Wild Things

WRITING AS KARIN KALLMAKER:

One Degree of Separation

Maybe Next Time

Substitute for Love

Frosting on the Cake

Unforgettable

Watermark

Making Up far Lost Time

Embrace in Motion

Wild Things

Painted Moon

Car Pool

Paperback Romance

Touchwood

In Every Port

All the Wrong Places

Sugar

WRITING AS LAURA ADAMS:

Christabel

The Tunnel
of
Light Trilogy:

Sleight of Hand Seeds of Fire

Daughters of Pallas:

Night Vision The Dawning

WILD THINGS

by

Karin Kallmaker

2004

1

There is no remembrance of former things.

-----
ECCLESIASTES
1:11

I would have known Sydney anywhere. She had Eric's features — a square face defined by a firm jaw and a straight nose — softened with feminine curves in her cheeks. Still, I wanted to be absolutely sure, so I whispered in his ear and he nodded in agreement. His sister was seated two from the left of the podium and was in animated conversation with the woman seated to her right.

"She's lost weight," Eric whispered back.

"You needn't have been so secretive about who
your sister is," I said. Eric rolled his eyes. "You might have mentioned it sooner."

He shrugged, and I could tell he didn't want to talk about it. I also kept the tensions in my own family private. Perhaps when we left this middle stage of dating and made some sort of declaration we might talk about our families more. For now it was enough to me that he had asked me to come with him this evening as Sydney received the prestigious Roebuck Award for, as explained in the dinner program, "Dedication, Caring, and Unwavering Commitment to the Betterment of Chicago's Neighborhoods."

The program acknowledged Sydney Van Allen's many contributions to underserved areas in Chicago, including extensive pro bono representation of community organizing groups. As an alderwoman, she had written Measure D, a long overdue and narrowly approved reform of the way money is allocated among Chicago's many social and public works departments. I had voted for it and had kept that fact to myself at home, knowing that both of my parents had voted against it. She was definitely a rising star in the Chicago Democratic party. A fellow history professor had told me, and anyone else who would listen, that what this state needed was more women in the Illinois senate. Women like Sydney Van Allen. I hadn't realized until tonight that Eric was Sydney's older brother. There were a lot of Van Allens in Chicago.

The chairman of the Roebuck Foundation concluded his remarks and introduced the next speaker. I'd been to many such dinners and had already turned my chair so I could look directly at the speakers and at least appear interested in every word. Mentally, I reviewed my to-do list for tomorrow's
classes and reminded myself to check with Library Services once again to see if any more of the reference books I'd requested had come in.

I interrupted my mental wanderings to applaud at the appropriate moments and then returned to my to-do list. When it was Sydney's turn to speak I gave her my full attention. I was curious about her because, for all that Sydney looked like Eric, she was the lone Democrat from a family that had voted Republican since the Magna Carta.

I glanced at Eric as she began to talk. His hazel eyes were bright, his jaw set, and his head held high. He looked as fiercely proud as a big brother could be.

"The problem with awards," Sydney was' saying, "is that winning one implies someone else lost. It also implies that winning is an individual effort, which in my case couldn't be farther from the truth. Perhaps some of my hours were long. Certainly my law partners would like me to have a client I can bill from time to time." Shouts of laughter came from the table next to us. Sydney's law partners, obviously. When it died down she continued, "There were days when it didn't seem possible that anything would ever change. But then something would happen to perk me up. Like one member of my incredibly valuable staff staying up all night to research the precedent that won the Arbor Apartment Cooperative case. Or a law clerk who expected litigation experience instead offering to do safe-escort service during the blockade at Planned Parenthood last summer. And another ringing every judge in the state on a Sunday — with perfect golfing weather I might add — to find one who would sign the injunction, an act that hardly endeared him to potential future employers. So
it doesn't seem right somehow to accept an award of this magnitude for work I was going to do anyway and had an amazing amount of help doing." She smiled, and I recognized the charming quirk of Eric's mouth. "But my name's on the thing so I guess I'll take it."

