Goddess (9 page)

“Martin Adaji, They were together for almost ten years but he’s living in London now.”

“That’s sad,” I said without thinking, “not being able to be with the one you love.”

Stupid. Why was I saying this to a man whose wife was murdered?
I glanced over at him, but he seemed not to notice my
faux pas
.

“It’s this way,” he said. He took my arm gently.

At the end of the hall, we stopped in front of a door. He opened it, revealing a steep, narrow staircase with no handrail. “There’s another door at the top,” he said. “I’ll follow you up.”

I hesitated a moment. I didn’t want Ashland Stewart’s eyes on me as I mounted the stairs. On the other hand, it would be good to have someone there to catch me if I lost my balance and tumbled backwards. “Be careful, Mrs. Nelson. It’s not well lit.”

“Please stop calling me that. Not even my kids’ friends call me Mrs. Nelson.”

I mounted the steps slowly. A single light fixture at the top of the stairway lit the passage and I could barely see the steps under my feet.

“I’m glad you came tonight, Julia.” His voice felt as if it was enveloping me in the narrow space.

“I like TJ, but when he told me he wanted to meet me because of my tattoo I felt like an artifact put on display.”

“You’re a very beautiful artifact.”

I almost missed a step, stumbling slightly. He put his hand on my back. It made me feel even more unsteady.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have been so forward. I wouldn’t have told TJ about your tattoo if I knew he was going to make such a big deal about it.”

I wanted to turn around and run back down the stairs, but I couldn’t. I was trapped, with no way to go but up. Was that his plan all along? “I hope TJ didn’t think my tattoo was going to lead to anything, other than an interesting conversation.”

“If you feel uncomfortable, Julia, we’ll turn around and I’ll take you back to the party.”

I could feel my breathing constrict and my heart race wildly. Every rational fiber of my being told me to accept his offer.

“I really would like to see Matilda’s Nest. I’m fascinated by history.”

“Then we only have a few more steps.”

I was relieved to reach the top of the staircase. Opening another door, I stepped into a small dark room. I moved aside so Ashland could join me.

He reached up to pull on a dangling cord. An overhead light snapped on, briefly illuminating the room. It emitted a loud pop as the bulb failed. “Sorry. I’ll fix that before I leave,” he said. “Not that TJ will probably ever be up here again.”

I could hear a twinge of sadness in his voice. The only light came from the full moon hanging low over the water. I turned to look at his face, but it was hidden in shadow, so I couldn’t read the feelings there. We were in a conical-shaped space not much larger than a walk-in closet. By necessity, we had to stand close together. Paneled in rich wood, it contained a small round rug and a telescope trained out an enormous, floor-to-ceiling window. Gazing at the dark, silent water far below us made me feel lightheaded again.

I noticed a portrait on the wall. “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the severe looking man with a full Captain Ahab beard.

“Grover Ambrost. He built this house in 1870. He owned a timber company and would come up here to watch his ships as they passed by on the lake.”

“Why is it called Matilda’s Nest then?”

“Matilda was his wife. According to legend, Grover was returning on one of his ships from a mill in Ontario. There was a terrible storm out on the lake. When the ship didn’t arrive on time, Matilda came up here to watch for him. She stood at that telescope, refusing to come down. The maids had to bring up food and a chamber pot.”

“Did he finally return?”

“The ship and crew were never seen again. Supposedly, Matilda never left this room and finally died up here.”

“Let me guess. Her ghost still haunts the house.”

“Well of course, though TJ says he’s never seen or heard from her, much to his disappointment.”

I turned back to him. “So he hasn’t met a ghost, but he thinks he’s met a goddess.”

“There was a time when I would have dismissed the idea as another of TJ’s attempts at glib humor. But lately, I’ve found myself reflecting on things I hadn’t thought of in many years.”

I heard the pain in his voice, and felt my own defenses start to crumble. “What kinds of things?” I asked gently.

“As you’ve probably read, my wife died a number of years ago.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. It must have been awful.”

“I didn’t deal with it well at the time. The truth is, I avoided it as much as possible.” He looked at me; his eyes seemed even brighter in the darkness. “I kept myself busy for days, weeks, months, and I could almost forget the image of her body lying alone in the desert.”

His eyes drifted past me to take in the dark expanse of water. He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was like a ship on the distant horizon. “When I was at Magoa, I started having dreams about her. She was with me and everything was fine. We were working together, or laughing and talking, or just sharing a quiet moment. I would wake up in my tent, and just for a moment, perhaps only a second or two, the dream was real. Then I would realize the truth.”

“Is that why you broke up with Nina?”

“Nina is a smart, capable, kind person. But being at Magoa made me want something deeper.”

