The P.U.R.E. (3 page)

I smiled at James. He winked at me. Scarlett must have told him all about Tony even if she’d never told Tony about James.

Tony sputtered, likely trying to offer a reason other than ‘because he’s African-American like you’.

“I must have shown you James’s picture before, right Tony?” Scarlett showed him more pity than I would have.

“Yeah. You did. One day at lunch.” He darted his gaze from James to Jillian, who squirmed almost as much as Tony.

I peeked over at Jon and Nicky. They held identical beer bottles, and Nicky’s hand rested on his arm as she hee-hawed over something one of them said. I doubted it was
that
funny, whatever it was.

Marilyn and Libby stood close together, engaged in a bubbly conversation. I thought Marilyn saw something worthy in me, and I wanted her as a mentor. She’d had a meteoric rise at Anderson-Blakely, earning the job of Senior Manager in less than five years. The two women smiled as I joined them.

“Libby, have you met Gayle Lindley yet?” Marilyn asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Libby said as I extended my hand. “Very nice to meet you, Gayle.”

Cosmetics and other girly topics dominated our chitchat. I tried to be charming, but the real warmth, the real smiles and friendliness remained between Marilyn and Libby.

“How long have you two known each other?” I had to ask.

Libby giggled. “Marilyn and I go way back—to our college days at Southern Methodist University, in fact.”

“Libby and I were housemates for four years,” Marilyn said as she cast a sidelong, almost wistful glance at Libby.

“What year did you guys graduate?”

“What’s it been, Libby, eleven years already?”

Libby nodded.

“You’ve only been with Anderson-Blakely for five years. What did you do before?”

“Oh, this and that. Everything and nothing,” Marilyn flipped her hand as if it were no big deal.

“She’s being far too modest, Gayle,” Libby said. “Marilyn spent three years at Harvard Law, then two years interning at the White House.”

“Wow!” I was all the more determined to crawl under her wing. “Why’d you go into auditing and not law or at least tax accounting? And why leave DC? That sounds like such a cool place to work.”

Marilyn smiled, but her eyes conveyed a different emotion. Regret?

I’d probably asked too much already.

“Working in politics wasn’t my style,” she said. “I needed something … a little less dramatic, a little slower, and I wanted to come home.” She smiled at Libby.

The focal point of her smile angled away before moving down to her feet and returning her attention to me. “Gayle. You don’t have a drink, yet. Can I get you something from the bar?”

“Thanks, Libby, but I’ll wait a bit.” I turned for one-on-one time with Marilyn just as the hostess for the evening’s command performance joined us. Leslie had come over right when I wanted to talk to Marilyn more about her work in DC.

“Gwen, surely we can tempt you with some wine or a cocktail.” Leslie said. “If you’re a teetotaler, perhaps a Coke, juice or tea?” She wore a mantle of politeness, but I reminded myself she was still the same woman who had been rude to me because I was a nobody to her.

“I’m good. If I start later, I last longer, otherwise I’m likely to fall asleep or embarrass myself since my alcohol tolerance is ridiculously low.” I chuckled and shrugged.

She gave me a crisp smile that, like Marilyn’s, stopped short of her eyes. Without an ounce of sincerity, she asked Marilyn, “How’s everything going for you?”

“Everything’s great.” Marilyn matched Leslie’s feigned politeness. “Her name is Gayle, by the way, not Gwen.” She took a sip of her drink but held Leslie’s gaze.

“Your home is gorgeous,” I said to break the crust of ice that formed.

“Thank you …
Gayle
. Would you like a mini tour?”

“I’d love one.”

Marilyn escaped to the bar, where Libby stood speaking with Bob.

As Leslie turned to lead me through the living room, we nearly collided with Jon and Nicky.

Jon directed an SOS glance my way.

“Leslie’s giving me a tour. You guys want to join us?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Jon said far too eagerly for a straight guy.

“Me too!” Nicky echoed.

“House tour if anyone wants to tag along!” Leslie’s announcement went out to the whole room.

Our group swelled with the addition of Kenneth and his wife, Darla, plus Scarlett, Jayna, and others. After a few introductions, we headed upstairs.

The Turners had nine-year-old twin daughters, who had bedrooms fit for the princesses they no doubt were. One room was pink, the other lilac, and each boasted hand-painted murals on the walls. The girls were conveniently at a sleepover, but there were plenty of pictures of them to serve as proxy.

