THE NEXT MORNING VINCE and I again found ourselves on Evan’s doorstep, this time expected, so we didn’t need to break down the door. And this time Evan answered dressed in the business casual attire he wore for his class: slacks, button-down shirt, polished loafers. No disreputable robe. He shook hands with Vince, but he and I only managed uncertain smiles, making no move to hug. It was as if a force field surrounded our bodies and prevented contact. This strain had its beginnings at Target . . . No, it went further back—to his marriage to Carlene. His wife’s death at the hands of his biological mother had accelerated the process. Our relationship was beyond repair. I felt a mixture of regret and relief, mostly the latter.
I wasted no time. “The tickets?”
“Oh, right.” Evan started up the stairs. He stopped and asked, “Do you want to take a look at Carlene’s clothes, see if there’s anything you want? Oh, wait, Kat and Georgia came over the other night and packed up everything and took them someplace, don’t remember where. But there’s still jewelry—and a lot of books.”
I was about to say another time, but then I thought how I’d love more than anything never to see Evan again. I considered Carlene’s jewelry, my mind lighting on those pesky silver bangle bracelets. Even her less annoying jewelry was silver. Being a gold person I passed on the jewelry. “I’d love to look at the books.”
“Great.” Evan came back down the steps and pointed toward the family room. “There are tons of books down there and in Carlene’s den upstairs.”
I asked, “When do you need to leave for your class?”
“Not till noon.” That gave us two hours. Not that I wanted to take that long—the house stunk of stale cigarettes, so the sooner we got out the better.
“Speaking of books, what’s going to happen with the one that’s with Carlene’s agent?”
“Don’t know. That woman came to the memorial service—Dodie, Dorie, something like that—but I haven’t been able to deal with all that stuff.”
“Understandable,” I said, allowing myself a modicum of compassion. “And what about the one she, meaning Carlene, was working on? The third book.” I’d decided not to complete that one. I wanted to write about live bodies, having sex. And I did not feel inclined to deal with Evan over the inevitable legal issues involved in finishing his wife’s book. Still, I asked.
“She really hadn’t done anything with it; it was just an outline. Anyway,” Evan rushed on, clearly wanting to leave the subject, “just help yourselves to the books. I’ll grab some boxes. Coffee?”
“Oh. Not for me. Vince?” He shook his head.
While Vince made for the sofa and picked up a coffee table book, I stood in front of the oh-so-familiar bookcase in the family room. The gallery of photographs was gone, including the ones of Evan that had found a second home in Helen’s bedroom. Maybe Kat or Georgia took them. I stacked a selection of glossy-paged Italian cookbooks and coffee table art volumes in one of the boxes that Evan left by the steps. When I ran up to Carlene’s den with two more boxes, Vince remained in the family room, engrossed in a study of Picasso’s blue period.
Upstairs, I heard Evan tapping computer keys in a nearby room that I guessed was his den. I shook off an uneasy feeling that came over me when I flashed to the last time I’d been in Carlene’s den, being interviewed by Detective Garcia, and focused my attention on the bookcase. While the family room was devoted to reference material and oversized art books, Carlene had allocated her own den to mysteries, contemporary fiction, classics, and writing manuals, alphabetizing by author. I picked up a Marcia Muller book, The Broken Promise Land. The author had signed the hardback novel in 1996 at Book’em Mysteries in South Pasadena. Small world—I had been at the same signing. The year 1996—it must have been shortly before Carlene fled California. It gave me a funny feeling to have been in the same space with her, especially during a time of such upheaval for her. I took the book along with a collection of Agatha Christies, Dorothy L. Sayers, and new-to-me authors.
I looked for the two family photos that had intrigued me when Carlene and I had stood in this room, having our last discussion. I considered the bewildering part of our talk when Carlene broached the subject of huge mistakes. With all the possibilities for mistakes in Carlene’s life, I’d given up trying to pinpoint the one, or ones, that must have been on her mind, but likely they involved Linda and B.J. As for the photos, they were gone—had Kat and Georgia taken them along with the ones downstairs? Was Evan trying to erase Carlene from his memory? Or was he moving, hence the boxes? The laptop was gone as well.
