Once More with Feeling (31 page)

Then there was the issue of performance—a word that invariably made Laura cringe. It conjured up images of an act that required bangles, a tambourine, and a backup band. Yet looking back at her own experience, she realized the label wasn’t entirely inappropriate. During her fifteen years of marriage, she’d routinely been scrutinized by a critic who sat in the front row taking notes, handing down reviews so negative the whole production was nearly shut down.

Almost as if he’d been listening in on her ruminations, Cam suddenly said, “I’ve thought a lot about what it would be like to make love to you.”

“I’ve thought about it, too,” said Laura. “But I have a confession to make. I’m as jittery as if I were the lead in the school play on opening night.”

“You’re already my favorite star,” he assured her, stroking her cheek lightly with one finger. “You can do no wrong.”

“Oh, Cam,” she breathed, “I lo—”

She stopped herself, nervously searching his face.

“Do you mean it?” asked Cam, his voice gentle.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

‘Then say it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, Laura.”

****

Going into the bedroom a few minutes later with what was left of the Chianti from dinner, she found Cam lying in bed waiting for her, his clothes off, his head propped up by his bent arm. In the flickering light of the candles burning on the night table, his eyes looked more intense than ever, their dark brown color contrasting dramatically with the light reflected in them. The expression on his face was earnest. Deep shadows played over his face, emphasizing the strength of his features.

“I brought the rest of the wine,” she told him, suddenly shy. Turning away, she pulled off her clothes with abrupt, jerky movements, not wanting to give him the opportunity to see her faults. She crossed the room quickly, sliding into bed. Without looking at him, she pulled the sheets up over her. The sensation of his thigh brushing against hers made her jump.

“What’s the matter?” he asked in a gentle voice.

“Nothing,” she replied too quickly. “I’m just cold.”

“Cold ... or unsure?”

“Well, I ...” She couldn’t lie to him, she realized. Feeling her cheeks redden, she told him, “It’s been a while.”

“I want to look at you.”

Laura swallowed hard. “Okay.”

Slowly Cam pulled back the sheets. Laura held her breath—partly in an attempt at flattening her stomach, but even more as a means of bracing herself against whatever criticisms might be about to fly her way.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed. Already he was running his hand lightly across her nipple, down her stomach, inside her thigh.

She realized at that moment that she truly trusted him.
Trust:
a word she’d thought would never be part of her vocabulary again, at least with respect to a man. Yet her gut reaction was that she was safe with him. She’d felt it in Alaska, where she’d not only entrusted him with her very survival, but poured out her heart to him as well. She’d felt it that evening over dinner, as she told him about all the fears that had plagued her since she’d left behind the romance of Alaska and come back to real life.

Lying there beside him, gazing into his eyes, she felt all her nervousness slip away. She could feel herself letting go, allowing that feeling of complete trust to be her guide. For the first time she could remember, Laura was able to concentrate on the man beside her instead of watching herself, monitoring every move she made ... trying to view herself through someone else’s eyes.

She closed her eyes as he kissed her cheek, her forehead, her neck, her ear. His kisses, first light, became more ardent. Eagerly she reached for him, suddenly craving the sensation of his skin. So warm, so smooth, so surprisingly soft . . . Marveling over every sensation, she traced the line of his shoulder, his neck, his jawline. Boldly she ran her fingers down his back and across his buttocks. Through it all, she was struck by the fact that this all felt so new, as if she were with a man for the first time.

Had it ever been this good with Roger? Laura wondered. Had she ever been so aware of the smallest sensation: the softness of the hair at the back of his neck, the tenderness of the skin near his throat? How wonderful it was simply to enjoy the sweetness of each moment ... and to make pleasing herself as much a priority as pleasing her partner. She reveled in the feeling of her breasts pushing against the hardness of his chest, the delight of running her tongue along the delicate ridge of his ear.

Had she ever before felt this close to someone? So much at ease, so much at peace ... so happy?