A third girl’s room belonged to Bob’s sixteen-year-old daughter from a previous marriage. With its elegant knick-knacks and artwork and the notable absence of anything teen, it would have more aptly been described as a guest bedroom.

Leslie next led us to the master suite.

Only in my dreams could I have imagined a bedroom so large and a bathroom so grand. It could have been lifted from a Texas bordello with its deep red walls and gold accents. Everyone except Kenneth ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over it. He seemed more interested in peering into the odd nooks and crannies than in the room itself.

Typical detail-oriented accountant, probably checking to make sure the walls are at precise right angles.

“What do you think of this suite?” Jon whispered in my ear.

“I’m wondering where the ceiling mirror is.” I hadn’t noticed him make his way over to me until he spoke. “Where’s Nicky?”

“Checking out the bathroom. She’s never seen a bidet or a multi-station shower before. Please help me get away from her.” His forlorn expression would have won any woman’s heart.

I chuckled and patted him on the arm. “Stick with me, kid. I’ll protect you.”

Leslie shuffled the group into an adjoining home gym, where cardio and weight machines took one side with a wall of mirrors and ballet barre on the other.

“Did you know Leslie was a prima ballerina?” I whispered to Jon.

He coughed, covering a chuckle.

Leslie spoke fondly of the room as we lingered. No sooner did we start moving than Nicky latched back on to Jon.

I shrugged from where I stood on the fringe of the group after he mimed a tragedy mask. He’d survive until I could save him after the tour.

I backed up to lean against the oversized treadmill with its TV screen—bigger than the one in my living room.

Something small and sharp dug into my heel. Recoiling from the spot, I spied a shiny gold object wedged between the mat and the baseboard.

I scooped up a man’s cufflink. I didn’t know men still wore them except with formal attire—which, thankfully, no one had worn to Bob’s party. Gold with diamonds, it had to be worth more than what I earned over several months. I laid it on top of the stereo as we finished with a quick peek at Leslie’s office, a home cinema and the laundry room.

• • •

At dinner, Leslie seated Doug to my left and Darla to my right, and what matching pillars of social joy they turned out to be.

Darla asked me if I played tennis, and when I said ‘no’, she turned and spoke for the entirety of dinner with Bob who did.

Libby and Leslie sat across from me. Libby tried to include me in the conversation, but Leslie unfailingly steered the topics to those that excluded me.

I exchanged a few ‘poor me’ looks with Jon as Nicky all but cuddled up next to him. A Texas gentleman, Jon would never intentionally be rude to a woman.

Doug brushed his leg against mine more frequently than accidental, but less than I expected. Passing him the coffee pot, I said, “Whoa, heavy
and
hot. Hope I don’t spill any.”

The leg grazes ended.

That marked the high point of Doug’s and my next to nothing conversation and left me with my sole dinner companion—my wine glass.

By the evening’s end, Nicky had tried her predatory best to cut Jon off from the herd. She’d isolated him and begun prepping for a Jon feast.

Rather than watch him suffer, I insinuated myself between them and linked my arm with Jon’s. “Sorry, Nicky. I need to have a quick word with Jon here … about some boring Anderson-Blakely stuff.”

Nicky’s main course shrugged as I tugged him away by the arm. She huffed and narrowed her eyes.

I only meant to rescue him from her but kept going until we slipped into Bob’s home office.

Jon closed the door behind us.

Somewhere in those ten paces, I forgot why I needed to whisk him not just away from Nicky but into a private setting.

“Thanks, Gayle.” Jon hitched a hip on the edge of Bob’s desk. “I never thought she’d be so persistent.”

My head spun a little. I’d overestimated my alcohol tolerance by drinking a third glass of wine.

“You’re weckum.” I blinked a few times and tried again. “Well-come.” I ambled over to him, snickering at how I’d botched such a simple word.

“Gayle? How much have you had to drink?”

“Nosso mush.” I swayed and thrust three fingers toward his face. I changed my finger positions, pantomiming holding a thimble-sized object.

He stood and held me by the elbows. “Maybe I should take you home.”

I stared up at his handsome face. I had to kiss him. A distant voice in my head warned,
No, no, think chica, think! Remember where you’re at
, but a much louder one urged,
Do it! Kiss him, here, now! Do it!

