The Ladies' Man (35 page)

Kathleen raises her skirt. The kitchen is dark except for a fluorescent bulb on the stove.

“My room,” he murmurs. “Let's go.”

“Wait a sec,” says Kathleen. She unbuckles his belt. Lorenz straightens his spine and sucks in his fuzzy middle. “Don't worry. I do this for a living.” She undoes his trousers and peeks in. “Briefs! I had to know.”

Lorenz's eyes are closed. And now she is kissing him, and he is tugging at the knot of his tie with one hand and leading her by the other to his room and his double bed. His room is wallpapered in pink-and-gray apple blossoms. “Some bachelor pad. Flowers and fruit trees,” he says. “Makes you wonder, huh?”

“Not for one second,” says Kathleen.

Lorenz locks the door and pulls down the bedspread neatly, in stages, then the blue sheet and white thermal blanket. “Pretty,” says Kathleen.

“New—Bed, Bath and Beyond.” He asks if she would like to wash up, use the bathroom. Anything?

She tells him she's forgotten to bring her things; her overnight bag with her beautiful silk charmeuse nightgown is spread out on her bed at home, left behind in the rush.

“I'll see it next time, won't I?”

“I forgot everything—my toothbrush, my clothes for tomorrow. And Lorenz? I'd bought some condoms, just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“You didn't buy any.”

He is smiling, unbuttoning his shirt at the same time he liberates his shirttails.

“What's funny?”

“I've been carrying them around with me for a couple of months now.”

“Since?”

“Do you want the exact date?”

“I meant, ‘With me in mind?' ”

“Night and day.” He points to the door. “I put out clean towels. My toothbrush is red. The toothpaste is in the medicine cabinet. Don't use the Poli-Grip. Don't take too long.”

“You don't mind sharing your toothbrush?”

Lorenz takes her face in his hands. “What would I mind? Your germs?”

“Good point,” says Kathleen. “I'll be right back.”

Lorenz gets undressed quickly, gets into bed, pulls up the sheet, plumps the pillows next to him, experiments with the three-way bulb's settings and chooses the brightest.

Kathleen returns wearing his oatmeal-colored terry-cloth robe, holding her clothes, her underwear, and her shoes. “Couldn't find the belt,” she says.

Lorenz stares and finally says, “There
is
no belt. I mean, there was, but it disappeared.”

“And who needs it anyway?”

“Lock the door,” says Lorenz.

“You don't want to use the bathroom or anything?”

“Later.”

“Got everything?”

He opens his night table drawer and closes it again. “Right here.”

“Should we set the alarm?” says Kathleen.

“For what?”

She moves closer to the bed. “So I can leave before your father gets home.”

“Unh-uh. He promised. He gets into South Station at eleven.”

He slips his arms inside the open robe and pulls her to him.
Kathleen looks down and sighs. It's all come together, and she's floating in its center: His cheek is pressed against her belly fondly, his warm hands are stroking her expertly, and his patient, gallant, bobbing penis, half-liberated, half-draped by new linens, is wholly thrilling.

“D
id somebody get up on the wrong side of the bed?” Nash coos from the sideboard as he pours his coffee and pokes the scones. Lois, at the round oak table, stares at his black silk kimonoed back.

“Can I warm yours up?” he asks.

“No thank you.”

“Cream is where?”

“Milk. In front of you.”

Nash carries his mug to the table and drags a chair closer to hers. “So it's continental breakfast here at The Lucky Duck, sans landlady?”

“Correct.”

“Same menu every day?”

“No. She alternates with muffins.” Lois tugs at one of her starched white cuffs and touches her father's onyx cuff link. “And we dress for it. Bathrobes are not considered proper attire for the public rooms.”

Nash rattles one corner of her newspaper. “Is that all, because you seem a little … funny this morning.”

Without further encouragement, Lois lets loose: “Did you stop to think that it might have been a hurtful thing to say to me, about my hair color? What am I supposed to do about it? Snap my fingers and make it go away?”

Nash puts his mug down and gives her shoulders a quick squeeze. “I'm sorry, Lo. I didn't say I didn't like it. It's just that I loved the original color. Now I feel awful. I stepped over the line last night because we were confiding in each other and I got a little carried away in the adviser department.” He chuckles. “Believe me, I'm no beauty consultant. And you know, when I see it by the light of day, it's quite Marilyn Monroe-ish.”

“Stop it,” she says.

“I mean it. It's her color.”

“Which you won't have to look at much longer.”

He looks at his watch. “You head out at what time?”

“I meant, I can't stay here forever. I'm weighing my options.”

“In what areas?”

She reaches down to the floor for her pocketbook and briefcase. “Why exactly would I be confiding any of that to you?”

“Because you trust my instincts.”

“No, I do not.”

