Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (7 page)

  Working among the vines was peaceful, calming. She could be herself out there in the lot next door, didn't have to make herself pleasant to women like Joan, or hold herself tall and make sure she appeared graceful and gracious. Didn't have to worry her time would be interrupted by Ben or Amber, though of course Sarah was glad to provide them whatever they needed.

  She had no serious troubles in her life, but if she did, she imagined that digging and fertilizing and turning the pumpkins would be perfect activities to accompany mulling and ruminating and, fi nally, decision making.

  Of course, Vivian could turn into a problem. But Sarah didn't expect her to show up at the Social Club meeting tomorrow. Sarah had decided that Vivian was just provoking her, for whatever reason she felt she had to. Someone like Vivian would have no interest in planning Kettle's an nual Halloween party or the pumpkin sale. She wouldn't show up.

  The tired, even tread of Ben's feet sounded coming up the stairs, muted from his slippers, the sheepskin ones she bought him for Christmas from LLBean.com. He'd complained they were too warm, but when she'd offered to send them back, he refused, which had seemed ridiculous. Just because she spent a lot of time selecting them didn't mean he had to wear them if they weren't right. But she lost that argument. Or gave in, rather. Why fight over something so unimportant? She'd save her strength for when they fought over big issues. Except they didn't. They weren't really fi ghters, she and Ben.

  "News over, honey?"

  He nodded, sat on the bed, and began taking off his clothes. Slippers first, sliding one foot against the opposite ankle—she didn't even need to be able to see to know. Socks next, they went straight into the hamper, thrown in an awkward motion with his left hand. Pants unbuckled and unzipped; he stood to step out of them. Then he draped the pants on the chair next to her dresser, no matter how many times she asked him nicely to put them in the hamper or hang them on a hook in his closet.

  Another battle not worth fi ghting.

  "Anything interesting going on in the world?" She sent a warm and caring smile to his back.

  "Not really."

  Seiko watch off first, clattering onto his nightstand, then sweater, pulled up from the back over his head, then loosened off each arm. That got tossed on her chair, too, while she reminded herself it didn't matter and pretended to read her article. Shirt unbuttoned, undershirt off, those went into the hamper, and when he missed with his underpants, he didn't bother to go pick them up as she knew he wouldn't.

  Such a complicated man, Ben was. Fascinating, really, she found him just fascinating, and so different from herself. Very intense and moody, and the last few years he'd been—

  Well, no point thinking about that.

  "Are you going to read tonight?"

  He made full eye contact with her. "No."

  Sarah put the magazine aside then, even though she was in the middle of an article about how Armani designed the interior of his yacht. She turned down Ben's side of the covers to welcome him into bed. Wasn't it amazing how after so many years, they knew what each other wanted, without having to say anything? Full eye contact meant Ben wanted sex.

  She took off her own nightgown and her panties, folded them, and put them up by the headboard where they wouldn't get in the way. Ben used to love undressing her, but she supposed her body wasn't such a surprise package anymore that he'd delight in unwrapping. That was what being married a long time—nearly eighteen years—was about. Something richer and stronger grew up in place of that initial excitement. And her relationship with her husband was nothing if not rich and strong.

  He moved closer, touched her breasts, brushing his fi ngers lightly over the tips. She'd never told him how insensitive her nipples were. She was fairly ashamed of the fact. Surely it wasn't normal. Most women went out of their minds at that type of contact from what she'd read in novels, and one of her girlfriends at Cornell said she could orgasm from that alone. Sarah was sure she was lying. Sarah could barely tell whether Ben was touching her nipples or not.

  From there, his hand stroked down between her legs. She spread for him and pushed her hips, made a few encouraging sounds. The truth was, she'd never really thought sex was close to what it was cracked up to be. The novels made it sound like orgasms lifted women off the bed, and sometimes made them scream. Sarah liked being turned on as much as the next person, but she never had the urge to scream.

  Actually, she wasn't sure if she'd ever had an orgasm, though she always made climax -type noises so Ben could stop worrying about her and let himself go. Ben didn't scream, either, just made a funny muffled sound and went rigid, before he collapsed.

  He climbed over her now, pushed his erection inside her, nestled his head next to her cheek, and began to move. She echoed his rhythm and caressed his back; she'd read that a woman's hands should never be still during sex, so hers never were.

