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Wednesday, December 25th
The shimmering, snow-intensified morning sunlight bounced off the two white walls, picked up the warm tones of the light gray-tan walls, and deepened the stained-glass effect of the painting above the library table, casting its joyful reds, yellows, purples, and greens into the spirit of the room. There seemed to be an aura around every object in this light, a still point in which the dramas of the days before, the days to come, the past several months, even the past decade, became small in comparison to this phenomenon of light and space and timelessness. It felt so sure, so there, so alive.
This precious privilege to be alive, thought Charlotte, sitting up in bed.
In the not-so-cold light of this Christmas Day, she knew what generated it: the long-absent bone-level feeling of knowing she was wanted.
He started to tease, but he meant it. She knew it. And it was driving her crazy.
Said Donovan: Maybe he ought to be looking at you with his eyes open.
Simon never made desire for her explicit. Instead, between times when things seemed to be fine, he would look at her with an inscrutable expression that told her nothing certain, but left her feeling that it could mean anything from finding her puzzling to finding her unattractive. He even looked at her that way after their first kiss, even after she thought they had made a connection.
She never felt on sure enough ground to find out what the look really meant, or to initiate intimacy herself, because if he rejected her, the compounded humiliation would be more than she could bear.
And she gave him that power.
Will you look at me with your eyes open?
She knew now that he was saying that he simply wasn’t that into her, and that she should see their relationship for what it was, not as she wished it was.
But Donovan revealed his desire for her—and it gave something inside her permission to feel her own desire back. All of a sudden she didn’t feel like such a fuddy-duddy anymore.
And now she gradually realized it wasn’t just that one moment at the end of the evening. It was the entire evening, it was the past several weeks and perhaps even longer—it was always there, but she wouldn’t let herself see it because of some sort of loyalty to Simon, like a little kid squeezing her eyes shut, sticking her fingers in her ears and chanting “na na na na na na na” in order not to hear or see what she didn’t want to deal with. It was so bad she hadn’t even noticed Diane’s growing relationship with Kelsey—or Helene’s with Gottfried.
In Donovan she was certain she’d met her match. Jimmy’s words came back to ring so true: don’t fight your nature.
For the first time in weeks, she felt like having something more than a perfunctory shower and shampoo, and treated herself to a spa day. She immersed chin-deep in the claw-foot tub, soaking in silky jasmine-scented bubbles, again reliving the night before, and couldn’t stop smiling. Donovan had no idea, she thought, what a new lease on life he’d given her.
It was in admitting this to herself that she realized she’d been depressed. She had been dating a handsome, brilliantly talented man—and she was depressed. The relationship wasn’t going anywhere, it left her feeling uncertain and insecure at the best of times, and at the moment it left her with nothing to count on—certainly nothing she needed. There was no intimacy.
This had to stop. Life was too short.
Her phone beeped just as she finished blow-drying her hair. It was Ellis, to say Merry Christmas from herself and conveying the holiday wishes from the Anthony family. After an update on the Aspen scene, who saw whom, who fell on their skis, and whose presents were utterly over the top, she cut to the chase.
“I’m sorry about hanging up on you last time,” said Ellis. “I’m too wrapped up in my own problems.”
She went on to explain that Shelley—a.k.a. Mrs. Jack—had overheard their argument, and took Ellis aside for an illuminating talk. There was no love lost between Shelley and Miranda to start with, but things were just short of warfare at the moment. Shelley explained that none of them would have been in the States for the holidays if the senior Anthonys hadn’t paid for the tickets, which was generous of them. But they hadn’t offered to pay for Charlotte’s, which was, in Shelley’s opinion, unfair.
When circumstances forced Charlotte to miss her flight, Shelley suggested that Miranda cover the cost of a replacement ticket, but Miranda just laughed at her—not even the Christmas spirit and making Ellis happy was enough to extend any generosity to Charlotte. Shelley furthermore said that if she was in Charlotte’s shoes, only an emergency would compel her to book another flight for the privilege of being bullied by Miranda, and that she, Shelley, had just about had her fill of her mother-in-law’s micromanaged holidays.
