Getting Some Of Her Own (8 page)

To Susan, that sounded like bragging. “I thought most women wanted children, too,” Susan said. “But . . .” She flexed her right shoulder in a shrug. “Different strokes for different folks. Do you work away from home, Cassie?” she asked in the hope of changing the subject.

“I certainly do. I'm a graphic artist at Cutting Edge Stationers and Engravers.”

“Of course. Jay said you designed his logo and stationery. I'm going to need some stationery and maybe a logo. Where's Cutting Edge Stationers and Engravers?”

“A block and a half from the Rose Hill School on Fourth Street East. You can't miss it. I'm on the second floor. I'd better be going. Thanks for storing my groceries and especially for breakfast. I'm going to speak to Kix about a generator this very night.”

Cassie left without mentioning the possibility of their getting together socially. “If she doesn't want to be friends, it's no skin off my teeth,” Susan said to herself. She straightened up the kitchen, phoned her supplier in New York City and ordered what she needed for her shop. Then, she sat in her living room, studying it to decide the changes that she would eventually make.

A phone call from Cassie was the last thing she expected. “Hello, Susan, this is Cassandra Hairston-Shepherd.”
Why did the woman insist on presenting herself as if she were royalty, or a trumpeter heralding the arrival of a sovereign?
“Kix wants us to get together as soon as we get electricity. So please come, and do bring your SO. Uh . . . he said we're due to have electricity by tomorrow morning. He's off on Mondays, so how about Monday around six for drinks and snacks?”

In other words,
Susan thought,
come for an hour and a half, and be sure to bring a man. Suppose she didn't have a significant other?
“I'll have to check, Cassie, and call you later. Sounds like a great idea. Thanks.” Maybe she bared her teeth; she wasn't sure. One thing, though; she didn't like that kind of sloppy invitation. She could be wrong, but she had a feeling that Kix had
urged
Cassie to make friends with her neighbor.

 

 

Susan had guessed correctly. Cassie did not relish the company of women, and especially not good-looking, independent-minded, career women. “Why is Kix so anxious for us to make friends with her?” she asked Drogan, her brother. “We'll get to know her eventually, and that's good enough for me. I don't buddy-buddy with women.”

“Maybe he's hoping some of her femininity will rub off on you.”

“As usual, you're a big help.”

At six o'clock, dressed in her elegant, black velvet cocktail suit, Cassie drove to Gourmet Corner to meet Kix. The waiter led her to a small private dining room, the table of which contained a large vase of tea roses, her favorite flower and, within a few minutes, Kix joined her. She appreciated that he'd dressed in an oxford gray pinstriped suit rather than his chef's uniform; the world didn't need to know that her husband worked as a chef, even if he owned the famous restaurant.

After kissing her on the mouth, he sat down and gave her a box that was wrapped in silver and tied with a silver bow. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” he said.

“Oh, dear. Should I open it now? You're so thoughtful. Thanks.” Even as she spoke, she put the small package into her purse.

The waiter brought a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne, filled their glasses and waited. Kix tasted it, looked at the man and winked. “First class.” The waiter left, and Kix raised his glass to his wife. “Here's to the next eight. I'm praying that by then, we'll have a child in the second grade, if not further on.”

“Oh, Kix. You always manage to spoil every occasion with that. Please stop pressuring me. I'm going to do it.”

“You've been promising me for the last six years. I want a family, Cassie, and if you don't give me one, another woman will gladly do it.”

Shocked at words she hadn't previously heard from him, her shaking hands caused the champagne to spill on her new velvet suit. “See what you've done,” she sneered. “My new suit is ruined. I want to go home.”

He called the waiter. “Cancel the dinner, Ray. We're going home.”

How skillfully she maneuvered every incident to her advantage. One day, and soon, he'd be fed up with that and her other shenanigans. He looked at her expensive velvet suit and couldn't see a single blemish.

He drove the car into the garage at 39 Lake Street, turned off the motor, leaned back in the driver's seat and looked at his wife. “You didn't get hysterics over three drops of wine on your suit; you freaked out because I mentioned your starting our family. You do it every time. I want you to get this straight. I am not working my ass off twelve hours a day, six days a week so that you and I can engage in conspicuous consumption. I want children. I want them to have a good, useful and productive life, and I am doing what I can to ensure that. But you are not planning to honor your commitment that you made to me before we married. You agreed to have two and if we could afford them, three children. We can afford half a dozen, but I'm not asking that. I'm asking right now for one. If you won't do it, I'll find a woman who will.”

“I can't get pregnant right now. We're starting a school to give graduate level instruction to graphic arts students, and I want a shot at the deanship. Can't you wait just that long?”

“First, you wanted a promotion from level one to level two. You're at level five. You wanted to attend an international conference. You went, came back, and so what. I have accepted a dozen excuses from you. This is the last one. Whether you get that deanship or not, it's ante up or I'm out of here.” He got out of the car, opened the kitchen door and went inside. She sat there for a few minutes. For the first time since they'd married, she was certain that he had not made an idle threat, that he would leave. She pushed the passenger's door open and retched. When she finally went inside, a glass once filled with milk and a part of a sandwich remained on the kitchen counter, remnants of her husband's supper on the night of their eighth wedding anniversary.

