Pike's Folly (27 page)

“Yep. I should see what the old woman's up to,” Stuart said and set his empty mug down on the tile table next to his chair.

3

While some relationships floundered that summer, others flourished. Marlene continued to see Allison around town, most frequently at a bar and grill called Jake's near the hurricane barrier. Along with Carla Marshall, they went out once a week, usually for dinner at one of the restaurants on Thayer Street. Marlene enjoyed having such beautiful and vibrant friends, especially since having friends of any kind was something of a breakthrough for her. They were like Charlie's Angels together: the sexy one, the sweet one and the other one.

One night in mid-October, Allison suggested going to Paragon, a dimly lit eatery with a Eurotrash theme in the music and décor. Carla picked up Marlene and drove to Allison's loft in Downcity. She'd moved in a month ago but hadn't felt ready to receive visitors until now.

Outside the guarded entrance to the apartment building, Carla said to Marlene, “Lucky girl. I wish I had that kind of bread.”

Marlene detected something not so nice in her tone of voice, but chose to keep quiet.

Allison had left word with the guard, so they proceeded to the elevator and took it to the eighth floor. Looking down at herself, Marlene saw a brown smudge of foundation on her blouse and hoped no one else would notice. All three ladies liked dressing up for dinner; they enjoyed the reactions of their waiters, who invariably became flustered at the sight of three pretty women in short skirts and heels. Marlene knew that most of this attention was for Carla and Allison, but she appreciated being included.

The elevator opened on a pale yellow corridor, and they followed Allison's directions to the second of only two doors on the floor. Allison answered the door before they could knock, as if she'd been watching for them through the peephole. “Sorry it's a mess,” she said. “I just got back from Pottery Barn.”

She led them into the loft, which wasn't a mess in the slightest. The walls were exposed brick, and huge windows gave panoramic views of the city: the illuminated statehouse, the Providence Place Mall and the rivers that divided the East Side from the financial district. Allison had put a lot of work into the place, and it showed. The main piece of furniture was a camel-colored suede sofa with a sisal rug underneath it. An iron spiral staircase rose like a corkscrew through the floor of the loft bedroom, which had a skylight and beamed ceilings. The kitchen was directly under the bedroom, with a long, continuous countertop of pink marble.

“Oh, it's beautiful!” Marlene exclaimed. She and Carla took turns giving Allison a hug and a kiss.

“Here, let's sit and have a glass of wine before we go,” Allison said. “I'm sorry it's so cold. The landlord's supposed to fix the furnace tomorrow.”

“Stop apologizing,” Carla said. “The apartment's lovely. God, I can remember my first place after college. I lived in this dump with three other girls down in Bonnet Shores. What about you, Marlene?”

Marlene was still looking up at the high cathedral ceilings and didn't hear her. “Huh?”

“What was your first apartment after college like?”

“Oh.” Marlene barely remembered it at all, except that she had to share the driveway with the woman on the second floor, and the broken screen door always used to snag her skirt on the way to work. She laughed. “Not like this.”

Allison poured some wine, and once they'd all had a chance to get settled on the sofa, Carla brought out a baggy of pot. “Should we be bad tonight?” she asked.

Allison hesitated. She'd been clean and mostly sober for nearly four months—no coke, no weed and only two glasses of wine with dinner. Living more responsibly was the goal she pursued in lieu of having any others. “Sure, what the hell,” she finally said, and Carla began rolling a joint on the glass coffee table. “It'll be fun,” she said, “getting stoned while we're sitting here looking at the statehouse.”

“Yeah, poor Buddy,” Carla said. The city's mayor, Vincent “Buddy” Cianci, had recently been convicted in the Operation Plunderdome scandal and removed from office. Though many Rhode Islanders hated Cianci, an equal number loved him. He'd been mayor on and off since the seventies, and his leaving was bittersweet. The man who would most likely replace him in the November election was a Democrat and a homosexual. Allison wanted him to win.

Once Carla had finished rolling the joint, she held it up to the window and said, “Buddy, this one's for you.” She handed the joint and a cigarette lighter to Allison. “Here, you take the first hit. It's your apartment.”