“You, Jon Cripps, are looking very … kissy … kiss-bull.”

Traitorous arms slid up his chest and locked around his neck. His back stiffened, but I would not be denied. My body pressed and molded to his. He relaxed but didn’t touch me.

Neither did he step back.

I pulled his head down to mine and kissed his lips, parting mine against his. He separated his, too, the tips of our tongues touching and curling together.

What am I doing?

As if I’d been stung, I recoiled and released him. A faint pink stain bloomed on his cheeks. A wash of green had to have flooded mine as nausea clenched at my stomach.

I ran to the powder room two doors from where we stood, grabbing my purse on the way. Good thing I hurried, because I threw up as soon as the lock clicked.

4

Throwing up was a good news/bad news proposition. On the down side, death did a jig in my gut, its aftertaste wicked foul. It also, however, brought instant relief.

Someone tapped on the door. “Gayle? You okay?” Jon asked.

I hoped he hadn’t heard me retching. “Yeah. Just give me another minute.” I rinsed my mouth with a dab of toothpaste I had in my purse. A splash of cold water to my face, a fresh coat of lip gloss, and I appeared about ninety percent sober. Inside, I barely nudged the fifty percent mark.

I emerged but avoided eye contact.

“I’ll say our goodbyes and tell them you’re not feeling so hot,” he whispered as he took my arm. “Wait here … no, sit on this bench. Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t go anywhere.”

I looked up at him and nodded like a penitent child in a time out.

• • •

Jon was gone for an eternity, and I worried Nicky had snapped him up. Nothing I could do given my challenge to remain vertical and a fermented cesspool in my belly threatening to make another appearance.

He chuckled and shook his head as he returned. “Come on, you lush. I can’t take you anywhere.”

Leslie rushed over with a cunning smile on her face. “I hope your illness is short-lived, Gayle. Thank you for coming,
Jon
.”

Wasn’t she the perfect hostess? No doubt she’d tell Bob all about my ignoble escape. He’d add drunkard to my growing list of vices.

Kenneth and Darla Petrovich claimed the large black Mercedes parked next to Jon’s Porsche, their hostile voices ripping the fabric of an otherwise peaceful autumn evening even before they shut the doors. Clearly, trouble had checked in to the Petrovich hotel.

While Jon drove me home, I vowed to make casual conversation, to prove my sobriety, and regain some normalcy. “Do you think Leslie and Darla are friends?”

“Kenneth and Bob’s wives? Not at all.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Hmm.”

“What does your ‘hmm’ mean?”

“Nothing.” I wasn’t in the mood to explain myself.

“Do you know why Marilyn left so early?” Jon asked.

“No. Did you know she and Libby lived together for four years when they went to SMU? And did you know Marilyn has a law degree from Harvard and interned at the White House?”

“How did Marilyn end up at Anderson-Blakely?”

“She said she needed a slower pace and was homesick,” I said.

“Marilyn doesn’t strike me as a slow down, homesick kind of person.”

“Me neither. Oh, and Marilyn and Leslie don’t get along at all.”

“You were busy being nosy, weren’t you?” He lobbed a grin my way, cushioning the blow of his jab—a good sign. Perhaps if we kept our topics lighthearted, he’d overlook my drunken lapse.

“Somebody had to, since you took on entertaining Miss Nicky Sanchez to keep her our helpful Aphrodite ally.” I gently punched his arm and immediately regretted touching him. “Way to take one for the team, Jon.”

“You threw me defenseless into her clutches for the first half hour and at dinner too. I had no intentions of being selfless; you sacrificed me for the team.” He turned his head and smiled.

“Poor Jon. Death by adoration. I did get you out early, so that’s good. You have to admit that. Where was my help sitting between Doug and Darla?”

“Impulse challenged?”

I filled in the holes to Jon’s swiss cheese–like question. “A few deliberate leg grazes, but otherwise he was tolerable.” Doug had behaved better than I had.

“His mind must have been on something else,” Jon said before falling silent.

Lit billboards flashed by as we drove, and I tried to steel my nerve as the silence stretched out. The elephant in the room trumpeted for attention.
The kiss. My lips on his. Did I use my tongue? Oh God, I don’t even want to think about it.