Kimberly Stuart (11 page)

Unable to stifle it, I yawned with a flourish into Mac's chest. He spoke into my ear in order to be heard above the music. “Tired?”

I nodded.

We finished the song and he led me off the floor and out the door, waving to Danelle as we left. The sudden quiet of the night outside magnified the sound of our footsteps on the gravel. Mac let me into the truck and jogged around to his side. I shivered in my sweatshirt.

“Warmer days now but our nights will be cool for awhile yet.” Mac said, cranking the heat as we pulled onto the highway.

“I had fun,” I said, smiling at myself for the truth of those words.

“Good.” He sounded pleased. “That was the goal.”

We sat in silence the rest of the ride home, much like we did during our morning and evening commutes. I felt something had changed between us, come alive almost, and I wondered if I was the only one who'd noticed.

Mac cut the lights on his truck before turning down the long driveway toward Cal and Jayne's.

“Now,” he said as we slowed to a stop near the front sidewalk. “You tell those big city friends of yours we know how to have good time in the middle of nowhere, too. Next time,” he said as he opened his door, “I'll take you to work with me. Show you how to perform an autopsy on a horse.”

“Why, I ask you, did you have to ruin this moment?” I shuddered to think of that field trip.

We crept toward the house, hand in hand, not unlike two wily teenagers out past curfew. Mac turned the front doorknob with the finesse of a burglar and moved aside. I made no noise stepping over the threshold; Mac raised his eyebrows and nodded, impressed with my work. I waved and smiled then moved to close the door but Mac reached for me and pulled me to him. He leaned down and kissed me softly. I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply the scent of him. He pulled away. I took a breath to speak but he put a finger over his lips to shush me. In general, I do not appreciate being shushed, but considering the moment, I obliged.

I stepped back and he closed the door, leaving me to tiptoe in silent wonder up to my room.

The Big Apple

“Oh. My. Good. Gracious.” Jayne stood in capri pants, tennis shoes, and fanny pack and looked up. Her mouth formed an O, the back of her head tilted so her pale hair vibrated in a small, suspended arc. “I can't believe I'm here.” She wiped away a tear at the corner of her eye.

I rolled my eyes, certain that Jayne wouldn't notice and that I wouldn't have cared if she had. These kinds of exclamations had traveled with us to the Statue of Liberty and the viewing deck of the Empire State Building and it was only two in the afternoon. There was only so much I could do before unveiling the superhuman effort it was taking not to kill myself. For all my bravado about avoiding tourist traps, I'd succumbed to guilt and had agreed to shuttle my guest around to some of New York's most popular attractions. I'd put my foot down at seeing
Mary Poppins
, the only Broadway show with tickets available. But I'd been unable to deny Jayne the pleasure of a double-decker bus and now, Forty-second Street.

“Times Square in New York City,” Jayne said, shaking her head. “I watch every year when the ball drops but I had no idea how impressive it would be in person.”

I wouldn't have used that particular adjective
, I thought as I gathered in our surroundings. Overrun by people with cameras, yes. Chock-full of overpriced, unimaginative food, yes. The object of many a native New Yorker's disdain, absolutely. But impressive? I sighed again and started walking. Jayne followed closely behind, taking two steps for every one of mine.

“Where are we going?” she asked excitedly. People jostled us on every side and I felt Jayne's hand find my elbow.

“Late lunch with Richard. Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” she said. I glanced at her face. It would not be overly dramatic to say she glowed. The woman had been smiling almost without fail since we stepped onto the puddle jumper in Maplewood. I had definitely underestimated how ready Jayne had been to get out of dodge. Certain the plane ride (her first) would present various challenges, I'd tucked into my handbag a packet of Dramamine, chewing gum for help with ascent and descent, and had given the gate attendant a heads-up before boarding that we had with us a first-time flyer who might become hysterical.

Not a peep.

Jayne had remained calm and unperturbed, happy to peruse her
Today's Christian
Woman
through a teeth-grinding ascent, in turbulence over Lake Michigan, and during a particularly trying odor incident in the final leg that had compelled me to use my air purifier. In fact, she had been the one to comfort me when I'd gone green from the smell.

“We're almost to La Guardia,” she'd said like a native, patting my hand and taking a sip of ginger ale.

