The Secret Keeping (5 page)

Fire. Fire in her mouth, on her tongue, smoldering in the back of her throat, down into her center. Fiery sweet. The blond was reading. What a delicious way to burn, Lydia was thinking. She smiled nervously and cleared her throat.

“A very good year,” the waiter said. He leveled his tray and she placed the emptied glass on it.

“Excellent,” he whispered, leaving her aflame while anonymous looked on with hidden pleasure.

_____

A clear day…sun’s rising with Sinatra…ten o’clock and…morning and…whoa, the phone…oh, it’s just Sinatra…Sinatra ringing on a clear day…daylight and…how wondrous and…astounding that…the phone of her being…outshines every wow…she felt part of…every mountain, sea or phone…she could hear…from far and near…the phone she never ever heard before…the phone was ringing…on a clear day…on a clear day…ten in the morning and…she could see for…ever…the phone…and ever…was ringing…and ever…was ringing…and ever…and eh…ver…more…click.

Lydia rolled over. The sun was streaming into the bedroom. It was ten o’clock and she had overslept. She shot out of bed remembering the work she had brought home for the weekend and with some trepidation searched the apartment for the briefcase which she had a sneaking suspicion she would not find. She was right.

Reflecting back at her in the bathroom mirror she found a sloppy version of herself and she lingered over it awhile finally deciding it was sexy. She went out to the kitchen and loaded up the coffee maker. The briefcase was undoubtedly at the bar. She picked up the phone, thought better of it and reset the receiver.

The gurgling sound and the smell of the coffee set her stomach rumbling and she played hide-and-seek with the refrigerator for a few minutes, then slammed the door in resignation.

Passing through the living room she followed the telltale path of drunkenly discarded clothes leading into the bedroom. She snatched them up along her way and quickly threw them into a hamper. It was getting to be a bad habit but it didn’t look like she was going to make the bed today, either. She rummaged in the closet for something casual, glancing over her shoulder and out the window to guess at the temperature. Hot, hot, hot. She settled on a light gray angora v-neck and a pair of black slacks.

Good enough, she said, having arranged herself into some semblance of order. She looked at her watch.

Eleven. The briefcase.

Probably happens all the time, Lydia thought, hastily gulping a cup of coffee. She got up from the counter and turned the coffee machine off. Her financials had been delivered; she tripped over them on the way out of the apartment. She held open the door and unceremoniously kicked them inside and then locked the door behind her. Waiting for the elevator she stole another look at the time. Half past eleven now. If she walked fast, she could get there before noon. It wasn’t that far to go.

She ran, walked, ran the fifteen or so blocks to Frank’s Place and when, breathlessly, she stepped inside, she congratulated herself.

The waiter smiled that smile of his and this morning she didn’t mind it.

The blond smiled as well, nodding in recognition. Lydia hoped it was a good thing that she was memorable to her, wincing a little at the recollection of her pratfall, the death of a rubber tree ballet’s premiere performance of the night before.

She inquired about the briefcase only to learn it had been given to one of her friends for safekeeping. It was no longer in the bar.

“A blond-haired woman?” she pressed, hopefully describing Delilah to the waiter.

“That’s the one,” the waiter said.

That’s all right then, she thought, and when he asked her if she was planning on lunch, she affirmed, once again indicating that she would be most comfortable against the wall.

She found the dining room bathed in sunlight, the window seat aglow in it. Lydia sat shaded in the shelter of her own table for one and breathed a sigh of complete satisfaction. It had been such a long time ago, she couldn’t even recall how long since she had felt contentment. It was the wholesomeness of the noonday surroundings, she mused over dessert. It worked like Zen.

_____

“There’s someone waiting for you in lobby,” said the doorman.

“Oh? I bet I know who that is,” Lydia replied. She found Delilah there, in good spirits, too.

“What’d you fall on your head last night?” Delilah asked, holding up the briefcase with a wry grin.

“C’mon, Del. I’ll make some coffee.”

In the elevator Delilah asked, “Who’d you leave with? I haven’t seen you like this in awhile.”

“Don’t I wish. I just ate. Are you hungry?”

“I brought biscotti. Mmmm–vanilla! Where did you eat?”

