Love Becomes Her (4 page)

E
lizabeth sat in the solitude of her ultramodern kitchen. The black-and-white space was equipped with every tool to make even the most resistant cook want to try their hand at being a chef. Cooking was Elizabeth’s passion. She so enjoyed the looks of delight on her family and friends’ faces when she’d present them with a new creation.

She’d transferred her culinary love to her twin daughters, Dawne and Desiree, who ran a small health-food café and grill in the West Village. They did all of the cooking themselves and enjoyed it, and from the booming business they did, so did their customers.

Elizabeth looked around. Her entire home was a showplace. She took pride in creating a special feel and tone to the four-bedroom brownstone. She’d spend hours scouring catalogs or hunting through out-of-the-way shops for the perfect pillow, throw rug, handmade sculpture, quilt or piece of art. Her family and her home were all she had. It was who she was.

Her throat muscles clenched as a single tear slid down her cheek. She thought she had no more tears to shed. Her eyes were swollen and her throat was raw.

Matthew hadn’t even bothered to come home last night, and if he did, she’d been too drunk to notice, and he was long gone by the time she woke up. Just as well.

What was she going to tell her daughters, that she was a failure, another woman who couldn’t hold on to her husband?

Damn you, Matthew! She hurled a mug across the room. The sound of it crashing against the opaque-colored stucco wall was equal to a sonic boom inside her head. She covered her face with her hands and wept.

The ringing front doorbell penetrated her sobs. Through bleary eyes she looked up, confused. It rang again. Her head pounded. She pushed herself up from the chair and went to the front door. It was probably the UPS delivery she was expecting.

“Just leave it,” she croaked through the door. She’d hate for Jeff, her regular delivery guy, to see her in such a mess. The thought of how bad she must look sent her off on another crying jag.

“Ellie, it’s me, Barbara. Open the door.”

“Go away, Barbara.”

“Elizabeth, if you don’t open this door, I’m going to call the police and tell them I smell gas. You know I will.” She waited, determined.

If there was one thing everyone knew about Barbara Allen it was that she was good at her word. The last thing she needed today was to have the police breaking down her door. Elizabeth wiped her runny nose on the sleeve of her robe then reluctantly unlocked the door.

Barbara stopped in shock at the disheveled look of Elizabeth. “What in the devil happened to you?”

Elizabeth ignored the question, turned and walked back into the kitchen. Barbara closed and locked the door then followed Elizabeth inside.

“Ell, what’s going on? You look awful.” She put her purse on the kitchen table. “Did something else happen with…you know who?” She was still mindful of not mentioning the unmentionable one’s name.

Ellie shook her head, her wild and matted hair swinging around her face like an old beat-up mop. “Isn’t being served with divorce papers after twenty-five years enough?” she snapped.

Barbara took the verbal assault in stride. She sat down and waited for Elizabeth to talk. She’d sit there with her friend all day if need be. She reached across the table and took Elizabeth’s hands in her own.

“Ell,” she said gently, “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it will be all right. It’s going to hurt like hell, but you will get through it.”

Elizabeth looked at Barbara through swollen, red eyes. “How, Barb? How am I going to make it with
out him? He and the girls are my whole life. The girls are out on their own.” She slowly shook her head, still in disbelief. “I…thought that now it would be time for me and Matt. Do all the things we didn’t get a chance to do.” Her voice cracked, the pain so intense that it hurt Barbara’s heart. She could kill Matt with her bare hands for doing this to Ellie. She held Elizabeth’s hand tighter, letting her get it all out.

“I’ve never been anything but a wife and mother.” She blinked hard and lost fighting back the tears. “What am I going to do? I’ve never even had to work since college. Matthew took care of me. Oh, God.” She covered her face and broke down, her shoulders shuddering and shaking with the force of her sobs.

Barbara came around the table, dragging her chair with her. She snatched Elizabeth’s hands away from her face and stared into her eyes.

“Now, you listen to me. Snap the hell out of it. If Matthew doesn’t have the good sense God gave him, then you are better off without him. Period. No, you didn’t deserve to be hurt like this, but it happened. Happens every damn day of the week and it’ll keep happening. Now is not the time to feel sorry for yourself. If you do then he’s won, plain and simple.”

“But—”

Barbara held up her hand. “No buts. This is an ugly blessing in disguise. A time for you to take
charge of your own life for a change instead of being the extension of everyone else’s.”