I heard the familiar voices of CNN anchors. Apparently Vince had tired of the art books and was now catching up with the news. When I pushed the boxes into the hall and called to Evan that I was finished, he emerged from his den. “How about some tapes, DVDs?”
“All right,” I said, thinking about Trudy’s idea for a film group.
“They’re in the family room and in the master bedroom. Bedroom’s here.” He waved a hand toward the room across from him. “Come on, I’ll show you where they are.”
I’d never been in Carlene and Evan’s master suite. When I’d enlisted Janet’s help with Evan the week before I hadn’t entered the darkened room and so was unprepared for the dramatic effects. The bed was stripped of its black satin sheets and tiger print bedspread—they spilled out of a couple of large trash bags. A small rolled-up rug with a leopard design leaned against the wall. The headboard was padded with zebra fur. The wall border showed groups of jungle animals repeating around the room. A virtual safari. I guessed that Evan was sleeping next door these days, probably in a pink and white bedroom.
“Redecorating?” I asked.
“Eventually. Kat’s coming back for this stuff.” He grinned and pointed at the border. “But I’ll keep the copulating animals.”
“Huh?” I took a closer look and laughed. The animals were indeed mating.
Evan opened the doors of an armoire positioned diagonally across a corner of the room. The shelves overflowed with DVDs and VHS tapes. “Feel free to take them all.”
He turned and looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t form the words. When he reached for me, mouth seeking mine, I screeched as I stepped back and crashed into the louver door of the closet. He grabbed my arm to steady me and tried for another kiss. I crab-stepped away and knocked over the rolled-up carpet. Thankfully Vince had the TV volume cranked up and couldn’t hear the commotion.
Evan picked up the now unrolled rug and tossed it on the bed. He looked at me and heaved a sigh. As for me, I tried to collect myself and my dignity.
“Evan, what was that all about?”
“I’m sorry, Hazel. I thought . . .” He trailed off.
“Thought what?” Did I really want to know?
“I thought you were interested in getting back together.”
Trying to be gentle, I said, “I was at one time.”
“Back when you were moving to Richmond, right?”
“Right,” I whispered.
His smile was grim. “But then I met Carlene and she cast a spell on me.”
Casting spells sounded dramatic, but Carlene had made a career out of bewitching men. It was satisfying to learn that Evan wasn’t totally oblivious and that maybe we’d shared the same hopes of getting back together before Witchy Woman came on the scene. Refrains of the Eagles song by the same name sounded in my head.
“Right,” I repeated. “But that was a long time ago. Now Vince and Janet are in our lives.”
“Janet?” Evan knit his brow. “Janet and I are just friends. And I thought you and Vince were just friends.”
“More than that. We’re getting married.” That made the second time I’d used the marriage gambit to get out of a sticky situation, recalling the unwelcome specter of Helen’s beige living room and her gun. But I liked the sound of it: “getting married.”
“Married? You and Vince?” He shook his head. Why did the idea of me and Vince being married amaze Evan? “Oh. Well. Congratulations.” Not exactly heartfelt congratulations, but the best I could expect. With a smile, he said, “Sorry for—before. And for that day at Target.”
I started to say it was okay. But I stopped—because it wasn’t okay. I wasn’t without compassion—Evan was understandably riddled with issues, but a reunion with me wasn’t the way to deal with them. Neither was his friends-with-benefits arrangement with Janet. I hoped he sought counseling.
As if reading my mind, he said, “I’m seeing a counselor. Great guy.”
“That’s good, Evan. I’m sure he’ll help.”
“So . . . no hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings.”
After a friends-without-benefits-type hug, I said, “Maybe Vince and I will look at those DVDs now. We’ll start downstairs.” I wanted to get out of the bedroom and not come back without Vince. I still felt leery of the unstable Evan.
“Sure, like I said, take them all. I’m out of boxes, but I think I have some trash bags. Go ahead and start looking.”
