Made For Sex (2 page)

As Carla watched, the blonde walked around the joined vehicles, calmly assessed the situation, and shook her head. God, Carla thought, I had to hit someone like her. The woman wore a classic dark red Donna Karan suit, a matching red-and-white patterned blouse, and perfectly coordinated Robert Clergerie pumps. She adjusted a gold, red, and white Hermes scarf over her shoulder with long, slender, perfectly manicured fingers. “Oh dear,” the woman said, her voice soft and well modulated. “I'm so sorry.”

“You're sorry?” Carla said.

“Of course,” the woman said. “I was going a bit too fast and I wasn't watching where I was going.” The woman hesitated, staring. “Wait. It couldn't be.” She continued to stare. “Carla?”

“Excuse me?”

“Carla. You're Carla MacKensie.”

“Carla Barrett,” she answered. “But I was Carla MacKensie before I married. Do we know each other?”

“It's Veronica. Ronnie Browning, now Talmidge.”

“Ronnie? It can't be.” Carla and Ronnie had been roommates at Michigan State and had graduated together fifteen years before. During their three years together they had shared everything: field hockey, the debate team, the drama club and even, unintentionally, a few boyfriends.

Ronnie's laugh was a full rich sound. “I'd know you anywhere. You haven't changed a bit.” She looked down. “I guess I've changed a little since then.”

Carla remembered the moderately attractive brunette with wire-rimmed glasses and little makeup whom she had loved like a sister. “Have you ever! You look sensational.” She smiled ruefully. “And you're right, I haven't changed. Unfortunately I look pretty much like I did fifteen years ago: medium brown and average, average, average.” Carla looked Ronnie over carefully. “What in the world have you been doing for the last fifteen years?”

“More than you can possibly imagine.” Ronnie looked at the two cars and waved her hand. “You know, this seems relatively minor. Listen. Where were you off to?”

“Minor?” There had to be thousands of dollars' worth of damage. You couldn't have an accident that didn't cost thousands these days. “I was going home to Bronxville—where I live now.”

“That's silly. Now that we've found each other let's not lose track again. Why don't we park here and have lunch? We can catch up on all those years. And, anyway, I'm starved.”

“Weren't you going somewhere?”

“I have an appointment at two,” Ronnie said, glancing at her gold Cartier watch, “but that gives us over an hour, and there's a great little Italian place down the block.”

When Carla hesitated, Ronnie's voice dropped. “Please. I'd love the company and we have so much to catch up on.”

The parking lot attendant ran up waving his hands, trying to clear the entranceway. “You'll have to move these cars,” the uniformed man yelled.

Ronnie's voice was soft, yet authoritative. “If you'll wait just a moment, Tom, we'll be out of the way.” She turned to Carla and said, “I'm in this neighborhood a lot. I used to park here all the time but I've found a less expensive place around the corner.”

As Ronnie returned to her car, Carla climbed into her Ford and backed up. The cars separated and Carla noticed that the damage to the Cadillac was less than she'd expected. Just a nasty dent and some chipped paint. She'd have to examine her car, but since the bumper had been the point of contact she thought it should be okay.

“Over here,” Tom said. “Back it right over here.” He waved Carla into one parking space and Ronnie drove into the one next to it.

As she climbed out, Ronnie said, “We'll be a few hours, Tom.” She leaned into the passenger seat to grab a fashionable bag that Carla knew had to be either a Fendi or a great knockoff and slung the chain strap over her shoulder. Carla reached through the open passenger window of the Ford and grabbed her ersatz leather purse and camel-colored wool jacket. She slipped her arms in the sleeves and buttoned the blazer over her denim-blue-and-white striped shirt.

“Oh, Carla, this is so wonderful,” Ronnie said. She looked at the front end of Carla's car. “Not bad,” Ronnie said. “Looks like you got out of this little accident with almost no damage at all.”