“I meant my social instincts, since we were discussing sources of future relationships. I was just trying to help.”

“I have a brother for that.”

“Of course you do. A great guy. With excellent instincts of his own.”

“Don't be so patronizing,” says Lois.

“I wasn't! I like Richard. Very much. I would think he'd be an excellent sounding board for you. For all of you.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe for Kathleen. And of course he's got Adele on a pedestal.”

“Understandably,” Nash murmurs. “Being the oldest, and a household name, and now with your parents gone …”

“It's true. She gave me my wedding. And she was my maid of honor.” Lois holds out her left hand.

“I noticed. A showstopper.”

“Did you know it was my engagement ring?”

“I assumed as much.”

“You didn't think it was some sad piece of expensive jewelry I had given myself as a present to cover up the fact that I had no wedding ring on my hand?”

“Not for one second.”

Lois pinches an invisible fiber presumably caught in a prong. “What did you make of the fact that I still wear it?”

Nash shrugs; butters a piece of scone and asks, before popping it into his mouth, “Do you know what happened to the diamond I gave Adele, by the way?”

It elicits her first smile of the day. “Of course I do: She gave your engagement ring to the retarded messenger for the firm who wanted to propose to the girl who cleaned the latrines. It was a perfect fit.”

Nash can't remember what the diamond looked like or how much it cost, but he's never heard anything less sentimental. “I was a poor kid on scholarship. I had to work hard for that ring,” he protests.

“You told Adele it was your grandmother's, and it had great sentimental value.”

Now Nash remembers. He'd bought it on layaway from a jewelry store near Park Street Station. He can see the store window in his mind's eye—rings tagged with prices written in India ink. Preowned, obviously. Estate jewelry, but cheap. It must have been
some
body's grandmother's, he'd figured at the time. “Is that the custom? The girl gets to keep the ring if the wedding doesn't come off?”

“Correct. The wronged party.” She looks at her own hand again.

“Am I picking up on some of that old feeling for your ex? Pre, pre—and how to put this in the public rooms?—before he donned his gay apparel?”

Lois whispers furiously, “That is an exceedingly private matter which I only confided to you in a moment of utter personal trust.”

“Sorry!”

Lois stands up. “Don't apologize. You've helped me. Ironically. I'm able to see things a little more clearly after a few conversations with someone like you.”

“No small matter,” says Nash.

“And you should start looking at your own life—such as who you want to spend the rest of it with, and get a grip. Maybe even get some help.”

Nash looks up.

“The rest of your life,” she repeats. “Like normal people do. Like people who aren't sex addicts.”

Nash wipes his mouth carefully and returns the napkin to his lap. “What made you say that? What prompted that kind of sweeping indictment, or should I say diagnosis?”

Lois says primly, “Nothing.”

Cynthia saw it too: a Los Angeles psychotherapist hawking
The Sum of His Parts: Men, Power, and Sexual Addiction
on the
Today
show. How fascinating, Cynthia thinks, and how pertinent. A crippling disease, the doctor asserts. A compulsion that carries a tremendous social stigma. Can ruin one's life if left untreated. And for the partners of sex addicts?
Please know this:
What you've been living with is
not
about you.

“Aren't these guys just jerks with no self-control?” asks Katie Couric.

“It's a condition not unlike alcoholism,” says the doctor. “My book offers a catharsis to the anger, confusion, and even personal embarrassment many victims feel.”

“Wait,” says Katie. “Who's the victim here? The sex addict or his girlfriends?”

“Everyone: the family, the partners, the sufferer …”

Katie makes one of her famous faces, and the crew laughs off-camera.

At the ten
A.M.
meeting, Marty takes a seat next to Adele, not his usual place at the head of the table. She is cool. Everything about her is—her white blouse, her straight navy blue skirt, and the diamond solitaires in her earlobes. Her two coworkers from Development are blank masks. Keep us out of this, they seem to be saying.

“Doughnut?” asks Marty, starting the plate around the table without taking one.

“No thank you,” Adele says.

“Did everyone get my memo?” he asks.

“Yes,” say the others.

“Which one?” says Adele.

“Yesterday's.”

“Concerning?”

“The old Cousteaus.”

“What about them?” asks Adele.

“The cost. Do we want to spend that much?”

“He's dead,” says Adele. “Who cares about Cousteau? People just want Sunken Treasures of the
Titanic.”

“Adele?” Marty clears his throat. “Did you get my E-mail this morning?”

“I came in late.” And here she meets his eyes. “Since I stayed so late on Saturday, I figured I had some comp time coming.”

His face reddens. He opens a file folder and shuffles its contents.

Adele adds, “I would have mentioned it yesterday but I only saw you in passing.”

Marty flinches. Finally he says, “Adele? Could I speak to you for a minute? In private?”