A Real Basket Case (2 page)

Again, Roger hadn’t understood her point. Frustration welled up in her throat. “You act like you value your career more than our marriage. Can’t you delegate some of this work so you can come home at a decent hour once in awhile?”

“It’s my responsibility to make sure this briefing is right. I can’t delegate that.”

“But—”

“I’ll take you out to dinner Friday when this is all over. You pick the place. In the meantime, why don’t you get out more on your own? Do something with your girlfriends.”

Could she count on Ellen or Jill to kiss her goodnight, hold her
in their arms, make love to her?
Hell, no
. Roger wasn’t going to
either, hadn’t for what, weeks now?

Claire slapped the refrigerator door, then stared at her reddened
palm. He still didn’t see what he was doing to their marriage. But from the irritation in his voice, she knew the time had come to back off. “I started an exercise class today.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Make new friends in the class, organize a ski trip with them, whatever.”

She remembered their family ski trips, when the kids were young enough to put up with their parents’ companionship and Roger could escape from his work long enough to actually have some fun. Back then, Claire and Roger had looked forward to traveling more when the kids were grown, and they had planned imaginary trips to romantic, faraway places like Tuscany, Bangkok, and Cancun. Nowadays, Claire rarely ventured farther than the factory outlet shops in Castle Rock.

“I’d rather ski with you,” she said.

“I already told you. You can’t depend on me to fill your time. Not when I’m building a reputation here.”

“You promised we’d go to Breckenridge one weekend this
month.”

“There’s not a chance in hell that’s going to happen now.”

Claire simmered. “So a promise to your wife means nothing anymore.”

“Honey, that’s not—wait a minute.” Roger covered the receiver to talk to someone in his office, then returned. “Gotta go. We’ll talk about this later. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Roger—” Claire realized she was talking to a dead line.

___

On Wednesday, Claire took the ten a.m. aerobics class again. She had trouble keeping her eyes off Enrique and concentrating on the exercises. He seemed to watch her more than the other women, or was that her overactive imagination? She caught herself sucking in her stomach and comparing her profile to others in the mirrors. Not as bad as the Bartlett pear in the back row, but no comparison to willowy Brenda. Claire’s form was more like a sturdy oak.

Afterward, Claire’s sore muscles complained about being strained again so soon. In the locker room, she popped an ibuprofen into her mouth while she changed into street clothes. She chatted briefly with Jill, who raved about a new almond coffee cake recipe before leaving to attend a PTO meeting at her son’s high school.

After a quick shower, Ellen had rushed to a massage appointment. Claire wished she had a massage appointment. She rubbed her neck with one hand while she walked down the corridor toward the front door of the gym.

“Feeling a little sore?” Enrique stepped in front of her, his grin showing dazzling white teeth.

Surprised, she sucked in a breath. A whiff of his musky aftershave stirred up a little quiver in the pit of her stomach. “I guess I’m not used to this yet.”

“Let me.” He eased her around and kneaded her shoulders expertly, forcing taut muscles to loosen.

Face flushing, Claire protested, “No, no, I’m fine. Aren’t we in the way here?”

Enrique continued the massage. “You are too tight, and others can walk around us. No problem.”

She gave up and tried to relax. His hands on her felt good—too good. As his thumbs worked up the back of her neck, she closed her eyes and let her head loll. When he stopped and turned her around to face him, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

“Better?”

Claire rolled her shoulders. “Better.”

He cupped her elbow. “Now we will have a drink together, some juice, perhaps, and discuss your exercise program.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Enrique steered her into the gym’s health food bar and toward a booth in the rear.

T
he chatter of conversations and the roar of blenders devouring ice assaulted Claire’s ears. The place smelled like a farm market—grass, probably wheat grass, and carrots, lemons, and cu
cumbers. Bewildered, she sat in the booth.

Enrique slid in across from her. “Carrot-apple juice with protein powder will restore your electrolytes. Okay?”

Claire knew nothing about electrolytes. “Okay.”

He ordered two drinks from the waitress. Then he rubbed his hands together. “It has been awhile since you exercised, yes?”

“I walked some in the summer and fall, but I quit when the cold weather moved in. Then I got busy over the holidays.”

“Typical. We must get you limber and fit again.” He grabbed one of the drinks the waitress delivered and took a couple of gulps. “You need to start a weight-lifting program to build your strength and bones.”

