The Fifth Stage Part 14

"You've got what, a bug up your a.s.s? Fine by me. Sit in that f.u.c.king house till you rot, for all I care."

"Call me tomorrow." I hang up without saying goodbye. There's no reasoning with her when she's got a gut full of hooch and a pair of long legs waiting. I'll explain after the booze has worn off and the scent of s.e.x has been washed away.

Jitterbug crawls up and slurps my face. I push her to arm's length and scratch the back of her neck. "Jit, one of these days, I'm going to slap the p.i.s.s out of her."

It's only 6:30, but I'm already dressed for dinner and pacing the living room. I scuff across the carpet, trace my finger along the sofa table as I pa.s.s, and stop at the bar before spinning on my heels to reverse the trek. When I ramble to the foyer and touch the front door k.n.o.b, I've built up enough static electricity to shock the bejesus out of myself. I swear under my breath and start to pace again.

Jitterbug's whimpering is driving me crazy. She hates being cooped up in the guestroom, but her raving greetings can be over the top for new visitors. She will have to meet Rebecca latermaybe.

I play in my mind what I'm going to say when Rebecca gets here, but everything sounds wrong. She's bound to look niceshe always doesbut would it sound cheesy to tell her? Would it come out as awkward as it feels and hit her like a wad of sticky bubble gum, or would she be impressed by a sincere compliment?

What does she expect from me? Women want different things when it comes to being with other women. Some want to be gentlemanly and hold the door for you, while others would be insulted if you didn't hold the door for them. Still others would be mortified if any woman dared to a.s.sume what they considered a masculine position. I'm uncomfortable playing roles, so I decide to be myself. Screw her if she doesn't like it.

Only problem is, I'm not sure how to be myself.

Knowing my luck, I'll get a phone call from Tonya as soon as Rebecca arrives. Tonya hasn't called yet, and when I tried to get her 84 earlier, she didn't answer. She has a nasty way of interrupting at the worst times. When I'm in the tub, say, or when it's three in the morning, or when Jitterbug needs a walk. Plus, she's apt to put the moves on any woman in sight, and it'd be like her to show up on the front step and seduce Rebecca before she can ring the bell.

I shudder, envisioning Tonya all made-up and s.e.xy in spiked heels and a little black dress wheeling into the drive behind Rebecca. With l.u.s.t on her breath, she growls a lascivious remark into Rebecca's ear and lures her away from my timid grasp.

When the doorbell rings, I snap back to reality and count to ten before strolling into the foyer. It's hard to stay cool around Rebecca, and I wonder if she'll sense my unrest. As my fingers touch the k.n.o.b, panic races through me. What if this is a mistake?

With a gulping breath and another count to ten, I grip the k.n.o.b and open the door. One glimpse of her eyes is all it takes to sweep the fears into the back of my mind and focus my attention on the beautiful woman about to enter my home.

Rebecca returns my smile, her hair shimmering with streaks of gold in the dim light. "Hi there. Am I on time?"

"Perfect." I step aside and motion her in. As she walks past, I catch a whiff of her perfume and let my eyes linger on the curve of her hip.

Sometimes I wish I had a little of Tonya in me, an ounce of her confidence or a dab of her unrestrained nerve. I'd make a move on Rebecca right now. I'd pull her close and kiss her with three years'

worth of pent up pa.s.sion, and who'd blame me if I did? She's stunning in her skin-tight blue dress, sheer stockings, and three-inch heels.

But I'm a cowering lamb instead of a mighty lioness, so I adjust the collar of my black satin blouse and hope my b.u.t.tons are straight. "I'm not looking forward to this. Elizabeth and Jared will be watching us all evening."

"They're cool with us being together, right? I don't want to slip up and say something wrong." Rebecca shifts her weight from one foot to the other and looks around.

"They're okay. We just can't make out on the dining room table or anything like that."

"I'll try to control myself." She nudges me playfully as we go out the door.

Down the walk, across the Kingsleys' driveway, and up the front steps is only a twenty-yard stroll, but it seems to take forever. The night breeze is stiff and cuts through my blouse, and I lean close to Rebecca, savoring the relative warmth of her body.

85.

Elizabeth greets us at the front door and gives Rebecca a polite scan. "It's about time you two showed up. Can I get you a c.o.c.ktail?"

She takes Rebecca's arm and leads her toward the kitchen, leaving me to tag along behind. "Rebecca, I'm so glad you could join us this evening.