A cloud had passed across the moon, obscuring his face, but his eyes seemed to penetrate the darkness. I was frightened and claustrophobic. It felt like the walls of this little room were contracting, pushing us together. But I didn’t want that. I couldn’t want that.
I’m not your dead wife,
I wanted to scream at him.
I’m somebody else’s wife.

“Dr. Stewart—“

“Ashland.”

“You need to know the truth. I was feeling unhappy with my current life, but for the most part, it’s wonderful. All I wanted was an interesting job. I found that. I don’t want anything else.”

“I understand,” he said. “I never thought you did. The idea that your tattoo is a sign that you’re what I’m looking for isn’t rational, and I’m sure the only reason you came up here with me is because you’re drunk.”

I frowned at him. “That’s not true. You’re an interesting man. I like you. I enjoy talking to you.” My words sounded so ordinary compared to the intensity of the feelings I was trying to suppress, the feelings I could never share with him. Our eyes met and, for a moment, a charged silence descended on us.

He broke it by nodding towards the window behind me. “There’s a ship out on the horizon.”

I turned and scanned the lake, finally spotting a line of flashing yellow lights that seemed to hover like specters above the waves.

“Let’s take a look,” he said. He stepped forward and our shoulders touched briefly. I was sure the electricity I felt was going to light up the room.

He bent over the telescope and adjusted the focus. “It’s a large freighter. You don’t see them very often anymore.” He stood and turned to me. “Would you like to take a look?”

He stepped aside so I could reach the telescope. I could barely breathe now, the space felt so constricted. I was in danger of falling, of slipping away from reason.

You need to leave,
my conscious screamed.

Instead, I stepped up to the instrument. I bent over and strained to make out the ship but all I could see was inky darkness. “I can’t see anything,” I confessed.

“Here,” he said. I moved my head out of the way so he could check the focus, but I didn’t stand again. Instead, I followed the telescope’s smooth line out to the dark, distant horizon. His breathing was soft and steady, and I could smell whiskey and shaving cream and a hint of something deeply sensual.

“Try it again,” I heard him say. He sounded far away, but when I turned to him, he was right there, his face inches from mine, his mouth parted slightly, as if there was more to be said.

But there wasn’t. There were only our lips greedily seeking one another. We were standing now I think, but I felt as if, despite every precaution, I had slipped from the precipice and was free-falling. This man I barely knew, I wanted him so badly. My tongue reached out and found his. I could feel his strong hands on my hips, pulling me to him. I wanted him to swallow me. I wanted to be inside him. I wanted to understand his pain and longing.

But I could hear another voice, somewhere deep at the bottom of the lake, muffled but straining to be heard.
You need to come up for air,
it shouted.
You’re going to drown.

I managed to pull myself away, to stumble backwards, banging against the telescope, sending it into a wild spin. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. I turned and plunged forward, blindly finding the door.

CHAPTER 6

I stumbled down the stairway as quickly as I could manage.
Hold onto the wall; one foot in front of the other; breathe
. The prospect of arriving headfirst at the second floor, followed in all likelihood by Ashland Stewart carrying me the rest of the way, forced me to slow down.

I managed to make it back to the hallway without incident. He hadn’t followed. Now what? My strongest desire was to rush out the front door, dive into the Prius, and escape to the safety of my home. But I wasn’t some fragile, naive young virgin. Even if I had denied it could possibly happen, I couldn’t deny that I had wanted it.

I had wanted him.

I was also mature enough to know that what happened between two people at a party where we both had been drinking didn’t necessarily mean anything. I was still a married woman, and he was still a man who preferred his women barely out of adolescence.

I descended the staircase to the first floor in slow, measured steps. A beautiful Chopin piano sonata welcomed me back to reality. I paused at the foot of the stairs to catch my breath. I could see Dr. Reiniger through the doorway, seated at the piano, his body erect, his eyes bright and focused. His face was serene, lost in the passion and intensity of the piece. It was as if the ivory had contained a cure for cancer, and he was letting it flow in through his fingertips.

His guests stood in small clumps, listening in enthralled silence as his frail fingers danced joyfully across the keys. The music had restored him.

As the sonata washed over me, I grabbed onto the newel for support. I could feel my heart still beating rapidly, but it wasn’t from confusion.

It was from longing.

I approached the room, hovering at the edge of the gathering, captivated by music that seemed at a perfect pitch for my current state. I didn’t turn around to confirm it, but I could feel Ashland’s presence. My eyes slipped back to the staircase. Yes, he was there, watching me. But I didn’t know what emotions lay behind those inscrutable eyes.

There were other sensations too—a seeping wetness in my groin and a tingle in the pit of my stomach. My mind may have rejected him coldly, but my body had other things in mind.