Lydia pushed open the apartment door and they both entered.

“Oh, just down the block,” she lied. “Nothing fancy, you know.”

Delilah dropped the briefcase in a chair by the door. “I tried to call you about that this morning.” She eyed Lydia. “Jesus, this place is a mess,” she said in horror.

Lydia got the coffee going and then stood in the living room next to Delilah.

“It is!” she agreed with a hint of delight. “I’ve been so busy.”

Delilah’s eyes narrowed. “Sit down, Liddy. We’re gonna talk.”

Lydia sat on the couch. She was not exactly opposed to it anymore.

Delilah set herself up with coffee and biscotti on the floor. “Okay. Talk.”

“Del? Just like that? About what?”

“Talk.”

Lydia went into the kitchen, returning a minute later with her own cup of coffee.

“Out with it, please.”

“I’m thinking,” she said, positioning herself on the couch. She took a few sips and looked thoughtfully out the window before speaking. “What do you make of someone going into a bar alone and just reading, reading all the time?” she asked without looking.

“Someone going alone?” Delilah knew who. “I don’t. I don’t make anything about it at all. And you?”

“Tell me, Del. What’s it mean to you? Objectively. Why would someone do that?”

Delilah whistled and they both laughed.

“Well, if I had to guess, and it’s probably a pretty good guess, Liddy, I’d say it meant that someone was fleeing someone else. At least for a few hours, if you catch my drift.”

She did. She stared out the window again. That’s probably a good guess.

“I’m going to point out something else that’s obvious here, Ms. Beaumont.”

“What is it, Del?”

“She’s a woman.”

Lydia scrunched up her face and opened her eyes wide at her. (And?)

“Liddy…?” Delilah got up off the floor and sat on the other end of the couch. She ran her hand through her hair in mild agitation. (Just wide eyes, no words?) Well, she thought, chuckling under her breath and leaning against the armrest.

“Well?” Lydia prompted.

“You did fall on your head,” Delilah answered. She waved her empty coffee mug meaningfully and Lydia went out to the kitchen and refilled it.

“Why do you say that?” Lydia shouted from the kitchen. “Tell me why,” she repeated, handing Delilah the mug and sitting beside her.

Delilah blew across it and stared at Lydia over its rim. Lydia smiled back.

“Liddy…she’s a beautiful woman. But you can bet your life she has someone, a woman like that.”

Lydia drummed the pillow with her fingers. “But she doesn’t wear a ring.”

“Ugh! Wedding rings are not surgically attached, you know?”

Yes, she knew that. “But, Del, she never leaves with anyone. She’s never with anyone.” She avoided Delilah’s eyes.

“Liddy?” came the vexed response. “How do you know all that?”

How did she know all that? She wasn’t really sure.

“What are we talking about here, anyway?” Delilah demanded. “Do I understand what we’re talking about?”

Lydia threw her arms up in the air. “I don’t know.”

The pouting lips. Hadn’t she seen that look before? “There’s easier pickings, Liddy.”

Lydia sighed. “I’m not saying that. I simply find her interesting.”

“Interesting? Let’s try it this way. Have you ever even talked to her? You know. Hi, my name is Lydia Beaumont and I’m eager to ruin my life?”

“Ruin my life?”

“Or, hello my name is Lydia and I will not clean or bathe until you sleep with me.” She swung her arm, implicating Lydia by her cluttered rooms.

Lydia clasped her hands together and took in her friend’s amused face. “You think?” she asked. The place was a mess. She hadn’t bathed today.

“That you want to sleep with her…am I getting this right? Yes, I think you want to sleep with her. Two straight women, for godsakes– you’re after the mismatch of the century, Liddy.”

Silence.

“Besides, that woman’s trouble. I can feel it.”

“What do you mean? How can a woman be trouble?”

“How? You’re adorable. Trust me, kid, she’s trouble.”

“I do trust you. I find her attractive, that’s all. That’s as far as it goes.”

“Attractive she is. But if it’s a one-nighter you need, then order it from the bar. They’d be happy to oblige you, pardner, and you know it.”

She groaned in response.

“That’s my learned opinion, Liddy. Upon which, I urge you to rely.”

