My Favorite Mistake (5 page)

The mornings after those tortuous nights I would drag my sleep-ravaged body out of my cold bed and promise myself it would be the last time I would lose sleep over Redford

DeMoss. I attributed my recent and more frequent recol ections of him to al the weddings and bridal talk among my friends—I had consoled myself that the wayward thoughts would recede when the excitement passed.

But now I wondered crazily if I had somehow wil ed this IRS audit through al the kinetic vibes about Redford that I had sent out into the universe. Cindy’s theory about a self-fulfil ing prophecy taunted me…

I don’t remember fal ing asleep. One minute I was stewing in troubling memories, and the next, Barry was shaking me awake and sunshine streamed in the windows.

“Why did you sleep on the couch?” he asked, his eyebrows knitted.

“I was watching a movie,” I mumbled, pointing to the TV, which was stil on. I felt thoroughly miserable, stil wearing my expensive (and now crumpled) dress, my face gummy

with old makeup, my mouth furry and hot. At the crackle of the IRS letter beneath my hip, panic struck me anew.

Thankful y, Barry didn’t notice the letter. He reached toward me and pushed my hair out of my eyes, gazing at me with concern. “Are you al right?”

“Sure,” I lied.

“Are
we
al right?” he asked, surprising me.

But it was just the gentle reminder I needed to bring me back to the present. Barry was here and he cared. My heart squeezed and I nodded. “Of course we are.”

He smiled, seemingly relieved. “You know I love you.”

I blinked. Barry and I had professed our affection for each other before, but he wasn’t particularly verbal about his feelings. “I know,” I murmured, feeling guilty that only last night I had questioned his loyalty to me.

“Good,” he said. “I’m sorry about zonking out on you last night. I guess I was more tired than I realized, and the al ergy medication took care of the rest.”

“That’s okay.”

“So,” he said, his voice suddenly sultry, “how about letting me make it up to you tonight—meet me at Mil weed’s at seven?”

My eyes widened. “A girl can’t say no to Mil weed’s.”

He winked and kissed my ear. “My thoughts exactly. I need to take off.” He stood and pul ed on the jacket he’d been wearing last night, then picked up his toiletry bag and

moved toward the door. “Do you have any big plans today?”

Track down my ex-husband.
I swal owed and considered tel ing Barry about the letter that was burning into my thigh. But I didn’t want to break the romantic mood or raise any red flags. Besides, who knew if I would even be able to locate Redford? If he were stil overseas, the audit would be a moot point. It seemed sil y to bring up the subject in the event it amounted to nothing.

“No big plans,” I said breezily.

“Okay, see you later.”

My heart moved guiltily. “Wait,” I cal ed, and sprang up from the couch, heedless of where the letter might fal . I ran over to the door to stretch up and give Barry a ful -body hug.

“See you later.”

He grinned, then angled his head. “You have something stuck to your butt.” Before I could react, he reached around and peeled the letter from my backside.

I snatched it out of his hand and manufactured a laugh. “It’s nothing,” I said, crumpling the letter. “Junk mail,” I added for convincing detail. Then I shooed him out the door and closed it more forceful y than I intended.

Sighing in relief, I leaned against the door and smoothed out the letter, just in case its meaning was somehow less ominous in the light of day.

I scanned the words addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Redford DeMoss and worked my mouth from side to side. No—just as ominous. A slow drip of panic started to raise the acid

level in my stomach. How could I prepare myself for speaking to Redford again? Assuming I could track him down, would he be angry? Bel igerent? Aloof? Sarcastic? Disinterested?

Mrs. Redford DeMoss. Denise DeMoss. Redford had said it sounded like a movie star’s name, and that I was as beautiful as one…

I set aside the letter long enough to take a shower. But as soon as I closed my eyes to al ow the warm water to run over my face and shoulders, memories of Redford came

flooding back. Everything about the man had been big—his body, his laugh, his spirit. He had made me feel special and protected and desirable. His lovemaking had awakened a dark, daring side of me that I hadn’t known I possessed. He had been a generous lover—slow, thorough and innovative. I was pretty sure that a few of the things we had done were il egal in some states.