Vince turned off CNN and we started looting the entertainment unit that housed an enviable collection of 1940s and ’50s noir, British mystery series, foreign titles, and unheard-of titles with interesting covers. Titles like Mildred Pierce, The Postman Always Rings Twice, Jagged Edge, Poirot, and Kavanagh Q.C. flew off the shelves. Taking Evan at his word, we loaded the lot into the trash bags he produced. A bonanza for the budding film group . . . They’d be thrilled. Like Carlene’s spirit stayed on with us. We piled the bags by the front door and headed upstairs.
We found an impressive porn collection in the oak armoire. Impressive in quantity—I felt unqualified to judge the content, given my anathema to the subject matter. There had to be at least a hundred DVDs, including titles like A Sex Odyssey, American Booty, and the like.
The sound of a door opening downstairs sent Evan tearing down the steps. Soon voices wafted upstairs. “Janet,” I muttered to Vince, recognizing her cigarette-laced tones.
A number of VHS tapes caught my eye, labeled C&B#1, C&B#2, C&R#1, C&R#2, C&E#1 . . . There were seven more in the C&E series. I surmised that the C&E ones featured Carlene and Evan. My curiosity got the better of me and I stuffed the initialed tapes into one of the trash bags.
“You’re taking them?” Vince sounded surprised. I steadfastly refused to watch blue movies.
Even though Evan was downstairs, I lowered my voice. “I want to see if these are the tapes that Linda was planning to use to blackmail Carlene. Evan said to take them all—let him come looking for them if he misses them.”
“Hazel, have you ever watched movies like these?”
“Yes. There was this professor . . .” To my astonishment, and probably Vince’s, I found myself explaining my porn ban. I told of my years-ago relationship with a UCLA professor who could only get, um, interested while watching an X-rated movie. That experience forever turned me off to them. I added, “Not that I was ever big on the stuff. Pure sexploitation.”
I didn’t normally share intimate details of past relationships with present-day lovers. Could this be a step forward for Vince and me? Or backward?
Vince took me in his arms, indicating a forward direction. “I understand. You know I’d never pressure you to do anything you didn’t want to do. Just as I’m sure you know that I don’t need movies to get interested.”
I smiled and kissed him. “Yes, I know.” Too bad we weren’t alone.
We found the lovebirds in the kitchen, embracing. They looked up when Vince and I appeared, seeming inexplicably surprised to see us. Evan gave me a sheepish look. Did Janet know she was “just a friend”?
Janet’s sweater matched the lipstick smeared on her chin as well as on Evan’s. And on the wineglass from my previous visit. Bubble-gum pink.
“Hi, you two.” She grinned. Then she proclaimed, apropos of nothing, “I’m a widow you know.” Her matter-of-fact delivery indicated her widowhood wasn’t recent or that her marriage had been a loveless one. I looked from Janet to Evan . . . two widowed neighbors offering each other solace. Comfort sex. I wondered if their relationship preceded or followed Carlene’s death. I’d probably never know.
“Yes, you said that at the memorial service.” I kept my voice sweet and light. “I’m a widow as well.” Funny, I never thought of myself that way, being so used to being a divorcée. But technically I qualified as a widow in good standing. Widow sounds dramatic, Victorian, while divorcée had a sophisticated ring. My mind segued to the The Gay Divorcee, one of those luscious Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie pairings from the thirties. Maybe I could persuade the film group to indulge in a dance musical.
“Um,” I started. “We’re ready to leave.”
“Did you get all the books you wanted?” When I nodded, he asked about the movies. “Oh, yes,” I assured him, holding up the aptly named trash bag containing the tapes.
“Do you two want to join us for lunch next door?” Janet asked, with a nearly imperceptible head shake. I’d recently read an article on nonverbal communication. Out of politeness, someone asks if you’d like something. If they want you to say no, they give a little head shake.