“I guess I didn’t realize how difficult and unfair it would have been for you. When you’re able to get to Paris, we’ll make up for the lost time, won’t we, Mom?”
“You can count on it.”
After they ended the call, Charlotte vowed to never refer to Shelley as Mrs. Jack again. The woman just earned her anti-Miranda and pro-Ellis stripes, so she deserved her own name. Shelley was around Diane’s age, and was a fresh-out-of-grad-school colleague of Jack’s when he got together with her, which was an improvement over the students he tended to take up with before. A parent can use every bit of help she can get, especially from a step-parent.
The phone beeped again; it was Alexa.
“Charlotte, Merry Christmas and all that. Would you like to come over and help us eat all these desserts that everyone has dropped off? Some of them are actually good.”
“Alexa, thanks for the offer, but I overindulged last night, and couldn’t bear the sight of sugar. Tomorrow might be a different story.”
“Sure, tomorrow then, come on by if you get a chance. It’s so weird around here. Mom’s alternating between a trance and sleeping, and I’m trying to help her sort out a memorial service. And I’ve got dialysis later on today. Can you believe that? Dialysis on Christmas Day?”
“It’s pretty regimented, isn’t it?”
“Oh I hope I get a kidney soon. We haven’t gotten the results of Mom’s tissue matching test yet. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I’ll keep everything crossed, Alexa.”
Charlotte finished dressing, and was thinking about calling Donovan, when yet another call came in.
It was Simon.
She debated at first whether or not to take it—her emotions about him, about Donovan, were so keyed up—then decided not to put it off. She knew her own mind.
“Happy Christmas, Charlotte.”
“You too, Simon.” Hearing his voice made her own tremble. He still had such an effect on her—or was it anxiety at play?
“I’m sorry again for being out of touch and thoughtless, I understand why you wouldn’t be impressed.”
That was an understatement. It also seemed too much a variation on their last conversation. “Actually, Simon, I don’t think you do.”
“Oh? Then tell me.” There was challenge in his voice
At this moment, perhaps as an instinctive response to the tone of challenge, she recalled Donovan calling her feelings for Simon a “crush,” intense feelings for someone who is unlikely to reciprocate. And realized that despite still being in the early stages of a relationship with Simon, she didn’t feel as if she would ever attain what she wanted from him, even if she told him what she wanted outright.
So to test it, she found her nerve and told him outright.
“This goes a lot deeper than not being impressed, Simon. I’m in need of emotional closeness and comfort right now. I’m still adjusting to the changes in my circumstances. It’s the first time I haven’t spent the school year or the holidays with my daughter. And just five days ago I found Alonzo Garibaldi’s body, laying there, shot. Shot, Simon. And I can’t get it out of my head, it’s like a ghost image overlaid on everything else I’m looking at, even while I’m trying to go about as normal. I admit I’m feeling a little fragile. So maybe it’s why I wanted to feel closeness with you, to feel wanted. Your not being in touch with me and yet making time for your ex-girlfriend’s project is not conducive to that.”
And is it any wonder why I’m about five minutes away from sleeping with Donovan? she thought, now that she finally said aloud what was bothering her, and why.
Simon sighed. “As I’ve said before, there’s nothing going on between me and Philippa, it’s strictly professional.”
It sounded like the truth, but the dam of Charlotte’s hesitancy had cracked, and was about to burst. “You know what? I believe you. You’re nothing if not principled—you put your work first, and there’s a lot to be said for that. But it’s not what’s going on in Chicago that bothers me so much as what hasn’t been going on here.”
“Look Charlotte, I know I’m working all the time and it’s taken a toll. I took the chairmanship in order to increase my chances of having my contract renewed. If it isn’t renewed, I won’t be able to renew my visa, either, and I’ll have to leave the country. Not much chance of being together, then, is there?”
“Isn’t that unfair to us both? Especially this early in things?”
