Birthday Girls (25 page)

He peered over the half-glasses that rested on his nose and set down the teacup. “Kris. Hello. I thought you were hard at work upstairs.”

She shrugged. “My characters aren’t cooperating. I punish them by abandoning them.”

Edmund laughed. “Have a seat,” he said, and gestured to the leather sofa across from the desk.

“I did some art research once,” she said, sliding onto the sofa and crossing her long legs in a practiced move that hiked her hemline sinfully high. She wished she could banish the unfamiliar feeling that she was making a fool of herself. “I intended to have Lexi Marks come up against an art thief.”

Setting down the magnifying glass, Edmund nodded. “An appropriate conflict for your heroine, I’m sure.”

Her neatly plucked eyebrow lifted. “Don’t tell me you’re familiar with Lexi?”

His smile looked genuine. “Of course. I’ve read all your books. It’s fun to read something by someone you know. Even though, until now, we’ve only met once or twice, somehow I feel like I have the inside story, like I know more than the reader next to me on the plane who’s reading the same book.”

She laughed. “I’ve never heard it put that way. I guess it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

Without thinking Kris said, “I don’t believe Abigail has ever read more than my first.”
Damn
, she thought. She hadn’t intended this to be a conversation about his “wife.”

“Abigail,” Edmund replied, “does not have the patience to read.”

Black coffee and cigarettes
, Kris thought but did not say,
perhaps don’t enable her to sit still long enough
. Not to mention the apparent fact that Abigail had been too unhappy for too many years to slow down and relax, or to venture escape among the pages of a book.

Leaning across the desk, Edmund slipped off his eyeglasses. “So how did it work out? With the art thief?”

Kris shook her head. “It became too confusing. All those Monets and Manets and Renoirs. I’m afraid as a
creative person my mind stops with the written word. All that business about light and dimension and real and surreal baffles the hell out of me.”

“You should have called. Maybe I could have helped.”

The gentleness of his voice set Kris at ease. He
was
a good man. He was a nice man. And he most undoubtedly would be a good specimen for her child. For her family. The family she could call her own. “Maybe I’ll resurrect the idea,” she said, then glanced at her watch.

Slowly Kris rose from the sofa. “That book you’re studying,” she said, pointing to the desktop while easing around to his side. “Are there any exciting works in there that might help me?” She leaned over his shoulder, close enough so he could not help but inhale her light musk, too close for a houseguest and platonic conversation.

Quickly he turned back to the book. One hand braced itself against the edge. One hand scratched his ear.

Good
, Kris thought,
I’m making him nervous
.

“This has some plates of Berthe Morisot,” he said. “Not as much a household name as Monet or Renoir, but an impressionist nonetheless.” He slipped on his half-glasses and steadied his eyes on the page.

Kris reached out to touch the book and ran a long, bronze finger across the muted colors of a woman standing in a dining room. She moved a little closer and lowered her voice. “Tell me about the artist. What about his life?” Her gaze fell to the gold band on the third finger of his left hand. A twinge of guilt threatened to surface. Then she reminded herself that it wasn’t as if Abigail cared. She was about to leave him anyway.

“Well, first of all, Morisot wasn’t a ‘he.’ It was a she. She was married to Manet’s brother, in fact.”

“Ah, now that’s the sort of thing that interests me. When was this?”

He hesitated, not raising his gaze from the picture. “Late nineteenth century.”

“A Victorian,” she whispered.

“A woman Victorian. Painting. Can you imagine that?”

She shifted on one hip, the moved her finger to brush the side of his hand.

He scratched his ear again. “This painting is actually called ‘In the Dining Room.’ It was done in 1886 … by this time her style had altered from Manet to Renoir.”

“A woman artist,” Kris breathed. “Yet the woman she paints seems so serene.”

With a nervous laugh he replied, “Serene, yes. But don’t forget that every Victorian woman was expected to feel serene in the dining room.”

She rested her hand on his arm. “Isn’t it wonderful that times have changed.” It was not a question; it was a statement. She held her fingers on the sleeve of his light wool shirt.