“No, perhaps another time,” I answered for Vince and myself. “We’ll just take the tickets and leave you to . . .” I felt myself blushing. Janet smiled. I wondered if she knew that Evan and I were onetime spouses—who knew what Evan shared with her beyond his body. I still smarted about not knowing about the adoption. At least we hadn’t had kids—with Helen as Evan’s mother, the gene pool was flawed. And heaven only knew who Evan’s father was—I envisioned a high school jock in a letter sweater and crew cut. Helen’s pregnancy had likely propelled both sets of parents into a tizzy, with Helen being whisked off for confinement with other unwed mothers while letter sweater got off scot-free. No youthful indiscretion would ruin his career. Boys will be boys, after all.
“Here are the tickets.” Evan handed me an envelope. “Need some help with those boxes?”
“Sure.” While Janet stayed behind in the kitchen, the three of us carted the boxes and bags out to Vince’s car.
I asked, “So, do all these boxes mean you’re moving?”
“Not for now. I just got them to help out with Carlene’s stuff.”
Once we loaded up his trunk and backseat, Evan said, “I hope we can all remain friends.”
I thought of my hopes of never seeing him again. But I could afford to be generous—I’d fared far better than he had. And so for the second time that day I found myself hugging him, saying, “Absolutely. We’ll always be friends.”
And I meant it.
WHEN LUCY CAME home later and I filled her in on my conversation with Evan, she asked, “Were you tempted? Even a little?” She sounded like she hoped for a “no” answer.
I didn’t disappoint her. “No. Like I told him, too much has changed. It could never work. I feel really bad for him—he’s a mess. Anyone would be in his situation. Hopefully his counselor will help. But it was nice to hear that at one time we were both thinking about reuniting.”
“So Vince is looking pretty good, isn’t he?”
I pretended to think about that before agreeing. “Yeah, he’s looking pretty good.”
“You did say you were going to marry him . . . Remember, that night at Helen’s.”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that several times since. And thank you for reminding me of that night.”
“So what about the marriage?”
“We’ll see how the trip goes.” I smiled. “Want to watch these tapes?”
Lucy gave me a long and amused look before saying, “Yes, let’s.”
We spent the next thirty minutes watching Carlene, by turns dominant and submissive, engaged in all manner of, let’s say, alternative sexual activity. As I’d guessed, the C&B tapes featured Carlene and B.J., while Randy was the “R” in C&R. I passed on C&E—I didn’t have the heart, or stomach, to watch Evan showing his stuff on tape.
“Well, that was icky,” Lucy proclaimed. “When you were over there, did you see any S and M getups and paraphernalia?”
“No. But Evan said that Georgia and Kat took stuff somewhere, probably a thrift store. I wonder what lucky place got that largesse?” I laughed when I pictured a staff person or volunteer unpacking the boxes.
“I bet that one of those C&B tapes was the one Linda sent to Carlene. I wonder what Linda would say if she knew we were viewing it right now. Her little blackmail scheme wouldn’t have worked.” Lucy petted Daisy as she curled up on her lap.
I agreed and added, “So now it looks like Carlene wasn’t worried about the tapes—probably what she feared was Linda killing her. As for Evan—my guess is that he got off seeing Carlene with other men.”
“Well, let’s make some popcorn and watch something nice. What else do you have in those bags—Little Women, Pride and Prejudice?”
THE NEXT EVENING Vince and I sat in front of the fire, bookended by cats. As we reviewed our trip itinerary, I composed a list of travel items. Vince was in favor of throwing a random assortment of warm weather items into his luggage. My reminders of bug spray and rain gear met with eye rolling. I put the list on the coffee table and sighed, but it was a contented sigh.
I thought of our trip. I envisioned us marrying in the Costa Rica rain forest, accompanied by monkeys and exotic birds. Then my practical side took over, fussing about pesky details like marriage licenses. And of course we needed to actually discuss the matter.
I put my head on Vince’s shoulder. We sat like that for a while. We kissed. The cats up and left, leaving us unchaperoned.
I pulled away and sat up straight, turning to face Vince. I stared into his blue eyes. My heart sped up a beat or three. I took a deep breath.
“Vince . . . Let’s get married.”