Beach Plum Island (19 page)

She laughed. “Stop that! You look like a flasher!”

He sighed, pretending to be wounded. “All right. I’ll behave.”

“About time,” Ava said, but really what she felt was longing. She wanted him to kiss her again, to take her on his lap and wrap her in that blanket. They could make love and sleep out here on the balcony, watch the sun come up together.

If only she didn’t have two boys at home. And if only this man weren’t part of the family her own sister seemed determined to hate.

Ava sighed, finished her coffee, and stood up. “I’d better be going. Thank you for dinner. It really was wonderful. And your condo is lovely.”

“Having you here makes me like it more.” Simon stood up, too, again startling her with his height and the width of his shoulders, and walked her to the door. He reached to open the door for her just as she was putting her hand on the doorknob; the touch of his hand on hers was enough to make her draw a sharp, audible breath.

He heard her gasp, of course, and then she felt Simon pressing against her hips, lifting her hair and kissing her neck. Ava felt the rough shadow of his beard and the warmth of his soft lips along her neck and shoulders. Then he slipped his hand gently beneath her tank top and cupped her breast, his breath quickening to match her own, until at last she turned to him and kissed him full on the mouth, knowing there was no way she could leave, not yet.

Not without this.

Simon slid her clothes off so easily, it was as if the seams had come unstitched. She helped him out of his as well. Then the two of them stood there, naked and foolishly grinning for a minute, before Simon said, “I’m too old for wood floors, what about you?”

“Bed, please,” she said.

He scooped her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, where Ava felt paralyzed, self-conscious. The light was low in here, but it seemed as if every light were blazing. Would he want her, still desire her, when he saw what she looked like without the armor of her skirt and shirt, panties and bra, all those garments that kept her tender middle-aged flesh in place?

Simon refused to turn out the light when she asked. “I need to look at you,” he said urgently. “I’ve been dreaming about this ever since the first time I held you.”

“I can’t believe how scared I am,” she said. “My teeth are almost chattering.”

“Why?” His voice was gentler now. “What are you afraid of?”

“Everything! Of doing or saying the wrong thing. Of having you see me without my clothes. Of feeling too much for you, too soon.”

“Impossible,” he said. “You’re perfect. This moment is perfect.” He led her to the bed, where they lay facing each other.

As Simon ran his hands over her body, Ava imagined herself as clay, being warmed and shaped and smoothed beneath his caresses.

Simon’s chest hair was reddish gold against his tanned chest, his breathing faster now. He cupped her hips and moved her on top of him, centering her, groaning a little as he stared up at her swaying breasts.

Suddenly Ava didn’t care how she looked, maybe because of the way Simon looked at her, never taking his eyes from her face, her body, as if she was worth savoring. She was trembling with desire, nearly feverish.

Afterward, as they lay together, she fell asleep to the rhythm of his heart.

E
laine knew she should stay home—it was Sunday night, after all, a night when all conscientious professionals did laundry or curled up with a good book and refueled for the week to come—but she just couldn’t do it. Despite the generous size of the rooms, the walls being so pristine white, and the carpet feeling so soft beneath her bare feet, the condo walls seemed to be closing in on her. The neighbor’s television was too loud downstairs and she could hear every thump of that kid upstairs as he lifted weights or threw around his girlfriend or whatever he was doing. And the sirens wouldn’t stop.

The noise was in her head, too. Her thoughts whirled. Tony was right. Gigi, poor thing, was just a kid who’d lost her father. And Ava had always been a good sister, generous to a fault with Elaine. Why wouldn’t she be a good sister to Gigi?

Want to borrow my bike? Want to wear my jeans? Want me to braid your hair?

Whenever their mother was drinking or zonked on painkillers for some mysterious neck pain, Ava had taken over. For years, she had been there for Elaine, and Elaine had both loved and resented her for it. Ava deserved Gigi, a sister whose love for her would be uncomplicated, not mixed as Elaine’s was with envy because everything came so easily to Ava: school, boyfriends, friends, art, their father’s love.

God, I am despicable,
Elaine thought.

Although she had promised herself she wouldn’t, not tonight, she opened the refrigerator and took out the chardonnay, poured herself a generous glass, and carried it into the living room to watch television. Just one glass might help her quiet that self-berating voice buzzing in her head.

She surfed the channels with the sound on mute. After a while, she went back into the kitchen and brought the bottle back to the living room with her.

Unfortunately, this reminded Elaine of her own mother doing the same thing. At four o’clock every afternoon you could count on finding Mom at the kitchen table, no dinner on the stove, the television on. Mom always sat in the chair closest to the refrigerator so she could reach her box of white wine.

“Just another little glass and I’ll get dinner started,” she’d say.

Mom had given up real clothes by then, but wore beautiful bathrobes. Tea gowns, she called them. Her makeup was always impeccable, emphasizing the tilt of her dark eyes and her full mouth. She’d sit there while Ava made dinner and the girls did their homework at the table, keeping her company.

