The Quickie, Page 2

  I was three weeks late with my period. Which normally wouldn’t be a concern.

  Except that I was infertile.

  The results that my ever-helpful gynecologist, Dr. Marcuse, was referring to were from the blood work and ultrasound he’d urged me to get.

  It was a race at that point. A neck-and-neck downhill heat.

  Which would fail first? I thought, lifting my glass.

  My marriage or my health?

  “Thanks for checking in, Dr. Marcuse,” I said to the machine. “Your timing is impeccable.”

  Chapter 4

  AT THIS POINT, my heart was starting to race. Dinner for two — and neither of them was Paul.

  After I finished my glass of wine, I went downstairs and did the only sensible thing under the circumstances. I found the bottle and took it back upstairs with me.

  After I had filled my third glass, I carried it and my wedding picture onto my bed.

  I sat and drank, and stared at Paul.

  At first, I’d been pretty resigned to Paul’s change in behavior after his latest and most pressure-filled promotion at work. I definitely thought it was unhealthy for him to be so stressed out all the time, but I also knew that investment finance was what he did. It was what he was good at, he’d told me many times. How he defined himself.

  So I let it slide. His distance from me. The way he’d suddenly begun to ignore me at meals, and in the bedroom. He needed every ounce of concentration and energy for the office. And it was temporary, I told myself. Once he got up to speed, he would ease back. Or, at the very least, he would fail. I’d lick his wounds, and we’d be back to normal. I’d get to see those dimples again, that smile. We’d be back to being best friends.

  I opened the night table drawer and took out my charm bracelet.

  On my first birthday after we were married, Paul had bought it for me from, of all places, the preteen store Limited Too. So far I had six charms, the first, and my favorite, being a rhinestone heart, “for my love,” he’d said.

  I don’t know why, but every year, each chintzy, puppy-love charm meant a million times more to me than the meal in the fancy restaurant he always took me to.

  This year, Paul had gotten us into Per Se, the new white-hot spot in the Time Warner Center. But even after the crème brûlée, there was no gift.

  He’d forgotten to get me a charm for the bracelet. Forgotten, or decided not to.

  That had been the first sign of real trouble.

  The Times Square neon billboard for trouble came in the form of the twenty-something blonde outside his office on Pearl Street — the one he’d taken into the St. Regis.

  The one Paul had lied to my face about.

  Chapter 5

  I WAS DOWNSTAIRS IN THE KITCHEN, laying the pink chops down into sizzling butter, when there was a hard rap on the window of the back door. The butterflies swirling in my stomach surged, changed formation. I looked at the clock on the microwave.

  Eleven on the dot.

  Here it was, here he was, I thought, dabbing the sweat from my forehead with a kitchen towel as I crossed to the door. It was actually happening.

  Right here.

  Right now.

  I took a deep, deep breath and slipped open the dead bolt.

  “Hi, Lauren.”

  “Hi back at you. You look nice. Great.”

  “For somebody who’s soaking wet, right?”

  The rain that swung in with the door spattered a constellation of dark, wet stars on the kitchen’s pale stone tile.

  And then he stepped in. Quite the entrance, I might add.

  His tapered, six-two frame seemed to fill the room. In the candlelight, I could see that his dark hair was freshly cut, the color of wet white sand where it was shaved close to his skull.

  Wind roared in, and the scent of him, cologne and rain and leather from the motorcycle jacket he wore, hit me head-on.

  Oprah has probably devoted a couple of hours to how you get to this point, I thought as I struggled for something to say. Harmless workplace flirting that leads to infatuation that leads to a furtive friendship that leads to . . . I still wasn’t sure what to call this.

  I knew some married female co-workers who took part in harmless flirting, but I’d always put up a wall when I was dealing with men professionally, especially the handsome, funny ones like Scott. It just didn’t feel right, going there.