She could feel her entire body opening up to him. She pulled him close, no longer able to be apart from him. Clasping his body tightly against hers, she could hear her own breaths, quick and sharp, and throaty sounds that reminded her of a cat’s purr. All the clichés she’d ever come across in a romance novel came back to her. Surrender. Release. Ecstasy. She was experiencing them all.

He slid inside her, his eyes locked in hers. As she and Cam moved together, their bodies so completely and so magnificently in sync, Laura was struck by the fact that what they were doing truly deserved to be called “making love.”

Chapter Eighteen

Today we’re taking a departure from our usual format,” says Robin Leach, clasping a microphone in his hand as he stares directly into the camera. “Instead of visiting with the Rich and Famous, we’re here with lovely Laura Briggs at her lovely home in scenic Clover Hollow, located on the lovely north shore of Long Island.”

He takes a few steps toward the back door, his eyes never wavering from the camera. “Laura is a bright star in the great publishing sky, the author of more than a dozen successful books for children. Yet it’s not her career that’s responsible for her being our guest today. It’s the unnaturally high level of satisfaction and contentment she’s achieved. Laura’s got it all
—
at least she thinks she does. And so we’re refilling our show. Welcome to
Lifestyles of the Deliriously Happy ... !”

The shrill ring of the telephone catapulted Laura out of her reverie. Her fantasy wasn’t the only thing she was reluctant to abandon. The idea of climbing out of the warm bathtub in which she lay, surrounded by more bubbles than she’d ever seen outside a Doris Day movie, was even worse than giving up her starring role in a delicious daydream.

But figuring it was probably Cam calling, Laura leaped out of her sudsy sanctuary. Quickly she wrapped herself in a towel, then dove for the phone. Standing in the middle of her bedroom, watching drops of water slide off her skin and onto the carpet, she felt like the heroine in a movie, risking cold and flu and permanent rug stains in the name of love.

“Hello, Laura. It’s Roger.”

Suddenly she felt like a cold, wet puppy cowering between two trash cans. “We need to talk. I’ll be right over.”

Her heart sank. Even her half hour of self-administered hydrotherapy was of no use in warding off the instant tensing of her muscles.

It couldn’t possibly be good news, she thought, giving herself a cursory drying off, then pulling on jeans and a T-shirt.

Sitting at the kitchen table with Roger, her stomach in knots as she waited for a bomb to drop, was painfully familiar. Yet even in the midst of the familiar tableau, Laura recognized that something was different.

He no longer belonged here. He was out of place among the coffeepot, the canisters, Evan’s paintings stuck on the refrigerator with magnets shaped like Hershey’s Miniatures. He was no longer a part of her life. The time for her to be sitting opposite him, waiting for the answer to the question
What now?
had passed.

Slowly her ties to him were unraveling. With each week that went by, with each day, she grew more and more distant from him. She became less the wife. She even became less the ex-wife. Instead, she got that much closer to being simply Laura Briggs.

With that realization, Laura felt the roller-coaster car soar upward. And the sensation of the wind in her face was exhilarating.

Still, something was up. Roger sat a few feet away, his expression earnest. The bomb he was carrying, she suspected, was of nuclear proportions.

Like any good general, he wasted no time.

“I want to buy out your share of the house.”

Laura blinked, taking a few seconds to absorb what he’d just said.

In a calm voice she asked, “Can you afford it?”

He shifted his eyes downward, away from her gaze. Suddenly he’d developed a new fascination with the pepper shaker.

“I’m not buying it alone.”

Laura swallowed hard ... and waited.

“Melanie and I are moving in together.”

She stared at him, a thousand different thoughts flitting through her head. I can’t let this happen! screamed a voice only she could hear. It’s
my
house! Why should he live in it? Why should that woman live in it?

She also heard the voices of her friends. “I told you so,” Claire told her in the fantasy that played through her head, her voice hard with disdain. “That’s so typical. Men can’t bear to be on their own, so they grab the first welcoming pair of arms that comes along.”

She could imagine Julie’s sympathetic clucking as well. “Oh, Laura. You must be terribly hurt. But keep in mind it’s only because he’s so needy. The man’s still in shock.”