Carla nodded and wrapped her arm around Ronnie's waist. “I'm so glad I ran into you.” She laughed. “Literally.”

“Me too. This way.” Ronnie led Carla under a small awning that proclaimed the restaurant to be The Villa Luigi. As they entered, Carla inhaled the enticing odor of garlic, oregano, and olive oil. They were shown to a quiet table in the back. “Give us a bottle of your Ruffino and some garlic bread,” Ronnie told the waitress who seated them. As she left, Ronnie laughed. “Remember the night we got a gallon of jug-red and drank it with an entire package of Oreos with Double Stuff?”

“All I remember is how sick we were the next morning. I had to hold onto the floor to keep from falling off.”

“And I puked my guts up for over an hour.” The two women laughed. “Tell me what's new with you now,” Ronnie said.

Carla took a deep breath. “Well, I was married for almost nine years but Bill was killed in a car accident almost five years ago.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Well…. Bill wasn't exactly Prince Charming. He drank too much and was not a nice drunk. I had been thinking about a divorce for a year before his death.”

“Kids?”

“BJ—that's Bill Junior—is thirteen, Tommy's eleven, and Mike's ten. Three boys. Where did I go wrong?”

“I remember that you wanted ten kids, all girls. And you never wanted to work.”

“Never work? God, imagine thinking that being a mommy wasn't work.”

“So you're a mommy full time?”

“Fortunately Bill left me pretty well provided for. That, and I sell a little real estate. I got my license about two years ago and I put what I make away for college for the boys. Sometimes I think I should work more, what with the boys in school all day and my folks right next door, but I can't think of what I could do, college degree or no college degree.” Carla put her napkin in her lap. “English literature. A useful degree if ever there was one. Anyway, what about you? Married? Where do you live?”

Ronnie waggled her left hand under Carla's nose. The wide gold band on her third finger flashed. She also wore a thin band of diamonds on her index finger and a heavy free-form gold ring on the middle finger of her other hand. “Jack's an independent geologist who does consulting for a number of oil companies. It's a combination of lots of travel and a house full of computers. He's only home about one week a month.” She heaved a sigh. “Unfortunately, no kids. I found out early on that I couldn't have any and neither of us wanted to adopt. We live in Hopewell Junction, in Dutchess County, almost two hours north of here. What were you doing in town, by the way?”

“Doctor's appointment.”

Ronnie jumped in. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Nothing. A lump in my breast that turned out to be a benign cyst.”

“I'm glad.” She squeezed her friend's hand.

Carla was touched. Ronnie was someone with whom she had always shared everything. It felt good sharing now. “So, Ronnie, I couldn't help noticing the quality of your wardrobe. And the new Cadillac. Jack's obviously doing well.”

“Well enough. But the Caddie's mine.”

“You work?”

Ronnie smiled in a way that puzzled Carla. “Yes, I work.” She paused, then continued. “And I take occasional courses in creative writing at NYU. I've even had a few articles published.”

“That's great.” The waitress brought their wine and a basket of bread dripping with butter, garlic, and herbs. When she had poured them each a glass and left, the two women picked up their glasses and tapped them together.

“To work in all its forms,” Ronnie said mysteriously, then laughed.

Puzzled, Carla drank.

For the next hour, Carla and Ronnie caught up on everything that had happened since they lost touch after graduation when Ronnie traveled in Europe for a year. As the two women finished espressos and the last of the bottle of wine, Ronnie looked at her watch. “I hate to say this, but I have to run. Someone's meeting me at two. But let's get together next week. Noon. Why don't we meet out front and eat somewhere else? And, don't worry about the damage to my car. I'll let my collision coverage take care of it.” Ronnie took the check, added a generous tip, and split the amount. After settling up, the two women stood and Ronnie reached out and hugged Carla. “God, I've missed you.”

