The Fifth Stage Part 12

"I think you'll live."

She traces her fingers along my palm. "You can tell a lot about a person from their hands. That's the first thing I notice about a woman."

I don't think she can see anything other than the obvious, but I want her to keep touching me. "What can you tell?"

"You take good care of your skin. That's obvious." Her eyes narrow as she takes my left hand and rubs her thumb across my palm.

"You play some kind of sport, something with a racket. Tennis?"

"Racquetball. How did you know?"

"You've got a tiny callus below the ring finger on your right hand, but you don't have one on your left. You keep your nails short, but manicured. That tells me you're particular about your appearance, but you don't mind getting your hands dirty." She turns my hand over and tracks the jagged scar running from between my knuckles to above my thumb. "What happened here?"

"I broke a mirror." My reply is oversimplified, but the details would make me look like a maniac.

"Seven years bad luck. How old is the scar?"

"About three years."

Rebecca sits back for a second, then reaches toward me and touches a spot between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "You've got blood on your sweater."

I look down and see about six red specks on my chest. "Ah, c.r.a.p! I just had this darn thing cleaned."

She lingers on the blood spot for a moment, then leans back. "You seem nervous. Are you sure everything's all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just a little out of practice with this sort of thing."

73.

"What sort of thing?" She tries to look me in the eye, but I won't let her.

I shrug and pick at a string on my jeans.

She giggles and brushes her hair back. "Guess I'm not helping anything by being so evasive. It's just that you never know if you might be hitting on the wrong woman."

"Are you hitting on me?"

"Maybe. I mean if it's okay with you, I'd like to get to know you better."

"I think I can live with that." I try not to let my grin touch both my ears.

"So you're not married, or involved, or whatever?"

"Not for a while." That twinge of guilt tickles my throat.

My head is starting to hurt. I don't want to get into this right now.

Besides, it's a complicated subject. It gets even more complex as the months pa.s.s and I seem to forget little things about Lora. Sometimes I'm desperate to recall the way she brushed her hair or that throaty laugh that erupted from her when I tickled her feet.

Rebecca looks at me with a strange sadness, as if she can see my emotions going from white to black, from red to blue. Worse, she seems to understand.

"Bad breakup?"

"You could say that."

"Was there someone else?"

I look at the ceiling. I can't stand for her to read me like a dime- store romance novel where she'll scan a few pages and put me back on the shelf.

"Sorry, I don't mean to pry." She glances toward the television, then back to me. "I've had a couple of nasty breakups myself. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"Thanks, I'd rather not." I'm trying to find my earlier grin but it won't come back. I shake my head and look away. "This is too bizarre."

Rebecca crosses her legs and slides closer to me. "At first, I couldn't tell about you because you're so distant sometimes. And after a while, I got the feeling you might be interested, but I never dreamed you'd be single." She holds up her hand as if swearing to tell the truth.

"And I don't play in anyone else's yard, if you know what I mean."

"I appreciate that."

Rebecca looks down at her robe, then to my bandaged hand. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind for the evening. I guess we've gotten off to a rocky start."

74.

"Does that mean I'll see you again?"

"I hope so." She looks at her hands before peeking up at me. "I'd like to be a little more presentable next time."

I feel an urge in the pit of my stomach, but it's not the kind of craving most women would have in this situation. Panic is pounding through me, insisting I excuse myself and head for the door before I get into something I can't get out of.

I know the intricate waltz of relations.h.i.+ps is not meant only for those who possess a natural ability for the dance, or for those more deserving than me. It is for us all, but a trace of doubt lingers, a tiny seed of self-loathing that says I don't deserve a second chance.

I focus on the good that might come of this situation. I picture her in my arms, imagine kissing those perfect lips, and think how soft her hands were when she touched me. The thoughts curl around one another, squish together, and flow through my body. Spurred on by them, I tell her about the Kingsley's dinner party and ask her if she'd like to join me. She accepts eagerly. Outside, a car horn blows and boisterous voices drift up from the parking lot, but her attention is focused on me and she doesn't seem to hear them.

I give in to my desire to run before those eyes make me say things I'll regret. "It's been a long day. I'd better go and let you get some rest.

We'll try this again tomorrow, okay?"

We stand up, and she takes my arm as we walk toward the door.

"I'm glad you came over. Sorry it's been such a disaster."

"I wouldn't call it a disaster."

"I'll see you tomorrow." She leans in and gives me a lingering kiss on the cheek.

Nice move. Letting me know she's interested without going too far.

But part of me wishes she would, and I let myself imagine her leading me toward her comfortable bed, where we'd explore each other for hours. I hate to admit it, but if she asked, I'd consider staying. I'd run away like the coward I am, but I would consider it.

She doesn't extend the invitation, so I say goodnight and slip out into the freezing night air. As I head toward the parking lot, I feel like I'm walking on water. Hope I don't sink.

