Silver’s Gym in midtown Manhattan was crowded that evening. All of the Nautilus equipment was in use, and four exhausted-looking women were riding the stationary bicycles side by side. Two men were waiting for David to finish his bench presses with the free weights so they could use them. Herb Mindle, a psychiatrist whose office was nearby, was spotting for David, as David, on his back on the padded bench, struggled to raise the heavy barbell for the fourth time and set it in its supports. He was doing three sets of four with the weights near his maximum capacity, trying to build bulk.
“You’re there!” Mindle said, staying back but ready to jump in and support the weight if David’s strength failed.
David let out a long
whoosh!
of air as he let the barbell drop into the cradle of the bench’s vertical supports.
“Want to use this thing?” he asked as he sat up and wiped his face with a towel.
“No thanks,” Mindle said. “I’ll spot for these guys.”
David got up and walked toward the locker room, noticing that the clock over the door read seven-fifteen. Molly was expecting him at eight.
He showered, dressed, packed his workout clothes in his small blue nylon duffle bag, then left the gym. Mindle, just standing up from having done his sets of bench presses, waved to him as he went out the door. The women on the stationary bicycles were still at it.
He was three blocks away from the gym, walking along the crowded sidewalk toward his subway stop, when he heard Deirdre’s voice.
“David! Again! My God, I don’t believe it!”
He couldn’t hold down his pleasure at seeing her, but he knew this seemingly chance meeting had to have been planned. “Listen, Deirdre, this is more than coinci—”
He stopped talking as he noticed the man who was obviously with Deirdre. He was tall, balding, a businessman of some sort, apparently, with his muted checked gray suit and conservative tie. He was slender through the chest and shoulders but had put on weight around the middle so that his stomach bulged noticeably over his belt beneath his unbuttoned suit coat. His face was bland and amiable, and he wore thick glasses without frames that made his eyes look immense and strangely innocent.
“David!” Deirdre almost squealed with pleasure. “I was sure we’d never meet again!”
Before he could move, she’d leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. Her red hair looked particularly wild and attractive in the summer breeze, and she was wearing a simple but low-cut beige linen dress and matching pumps. When she moved in close to kiss him, a disturbing and not unpleasant scent of perfume and perspiration came to him.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Subway station, then home.” He’d sounded curt, surlier than he’d intended. The man glanced at him.
“Oh!” Deirdre said, stepping back. “This is my very good friend Craig Chumley. Craig, meet David Jones, my ex.”
Chumley looked surprised. “As in ex-husband?”
“Uh-huh! He sure is.” She seemed oddly proud of David. She squeezed Chumley’s arm. “Well, what’d you think, my ex would be old and bald as a cucumber?”
Chumley laughed, a bit ill at ease, perhaps because he was one of those men who tried to disguise baldness with long strands of hair plastered sideways across their heads, like loosely thatched lids at the mercy of the wind. He had yellowed teeth and oversized bicuspids that gave him a faintly canine look when he laughed.
“Craig and I were on our way to dinner,” she said. “He promised to show me the Rainbow Room. Ever been to the famous Rainbow Room, David?”
“No.”
“You really oughta take Molly there sometime. Hey, why not tonight? You want to join us? Four’s company.”
David smiled. He was feeling better every second. Maybe it was Chumley’s presence, but today Deirdre seemed not at all threatening to his libido.
“Four’s more likely to be a crowd,” he said, looking at Chumley, who was rocking back and forth on the heels of his huge wingtip shoes, like a man testing the precariousness of his situation.
“Well, maybe some other time. Maybe I’ll call you.” Deirdre lowered her voice, as if trading a confidence. “You know, David, I wrote a note and a phone number where I could be reached in New York and slipped it in your jacket pocket when we met the other day. Did you find it?”
“No,” he lied, “I hardly ever use my suit coat pockets.”
“I knew at the deli you’d refuse to call if I suggested it, so I thought I’d let you think on it. I hoped you’d make the first call and we could talk. The past isn’t so threatening that we need to be afraid of it, David. We definitely should be friends.”
“The past doesn’t seem so terrible or threatening to me,” he said.