  Sometimes she wished he'd look at her or talk to her, but sex for Ben had always been a silent affair. She imagined it was better that way, so they could each concentrate on the feelings in their bodies, but it did seem maybe once in a while it would be nice of him to acknowledge that she was in on the process.

  She chided herself for the uncharitable thought and whispered that she loved him, then moaned a little and moved faster. It felt wonderful of course, but somehow she always felt as if something was missing. Probably because—she might as well come to grips with it—she had never climaxed.

  Vivian had. Sarah was sure Vivian could climax three or four times in one session, like those women in the books. Those women made Sarah feel like there was something wrong with her.

  Ben thrust faster, began breathing harder in her ear. He wouldn't let himself go until he thought Sarah was satisfi ed, so she thought of Vivian having so many orgasms with no effort and moaned again, bucked against Ben's thrusting as if she was taking something out on him that wasn't his fault. Then she cried out and clenched her muscles. He knew the signal, drove into her harder for about fi fteen seconds, froze, and there it was, that muffl ed sigh -groan in her shoulder, and she knew he was done. He'd kiss her cheek, roll over, and go to sleep in their warm bed. While she had to go to the bathroom and try to get all the semen out of her so it wouldn't soak her panties during the night.

  She knew she should tell Ben that she hadn't ever climaxed. She should have told him years ago, back at Cornell when they started sleeping together. But how, after eighteen years of faking, could you tell a person something like that?

  She kissed him lovingly on the cheek, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and on her way to the bathroom picked up his underpants and put them in the hamper.

Seven

Letter from Vivian to her grandmother
August 14
Nine years old

Dear Gran. Thanks for the visit. I had fun at your house. I wish I could live there all the time. You have nice things, especially the dollhouse, and you are really nice to me. Please tell Erin she can play with the dollhouse at your house even when I'm not there. She liked it so much. I think her dad isn't really nice to her.

Love, Vi

If there was a sound more irritating than crows cawing their lungs out at dawn, Vivian had yet to hear it. Police si rens, shouting pedestrians, drunks, crimes in progress—the standard New York repertoire was welcome. Anything but this hoarse alarm tearing holes in the morning silence.

  She thrashed to her side, dragging Grandma Stellie's eyelet spread over her ears, and paid with a throb in her head, and a catch-up roil in her stomach. Too much whiskey. Jail hadn't done much to deepen her relationship with alcohol.

  
Caw, caw, caw, caw
.

  More than one crow now. Dozens. Hundreds. Every damn crow on planet Earth in the tree outside her window. She was living the early scene of a Hitchcock movie.

  
Caw, caw, caw, caw.

  Shit. She pushed the bedspread down and opened one eye to peer at the ghastly clock she'd left on the wall until she could buy another one. A wooden board with a picture of a white -robed Jesus, hair curling down his neck, standing by a little hut in a garden. His eyes were unnaturally wide and feminine, and he had that vapid "good" expression on his face, like his doctor had prescribed too high a dosage of antidepressants.

  No way had Jesus been anemic and bland like that. You had to shout to be heard in this world, and while humanity had undoubtedly changed over the past two thousand years, she'd bet that one fact hadn't and never would. If hell froze over and Vivian went into the Jesus -clock-making business, her Jesus would be the charismatic, passionate, alpha male he must have been to inspire so many people. Not pretty boy on Prozac.

  Her fuzzy brain registered the time while the crows attempted the Hallelujah Chorus.

Six A.M. Just shoot her.

  She pushed off the comforter and emerged into the chilly air, remembering how Gran kept the house hot enough to dry out a swamp. Ed liked their Manhattan condo overheated, too. And the house in Kennebunk. And the one in Aspen. And Vegas. One luxury overheated living space after another.

  Now she had
this
house, though at least it was heated to her liking. When the trial publicity blew over, she'd find a way out of here. It would have to blow over soon. Any press who found her in Kettle would be bored to tears within minutes unless they heard about the incident at Harris's last night. That headline she could do without:
Lorelei Taylor, Stuck Among Boobs, Bares Her Own.
Maybe she should try to behave herself from now on.

  
Nah
.

  At the closet, she pulled on her favorite robe, then shut the door quickly, trapping the old -lady smell of lavender that miraculously still lingered inside. Grandma Stellie adored lavender—sachets, bath oil, soap, lotion, perfume . . .

