Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (10 page)

  Vivian raised her eyebrows. "Um. Touring Europe is not exactly hardship."

  "Have you been?"

  "Sure." She brushed blush across high, young cheekbones. "But not with parents who cared enough to take me."

  "I don't feel lucky. I feel like I have Martha fucking Stewart for a mom." She swore with the self -conscious bravado of a teenager who expects to be reprimanded. Vivian let it ride, selected a rosy lipstick, and glided it across Amber's unlined lips.

  "There. You look gorgeous."

  "You're done already?"

  "Mirror in the bathroom, fi rst door on the right."

  Amber came back, looking disappointed. "It's not like yours."

  Vivian stacked the last tube back into her tray. "My makeup's too slutty for you."

  "Well if you think it's slutty, why do you wear it?"

  "Because
I'm
slutty."

  "No you're not."

  Vivian gestured to Amber's outfi t. "You can judge?"

  Amber giggled—thank God someone had a sense of humor in this town. "Now
you
have to try makeup like
mine
." "Why?"

"You can't wear that much when you're teaching aerobics."

"Who said I was going to teach?"

"What else are you going to do around here?"

  Vivian scowled at the sweet young face. "You, Amber Gilchrist, are entirely too smart. Okay, I'll try it your way."

  She went to the kitchen sink, washed her face, and, peering into her little hand mirror, applied the simpler makeup Amber was wearing. Only she was nearly forty, so she got to use under-eye concealer, too.

  "There." Vivian gave her cheekbones one last brush and put the mirror down. "What do you think?"

  Amber considered her, puckering Berry Rich lips. "You look prettier."

  Vivian made a skeptical face.

  "I'm serious." Amber gestured toward the hallway. "Go look in a bigger mirror."

  Vivian went into the bathroom and stared at herself thirty years ago . . . except she looked thirty years older.

  And plain. Ordinary. She could be a suburban mother, driving kids to soccer. She itched to run upstairs, grab her full complement of tubes and tubs and pencils, and fi x the mess. But she'd done it for Amber, so she could wait until the girl left.

  Barely.

  A rap sounded on her back door, the squeak of the screen opening followed. Vivan emerged from the bathroom and saw Mike through the window. Crap. She did not want Mike, of all people, to see her looking like Susie Sunshine.

  She walked to the door, feeling absurdly naked, which had nothing to do with the brief outfit of skintight cotton and spandex. She didn't mind Mike seeing her body, in fact she'd very much like to show him all of it, if he'd lower his guard. Why did she feel so nervous showing him her face?

  She flung open the door and had to force herself to meet his eyes with her usual boldness. "Hi, Mike."

  "Vivian." His blue gaze locked onto hers, and if female nipples coming erect made noise, there would have been a little "ping" sound right there in the silence.

  He hadn't ever looked at her like that before. Not even close. Like he wanted to drop to his knees and worship. Sexually speaking. "Ye -e-es?"

  He blinked and the look was gone. "I came to help out."

  "Well come on in."

  He looked past her. "Hey, Amber. You look very pretty."

  "Thanks." She giggled, and Vivian didn't need to turn around to know she was the color of a stoplight. Wholesome, handsome men like Mike were the pinnacle sexual fantasy of girls practically too young to know what a sexual fantasy was. Of course at sixteen, Vivian had the real thing, sometimes from men Mike's age, which at the time she counted as a real coup.

  Now seeing Mike and picturing Amber, her stomach roiled at the thought of those same men coming on to her. Creeps. They couldn't handle women their own age?

  "Vivian did my makeup."

  "Did she?" He took a step into the kitchen, suddenly taller and broader than he'd been outside. "Who did hers?"

  "Me." Vivian moved around him and shut the door against the chill of early evening. "At Amber's request."

  He turned to study her again, and she felt cornered be tween his big body and the rest of the room. "It suits you. You should wear it that way all the time."

  "Who asked you?" She pushed past him into open space. Her question as to whether his dead wife was wholesome or glamorous had been answered, first by Amber and now by his reaction. Screw him. He'd take Vivian as she really was or not at all. She wasn't going to impersonate his wife to get him in the sack.