She spoke for another fifteen minutes, taking time to tell a brief story about each of five people she felt had made her work easier. She told funny and touching stories in a steady voice a few tones higher than Eric's low tenor.

When she finished speaking I joined Eric in standing and applauding enthusiastically. Sydney shook hands with the chairman, then her gaze sought out Eric. She smiled at him with genuine affection, then grinned as Eric bowed slightly, touching his forehead in a gesture of homage.

Eric and I took our seats again and settled in for the final speech. I had enjoyed Sydney's wit and Eric's obvious pleasure. Now bored with my unending to-do list, I studied Sydney instead. Her brown hair had hints of gold and red, just like Eric's, and her jaw, though not so pronounced, looked as if it could set into the same stubborn lines Eric's sometimes took. Her laugh was higher and seemed to come more easily than his, and her hands were long and graceful. Eric's hands were large and beefy, the only things about him that weren't elegant, and he tended to put them in his pockets whenever possible.

I studied people at the tables around us as well, looking for anyone I might know. I spotted another University of Chicago associate professor and recog
nized several more faces from campus, though I couldn't place them. They weren't in liberal arts, that I knew.

The last speaker concluded and, during the final, somewhat weary applause, I folded my dinner napkin and took my last look around the room. People were shrugging into suit jackets and dresses swirled, and bright chatter was filling the banquet hall. Out of all that noise and motion I saw one particular face for perhaps two seconds.

It was enough. I heard her whisper from the past,
Say that you want me.

* * * * *

"Sydney, this is Faith."

"It's a pleasure and an honor," I said. I hoped that my expression and slightly clammy hands didn't reveal my churning stomach and pounding heart.

"Likewise, certainly," Sydney said. Our handshake lasted long enough to surpass mere politeness. I knew that Sydney must meet hundreds of people a week, but her warm grasp was welcoming. "I very rarely meet any of Eric's special friends."

It was a diplomatic choice of words. Eric and I were close friends. Perhaps she spoke with him enough to know we weren't lovers. I had ceased to wonder at Eric's lack of sexual demands by learning that, despite some emancipated thinking about women's roles, he was old-fashioned about sex. I appreciated that and remained quite relieved. I wasn't ready for intimacy with him.

I murmured something appropriate. My distress at the face I'd glimpsed receded under the warmth of Sydney's welcome; it did not go away entirely.

An officious-looking aide of some sort hovered at Sydney's elbow. When she finally glanced at him, he whispered something and gave Eric and me a dark-eyed glance that implied Sydney had more important people to cultivate. Sydney looked annoyed but resigned.

"Eric, if I don't mingle John the
putada
will have an aneuyism," The clean-cut man at her elbow snorted and muttered something under his breath in Spanish. Sydney glared at him and I had the feeling they interacted this way all the time. "Besides, chatting just isn't enough. Why don't you and Faith come to my place for dinner Sunday evening? Make it six and casual. It's been too long since we had a good talk."

Eric glanced at me and smiled at my eager nod. "That would be great," he said. Then, as if he couldn't help himself, he swept Sydney into his arms for a hearty embrace. "I'm so proud of you," he said. "I mean it."

Sydney had tears in her eyes when he let her go. She wished me a pleasant evening, then turned to meet two men the persistent John had ushered up to her.

Braced by Eric's protective yet undemanding hand on my back, and the affectionate exchange I'd just witnessed, I felt able to face the banquet hall. It had emptied somewhat and I kept my gaze lowered, not wanting to risk seeing that face again. I didn't want to remember or be the person I had been then.

Eric was quiet in the car and seemed content
with our comfortable silence. I was never troubled by his driving, even in the worst the Chicago highways had to offer. The Kennedy Expressway was slow but not distressingly so. I hoped he took my silence for the quiet mood of someone who had had a pleasant evening. It
had
been pleasant, with one exception.