Once Upon a Project (25 page)

Chapter 39

 

G
race was awakened from dozing by the jerking of Eric's chest, as well as the loud cry that came from his mouth. Her eyes fixed on the TV screen. Someone must have scored a knockout, if his reaction was any indicator.

Sure enough, one of the boxers was struggling to his feet as the referee in his trademark black and white striped shirt performed a countdown. Grace wasn't a boxing fan, but even she could tell that the boxer wasn't going to make it.

“It's over!” one of the commentators shouted.

“Damn, that was a good fight,” Eric said.

“I missed most of it.”

“I know. I heard you snoring.”

“I don't snore!” she said indignantly.

“Baby, you can't hear yourself when you sleep. Trust me, you snore like a buzz saw.” He laughed. “Get up, will you? It's not hot in here, but you're soaked. What're you doing, flashing?”

“Of course not,” she lied. “I get periods every month, as you well know.”

“Well, you're sweating like a convict on a chain gang. Must be part of getting old.”

Grace sat up. From the very beginning, Eric occasionally said something that could be construed as nasty about her age, or her education, or her condo, or even her car. She thought it was his way of coping with the fact that she made so much more money than he did. Lately, though, the comments were coming more often.

That was one reason why she preferred coming here to his place rather than having him come to hers, so she could get up and leave first thing in the morning. Another reason was his smoking.

The first time he'd seen her floor-through condo, he knew she was no secretary. “You said you ran things in a department, but it looks more like you run the damn company,” he'd said.

Grace recognized the slight accusatory nature of his tone and immediately recognized that he felt threatened. They'd both grown up during a time when men brought home the bacon and paid the bills while women cooked and cleaned, when a woman out-earning a man was unheard of. This was what her mother feared, that she'd earned her way out of the marriage market.

“How many bills a place like this go for?” he'd asked, and she watched his features harden as she explained it wasn't a rental, it was a condo unit.

She'd seen that look many times before. She took a moment to be grateful that she'd hidden away her sculptures and other evidence of worldwide travel. It was a real pain packing them away and then taking them out again after he left, but she saw no need to rub her success in his face.

“What kinda car you drive?” was Eric's next question.

“I've got a little Mercedes. Eric, is something wrong?” The question had been a mere formality . . . She already knew exactly what bothered him.

“I'm not used to all this. A condo in Lincoln Park, a Mercedes. Tell me what you do again?”

That was how their relationship had started. After that she began suggesting that she come to his place. Eric lived in an apartment above the office on the property of the moving and storage unit he managed on the far South Side. He was a neat freak, perhaps in reaction to the squalor of his family's apartment in Dreiser. Grace thought his apartment was cleaner than her condo. He kept it aired out, too—the only sign of his smoking habit was the few butts in his frequently emptied ashtrays. Another thing she liked about his place was that it was well secured, with a keypad-controlled gate. She could spend the night there without worrying about her car being broken into.

“So when do you leave for your big, fancy trip again?” he asked.

“We fly out Wednesday night. We come back a week from Monday.”

“A week and a half?”

“Well, the actual cruise is ten days. Part of the time is spent flying to Madrid and back.”

“That's pretty cool. I'll bet you take a trip like that every year. Maybe you ought to think about bringing me with you. I've never been out of the country, except to Canada once.”

She stiffened. By “bring me with you,” she knew that Eric expected her to pay his way.

“How much that trip cost, anyway?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Whoa! You sound a little sharp there, Grace.”

She knew he was right and tried to soften her tone. “I didn't mean to.”

“Hey, I know I got a rich old lady. I got no problem with it.”

“Eric, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop calling me old. Fifty is the new forty, remember?”

He shrugged. “You're just being overly sensitive. So while you're on this Carnival cruise, you want me to take care of your car and your place?”

She didn't bother to point out that she wasn't sailing on the cruise line he named. “I've already told my neighbors that I'm going away. They'll keep an eye on my place for me.”

“What about your car?”

“I always park it at one of the lots outside O'Hare. There's someone on duty twenty-four hours a day, so it's safe.”

“I'll bet that costs a pretty penny, especially with you gone so long.”

“Pat splits it with me, so it's not bad.” If he thought she was going to give him free rein of her condo and her Mercedes while she was out of the country, he had another thing coming. He couldn't even hide the hopefulness in his voice. “But I appreciate your offer just the same.”

He shrugged, then grabbed her left breast, squeezing it through her blouse. Then he undid the buttons, revealing a floral-print bra trimmed in beige lace. “I'll bet your panties match,” he said softly. “You wear some pretty underwear. I like how everything matches. I never seen that before.”