After Ava was gone, it was just Elaine doing homework at the table. She never attempted to make dinner; she ate cereal or toast and a piece of fruit. Her mother was quiet, mostly, watching the news, but occasionally she’d say something that only now, in retrospect, made sense to Elaine.

Once, for instance, they’d been following a news story about a woman who claimed she had been carjacked. The woman told the police the mugger had taken off with her child in the backseat of the car and driven it into a pond. The child had drowned. The next night, it was revealed that the woman herself had driven the car into the pond to drown her child.

“She was depressed,” her mother said suddenly, making Elaine look up from her English homework. “That poor woman.”

“‘Poor woman’?” Elaine had said. “Mom, she killed her
baby
.”

Her mother had turned on her then, baring her teeth like a cornered ferret. “Sometimes killing a baby is better than the alternative!” she’d shrieked. “At least she knows where her baby
is
!”

Then her mother had fled the room. Elaine was in sixth grade then; she’d just sighed over her mother being nuts and gone back to finishing her English essay.

Dad usually ate something on his way home from the bank, knowing there would be nothing at home. He might have a glass of whiskey at the kitchen table with them; then he’d head for his study “to catch up on paperwork.”

His study was his sanctuary. Elaine had avoided her father whenever possible. Hated him for never dealing with their crazy mother and making things better. Only after seeing Aunt Finley had she realized Dad must have been broken, too, because he knew damn well why Mom was sad, but he couldn’t fix it.

Her face was damp. Elaine wiped her eyes. Damn it. She wasn’t a crier! She was a
doer
. She refused to sit here being maudlin and wet because of things she couldn’t change.

Elaine tossed back the rest of the wine and hurriedly changed into a slinky green wrap jersey dress and gold wedge sandals. She did a quick job on her hair and makeup and was out the door in less than fifteen minutes.

Unfortunately, because it was a summer Sunday, there was less action than she’d hoped in the Cambridge clubs around MIT. She checked three of her favorite spots and then drove back across the bridge to Boston, thinking at least there would be tourists in the bars on Boylston and Tremont.

Elaine found a free spot by a meter on Berkeley Street—she always had great parking karma—and walked to Boylston Street, feeling invigorated. One of the hotels near the convention center had a decent bar.

Tonight it was crowded with businessmen, some kind of sales convention. More men than women, all of them fairly young and definitely single, or acting like it, some guys even dancing together on the tiny floor under the flashing lights. Good. The rooms were probably upscale. She could get what she wanted and go home, finally fall asleep, and give her brain a rest.

Elaine ordered a glass of wine and took a seat at the bar, feigning nonchalance, chatting with the woman bartender. She always felt more comfortable when the bartender was a woman. This one looked like she’d been at it a while, a curvy blonde in her forties with white eye shadow painted beneath her brows and in the corners of her eyes. Someone at the makeup counter in Macy’s probably told her white eye shadow made her look less tired. It didn’t.

Several men approached her. Elaine didn’t like the looks of them. She could afford to be picky here; there were so many men. She told all of them she was waiting for someone. Finally, once she’d ordered her fourth glass of wine, she began feeling relaxed, her limbs fluid. The room took on a sweet glow with all the colored lights and clinking bottles.

Maybe that eye shadow trick did work, Elaine was thinking, as a new man took the empty stool beside her and introduced himself as Kevin O’Toole. He was a redhead. She didn’t usually do gingers, as a rule, but this guy had that Kennedy style, big white teeth and a long face. Freckles.

She told Kevin her first name only, sticking to her rules. Kevin paid for her next glass of wine and right away ordered her another. They talked about work, naturally—that was always the first topic, as if your work defined you—and Kevin told her he’d just finished his MBA.

“I’m on a management track with the company,” he said, his blue eyes shining with the pride of a guy who still thinks the world is his to claim.

On closer inspection, Kevin was even younger than she’d first thought, probably midtwenties. God, she was really doing the cougar thing. Wait until she told Tony! But this guy was out of college and working, or at least that’s what he said. Everybody lied in these places.

Kevin had a pleasant face, despite the freckles and red hair, and nice hands. Long fingers that played nervously with the cocktail straw and napkins. Elaine thought about her nephews, and about how this kid was probably only ten years older than Sam. She couldn’t imagine Sam, with his delicate features and blond hair, his twin passions for guitar and lacrosse, ending up in a hotel bar chatting up a cougar. She hoped that never happened. She loved her nephews. God, she really did.

Elaine’s face was damp again. Kevin was looking alarmed. “You okay?” he asked. “You look upset.”

She flashed him her brightest smile. “I’m upset we’re not dancing!” She tossed her head back and laughed.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said.

“Oh, come on. Who cares? We don’t know anybody here. It’ll be fun!” She took his hand and led him to the dance floor.

He was right: Kevin wasn’t much of a dancer. More like a dog on hind legs, eager to please and get his treat. Elaine wanted to pat his little red head and tell him he’d done a good job.

“Are you staying in this hotel?” she asked. She had to lean forward to shout.

His blue eyes widened. “Sure. I have a great room. Why?”

