Manhattan Lullaby (15 page)

“I—that is—I was—” stuttered Bradley, searching for an acceptable excuse. “I—was away when it happened.”

Her wide black face creased into an enormous, unforgiving frown. “Well, when did your wife”—she consulted the form—“Maxine become pregnant?”

“Maxine!” cried Bradley. “She didn't—I mean, she isn't—”

Nurse McAdams had it in her mind that his mother was his wife. The frown became even more unforgiving. Bradley looked down at the tiny screwed-up face in the blanket. For the sake of expediency he decided he might as well let the nurse go on believing that Maxine was his wife. It had to be easier—and quicker—than trying to explain the truth. And anyway, what harm could it do?

“You see, we were separated for a while …” Nurse McAdams could fill in the blank spots herself.

“I see,” replied the nurse ominously, and in the margin of the page she wrote “Possible marital problems.” “And where is your wife, uh, Maxine, tonight?”

“She's out on a date. I mean she's working late!” The baby had begun to fuss again, and Bradley was having trouble keeping his mind on the questions, never mind the answers. “Can we hurry this up?”

“We can only go as fast as the form will permit,” she replied with the stoic acceptance of those who are not in a hurry. And in the margin she also wrote, “Mother works.” “Now tell me, what are the child's symptoms?”

“Symptoms. Well, he's very warm and he was crying when he woke up and I tried to take his temperature but …”

“Did you use a rectal thermometer?”

“A rectal thermometer? No, I mean, I didn't know …”

“You should have used a rectal thermometer.” She shook her head so forcefully from side to side that Bradley was afraid her hair would snap off.

“Now, Mr. Kraft, we may be dealing with an allergy here. What did you feed the child today?”

“Feed him? Uh …” This was a tough one. Maxine always fed the baby something in a bottle. He had no idea exactly what.

“Is your wife breast-feeding?” asked the nurse, trying a different approach.

“Noooo …” That was one thing he was sure of.

“Then she is bottle-feeding?” prodded the nurse.

Bradley nodded, glad he could answer one of the questions at last.

“Well, what is
in
the bottle, Mr. Kraft?” asked Nurse McAdams.

“Milk?” offered Bradley hopefully. But the piercing black eyes glaring over the top of the glasses told him that not only had he not answered the $64,000 question but he was in danger of being carted off to the psychiatric ward.

Nurse McAdams shook her tightly tied head again and in the margin at the bottom of the page she wrote, “Possible child neglect or abuse.”

Chapter Twelve

Jeffrey Mondavi let his chocolate-colored eyes drizzle over Maxine's face and down the front of her dress and said, “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” In the parlance of her youth this question had usually indicated a desire to take one's date home, but somehow she did not think from the way the evening had been progressing that home-taking was the activity Jeffrey had in mind.

He placed his broad, smooth hand over hers, pressing it lightly but firmly against the cool rigidity of the tabletop. “To go back to your place.”

“My place?” Maxine hedged. She needed time to decide an answer. A thousand thoughts ran through her mind, from how tidy was the apartment to what about Bradley. None of these questions was really the issue, of course, but they served as an appropriate diversion and prevented her from having to examine the meat of the moment—to wit, what came after going back to her place? A simple good night at the door? Or was there something more on his mind? And here she was using the word
mind
as a euphemism for an anatomical location considerably south of there.

But seriously, wasn't she just jumping the gun a bit? Maybe all he meant was that he was ready to take her home. End of evening. Good night. See you at the office tomorrow. After all, for her to assume that a man who could have any of the long-haired, long-legged Bleak Chic disciples in the room couldn't wait to go to bed with her, a woman who was old enough to be his mother—but still in pretty good shape—was just a tad presumptuous. Wasn't it?

Her mind fought to find the answer to his question. She was caught between her instincts and her intelligence, her ego and her logic. But all she found was that logic and vodka do not mix, even with lime. In fact, vodka seemed to mix better with instincts, with or without lime. Somewhere inside Maxine the Woman little fires were being fanned. Fires that had been little more than glowing embers for some time. She took a sip from her water glass to douse the flames.