“Why, David!” she said with a dazzling smile, pretending, or perhaps actually believing, he’d complimented her.
Chumley glanced at his wristwatch, caught David looking at him, and shrugged as if in apology for being ill-mannered.
“We have reservations,” he explained, a helpless victim of time.
“So have I,” David said, looking directly at Deirdre.
“We’d better get on to the restaurant,” Deirdre said, “or they’ll give our table to some celebrity.” She took Chumley’s long arm. “You call me, David, hear? Friendship is olden and golden and shouldn’t be tossed on the trash mound.”
He didn’t answer.
“Nice meeting you, Dave,” Chumley said, and held out a long, pale hand toward David.
David shook hands with him. “Enjoy the Rainbow Room.”
“Oh, we will!” Deirdre said.
She surprised David by kissing Chumley full on the mouth. Seemed to surprise Chumley, too.
They were holding hands as they walked away toward East Fifty-fourth Street.
David watched them until they’d disappeared in the throng of heat-weary people who had dropped in elevators from one plane of their lives to another and, like him, were wending their way from work to home. Chumley was definitely a welcome addition to the Deirdre equation. Whatever temptation she might be to David, whatever wiles she might have worked, any involvement was less likely now. David felt safe from her. From himself.
Twenty minutes later he was on the subway, roaring through darkness toward Molly and Michael.
Molly was sitting quietly in the apartment living room, the back of her head resting against the sofa’s thick upholstery. The room was eclectically and comfortably furnished: overstuffed sofa, well-stocked bookcases, framed museum prints on the walls. A console TV with a VCR on top sat against the wall opposite the sofa. Near the double-window was Molly’s desk with a green-shaded banker’s lamp, reference books, a ceramic coffee mug stuffed with pencils next to the architectural manuscript.
Her body jerked against the soft back and arm of the sofa as a key grated in the lock. Her mind had wandered; she’d been thinking about this morning, the woman in the park.
She set aside the
New York Times
she’d been reading when she’d lost concentration. The door opened and David came in. He dropped his blue duffle bag on the chair where he usually tossed his attaché case.
“Hi, Mol.” He walked around behind her, leaned over the sofa, and kissed the top of her head, her hair. She stood up as he went to the closet by the door and hung his suit coat on a hanger. He removed his tie, the paisley one she’d given him last Christmas, and draped it over the back of the chair.
Molly had parted her lips to tell him about the woman in the park when he said, “I ran into Deirdre again. There was a man with her.”
She listened as he described his meeting with Deirdre and Craig Chumley.
“She’d left a note with her phone number in my coat pocket,” he said. “I told her I hadn’t found it, but I had. I didn’t bother calling her.”
“Apparently she wasn’t offended,” Molly said.
“More disappointed, it seemed. I do think she simply wants to exorcise some old demons, to be friends. Enough time’s passed that it’s possible, I suppose.”
“Who’s this Chumley?” Molly asked.
David shrugged. “Just a guy she met through her job, is the impression I got.” He walked into the kitchen. She heard water run in the sink. Silence. He returned to the living room holding a glass of water. His upper lip was wet and glistening. “They were on their way to the Rainbow Room for dinner. She invited us to join them.”
“Both of us?”
“That’s what she said. I doubt if Chumley was keen on it, though. He seemed relieved when I declined.” He walked over and kissed her lightly on the lips, looked down at her with an adoration so obvious that she feared it was feigned. “Listen, Mol. I think both of us have reacted a little extremely to Deirdre popping up here in New York.”
“Maybe,” Molly said, wondering where this was going.
“She’s not going to be in town that long,” David said, “and she’s tied to her job back in Saint Louis. I guess what I’m trying to say is, if she and this Chumley want to have dinner with us, maybe we should accept.”
“I’m not so sure, David…”
“I know how you feel, honey, and I don’t blame you. She’s my former wife and you don’t want her in the same orbit, even the same solar system, that our family’s in.”
“Try galaxy.”
“I feel the same way, and she really isn’t in the same galaxy, except she’s just a visitor—like in
Star Trek.
