The Fifth Stage Part 11

I couldn't take it anymore. I wanted it over and began to pray. I begged G.o.d to end my torture, promising Him anything, vowing to never do anything wrong again if He'd commute my sentence and give me peace.

But now my feelings weren't just between G.o.d and me. Lora had read my mind in the hallway. She'd seen past my facade and looked into the real me, a person I hardly knew myself. Just like in The Scarlet Letter, my sin had been revealed and I felt a blazing mark upon my breast.

When the restroom's door opened and flooded the room with echoing voices from the hall, I s.h.i.+fted gears in my prayer. Please don't let it be Lora. She couldn't see me like this, delirious and snot-nosed I'd die.

A gentle rap came on the stall door. "Claire? It's me. Open up."

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I wiped my eyes. Feeling like a freak, dreading the look on Lora's face, I lifted the latch and opened the door. Instead of standing aside so I could come out, Lora pressed into the stall with me, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and closed the door with her foot. "Please don't be upset," she said softly into my ear.

I settled into her arms and grabbed fistfuls of the back of her sweater. "I don't know what's wrong with me. Everything's so confusing."

She squeezed me tight for a second and touched her lips to my ear before stepping back. She looked down into my eyes, sighed, and glanced away. "I guess we need to talk. And we will, I promise. But we can't do it here, and not over the phone either. For now, just blow your nose and go on to cla.s.s. Act like you've got a cold or something." She wiped a tear from my cheek before stepping out of the stall.

I watched her leave, more confused than before. Her words had sounded as though she wanted to forget the incident in her bedroom. But she'd held me so tight, touched me with such compa.s.sion. She was pulling me to her with one hand and pus.h.i.+ng me away with the other.

All I knew for sure was that we'd better have our little talk before I went berserk.

Good luck with that, though. I had a basketball game coming up on Thursday night, Lora had the football game on Friday night, and she had to work on Sat.u.r.day before the big party at Rachel's house. If she didn't want to discuss our tryst over the phone, it would be days before we could have a private conversation, and by then, I might be in a straightjacket.

So I did all I could do, blew my nose, sucked in a deep breath, and prepared for three days in h.e.l.l. But if Lora was going to say what I thought she was going to say, my h.e.l.l days would look like a trip to the beach compared to the lifetime of torment that was sure to follow.

CHAPTER 14.

Rebecca gives Rich, the tardy bartender, a few quick instructions and tosses him a towel. She takes a deep breath and shoots a last look around as she brushes her hair from her eyes and comes around to my side of the bar. She walks up behind me and puts one arm around my shoulder and the other around the geek in the aviator gla.s.ses who is still moving on the woman beside me.

Rebecca looks at him. "Hey, Frank. Ready for the weekend?"

"Sure am," he replies, pus.h.i.+ng up his gla.s.ses.

Rebecca squeezes my shoulder. "How about you, still feel like hanging out for a while?"

"Sure," I say, smiling. She's different tonight, more relaxed and open. And I like the feeling of her hand on my shoulder. It's just a friendly gesture, but it still feels good.

As I slide off the bar stool, that nagging sting of guilt hits me between my eyes. For all my conscious efforts to keep it at bay, it hits me every time I think about another woman. I promised to be faithful, and no matter how hard my head tries to be reasonable, my heart throws silly emotions into the mix.

Rebecca squeezes my shoulder again. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, but I think I'm physically attached to this stool. My legs are asleep."

She gives me a scan, and when she seems satisfied that I'm capable of walking, leads me through the crowd, stopping a couple of times to speak to the regulars. She uses the same tone with them she usually uses with me, friendly but professional.

When we reach her office, she flips on the fluorescent light and drops into her high-backed leather chair. So far, I've only known Rebecca as an uncompromising restaurant manager or the sultry star of a few erotic dreams. In her office, I have my first opportunity to find out a little more about her.

I catch a snapshot in a metal frame on her desk. It's of Rebecca in younger years, maybe around sixteen, standing in front of a Christmas 68

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tree with an older woman. They're both wearing red winter dresses and brandis.h.i.+ng holiday smiles. Judging by the older woman's eyes and the dimple in her right cheek, I a.s.sume she's Rebecca's mother.

Next, I notice her college diploma hanging on the wall over her desk. It's in a fine oak frame and has a gold honor student seal in the lower left corner. Her middle name is Lynn, the same as mine. By the graduation date, I figure she's about thirty-four, older than I thought.

Rebecca lets out a sigh and looks down at the front of her soaked s.h.i.+rt. "Lord, I look like a drowned rat."

"You look fine." I fold my hands in front of me and s.h.i.+ft my weight to my left foot. It's my natural business-meeting stance. I've been doing it so long, I don't know how to stand any other way.

Rebecca glances through a stack of papers on her desk before putting them aside and standing up. "Mind if I go upstairs to change?"

"Upstairs?"

"My apartment. When I came back to town to take over the business, I renovated the upstairs. It's small but it's free, and I can always get to work on time."

We leave the office, and she leads me through the kitchen, which is still bustling to prepare late orders. The dark-haired dishwasher stares at me through a steamy fog rising from the sink and watches me all the way to the back door. I s.h.i.+ver in the kitchen's muggy heat and pull my jacket closed.

Rebecca takes a quick glance down the stainless prep aisle.