With a start, I realized my body had started to respond to the erotic memories. Feeling sentimental and keenly frustrated from my lack of sex, I slid my hands down my stomach

to lather the curls at the juncture of my thighs, thril ing from the warmth of the water and the slick pressure of my soapy fingers. Redford had adored making love in the shower, had kissed and suckled and caressed me until I nearly drowned. He had an amazing way of prepping my body with his fingers, readying me for his entry until I thought I would die from wanting him inside me. My own fingers weren’t as strong and firm, but they found the essence of my pleasure ably enough, and strangely, even though there were some details about Redford that had faded in my mind, when I closed my eyes and sent my mind and body back in time, I could conjure up his presence in two breaths.

I leaned into the tiled wal and he leaned into me, the shower spray bouncing off his broad, muscled shoulders, his dark hair slicked back from his tanned face, his sensuous

mouth nuzzling my shoulder, the soapy water mingling on our skin. He seemed to derive pleasure from mine, pleased that he could excite me, murmuring encouragement and throaty

laughs when I was close to climaxing.

“I want to hear you, Denise…tell me how good it feels…”

I’d never been with anyone who was so…
conversational
during sex. The novelty of it—and the naughtiness—had pushed my level of sensitivity higher than I’d thought possible.

“Um…oh…Redford…it feels wonderful…feels like…I’m going to…explode.”

And I did, convulsing as the warm water pulsed over me, losing myself in the exquisite torture of a powerful orgasm that weakened my knees. I slid down the wal and sat on the shower floor, shuddering, recovering slowly under the cooling spray. As always, the inevitable guilt set in.

I told myself that I had fantasized about Redford this time only because Barry had left me in a state of unfulfil ed arousal. And Redford was uppermost in my mind only because of the IRS letter. I was a sensible woman—everyone said so. What possible good could come of rehashing the past?

I turned off the shower, stepped out and pul ed on a robe, giving myself a mental shake. But my traitorous feet took me into the bedroom to stand in front of the trunk at the foot of my bed, and I relented with a sigh. My heart was clicking as I raised the lid and moved aside family photo albums, high school and col ege yearbooks, and a box of cards and letters I’d col ected over the years, my fingers keen to find a secret cache.

At the bottom of the trunk in a corner sat a Punch cigar box—the brand that Redford had smoked. I’d never before dated a man who smoked cigars; I remembered finding it so

male and strangely attractive. Over the past couple of years I had felt comforted by the fact that I couldn’t conjure up a picture of Redford in my mind—it convinced me that what I’d felt for him was a mirage. But when I touched the smooth surface of the box, I could clearly see him smiling and smoking a cigar by the pool at the Las Vegas hotel where we’d stayed.

Thick, dark hair with sun-lightened streaks, bronzed skin, laughing black eyes, sharp cheekbones…and a Tom Cruise smile that made me want to sprawl on the nearest horizontal surface in hopes he would trip and fal on me.

He had fal en on me quite a lot—that detail was burned into my memory.

My hand shook as I removed the cigar box, untouched since I’d left it there just over three years ago. When I lifted the lid, my breath caught in my throat and I felt as if I was being pul ed backward through a time tunnel.

The gray velvet box holding my wedding ring sat on top. I used two hands to open it and at the sight of the wide gold filigree band, I was overcome with bittersweet memories…

“Do you like it?” Redford had asked while we were standing in the most garish jewelry store in the western hemisphere. Among the flashing lights and salesmen with bul horns,

I’d been doubtful we could find anything simple. But Redford had pul ed one of the salesmen aside and cajoled the man into showing him the estate jewelry that Redford was sure was being held in the back for special customers. Sure enough, the man had disappeared, then returned with a tray of exquisite rings. I had fal en in love with the filigree band on sight…much like I had with Redford.

As I gazed at the ring, bittersweet pangs struck my chest. I was mistaken about being in love with Redford, but I was stil in love with the gorgeous wedding band. He had paid an enormous sum for it—we’d argued over the cost, but Redford had parted with his money during our time together as if there were no tomorrow. And according to the newspaper

article, that had been Redford’s frame of mind exactly.

I had sent the ring to the attorney to include with the annulment papers that were served to Redford, but Redford had returned the ring with the signed papers with no explanation. The attorney had advised me to sel the ring to offset the fees of the annulment, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it at the time…or since.

