The Fifth Stage Part 19

"We need all the luck we can get," I said, picking up one of the bags and heading toward the kitchen.

She brought the other two, and we put the bags on the floor. Lora pressed the clover into a textbook on the counter and turned to face me.

"Looks like we've got our work cut out for us, honey."

I opened a roll of paper towels and set them on the table beside a bottle of Windex. "Where do we start?"

"I say we christen the place first." She gave me that little devilish grin and pulled a bottle of champagne from one of the bags.

"How'd you get that?" I took the bottle and inspected the label as if I knew something about sparkling wine. Truth was, I'd only tasted it once, at my cousin Reba's wedding when I was in the ninth grade.

"That's what took so long. I bugged a guy at the liquor store till he went in for me." She put the champagne aside. "We can clean later. Now we celebrate."

She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and kissed me long and sweet, like in the movies. We'd been playing hide-and-seek for so long, I didn't quite know how to hold her without glancing over my shoulder first.

"Does this mean I might get lucky?" I asked.

She gave me a playful look and smacked my backside. "Honey, you're going to get luckier than a wh.o.r.e on a submarine."

We laughed for a minute, but we'd been making corny jokes for months. Now it was time to get serious.

"Can we do that thing?" I asked, breathless and embarra.s.sed.

Lora took my hand and led me through the living room mess, dodging cardboard boxes and suitcases. Once we were in the bedroom, she kissed me again.

The bed was nothing more than a mattress and box springs sitting on the floor with a borrowed comforter and K-Mart sheets that might have carried a guarantee to exfoliate your skin from head to toe while you slept. But we had a bottle of unopened cheap champagne getting warm in the kitchen and love getting hot in the bedroom. As far as we were concerned, we were in the honeymoon suite at the Ritz.

We tugged at our clothes, needing to know each other in a way we had yet to experience. A st.i.tch in my tee shirt snapped as Lora stripped it off over my head, and her bra whirred as it flew across the room. After we tore the rest of our clothes off and fell onto the bed, I pulled away from my lover and looked at her. We'd done a lot of things over the past 118 months, but I'd never seen her completely nude, only caught glimpses here and there by the dashboard lights. I knew she had long, shapely legs, but I'd never seen how they flowed into her hips, how her hips rounded and dipped into her waist, how her waist blossomed into her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The whole of Lora really was greater than the sum of her parts.

She was perfect in my eyes, made by G.o.d and impossible to duplicate. I was so young, so goofy in love.

She reached out and her fingers touched my face, tracing my lips. "I love you."

I pulled her close, bathed her in fluttering kisses, and rolled on top of her. Looking down into her eyes, I said, "Can I?"

Lora brushed my hair from my face. "Of course."

I buried my face in the slope of her neck, drew her into my mouth, and tasted her salty sweet skin. She wrapped herself around me and pressed her hips against mine. I eased down her body, kissing her chest, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her stomach until I found my cheek brushing against the patch of twisty fuzz between her legs. I'd wanted to kiss her there, the place where life begins and reason ends, but Ford Pintos were never known for their luxurious seats. We wanted to do it right, so we'd decided to wait. The wait was over.

I was timid at first, fearful of doing something wrong. I kissed her with easy strokes, finding places I never knew existed, but I soon became caught up in her motion, her breathing, her hands running through my hair, pulling me in. Then I devoured her, consumed with an awkward hunger, and in a few minutes of blinding s.e.x, six months and eighteen years of pent-up desire climaxed in Lora's body. She thrust herself to me, lost her breath, then pulled away as she pa.s.sed the point of being touched.

She lay very still for a full minute. Then, damp and exhausted, she shivered and pulled me to her, wrapping her arms around me as her tears spilled on my shoulder. Outside the window, a dog howled, low and mournful, compounding the mix of ecstasy and sadness in her eyes.

With trembling fingers, I combed her hair from her face. "What's wrong, honey? Did I do it wrong?"

She shook her head and didn't speak for a second, but when she did, all she said was, "I'll show you."

She then kissed my lips and gently escorted me to the place she'd discovered, the one unearthly plane where we could hide and never be found. Then I understood. What we'd done felt so pure and beautiful that it ran the gamut of emotion, starting at bliss but stopping at a 119 strange feeling of loss. It almost hurt to be so close, to let even Lora take me that far.