Allison lit the joint and carefully brought it to her lips. The first, corrosive intake of smoke made her throat burn, and she coughed it back up.

“First time?” Carla laughed as the thick green smoke hovered over the sofa.

Allison tried to speak but couldn't. Swishing the smoke out of her eyes, she waited for the burning to die down, then croaked, “It just feels like it.”

A second hit went down easier, so she passed the joint to Carla and picked up her wine. The Merlot tasted so good with the flavor of the smoke still in her mouth. “I love red wine and cigarettes,” she mused.

After they'd finished the joint, they decided that it was a better idea to walk to dinner rather than drive back to Paragon on the East Side. Empire was nearby, but as it was more money than either Marlene or Carla had planned on spending, Allison offered to treat. Over their protests, she said, “Come on, you guys paid for dinner last week,” which wasn't even true.

Empire stood on a busy corner in Downcity where patrons could watch well-dressed couples flocking into the Trinity Theater. The ladies arrived between seatings and were waited on by a sensational-looking Peruvian named Carlo. He and Carla shared a laugh over their similar-sounding names and made a point of saying to each other “Hi, Carlo,” or “Hi, Carla,” whenever he drifted past the table, until that became the joke of the evening.

With Carlo out of earshot, Carla whispered, “Ladies, that is the choicest piece of ass I've seen in a long time.”

Marlene shakily reached for her third glass of wine. She'd had too much to drink at the apartment, and red wine usually went to her head. Without realizing what she was saying, she blurted, “
Bill's
got a nice ass.”

Carla stared at her, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Marlene! The look on your face,” she spluttered.

“What?” Marlene asked, leaning a little off-balance in her chair.

“Well, if you don't mind my saying,” Carla said, “Stuart's got a nice ass, too.”

It was Allison's turn to make a comment, but she didn't particularly feel like talking about Heath's ass. Her experience up in the mountains had changed her mind about a lot of things, men in particular. The biggest realization was that after five years of being sexually active, she'd never once had an orgasm. It wasn't a realization per se, more like a gradual awareness of what she'd always known to be true. The closest time was up on the mountain, a few days after Henry Savage had gone back to Washington, when she and Marlene were walking naked in the forest and took a nap together on an exposed shelf of rock, and once Allison was sure Marlene had fallen asleep, she lay on her side and touched herself until a golden shiver told her to stop. That, of course, was an extraordinary experience, something that could never be repeated.

After dinner, they decided to stop for a nightcap on Richmond Street. The Mira Bar was a gay club with a tiny dance floor, a DJ on a riser and multiple TV screens showing soft-core erotica—black-and-white videos of men kissing, caressing and giving each other hot-oil massages. Women liked coming to the Mira whenever they felt like dancing without being hit on by jerks. Allison, Carla and Marlene were in just that mood, so they showed their IDs at the door, paid for their drinks (the bartender knew Carla and charged her for only one) and took a seat on the balcony. Marlene had never been to the Mira before, and the sight of so many muscle-bound men in tank tops intimidated her.

As she and Carla chatted, Allison scanned the dance floor for anyone she might recognize. A few years ago, when she was still doing Ecstasy, she liked to stop off at the Mira before turning in for the night, but she was sure that most of those old friends had left Providence for New York or L.A.; it was that kind of crowd, always searching for something better to do. No one looked familiar until her gaze fell on a quiet spot near the front of the club. “Oh my God,” she said and grabbed Carla's arm.

“What is it?” Carla asked.

“My father's here. I don't fucking believe it.”

Gregg Reese was standing by the bar with another older gentlemen, whom Allison didn't recognize. They were waiting to pay for their drinks, which had just been served. Gregg had a bottle of beer, while his friend held a clear cocktail in a long, slender glass. The other man was tall enough to reach over the crowd and hand the bartender his money.

Allison stopped watching. “Fuck. What do I do?”

“Why don't you say hi?” Carla suggested. “It's really no big deal, honey. Your father's a grown man.”