He moved to one side a little, creating a safe space. He took off his glasses and rubbed at what Kris was sure was a nonexistent itch in his eye.

She smiled and leaned away, teasing, toying. She loved the effect she had on men. She loved her dominance, their pliability. It always surprised her that other women could not see it, could not understand how weak the male species really was.

Then Edmund turned the page. And suddenly they were both looking at a naked young model, hands cupped to her breasts, a long scarf of chiffon draped over her thighs.

“She’s lovely,” Kris said.

“Yes,” he replied.

“So soft.”

“Yes.”

“And young.”

“Yes.”

She sat on the edge of his desk, her hemline grazing his hand, her leg nearly meeting his skin. “Edmund?” she asked.

“Yes?”

She reached down and lifted his hand, then gently placed it on her thigh. He stared at it there, his hand under hers, not caressing, not moving, as if his fingers were detached from the rest of his being, as if they belonged to another, not him.

And then Kris slowly guided his hand, prodding it to stroke the soft flesh of her thigh, urging it toward her moistening warmth.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Kris leaped from the desk. “Abigail,” she said to the fire-eyed woman who stood in the doorway.

“Darling,” Edmund said, dropping his hand to his lap.

“Kris,” Abigail snarled, without meeting her eyes. “Get out of here. I need to talk to my husband.”

They never
made it to dinner.

Maddie’s new dress lay heaped in the corner of Cody’s small bedroom. She stood in front of the long mirror and frowned at the reflection of the woman in the thin silk chemise. She had not worn one since she and Parker had been newlyweds, eons ago, since they had danced in the moonlight that shimmered over the bay at their honeymoon suite on Waikiki.

Now she touched the lace that edged the top of the smooth, pale blue fabric. Beneath the lace, tiny darts formed soft peaks where her nipples were supposed to be. But Maddie’s breasts hung, instead, well below their designated place; her nipples aimed toward her navel.

As Abigail had said, some things neither nature—nor Andrew—can conceal.

Tipping back her head Maddie sprayed another mist of cologne at her throat, grateful that Cody had understood when she’d asked for a few minutes alone, grateful that he had not minded her retreat into the privacy of his bedroom, the door closed behind her.

She wondered what he would think. Would he be turned off by the pliant flesh of an older woman?

Stop it
, she scolded herself.
Stop it right now. You have a lot to offer him
.

Sinking onto the blue plaid futon, Maddie folded her hands and tried to pretend there were no flutters in her child-bearing, stretch-marked stomach, no doubts in her muddled mind. And then she thought about Abigail again, about Kris. About their birthday wishes.

Then she thought about their bodies.

It had been years since she’d seen either of them undressed or half-dressed or in the act of dressing. Probably not since they’d been giggling teenagers, crammed into the same locker room at the swim club, or squeezed into dressing rooms at Bloomingdale’s in search of the perfect outfit for the Friday night dance. They—Abigail and Kris—had always had good bodies, with things that stuck out where they were supposed to and dents where they were meant to dent.

Maddie sighed and ran her hand across the soft, goose-bumped flesh of her belly. Her body had never been like theirs. Other than Parker she had not had a lover, except for that boy—Russ was his name—one summer at camp. But that had been mere groping and grabbing and innocent teenage stuff. It had not been … sex.

Her mind jumped back to Parker. She wondered how he was going to be jealous of her new, young lover if he had no way of finding out.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Maddie jumped and caught her breath.

“Maddie?” Cody asked. “Are you okay?”

Her hands began to tremble, her heart began to thump. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to suck in her stomach, praying for courage, seeking a miracle to transform her into a sexual goddess, into a world where lovers were lovers and sex was just sex. Where ex-husbands never crawled into the beds of consenting adults.

The knock came again. “Maddie?”

She opened her eyes. Her gaze fell on her thighs. Well-worked-out thighs, but still forty-nine-going-on-fifty thighs. Not like Abigail’s. Not like Kris’s. And certainly not like Sharlene’s.

“One minute,” she called, with a slight squeak in her voice. Then she bounded up from the futon, slipped the chemise over her head, stuffed it back in her bag, and pulled on her rumpled dress.

She opened the door.