Yet through her initial jolt pushed another thought, one that was much more rational. Shedding the house would be almost as liberating as shedding Roger.

It was true that part of her longed for the familiarity of the place she’d lived in for close to a decade. It was also the only home Evan had ever known. The idea of slaying put, madonna and child in their natural domain, seemed like the path of least resistance.

Yet staying here would tie her to the past. This, after all, had been
their
house. First Roger and Laura, then baby made three. The further she got away from playing me role of the heavy in a rather lopsided triangle, the more enticing the idea of shedding all the trappings of her past became. If she really was going to close the book on this chapter of her life, it made sense for the next chapter to have a completely different setting.

The daydream she’d played over and over in her head, of packing up her things and walking out, was about to become real. She imagined herself outside in the yard, peeking into the window. From there she watched Melanie Plympton, living in this house. She saw her sleeping in her bedroom, showering in her bathroom, making coffee in this very kitchen. Laura expected to be jealous. Instead, the feeling that rushed over her was more along the lines of glee.

It’s as if she’s stepping into my old life, she thought. Melanie’s moving into
my
house with
my
husband ... and, at least part of the time,
my
kid. She probably thinks she’s getting a great deal. But along with the Italian bathroom tile that’s perfectly aligned only because I nearly got into a fistfight with the contractor, and the miniblinds that got sent back to the store three times before they were finally right, she’s inheriting all the dissatisfactions and disappointments that I put up with all those years.

Melanie, Laura thought, trying not to look smug, you want my old life? You’ve got it. Let’s just see if it makes you any less miserable than it made me.

* * * *

After Roger left, one more ramification of his sudden and completely unexpected announcement hit Laura. If he was moving in,
she
was moving
out.

Sitting at the kitchen table, looking around at what up until this moment she’d thought of as “her kitchen,” an old fantasy of where her life would end up as a result of having made the decision to leave Roger came back to haunt her. She saw herself in a tiny apartment—a walk-up above a deli, or worse yet, in someone’s basement. Her new kitchen would have cracked, yellowed linoleum, faded wallpaper featuring dancing fruits and vegetables, an eternally dripping faucet, and a refrigerator that dated from the Great Depression, its freezer possessing a special snow-making feature.

The longer she sat at the kitchen table, the more colorful—and disastrous—the image of her nightmare apartment became. The shower would produce hot water only on alternate Tuesdays. Cockroaches would regularly hold conventions in her pantry. A motorcycle gang would move into the apartment next door....

When the phone rang, she raced to answer it. She hoped it was Cam, calling to scare away the demons. Instead it was Gil Plympton, suggesting they get together for lunch again—same time, same greasy spoon. She was glad for the chance to have someone to commiserate with—especially someone who was a party to all that was going on. A sympathetic ear was precisely what she needed to counteract the terrifying sensation that the rug was being pulled out from under her—not only the rug, but also the floor, the basement, and the foundation.

Driving to the Starlight Diner, she glowered at each house she passed. Why were
those
people able to live in nice, comfortable homes—homes with linen closets and crawl spaces and water heaters—while she was about to find herself without an address?

It wasn’t fair. All her life she’d been a respectable citizen who toed the line, filed her taxes on time, paid her parking tickets the very same day she found them tucked into her windshield wipers, and even used longs to pick out her bagels and rolls at the supermarket. Yet it was she, not they, who was being forced to move in with the cockroach motorcycle gang and the antique kitchen appliances.

Hurrying inside, Laura spotted Gil sitting at the same table as last time. He looked considerably more cheerful as he nursed a cup of coffee and perused the encyclopedia of selections that constituted the Starlight’s menu.

“Hey!” he greeted her, standing and kissing her on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s good to see you, Gil.” Sliding into the booth, she studied him carefully. There was a light in his eyes she knew hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. “You look great.”

“I feel great. In fact, I’ve never been better.” He was so animated that Laura suspected the cup of coffee in front of him wasn’t his first.