Grand Avenue (33 page)

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. Really, I forgot all about it.”

“Can’t you cancel?”

Barbara had been looking forward to tonight all day—dinner at The Maisonette, Cincinnati’s finest restaurant, with Howard and several of his closest friends. No way she was canceling, especially at the last minute. Surely Tracey would understand. “I can’t. I’m sorry, honey.”

Tracey sighed audibly. “How about tomorrow?”

“How about Sunday?” Barbara asked instead.

“You’re going out tomorrow night too?”

“Howard’s firm is having their annual party. I’m sure I told you about that.”

“No, you didn’t.” Tracey slumped against the doorway. “So, what’s the story? You really like this guy?”

Barbara shrugged, tried to look more indifferent than she felt. There was no point in alarming her daughter unnecessarily. She and Howard had been dating for less than two months. There was no telling where it might lead. “I like him very much.” She returned her attention to her face, wiping the cleanser off with a tissue, then rinsing with warm water and patting her skin dry. “Maybe you could invite one of your friends over to watch the movie,” she suggested, realizing she’d be hard-pressed to name any of her daughter’s friends.

Tracey shook her head, though not strongly enough to disturb the shoulder-length dark hair that flipped up at her shoulders. “No, I don’t think so.”

Was it possible her daughter didn’t have any friends?

Barbara watched Tracey’s eyes studying her as she expertly reapplied her makeup, starting with an assortment of moisturizers and eye creams, followed by a single stroke of concealer under each eye, foundation, blush, pale blue eye shadow, navy liquid eyeliner, then rich black mascara. She carefully outlined her mouth in cherry red, then filled in her lips with a burnt orange lipstick, blending one into the other. “How’s that?” she asked her daughter when she was satisfied.

“Beautiful.”

“Really?”

“What’s the big deal?” Tracey followed her mother out of the bathroom and into her closet. “I mean, how special is this guy? Are you two getting married or something?” She said it as a joke, but Barbara recognized the serious tone that lay beneath.

“No, of course not. He’s just a guy.” Barbara pulled a black cocktail dress from its hanger.

“Is that a new dress?”

“Not really,” Barbara lied.

“Price tag’s still on it.”

Barbara felt instantly guilty, though she wasn’t sure why. Why should she feel guilty about going out on a date? Why should she feel guilty about buying a new dress? Why had she lied about it to Tracey? “Well, I bought it last month, so technically it’s not new,” she qualified, wondering why she felt the need to justify herself to her daughter.

“It’s pretty.”

“It was on sale at the store. Fifty percent off plus my employee discount. How could I say no?”

“You don’t have to explain.” Tracey plopped down at the foot of Barbara’s bed, watched her mother remove her robe and step carefully into her dress. “What shoes are you going to wear?”

“I haven’t decided,” Barbara lied again, mindful of the new pair of sequined, black, three-inch heels sitting in their box in the closet. “Maybe you could give Ariel a call.”

“Ariel? Why would I call her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’d like to come over and watch the movie with you.”

“She’s a freak. Have you seen her lately?”

Barbara nodded, wondering how Susan put up with it, thankful that Tracey hadn’t felt the need to hack off her hair or violate her body with ugly tattoos. Three by the last count, Susan had confided. An ersatz Japanese symbol on Ariel’s right shoulder blade, something that looked like a squished pineapple on her left ankle, and the latest, a spiderweb on the back of her left thigh. Wait till she gets older and everything starts dropping. That spiderweb will look like varicose veins. Barbara checked the backs of her own legs for any sign of unsightly blue lines, mercifully finding none, although without her contact lenses, she couldn’t really be sure. Probably the only good thing about getting older, she decided, is that it got harder to see your body disintegrating around you.

“What about Kirsten?” Barbara pictured Vicki’s lovely flame-haired daughter, as popular as she was smart, and at fifteen, already decided on a career in law.

The look of disbelief on Tracey’s face said it all. Just because you and her mother are friends, the look said, doesn’t mean I’m going to be friends with her daughter.