“Why? It’s what grown-ups have to do. Furthermore, if I do have to go back home, I’ll need work, and the economy isn’t that great there, either. Philippa’s project is for BBC Two, and helps me keep my union membership valid. As a relationship problem, this one is actually pretty minor. People make a go of things like this all the time. You’re a wonderful woman, Charlotte, but there’s a side of you I just can’t square up with the rest—it’s, it’s amorphous, it’s unformed, like a little girl—maybe it’s a cultural difference, but I’ve no idea what to do with it.”
That was exactly what she was afraid of. The fact that he considered her point of view as infantile, however (grown-ups? little girl?), let loose the floodgates, and she spoke firmly, fully taking a stand.
“Simon, I agree totally that people do make a go of things like the need to work a lot or honoring other commitments. I spent over ten years building a solid professional career, while being a single mom, and have recently lost just about everything I’d achieved. I was this close to marrying a guy whose National Guard unit was called, and then he got blown up in the Middle East. So I know a thing or two about staying the course and being emotionally self-sufficient.”
She paused for breath and heard him murmur, “I didn’t know about your soldier. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not a secret or anything, just an example of something you would have gotten to know about me if we had spent real time together these past few months, things that are shared as intimacy grows. We haven’t gotten to know each other’s emotional landscape yet, or that much about one another’s past, like me and Brian, or you and Philippa. In fact, we haven’t got any intimacy at all, which for me, at least, is sort of the whole point of a relationship, not just going out for an occasional meal together.
“But the most important thing, I just told you what I wanted. Your response is I’m amorphous and you don’t know what to do about it. No one I’ve ever been with has mentioned amorphousness as one of my flaws, though lord knows they’ve mentioned plenty of others. And I think it’s pretty interesting you point out this amorphousness you see, because I know exactly what you’re talking about, I can feel it—and I know it only exists because it’s mirroring a void in you. I hate this feeling.”
“Void?”
“There is a basic and fundamental emotional affirmation people who get together give one another—it isn’t even verbal, it’s—it’s a knowing. It comes from real intimacy. You not only don’t give it, you don’t seem to need it, either, or maybe you just skip over it. Or maybe you’re just not that into me. If you gave it, you—you wouldn’t see any amorphousness in me at all.” She felt a lump in her throat, so tried hard not to cry and spoke softly.
“You know what, Simon? I’m glad you went to Chicago. It gave me a chance to realize what it is I really want.”
He let his breath out in exasperation. “It’s Donovan, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer. Nothing had happened there, yet something did. How should she answer?
Simon took her silence for assent. “Are you in your right mind? Have you forgotten he killed a guy? That he’s not in prison only because of a plea bargain? He was in up to his neck with lowlifes and thugs. You really want to mix with that element just to spite me?”
“That ‘element,’ as you describe him, never intended to kill anyone, and he did what he did for his mother, Helene, and me. You know this. And he damned near died protecting us.”
“Nothing has been going on with Philippa, Charlotte—”
“Stop. It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this to spite you, I’m doing this to free myself up for what I want.”
“Well, what do you want?”
By this point Charlotte was fully experiencing the empowerment and clarity that came from speaking one’s mind, to say yes or no to a relationship, to not simply slump away for the sake of avoiding a confrontation. The anxiety was gone.
“I want a lover, and to be one. I want to feel wanted, desired. I want a whole, sensuous bonding of body and soul and mind. I want a mate, and to mate for life, to really know my lover and for him to know me, with words and without, with touch and intuition. I want to feel like an equal, that I’m worth having, that what I want matters as much as what he wants. For me, this is the very stuff of life, that makes me feel alive—and—and vital, something I can hold close to my heart until the day I die.”
“It sounds oversexed to me.”
She could picture his expression as he said it, the one that left her feeling so uncertain, but now she knew what it was.
“Then we are done. I think I’d rather be alone than so lonely and repressed inside this relationship. And, should it come about, I’d also rather take my chances with someone who did bad things for good reasons than to be with someone who hasn’t done bad things but passes judgment.”
He said nothing, but she could hear his breathing. Then she heard him sigh and the connection ended. He hung up.
It was another hour before she felt self-possessed enough to make the call.
“I want to thank you again for last night, Donovan.”
A long three seconds passed. “Oh my god, the lady is still speaking to me!”