“You don’t understand, I—”

“Yes, I do understand. You’re hurt and scared and angry. But you can’t let those emotions paralyze you into inaction.”

Elizabeth started to protest.

Barbara stood and pulled Elizabeth to her feet. “First things first. Take a shower, comb your hair, put on some makeup and get dressed. We have work to do.”

B
arbara hadn’t felt this good about something in a very long time, she thought as she waited for Elizabeth to return. She felt energized and it was just the thing to get each of them out of the slump they’d fallen into. They’d be so busy they wouldn’t have the time to dwell on what ailed them. And it would give her the time and space she needed to think clearly about her and Michael and the invisible line they’d crossed.

Michael had called earlier in the day. He’d wanted to see her. Against her better judgment she’d told him he could stop by for a little while and she’d prepare brunch.

When she opened the door for him and saw him smile at her as if he’d gotten the greatest gift of his life, she kicked her inhibitions to the side. If only for one night, as dearly departed Luther would say. But in her case, if only for one afternoon.

“Come on in. I was just finishing up in the kitchen.
Have a seat in the living room and make yourself comfortable.” How she was able to speak as calmly as she did was a mystery to her, especially with her heart pounding at an alarming rate, her stomach in an uproar and her knees about as weak as a newborn’s.

“Let me help. After all, I did kind of bully my way over here.” He chuckled. “It’s the least I can do.”

She shrugged. “Sure. Come on.”

He followed her into the kitchen. “Wow, what a spread.”

She’d prepared honey wings, grilled chicken strips, a tossed salad, yellow rice and peas, codfish patties and a side of potato salad.

She offered up a nervous grin. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.” She twisted her hands together.

“Well, if you wanted to impress me with your cooking skills, it’s a wrap.” He walked over to the counter where the food was laid out. “Definitely impressive and it smells delicious.” He turned to her. “Thanks.” He ran his tongue across his lips, slid his hands into his jeans pocket and leaned against the fridge.

She nodded, sure that if she spoke, her voice would be a squeaky version of Minnie Mouse.

His body took up so much space, she observed absently. At six foot six, two hundred and sixty pounds of sinewy muscle covered in toffee-toned skin, he was all man, even as the slight gleam in his
dark eyes and the curve of his wide mouth evoked images of the mischievous boy he once was.

“You want to stay in here or move to the dining room?” he asked with a toss of his head over his shoulder toward the adjoining room.

Barbara swallowed over the dryness in her throat, snapping back from her evaluation. The living room was a little too close to her bedroom. “Um, in here is fine. Then we don’t have to shuffle everything around.”

“Great. So, what can I help you with? Point me in the right direction.”

“The, uh, dishes and glasses are in the cabinet behind you.”

Michael took out plates and glasses and set them on the table near the window in the eat-in kitchen.

Barbara fumbled in the silverware drawer and dropped several forks and knives before finally getting it together.

“There’s a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator, unless you want something else,” she said, setting the silverware on the table.

“Iced tea is fine.”

“I usually do things buffet style, so help yourself to whatever and how much you want.”

Michael loaded his plate with some of everything and ate heartily. Barbara, on the other hand, was playing a game of chess with her food, strategically moving it around on the plate from one position to another.

Michael held his glass of iced tea to his lips. “Not hungry?” His brow rose with his question.

“Guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach.” She started to reach for her glass but changed her mind midway, certain that with her hands going through a bout of nervous palsy, the liquid would slosh all over her yellow linen tablecloth.

“I really like your hair out,” he said.

She patted her hair while looking away. She’d spent forty-five minutes in the mirror with her electric curling iron, trying to put a little bounce in her usual straight, pulled-back style. It must have paid off.

“Thanks.”

“I hope it was for my benefit.” He slowly put down his glass and folded his hands on the table.

“Oh, this. I…wanted to do something different. The other look thing is for work,” she babbled. Geez, where had her conversation skills run off to? They must have ducked under the table, where she wanted to go at the moment.

“I like it. You should wear your hair that way more often.” He took his napkin and wiped his mouth. “The food was delicious. This could become addictive.” He smiled slowly. “If you let it.”

Barbara didn’t know where to look, so she stared at her full plate.

“Maybe next time I can do the honors.”

Her gaze shot in his direction.
Next time!

“I fix a mean pot of chili.” He winked.