  "Oh my God!" Amber stared in horror at the clock over the kitchen table, a revolting specimen depicting a smiling girl riding a smiling pony. "Mom's going to
kill
me. I have to go
now
."

  "Better wash off the—"

  "Can't, I have to be home before she goes to yoga.
Shit!"
She raced past Vivian and Mike and bolted out into the twilight.

  Vivian shut the door after her and peered through the window. "I hope she doesn't get in trouble because of me."

  "What?"

  "Amber." She turned to Mike. "I hope she doesn't get it from Sarah because of the makeup."

  "I'm sorry." He cupped his hand to his ear. "Was our local hard-hearted exhibitionist murderess expressing concern for a fellow human being?"

  "Oh my." Vivian slapped one hand to the side of her face. "It won't happen again."

  "Whew." He gazed at the ceiling in exaggerated relief.

  "So what are we going to renovate today, Mike?"

  "You tell me."

  "Okay." She put her hands to her hips. "First, I want every smiling animal, plant, and/or small child removed from this kitchen."

"Replaced with?"

  "Oh." She looked around wistfully. "A big iron rack with hanging copper pots. Stainless appliances, stone countertops, a professional range, a—"

  "Trying to go back?"

  She sent him a suspicious frown. "Back?"

  "To New York. To Ed."

  
Okay, ouch, you win.
She opened her eyes wide. "Why would I want to do that? I went to all that trouble to get rid of him, remember? Don't you watch TV?"

  "Yeah, I watch it."

  "So you know. And you better be nice to me or you're next."

  "Uh-huh." He stroked his big, capable hand over the warm, faintly orangey wood of the cabinets. "This house isn't right for that kind of kitchen."

  "I can't afford it anyway. But we can nuke the bunnies, right?"

  "Consider them nuked. What else?"

  "I need you to show me how to get the spiky blocks of wood and all the staples off the living room floor where I tore up the carpet. Then I want to—"

  "That'll do us for now." He headed into the living room, his work boots making dull thuds, masculine and comforting next to her tap -tapping white and hot pink Nike cross trainers. "We can pull these blocks up today. The floor is in good shape, you shouldn't have to do anything else to it."

  "Excellent." She stood too close to him, attracted by his size and know -how. Money and power had always been her numbers one and two, but the handyman thing could be a real turn-on. That might have to be her number one in Kettle.

"We can de -cute the kitchen another day."

  "Anything that keeps you coming over so I get another shot at luring you into bed."

  He turned, not stepping back. "Are you going to keep that up the entire time we're neighbors?"

  "No . . ." She straightened his collar, and let her hands rest against his chest. "Just until you give in."

  "Uh-huh." He removed her hands from his shirt, guided them back down to her sides. "That will depend on things you're not ready to do."

  "I'm ready to do them all, Mike."

  "I mean emotionally."

  She wrinkled her nose. "What are you, my shrink?"

  "Just farther along in the process."

  One eyebrow up instead of asking,
What process?

  "Grief."

  She rolled her eyes. "Do you have to be so serious all the time?"

  He gave her a long look as if he were contemplating something he shouldn't be contemplating. Then he stood back, arms outstretched, opened his mouth, and came out with the most incredible impression of Bugs Bunny she'd ever heard.

  "Ehhhh, what's up doc? Of course you know that this means war. What a maroon."

  She was so surprised that she forgot to be sexy and burst out laughing, loudly, the way that felt as good as coming.

  He watched her, slightly reddened, but smiling. "Okay?"

  "That was the very last thing I expected."

  "Well, Ms. Prime Time Murder Trial." He puffed himself up. "You're not the only one with secrets."

She took a step toward him. "Tell me more of yours."

"Another time."

"Promise?"

  "Let's get to work." He glanced at her outfi t. "You should probably put on some clothes."

  "Why?" She thrust out her chest. "Because I'm so distracting, you won't be able to concentrate?"

  "Because your knees will get lacerated if you land on a staple."

  Vivian sighed and started for the stairs."I think you're going to be the toughest dick I ever went after. At the very least, watch my extremely luscious ass as I walk up the stairs?"

  He folded his arms across his chest, stern papa about to deliver a lecture on morality. "Okay, walk."

