Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (15 page)

  The first house appeared, a beige -shingled ranch, who lived there? An older couple used to, would they still be alive?

  She turned to peer at the front window, catching a glimpse of movement, remembering the white -haired woman working on her knees in the front garden in the summertime, her husband bringing her a glass of what looked like iced tea.

  Erin's foot hit something, a stick or rut, and she tripped and went down, momentum dragging her skin across sharp pebbles sticking out of the dirt.

  Ouch.

  She lay for a second, letting her brain adjust to the fact that she was on the ground instead of running. Then she sat up cautiously, checking in with her body for any injury. Stupid not to be watching her feet on terrain like this.

  "Are you all right?" A male voice, young -sounding. She looked up and saw him stepping through the gate in front of what must be his house now. He must be new to Kettle; she'd never seen him. He was dark, some Mediterranean blood in him, she'd guess. "I saw you fall, are you okay?"

  And handsome like the sun had burst over her on a foggy, dreadful day.

  "I'm fi ne." She stood awkwardly, wanting to cross her arms over her chest, wanting to disappear inside herself because there was no way she could appear as beautiful to him as he did to her, and it wasn't fair.

  "You're bleeding." He pointed, and she glanced down and registered blood from a surface scratch, dusty around the edges, a child's skinned knee.

  "It's nothing." She took a step back, knowing she was staring at him like a weirdo, but unable to stop. His eyes were dark and round, like a baby's. The surrounding lashes were long and full enough to be female, but the thick wiry hair, high cheekbones, strong nose, and angular chin took any chance of being feminine far, far away.

  So let him think she was weird. He'd be right.

  "Do you want a Band -Aid or something?" He glanced again at her knee, then back up into her eyes, and she felt the jolt of attraction again, even stronger. Thank goodness her cheeks were flushed from running so he wouldn't be able to see them color.

  No Band -Aid. She needed to get back to the house. Creep back inside and shower, pull out some paints and let her body cool, so she wouldn't show any signs that she'd been doing anything but sitting inside painting.

  "No, I shouldn't—I can't—I . . . don't need one." Her arms crept around her in spite of her telling them not to.

  "Okay." He was frowning now, staring at her, and she knew he was coming up with theories to explain her strange behavior, none of them flattering. "I'm Jordan, by the way."

  "I have to go." She turned and started off, leaving him standing there expecting her to reply with her own name. She couldn't give him even that much. In another life maybe they'd get to be friends, then lovers, then marry and have children. But she wasn't living another life. No one got to do that. All you got was your own, and if it sucked, that was tough shit.

  She got to the sharpest part of the loop, where it started curving back to the road, and she slowed and stopped. Turned, hoping he'd still be standing there, wondering about her, so she could call out, "Good -bye," and at least give him that.

  But he'd already gone inside, probably shaking his head over the crazy woman who hadn't even had the sense to accept a Band -Aid for her scraped knee. So she jogged home, let herself silently into the silent house, stretched carefully, took a shower, and put on her own Band -Aid, set out her paints and her half -finished canvas, then sat by an open window to erase the pink from her cheeks and cool off completely, while her running clothes washed and dried.

  Then she put the clean shirt and shorts and socks and headband and shoes back in the box under the few baby things of Joy's she couldn't bear to get rid of, tucked the box back into the closet, and told herself to forget any of the morning had really happened.

Fourteen

Entry in Sarah's diary

April

Freshman year at Cornell

Dear Diary,

Well I did it last night. With Ben of course. It wasn't quite like I expected. Not that I thought it would be fireworks and the earth moving the fi rst time. Well, maybe I did. It was just . . . personal and naked and sort of . . . unnatural. I know that sounds stupid, but that's how it felt. And I wanted to scream with how much it hurt, but I didn't want him to think he'd messed up or to feel bad about it.

  
I love this guy so much it aches in my heart all day long. He acts like everything I say or think is the
most amazing thing he's ever heard. He says he can lie there and listen to me all day and never get tired of hearing what's going on in his Sare -bear's brain. I know we're going to be madly in love forever.

  
Thank God I didn't have sex with Tom when he wanted to back in high school. It's so much more special having waited for Ben.

  
Gotta go study.

  "
Dinner."
Sarah carried the hollowed pumpkin—one of her Harvest Moons—to the grand table in her dining room that used to belong to her maternal grandparents, an elegant lawyer couple from upstate New York who thought Sarah's mother married beneath her.

  Sarah set the pumpkin, three -quarters full of fresh, homemade pumpkin soup, on the silver trivet she and Ben had gotten from the Clarks for their wedding. The trivet sparkled like new; she needed to use it more often so it could develop a proper patina.

  "
Dinner."
She called out again and waited, poised and proud. The table was decorated with a tray of greens on which she'd arranged Red Delicious apples, carefully carved into candle holders. So pretty.