I guess that’s right, Barbara thought sadly, sinking down beside her daughter on the bed and putting her arm around her. Immediately Tracey’s head burrowed into the side of her mother’s neck. Barbara had always assumed that, like their mothers, their offspring would become fast friends. They’d known each other almost all their lives. And yet, none of the girls was even remotely close to any of the others, which maybe wasn’t that surprising. They were all so different.

There was no point in even mentioning Chris’s daughter, Montana. No one had seen the girl in more than a year. Poor Chris, Barbara thought, her heart breaking.

Had it really been eighteen months since Chris had shown up on her doorstep on that bitter cold December night? Eighteen months since they’d sat together on this very bed? Eighteen months since they’d shared that wholly unexpected kiss?

Barbara brought her fingers to her lips, felt the ghost of Chris’s gentle touch. She shook her head. This was no time to be thinking such thoughts. Howard would be here in less than ten minutes. She had to finish getting ready. “What earrings should I wear?”

Tracey shrugged her indifference, then shuffled from the room, clumping down the stairs to the kitchen. Hearing her rifle through the fridge, Barbara frowned. “Stay away from the ice cream,” Barbara called out as she hurried into the bathroom to fluff out her hair and put in her lenses.

At exactly seven o’clock the doorbell rang, and Barbara floated down the stairs to greet the new man in her life. “I won’t be late,” she assured Tracey, kissing her daughter’s forehead on her way out the door.

Tracey’s eyes narrowed accusingly. “Are those new shoes?”

Barbara had met Howard six months ago when she’d signed up for a course in current affairs at the Mariemont Community Center, just down the street from the upscale boutique in which she’d been working for the better part of a year. The course was
the last thing in the world she’d felt like taking—did she really care that Iraq had ignored the January 15 deadline for withdrawing from Kuwait, and that Allied forces, which included the United States, Canada, Britain, France, Japan, Italy, and Pakistan, as well as members of the Arab League, had launched a retaliatory six-week air attack, or that the Soviets were suppressing independence movements in Baltic republics?—but it was a necessary part of her plan for getting on with her life. What choice had Ron left her?

Besides, if Chris could forge ahead despite Tony’s repeated threats and constant harassment, so could she. Hell, it was the least she could do.

And surprisingly, after several sessions, Barbara had found she did care about what was going on in the Mideast and the Soviet Union, that she was genuinely interested in the plight of the people of Somalia and South Africa. She discovered she enjoyed knowing there was a world beyond Grand Avenue, enjoyed knowing what was going on in that world, enjoyed talking about it, discussing important issues of the day with Susan and Vicki and Chris.

She hadn’t been looking for a man. In fact, she’d barely noticed Howard Kerble until the very last class of the term, when he’d accidentally dropped his heavily underlined newspaper to the floor, then spilled his coffee all over it while trying to retrieve it. “Problems?” Barbara had asked, helping him blot up the mess.

“Piles,” he’d replied, then smiled sheepishly. “And that’s only
one
of my problems.”

Barbara had laughed out loud, laughed with her
whole face, the first time she remembered having done that in years. And next thing she knew, she and Howard were having coffee together after class, then meeting for lunch the following week, then having dinner together the week after that.

Howard Kerble was a widower with two grown sons and a recent grandchild. I’m dating a grandfather, Barbara occasionally found herself thinking, relishing being cast in the unexpected role of the younger woman, although in truth, there were only eight years between them.

At first Barbara saw Howard Kerble only in relation to her ex-husband. Howard was tall, although not as tall as Ron, and more compact than Ron. His hair was sparser than Ron’s and more peppered with gray. His eyes were blue as opposed to brown; his fingers were longer, his hands smaller. If Ron was admittedly the handsomer of the two, Howard was easily the more distinguished, although less fussy than Ron had been, more accessible. He was every bit as smart as Ron, but less intent on showing off. He never talked about his work—insurance—whereas Ron’s conversation had always revolved around his teaching. Howard never made Barbara feel stupid, as Ron had. Howard made her feel valued. All Ron had ever made her feel was inadequate.

“Would you like to see my apartment?” Howard was asking her now. They were sitting in his black Lincoln Town Car in front of the modern, new condominium complex on Mehring Way.