Finally she gave up trying to sort out his motives and decided that since she had no idea what his intentions were she might as well suspend her decision until either her mind or the situation had cleared a bit.

“All right,” she agreed, sliding her hand out from under his and reaching for her purse. She realized that, whatever circumstances might arise, she had no need to worry. After all, she had a son and a
grandson
at home waiting for her. It was a situation fraught with safety.

They left the China Grill and walked east along West 53rd Street, past Fifth Avenue, past Madison and onto Lexington before turning north. It was a brisk evening, damp but not too cold, refreshing after the sultry, heavily wokked atmosphere of the restaurant, so rather than hurry, they lingered here and there in front of the window displays.

Most of the stores were getting ready for the four-week shopping frenzy that consumed the citizens of the city between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and so their efforts to attract the passersby were boldly evocative, from origami-covered Christmas trees to dancing elves and scenes from
fin de siècle
New York. It was Maxine's favorite time in Manhattan; a romantic season filled with excitement and hope and—Jeffrey Mondavi's hand?

Jeffrey curled his fingers through her gloved ones. And even through the leather of her glove and the cashmere lining she could feel his heat. Why was it that holding hands was such a different sensation depending on whose hand you were holding? Children's hands. Husband's hands. Friends' hands. Parents' hands. They all felt different. But none of them felt like this. She stole a quick sideways glance at Jeffrey. What
did
he want from her? And more important, what did she want him to want?

At the corner of Lexington and 55th they stopped for a light. And Jeffrey, who was never one to let an opportunity go by, turned to Maxine and gently took hold of her chin, tilted it just a little and placed a soft, searching kiss on her lips.

Well, that answered that question.

He timed the kiss perfectly to coincide with the change in the light. “Green for go,” he whispered close to her ear and, still holding her hand, stepped off the curb.

Maxine, still feeling the kiss, still reeling from feelings that she had not felt in a quarter of a century—give or take the first year of her marriage to Harry—trotted along beside him, automatically dodging grates and cracks in the pavement, like the consummate New York pedestrian that she was.

She was sure now that she had not misread the question back in the restaurant and surer still that she had no idea how she was going to handle the situation when she got back home.

Of course there was always Bradley. Having a son was an excellent excuse to avoid asking a man into your apartment. Or at least it used to be. She would simply tell Jeffrey he couldn't come in because Bradley and the baby were there and they would say good night at the door. She had made up her mind. Soft, searching kisses notwithstanding. There was no other way to handle it. The fresh air had cleared her head considerably, and regardless of what Jeffrey had in mind for the climax of their evening, Maxine knew what she was going to do.

But while she was busy mulling over the correct way of saying good night at the door—a practice she had gotten out of the habit of during her marriage—Jeffrey was beginning to feel the effect of the double portion of oysters. He was young. He was single. He was horny as hell. And he couldn't wait to get Maxine out of her coat, out of her dress and into her bed. He stepped up the pace.

Maxine, who was joined to him by her right hand and had no choice but to keep up, began to breathe a little harder as she matched his long strides with her tiny tapping steps. Naturally, Jeffrey took the heavy breathing and her willingness to increase her speed as a sign that she was as anxious to get down to the real business of the evening as he was. And why not? It was common knowledge that divorced women were hot to trot. And he knew that Maxine had been on her own for over a year. A year was a long time to go without a warm body in your bed, even at her age.

After another half a block they reached Maxine's building, and she gratefully paused to catch her breath. “Well, this is where I live,” she said brightly, wondering if he was going to kiss her and if the doorman was watching.

“I know,” was all Jeffrey said, and he guided her toward the lobby door.