  But Scott had gotten over my wall somehow, gotten inside my defenses. Maybe it was the fact that, for all his size and good looks, there was an innocence about him. Or maybe it was how he was almost formal with me. Old-fashioned in the best sense of the word. Or how his presence in my life seemed to have increased in perfect ratio to Paul’s pulling away.

  And as if that weren’t enough, there was something nicely mysterious about him, something subtle under the surface that pulled at me.

  “So, you’re actually here,” Scott said, breaking the silence between us. “Wait, I almost forgot.”

  For the first time, I noticed the wet, tattered brown bag he was holding. He blushed as he took a little stuffed animal out of it. It was a Beanie Baby, one I’d never seen before, a little tan puppy. I looked at the name tag, “Badges.” Then I looked at the birthdate, December 1.

  I put a hand to my open mouth.

  My birthday.

  I’d been looking for one with my birthday only forever. Scott knew, and he had found it.

  I looked at the puppy. Then I remembered how Paul had forgotten the charm for my bracelet. That’s when I felt something break like thin ice inside me, and I was crying.

  “Lauren, no,” Scott said, panicked. He raised his arms to embrace me, then stopped as if he’d run into some invisible wall.

  “Listen,” he said. “The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you. This is all too much. I can see that now. I . . . I’ll just go, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow as usual. I’ll bring the Box O’ Joe, you bring the cinnamon Munchkins, and this never happened. Okay?”

  Then my back door opened again, and Scott was gone into the night.

  Chapter 6

  I LISTENED TO THE MEAT SIZZLE rather melodramatically as I wiped my eyes with a dish towel. What was I doing? Was I crazy? Scott was right. What the hell had I been thinking? I stood there dumbly staring at the puddles he’d made on the floor seconds ago.

  Then, the next thing I knew, I turned off the stove, grabbed my handbag, threw the door open, and ran outside in the dark.

  He was getting on his motorcycle half a block away when I caught up to him, completely drenched now myself.

  A light went on in a neighbor’s house. Mrs. Waters was just about the biggest gossip on our block. What would she say if she saw me? Scott noticed me looking up at the window nervously.

  “Here,” he said, handing me his helmet. “Don’t overthink this, Lauren. Just do it. Get on.”

  I put the helmet on and took another, even stronger hit of Scott’s scent as he started up his red Ducati racing bike. It sounded like something detonating.

  “Come on,” he yelled, offering his hand. “Quick!”

  “Isn’t it dangerous to ride in the rain?” I asked.

  “Outrageously,” he said, grinning irresistibly as he gunned the throttle.

  I put out my hand, and the next second, I was climbing on behind Scott and wrapping my arms around his sides.

  I had just enough time to tuck my head between his shoulder blades before we screamed up the hill of my cul-de-sac like a bottle rocket.

  Chapter 7

  IT’S POSSIBLE I LEFT CLAW MARKS on Scott’s leather jacket while I hung on for dear life. My stomach bottomed out whenever we hit a dip and then seemed to bang off the roof of my skull when we topped rises. The rain-slicked world appeared to melt away as we hurtled past.

  I cursed myself for not drawing up a living will when the bike’s back tire fishtailed onto the entrance to the Saw Mill River Parkway. Then Scott let the bike run loose!

  The next time I breathed and
looked up, we were pulling off the Henry Hudson Parkway into Riverdale, an upscale neighborhood in the Bronx.

  We came roaring down a hill and only slowed as we turned onto a street lined with dark, gated mansions. In a flash of lightning I saw the wide silver chasm of the Hudson close below us, the stark, shattered face of the New Jersey Palisades directly across the water.

  “C’mon, Lauren,” Scott said, suddenly stopping the bike and hopping off. He waved for me to follow him as he started walking up the cobblestone driveway of a colonial about the size of a Home Depot.

  “You live here?” I called to him after I removed his helmet.

  “Kinda,” Scott called back, waving some more.

  “Kinda?”

  I followed him into a free-standing, three-car garage that was almost as big as my house. Inside, there was a Porsche, a Bentley, and a Ferrari the same color as Scott’s bike.

  “Those aren’t yours!” I said in shock.

