What You Remember I Did (6 page)

Nan leaned into him for another kiss.

After a while, he whispered, "Would you like to go to my house? I have a pretty extensive music library. I'm willing to bet we could find something we like."

"I bet we could, too," she whispered back and held the keys up for him.

They held hands for a while across the front seat. When she released his hand to rest hers on his knee, he traced her knuckles with a fingertip. They did not look at each other until he drove into a neighborhood of apartment blocks and pulled into a nondescript parking lot, adjacent to a building like several others. He turned off the lights and the ignition, and they were in each other's arms. His hair had begun to come loose from the elastic; Nan tugged it free and ran her fingers through. He held her face in his hands and kissed her deeply.

Then he sat back against the door and gazed at her tousled hair, her disheveled clothes, the flush that was visible even under these lights.

"What?" she demanded, laughing.

"You're beautiful," he said. "You are beautiful."

"So are you," she breathed. He leaned over to her, kissed her ear, and whispered, "Let's go inside."

Nan sent two hard, accurate serves into the opposite court. A few more like that and she might succeed in taking the edge off her frustration, she thought grimly. Thanks to Matt's several out
-
of-town poetry readings, they hadn't been able to get together for almost a week. Their daily affectionate phone conversations and intimate if not quite erotic emails fueled both her memory of that evening at his house and her fantasies of reprising a sexual experience that was frighteningly close to ideal.

She'd chaffed, surprised by how much she wanted to see him. Touch him. The rhythm of his poet's voice aroused her, creating mind-pictures of the planes and angles of his face and the outlines of his body with which she now had a tactile as well as a visual familiarity.

"So, Nan." Dan Masterson leaned into the gate that led onto the court. "I hear things are going nicely between you and our Dr. Mullen."

"Oh." For the first time in years, she felt herself blushing. "Yes, they are. Why, what did he say?"

"Nothing I didn't already know. That you're smart and attractive." He grinned down at her. "Well, maybe
some
things I didn't know."

She had slid a ball next to the side of her foot in order to pick it up with her racquet but stopped in mid-action. "All right. What did he tell you?'

"Honestly, Nan, he didn't tell me anything personal. He's not exactly the kiss-and-tell type. But I've known him a long time and it's good to see him happy."

"How well do you know him?"

Dan shifted uneasily. "Well, we're buddies."

"Buddies. Does that mean friends?"

"Now that's an interesting question. Gender differences in the use of language."

She punched his arm, only half-playfully. "Stop with the professor routine, okay? I want to know what's going on between Matt Mullen and his son."

"His son?"

"His son. Eliot. You know, with one L, like the poet."

Dan abandoned the pretense of not knowing what she was talking about. "They haven't spoken in years. I think he emails Eliot once in a while."

"Does Eliot answer?"

Dan shook his head. "I don't think so. It's the tragedy of Matt's life."

"What happened between them?"

Dan's characteristically happy-go-lucky manner was replaced by a seriousness she'd never seen in him before. "I don't know. He won't talk to me about it. Actually, we don't talk about anything very personal."

"So that's the difference between 'buddies' and 'friends?'"

He gave her a poor facsimile of his cheery boyish grin and a wave that missed being jaunty. "Ask him about Eliot yourself," he said. "As I'm sure you know, he'll be back tonight."

Impatiently, Nan scooped up the tennis ball, tossed it into the air, and slammed it into the far fence. Then she inhaled deeply and told herself to calm down. Ashley would be here any moment, bringing Jordan for a lesson and to spend the weekend.

"Grandma!"

Jordan raced toward Nan and all but leaped into her arms. She held the child to her, reveling in the sunny smell of her hair and the strength of her little body. Over Jordan's head she smiled at her daughter, and when she could she made a point of hugging her, too. "How's my favorite kid and grandkid?"

"We're your
only
kid and grandkid!" Jordan shrieked in delight.

"That's right. My only and my favorite." They both giggled at the familiar game. Nan set her down on her feet and nodded approvingly at the long hair, tied back in a ponytail, and the child's white tennis outfit. Old-fashioned though it might be, she liked seeing white on the courts, especially on an eight-year-old who had yet to learn the history and traditions of the game. Many of today's outfits were fun, sometimes even flamboyant, but for her–probably for most Baby Boomers–the game had lost something indefinable.

"Thanks, Ash." Nan smiled at her daughter.

"For what? You're the one who's doing us a favor, taking Jordan for the weekend."

Nan watched Jordan take the cover off her racquet and double-check the laces on her tennis shoes. "I meant thanks for trusting her with me. And for dressing her like a player."

"She enjoys dressing like you in your photos almost as much as she loves being with you. You're a terrific grandmother."

Ashley and Kevin were going away for a romantic interlude at Bear Mountain Lodge. Nan smiled at the certainty that it wouldn't for a moment occur to her daughter that her mother might be having romantic interludes of her own. Or what she happily supposed could now officially be called an affair.

She wasn't prepared to share this with Ashley or anyone else. Not all secrets were bad; this one was delicious.

"What are we going to do today, Grandma? Could we play a real game?
Pleasepleaseplease
."

"Soon," Nan said. "There's a lot to learn first, Sweetie."

Jordan started to pout.

"Shades of the past," Ashley said, smiling.

"What does that mean?" Jordan asked.

"It means your Grandma told me the same thing when I was your age."

"Did you get mad, too?"

"Yes, I did, but it didn't help."

Jordan sighed heavily. "You're
stu
-stubborn, Grandma," she said seriously.

Nan laughed. "Pick up all the balls around the court and put them in this bucket so we can get started practicing your serve."