Chili gave her gas. That would be her way out. “Good to know.” She stood abruptly. “Let me clean up the table.” She reached for his plate. He grabbed her hand. She stopped breathing.
Damn, he was fine
.

“When are you going to stop running from me?”

“I’m…running. I mean,
not
running.”

“Of course you are.” He held on to her hand as he came around the table and stood in front of her. “I swear I won’t hurt you. Just give me a chance. That’s all I ask, Barbara, a chance to make you happy.”

“Michael.” Her expression was one filled with doubt. “We come from two different worlds. And—”

“That’s what will make it all the more explosive when those two worlds collide.”

Before she could protest further, he kissed her. Kissed her the way she’d read about, seen on the big screen and daytime soap operas. Kissed her with a tender passion that dampened her panties and had her good sense taking a leave of absence.

She gave in. Gave in to the kiss and gave of herself. She could feel all the knots of doubt begin to loosen as he held her close, his long, hard fingers playing a concerto up and down her spine. She gave in to his warmth, letting it seep into all the places inside her that had been cold for far too long. She gave in to the feel of his erection that pushed with urgency against her pelvis, and she pushed back in
the way that she remembered, that sensual before-sex dance that forced you to toss caution to the wind.

His lips moved back from hers and he looked into her eyes.

“I won’t lie to you. I want you. Bad. I can’t break it down any simpler than that. But I want you to feel the same way.” He waited a beat. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised and relieved by her own admission. She took his hand. “Come on. If we stay in here, we might hurt ourselves with the knives and forks on the table.”

Barbara felt the heat of his body as he walked behind her. She was shaking so badly she was certain she would crumble in a heap and this fantasy would come to a grinding halt.

She stopped in front of the door, hesitated for a moment.
There’s still time to change your mind,
an inner voice whispered.

Michael’s lips brushed the side of her neck. She moaned and grabbed the doorknob for support. Some outside force must have turned the knob because she was frozen in place. The door opened and they stepped inside.

It was like a dream the way he undressed her, piece by piece, tossing each item on the chaise longue.

Barbara wished it was dark in her bedroom. Dim enough to hide her body’s imperfections from his exploring eyes.

As she stood before him, she saw the no longer perky breasts, airtight-stomach and track runner thighs. Instead, she saw the body of a forty-nine-year old woman who had lived life, and life, as it was wont to do, took its toll.

She didn’t want to believe him when he said that she was exquisite, a woman in every sense of the word. It couldn’t be true, her mind said, even as the tenderness of his touch worked to shatter her misconceptions.

“Let me look at all of you.”

No! her body screamed, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t run and hide while his gaze held her in place.

Barbara felt like tender meat on the holiday grill, his eyes the hot coals that cooked her from the inside out until she was ready to be devoured by the hunger that his expression cried for.

She
would
think about food at a time like this, and giggled nervously at the image dancing in her head.

Michael reached out and touched her right breast and she felt faint. Her eyes drifted shut for an instant then shot open when his fingers began to play with her clit.

Oh…my…God. He’s not going to do that, is he? Oh…yes…he…is!

He was on his knees and his mouth replaced his fingers.

Barbara’s inner thighs trembled and even her firm
behind vibrated. She grabbed his shoulders in a death grip to keep from falling on the floor.

Michael languidly rose, nipping her skin as he did.

Somehow Barbara found herself supine on her bed with every nerve ending jumping for joy.

When Michael entered that dark space that had been empty for so long she wanted to shout hallelujah. Instead, she cried out, “Michael.”

Barbara lay curled next to the warmth of Michael’s body. The wonder of what had transpired between them had her thoughts and head swimming upstream. Ann Marie was right. It was like riding a bike. She hadn’t forgotten a thing and learned some new tricks along the way. And when Michael told her again that she was beautiful—she felt it and she believed.

She’d wanted to spend the rest of the day jumping for joy, spinning around naked in her room, reveling in her newfound sexuality. But the practicality of life took root. She’d just made love to a man-child. It felt damn good, there was no doubt about it, and she wanted more and more. That was her fear. So when Michael asked to stay with her for the rest of the day and night, she said no. And then told him on his way out the line that most men give women, “I’ll call you.”

So here she was, still tingling from the afterglow, sitting in her best girlfriend’s house, whose life was
in a shambles and she didn’t have the heart to spill her own tale all over Elizabeth’s perfectly polished kitchen table.