TWENTY-ONE

  

By six o’clock in the evening, Eleanor got tired of waiting for Doris Long to leave the house. That woman was always there, fussing over the dogs, Brick and Mortar, whom she professed to hate, or watching television. Old reruns of I Love Lucy and The Bob Newhart Show. The television-watching wouldn’t be so bad except that the television was in the living room, which also happened to be Eleanor’s bedroom.

And Doris smoked. The house reeked of cigarette smoke, and a haze of gray blanketed everything. For Eleanor, used to the outdoors, it was a boring, pointless, sexless life, and she couldn’t understand the appeal.

But she didn’t have to. She just needed to withstand it for a little while.

Eleanor sat outside on the small front landing and stared into the woods. She was wearing a parka begrudgingly borrowed from Doris, and she wrapped it around her tightly to ward off frigid Maine air. The parka, like everything else, smelled of cigarettes and neglect, and it struck Eleanor that she missed her home. Thanksgiving was quickly approaching, and the thought of spending it here, with Doris, was almost unfathomable. She hadn’t spent a holiday in the same room with Doris since she was twenty-two.

Something in the woods moved and Eleanor followed the sounds. It was already dark, and she squinted to see. Nothing, maybe a deer. Good to be paranoid, she thought, and stood, letting go of the edges of her parka.

Eleanor peeked through the window. Doris was still wide awake, sitting on the couch/bed, a cigarette in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. Eleanor glanced at her watch: six-fourteen. If nothing had changed in forty-six minutes, Doris would switch to beer and the evening news. Fox Television, her favorite. If the right wing pundits didn’t get her too riled up, she might just drink enough beer to fall asleep early. And if the beer didn’t do the trick, Eleanor had no qualms about slipping her a few sleeping pills to help things along.

An owl hooted somewhere in the distance and Eleanor jumped. Dusk was settling into night, and before long she’d be getting sleepy. She felt like a caged animal, restless and discontent. A thought struck her: it would be so easy to do away with Doris. Then she could stay here indefinitely without having to deal with dogs and smoke and stupid television shows. She pushed the thought away, tempting as it was. Doris was a necessary evil.

Nah, she just needed to hold on a while longer. Things would die down and then she could flee.

  

Jason arrived at seven-twelve bearing a file folder and a bouquet of deep purple irises, Allison’s favorite flowers. He handed her the bouquet and pressed against her with a warm kiss, long and slow. Allison placed the flowers on the small table in the foyer. She took Jason’s face in her hands and leaned in to kiss him while her fingers reached for his suit jacket. Slowly, she pulled the jacket off him. She unbuttoned his blue dress shirt, lingering at each button to stroke the muscular chest beneath. Jason moaned. Gently, he pulled Allison’s dress over her head so that she stood in the foyer in panties, heels and a bra.

“That’s better,” he murmured. He opened his eyes and gave her a languid, hungry look. He took her hand and moved it downward. “Here, or upstairs?” he whispered.

Allison smiled. She reached for the hallway light switch and flipped the lights off. In the soft glow from the kitchen, she could still make out the shadows of his face. His breath, warm and real, tickled her neck.

“Here.”

Jason pressed her against the foyer wall and kissed her again. His mouth moved from her collarbone to her breast, and she felt a moan escape her own lips.

A picture flashed before her: her face, captured unwittingly on camera, in a sultry state of ecstasy. But this is different, she told herself. This is Jason. Things would be all right.

Jason moved to the skin on her stomach with butterfly kisses that sent her senses soaring.

Things would be all right. At least for a little while.

  

Allison and Jason lay on the living room floor, a down blanket underneath them and another on top. Allison’s head rested on the crook of Jason’s arm while he traced lazy circles on her belly. Jason’s hand traveled from her belly to her thigh. He kissed the top of her head. “Have you given any thought to a date?”

Allison looked at him, surprised.

“You want another wedding?”

“Maybe not the whole bridal-party-gala-event thing, but I’d like to do something special.”