The doorman, who was both conscious and conscientious, was ready and waiting. Christmas was coming. The Season of Giving. The Season of Tipping. He threw open the door with a big, broad smile. “Good evening, Mrs. Kraft. And how are you this foine, foine evening?” he boomed in his best Dublinesque accent.

Maxine had just enough time to nod her response before Jeffrey swept her into the lobby and then into the waiting elevator. She had the distinct feeling that things were beginning to speed up and that somehow she had lost control of events. There was little point in rehearsing how to say good night at the front
door
of the building when you were already in the
elevator
.

As the doors closed on the elevator, Jeffrey pushed the button for her floor.

“How do you know—” she started to ask, but he silenced her with another long, lingering kiss.

“I know,” he murmured against her mouth as he let the kiss slip away into an infinity of lip nibbling.

Somewhere in the future, the elevator chimed its destination and Jeffrey took her hand—the other one this time—and led her into the hallway.

“My son is—” she tried to explain, or maybe to protest, but he took her firmly by the shoulders and outside Mrs. Finestein's door he pushed her gently/roughly/insistently against the wall and kissed her again. This time the kiss was longer, harder and she got to meet his tongue and fondle the gap in his front teeth with hers.

Her head was spinning from the last of the vodka, not to mention the physical sensations he was arousing in her as the little flames he had ignited back in the China Grill took hold and became full-fledged fires. This, she reflected ever so briefly as he pressed his body against hers and she allowed logic to have one final say in what was transpiring, must be
passion
.

This was also Mrs. Finestein's wall. And it was beyond the bounds of tenant relations that she should be caught being passionate against Mrs. Finestein's wall. Somewhere, therefore, she found a free hand, and inserting it between the two of them she pried Jeffrey off her.

“Jeffrey—” It had the sound of a strangled protest, partly because his tongue was still doing a tour of her mouth. But he got the message all the same. Or at least he got
a
message—the one that said “Hurry up, let's go to my place
now
.” And letting go of her ever so briefly he took her by the arm and hurried her further down the hall.

“Where are your keys?” he demanded with more sexual urgency than she had seen or heard since the Beatles were on the “Ed Sullivan Show.”

Caught up in the heat of the moment, she shuffled in her purse. She found her keys. Extracted them. Dropped them. Jeffrey swooped down, picked them up and handed them back to her. In spite of the cold air outside, Maxine could see that his face was filmed with a fine mask of perspiration. She was both afraid and exhilarated. Attracted and repelled. For a moment she was twenty all over again.

Hot summer nights
…
hot skin … hot hands … hot bodies …
But wait! Bradley had been the result of one of those hot summer nights. And right now Bradley was on the other side of the door. The thought cooled things down considerably.

She turned to Jeffrey, who was busy loosening his tie and undoing the top button on his shirt, whether from the heat or for expedience she wasn't sure. “Jeffrey, my son is staying with me. I don't think …”

Jeffrey, who was breathing a little easier now that the first wave of lust had crashed over him, summed up the situation immediately. Mother, son, son goes to bed, mother stays up. It was really very simple.

He leaned close to Maxine and let his eyes wander tenderly and expectantly over her face for a second before he spoke. “I'd like to meet him. Why don't you invite me in for a little nightcap?”

Maxine was still flustered. All sorts of long-forgotten feelings were racing around inside her. Part of her wanted him to come in and part of her wanted him to go away. And part of her—the practical part—was wondering if maybe she should reapply her lipstick before she went in to face her son, or if that would really give the game away. Her mother always knew when she had been kissed if she came home from a date with fresh lipstick. Would her son know it too?

“I—I don't think it's such a good idea. It's late, and …”

But Jeffrey was persistent. There was a lot at stake here. “It's only a little after ten,” he coaxed, looking now the harmless, boyish young man from advertising and not the lascivious, lust-drenched demon lover of a few moments before.

Maxine felt herself begin to capitulate.
Maybe
it had been her fault.
Maybe
she had led him on. “I only have tap water.”

Jeffrey knew he was well on his way to third base. “How about tea?”