We lay together for hours, enveloped in the rough sheets and rocking to the steady beat of our hearts. The intimacy overwhelmed our young minds and bodies, and the journey back to reality was slow. But voices, slamming doors, and heavy footsteps reverberated deep into the night, reminding us we weren't alone. We were out in the world, on our own. Together.

I'd finally given Lora all I physically could. It would never feel quite the same again, but it would be good for a long time.

CHAPTER 24.

I hate it when the boss calls sales meetings in my office, especially on Monday morning. For the past two hours, Reggie and our lead sales rep, Bob Carlisle, have discussed the Wayland County Court proposal in agonizing detail.

Before Bob came along five years ago, I'd been the lead sales rep, spending four nights a week away from home, beating the bushes from daylight to dark in search of anyone who might need a filing system. I built our little empire from nothing and wasn't about to hand it over to just anyone, but Bob proved efficient and loyal. Turning the territory over to him was a relief, but the damage had already been done. By the time I started staying home every night, Lora had spent too much time alone.

I stare at the framed photograph on my desk. After all this time, her Mona Lisa smile still renders me defenseless, and several times a week, that stupid picture ends up in the bottom drawer. But in less than five minutes, it finds its way back to the spot between my CRT and the stapler. The s.p.a.ce seems bare without it. Besides, the cherry frame matches my desk.

Bob shakes me from my trance when he lets out an exasperated groan and loosens his silk tie. He looks the part of a super sales reptall and lean, with a grin that turns most women to mush and most men into his best buddies. Yet he's a coward when it comes to putting his foot down with a customer.

"You've been around long enough to know this counteroffer is just a negotiation tactic," Reggie says. He tosses his legal pad on my desk and glances toward me. He wants me to take the ball and baby-talk Bob through this, but I sit quietly.

Bob's not convinced. "This is a big deal, Reg. All we have to do is shave the profit margin a few percent." He wants this sale, but he'd be smart to listen. Reggie knows his stuff. More than once he talked me out of cutting a price just to make the sale. "It's like poker. When the other guy bluffs, you can't flinch," he'd say.

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Reggie looks at me. When he frowns, his eyebrows rush together like two lovesick caterpillars. "We're not going to budge on this quote."

Bob shakes his head. "Give me five percent."

Reggie waves his hand in my direction. "Claire, tell him. Never be afraid to walk away from a deal. When you give up your walk-away power, you've lost. You'll get screwed every time."

I lean back in my chair and watch a black spider try to build a web across the fluorescent light fixture. "Reggie's right. If I'd had the nerve to walk away from the Lexicon deal ten years ago, we'd still have made the sale, and we would've made about twice the profit."

Maintaining your willingness to let go of something is good advice for sales, but even better for life in general. When you're ready to do whatever it takes to achieve a goal, you'll end up losing something else.

It's a pity I learned that lesson too late, but it's ingrained now, and I plan to walk away from anything or anyone who might end up costing me more than they're worth.

"Come on, guys." Bob's eyes are pleading. "It's just five percent."

I look at Reggie and know he won't go for it. "Offer him one percent." I watch my boss's reaction. When he doesn't protest, I continue. "If he doesn't take it, pack up your briefcase and thank him for his time."

Bob squirms but closes his portfolio and says he'll meet with Jennings next week.

Reggie looks at his wrist.w.a.tch. "Time for lunch. Where would you two like to go?"

"I've got plans," I say. This time, Rebecca really is waiting, and the darn photo on my desk knows it. "You guys go on and do your male bonding. I'll catch you back here later."

After leaving the office and wheeling into Choppy's parking lot, I stop and take a deep breath. I've been looking forward to seeing Rebecca more than I care to admit. Although the memory of her lips on mine is almost two days old, it sends a hot streak down my spine. But it's best not to overa.n.a.lyze the situation. My brain keeps telling my squeamish stomach that it's nothing serious. I can walk away at any time.

It's a little after noon and the place is crowded. Rebecca spots me and works her way toward the hostess station.

"Hey, girl," she shouts over the crowd's noise. She looks me over, eyes lingering on mine. "You look great."

But she's the one who looks good enough to eat in her red dress with the scoop neck. It takes a lot of willpower not to gaze at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s 122 as she walks beside me toward a table near her office. The ice is getting thin, but I'm skating like a fool.

"Like hot stuff?" she asks as I sit down.

I give her a sly grin. "Depends. What have you got in mind?" When I try to flirt, everything sounds s.l.u.tty. That d.a.m.n picture on my desk must be laughing out loud.