"Do I
have
to?" Without waiting for an answer, Jordan picked up the pail and stomped away, mumbling to herself. Nan tried not to laugh at the child who reminded her so much of herself.

"I'll leave Jordan's things over here at the gate." Ashley dropped a small duffle and a jacket onto the clay, pushed them against the high fence that surrounded the teaching court, and walked over to hug her mother. "Thank you," she said. "I owe you."

"What's one more?" Nan teased, hugging her daughter. "Go."

"I'm done, Grandma," Jordan called out. "Now could we play a game?"

"My answer hasn't changed," Nan said. "Take the bucket to the service line and start practicing your serve."

"
Pleeease
."

The child was whining. If there was one thing Nan found intolerable, it was whining. "I said no, Jordan." Nan's words sounded harsh, even to her own ears. That was the problem with a name like Jordan; there was no diminutive that worked to soften that kind of imperative.

"Why are you saying no to such a beautiful young lady?"

The voice came from directly behind Nan. She turned around to see Matt standing in the morning sun. He was holding coffee and biscotti. How nice, she thought, how sweet that little things like this could become traditions so quickly. Our song. Our secluded grove. Our coffee and biscotti.

"What are you doing here? I thought you weren't due back till this evening."

He came out onto the court, set down the cardboard tray. "I can always come back later," he said and took her in his arms. She didn't resist his kiss, but moved quickly away.

"Not here," she told him. "Not now."

He didn't quite let her go. "Why not? It'd do the students good to see their elders falling in love."

Falling in love? Was that what was happening? Not at all sure, Nan was nonetheless inordinately pleased to hear him say so. "Not exactly professional," she protested weakly as he nuzzled her ear.

"Who cares? The semester's almost over." Arms around her, he struck a pose. "If not now, Milady, pray tell when? If not here, then where?"

Nan indicated Jordan, who was twirling her racket and watching them. "My granddaughter–"

At that moment, Jordan served the ball with a measure of strength such as Nan had never seen from her before. She would have been impressed had it gone where it was supposed to. Instead, it hit Matt squarely between the shoulder blades, forcing the air out of him and making him stumble. He let loose a string of epithets, and, on the other side of the court, Jordan burst into tears and sank onto the clay. "I'm sorry, Grandma! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!"

For a moment Nan was paralyzed. Then she made her choice and sprinted toward the hysterical little girl. As she gathered the child to her, she saw Matt striding toward them. Jordan squealed and hid behind Nan, who was shaken by the fury on his face. Before he reached them, he was shouting. "What's the matter with you? What's the matter with her? She could really hurt somebody!"

Jordan wailed, "Grand-ma!" and burrowed into her grandmother.

"Matt, are you hurt?" Nan called to him. "She didn't mean to hurt you."

"She ought to know better than that!" He squatted too close to them and shook his finger in Jordan's face when she peeked out at him. "You ought to know better than that!"

"I'm sorry!" Jordan whimpered.

"You're not sorry! You did that on purpose! You were jealous–"

"Stop it, Matt," Nan said evenly. "You're scaring her."

There was a silence, broken only by Jordan's ragged breathing. Matt stood up. "Fine," he said icily. "Fine," and strode off.

For what remained of the day, long after Jordan had calmed down and apparently forgotten the incident, Nan's outrage escalated. She taught while Jordan played happily around the courts and chatted to anyone who looked the least bit willing. Time and again, she thought about calling Matt to make sure he was okay, but his over-the-top anger with her granddaughter made her not want to talk to him at all.

Great sex aside, growing affection aside, she was not about to get herself entangled with a man who had some deep dark secret
and
acted that unreasonably. It might very well be over. She would be sorry if that happened, but better now than later.

After dinner, while Jordan was watching television, Nan told Catherine about the incident. She wanted to hear it described out loud and to get her mother's reaction, which was strangely guarded. When Matt showed up on the porch, a bookstore bag in his hand and a hopeful but worried expression on his face, she was still deciding what to do. "I didn't expect you," she said coldly, standing in the doorway.

"I was afraid if I called, you'd say I couldn't come over."

"I probably would have."

"Come on, Nan. I'm sorry I blew up."

"She didn't mean to hurt you."

"Even if she did, she's just a kid who wants all her grandma's attention. I can understand that." Matt smiled ruefully. "I brought peace offerings."

Nan stood aside and let him come in. Jordan was beside her, scowling.

Matt said, "Hello, Jordan."

The child didn't answer. Nan touched her shoulder. "He wants to say sorry."

"What's his name?" Jordan demanded.

"I'm Matt." He extended his free hand. Hesitantly, she took it. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

"I'm sorry I hit you with the tennis ball."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"Aren't you mad at me anymore?"

"How could I stay mad at someone so beautiful? You look just like your grandmother, red hair and all."

"My mom says it's Irish mahogany."

Matt cocked his head to one side. "
Mmm
. Okay. I guess that's women's stuff."

Jordan smiled. Matt smiled. Nan, watching, saw a look on their faces that was almost flirtatious. She did not smile. As for Catherine, emerging from the living room with, Nan saw in horror, Matt's poetry book open in her hands, she was positively glaring. "Dr. Mullen," she said haughtily. "What a surprise."

Matt looked at Nan. "Oh, boy. I'm in serious trouble." Not about to be placated into an easy alliance with him, Nan just nodded.

He'd brought a book of romantic poetry for Catherine, which he'd inscribed to her "with admiration," a beautifully illustrated book of children's poetry for Jordan "The lady with the best serve in town," and for Nan, a book of beautiful black-and-white photos of athletes in motion signed only "with love." For the next hour or so he read to Jordan and Catherine from their books, his voice by turns gentle and passionate, silly and dramatic. Before long they were both won over.