“Maddie,” he said gently. “We don’t have to do this. If you’re not comfortable …”

She looked into his deep brown eyes. “I don’t think I can …” She wished the mouse would get out of her voice. She wished that damned tear had not escaped. With a swift hand, she brushed her cheek.

“Hey,” Cody said, leaning in and touching her face. “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay.”

She reached up and took his hand. So warm, so strong. So
young
. She carefully stroked his fingers. He stood motionless, watching her. “It’s just that it’s new to me,” she said, then quickly added, “Not sex, of course. But this. This …”

He put his arms around her, enveloped her. “ ’This what? Making love to a younger man?”

She did not answer, but closed her eyes and let herself feel him close to her. Another tear—a longing, bared open
tear—slid down her other cheek. A tear for Parker, perhaps. A teat for the man who no longer held her, no longer kissed her, no longer was part of her life.

Cody leaned down and kissed her hair. Once. Twice. Three gentle, caring times.

She pulled back a little and looked into his eyes again, her soft thighs unimportant, her stretch marks fading from her mind. “Hold me, Cody,” Maddie whispered. “Hold me, touch me, and make love to me. Please.”

Kris gazed
out the tall, velvet-draped window of her room in the west wing, wondering why she had done what she’d done, and what right Abigail had to be angry.

It had, after all, been Abigail’s idea.

Hadn’t it?

She looked beyond the glass to the reflecting pool shimmering in the moonlight, a dusky mirror that held the knowledge of her many past sins, the demons of her darkness. She stared at it a moment, a moment too long.

And then the feelings returned. A gnawing chill seeped into her, dampening her spirit with its cold, clammy grip of reality. She tried to take in a breath; it was shallow and weak despite the rapid pace of her pulse.

For a moment she stood motionless, frozen by the image that stretched before her, glued by the pain, deadened to the bone.

She blinked. She breathed again. More deeply this time, more able.

Quickly Kris turned to the closet. She had to pack her things. She had to leave this damn place once and for all.

What the hell was she doing here anyway?

Why had she ever come back?

Why had she ever answered Abigail’s stupid request for lunch?

She wondered these things in rapid succession, then told herself to move, to get out her suitcase, to leave before Abigail was through talking to Edmund.

But all Kris could do was grasp the large bangles that encircled her wrist and spin them around and around, as if they could unwind the torment within her, as if they could undo the guilt.

It wasn’t, she knew, about Edmund.

If she wanted a child that badly, surely she could figure it out for herself. If there was one thing Kris Kensington was capable of, it was getting a man into her bed. She didn’t need Edmund and she didn’t need this godforsaken place. This constant reminder that she was not good enough, that she was not worthy, and that, of all things, she was half-black. Half a little slave girl, a plaything for the master.

She stood there, staring at the closet. And then she was aware that Abigail stood there too, arms folded, body rigid.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Abigail said.

“I did nothing wrong.”

“You tried to seduce my husband.”

“It was your idea.”

“I hardly meant it.”

Kris looked at her friend, the girl who’d had everything, the woman who had everything and was going to throw it all away. “Make up your mind, Abigail,” she said, suddenly regaining the ability to move. She stepped toward the closet and began dropping garments into her suitcase.

“What goes on in my mind is none of your business.”

“You made it my business the day you summoned us to lunch.”

“I needed you …”

“No, Abigail, you don’t need anyone,” Kris said, zipping closed the rim of her suitcase. “You never did.”

“You’re the one who’s never needed anyone!”

“You don’t know anything about me.” Kris hoisted the suitcase over her shoulder. Abigail reached over and yanked it from her.

“Oh, yes, I do. I know that you’re miserable and alone and are obviously willing to go to … to any length to have a child. But you can’t punish me by trying to steal Edmund just because you think God is punishing you for having that abortion.”

“Give me my suitcase, Abigail. You’re not making sense.”

Abigail pulled the case closer to her chest. “I know you feel like you killed a child, Kris. I assume you had your reasons.”

“I did.”

“So you could live free? So you didn’t have to be weighted down by responsibilities? So you wouldn’t have to feel anger and pain and shit—like the rest of us have had to feel?”