A vision of herself pinned by a dropped weight bar, sprawled on her back like a flipped turtle with arms and legs flailing, almost made Claire spit out her drink.

He poked a thumb at his chest. “I will be your personal trainer.”

“What do you charge?”

“Nothing for you.”

“Why would you do that for me?”

Enrique patted her hand. “You are a beautiful woman, Claire. I will make you even more beautiful.”

She pulled her hands into her lap. It had been a long time since someone had called her beautiful.

Enrique gazed into her eyes. “I am serious. You have a very nice body, just a little soft. But your face, ah, your face. Your eyes are large and blue, blue like our Colorado sky. They are mirrors to your soul.”

Claire felt her cheeks redden.

He smiled. “Right now, you are a little embarrassed.”

“A little.” She leaned back. He was getting too close. “I’m not sure I like where this conversation is going.”

Enrique drank some juice and studied her. “I think you do like it. Very much.”

She picked up her glass and took a nervous sip of the grainy, sweet juice. Was he flirting or just stating what was obviously written all over her face?

He grinned at her. “You see?”

She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a smile. “I’m a terrible liar.”

He leaned forward. “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

“I . . . nothing.”

He finished his juice and stood. “Meet me here at ten. We will go through the weight machines. Then you will be very sore. You will need a massage. All over.” He winked and strode off.

Claire’s chin dropped. A massage? She stared at his retreating form.
He has great buns. Oh, God.

Then she noticed the check. She pulled out her wallet, dropped some money on the table, and picked up her gym bag.
I have to call Ellen.

___

Claire paced across her Mexican-tiled kitchen, phone clutched tight against her ear. She stared out the window. Her house nestled among scrub oak and ponderosa pine in the foothills of Colorado Springs. Patches of snow dotted the yard where shadows hid them from the February sun. A squirrel scampered along the rail of the redwood deck. The creature seemed to know what direction to take—unlike herself.

When Ellen answered the phone, Claire said, “I’m in trouble. Big trouble. Enrique plans to guide me through the weight machines tomorrow, and he said something about massaging me all over.”

“See, I told you he was interested. Here’s your chance for a little fling.”

Claire twisted the phone cord. “I don’t want a fling.” Her chest and cheeks flushed, either from a premenopausal hot flash or the thought of a fling with Enrique. She couldn’t tell. She picked up a magazine and fanned her face.

“Nothing like a little action on the side to liven up a marriage. I should know. The best sex I ever had with Dave was after he started seeing that slut.”

“C’mon, Ellen, I’m not looking for a divorce.”

“Of course not. You won’t have a serious relationship with Enrique. Just a little fun. That’s all he wants.”

Claire felt her eyes narrow. “How do you know?”

“He won’t tell you, but some women in the class have been with him. They can’t resist bragging in the locker room.”

“Yuck.” Claire remembered that woman, Brenda, arranging to meet with Enrique.

Ellen laughed. “You don’t have to tell a soul. In fact, I advise you not to. An opportunity like this doesn’t come along very often. Not with a hunk like Enrique.”

Claire sucked in air between her teeth. She still loved Roger, even if he never gave her a chance to show it. But lately, she’d begun to wonder if he still loved her. “I can’t sneak around behind Roger’s back, no matter how troubled our marriage is. Maybe I should just quit the class.”

“Not after I finally convinced you to start exercising. You need this class.”

“I do need to lose a few pounds.” Claire pinched the skin over her abdomen. More than an inch for sure.

“And Enrique’s right. Aerobics won’t do it alone. You need to lift weights, too.” Ellen paused. “You should meet him tomorrow.”

“I told you. I’m not going to cheat on Roger.”

“I know, I know, though I’m disappointed in you. Just tell Enrique you’re not interested in fooling around. He’ll shrug it off, and you’ll still get the weight-training you need.”

Nibbling at her lip, Claire said, “But no massage.”

“If you don’t get a massage after that session, you’ll ache all weekend. And he gives a
great
massage.”

Claire’s hands turned ice-cold at the thought of a strange man placing his hands on her not-so-firm-anymore body. “I would feel too self-conscious. I’ll just soak in the tub and take some ibuprofen.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Ellen sighed. “Sometimes you need to be nudged in the direction that’s best for you.”