  “I wish,” Scott said, climbing a set of stairs. “They’re more like my roommates. I’m just house-sitting for this friend of mine. C’mon, I’ll get us towels.”

  I walked behind him into a small, loft-style apartment above the garage. He popped open a couple of Budweisers and put on a Motown CD before he went into the bathroom. In the massive bay window, the storm-racked Hudson was framed like a billboard.

  After Scott tossed me a fluffy towel that smelled of lemon, he stood on the bathroom threshold, just staring at me. Like I was beautiful or something.

  It was the same way I’d caught him looking at me down a corridor or in the parking lot or stairwell at work.

  A kind of pleading in his almond-shaped brown eyes.

  For the first time I allowed myself to stare back. I took a sip of cold beer.

  Then my beer dropped from my hand as I suddenly realized why I was so attracted to him. It was crazy, really. When I was in high school, I met a boy on summer vacation at Spring Lake on the Jersey Shore. He was in charge of the bike-rental place by the boardwalk, and let me tell you, Lance Armstrong didn’t put in as much roadwork that summer as I did.

  Then one Friday night, the most momentous Friday in my life up to that point, he invited me to my first beach party.

  I guess every life has at least one golden moment, right? A period of time when the glory of the world and your place in it briefly and magically align.

  That beach party was mine.

  There I was. My first honest-to-God beer buzz, the ocean crashing in the background, the evening sky the color of turquoise, as this perfect, older boy reached out across the sand and without a word took my hand in his. I was sixteen years old. My braces were off, my burn had finally started to turn to brown, and I had a sense of infinite possibilities and a stomach you could bounce a quarter off.

  That’s who Scott reminded me of, I realized, staring at the light in his eyes — Mike, the Jersey Shore bike boy, come to take me back to the endless beach party, where there were no high-stress jobs, no biopsies, and no cheating husbands with attractive blondes on their arm.

  And I guess, right then, what I wanted more than anything, at the most confusing, shitty time of my entire life, was to go back there with him. And be that sixteen-year-old girl again.

  Scott was down on his knees, wiping up the beer spill. I took a breath, reached out, and brushed my hand over his head. “You’re sweet,” I whispered.

  Scott stood up and held my face in his hands. “No, you’re the one who’s sweet. And you’re the most beautiful woman I know, Lauren. Kiss me. Please.”

  Chapter 8

  PAUL AND I HAD ONCE HAD a sweet sex life. In the early days, we were inseparable. On the way down to our third honeymoon, in Barbados, we even became full-fledged members of the Mile High Club.

  But being with Scott?

  It was life-threatening.

  For the better part of an hour, we just kissed and caressed and fondled, my breath and heart rate accelerating in dangerous increments with each button release, every tug of my clothes. When Scott eventually pulled up my shirt and pressed his face to my stomach, I almost bit through my lower lip.

  Then he popped the top button of my jeans. From my throat came a sound that wasn’t even close to human. I was in danger of passing out, and loving it.

  We staggered from room to room, shedding each other’s clothes. We clinched, straining against each other, desperate for breath. I had been needing this for so long, especially the touches, the caresses, maybe just the attention.

  How we actually ended up in his bed, I couldn’t quite remember. Somewhere near the end, I recall, lightning struck so close in the backyard that the window rattled in its frame in time to the headboard.

  Maybe God was trying to tell me something.

  But I don’t think we could have stopped if the roof of the house had been ripped away.

  Afterward I lay there on the comforter, shuddering like a trauma victim, sweat covering my cheeks and neck, my lungs stinging. The wind howled against the windowpane as Scott rolled his searing body off mine. “Jeez, Lauren. My God, you’re great.”

  I was afraid he might stand up and offer to take me home then. I was happily relieved when he spooned in beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder. As we cuddled in the dark, all I could think about were those eyes of his, those gentle, almost auburn-colored eyes, as he finger-combed my hair.

  “I think I need a shower,” he said finally. His long, muscular legs seemed to wobble when he stood. “Check that out. I need an IV.”