“I’d like to, but …” But what? But it’s almost eleven o’clock and I should be getting home? But it’s been
such a lovely evening, why ruin it? But I haven’t been with a man since that awful marathon session with Kevin, and I haven’t even kissed anyone since …? My God, Barbara realized. Since Chris.

“You look beautiful,” Chris had whispered that night. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed
you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And then the kiss, followed immediately by the noise that had pulled them apart, sent them scurrying in separate directions, brought an awkward silence between them.

“About what happened before …,” Chris had tried to explain later.

“I understand,” Barbara had told her.

“Do you? Because I’m not sure I do.”

“Can we talk about it in the morning?”

Except they never had. The kiss they’d shared had vanished much like a dream, fragments of it lingering, teasing, courting deeper meaning, then disappearing, returning, ultimately evaporating, neither woman quite able to make sense of it, both afraid to try. So what had happened between them was never discussed, never so much as alluded to again. Barbara and Chris had fallen back into their lives, into their roles as friends and confidantes. Barbara had ultimately decided the kiss had been an expression of two lonely, vulnerable women at a particularly lonely, vulnerable point in both their lives. Nothing more.

And the truth was that as much as she often wished she didn’t, Barbara liked men—the sheer mass of them,
their bodies, their bulk, their effortless strength, the roughness of their skin, their smell. It had been way too long, she decided now, throwing caution to the wind, smiling at Howard. “I’d love to see your apartment,” she said.

The two-bedroom apartment was as beautiful as she’d known it would be. Simple but not overly macho. Floor-to-ceiling windows, hardwood floors, soft leather furniture, colorful area rugs, a spectacular view of the Ohio River.

“Would you like a drink?” Howard asked.

Barbara shook her head. “I’m not sure I can do this,” she whispered.

He didn’t ask what she meant. “Would you like me to take you home?” he asked instead.

“No. I don’t want to go home.”

“What do you want? I’ll do whatever you want.”

“That might be the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me,” Barbara said, and they both laughed.

“How about I think I might be falling in love with you?” Howard asked.

Barbara felt her eyes fill with tears. “That’s pretty nice too.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“You haven’t shown me your bedroom.”

Moments later, they were standing beside his king-size bed and steady hands were unzipping her dress. “It’s been a while,” she warned him. “I’m not sure I’ll even remember what to do. Are you going to tell me it’s like riding a bicycle?”

“Hell, no,” Howard said in genuine horror. “Every time I ride a bicycle, I fall off and break my wrist.”

She felt her dress slip from her body and drop to the floor, raised protective hands in front of her black lace bra and panties. “These boobs aren’t mine,” she blurted out as Howard leaned forward to kiss the side of her neck.

He looked confused. “Whose are they?”

“I had them … what’s the word? Augmented. Surgically enhanced.”

“You paid for these?”

Barbara nodded, holding her breath. Why had she said such a stupid thing?

“If you paid for them, I’d say that makes them yours.” Howard knelt down, kissing each one in turn.

“And I’ve had a tummy tuck,” Barbara continued, unable to stop the unwanted stream of confessions, as Howard pushed her gently back on the billowy white comforter of the bed. “I’m only telling you this because you might see some scars.”

“I had an appendectomy a few years ago.” Howard pulled up his shirt to reveal a long, jagged scar of his own.

At that moment Barbara knew without a doubt she was falling in love.

He took his time, exploring her body with gentle fingers, although Barbara was too nervous to really enjoy herself, too eager to get the job done. Next time, she’d be more relaxed, she told herself. Next time she wouldn’t be so concerned with mechanics, with making a good impression. Howard was a patient and caring lover, and it wasn’t his fault she was incapable of experiencing orgasm, she decided. After about five minutes of resolute pumping away, she volunteered a
few grunts and groans that had always worked with Ron but that didn’t seem to fool Howard at all. Maybe they hadn’t fooled Ron either. What was that awful joke she’d overheard one man tell another? “Why do women fake orgasms?” The answer: “Because they think we care.”

Howard cared. “What are you doing?” he asked with a sly smile as she thrashed around energetically beneath him. “I know you’re not ready.”

How did he know? “It’s not your fault,” she assured him quickly. “I never have orgasms. It has nothing to do with you.”