Weekend Guest, Page 2

all night. She was singing in the shower when I woke up the next morning, groggy and restless, knowing she had slept a room away.

  After showering, I found Sheila out on the patio wearing my old robe. Her hair was wet, and her bare legs were propped against the railing. She was petting Shazam who purred in her lap.

  “Good morning!” she said, jumping up and kissing me on the cheek. “Let’s go out for breakfast. Do they still make those fabulous blueberry muffins at Beans and Crumbs?”

  “Yes, I go there every Saturday.”

  “Great! I’ll be dressed in a flash.”

  She came out wearing shorts, a sexy blue blouse, and sunglasses, with her hair tied in a colored scarf. She could have passed for a teenager; she was so bubbly and carefree.

  Beans and Crumbs had been our favorite weekend spot. Old ’60s-era posters—the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Starship, the Mamas and the Papas—were on the walls next to local artists’ paintings. It was a casual place, with fusion jazz on the sound system, intoxicating aromas of ground coffee and baked goods, and fresh-cut flowers on the tables. On weekends, the place was packed with new moms nursing infants, young couples holding hands across tables, and lonely guys tucked in corners surfing the Web.

  Sheila took a bite of a fresh blueberry muffin and rolled her eyes in delight. “Ooh, I’ve missed these so much! I’d move back if I could get these every morning.”

  “Tell me about your conference next week.”

  Crumbs sprinkled on her blouse as she nibbled around the thick crust. “Oh, it’s just one of those canned investment presentations for retirees,” she said. “I’ve done a ton of them. I register them, chat them up, give them handouts, and meet with them after the boss goes through PowerPoint slides.”

  “You like your job?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, yeah. It’s a job.”

  “You said last night it was the best job you’ve had.”

  She squinted and look away. “You know me. I’m always looking for something better . . . pays more or gives me loads of free time.”

  “What would that be?”

  She nibbled another bite. Crumbs fell on her lap; she picked them up and popped them in her mouth. She sipped coffee and looked down the line of people waiting for their coffee. I was about to repeat my question when she answered.

  “Maybe a guide for Outward Bound. Or I could teach kayaking. I love being outdoors and helping people who spend their lives in cubicles.”

  “But you said—”

  “Hey, how about a matinee?” she said, finishing her muffin and pushing back her chair. I’d only had a couple bites of my muffin and had barely sipped my coffee. “I walked past the art theater yesterday. There’s a new Italian movie playing. Want to go?”

  The theater was playing foreign films, mostly catering to the college crowd. The movie was a takeoff on a Truffaut theme: a child who got on the wrong train on his way to visit his grandparents. Sheila gobbled buttered popcorn, laughed too loud, gripped my arm at touching scenes, and cried when the boy was united with his grandparents after a harrowing experience in a creepy town where a circus had bizarre sideshows, scary clowns, and weird acrobats. Too dark for me. Sheila loved it.

  When we left the theater, her cell phone rang and she excused herself to take the call. She circled the park, sitting on a bench, gripping the phone as if it was a lifeline. She was upset, shaking her head, possibly having an argument. She finished the call, stuffed the phone in her purse, and looked around for me.

  “Everything OK?” I asked, walking up to the bench.

  She sighed and looked away. “A . . . friend is having . . . a bad time. He’s calling me . . . thinks I can help . . . but I can’t. It’s a long story. Forget it.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s no big deal. I’ll take care of it later. Want to go for a walk?”

  “Let’s go to the park. There’s a kite festival. I was going to go before—”

  “Can I ask a favor, Ryan?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “I have to make a couple more calls. Can I meet you at the park in an hour?”

  She didn’t make it to the park. Kids of all ages were flying Chinese dragons, box kites, and kites shaped like planes, ships, flags, and animals, all very colorful. When Sheila didn’t show up, I walked back to my apartment, resigned to the fact that she was toying with me. Something was going on that she didn’t want me to know about. I worked on my taxes, did laundry, and read until she came back, her face ashen, like she’d been told her best friend had cancer.

  “Let’s go out to dinner,” she said, smiling, but only with her lips, not her eyes. “Let me take a quick shower and change into something dressy.”