She'd been thoroughly appreciative of my apartment, commenting cheerily on the furnishings, which she assured me were very “fancy,” and she'd been keeping the living room, where she slept, impeccably clean. She'd even had the guts to leave the building early the first morning and with directions from Tom the doorman, had walked a block to my grocer to pick up essentials for breakfast.
Just like on the farm,
I thought, Jayne took care of my culinary needs without being asked.

Lunch, though, had the potential to put a deep wrinkle in her Pollyanna outlook.

“Jayne,” I said, turning a corner at a clip. “Are you familiar with Japanese food?”

“Nooo,” she said slowly and not without a dollop of concern.

“I've made plans to meet Richard at a Japanese noodle place a few blocks from here. Are you up for it?”

“
Um
, yes.”

“Because Times Square has plenty of places to eat, if you'd prefer something safer.”
And if you'd like to get suckered into a twenty-five-dollar plate of burger and fries like all these other saps,
I thought as we passed a flock of them wearing matching Hard Rock Café T-shirts.

We walked a few paces before she answered. “I'd like to go with you, if that's all right.” She watched my face as we walked. “But I'll need help ordering. I don't speak Japanese.”

I turned to her and laughed. I draped my arm around her tiny shoulders and squeezed her to me as we walked. “Jayne Hartley, you are impossibly perfect.”

She grinned and scurried along to keep up with my stride.

We reached the restaurant and my mouth began to water before I even opened the door. Although Richard and I had been here countless times, neither of us was sure of the restaurant's name. We referred to it simply as the Unbelievable Noodle Place Off Times Square. The place was unbelievable for two reasons. First, the décor. Perhaps as a nod to its proximity to Times Square, the owners had ramped up the corny factor to new heights. Water features filled the place, several of them spilling into mini koi ponds where the “koi” were actually overfed goldfish. Fake greenery spilled from every crevice. A silver wallpaper border topped the pale peach walls. The crowning glory, a self-playing pink upright piano, stood in the middle of the restaurant and played easy-listening classics like the themes from
Chariots of Fire
and
Ice Castles.

Quixotic ambience notwithstanding, the food at the Unbelievable Noodle Place Off Times Square had transformative powers and was unfathomably inexpensive. This was the second reason for its treasured place in our collective memory. A girl could immerse herself in a vat of steaming ramen and forget very easily that goldfish were swimming only inches away from her feet and that “Mandy” was not, in fact, her favorite song. All this for under ten dollars.

“Sadie!” Richard broadsided me and immersed me in a hug. He smelled of expensive pipe tobacco and cologne.

I pulled away to see his face. We kissed both cheeks and I laughed at the pleasure of seeing him. “So, so good to see you,” I said. “You look fantastic.”

“I do, don't I?” he said, stepping away so I could get the full view. He turned to my guest. “Jayne. You are lovely.” He leaned over to kiss her flushed cheek and her eyes widened at me over his shoulder.

“Jayne Hartley,” I said, “meet my dear friend and former husband, Richard LaSalle.”

“It's very nice to meet you.” Jayne smiled and blushed, blushed and smiled, while Richard soaked up every bit of it like the last drops of French onion soup at the bottom of a bowl. “In person, that is,” Jayne added shyly.

“Oh, yes, yes,” Richard said, remembering. “We spoke on the phone that one morning. I believe you were on the way to church. Our table's ready,” he said, ushering us to a four-top by the windows. “Church, right. Did Sadie tell you about how it was the
church
that compelled her to spend the semester in Iowa?”

I shot him a look, and he grinned like the Cheshire cat as he pulled out Jayne's chair. I seated myself.

“No, she didn't,” Jayne said. She looked at me, confused. “You mean like a missions trip?”

Richard cackled and said through his laughter, “Yes, something like that.”

I cleared my throat. “Jayne, it is imperative that you remember, in all your dealings with Richard, that he is not known for his truthfulness. Nor his discretion,” I added, narrowing my eyes across the table.

“Now, now,” Richard said, reaching for my hand. “You know you love me. Have you missed me horribly or am I the only one who's been miserable?”

Jayne watched us with big eyes. A fleeting image of Mac and his quiet, deep laughter passed through my mind. I patted Richard's hand and pulled mine out of his grasp.

“Of course I've missed you,” I said, smiling and studying his face. “You look well. How are things?”

