Once Upon a Project (20 page)

Chapter 33

 

S
usan backed into a parking space in front of the attractive red brick, two-story duplex in Hyde Park. She felt like a murderer trying to hide in plain sight. She hadn't killed anyone, of course, but part of her still wanted to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching her.

She'd spoken to Charles often since seeing him three weeks ago, but she put off seeing him out of fear. He hadn't pushed to see her, something for which she felt grateful. Charles had always been perceptive to her thoughts and feelings, and no doubt he knew what a difficult spot she was in.

He also knew that the friendship she spoke of could be maintained only over the telephone. Those sparks she felt when he kissed her and she kissed him back told her that mere friendship between them would never work. It had to be all or nothing.

When Bruce suggested they bring the kids to Lake Geneva for the Memorial Day weekend, she agreed, but did not allow herself to think anything between them would change . . . and it didn't, although they all had a good time. And when they had sex she kept her nightgown on. She'd finally learned to accept that it would always be this way.

After it was over and she laid on her side, her back to Bruce, feeling the now-familiar mix of sexual satisfaction and emotional barrenness, she knew she would see Charles again soon after the holiday weekend ended.

When she called, he said, “Something tells me you plan on coming down this way again.”

It annoyed her that he knew her motives. He probably figured she'd tried to make a go of it with Bruce and failed.

That's what you get for telling him about the state of your marriage,
she told herself, although she knew her irritation had no real root. She just found it frustrating that he could read her so easily. No one wanted to be an open book.

“What else does your crystal ball tell you?” she asked.

“The signal went black. You'll have to tell me.”

She chuckled, her annoyance gone. “Bruce is golfing Saturday. I thought I'd hire a babysitter for a couple of hours, if that'll work for you.”

 

 

They met at the California Pizza Kitchen, where they had a leisurely lunch.

“I'm glad you called,” Charles told her.

“I just felt that I had to see you,” she admitted. “School's almost out. I won't have as much free time in a couple of weeks.”

“School lets out here the week after next,” he remarked casually. “When is your kids' last day?”

“The fifteenth, sixteenth, something like that. They had to add a few days because of the snow this winter.”

“We're out on the tenth. It sounds like you'll have a free week, or at least a free couple of days, the same time I'm off.”

“Good. I can come down for lunch. We can chat for a couple of hours.”

“Make it breakfast, and we'll have more time. I'll even cook.”

“At your apartment?” she asked incredulously. “Uh . . . Don't you think the traffic around there is rather heavy?”

“It just so happens that my mother is taking a trip with the church that week. She'll be in South Dakota, at Mount Rushmore. But in case you've forgotten, my apartment has its own entrance, so I have plenty of privacy.”

She thought it odd that he didn't acknowledge that having his own entrance hadn't stopped Ann Valentine from reading her the riot act right there in the street when Ann learned she and Charles were seeing each other. Susan had never been so embarrassed, with all the neighbors looking on eagerly as Ann questioned her scruples. Had he actually forgotten? “Charles, I don't mean to sound like I'm sticking my nose into your business, but why do you still live at home in the first place? I know you lived there when Douglas first bought the house, but that was a long time ago.”

“I never expected I'd still be here after all this time, but it was an ideal setup. I had my privacy, but I could still run upstairs for a home-cooked meal whenever I wanted. I planned on leaving eventually, but the price was right, for one thing.”

Susan took that to mean he paid no rent. She doubted that was the case now that his mother, who'd been a court clerk, was retired and living on a fixed income, but he probably paid well below market rate.

“And after my father died, my mother asked me to stay. Said she feels better knowing I'm right downstairs. I feel better about it, too. My brother is an addict, Susan. That means he can't be trusted.”

She couldn't argue with that.

Susan checked her reflection carefully. Out of habit she glanced at her right side. She saw no protrusion through her clothes, but still she felt nervous. She hadn't told Charles of Bruce's revulsion with her postsurgical figure, just that he kept his distance from her since their surgery. She didn't mean to be evasive, or to imply that she and Bruce no longer had sex at all; she just felt she had the right to preserve some dignity. It had been hard enough to confide that much to him. What self-respecting woman could admit that the sight of her naked body killed her husband's libido?

One thing for sure: if Charles insisted she keep her shirt on she would get up and leave.

She gulped as she alighted from the car. This was it. She was about to cross a border from which there'd be no return.

 

 

Charles made her feel at home from the moment he opened the door. He gave her a big bear hug that lasted just long enough and told her how glad he was to see her. Then he invited her to sit down and keep him company while he cooked.

She sat on a bar stool—a comfortable one with a padded seat and back, plus arms—on the living room side of the pass-through window. She still remembered those hard stools Charles used to have that used to make her butt sore. She hadn't been here in twenty-five years, and although the furniture had changed it was still neat and fairly bright, considering it was partially underground. Four small windows close to the ceiling helped. If she remembered correctly, it was darker in the bedroom....

Uh-oh. She didn't want to think about Charles's bedroom. “What're you making?” she asked. “It smells heavenly.”

“An omelet with chorizo, sautéed red and green peppers, onions, mushrooms—”

“My mouth is watering.”

“—plus shredded potatoes and cheese. It's almost ready.”