“I thought we might be able to talk better if we go someplace quieter. Let’s just finish this song,” she said, wanting to keep him eager despite the swirling lights making her feel sick, and the memory of her mother, her poor broken mother, kneeling on the bathroom floor. Where had that image come from?

Elaine banished it, literally waving her hands crazily in the air as she danced, as if she could sweep away every lousy memory. Kevin, delighted, imitated her, his big hands making figure eights over his head.

She started to laugh, watching him, and then she was sick to her stomach. “Sorry. I’ve changed my mind,” she said, and raced out of the bar, out of the hotel, out into the smoggy summer air, clutching her handbag and willing herself not to vomit.

Elaine hiked up Boylston Street to Tremont, trying to remember where the hell she’d left the car. Her head spun and her shoes hurt; the night was warm and sticky but she shivered in the dark, aware of Boston Common across the street.

Despite the lights along the sidewalks, Boston Common wasn’t a place a single woman in heels should go alone at night. It loomed like a black lake, infinitely deep, full of danger. Elaine walked with her shoulder nearly pressing against the storefronts to put as much distance between herself and the Common as possible. Where did she leave the damn car? She needed to get home and lie down.

The danger, when it came, surprised her. She was on a brightly lit corner and had just passed a squad car coasting down Tremont when a trio of teenagers in hoodies approached her. Two black boys, one white. Probably Emerson College kids, she told herself. Nothing to worry about. Everyone wears hoodies.

But the three kids surrounded her, hulking beasts, their jeans low on their hips and ragged around their ankles, and demanded her purse. “Just give it to us without screaming and nobody gets hurt,” the tallest one, the white kid, said. His voice wasn’t menacing but his eyes meant business, and he had his hands jammed in his pockets in a way that suggested a weapon.

Furiously, Elaine said, “You can’t just take my purse!”

The boys looked at one another and burst out laughing, like this was all some big prank and there was a camera on them. Then the tall white kid said, “Um, yeah we can. And we need it right now.” He reached for her bag.

“Wait!” Elaine stopped him. “At least let me have my phone. I need it to get home, and the cops will track you if you take it.”

The boy scowled. “Okay. Grab the phone and go before we change our minds.”

She took the phone out and handed him her bag. The boys skulked off into an alley beside her that she hadn’t even noticed. Elaine turned and ran for the spot where the cop had been, but of course he was gone.

There was nobody, even, to tell about the mugging. If that’s what it was. Was it a mugging, if you just gave people your purse? Maybe those boys hadn’t even had a weapon. Why, oh why, hadn’t she taken a class in self-defense?

The adrenaline that had kicked in a few minutes ago was rapidly fading. Elaine suddenly felt dizzy again. Unable to take another step. And now it didn’t matter if she found her car, because the boys had her keys. She couldn’t even take a subway or a taxi, because she had no money and no way of getting inside her condo.

Whom could she call? She stood in the glare of a streetlamp, feeling stupidly conspicuous but not wanting to venture anywhere darker, her head swimming with wine and shame. She couldn’t call Ava. She lived too far away; Ava would take ages to get here. She couldn’t call anyone at work. Not even Tony, who would scold her and maybe, just maybe, start to wonder if his vice president was losing her wits.

Like her mother. She was losing her mind, just like her mother.

Elaine was crying now, her eyes and nose running. An older couple dressed for the theater, their arms around each other, actually crossed the street to avoid passing by her. She must look a fright, a crackhead in two-hundred-dollar heels. Who the hell could she call?

She had nobody, Elaine realized. Nobody who would miss her if she wasn’t in her bed tonight.

Then she remembered Gabe and his offer to rescue her. Okay. That was somebody to call, someone whose opinion she didn’t hold so dear. She could get over the humiliation of having him see her like this. She shuddered at the thought of what else she had
almost
done with that sweet boy, Kevin. Though maybe that would have been better for her, it wouldn’t have been great for Kevin, having some drunk cougar in his bed, weeping over her wreck of a family life or throwing up on his shoes.

She had a good signal on her phone and found Gabe’s number easily online. He was the only Gabriel Blaustein listed. God, he had a landline. Who had a landline anymore? His address surprised her, too. It wasn’t far from here, a street in the South End. She would have pegged him as a guy with an apartment in Jamaica Plain or one of those other ex-student ghettos.

Elaine dialed the number before she could chicken out. It was midnight; Gabe would most likely be asleep. Maybe he had someone with him. That hadn’t occurred to her before; the thought nearly made her hang up. Oh, so what. She could crash on his couch and figure out what to do in the morning. It wasn’t like she was interested in him. She just needed a ride and a safe haven.

Gabe answered on the third ring, sounding surprisingly awake and suspicious. “Yes?”

Well, of course he would wonder who was calling. Elaine had blocking on her phone. “Hi. This is Elaine Barrett, the woman you—”

“I remember. Where are you? What can I do?” He sounded even more alert now.

How humiliating! Gabe had obviously guessed that she had called because she needed him, not for any other reason. Well, there was nothing for it. “Tremont Street. I’ve been mugged. They took my purse and keys.”