Claire's one of our dearest friends, and we hate to see her alone so much."

I squeeze in between them. "You're not helping me look good, here, Elizabeth. You make it sound like I'm a hermit or something."

"Oh, hush," Rebecca says. "I have a feeling Elizabeth and I have a lot to talk about."

Elizabeth gives me a sly grin and a peck on the cheek and pulls Rebecca away, letting me know I shouldn't follow. "Rebecca and I will get your drinks. We can compare notes."

This is backwardI've kissed my neighbor, but not my date. I hope they don't compare too many notes, but I leave them to their talk and meander toward the great room where boisterous laughter erupts and dies. Jared must be comparing golf scores with Larry Maxwell again.

They are. Larry nods as Jared demonstrates his chip shot. Four other men encircle Jared, feigning interest in a story they must have heard twenty times. They also nod, stirring their drinks with monogrammed swizzle sticks and making their ice cubes clink.

The Kingsley home is a lot like its owners, elegant and tasteful. The great room boasts a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, which flickers constantly during the long winter months. Along the right wall, a cl.u.s.ter of comfortable furniture upholstered in sky-blue leather creates an intimate conversation area, and tucked in the far corner sits a beautiful but well-used baby grand piano.

The other guests linger in two groups, one huddled around the piano and the other around the sofa. It's the standard Kingsley dinner party crowd, mostly married couples. Some are doctors, others are lawyers, still others are business folk like me. Some are older, some are middle-aged, but none are under thirty. This group doesn't have time for those they consider children.

My host stops in mid-swing and glances at me. "Back me up on this, Claire. Remember when I chipped in on the seventh green at the Pines?"

Jared and I have played golf exactly twice, but he always pulls me into his stories with that seventh-green shot. I smile at him. "One of the best shots I've ever seen."

Jean Newberry, a rail of a woman with graying hair and gold eyes calls to me from the sofa. "Why, if it isn't Claire Blevins! Haven't seen 86 you in a c.o.o.n's age." She pats the cushion beside her, beckoning me to join her.

I bite back the temptation to ask how old a c.o.o.n is and sit down.

"Jean, you do have a way with those old sayings, don't you?"

"I may be married to a fancy-pants CEO, but I remember where I come from. My dear grandmother, Lord rest her soul, had more old sayings than a dog's got fleas."

"And that's another one, I'll bet."

Jean tells me about her son making partner at Bentley, Newberry, and Davis as Jared continues with his golf story. There are at least four other conversations going on at the same time, but I catch only snippets of each. "Pitched it up easy... buying a new house on Park Street... rolled about six yards... getting a divorce... saw it on the news..."

I watch the doorway with a mix of antic.i.p.ation and dread. If we're lucky, Elizabeth won't make a big deal of introducing my date, but I'm not counting on it. The news of Claire Blevins having a female companion is front-page material, and she won't bury it among the stories of golf scores and sons doing well. When Rebecca appears, all eyes will be on her, and then on me. They will be gracious, but they'll splinter into groups of two or three, all whispers and innuendo.

I catch my breath as Elizabeth leads Rebecca into the room.

They're both smiling.

Elizabeth stops at the doorway and makes a production of clearing her throat. When she's satisfied that she has everyone's attention, she says, "This is Rebecca Greenway, Claire's friend." She punches the word friend for effect and glances in my direction.

Utter silence. You could cut it with a knife, but it only lasts a second, because before I can get to my feet, Rebecca is working the room. She looks at each face, saying, "I believe I know almost everyone here," and extends her hand to Larry Maxwell. "Hi, Larry. Are the bears still giving you fits?"

"For the moment, but the bull market will be back any day." Larry leans in and kisses her cheek. His broad shoulders block my view of Rebecca, but I hear him say, "Surprised to see you here. I didn't know you and Claire were friends." Thank heaven he didn't emphasize friends the way Elizabeth did .

I rise and move toward Rebecca, but another guest, Greta Jennings, a short woman with huge b.r.e.a.s.t.s and tiny hips, beats me to her.

Rebecca turns to Greta. "Hey, there. That e-mail help you any?"

Greta wraps her arm around Rebecca's waist and gives her a quick hug. "I and the Historical Society thank you. You saved me months of 87 digging through the newspaper's archives." Greta turns to me. "She's a real lifesaver."

