. You wouldn’t come just because you feel alive when you’re with me. You wouldn’t come because I’m the only one you can be your true self with. But for work? Yes, for work you’ll always come.”

He pours a glass of the white wine and offers it to me. The drink reminds me of Dave. I shake my head.

“I’m not my true self when I’m with you. I don’t know who I am.”

“That’s the problem,” he says, taking the wine for himself. It’s the first thing he hasn’t tried to push on me since I arrived. “You don’t know who you are. You even had me describe you
to
you last time we met and you
still
can’t figure it out. Normally that would be enough to make me lose interest. Self-awareness is sexy. Delusions are not.”

The sun is at my back and yet I reach into my bag and pull out my sunglasses. I sense that I’m going to need as many layers of protection as possible. “You think I’m delusional?”

“At times. It doesn’t suit you.”

“If it’s such a turnoff, maybe you should back the fuck off.”

Robert Dade bursts into laughter. It’s an easy laugh with just a touch of opulence. It softens my edges and makes me want to step toward him rather than away.

“Like I said, I would. But the thing is,” and with this it’s he who takes a step forward, “the woman who you really are . . . the one who you keep so tightly under wraps, the woman who is only allowed out when she is touched a certain way, made to feel certain things . . . that woman is so damn compelling . . . I can’t seem to turn away.”

Turn around and leave. Tell him that the engagement has been announced.

But I don’t say a word. My voice was carried off with the wind.

“I want that woman,” he says again, taking another step. “And not just in the bedroom. I want to know what she’s like over a candlelight dinner. I want to see her on the beach. I want to know what it would feel like to walk beside her talking about the thoughts you never let her share.”