  She showered and reappeared in a sleek black dress with a strand of pearls around her neck. Her long hair was combed out. She looked gorgeous, yet tired. Preoccupied.

  We ate at a Thai restaurant, mostly in silence. She kept looking around the room, as if she expected someone to come in whom she didn’t want to see. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, and she nervously fingered her pearls. She sipped wine, then water, then more wine, gripping the stems like she was waiting for a dental appointment, not having a quiet dinner with an old boyfriend.

  “What’s wrong, Sheila?”

  “My stomach’s upset. Must have been that blueberry muffin. Or the buttered popcorn at the movie.”

  “Do you want an antacid?”

  Her eyes flickered around the room nervously. Then she looked down, her mouth quivering. She cleared her throat and said, “Ryan, can I ask another favor?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Can . . . I stay one more night? That’s all, I promise. I hate being alone in strange hotels on weekends. It’s much nicer spending time with you. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. Stay if you’d like.”

  She reached over to touch my hand. “Thanks,” she said, her voice low and soft. “It means a lot. You’re a great friend.”

  That night, I heard her in the guest room with the door closed, making cell calls, her voice strained.

  I tried to sleep but woke up at 1:00 a.m., turned on my bed light, and reached for a Philip Roth novel. I read the same three pages over and over, my mind picturing her asleep in the guest bedroom a few feet away.

  When I reached up to turn out the light, her door opened. My heart leaped. A whisper of bare feet on hardwood. Sheila was at my doorway in a negligee, a strand of hair falling over one eye. “Hi . . . mind if I come in?” Her voice quivered.

  She glided toward my bed, lifted her fingers to the straps of her negligee, and let it fall on the floor like a tissue. It was like watching a Sotheby’s auctioneer lift the curtain on a Flemish masterpiece. Sheila was naked, bathed in soft light, her pale skin luminous.

  She slid under the covers, her cool hand moving up to my face. She put her lips on mine. After a long, deep kiss, she whispered, “I couldn’t sleep . . . knowing you were in bed alone.”

  Our passion was as lush as before, but her mind was not on lovemaking. She was far away, in a place I couldn’t reach. A dark cave. A deserted island. A room where no one was allowed.

  She was in the shower when I woke up. I put on a robe and pattered into the kitchen to make coffee, my mind replaying last night’s passion, the totally unexpected nature of it, the haunting beauty of seeing her naked before she slipped between the sheets. I could still smell her perfume on my skin.

  But clouding the erotic thrill were too many unanswered questions: her unexplained flight six months ago, the long period of no contact, her showing up unexpectedly, her confused stories, her tension. She held so many mysteries. I didn’t know how to unravel them. I’d resisted confronting her with tough questions.

  Sheila was as fragile as a baby chick blown out of the nest by a March wind. She had always been a puzzle, a mystery lover, and a spectral figure, someone I’d been privileged to love but knew it could never last.

  De
ep in my bones I knew I had only a few more hours or days with Sheila. She’d blown in like a spring storm and would exit just as suddenly. How and why didn’t matter. It was like gambling with the devil. You know who wins the last hand.

  It was 10:30 on Sunday morning. She never slept late on weekends. She’d get up early and plan a busy day for us: hiking, playing tennis, going out to lunch.

  When she came out, she was dressed but looked tired and lost.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Want some coffee?”

  She sat down, dark circles under her eyes and no makeup. She spooned sugar into her cup and stirred. And stirred. And stirred.

  “What’s wrong, Sheila? Your stomach bothering you?”

  She forced a weak smile and shook her head.

  “How did you sleep?” I asked.

  A pained look came over her face. “Ryan, can I ask another favor?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Can I borrow some money?”

  I was stunned. “Well . . . sure. How much do you need?”

  She turned her face away, like a child getting a scolding. “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  She shook her head, combing her hair back from her face with one hand.

  “No, but . . . I need to leave right away.”

  “Don’t you have meetings tomorrow morning?”

  She shook her head. “Canceled. I’m not going back to Crescent City. I need to get away for a few days.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Sheila.”

  Tears came to her eyes. She wiped her cheek when a tear trickled down. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

  Shazam was in her lap, licking