Grace was tempted to ask what kind of women he'd been dating over the years. A visual memory of Eric talking with Stacey Noe at Junior's flashed before her eyes. The guys used to say that “Stacey Noe never says no.” Things like matching underwear probably meant little to somebody like Stacey, whom Grace was certain had had an affair with Eric at one point, and probably whenever Eric wanted some from her. Did she and the other women he'd been involved with wear plain white underwear? Or did they pair pink bras with yellow panties? She couldn't imagine wearing mismatched underwear. Even if no one would see what she wore beneath her clothes, she wanted to feel pretty, inside and out.

Eric's hands were roaming over her body, and his breathing had become audible. Grace knew he enjoyed her body as much as she enjoyed his. She suspected that she had a better figure than other women he'd known, at least since he'd gotten older and women in his age group were inclined to be heavier.

He started pulling at her clothes. “Get 'em off,” he ordered as he moved away to undress himself.

Grace's excitement rose as she stripped, throwing her clothes on the floor. They'd had sex on his brown leather-like couch before, and it looked like they were about to do it again. The two matching hassocks gave them the extra width they needed to be comfortable. Eric might have some uncultured ways about him, but he did know how to get her motor running.

The moment she had her underwear off he pushed her back onto the sofa and dove between her thighs. She moaned, then reached down to cradle his head with her palms and pull him closer. Her left foot couldn't quite reach the edge of the cushion, but she didn't care. She could cope with a little discomfort in her thigh muscle as she held her leg in midair. She knew that he'd be anxious to get inside her before too long.

He slid back. “Turn over,” he whispered.

She knew how he wanted it. She flipped over on her stomach and held her hips in the air, backing up so that her knees were close to the edge of the hassock. They both gasped when Eric slid his rigid penis into her, and he began pumping furiously, with Grace meeting him thrust for thrust. The level of excitement was too high, and they both reached climax quickly.

In Grace's opinion, love was the best thing that could happen to a person.

But good sex was the next-best thing.

Chapter 40

 

P
at tried to calm herself as she entered Nirvana with Andy, Lauren, and Kaitlyn, but her stomach suddenly decided it wanted to be a gymnast. It was Saturday night, the busiest of the week in the hospitality business, so she had little doubt Ricky would be on the premises. By showing up at his place of business with Andy, Ricky would probably think she was trying to get back at him for bringing his wife to the reunion luncheon, which of course wasn't the case. She knew she shouldn't care, but she did. It mattered terribly, and that was why her stomach wouldn't relax.

The restaurant was bustling with activity, so she began to feel better. If Ricky was here—and she felt certain he was—maybe he wouldn't even see her.

The maître d' showed them to their reserved table. Pat found it amusing that Lauren nearly fell off her chair as she leaned to the side to watch trays holding plates of hors d'oeuvres and entrees go by. She knew how the seventeen-year-old felt. She hadn't been particularly hungry when they left Andy's, but now she was ravenous.

“I think I'll have something with shrimp in it,” Pat said.

“Me, too,” Andy echoed. “Those things look huge, don't they?”

They had placed their orders and were munching on an appetizer sampler when someone approached them from behind. “Hello, I'm Ricky Suárez, the owner. Just checking to make sure you're pleased with our service and our food.”

He smiled at the group, and his expression changed from jovial to quizzical in an almost-humorous manner when he recognized Pat. The shock on his face was comical—he clearly was taken off guard by the race of her companions—and Pat had to hold back a laugh.

He recovered quickly and spoke in a gracious tone. “Pat! I didn't know you were coming down tonight. You should have called me. I would have given you a better table.” He bent to give her a friendly embrace as a stunned Andy looked on.

“You two know each other?” he asked.

“All our lives. Our families were neighbors growing up.” Ricky made no mention of Dreiser, purposely, Pat thought. He couldn't know whether or not she'd told Andy about having grown up in the projects and didn't want to give anything away that might embarrass her. How considerate . . .

Ricky held out his hand, and Andy shook it while remaining seated. “Andy Keindl. Pat and I went to law school together.”

Pat suppressed a smile. Had this chance meeting—at least
she
knew it was purely accidental, even if Ricky didn't—evolved into a turf war? First Ricky told Andy that they grew up together, and now Andy told Ricky that they, too, went back a long way. She wondered if Andy had guessed Ricky was the Mexican her parents forbade her to marry.

“My daughters, Lauren and Kaitlyn,” Andy continued.