Susan watched him cook in the compact kitchen. He moved with the ease of a man who had prepared many a meal on his own.

She gasped when he added what looked like a homemade biscuit to her plate. “Wow,” she said, lightly fingering the bumpy texture. “Charles, did you make these?”

“I cannot tell a lie,” he declared in his best schoolboy voice. “They came from the supermarket. They sell them frozen.”

“They look fabulous.”

He turned his back to her for a moment to remove chilled stemmed glasses from the freezer, into which he poured cold pineapple juice. He placed the glasses on the counter and then carried the plates and came to sit beside her on the other stool.

“Charles, this is delicious!” she exclaimed after taking her first bite.

“Hey, you think Ricky Suárez is the only man who came out of Dreiser who can cook? All of us guys were all raised by working women.”

“I just had no idea you were so talented. You never cooked for me back in the day.”

“My culinary skills came later. Back when you and I were together I'd just as soon go out for some McDonald's before I picked up a pan.”

 

 

After they ate she offered to do the dishes.

“You wash, I'll dry,” he said.

She turned the tap to a light but steady stream of moderately hot water and rinsed each utensil, glass, and plate before placing it in the drain board. “You keep such a neat apartment, Charles. Even back in the day when you didn't really have a whole lot in here.”

“I still don't have all that much, just better quality. That's the key to neatness, not having a lot of junk. That . . . and having your mother live upstairs,” he added with a laugh.

“And here I was hoping you would say you did this all for me,” she said with a smile. It surprised her how comfortable she felt, even with his mention of his mother. But then again, she'd always felt at ease with Charles.

He sprayed the stovetop with disinfectant cleaner and wiped it while she washed the dishes. He moved close to her to place the Teflon-coated skillet, which he'd already filled with water after he finished cooking, in the sink. “This is real easy to wash; the grease comes right off.”

“No problem.” Susan used the handled sponge to wash the surface of the skillet, and, as Charles said, the food particles and grease came right off. Suddenly she became aware that he was standing mere inches from her. She didn't want to look, but instinct told her he was watching her. Her earlier nervousness returned as she ran the sponge over the outer sides of the skillet. She managed to rinse it and place it atop the dishes in the drain board. “Looks like my job is done.” She shut off the tap and reached for a paper towel from the hanging dispenser over the sink.

Charles took a step to the right, now standing directly behind her. She felt his palms on her upper arms. “Whatever will we do now?” he asked softly.

She swallowed hard. He certainly wasn't wasting any time. Even as she had the thought, Susan knew she wasn't being fair. A school day was short, and it would take her over an hour to get home. It was already after ten.

Still, that didn't mean she was ready. In spite of how badly Bruce hurt her heart, that didn't change his status as her husband, and she didn't take cheating on him lightly. Even with her being all but certain that he had someone else it didn't make it any easier.

But Charles stood so close that she could feel his breath on her neck. He ran his palms down her arms until he reached her waist, then embraced her from behind, his arms encircling her middle. She caught her breath and leaned against him, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He began to nuzzle her neck, at the same time undoing the buttons of her blouse from the bottom up.

“No!” she said suddenly, clenching her shoulders, pushing his hands away from her blouse. “I can't do this, Charles. I'm sorry, I can't.”

He made no attempt to step back. Instead, he stretched his fingers and pressed his palm against her chest. “I can feel your heart beating,” he whispered. “It's racing. I know you want me as much as I want you.”

“I'm not denying that, but I can't go through with it.”

“Of course you can,” he said gently, his hands sliding back to where they had been before, although not undressing her. “You're just nervous.”

“You and I haven't . . . been together like this since I was in my twenties. I'm forty-nine years old now, and I've had breast cancer surgery. Plus . . . I'm married.”

“Turn around and look at me.”

He dropped his hands from her waist, and she did as he asked. She saw much more than mere desire in his eyes, and she wondered what he saw in hers.

He cupped her face. “Susan, when I told you that night at Junior's that the only woman I ever loved left me, I wasn't kidding. I only went there that night because I thought there was a tiny chance you might show. I couldn't let the chance to see you again go by.

“I know I jumped on you for saying the other week that too much has changed for anything to be the same between us, but I was wrong. It hasn't changed. I loved you then, and I still do.”

“Charles, don't say—”

“Do you think I don't understand how you feel? I know you're not the type of woman who steps out on her husband. I know you've never done this before. But, Susan . . . I want you. You told me he doesn't. Don't you deserve to be with a man who thinks you're beautiful . . . who'll
always
think you're beautiful?”

Tears pooled in her eyes. “Charles . . . How do I know you won't react the same way Bruce does?” She couldn't stand another rejection; she simply couldn't.

“There's only one way to find out, isn't there?”

Something in his easy grin told her not to worry, but nevertheless, she stood stock-still as he resumed unbuttoning her blouse. Then he unsnapped the front closure of her bra and pushed the cups aside. Susan held her breath. The only covering that kept her secret was gone.

She kept her eyes closed and tried not to cry when his movements stopped. She couldn't bear to see the distaste in his eyes when he saw her misshapen right breast. She'd lived through it too many times. Same shit, different man. There was nothing to do but close up her blouse and go home with what little remained of her dignity. . . .