  She made the most of it. One of her most enticing -assed ascents in history. At the top she spun around, wanting to catch his tongue hanging all the way down to the bulge in his jeans.

  The bastard had turned away and was inspecting the blocks of wood that used to hold the hideous carpet prisoner on her fl oor.

  A snort of laughter escaped her, then another. Of course he knew this meant war . . . with a worthy opponent. She liked Mike, more than anyone she'd met in a long time. She loved Ed, but she sure as hell didn't always like him. And as the years went on and the fights and his temper got worse, she wasn't sure she still liked him at all.

  But she stayed because there was no -friggin'-where else to go.

  In her hideous blue and brown room, she changed into her Blue Cult pink -stitched jeans and a hot -pink top that didn't cover a whole lot more than her workout outfit. On her feet, her favorite pair of pink Kate Spade Mary Janes. And, thank God, she got to fix her makeup, replacing the blah housewife with herself.

  Downstairs, Mike took one look and rolled his eyes. "Don't you have any T-shirts?"

  "T-shirts won't drive you into a frenzy of lust."

  "Don't be so sure." He handed her a bizarrely shaped metal bar, a strip of thick cardboard, a screwdriver, and thin pliers. "Watch. You put the cardboard down first to protect your floor, then stick the blade under the tack strip, near the nail."

  "There's a million nails."

  "The one pounded down. Then you pry it up." There was a creaking sound as the dusty dry wood gave to his pressure. "For the staples, push the screwdriver under and lift. If only one side comes out, you use the pliers to get the rest. Okay?"

  "Okay." She watched his effortless demonstration. "I really appreciate you helping me with all this, Mike."

  "Please." He grimaced. "I can't take sincerity more than once a day."

  "Hmm." She pretended to think that over. "Then how about after we fi nish we get drunk and naked?"

  "That's more like it."

  She giggled, took her tools, and started in. Clumsy at fi rst, she got the hang of yanking up the little buggers, and though some of them crumbled and splintered, a few came up with such smoothness, she felt like cheering. The work was tedious and hand -cramping, but gave her a weird and unlikely sense of pride in the house and her part in making the room look so much better.

  Now if she could only afford new furniture. New appliances. New neighborhood. New town. New life.

  By the second to last tack strip, they were working side by side along the north wall of the room. Creak, crack, the last strips pulled off, the last staples pried up or yanked out.

  Done.

  Vivian flexed her sore hands. "Do we have to fill in a million nail holes next?"

  "No." He got up and stretched his back. "Call those character marks. Do you have a broom?"

  She gave him an I -dunno shrug. "I can poke around."

  "I'll get one. Be right back." He left; the back storm door shrieked closed behind him and the room seemed suddenly vacuumed of air and life. No sounds. No breeze. No traffi c. Even the crows were quiet.

  Vivian didn't do "alone" well these days. Maybe never would again.

  She got to her feet, went into the kitchen, and pulled out two beers, opened them both, took a healthy swig of one. She drew her hand over the cold surface of the counter, noting the darkened and occasionally missing grout around the tiny tiles.

  What was taking Mike so long? She couldn't bear the silence. First thing in the morning she was buying a CD player and some CDs: Joni Mitchell; Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young; Steely Dan; maybe some Gershwin and Sinatra for times ahead when she could stand to be reminded of Ed. So she wouldn't lose the good memories—dancing in his living room, listening to his god -awful voice attempting love songs in her ear. The closest he got to telling her how he felt. Other people's words, other people's tunes. Nothing of himself that could belong only to her.

  
Where the hell was Mike?

  He showed halfway through the beer she'd opened for him, broom and garbage bag in one hand, paper grocery bag in the other.

  "What's in there?" She pointed to the grocery bag.

  "Dinner."

  She blinked to his face in surprise. "For me?"

  "For both of us. The casserole needs heating." He put the bag on the counter, and his boots thudded into her living room, the noise replaced by the scratchy swish of a broom and the metallic tinkle of staples.

  A weird warmth flooded her. She didn't generally provoke simple, thoughtful gestures. All manner of bribes and ransom, sure—jewelry, clothing, spa visits, nights out in ridiculously expensive restaurants, trips around the world. But nothing like this anticipation of something she might really need instead of something she wanted.