She heard both relief and amusement in his voice, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I was feeling a bit uninhibited—and I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“How can I convince you? Should I come by for coffee?”
There was another pause. “It would be a start.”
Charlotte was still a bundle of nerves, and decided to take a long walk before ending up at Donovan’s. Her mind was a nonstop stream of assertion and self-doubt: I’m out of my mind, she thought; I really shouldn’t be placing myself at the doorstep of temptation like this, letting Donovan get me on the rebound a mere hour after breaking up with Simon; why am I worried? I’m forty-seven and I haven’t slept with a man in seven years; what if I’m wrong? But I’m not wrong because he was aware that something different had happened; who knows, this might well be my last chance, and last chance for what, exactly? Love? Sex? Fun? Happiness?
All of it?
Clouds had been building during the afternoon, but a large one broke and the sun came out to make everything brilliant and sparkling again. All of it, then.
She heard Donovan shout “It’s open,” when she rang the doorbell, and walked in to the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of grunting. Puzzled, she took off her coat and boots, and found Donovan in the hallway off the dining room, doing chin-ups on a bar in one of the bedroom doorways, his back to the hall. She wondered if he was exercising for the same reason she went on a long hard walk.
“Five. more.” His face showed the strain, but he kept on. His shirt was off, and she could see the long red scars on his side and back from his injuries and the surgeries he’d had, plus a couple of older, smaller ones, reminders that he’d lived most of his life in a world very different than her own. Her close-second observation was the muscle tone that looked pretty good for a guy in his mid-fifties.
“Enjoying the show?” he said, as he finished and slumped down on a chair at the end of the hall. He grabbed a tee shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck and forehead and she finally noticed he wasn’t wearing his glasses.
“Yes, actually. That was impressive.”
“Yeah, for an invalid.”
“I’m no expert, but it looks like you won’t be for much longer.”
“That’s the idea, sweetheart.” He smiled as he leaned back, recovering from the exercise. “Getting ready for the life to come.”
They just smiled at each other like that for a minute, and it didn’t get awkward. This, thought Charlotte, this.
“I smell coffee.”
He grabbed his cane, which was leaning in the corner, and used it to rise slowly, but with certainty, to his full height, about six-one or two in his socks. She then realized that the stoop he’d had for months, even before his injuries, was gone, and she was looking slightly upward as he spoke. “I hope you can stay and have some with me.”
Several things happened in Charlotte at once. She took in his familiar, angular face, the rakish shock of hair with its gray temples and widow’s peak, the deep-set and expressive green eyes, and she took in his proportions, which were no longer painfully gaunt, the muscles of someone who did physical work much of his life on a frame that would have been well-suited for swimming or tennis, the softer area on the abdomen that came with middle age, the long-fingered hands with the joints that sometimes bothered him, the red scar that continued from the one on his side, all the way down to where the drawstring band of his gray sweatpants slung low just over his hip bones. In the close space of the hall she picked up his scent, not soap or shampoo, but his scent, his skin, his hair, his sweat. And she felt an explosion of sheer desire for this man, this very real man, wanting him for more than just wanting her.
She could tell that he knew, and felt the walls of everything that kept them apart come roaring down. The cane fell to the floor as he stepped forward and gathered her up into his arms and she gathered him into hers, their kiss both taking and giving, two lovers starving for one another’s desire.
––––––––
AND AFTERWARDS, ABOUT an hour later, as they shared a coffee from Donovan’s mug amid the covers on his bed, they talked.
“I’m glad there is no need to apologize for what I feel, Charlotte, because I don’t think I could.”
She closed her eyes and savored the words. “Thank you.” Thank you thank you thank you for wanting me and not hiding what you feel.
“You’re thanking me?” When she nodded, he threw up his head and laughed, and she delighted in the line of his long neck and how beautiful his smile was when he was pleasantly surprised. “No, Charlotte, sweetheart, it’s me that thanks you. For wanting me back. And so much.”
He raised his hand to cup her face and she turned her head to kiss his palm. If he only knew how much, but she didn’t want to overwhelm him with her own emotions.