For each of the next three Mondays the two women lunched in the same neighborhood: at a Chinese restaurant specializing in Peking Duck, an Indian hole-in-the-wall that made the best mulligatawny Carla had ever tasted, and today at a sushi bar where Carla sampled raw fish for the first time. Over ginger ice cream and green tea, Ronnie suggested their next meeting place. “I'd like you to see my place,” she said. “Let's have lunch chez moi next week.”

“In Hopewell Junction? I guess I could. You'll have to give me directions.”

“Not Hopewell Junction. Around the corner.” With an enigmatic smile, Ronnie gave Carla an address on East 54th.

“I don't get it, Ronnie. You have an apartment right here?” She saw Ronnie nod, then pause. “No wonder you know all the good spots to eat. Have you got a secret life? Tell me everything.”

“Next week I promise you'll know all.” As Ronnie left for her usual two o'clock meeting, she added, “I'll arrange to have the whole afternoon free. We'll talk.”

The address that Ronnie had given Carla led her to a small, three-story brownstone on East 54th. Carla climbed the four steps to the entrance and rang the bell. Ronnie opened the door dressed in a soft gray wool long-sleeved jumpsuit, her dark blond hair loose around her shoulders. A pair of large, free-form silver earrings and a silver herringbone choker were her only jewelry. Carla was glad that she had chosen to forgo her usual jeans and had worn a dark green wool suit with a beige raw silk blouse.

The two women bussed cheeks, and Carla followed Ronnie through a small vestibule and into a beautifully furnished living room.

“Some fantastic place,” Carla said as she looked around. Everything was done in black, white, and shades of gray. The sofa was overstuffed, covered in black leather banded with leather straps secured with heavy metal buckles. It was accented with throw pillows in black-and-white stripes and plaids. The two comfortable-looking soft chairs were white jacquard fabric with identical black-and-white pillows. A fluffy white rug covered the center of the floor; Carla could see the original highly polished inlaid wood where the rug ended. The walls were covered with a soft silver-gray silk and the windows were draped in a slightly darker gray damask. End tables of black lacquer held white-based, modern lamps that filled the room with light.

Vases and pots of flowers placed on tables and pedestals around the room provided the only color. Roses, chrysanthemums, and geraniums added their hues to blooming cactuses and unusual blossoms that Carla didn't recognize. Several hanging baskets of living blooms hung from hooks in both the walls and ceiling. One wall was all windows with a decorative but highly functional iron grill outside. The opposite wall contained a long, white, glass-fronted wall unit filled with books of every kind, from popular novels to poetry to volumes on natural sciences and history. The other walls held black-and-white Ansel Adams prints and other, smaller black-and-white photographs by artists Carla didn't know. At one end of the room sat an antique maple desk.

Carla whistled. “Holy cow.” Through her real estate wanderings, she had learned enough to appreciate the class and expense of the decorating.

“Just a little hideaway,” Ronnie said, laughing.

“Little? Either you inherited a small fortune, your writing is doing extremely well, or Jack indulges you and your ‘little hideaway.'”

“Or ‘D' none of the above.” Ronnie handed Carla a champagne flute and filled it from an already opened bottle of Dom Pérignon. She clinked her glass against her friend's and, with an enigmatic smile, said, “To ‘none of the above.'”

They drank. “Okay,” Carla said, “give.”

“I think we know each other well enough for me to show you my photographs. Sit down.” She motioned toward the sofa and Carla picked up a photo album covered in black satin and sat down next to her friend. When she opened the album Carla saw a picture unlike anything she had expected. A statuesque brunette posed, wearing a black leather and chain bathing suit-like outfit. The links draped over her naked breasts, the supple leather caressed her hips and belly. On her hands she wore soft, elbow-length, black leather gloves and her legs were covered with thigh-high patent leather boots with five-inch heels.

The woman's wavy, auburn hair hung softly across her chest with one curl surrounding an erect dark brown nipple. In one hand she had a short, black leather riding crop. Her makeup was heavy, with bright red lipstick and exaggerated eyeshadow and liner. “I don't get it,” said Carla.