Claire managed a sheepish laugh. “Like when you talked me into starting my basket business?”

“Exactly. You were blind to all the compliments you got on ones you made as gifts for your friends. Someone had to force you to see how good you were at it.”

“I’m glad you did. Creating them keeps me from missing the kids so much.”

“Back to Enrique. Just remember, there’s no harm in looking, and he’s definitely an eyeful.” Ellen hung up.

Claire stared at the phone. The thought of spending the next morning with Enrique sent a shiver down her spine that settled in the pit of her stomach.
Oh, God.

THREE:
BODYWORK

Claire shoved her bag
into a locker. Nervous sweat dampened her hands as she took off her coat and checked her reflection in the mirror—oversized T-shirt and leggings, slouched socks, and sneakers. If only she’d shopped the day before for a coordinated exercise outfit like Ellen’s.

Sucking in her stomach, Claire took a last glance and patted down her hair. She gritted her teeth and stepped out of the locker room.

Enrique stood by the door to the weight room, reading a fitness magazine. His skimpy shorts and tank top left little to the imagination. When he saw her, he smiled and returned the magazine to the rack. He pushed his arms up in a mock-lift that made his biceps bulge. “Ready to build those muscles?”

Claire squared her shoulders. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Let us begin.” He waved his hand toward the rows of weight machines. “We will start with a circuit of eight machines.”

She groaned.

For the next forty-five minutes, Enrique patiently explained each machine. He helped her find ideal seat positions and selected
weights that made her work, but not too hard. Moving from
machine to machine, he recorded the positions and weights on a clipboard chart.

Distracted by his nearness, Claire struggled to listen to his instructions. She gradually lost her nervousness while Enrique pointed out—on her—the muscles each machine worked. Straining against the machines gave her a sense of power. She could learn to like this.

At the end of the circuit, Enrique studied her chart before sliding it into a file cabinet drawer. “You did very well for your first day. Are you surprised by how much weight you can lift?”

Claire rolled her stiff shoulders. Her leg muscles complained, too. “I may not be able to lift much tomorrow.”

Enrique laughed, then leaned in close and lowered his voice. “That is why you must continue to lift, to keep those muscles from freezing.”

As his breath caressed her cheek, heat rushed into Claire’s face.

“A massage helps, too.” He pulled an envelope out of his shorts pocket and handed it to her.

Puzzled, Claire opened the envelope. She pulled out a gift certificate for a massage made out to her and signed by Ellen.

“Ellen told me you were interested in a massage today.” Enrique winked.

Claire felt boxed in, the decision already made for her. Wasting Ellen’s money by refusing would be awkward. She gulped and nodded. “But nothing else.”

“That is fine with me.” Enrique tilted her chin up so she had to look directly into his eyes. “Until you decide you are ready for more.”

She stared, tongue-tied.

Enrique dropped his hand. “Now you must change. I will meet you in the lobby, then we will go to your house.”

“My house?”
No way.

“Where else?”

“Doesn’t the gym have massage rooms?”

“I am a freelance therapist and cannot use those rooms.”

She tried to hand the certificate back to him. “I don’t feel comfortable with—”

“Massage therapists make house calls all the time.” He patted her shoulder. “Many clients prefer to relax in the privacy of their own homes.” With a confident stride, he headed down the hall, toward the men’s locker room.

Weak-kneed, Claire wobbled into the women’s locker room, as the implications of taking Enrique home sank in. She had to make sure he knew this was just a massage, a professional relationship and nothing more. She rushed through her shower, quickly changed into stretch jeans and a sky-blue Nordic ski sweater, then worked on her hair. Twenty minutes after leaving the weight room, she stepped into the lobby.

Enrique sat on a bench, looking casually elegant in black jeans, pearl-buttoned Western shirt, and a fleece-lined leather jacket. All he lacked for the urban cowboy ensemble was a ten-gallon hat. Rising, he looked her up and down and flashed a thumbs-up.

He steered her to the take-out counter of the health food bar. “Let us order a juice to go. You need to replenish your fluids.” He ordered two.

“Enrique, this is awkward, but I want to make sure we’re clear on something.”

The young man behind the counter brought the juices, and Enrique snapped his fingers. “I forgot the massage oil. I will meet you in the parking lot.” He headed for the men’s locker room.