  A scent -induced memory popped up, of sitting next to Gran's warm, nonthreatening body, eating oatmeal cookies, drinking cocoa, listening to a
Cat in the Hat
story way too young for her. But Stellie could have read her the Kettle phone book and she would have loved it. Cocoa and cookies and a lavender-smelling grandmother, are you kidding me? It pissed her off, all the kids who got to grow up thinking that was their right.

  Yeah, well what didn't kill her made her stronger.

  She strode out of the room, down the baby -blue stairs, wincing at the thought of pulling up more carpet with her sore hands and ruined nails. In Kountry Kitchen Hell she winced again. All these creepy bunnies, smiley -fl ower curtains; how was she going to get this fixed on a nonbudget with her total lack of skills?

  Maybe she should live out her sentence here and sell the damn house as is. But when would that be? How long could she tolerate ducks on her cabinets before she lost it?

  She made herself bad supermarket coffee, blocking the memories of fresh ground beans and Ed's espresso machine. At least this beat the brew in prison. She cut a piece of Sarah's perfect carrot cake to settle the choppy seas in her stomach, and leaned against the counter for breakfast. She was tired. Nearing forty. Her skills were seducing men, living the high life, and being a wise ass. No one in Kettle would hire her for any job because of her reputation alone. And really, what could she do? Be a fashion consultant? Recommend two-thousand-dollar boots to the inhabitants? How was she going to earn money?

  How was she going to fi ll her days?

  A wave of misery started in her chest. She could feel it pushing toward her face, itching to make its watery way into her tear ducts. No way was she standing around for that.

  She tossed the rest of her bland coffee into the sink, headed upstairs, showered, put on her makeup—about three times more than she needed here in hicksville—dressed in her jeans and a tight neon -yellow top, then covered up with a sweatshirt that had belonged to Ed.

  Jesus on her wall sweetly pointed the way to it being only seven A.M. Three hours until she got to go play committee member with Sarah and check out more townspeople. Maybe make even more nonfriends, apparently one of her strengths here.

  Three hours. Better get back at the damn carpet. She had to have something to do.

  Half an hour later, she'd barely pulled up two steps' worth, and was still swearing at whoever thought putting a staple every eighth of an inch was a good idea. She grabbed at a stubborn corner for a third furious tug; her fi ngers slipped and her hand connected violently with the sharp corner of a banister support, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  
Ow ow ow.
She ran into the kitchen and dragged open the freezer. No ice maker. No ice. Christ.

  Cold water then, running over her bruise, a blue blood blister already visible under the skin. Her tears thought this would be a nice opportunity for more air time, and she had to blink hard to keep them back. Movement teased her peripheral vision, salt water undulating her view. Was someone outside?

  Mike. Backing his truck out of his garage. She yanked off the faucet, pulled off Ed's sweatshirt, and ran, fl ung the door open, then the screechy storm, not sure what she was going to say, just that she needed like hell to talk to someone.

  "Mike." She took a few steps outside into the early October chill and wrapped her arms around herself, regretting her decision to abandon the too -big, too -masculine shirt. V
anity, thy name is Vivian
.

  He turned the motor off and got out of his truck, slamming the door behind him. "Good morning."

  No smile, just a nod. He went into his garage and emerged a minute later, arms full of boards, which he loaded on his pickup.

  Vivian crossed her driveway toward him. "Going some where?"

  "To work." He headed for the garage again. "Gilchrist back porch needs rebuilding."

  Gilchrist. Sarah. Of the perfect carrot cake and darling decorated basket. Who'd spoken of Mike as if he were her personal savior.

  For a second Vivian wasted time wondering if that type of woman appealed to Mike. Her hangover churned up more stomach acid, which turned Sarah's cake into something truly vengeful. "Are nails all you're pounding over there?"

  He threw a look over his shoulder, which she deserved for sounding like a jealous grade school student.

  "Sorry." She made her voice humble. "Uncalled for."

  This time his glance was one of surprise. "Okay."

  "I really should have known better than to think you were involved with her sexually." She opened her eyes innocently wide. "Because clearly she hasn't gotten any in years."

  Laughter broke out of his mouth, a burst he quickly shut down, and went back to stacking lumber.

  What was with him? "It won't kill you."

  "What?" He arranged the last board, turned back toward her, and put his hands on his hips. God, he was sexy. Tall and young and confi dent. Mm -mm good, to the last manly drop.