Elizabeth gives me a full-body b.u.mp from behind and hands me a scotch on the rocks. She murmurs, "Looks like you've got a crowd pleaser there."

After a long pull on my drink, I turn to Elizabeth. "Thanks for making a scene."

"My pleasure." She twirls into the crowd and disappears.

I balance on my left foot, then my right, as Rebecca chats with the other guests. I've known these people for years, and they didn't even notice when I came in, but they're swarming around her like bees on a clover patch. Go figure.

When the excitement abates, Rebecca takes my hand. "How am I doing?" she whispers.

A broad smile finds my lips. She's doing great.

CHAPTER 17.

"Claire, wake up!"

Lora's voice rattled me. I pried my eyes open, confused by my surroundings and by the events of the night before. Was it a dream? My eyes focused, and I saw Lora struggling to get her panties on and grabbing for a nightshirt. It was true. Holy c.r.a.p! I'd had s.e.xand with Lora Tyler, of all people.

"Hurry! My parents are home. Get dressed." She hopped on one foot, still tugging at her underwear, and peeked out the window. "Oh, G.o.d, I'm in deep s.h.i.t. I wasn't supposed to have anyone over."

I rolled out of bed, spurred on by the image of Mrs. Tyler literally catching us with our pants down, and acid rose in my throat. If I didn't make tracks in about seven seconds, my illicit lover and I would be dead where we stood.

I scrambled around the floor looking for my clothes. "What time is it?"

"After 12:00. I can't believe we slept this late." She kept her voice low as she tossed me a long tee shirt and a pair of her panties. "Here, take these. I'll find yours later."

I wrestled the shirt over my head and yanked the underwear on.

"Christ, why didn't you tell me I wasn't supposed to be here? We could've set an alarm or something."

"I wasn't exactly thinking clearly last night." Lora shot me a dry look as she tugged the blankets back onto the bed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I scurried to the other side of the bed and found my khaki pants beside the nightstand.

"It doesn't mean anything. Just get dressed and get the h.e.l.l out of here." She threw my penny loafers at me. "Go out the front door.

They're coming in the back, so maybe they didn't see your car."

I jerked my pants over my hips and gathered my shoes in both arms. "Lora, we need to"

"Not now! If we get caught, I'm grounded for life."

88.

89.

I stood there for a second, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. It wasn't supposed to be like this. We'd done something wonderful, something we shouldn't rush away from. We should've been in bed holding one another, talking and kissing like lovers, not running around like a couple of cornered mice.

As I turned away, Lora grabbed my arm. "I'll call you later, I promise."

"Okay." I slipped into the hallway and tiptoed toward the front door as fast as I could. For an instant, I thought I'd left my keys on her nightstand, but heaved a sigh of relief when I found them in the side pocket of my purse. I looked out the door to be sure the coast was clear before making a mad dash toward my car. I scampered across the lawn, dodging Jock's vomit from the night before, and skidded up to the car. I tumbled into the driver's seat, eased the door closed, and started the motor.

In another moment, I was on my way home, but home didn't seem like the same place it used to be. I imagined the familiar beige walls of my room, the outdated tawny carpeting and curtains, the yellowed 4-H ribbons taped to my vanity mirror; but those things held no comfort.

That room had been mine all my life, but now it felt like a distant and lonely place, a place where I couldn't be me anymore.

But I wasn't me anymore. A cheerleader with a great big grin and bruised up shoulders had changed me. She'd found a part of me that no boy could ever begin to understand, a thing so baffling it made my head hurt every time I thought about it. But when I didn't think about it, when I simply accepted it without logic or rationalization, it made perfect sense. I wasn't alone. Whether she wanted to or not, Lora Tyler now shared my soul.

I groaned when I pulled into my parents' driveway. Mom and Dad were already home from church. Great. Mom would be in the kitchen whipping up our usual Sunday dinner of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. She'd get in too big a hurry and wind up with a mood on by the time the food hit the table. Dad, on the other hand, would be laid back in his La-Z-Boy snoring like an asthmatic grizzly.

I breezed in the back door, hoping to slip by unnoticed, but when I saw Mom and Dad standing in the living room, still in their church clothes, I choked. I'd have to face them. They'd know what I'd done.

They'd see it on my face as surely as I still felt it in my groin.

"Good morning, party girl. Did you have a good time last night?"

Mom asked. She was busy picking a piece of lint out of Dad's hair and didn't look at me. Small favors.

90.