Couple of days and she’ll be beamed back to Saint Louis via TWA.”
Molly didn’t know quite what to make of what he’d just told her. Another chance meeting on the street, and this time Deirdre had a man in tow.
“I want to make sure we understand each other about Deirdre,” she said.
“And I want you to understand she doesn’t seem to harbor any sort of malice toward you or me.”
“Why is she so intent on seeing you?”
“She’s curious about me. About us.” He took another sip of water then swirled the liquid around in the glass for a moment, staring down at it. “Mol, after the divorce she met someone, got pregnant.” Half a lie, he thought. What difference did it make who had fathered the dead fetus? “He…well, he physically abused her and injured the baby. It had to be aborted. The incident still haunts her.”
“God, that’s terrible.”
“I think all she wants is to have a quiet dinner with us and Chumley, talk for a while, and lay the past to rest. Can you understand that?”
“I should be able to, I suppose.”
“Neither of us has anything to fear.”
“Neither of us?”
“That’s right. She and Chumley are in at least the early stages of a hot romantic relationship. They’re into French kissing in public.”
“How reassuring.”
David grinned. “Poor Chumley. Deirdre can be very moody. There’s no way for him to know what he’s getting into. Anyway, if they ask us to dinner again, how about it?”
“Is this some kind of test?” She waited for his reply.
Instead of answering, he said, “Have I mentioned Deirdre’s hair is red now? I guess she wants to jazz herself up, make herself look younger, but to tell you the truth she’s still kind of worn-down and ordinary.”
Twisting the truth to protect her; what had she to fear from this older woman? Molly couldn’t help smiling. She went to him. “David, David…” She kissed him then backed away a step and stared at him. “Okay,” she said, “if they invite us again, we’ll go. But I’m not sharing any dip with her.”
Molly watched him tilt back his head and finish his glass of water. She realized she’d been holding her breath, as if she’d been the one drinking. She moved closer to him and pressed her head into his shoulder. He hugged her, and she felt his hand gently patting her back. There was no reason to tell him about the woman in the park now, no point in pushing him on the subject. He might consider her paranoid about Deirdre, and he might be right. New York was undeniably well stocked with leggy women who jogged and wore baseball caps and sunglasses.
“Michael at Bernice’s again?” David asked.
She nodded, prodding his chest with her forehead.
“Let’s get him,” he said, “then the three of us can go out and have some supper. Sound okay?”
“Sounds fine.” She remembered the last time he’d suggested dinner under similar circumstances. It had been for just the two of them. She liked it better this way.
“Any preferences?” he asked.
“Anywhere but the Rainbow Room.”
They settled on hot dogs from the vendor down the street.
David had been so reasonable she knew
she’d
been unreasonable. He could do that to her; it was one of the few infuriating things about him.
But he was right, she knew. She’d become unsettled about a woman she’d never met, who might indeed have nothing to do with the jogger Molly had seen in the park.
Probably
had nothing to do with her.
Not that it mattered, since Deirdre would soon be leaving New York to return to her home.
The only thing remotely bothering Molly now was a persistent feeling that she’d shied away from a fear she should have faced. And maybe she should have had more faith in David.
More faith in herself and the two of them together.
Molly met Traci Mack the next afternoon in Egan’s, the lounge of the Darville Hotel on West Forty-fourth Street. Traci was the Link Publishing editor of the architectural manuscript. Molly had worked with her before, and the two women had become friends.
Traci merely glanced at the first half of the thick manuscript,
Architects of Desire,
with its yellow Post-it flags sticking out from between the pages. As the waiter brought their drinks—a glass of chardonnay for Molly, a martini for Traci—Traci stuffed the manuscript into her black leather attaché case and leaned the case against the legs of her chair. She was a tiny, fortyish woman with graying hair and a droll expression that seldom changed. Her eyes were dark and always narrowed into slits as if she were myopic, and she had a round face, underslung jaw, and long upper lip that made her resemble a turtle. Molly had never seen the diminutive Traci in anything other than sacklike black dresses of the sort often worn by heavyset women to disguise bulk. Traci must have owned half a dozen similar outfits. Her idea of getting dressed up was to wear a sash or a belt.