The young man said, “Seven-fifty, please.”

Claire felt a wisp of annoyance over being stuck with the check again. Was this a habit of Enrique’s? But she could easily afford it, and he probably didn’t earn much as a fitness instructor. She paid the man and slipped on her coat before picking up the plastic cups.

In the parking lot, she squinted against the sun’s glare, but with full hands, she couldn’t retrieve her sunglasses from the purse dangling on her shoulder. Nor could she button her coat against the chill. She was debating where to put the cups when Enrique sauntered out a side door, carrying his gym bag.

Claire caught herself scanning the lot for anyone she knew.
Cut it out. I’m not doing anything wrong.
Still, she couldn’t help feeling relieved that the lot was empty except for the two of them.

Enrique waved, then approached and took his drink. “Where is your car?”

“Right there.” She indicated the late-model blue BMW sedan at the end of the row. She itched to get them in their respective cars and out of public view. “Do you want to follow me in your car?”

“Mine is in the shop.” He pointed to the auto shop on the corner. “Maybe you could return me here after?”

Another favor.
But Claire could tell from his winsome smile that he didn’t realize what he was asking. And it wasn’t like she had pressing business that afternoon, or that giving him a ride could be viewed as immoral. She nodded. When they reached her car, she pressed her key fob and unlocked the doors. After tossing her gym bag on the back seat, she slid behind the wheel.

Enrique sat in the gray leather seat beside her and dropped his bag next to hers. He placed his drink in the cup holder and glanced around. “Nice car. Your husband must have a good job.”

Poised to turn the ignition key, Claire’s hand dropped to her lap.
What am I doing?
Fear stabbed her chest as she envisioned the risk of Enrique pressing himself on her, of her being swept up with desire.
No!

“I can’t do this.”

Enrique laid his hand on hers. “If you don’t get a massage, you will hurt tonight and not be good company for your husband. I want to make you feel good, that’s all.”

“That’s all.” She slid her hand out from under his and stared him down. “Nothing but a professional massage. And I’ll never be ready for more.”

He held up his hands, palms out, and grinned. “Okay. Only a massage. How do you say it? Boy Scout promise?”

Ellen did say Enrique would shrug it off if I said I wasn’t interested.
Placated, Claire started the engine and pulled out of the parking space. She didn’t tell Enrique that being good company that night would make no difference because Roger wouldn’t be there.

Enrique settled in the seat and picked up his juice. “So, tell me about your home. Is it Southwestern style?”

He’s good. Every woman likes to talk about her home.
She described how she’d shopped for Navajo and Pueblo Indian crafts and blankets to complement her house’s stucco and tile-roofed architecture. After moving to Colorado from the East Coast twelve years earlier, she had enjoyed learning the history and culture of her new environs.

Enrique seemed genuinely interested and asked several questions as she guided the car up the steep, winding canyon roads of her upscale neighborhood. When a red fox scampered across the road, causing her to brake hard, he asked, “Do you see many wild animals here in the foothills?”

“Lots of birds, squirrels, and mule deer. Roger hates the deer. He calls them giant rats because they eat our flowers and strip the bark off the aspens. He chases them out of the yard whenever he sees them.” Claire pursed her lips. “I wish he wouldn’t do that.”

Enrique laughed. “You feel sorry for the deer?”

She shook her head. “The stags can be dangerous, especially in fall rutting season. The neighbor’s dog got gored when it cornered one last year.”

“Yes, one has to watch out for stags during mating season.”

Claire glanced at Enrique. What did he mean by that? She decided to ignore the comment’s sexual undertone. “We also hear coyotes howling on the ridge but never see them. Occasionally, we’ll smell a skunk when we have the windows open in the summer.”

“No air-conditioning?”

“Don’t need it.” Claire pulled the BMW into her long driveway. She glanced around but saw no one on the street. Then she caught herself.
Why am I worried?

She pressed the garage door opener and drove into the third bay. As the door slid down behind them, she cut the ignition and let out the breath she’d been holding.

Enrique stepped out of the car and reached in to retrieve the two gym bags from the back seat. “Lead the way.”

“You can leave your bag in the car,” Claire said.

He hefted his bag and smiled. “The massage oil is in here.”