“So where's the better table?” Kaitlyn asked.

“Kaitlyn, I think this table is just fine,” Pat said hastily.

“No point in moving now,” Andy agreed. “But thanks.”

“You folks enjoy your meal.” Ricky placed his palm on Pat's shoulder for what felt like an eternity before moving on.

Feeling strangely ill at ease, she nervously reached for a mozzarella stick and dipped it in the marinara sauce, conscious of Andy's eagle eyes on her. He was a criminal attorney and a damn good one; he made excellent observations and understood body language.

Suddenly Pat could stand it no longer. She felt like her entire body was trembling. Why did Ricky still affect her this way? Any psychiatrist would tell her she needed to move on. She swallowed the last of the appetizer, wiped her hands on her napkin, and announced that she was going to the ladies' room. She needed to splash some cold water on her face, wash her hands, anything to steady herself.

To her dismay, Kaitlyn said she would go with her.

Once inside the lounge, Pat went directly to the sink, and Kaitlyn made no move to use a stall, either. “Pat, I was hoping you'd be able to help me with something.”

“If I can. What is it, Kaitlyn?”

The teen spoke in a low voice. “Well, there's this boy at school. Giles Henry.”

“Giles? Is he British?”

“No. He's black.”

Pat's curiosity soared. She knew that a handful of well-off blacks lived in the monied suburbs of Cook and Lake counties, and if this kid's name was any clue, his family had a few bucks . . . unless he came from a line of butlers. Her curiosity stemmed from Kaitlyn's connection to him.
Lord, please don't let her ask if I know his family, like every black person in the country is supposed to know each other.
Then again, Kaitlyn was fifteen years old and lived in a wealthy suburb. Pat had seen enough legal cases stemming from improperly supervised teenagers getting into trouble to know that it wasn't uncommon among the affluent. What if she'd slept with him already, willingly? Good grief, what if she was pregnant by him and afraid to tell her parents?

“He's really cute. All the girls like him. He's on the basketball team, and he plays baseball, and he's real smart, too. So many of the girls want to take Melanie's place. That's his old girlfriend,” Kaitlyn explained. “I was hoping you might be able to help me stand out. Give me some pointers on how to catch his eye.”

It relieved Pat to know Kaitlyn's issue was a mere crush rather than something more serious, but she still didn't know how to proceed. She had little experience with young people. Helping high school kids decide on careers was one thing. Helping them in the social graces was something else. This Giles seemed like a heck of a good catch for any girl, but the racial issue made it even more complicated. Just because Andy was dating her didn't mean he wouldn't object to Kaitlyn dating a black student, and, of course, she didn't know Kaitlyn's mother at all. She could hear Andy's ex telling him, “This is all
your
fault. Kaitlyn sees you with a black girlfriend, and now she wants to start dating a black kid.”

“Um . . . Kaitlyn, this brings back memories of when I was in high school. Of course, it was a hundred years ago,” she said with a laugh. “I'm afraid I can't really make any suggestions other than to just be yourself. Uh . . . Do you think that Giles being black might . . .” No, that wasn't how she wanted to say it. “I would suggest that you make sure that . . . that your parents won't object to your dating Giles, if everything works out for you.”

“You mean because he's African-American?”

God, she hated that expression. Everybody was a damn hyphenate these days. Andy was considered a German-American, Ricky a Mexican-American, and they hadn't been born in Germany or Mexico any more than she had been born in Africa. Why did social culture insist on all these stupid labels?

“I'm just asking that you think about it,” Pat said, trying to tread delicately.

“But you're Pop's girlfriend. Why would he be upset if I start going out with Giles?”

Pat chose her words diplomatically. “When I was growing up, my mother used to tell me, ‘Don't do as I do, do as I
tell
you to do.' In other words, parents don't always want their children to emulate them.” She patted Kaitlyn's arm. “I'm sure it'll be fine.” She turned on the tap and splashed cool water on her eyes. “I'm feeling a little tired. This should be a nice pick-me-up.”

“Pat, did Mr. Suárez used to be your boyfriend?”

Her hand, reaching for a paper towel, froze. “What makes you ask that?”

“You had a weird look on your face when he was talking to us, and you've seemed kind of nervous ever since.”

“Did I? I think you were imagining things, Kaitlyn.” Pat grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and dabbed at her eyes, feeling more edgy than ever.

If Kaitlyn had noticed the change in her demeanor, then Andy certainly had. He was bound to ask her about it. But how could she explain it to him when she didn't understand it herself?