Molly sipped her wine and looked around Egan’s. There were about a dozen other customers scattered about the lounge. It was upscale but functional in the way of hotel bars, with small, marble-topped tables and a long bar with a large-screen TV mounted above it. A soap opera was on the TV but fortunately there was no volume. Beyond the far end of the bar was an archway and a sign indicating that it led to the lobby. Molly and Traci were at one of the small marble tables near the window. It was cool in the lounge; bright and bustling Manhattan streamed past in the heat on the other side of the glass.
“Thanks for the first half of the manuscript, Mol.” Traci said in her rasping voice. “Gonna have the last half by the end of next week?”
“Guaranteed,” Molly said. A man in threadbare clothes walked past close to the window, glanced inside, and locked gazes with her, then moved faster as if ashamed of his misfortune. Something about him gave Molly a chill. They were separated by much more than a pane of glass, yet his world waited for the weak the way a lion waited and watched the herd for potential victims. That was how Molly was trying not to feel—like a victim.
Traci sat back, sighed, then smiled as she lifted her martini. “Enough of business. What’s going on in your life?”
Molly told her.
Traci leaned back in her chair and looked thoughtful. “I’ve got to tell you, Mol, I don’t think it’s ever a good idea for wives and ex-wives to get together unless it’s at hubby’s funeral.”
Molly laughed.
“I’m editing a mystery novel about that very situation,” Traci said, “and it doesn’t turn out well for the wife.”
“Are you warning me that life might imitate art?”
“Maybe.”
Molly had to ask. “So what happens to the wife in the novel?”
“The husband and the ex kill her then say she ran away. But she’s really in the freezer of a neighbor who’s on vacation. They dispose of her body little by little. What they can’t get the neighbor’s German Shepherd to eat, they get rid of with the trash compactor and the U.S. Mail.”
Molly winced and tried to ignore the knot in her stomach.
“Well, David and I have a strong marriage. If it can’t survive us sitting through dinner with a sad, lonely woman who’s only in town for a little while, I’ll be surprised. Besides, she happens to be eleven years older than I am. What do I have to fear from a woman fast-approaching menopause?”
“Hold on, there!” Traci said, grinning.
Molly was embarrassed. “Oh, sorry…”
“People live longer and stay young longer these days. And a thirty-eight-year-old can be quite a sexpot.” Traci used her tiny red plastic-sword swizzle stick to toy with the olive in her martini. “I thought you told me Deirdre was in love with some guy named Chalmers.”
“Chumley,” Molly corrected.
“Whatever. He’s a man. She doesn’t sound so sad and lonely to me.”
“Or like any kind of a threat,” Molly pointed out. “I admit I was hesitant at first, but now I’m looking forward to meeting both of them.”
Traci speared and ate her olive. “That’s amazing.”
“I don’t think so,” Molly said, “among reasonable people.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever met a reasonable person,” Traci said. She raised her glass in a mock toast. “But anyway, I do commend you.”
Molly ignored the toast. “I guess I see it as a test for our marriage,” she admitted. “If it’s as strong as I say it is, simply acknowledging Deirdre exists should do no harm. It will only make us stronger. Maybe all of us.”
“I hope you’re right.” Traci finished her drink and placed her glass on its cork coaster. “Well, I’d better get back to Link. The author of
Sane Sex for Singles
is coming in to the office and I want to meet her.” She dropped some bills from a pocket of the black dress onto the table to cover her share of the check. “I’ll leave you to go home and finish the other half of our flying buttresses manuscript.” She bent down and picked up the leather attaché case. “Good luck with your dinner Saturday night. Whatever Deirdre is, you’re a young and attractive woman with a nice figure. Wear something that’ll knock her and her boyfriend dead.”
“Deirdre told David we’re dressing casual,” Molly said. “I don’t think anybody wants this to be a big deal. In fact, that’s the whole idea, that it’s no big deal. Then everyone will be reassured.”
“Maybe,” Traci said. “But take my advice and wear something tight.”