By the time I get home, it's eleven, and as I pull into the driveway, I see Jared in his bathrobe sitting on my front steps, smoking a cigar. I'm not looking forward to this. Even if Elizabeth didn't tell him about our 75 little experiment, I still know what happened. The memory of her gentle lips and the way she tilted her head has haunted me all day and made the confusion worse. Even if it wasn't the real thing for her, it was for me, and I hate the way it made me feel. How do I look a man in the eye after I've kissed his wife?

I leave the garage door open and go up the front walk. Each uneasy step brings me closer to his even gaze, his strong jaw and thick chest.

Stricken by the urge to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness, my knees wobble and my hands start to shake. My senses sharpen. I can hear the evening dew crackle as it freezes on the gra.s.s. The tulips beside the steps are still frozen under the ground, but I smell their earthy sweetness tonight as easily as I will come spring.

"Elizabeth run you out again?" I ask.

He looks at his cigar's glowing tip and puffs out a heavy blue cloud of fumes. "She understands my need for a good smoke."

"She's afraid the kids will, too." I sit on the step beside him and hunker down against the wind. Even through my jeans, the bricks are cold.

"Thanks for letting me sneak over for a puff." A dime-sized circle of ash drops from the stogie, and he kicks it off the walkway with the side of his sneaker.

"Hey, smoke here all you want. I know how Elizabeth feels about tobacco in the house."

"Funny how many doctors smoke. You'd think we'd know better."

He folds his arms across his knees, keeping the cigar away from me.

"Nice night, huh?"

"Yeah. Smells like snow."

"It won't, never does." He takes a long pull and peeks at me from the corner of his eye. "It was nice last night, too, wasn't it?"

"I suppose."

He leans back and looks at me. "I don't know what's gotten into Beth. She attacked me last night, after breakfast this morning, and twice before the kids got home from school. Sure am glad I had the day off."

I'm sweating. It was a bad idea to kiss Elizabeth. I knew it and did it anyway. "What?"

He grins. "Whatever got her so torn up, I hope it happens again."

"Excuse me?"

Jared takes another puff and blows a smoke ring over our heads.

"Beth is a complex woman. Sometimes it takes something unusual to get her going."

76.

I remember the kiss in vivid detail and the way it made me feel, all squishy and hot from the inside out. How could I have done it, let myself get so torn up over my friend, my married friend?

He waves his cigar in front of him. "A good smoke is my thing. It relaxes me, makes me nicer to her and the kids after a hard day, so she doesn't give me much flak about it. If she needs a little something of her own to make her feel good, who am I to tell her not to do it?"

We're not talking about a shopping trip here. We're talking about the good doctor's wife fooling around with her next door neighborher female neighbor. And from where I sit, it looks like a p.o.r.no movie with l.u.s.ty nymphs wearing fishnet stockings and stiletto heels making out on the kitchen counter.

I shudder and try to read Jared's expression, but his thoughts are hidden behind the cool detachment of a man who's seen too much suffering, someone who's p.r.o.nounced dozens of teenagers dead while their anxious parents pace the emergency waiting room at Mercy Hospital.

He stands up and tamps out his cigar on the bottom of his running shoe. "Coming to dinner tomorrow night?"

"Okay if I bring a date?"

"Only if she's pretty." He touches my cheek before sauntering down the walk and across the yard.

I wonder if Elizabeth is waiting.

CHAPTER 15.

The Sat.u.r.day-night party at Rachel's was a total disaster. The small house was packed with drunken, h.o.r.n.y kids guzzling beer and dancing to music so loud I was sure the sheriff could hear it at the police station three miles away. Those with enough alcohol in their systems and a willing partner stumbled to the upper floor bedrooms for a quick romp while they could still function without throwing up.

I was miserable. Matthew and I lingered around the fringes of the madness, nursing one beer for hours. I held his hand while we tried to talk but I couldn't take my eyes off Lora and Jock. They were on the downstairs sofa, surrounded by a mob of Jock's admirers as he related one tale after another about how the Yankees' scouts were looking at him but he'd rather play for Pittsburgh. Every minute or two, he'd pull Lora to him and grope her a.s.s with one hand as he smothered her with his lips. She'd giggle and squirm away, playfully chastising him for being so aggressive. Every few minutes, Lora looked at me with a disgusted expression.

If she were mine, I wouldn't treat her that way. I'd respect her, I thought over and over.

But she wasn't mine. She belonged to the golden boy, the one who had it all figured out, a nice life plan. He'd play in the minors for a year or two, sign a fat contract, and hurl fastb.a.l.l.s at Yankee Stadium in no time. Jock could give her everythingmoney, cars, a fancy home.

What could I offer? I didn't have a dime, drove a junker, and had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Then there was that other little problemI wore a B-cup instead of an athletic cup. h.e.l.l, if I were Lora, I'd pick him, too.

After a hundred years in the party's madness, Matthew managed to pull Jock from his pedestal and load him into the back seat. On the drive to Lora's house, the sounds from behind me told an age-old tale.