“He's not fooling now,” she said aloud, remembered to open her gift and stared at the heavy gold chain from which hung a gold heart pendant. “I've got to fix this right now,” she told herself and sped up the stairs. The sound of water streaming in the shower of the master bedroom foiled her, but only temporarily. She kicked off her shoes, stripped and hesitated. He had always wanted them together in the shower, but she put him off, fearing that he might see a blemish, a ridge or some other imperfection on her body. But she had never seen him in that don't-give-a-damn mood, so she had to do something. Why, he hadn't even opened the car door for her. She glanced at her size D breasts, standing straight out with their nipples glistening. He loved to suck them until he drove her out of her mind. She reached for a robe, thought better of it, and knocked on the bathroom door.

“I'm showering. Can't you use another bathroom?”

She opened the door, pushed back the shower curtain and stepped into the tub.

“What the—what are you doing?”

She let her hands do the talking. With one arm around his waist, she pressed her jutting nipples to his back, and with her other arm, she began to massage his penis. Slowly at first and then with all the vigor she could muster.

“Wait a minute. As long as I've wanted you to do this . . . ohh . . . stop it!”

“You don't want me to stop it. You love it, and you know it.” Water streamed down on her naked body, and every nerve came alive. He groaned aloud, and a wild wantonness beset her.

“Turn around and suck my nipples,” she said.

“No. You finish what you started.”

“I will if you turn around.”

He turned to face her, and she knelt before him. Uncertain as to what to do or how to do it, she looked up at him. He bent down, lifted her and, with the water still streaming down, got out of the tub. He dried her and then dried himself. She looked down at him, fully erected and pulsating with eagerness for completion, and began to stroke him again. If men loved it so much, she'd try. Still stroking him, she knelt in front of him again and kissed the tip of his penis. His groan sent shivers through her, and she sucked him into her mouth. It wasn't bad. He tasted sweet. She grasped his buttocks and began pulling on him, enjoying the feast.

“Oh my God, baby. Stop it!” He pushed her back from him. “I was a second from losing it, and you're not that sophisticated.”

He picked her up and carried her to bed. Flat on her back on the bed staring up at Kix, she wondered what else they'd missed as a couple because of her prudishness. Ashamed, she opened her arms to him, spreading her legs as she did so. Lying beside her, he leaned over her, and she waited for the moment when she'd feel his tongue circle her nipple. He stared down at her until she squirmed.

“You she-devil,” he said and pulled her left nipple into his mouth. Gone were the days when she lay still and prim beneath the onslaught of his mouth, fingers and penis as they tried to command her body to orgasm. Her one adulterous act had taught her to appreciate what her husband's body offered her.

Maybe he wanted to subdue her. She didn't know. She didn't care. His fingers snaked down beyond her belly, found her folds and began their talented dance.

“Get in me,” she moaned, but he ignored her until, exasperated and not a little angry, she pushed him over, straddled him and rode him until they were both spent. She collapsed on him.

When at last he separated them, she resisted going to the bathroom, as had once been her habit, and lay beside him, quiet and a little ashamed, for she had taken advantage of him and, clever man that he was, he would one day remind her of it. Still, whatever sorrow she felt didn't go very deep, she realized, because she knew she would do it again if seducing him would take his mind off fatherhood and her shilly shallying about getting pregnant.

“You're going to pull that trick one of these days, and it won't work,” he said, as she was about to doze off to sleep. “I'm glad you've finally learned to like sex, but get it into your head that sex is not the equivalent of a guided missile; it's been known to miss the target.”

“I'd say I was sorry, if I didn't enjoy it so much.”

“You don't think you used me?”

“In a way, I guess I did. But I learned something, too, and that was a good thing.”

He rolled closer to her and locked her fingers with his. “Just remember what started this. You hear?” She remembered. How could she forget?

The next afternoon when Susan visited Cassie's office to order stationery and a logo, Cassie greeted her effusively.

“I'm so glad to see you, Susan. Have a seat and I'll send for some coffee. By the way, you
are
coming over at six on Monday, aren't you? Here have a look at these. What is the name of your outfit?”

Who is this chameleon?
Susan wondered. “My company is called Pettiford Interiors, Incorporated.” She handed her a card on which she'd written her company's name, address and telephone number.

“Great,” Cassie said.

“Now, in my experience—and I've had a lot of it—either pearl gray or sand makes a more elegant paper than white or cream.” Cassie smiled. “But of course, it's up to you. Would you like a sewing machine in your logo?”

“A sewing machine? I don't sew. My taste runs rather to an elegant house and a bolt of fabric. See if you can work that in somehow.” One put-down deserves another, Susan said to herself and refused to feel remorse for having been nasty. Nonetheless, she was relieved when Cassie ignored the stab.

“All rightee. I ought to have a draft for you by Tuesday. I don't usually offer drafts, but you want something different. I'll call you when it's ready.”

Susan thanked her. “I'll see you Monday evening, Cassie, and thanks again for the invitation.” She dialed Jay as soon as she got out of the building.

“Jay Weeks speaking.” She asked if he would go with her to Cassie's house for cocktails. “It'll be a pleasure. I can't wait to see what a cocktail party here in good old Woodmore is like. Either I'm persona non grata at these affairs or Mrs. Hairston-Shepherd is just showing off. Everybody I know, including His Honor the Mayor, hightails it to The Watering Hole, guests and all, if they want a drink and don't have any booze at home. Thanks for inviting me.”

Susan dressed in a royal blue velvet dress, nipped in at the waist and flattering her five feet, nine and a half inch, svelte figure, put her hair in a knot at the back of her head, stuck a pair of six-inch ivory-knitting needles in it and got downstairs just as Jay rang her doorbell.