  No one from her family materialized or answered. Sarah sighed. She'd made dinner early tonight, since it was so nice for the family to be together, before all its members disappeared into their evenings, Ben at his computer, Amber into homework or three -hour phone conversations with her friends or that boyfriend of hers. Sarah thought it would be nice to have a relaxed meal. Especially one as enticing as pumpkin soup, roast pork loin with figs, couscous, and salad. For dessert she'd made a deep -dish apple and dried cranberry pie with walnuts.

  Extra effort for dinner on Sunday was always special. Sarah's mother had faithfully made a roast every week. People knew now that so much fatty meat wasn't good for them, but that wasn't reason enough to stop the tradition entirely. Besides, pork was so much leaner than it used to be.

  "
Dinner."
She called louder, trying not to sound exasperated, but really, she shouldn't need a megaphone to summon her family to the table.

  "I'm going out, Mom." Amber's voice came hurtling down the stairs along with her body. "I thought I told you."

  Sarah frowned. Amber most certainly had
not
told her. Sarah would have remembered something like that and wouldn't have put so much effort into making an elegant family meal. "Amber, you didn't tell me, and I'm sorry, but I want us to have a nice dinner together. You're always rushing off. Besides, it's Sunday, school tomorrow, and you shouldn't be out."

  "But it's a special night."

  Sarah folded her arms across her chest, picturing her own mother doing the same thing, and wasn't it funny how you suddenly found yourself a parent on the other side of the child-parent divide. Sarah even remembered how exasperating her mother had seemed to her, as doubtless Sarah seemed to Amber. Now she just wondered how common sense could desert teenagers so thoroughly, as doubtless her mother had wondered about her.

  "Special, how?" She tried to picture Amber middle -aged, facing a rebellious teenage daughter, crossing her arms and pulling down her mouth and brows.

  "We're going to Tanya's house to work on costumes for the party."

  Sarah's pulled -down brows lifted. Tanya was probably the least likely person in all of Kettle to plan ahead and put serious work into a Halloween costume. "Really."

  Amber started to play with a strand of hair. Liar, liar . . . But such a beautiful girl. Her skin was still so smooth and young and perfect. It hadn't started to turn saggy traitor under her chin, hadn't started to puff out under her eyes. "Will Larry be there?"

  "I dunno." Amber scowled at the hardwood under her feet.

  Sarah sighed. He was going to be there. He was going to take Amber out in the bushes and try to get his dick in her if he hadn't already. Sarah detested him, his stringy hair, dirty nails, strange body odor, and appallingly sloppy clothing. And that attitude. A living, breathing, extended middle fi nger.

  Where was her husband?

  She called out his name. No answer. Ben was nursing a cold; had the congestion affected his hearing? "
Ben?
"

  "Just a minute." His voice carried out from his study with more than a hint of annoyance, and Sarah had to force her face to stay pleasant in front of Amber. No one was going to be gladder than she when that book of his was fi nished. Then she hoped he'd get this whole writer thing out of his system.

  "So can I go?"

  "Not on a school night."

  "Geez, Mom, I'm not in elementary school anymore."

  "That's exactly why you need to stay in. Now come to dinner."

  "Mom." A tear spilled from each pretty eye and rolled over the fi ne -pored slopes of her cheeks. "I'm begging you. Please, can I go out? I'll be home by nine, I swear."

  "Will Larry be there?" Sarah insisted on honesty. She'd told Amber since she was two years old that nothing she could do could possibly be worse than lying about it.

  "Yes." Amber barely got the word out, wiping away a tear.

  Sarah was proud of her. "I just don't want you getting in trouble with that boy, Amber."

  "He's not trouble, Mom. I wish you'd try to—"

  "Is he pressuring you to have sex?"

  "
Mom."
She practically shrieked in outrage and embarrassment.

  Sarah put her hands to her temples. She hated this type of discussion. Her mother had never had to have it with Sarah. She gave her a book and trusted Sarah would do the right thing, which she had. Sarah didn't have that kind of trust in Amber. Amber seemed ripe for sex in a way Sarah never had been. Amber would probably have an orgasm her fi rst time.

  "Just remember this." Sarah took a deep breath. Her soup would be cooling, maybe getting an unattractive skin across the top. "If he really cares for you, he won't pressure you to do something you don't want to."

  "I know, Mom." Her voice was softer, conciliatory. "He won't. He's really a sweet guy."

  Sarah supremely doubted that. And she wasn't at all sure Amber didn't want to have sex with that animal -boy in the first place. But she'd said her piece as all mothers had said theirs since time began, and there wasn't a lot more she could do. "Homework done?"

  "Yes." Amber brightened, sensing Sarah about to relent.

  "All of it?"

  "All of it. I swear." She fixed shining, hopeful eyes on her mother.

  Sarah sighed. She supposed having a nice romantic dinner alone with Ben would be pretty wonderful. They'd had so few chances to talk recently. Like in the past sixteen years. "All right. You can go."