Lydia sighed and went over to the window, her gaze wandering restlessly over the cityscape. Her drive was coming back. Out of commission for so long, she had hardly noticed it was missing till now. Now it was flooding through her veins again, with nowhere to direct it. Unlike Delilah, she had an aversion to picking up strangers, had no real knack for anonymous one-night stands. Even when she was younger she would always back out at the last heated minute. In fact, she was practically famous for that. Or infamous, who cares?

Under her own pressure she had found herself reevaluating those apprehensions. She was at times researching the suits lined up eight to the bar. Her studies were, at best, inconclusive.

The sun was warm through the glass and she lifted her face up to it and shut her eyes, the heat of its rays on her lids, holding them down, heavy and almost contented. They glistened in the sun, lustrous. She loved sunshine.

“Del, I can’t. I’ve tried.”

_____

It had finally reached that intolerable state where navigating herself through it was as treacherous as a minefield. The place looked like a college dorm instead of a grown woman’s apartment and Lydia was too embarrassed to hire a maid.

She stood in the middle of it on a Saturday morning armed with an array of cleaning products and implements and wearing a mildly perplexed expression, blue jeans and an old sweatshirt with faded letters imprinted on the front that read, “I stink therefore I am.” It was too late for wondering how it all had happened. She just had to clean it up.

She popped in a CD and began with the living room because it required the most attention, discovering in and around the couch a host of items one might find useful in the kitchen. Forks, knives, a service for twenty, if one didn’t mind mismatched plates. She stacked everything that belonged to the kitchen in the sink and continued the treasure hunt, eventually coming across an unopened letter from her mother bearing a three-month-old postmark.

Lydia took off her rubber gloves and ripped it open guiltily. It was the same stuff, a blah-blah-blah written in the flawless penmanship that all the women of that generation seem to have, talking in smooth flowing paragraphs about the sorts of things only those women have time to consider: her lawns, her gardens, the grandchildren she now accepted she would never have, as if it was possibly her own decision to make or accept. Lydia laughed out loud. The woman was relentless. She scanned the rest of it quickly. Not a mention of her dad. Well, he deserved that. She pinned the letter over her computer so she would remember to send the old gadfly an e-mail.

It was amazing how little progress she had made by noon. In some ways, what with the throwaways standing in teetering stacks and all, it actually looked worse.

It was just a temporary phase the room was going through, Lydia said, trying to bolster herself by using a favorite expression of her mother’s. She stopped in her tracks when she heard it– having it come out of her own mouth was a bit alarming.

Poor mom.

It would be wrong to send her an e-mail, she decided then. She retrieved the letter from her office and taped it next to the living room phone instead. She’d try to give her a call this evening, she promised, as she tied her running shoes and grabbed a wool hat, heading off late for lunch.

Outside, the cold grabbed at her and, having forgotten a coat, she thought it best to jog the fifteen blocks to Frank’s Place. She showed up hot and sweaty and loitered at the door until the waiter finally recognized her.

“And therefore you are,” he said.

She gave him a puzzled look and started for her table.

“Madam?” He gestured meaningfully with his finger at the side of his face and when Lydia failed to comprehend he took her arm and discreetly led her to the mirror.

She laughed self-consciously at a silly reflection and wiped off an unflattering smudge of some unknown substance with the tissue he had offered.

“Do you need a comb?” he suggested benignly.

The hat. She pulled it off and smiled shyly as she took the comb from his hand.

“What’s for lunch?” she whispered, excitedly fixing her hair.

“It’s a surprise,” he said, escorting her to her table. “Like your outfit,” he teased.

“Oh, my god,” she said, suddenly remembering the sophomoric sweatshirt and spying the blond turning her head toward the window, her amusement palpable. “I was cleaning.”

He held the chair for her and she sat down.

“We see that.”

_____

When you have nothing, it’s easier to see what you need.

In her cleanings on Sunday, Lydia Beaumont came across an abandoned pair of gold cufflinks and a light blue dress shirt, both items belonging to a certain tall-dark-handsome named Rio Joe. She’d be damned before she would ever give them back to him and risk being reminded by one of those awful sneers that he had once been the master of her flame. She deposited them in the garbage chute and on Monday morning arranged to have the apartment completely emptied.

_____