As always, diverting the focus of the conversation to Richard himself worked beautifully in distracting from the issue at hand. He launched into a dramatic telling of the fiasco of the week, an errant stage manager at Juilliard who had placed the wrong score on Richard's stand for one of the pieces he'd conducted at a weekend concert. Jayne listened with polite attention, though I suspected she was bored out of her mind. The food presented challenge enough for her once our dishes began to arrive. She huddled over her bowl of noodles, looking about half her age as she tried to decipher all the ingredients in the broth. I flagged down a waiter and asked for Western flatware after she'd struggled valiantly with her chopsticks and soupspoon for a good five minutes.

“So, Jayne.” Richard said at the end of the meal. He pushed his empty bowl toward the center of the table and wiped the edges of his mouth with a rose-colored cloth napkin. “Is this your first time to New York?”

She nodded. “I love it,” she said, embarrassed at once by her exaggerated enthusiasm. “Sorry. I'm sure I sound like a country bumpkin, but I do love it. I love the different kinds of people, the energy, the
bigness
of everything. It's
so
much better than Branson.”

Richard looked confused.

“Missouri,” I said. “
Hee Haw
meets Las Vegas, if you will.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. Bemusement spilled out of his eyes. “So they have shows in Branson?”

“Oh, yes,” Jayne said. “Lots of them. It's mostly country and bluegrass, but they have some gospel, too.”

“Well, there you go,” Richard said with a gesture of finality. “I'm sure they're looking for singers, wouldn't you think? Sadie? Are you available?” He chided me with a boyish grin.

“Sure,” I said. I took a big gulp of iced tea, no lemon. “Why not? I'll just travel from loser town to loser town, racking up professional derision and humiliation.”

Richard stopped swirling his glass of dessert wine. His eyebrows arched and he looked at Jayne's face. I swallowed and turned to her. “Jayne,” I said, guilt oozing out of even that one solitary word. “I didn't mean—”

“Don't worry about it,” she said brightly. “You're right.”

“No, I'm not,” I said, fumbling. “Maplewood is a wonderful place for … casseroles. And farm machinery. And soybeans.” I looked at Richard, who appeared to be enjoying watching me squirm. “Raising children!” I said triumphantly. “It's a great place to raise kids, right?”

“Absolutely,” she said, flashing me a forced smile. She resumed poking at a cold lump of bok choy.

“It's just that I hadn't planned on being in Iowa at this point in my career,” I concluded feebly.

“Speaking of your career,” Richard said, “Judith told me she might be able to open up an appointment for you while you're in the city.” He leaned forward in his chair with an air of conspiracy. “She told me she has some ideas for your return to New York in the summer.”

“Really?” I said, feeling my heart pound in my chest. “Like …?”

He shrugged, reveling in his superior position of One Who Knew Dirt. “Without going into specifics, I believe it has to do with a new recording contract, some sort of compilation with four other hot-to-trot classical singers, kind of a ‘Best of Puccini' with hints of ‘American Idol' thrown in for good measure. Solo numbers
and
ensemble pieces. And then,” he paused dramatically, “a ten-city domestic tour followed by a spring tour in Europe. They're billing it
‘Pasione.'”

“What?” I jumped in my seat, high enough to make the water in our glasses slosh over the rims. “And she wants
me?
Why?”

Richard shook his head. “Sadie, has Iowa sucked all the confidence out of you?” He looked at Jayne. “No offense.”

“I can't believe it.” I stared at the wall beyond Richard, lost in thought. “Avi hasn't said a word.”

“What, and distract him from booking a bigger check with the same tour?” Richard sighed. “Darling, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Avi's been doing a masterful job agenting for Reneé, Kiri, and Cecilia, all of whom, like yourself, remember fondly the era of disco.” He gathered both my hands in his. “The plateau in your career is not now, nor has it ever been, an age issue. It's an
agent
issue.”

An agent issue,
I thought as I signed the check.
Not an age issue,
I thought as we meandered a few blocks together before taking separate cabs, Jayne and I back up to my apartment and Richard to a rehearsal in midtown. The precarious hope Richard offered was enough to make me feel dizzy.

“Jayne, again, I'm sorry for my comment about Maplewood.” Her uncharacteristic silence was unnerving.

“Don't be,” she said, watching a man fly past us on a bike. “You've got a lot on your mind right now.”

I looked out my window as the streets of Manhattan paraded by, mulling over the images of a renewed career that pushed Jayne and Maplewood quietly to the periphery.
Too soon to hope, too soon to hope,
I told myself and could feel every wishful thought soar in blissful ignorance.