I purposely turned my attention to the other middle-aged wives in the room. Some of them were more attractive than me. Ashland very well might be the kind of man who enjoys sexual conquests wherever he could find them. Perhaps he had invited some of these other women to see Matilda’s Nest and shared her tragic story, which, as far as I knew, he could have invented. He could have even fucked them on the floor of that little room. There were certainly plenty of men who would have done just that.

I realized how cynical I was being—a defensive response to stifle my desire. But even if he was every bad thing I could imagine, I still wanted him.

Dr. Reiniger finished the piece with a flourish. His guests immediately broke into enthusiastic applause. He smiled slightly, and then is body seemed to wither again, like a balloon after the partygoers had long departed. Ashland stepped quickly past me without a word or a sidelong glance and helped his dying friend to a nearby chair.

I stayed another half hour, which seemed sufficient time to prove to Ashland that he hadn’t rattled me. As I chatted with Larry and a few faculty members, I could see him standing by himself at the edge of the room, a drink in hand. If he was watching me, he was being very discreet about it. He looked solitary and pensive, but perhaps that was part of his act.

“You look like your mind is back in the 16
th
Century.” Larry’s voice brought me back to the present. I turned to him. I hadn’t heard a word he’d said in the last five minutes.

“Just a little tired,” I responded. “I’d better get home.”

While Larry retrieved my coat, I approached Dr. Reiniger. He offered me a weary smile. “What did you think of Matilda’s Nest?” he asked.

“It’s a sad story.”

“Great passion often leads to great loss.” He took my hand again. It felt as insubstantial as a breeze. “You know, Chopin had a passionate, difficult relationship with George Sand. He died when he was 39. His friend Count Grzymała said he would have lived 40 more years if it weren’t for their love affair. But Chopin composed his greatest works while he was with her, and I don’t think he would have traded their love for 40 years of quotidian life.” He looked up at me, his eyes twinkling inside his failing body. “But then, you’re a goddess, an immortal, so you don’t have to make that choice.”

“Trust me, Dr. Reiniger,” I said. “I’m no goddess.”

“Perhaps someday we’ll meet again on the other side of eternity. Then we’ll know for sure.”

~*~

Thankfully, Matt’s car wasn’t in the garage when I got home. After paying Isabelle, I went directly to the bedroom. I didn’t bother with my vibrator—a gentle circular motion with two fingers was all that was required.
Ashland Stewart is an attractive man,
I told myself.
This doesn’t mean anything.

Whatever his motivations, what happened tonight was real. I could still feel his firm but smooth lips and my thighs still tingled from the touch of his hands.

My fingers were a blur now. A moment later I let out a soft moan as my orgasm coursed through me. My body wanted him, even if my conscious was calling out,
No!

I fell asleep and dreamed of Matilda’s nest. I was the one waiting, gazing anxiously through the telescope, watching for a ship to arrive safely home. Finally, I spotted it, tossed by the storm, illuminated by the narrow beam of a nearby lighthouse. I watched helplessly as waves crashed over the big boat, sweeping the crew and passengers from the deck into the raging waters. I could make out Matt’s terrified face, holding tightly to our children as the churning surf sucked them under. I turned, and there was Ashland in my bedroom, watching me, waiting patiently, his blue eyes intense. He held out his hand to me and there, in his palm, was the goddess symbol.

Frightened, I turned back to the telescope. The lake was calm. My family and the ship were gone.

~*~

The following morning, I arrived in the kitchen bleary-eyed, hair uncombed, a bathrobe wrapped snugly around me. Lily stood by the coffee pot, cup in hand, watching me with bemusement. “How did the dress go over?” she asked.

“Fine. I mean, I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

She looked me up and down as if she were cross-examining an unreliable witness. “Yeah, right.”

I would see Van that afternoon at gymnastics class. Her son was one of three boys in a gym full of little girls. I considered telling Mackenzie that we couldn’t go; I didn’t want to talk about last night. I didn’t want to think about it. But of course, “the incident” as I had labeled it in my head, overwhelmed my thoughts as I raked leaves in the front yard, wearing old, out-of-style jeans and a flannel shirt I had dug out of Matt’s closet.
Ha,
I thought,
I wonder what Dr. Reiniger would think of his goddess now?

~*~

“Holy shit,” Van exclaimed. We were huddled in a corner of a small lobby outside the gym that served as a holding area for the few parents who waited while their kids worked the parallel bars and balance beam. “Are you going to fuck him?”

“Of course not,” I shot back.

“You know, before I met Dave, I thought people who cheated on their spouses were selfish jerks. I was sure if I did it, I’d regret it for the rest of my life. But that first time, driving home afterwards, you know what I felt? Elation. I was so happy, being with a man who wanted me more than anything. It was such an amazing feeling.”

“But you never had that with Trent,” I objected.