  "Thanks, Mom." Amber rushed forward to hug Sarah, and Sarah felt like a gold -medal winner. A gold -medal winner concerned about her daughter's virginity.

  "Back by nine, young lady."

  "I promise." Amber gave another squeeze and rushed out the front door, probably afraid Mom would change her mind.

  Mom went to close the door behind her daughter, who bounded down the street, skirt flouncing behind her, reminding Sarah of a fl eeing white -tailed deer. Except the danger wasn't here at home. The danger was out there in the direction she was heading.

  Sarah closed the door, letting herself be sad for a moment that the darkness settled so early this time of year, and that her sweet child had grown up so quickly.

  "Ben?" She headed into his office, hoping the roast would keep warm enough tented with foil in the kitchen until they finished their soup. Maybe she should bring out some really good wine and put on some Vivaldi. Maybe she and Ben could talk and make love, and maybe she owed it to him tonight to tell him about the orgasms she hadn't been having for two decades.

  "Ready for dinner, sweetheart? It's on the table." She took two steps into his office, and her heart sank clear to the bottom of her brass -bit loafers from Talbots.

  Ben was wearing his Packers sweatshirt, green sweat pants, and white socks and green and gold athletic shoes. Packers night. Of course. He always watched the game with his buddies, George and Bob, rather coarse men to her way of thinking, but Ben was devoted to them. Which meant he'd be leaving right after dinner.

  He finished blowing his nose, checked his watch, and started the process of shutting down his computer. "Sorry, honey, I have the game tonight."

  "The game is at seven -thirty. You have time for dinner. I made a special one. Pumpkin soup and roast pork loin with—"

  "George made his six -alarm chili so I'm going over early." Her words must have registered all of a sudden because he had the grace to look stricken. "Didn't I tell you?"

  "No." She drew herself up straight, wishing she'd told Amber she couldn't go to the party so someone would be home to enjoy her food. "You didn't tell me. Or maybe I forgot."

  She added the last so she wouldn't sound accusing, though if he'd said something about skipping dinner, she would have remembered.

  "I'm sorry, Sarah."

  Yes, he was sorry, she could see it in the way his eyebrows met up high in the middle, and the way his voice cracked. But not yet sorry enough to say he'd cancel. Not sorry enough to stay home and enjoy her cooking and spending time with her. She waited, still hoping. Stupidly hoping, as she'd stupidly hoped in situations like this for years and years and years.

  "I'm already late." He glanced at his watch again.

  "Sure." Her voice might as well have blown across six glaciers, one right after the other, for all the warmth in it. "You wouldn't want to miss the pre -pre-pre-game show."

  "Oh now, Sare -bear." He kissed her, and it was a miracle his warm, moist lips didn't stick to the deep freeze of her cheek.

  She was pissed. Royally. Unattractively. Ragingly. What part of her cycle was she in? She heard that women's PMS brains scanned the same as brains of crazy people. Given how she was feeling right now, that did not surprise her.

  "Have a great time, honey." She wanted to add that she'd enjoy a quiet evening alone, but knew she would sound insincere and possibly furious.

  She'd always felt it important to keep perspective in times like these. Amber and Ben both had occasions that were important to them. Just an unfortunate coincidence that she had put so much effort into the meal and so much anticipation into the thought of her family enjoying it together.

  Ben kissed her again, gathered up his keys, and after asking if Sarah had seen his Packers parka, and after she found it at the bottom of the coat closet where it had fallen, he left through the front door, blowing his stuffy nose, and she was alone.

  Well.

  She went back into the dining room and sat at her own

place, and poured herself a rather large glass of the Alsatian Gewürztraminer her cooking magazine recommended with the soup.

  The soup was delicious, the sweetness of the pumpkin balanced by onion and a good kick of fresh ginger, a touch of curry and another of cream.

  After the soup, she lingered until her wine was gone, enjoying the candlelight and the Vivaldi, then she brought out the roast, tepid now, but it couldn't be helped. She served herself a nice portion, and into her red wineglass from Williams Sonoma, she poured a healthy amount of Syrah from the Northern Rhône, which had been recommended online as a good choice to balance the sweetness of the fi gs.

  Next, the excellent salad with romaine and butter lettuces, radicchio, and arugula, and a dressing of extra virgin olive oil and aged balsamic vinegar, sea salt, and fresh garlic.

  Drinking wine with salad was a faux pas, but she didn't really care at that point, and the Syrah was excellent and getting better all the time. It must be breathing nicely in the bottle. Or in her glass. Or who knew.

  With the apple cranberry pie, she thought a snifter of brandy would do nicely, and she was right.

  After dinner, she took her dishes to the sink and left them there. Blew out the candles and took the Vivaldi off the CD player. After a while all that deedle -deedling got irritating, frankly. She was more in the mood for music with balls.

  So. A whole evening to herself. What appealed? She was too restless for TV or reading. If she hadn't had that much to drink she might like to dig out her ballet shoes and dance.

  Or if she lived in New York still, she could have called any