A nervous flutter tickled Claire’s throat, and she cleared it before saying, “Fine.” She preceded him into the kitchen and took her gym bag into the adjoining laundry room.

Enrique shucked off his jacket and looked around, as if wondering where to put it and his gym bag.

“I’ll take those,” she said.

“I will need the bag later, but here.” He handed her his jacket and put the bag on the floor.

Claire hung Enrique’s jacket along with her own in the hall closet. Through the glass beside the front door, she spied a UPS package on the porch. She unlocked the door, dropped the package on the front bench, then returned to the kitchen.

Enrique had found the wine rack and was scanning labels. “How about some wine? It would be relaxing.”

Claire glanced down at her hands, clasped in a tight knot before her. Yes, wine was a good idea. “Pick one you like. I’ll fix us some cheese and crackers for lunch.” She handed him a corkscrew and glasses, then opened the refrigerator.

With a practiced pull, Enrique deftly extracted the cork from a bottle of Australian Shiraz. He filled their glasses with the plum-colored wine and carried them to the counter where she had laid out a tray with Brie and Jarlsberg cheeses, crackers, and grapes. He smiled, handed her a glass and lifted his. “A toast . . . to an excellent hostess.”

Claire drank two quick gulps. The slow burn down her throat to her stomach felt good.

Enrique settled on a stool and pointed at a family portrait on the wall. “Tell me about your children.”

“My son, Michael, graduated from the Colorado School of Mines last year and works as an engineer for Electronic Data Systems in Boston.”

“He must be very intelligent. What about your daughter?”

“Judy’s a junior at the University of Colorado, currently in France on a semester study-abroad program.”

“Will she be an engineer too?”

“No, but she had us wondering. Michael knew his junior year in high school that he wanted to be an engineer. Judy didn’t pick her major until the last possible minute. Then she decided to make it a double. Art and French. In spite of her stubborn independence, she chose the same major as her fuddy-duddy mom.”

Enrique raised a brow. “Art and French.
Très chic
.” In a mock salute, he kissed his fingertips and spread them wide.

Claire laughed. “I didn’t do much with the major besides teach art in elementary schools before the kids were born.”

“So your nest is empty now. Do you miss them?”

“Yes, terribly.” Claire stared at the portrait, at Roger’s handsome squared jaw and the clear blue eyes that made her heart thrill when he looked at her with desire, which hadn’t happened since forever. She focused on the images of her children, and guilt washed over her. What would Michael and Judy think of their mom sharing wine with another man, alone, in their home?

She put down her glass. “Enrique, I’m—”

“Feeling a little awkward? I promise I will do no more than you want. You shouldn’t waste Ellen’s gift.”

Her back muscles were already stiffening. A massage made sense, and he did say he would respect her wishes. “I don’t want to disappoint Ellen.”

Enrique squeezed her hand. “Of course not. But now, let us eat. I am famished.” He slid a cracker into his mouth.

The light remark dispelled some of her tension. She clinked her glass against his and took the last sip.

Enrique refilled her glass. He maintained a steady flow of conversation as he plied her with cheese and more wine.

Soon she felt a warm buzz and laughed as Enrique tossed grapes in the air and caught them in his mouth. Before she knew it, the wine bottle lay in the sink, empty.

He stood. “Where is your bedroom?”

Claire’s eyes widened. Then she realized he hadn’t brought a massage table. “Oh no, not my bedroom.” Her gaze lit on the kitchen table. “How about there? I could spread some towels.”

He glanced at the table and shook his head. “The surface must be soft, like a bed.”

“Maybe one of my kid’s bedrooms, then.”

“Let us check them out. Come.” He took her hand, pulled her off the stool, and steered her into the hall. Once there, he dropped his gym bag on the floor and removed the bottle of massage oil and a CD.

She preceded him upstairs, gripping the rail to steady herself, then led the way into her daughter’s room.

Enrique glanced at the bed, pursed his lips, then checked her son’s bedroom. Before she could stop him, he walked into the master bedroom suite. “Perfect.”

She trotted after him. “Wait.”

Enrique walked around the large room, furnished with two bulky walnut dressers, a sitting area, oil paintings of snow-capped mountains, and a raised king-sized bed, its side facing the door. “Nice, very nice.”

He moved to the other side of the bed and pressed a hand on the mattress. “This is just the right softness, and I won’t have to bend over much.”