“So what? Just because Matt was hot for you once doesn’t mean you should settle for what you have now.”

“If I’m unhappy with my marriage, I should talk to Matt. We should be working on it.”

“I’m sure that’s what Ann Landers would tell you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everybody says keeping up the passion is a lot of work, but maybe that’s because we’re fighting against nature. Did you ever think that this idea that we can stay sexually attracted to one person for the rest of our lives is a myth created by society? Men were never expected to do that. We like to make an example of the few people who can keep it up for thirty years, pardon my pun, but they’re the exception to the rule. It reminds me of an old joke about Calvin Coolidge.”

“Calvin Coolidge?”

“Don’t ask me why him. I heard it in my college psychology class. Supposedly, the president and his wife were taking separate tours of a farm. The guide shows Mrs. Coolidge the chicken coop and tells her, ‘A rooster mates up to 20 times a day.’

“Mrs. Coolidge nods her head, impressed, and says, ‘Tell
that
to Mr. Coolidge.’

“So later on the same guide is showing the president the chickens and tells him about the rooster’s prowess. Coolidge listens, then asks the guide, ‘Same chicken?’

“The guide shakes his head. ‘ Oh no, a different chicken every time.’

“And the president says, ‘Tell
that
to Mrs. Coolidge.’”

I laughed and shook my head. “Calvin Coolidge isn’t going to convince me to have an affair with Ashland Stewart.”

“So are you going to quit or file a sexual harassment suit, or both?”

“I don’t know.”

~*~

Bistro Sorbonne wasn’t want it used to be, or perhaps it was Matt and me who had changed. The small dining area felt crowded and noisy. The tables were too close together. The burst of shrill laughter from the four young women at the next table made it hard to think. Plus, I was still feeling the aftereffects of the martinis and everything else that happened the previous night.

“If you don’t like it, just quit,” Matt was saying to me from across the table between bites of his salad. “It’s not like you even need to give notice. It’s just a temp job.”

“I like it, it’s just…” I sipped my onion soup. I couldn’t tell Matt the truth. So why had I brought this up? Why had I even suggested a date night when my head was so muddled? Perhaps I wanted Matt to be my knight in shining armor who rode in and saved me from a danger he had no idea even existed. “There’s just a lot of personality issues,” I continued, “and I feel like what I’m doing isn’t going to make a contribution. It doesn’t seem like Brother Ferreira is even going to get shipwrecked.”

“You know,” Matt said, “I told the guys last night that you were looking for a job and Tim said there was an opening for an events coordinator at his office. I think you’d be great at that.”

“I don’t have any qualifications.”

“Just substitute lawyers for children and you’ve got all the experience you need.”

“You think so?”

Matt reached out and took my hand. He rarely held it in public anymore. “Tim said you could work flex time, and it’ll pay a lot better than this translation work.”

I squeezed his fingers. “All right, I guess it doesn’t hurt to apply.”

He smiled and withdrew his hand. “Great. I’ll give you Tim’s email address. You can send him your resume tomorrow.”

~*~

Finally, after a month of arduous translation, Brother Ferreira was shipwrecked. He had hopped on a Japanese fishing boat to visit some of the small islands, where he hoped to find a more receptive response to evangelism than Fr. Xavier had experienced on the main island. He never admitted it in his journal, but I had the suspicion that the monk also longed to get out from under his superior’s shadow and discover his own potential.

Tim had sent a reply to my email even before I left for the library Monday morning. He seemed pleased to be able to help me and said he would talk to the personnel manager that day. He didn’t promise anything, but I had the feeling that if I wanted this job, it was mine.

I didn’t know what would happen the next time I encountered Ashland. Would we both pretend nothing had happened, like two co-eds who had paired off at a drunken fraternity bash only to regret it the morning after? I heard nothing from him, which made me both angry and relieved.

When I arrived at the library on Tuesday, Caroline was sitting at the reception desk, a thick book opened in front of her, a Bulls camp perched atop her blonde hair. “I didn’t know you were a basketball fan,” I said.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she confessed. “A friend has an extra ticket to the game tonight and I felt like I should get into the spirit of it.”

“A friend?”

“I think he’s a friend.” She looked up at me. “Actually, I’m not sure.”

She disappeared in back to retrieve the journal and gloves. When she returned, I invited her to have lunch with me.

~*~

The union was unexpectedly chaotic thanks to a volunteer fair in progress. Tables manned by earnest adults and students were spread around the large lobby. Prospective volunteers wandered the room, considering options that included saving polar bears, helping adorable Tibetan children, and performing with senior citizens in a local intergenerational band. “I volunteered at a senior citizens center freshman year,” Caroline said as we wove our way through the crowd. “After a week, I realized I didn’t really like working with people. I kind of like to be alone.”