Seemingly satisfied with the kitchen's condition, she shoves the heavy back door open. In the frigid night air, the smoky aroma of grilling meat mixes with the acidic odor of rotten tomatoes from the dumpster a few yards away. The smell is at once appealing and revolting.

I hold my breath and follow Rebecca along the back of the building to a long flight of stairs. She warns me to watch my step as we climb the rickety metal staircase to a square landing in front of a wooden door.

She slides a key into the lock, opens the door, and motions me in.

"It's not much from the outside, but it's kind of homey inside." She follows me in and flips on the overhead light. "Sorry for the mess," she says, but the apartment looks well kept.

I'm taken with the studio-style flat. The small kitchen area is decorated with yellow sunflowers of all descriptions: a tiny plaque, a square clock, and a metal napkin holder at the center of the two-chair table. In the middle of the great room is a green leather sofa fronted by an oak coffee table. A big screen TV is angled in the corner between the kitchen and the living area. On the far side of the room, a king-sized bed 70 with a patchwork comforter and a dozen throw pillows sits under three arched windows. All around the apartment, the exposed brick walls are dappled with framed photographs and what appear to be original watercolors. Near the bed are a computer desk and filing cabinet.

My eyes zoom in on the filing cabinet. One of its drawers is half- open, with green and red folders spewing out, and I remember why I'm here. This isn't a date, it's a service call.

Rebecca crosses the room and drops her purse on the bed. "I've got to get out of these clothes. Make yourself at home. I'll be right back."

She disappears behind a door to the left.

I stand around for a minute with my hands in my jacket pockets, unsure what to do. Telling myself to relax, I slip off my jacket, fold it across a kitchen chair, and wander into the living area.

"Is this the filing cabinet you wanted me to look at?" I ask.

"What filing cabinet?"

"The one with the stuck drawer."

"Oh, man. I forgot." She rushes back into the room, wearing a green satin bathrobe. "Think you can do anything with it?"

"I don't know. It's about a hundred years old, and I'm not too familiar with the workings. Maybe if we can get the drawer open, we can see what's going on in there."

Rebecca is still securing her bathrobe's sash when she joins me at the cabinet. She stands close behind me and watches as I try to reach into the drawer with my right hand. I smell the alcohol from the bar on her skin. Its strong, sweet aroma settles over me and makes my brain go numb.

"Maybe we need to take the files out. I don't think your hand will fit." She moves even closer, touching my back with her body and resting her chin on my shoulder. The motion is not s.e.xual, but it's intimate and not the move of a straight womannot a touch I expected from Rebecca.

Startled by the contact, I jerk my hand from the drawer, spin around, and almost trip. I try to clear my throat but it's too dry. I manage a cough.

Rebecca's eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed. She seems about to say something when she looks down at my hand. "You're bleeding."

She turns and goes toward the kitchen, motioning for me to follow.

Sure enough, there's a small, shallow cut along the heel of my hand. I cup my left hand under it to catch a drop of blood as I step to the sink.

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Rebecca takes my hand and inspects the jagged red wound. "Sorry if I frightened you. I'm tired and I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to...

Please don't be offended."

"Why would I be offended?"

She takes a kitchen towel from the counter and dabs the blood. "I don't usually do things like that."

"Like what?"

She catches my eyes again, those swirls of green looking into me, through me. "Get too close."

I've seen that look before and know what it means. But I'm no fool.

When it comes to women, it's best to a.s.sume nothing. The old lips-say-no-but-eyes-say-yes c.r.a.p doesn't carry any clout with me; never has. I have to hear it, and more than once, before I'll consider acting on it.

"You weren't too close."

"You're sure?"

"I just didn't expect it."

Her eyes brighten for a second, then narrow with skepticism. "Are you?" She bites off her words.

What a comical picture we must betwo grown women standing in a kitchen not big enough to cuss a cat in, playing verbal peek-a-boo to keep from insulting one another.

She stares at the gold refrigerator for a second, then draws a deep breath. "Can we keep this just between us?"

I nod.

"The truth is, I've been getting these vibes from you for a while."

"What kind of vibes?"

"Like maybe you'd be interested in getting to know each other better, like maybe you... But I might be reading you wrong, and if I am, I'm very sorry for putting you on the spot like this."

Outside, a car's alarm beeps twice and the sound of rambunctious laughter drifts into the loft. Pretending to be distracted by the noise, I steal an instant to collect my thoughts before saying, "Is your gaydar going off?"

"A little."

"It should be."

She sighs as though a weight has been lifted off her chest. "Oh, thank G.o.d. All I need is to ruin the restaurant by talking out of turn to a customer." She grins and leads me to the sofa. "Sit down. I've got some Band-Aids in the bathroom. We'll get you fixed up."

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When she disappears behind the door again, I'm glad to have a minute to regroup. My head feels like it's full of glue. All the thoughts inside are sticking together and oozing through the cracks in my skull.

She returns with a box of bandages and an alcohol pad, sits down beside me, and takes my hand. "I'm sorry for acting so ditzy tonight. I just hate the thought of doing something wrong."

"I understand. I'm a little ditzy myself."

The very air between us seems different than before, clearer, free from the conjecture and speculation that clouded our previous conversations. We're being honest, and it feels good for a change.

Rebecca tears open the alcohol pad and dabs it along the cut. "I haven't been back in town very long, and I work all the time, so I didn't know anyone to ask about you."

I wince at the alcohol's sting, but don't pull away.

She fixes a sterile strip across the cut and gives me a warm glance.