He looked down at his coffee. “I was actually surprised you would come back here this soon, given the situation with Simon.”
“I ended it.”
His eyes shone as if he had been given a gift.
She felt encouraged. “It’s not like he’s ever made a move to make love to me.”
Donovan looked up sharply, eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he sat upright. “You mean to tell me you and Simon—nothing—for the past three months? What is he, Amish?”
Charlotte burst out laughing, as well as Donovan, but after a minute he became serious. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate that you are free to be with me.”
He sighed and looked her over. “You are such a sensuous, loving woman, and I can’t for the life of me understand why you’d ever settle for anything less in return.”
“I thought at first that it might go somewhere, but, nothing.”
“If I may ask, how long has it been since—?”
“Seven years.”
“The one killed at Ramadi? Brian?”
She nodded.
He looked at her tenderly. “That explains the tear that ran down your cheek. You haven’t been loved for a long, long time.” He set his coffee mug on the nightstand and drew her into his arms.
Later still, in the kitchen, wrapped in his heavy terrycloth robe, she began to make tea and, realizing she was hungry, thought about what to make out of the Christmas Eve leftovers. Her legs still felt a little weak from the unaccustomed exercise, and she smiled to herself as she assembled a couple of roast beef sandwiches. Did he like mustard? Or mayo? She looked in the fridge and only saw mustard.
“You are so beautiful.”
She looked up to see him leaning in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. He had put on his glasses, and a clean sweatshirt over his sweatpants. How long had he been standing there? But did it matter? “You tease. I know I’m past my prime.”
“Prime of what? Your whole life? Join the club. For me?” He shook his head slowly. “Not a bit.”
This is what I need. To feel safe and desired while growing older with you.
He was leaning on his cane a little. She pointed at it. “I almost need one of those myself at the moment.”
He laughed. “I think we’re making up for lost time.”
“I’ve worked up an appetite. Want a sandwich?”
“I want you, actually—”
She looked up at him in surprise. Had he recovered—after all that—already?
“Yes, seriously, my head and heart, my eyes, my hands, my tongue, my skin, my nose all want you again, can’t get enough of you, but the rest of me,” and here he patted his stomach, then groin, “says ‘sandwich,’ and ‘rest.’”
She chuckled. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“A fact I don’t think I will ever get over, sweetheart.”
“I wonder what Simon is gonna think of all this.”
“He knows.”
His eyebrow went up. “Does he, now?”
“He guessed. I couldn’t say yes, not then, but I also couldn’t honestly say no.”
“I take it he doesn’t approve?”
“Uh-uh.” She smiled with satisfaction at the memory.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
“I wanted to be free for this. And it’s even better than I thought it would be.”
“Better? Look, Charlotte, sweetheart—I’ve got as big an ego as any man, but I don’t kid myself that I can compete with the likes of Simon Norwich. I mean, he’s a quality catch. And I’m not. I’m not exactly a fine figure of a man, and I’ve got nothing to show for my life other than a suspended criminal record, for chrissake. Gotta face facts.”
“You’ve shown me so much more than that, Donovan. I know exactly what you are.”
She saw the muscles on one side of his mouth quiver in emotion.
“And neither one of us should ever feel second-rate,” she continued.
She took another sip of tea and looked into his eyes. “I’ve been able to be myself with you from day one. I want to give—and I want to take. I’ve always been able to give, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt confident enough to take.”
“And you really want me? To take what I have to offer?” His expression turned sensual and his inflection was playful and suggestive.
Charlotte felt herself blush again even as she felt free to be unself-conscious about being self-conscious. “More than anything, Donovan.”
“You have no idea how honored I am.” He laughed, and Charlotte thought his smile the most beautiful one she’d ever seen in a man.
“This—” he gestured to signify the two of them, and his voice went all tender, “is big. This is it. You know it and I know it.”
They kissed again, just a beautiful kiss. Her robe fell open as his hands slid inside, and she could feel they had both recovered, in spite of themselves.
She took his hand to lead him back to the bed, to leave no doubt in his mind how she felt.