“I know, but it's like . . .
Eww.
” Allison would've left it at that, except for curiosity about her father's boyfriend. She'd heard rumors about his seeing someone but found it hard to believe; he'd always struck her as more celibate than actively gay. From one hundred feet away, the other man looked about Gregg's age, which was a good sign. At least he wasn't being taken advantage of by some young colt. “All right, what the hell,” she sighed and got up from the table. Heading downstairs, she tried keeping her father in sight, even as the swirling, writhing bodies of the dancers crowded her on all sides. Soon she found herself tapping him on the shoulder. “Daddy?”

Gregg turned around. It took him a moment to recognize her in the darkness, then he smiled. “Honey! What are you doing here?”

Allison instantly regretted coming over. “Just hanging out with some friends. Marlene Breen's here, and Carla Marshall. I put dinner on the AmEx. I hope that's okay.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Gregg remarked absently, then hooked his arm around the man standing next to him. “Allison, let me introduce you to a friend of mine, Donald Kress. Don, this is my daughter, Allison.”

She nodded and said hello. Kress was an appealingly homely man with a white, neatly trimmed beard, cherry dimples and supple lips that looked stained with red wine. He and Gregg were wearing matching Polo shirts, the only difference being that Gregg also had on a blue blazer. Kress's suntanned arms were covered with liver spots.

“Delighted, my dear. I knew we'd meet, I just didn't know when.” He spoke with a lilting southern accent that sounded almost maternal. Allison found him gentle, cheery and unpretentious.

“Did you two go out to dinner?” she asked.

“That would've been a good idea,” Kress said. “I'm afraid that cookin' isn't my forte.” To be funny, he pronounced “forte” wrong, with a silent
e.
“I thought we'd try a little Cajun tonight, but it wound up tasting like Chinese takeout.”

He and Allison laughed, while Gregg smiled at him. “I thought it tasted fine,” he said. “Sometimes it's nice just to eat at home.”

“Yeah, if you're married to Craig Claiborne,” Kress joked. “Allison, I understand you just flew the coop?”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Yeah. The place is still a mess, but I got lucky on the rent.”

She described the apartment to Kress, who listened raptly, interjecting comments like, “Oh! I love exposed brick!” and “I would
kill
for pink marble in my kitchen.” When she was finished, he said, “Well, it sounds absolutely delightful. We're gonna have to come over with a housewarmin' present one of these days.”

“That sounds like your department,” Gregg told him and turned to Allison. “Don's an antiques dealer. He's got a shop on Wickenden.”

“Really? What's it called?” she asked. By this point, she'd forgotten all about Marlene and Carla.

Kress said, “I call it ‘Oh, This Old Thing?' It's kind of a silly name, but I think it suits what I'm doin'.”

“Hey, I know that place! You're in the same block as Z-Bar.” Giving Kress a closer look, she said, “I thought you looked familiar. I bought a wedding present from you once.”

“That's Rhode Island for you. This state freaks me out sometimes. I tell myself, I never should've moved up from Georgia. But then”—clinging to Gregg's arm—“I never would've met this wonderful person.”

The two men kissed, and Allison allowed herself to feel happy for both of them.

Breaking away from Gregg, Kress asked her, “Do you think it's safe to use the bathroom here? You know what they say— don't bend over!”

“I'm sure it's fine,” Gregg said. “I've used it myself.”

Kress handed his gin and tonic to Gregg, then walked flatfootedly through the crowd on the dance floor. “He's a nice man,” Allison said.

Gregg glanced nervously toward the front door, then back at her. She could tell that her presence was upsetting him, and she wondered if she should just say “Nice seeing you” and go back to her friends.

Before she could decide, he said, “I'm glad to hear that the new place is working out. I miss you at home, though.”

“I miss you, too, Daddy.” Allison realized she really did miss him and didn't know why she hadn't seen him more often. In a matter of weeks, they'd gone from being father and daughter to being two adults leading separate lives. “Have you heard anything from Mr. Pike?” she asked.

He nodded. Since the summer, his contact with Pike had been sporadic, but at least they were talking to each other again. “He's getting married,” Gregg said.

Allison stared. “To whom?”

“Sarah Cranberry. They're planning a quickie ceremony up in New Hampshire next month.”

Having processed this information, all she could do was laugh. “Go figure.”