  She sauntered toward him, stopped six inches away, and tipped her head back to stare. This close she could see circles of fatigue under his eyes. Had he stayed up and had a party for one last night? Had Virgin Nelly come by to col lect her casserole dish and stayed for dessert? "Laughing. It won't kill you."

  "I'm aware of that."

  "Then why keep it in?"

  He kept the eye contact going a beat longer, then started to move to his truck.

  Okay, new topic. She grabbed his arm. "You know, Mike, I woke up this morning and I realized something."

  He faced her again, looking exasperated, which made her want to giggle. She had a feeling she'd get to like this man.

  "What would that be, Vivian?"

  "I need you." She pouted sensually, enjoying the hell out of herself, knowing he was amused in spite of the groan he let slip.

  "Do I even want to ask what for?"

  "Of course you do." She let her eyes go soft and beseeching. "My house needs an old -lady-ectomy."

  "Uh-huh." He gazed up at a branch of the elm that shaded both their driveways. "I've got a lot of jobs lined up. I don't think—"

  "Please. I'll help. I want to learn to do most of it myself. But I can't do it all. And I can't live in
that."
She gestured toward the house, horrified to hear her voice thickening into desperation.

  Silence. His hands went back to his hips; he stared over her head. She put her hand to his chest, felt the smooth cotton shirt, the smooth muscle underneath. Expected him to step back or flinch. He did neither. Instead he looked down, straight into her eyes with his younger blue ones, and she was astonished to fi nd herself wanting to step back.

"I'll fi nd time to help you."

  "Thank you." She took her hand away, even though it wanted to go on a nice leisurely tour. "About payment . . ."

  One of his eyebrows lifted. "We can talk about that later."

  "I need to talk about it now."

  "Okay. Talk."

  "I'll pay you the going rate. But I might need time to come up with the money. My cash flow is a little weird right now."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "I do worry about it."

  "Then stop. You have other things to worry about."

  "Like?"

  "How you're going to survive a small, quiet town like Kettle with all the big, loud grief you've got going."

  She did step away from him then, squinted at sun that found its way through yellowing elm leaves and scurried over his wheat-colored hair. "What the hell do you know about that?"

  "I left Kettle. After my wife died."

  "How did she die?"

  "Aneurysm." His lips clamped the word off. "Don't worry about paying me. Concentrate on the little things, like keeping your clothes on in public."

  "You didn't like that?"

  "People around here don't."

  "But what did
you
think?"

  Only half his mouth drew back in a smile. "It showed a certain spirit."

  She laughed, loud and long, and it was a fabulous relief, like a huge orgasm when you hadn't had one in forever. A certain spirit. She was defi nitely going to like Mike.

  "You know . . ." She sent him a sultry smile, back in control, thank God. "There are other forms of payment."

  "Uh-huh." He turned and got into his truck. "We can talk about that, too."

  She had to keep her jaw from dropping. "You'd consider it?"

  "Absolutely."

  This time her jaw did drop, and she had to haul it up and keep looking provocative. Her head started pounding. "So . . . what did you have in mind?"

  He furrowed his brows, gazing through the windshield, started his engine, then turned to her. "How about sex twice a week, and you blow me three other days. You can have weekends off. That should cover it."

  She nodded over immediate panic, partially digested cake rising to threaten her throat. Well, good for her. She asked for it, she got it. Problem solved. Problem just beginning.

  "Vivian."

  "Yes, Mike." She managed a ghastly grin that probably resembled a skull's.

  "I was kidding. Maybe think before you try that crap again. You should see your face." He chuckled, shaking his head, backed the truck down his driveway, out into the street, and drove with his load of lumber up to Sarah's perfect house.

Vivian walked down the stairs of the white Lutheran church, into the basement for her very first Kettle Social Club meeting, oh boy. She was late, deliberately. If you weren't going to make a decent entrance in a situation like this, why bother? She'd sat in her car in a corner of the parking lot and watched women disappear into the underground den, like rodents escaping the light and danger of open spaces.

  An enormously round woman first, then a skinny one, a weird-looking older woman with a weird -looking younger one. And of course, Our Fair Lady Sarah, carrying a picnic basket decorated with rust and gold ribbons, fresh as a meadow daisy, every hair in place, cheerful smile in place, long steel rod in a place not spoken of in good company.