  “You could get one at the emergency room when you drop me off,” I said, smiling.

  I had just enough energy to prop up my head on a pillow as Scott walked to the bathroom. I could see him in the mirror when he turned on the light. He was beautiful. Honest to God he was.

  His bunched muscles dug into his sides and his tanned back. He looked like something off a Calvin Klein billboard.

  It had been . . . perfect, I thought. Better than I had had any reason to expect. Undeniably hot, but also sweet. I hadn’t thought Scott would be so affectionate, that we would connect emotionally as well as physically.

  I’d needed to have this happen, I realized. To feel hot and then warm. To laugh. To be held close by someone who liked me and who thought I was special.

  And I refuse to feel guilty, I thought, listening to another close explosion of thunder.

  What’s good for the goose is definitely good for the desperate housewife. Even if this never happened again — and maybe it wouldn’t, shouldn’t — it was worth it.

  Chapter 9

  IN THE CRAMPED DARK of his Toyota Camry parked half a block north of the apartment over the garage, Paul Stillwell stared, mesmerized, as another flash of lightning illuminated Scott’s shiny red motorcycle.

  He’d actually seen the Ducati in the centerfold of the FYI section of Fortune magazine once, one of those impossibly expensive fantasy boy toys. Something a movie star or the devil-may-care heir to a European shipping conglomerate might ride.

  And happy assholes like Scott, Paul thought, staring at its fighter-jet contours, red and slick as lip gloss in the shimmer of light.

  His throat tightened as he tore his eyes away and went back to scrolling through the pictures file on his Verizon cell.

  He stopped at the shot of Scott that he’d taken when he followed Scott home from work the week before. In the photograph, Scott was astride the Italian bike at a stoplight, his full-face helmet perched back on his forehead. Lean, powerful, and as cocky as the expensive machine between his legs.

  Paul closed the cell and stared out through the rain at the light in the garage’s upstairs window.

  Then he leaned back and lifted the Ping 3 iron from the floor of the backseat. The golf club had good heft and balance.

  It was a drastic solution, he knew, staring at the heavy, fist-size metal club’s face. But what choice did you have when a man invaded your house and took what was yours?

  Everything was in jeopardy now, he rem
inded himself. Everything he’d worked for was in danger of slipping through his fingers.

  Maybe he should have done something sooner. Headed things off before it came to this. But maybes and should haves and if onlys were beside the point now, weren’t they? One question remained: Would he allow this bullshit to continue or would he not?

  No, Paul thought, cutting the ignition. There’s only one way to end this.

  The rain rattled on the roof of the Camry. He pocketed his cell phone and took a deep breath. With slow, almost ceremonial deliberation, he wrapped his black-gloved hand around the grip of the perfectly weighted club.

  The extreme hard way, he thought, and he opened the car door and stepped out into the driving rain.

  Chapter 10

  “SO, WHAT NOW?” Scott said, pulling his jacket on over his bare chest as he came out of the shower.

  “Surprise me,” I said. “I like surprises. I love surprises.”

  Scott bent over and took my left wrist. My vision went double as he softly kissed my pulse point.

  “How was that?” he said, smiling.

  “Nice start,” I said when my lung function finally returned.

  “You stay here while I spin by the all-night market. I’m out of fresh basil and olive oil,” Scott said, standing. “You don’t mind if I whip us up a late dinner, do you? I have some great veal cutlets I got on Arthur Avenue yesterday. I’ll make you my mom’s sauce. It’s better than Rao’s.”

  Mind! I thought, envisioning Scott in an apron. A man actually cooking for me?

  “I could probably suffer through it,” I said after I finished swallowing really hard.

  Scott was opening the door, when he suddenly stopped and turned, staring back at me.

  “What?” I said. “Changed your mind about cooking?”

  “I . . . ,” he said, “I guess I’m just glad we did this tonight, Lauren. I wasn’t sure if you would go through with it. I’m glad you did. I’m really glad we did.”