“I was thinking small and catered. Close friends, family, that sort of thing.”

Jason smiled. “Or we could elope. Hawaii? The Aegean? Maybe France?”

“Your mother would kill us.”

“Mia can come, too.”

Allison mock-hit him. “Then it’s not eloping. It’s a destination wedding.”

Jason laughed. Allison loved the sound of his laugh. She loved having him here, with her. She wanted to believe they could make this work, that the second time would be different. Time had a way of easing pain until it was a distant memory. Allison was worried that all of that pain, the reasons they’d divorced in the first place, would come back to haunt their marriage. But she knew Jason wanted this, and deep down, she wanted it, too.

Jason snuggled in closer, his breathing becoming more regular. She felt his fingertips on her belly again. This time, he spread his hand flat, gently kneading the area around her belly button as he dozed off. It seemed an unconscious act, sweet and intimate, and it stabbed at Allison as sad, too.

Allison matched her breathing to Jason’s. She felt the cat, Simon, padding over to where they lay, and soon he was on top of the blanket, at the foot of their improvised bed. Where Simon was, Brutus would soon be, and sure enough, her noisy love of a dog plopped down next to the cat. Allison smiled, contentment washing over her like a warm summer wave. Her little family. Makeshift or not, this felt right.

Brutus picked his head up and growled.

“What’s up, boy?” Allison said. She pushed herself up, onto her elbow, and listened. She heard the heater come on and Jason’s rhythmic breathing, but otherwise nothing.

Brutus growled again. Outside, a car door slammed, and an engine revved as a car pulled out of the driveway.

Damn, Allison thought. Another photo. Maybe this time she could catch the person in the act.

Allison was just starting to stand, pulling the blanket from beneath the animals, when Brutus shot up like a bullet. He ran toward the front door, barking madly. Allison heard pounding and screaming. Quickly, she wrapped the blanket around her nude body and covered Jason, who had snapped awake, with the other. This wasn’t the photo stalker.

“Who’s here?” Jason asked.

“I don’t know.”

Allison went from one room to the next, gathering clothes. She tossed Jason’s suit pants and shirt to him and slipped her dress over her head. At the door, she turned on the outside light and looked through the window. She couldn’t see anyone.

Another knock. Another scream.

Allison opened the door. Jason reached the front entrance just as she did so, and they looked down at the heap that was her sister, Amy.

Amy looked up from the ground. “Help me.”

Allison opened the screen door. She took one of Amy’s arms and Jason took the other. Together, they lifted Amy up and inside the house, placing her in the kitchen, on one of the chairs. She was a mess. Tears had tracked mascara down sunken cheeks and over a blossoming bruise. Fingerprint marks tattooed her wrists and the pale skin under her chin. Her black tank top was torn, showing a lacy pink bra that struck Allison as both wanton and heartbreakingly innocent.

But that was her sister: the reckless child who never grew up.

“Help me,” her sister slurred. Allison flipped over her arms and looked for track marks. To her relief, there were none.

“She’s drunk,” Jason said. “Booze, and maybe pills.” He ground coffee while he talked. “Where’s your Excedrin?”

“In the cabinet.”

“She’s going to need it.”

Allison knelt in front of Amy. Gently, she pointed to the bruise. “Who did this to you?”

Amy closed her eyes, shook her head.

“Amy, if we’re going to help you, you need to tell us.”

“Grace. Help me,” Amy whispered.

Allison had so many questions, but a long look at her sister said none of them would be answered. Amy needed help. More help than they could give her.

“Can you stay with her for a few minutes?” Allison asked Jason.

“Where are you going?”

Allison stood. “Upstairs to get her some clean clothes and to call Mason House, the private rehab I sometimes refer clients to.”

Jason looked at Amy and shook his head. She’d slumped over in her seat and her chin touched her chest. A thin line of drool was trickling from her mouth and across her cheek. “Do you think she’ll go?”

Allison shoved aside her own doubts. “If she wants her daughter back, she really has no choice.”