I bit my lip and snapped the ring box closed, then set it aside to riffle through the remaining contents of the cigar box: a coaster from the hotel bar, a matchbook from the place he’d taken me dancing, the key to our room at the Paradisio hotel, ticket stubs to shows, a party horn, postcards, our marriage license, the annulment papers, and our wedding pictures.

I knew women who had hired no fewer than three photographers on the day of their wedding to circumvent a no-show, faulty equipment, or a drunk cameraman. Other women

had white satin albums trimmed with ribbon and lace, crammed with studio-quality photos of them in their designer gown, a glowing groom, twelve bridesmaids, twelve groomsmen,

three flower girls and a ring bearer. Other women had 5x7s, 8x10s and 16x20s of the special day. I had three blurry Polaroid pictures.

The first showed the two of us smiling at the camera through the driver’s-side window of Redford’s rental car. In the second picture, I wore a paper veil and held a smal bouquet of silk flowers. We were exchanging vows—Redford’s mouth was open slightly, caught midword. His voice came floating back to me, a deep, throaty drawl that had wrapped around me and stroked me like a big, vibrating hand…silken sandpaper. A shiver skated over my shoulders—apparently memory cel s existed in every part of one’s body.

The third picture showed us kissing as man and wife. Unbidden, my mouth tingled and the elusive elements of his kiss came back to me—the way his eyes darkened as he

inched closer, the possessive feel of his mouth against mine, the promise of his tongue…

With effort, I forced myself back to the present and to the photo in my hand. We were covered in confetti the witness had tossed on us through the open window. Redford was

wearing a black sweatshirt. I couldn’t tel from the photo, but remembered that I’d been wearing a T-shirt with no bra, my hair messy and hanging around my shoulders, not a speck of makeup. Natural, hedonistic…what had I been thinking?

In hindsight, I hadn’t been thinking—at least not beyond the next orgasm. Redford had been the first man to tap in to my sexuality and I’d been blinded by lust. I had mistaken enthusiasm for love.

I did have a fourth picture, although not of our wedding. I careful y withdrew the framed 5x7 from the box, drinking in the sight of First Sergeant DeMoss in his dress uniform, achingly handsome in his official U.S. Marine Corps photo. He had given it to me somewhat sheepishly at the airport, and I had clutched it al the way back to New York. I ran my finger over his face, my heart ful over my naiveté at the time.

The phone rang and I picked up the handset on the nightstand, happy for a diversion from the troubling thoughts on the continuous loop in my head. “Hel o?”

“Hey, it’s Kenzie.”

I smiled into the phone. “Hey, yourself.”

“So, did you wow the boss lady last night?”

“The dress was a hit. Thanks again for your help.”

“Did you get the account?”

“I’l find out more this week, but I’m hopeful.”

“You’l have to cal me in Jar Hol ow to let me know how it goes.”

“You’re not coming back to the city this week?”

“No, that’s another reason I cal ed—Oh, wait, Sam just walked in and I need to, um…give him a message. Can I cal you back?”

“Sure,” I said, then hung up with a smirk. A message—right. Good grief, the two of them were like teenagers. But I wasn’t jealous…real y I wasn’t.

I tried not to imagine the acrobatics going on in Jar Hol ow while I stared at Redford’s picture and waited for Kenzie to cal me back. The phone rang again less than two

minutes later—of course, if the stories were true, she and Sam had had time for a quickie. I picked up the phone and sighed dramatical y. “
Please
stop dangling your sex in front of me.”

Dead silence sounded on the line.

My chest blipped with panic. “Hel o?”

A deep, rumbling laugh rol ed out. “Wel , that’s what I cal picking up where we left off.”

I swal owed. “Who…who is this?” But I would have recognized that orgasmic voice anywhere.

5

LAUGHTER BOOMED
over the phone again. “It’s Redford, Denise—your ex-husband. Who did you think it was?”

I was instantly nervous, hearing his voice when my body stil vibrated from his memory-induced orgasm. “Um…someone else.”

“Sounds like a pretty interesting conversation,” he said, his smooth Southern voice infused with amusement. “If this is a bad time, I can cal back.”