Rebecca smacks my shoulder. "Hot wings, you nut. I found a great recipe and put them on the special menu today. I'm thinking about adding them as an appetizer permanently. They're a little messy, but they're really good. Want to try some?"

I unfold the napkin and drape it across my lap. "I'm going to trust you on this, but if I breathe fire all afternoon, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"Fair enough." She disappears into the kitchen.

When she returns, she's carrying a gla.s.s of Sprite and a plate piled high with wings. She knows what I want to drink without asking. A bad sign or a good one? It could be a restaurant pro knowing her customer's preferences, but it could also mean she's been paying more attention to me than I realized. Have I been so blind that I couldn't tell an attractive woman was trying to get close to me? Maybe I should hit Tonya up for some tips on picking up women.

Rebecca goes back to the kitchen and returns with two bread plates.

She sits down across from me. "Thought I'd join you for lunch, if you don't mind."

"I guess it'll be okay." I stab a wing with my fork and drop it on my plate. Good thing I've got antacids in my purse. The sauce is thin and spicy-red, and I inhale its fiery aroma. "So what's in this secret sauce?"

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

We make small talk for a few minutes, discussing the weather and speculating on when spring will arrive. Her eyes dance as she tells me about the new menu she's working on and the new vendor she's hired to provide higher-quality steaks. She seems to turn nervous when she mentions that her father is coming back into town next week, and that she doesn't know how he'll react to the changes.

"Dad's always kept the building updated, but he's not big on changing the menu," she says as she puts a bone on her plate, "but how am I supposed to improve the bottom line if I don't shake things up?"

She sucks a drop of red juice from her index finger.

It's really getting hot in here. I gulp down some Sprite. "Your ideas sound great. Any business has to change with the times or it'll go under."

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"Enough shop talk." Rebecca pushes her plate aside and dabs the corners of her lips with the napkin. "Still up for getting together later in the week?"

"I'd like that." I can't feel my tongue, but it's in there, stuttering like a broken lawnmower.

"I've rearranged the manager schedule, and I think I can get Friday night off. If you're free, maybe I could come over and cook dinner for you."

When I think of Rebecca in our kitchen, using our stove, setting our table, a sudden pang of guilt spears me. I had this woman in our house, for G.o.d's sake. I kissed her in our foyer. What's worse is I want to do it again. In my mind, I'm taking her to our bed, having s.e.x with her in our bed. How can I be doing this?

She sobers at my expression. "Friday's no good?"

A redheaded busboy dashes by. The green and black dragon tattooed on his forearm writhes and seems to spit orange flames as he clears the table beside us. He tosses dishes and silverware into the plastic bin as if they were made of lead and creates an annoying racket of clanks and jingles. His obvious indifference disappears when he notices his boss sitting across from me. He slows down and places the gla.s.ses into the bin instead of dropping them.

"Uh, no, Friday's fine. Say about seven?" I dig through my wallet and toss a twenty on the table, but Rebecca hands it back to me.

"Lab rats eat free," she says with a grin, but her brow is still wrinkled.

Rat. That's what I am, a big fat rat. I thank her and drop the bill back into my purse. Citing an important meeting, I dash for the door and tell her I'll talk with her later.

Outside, the sun blinds me, but the cold air smacks my cheeks, as though rebuking me for my weakness. A lone raven flies overhead, and its sharp caw rings in my ears. Nevermore. How appropriate. I haven't thought of Edgar Alan Poe's cla.s.sic poem in years, but its truth hits home like an axe splitting my ribcage.

The breeze sends a cl.u.s.ter of dainty clouds skittering across the sun. My mood is much like the surrounding landscape, first draped in shadows, then in light, then in darkness again. At times I think it's better to dwell in constant gloom than to endure the maddening extremes of sun and shade. Am I prepared to be a creature of the night, like a vampire in a horror movie who exists only in darkness and lurks on the fringes of humanity? Can I give up on the promise of a new day? And 124.

how do I know about this new woman in my life? Is Rebecca Greenway my new dawn, or the final nail in my coffin?

I'm so befuddled that by the time I get into the car and start the engine, I'm crying like an idiot. In the parking s.p.a.ce beside me, a woman gets out of a green Subaru and gives me a worried glance. I must be a sight, a grown woman sitting in a Lexus sobbing and blowing her nose into a leftover Burger King napkin.

When I regain some control, I call Reggie and tell him I'm taking the rest of the day off. I'm in no shape to discuss profit margins or proposals. The only thing I'm good for now is going home and wallowing in self-hatred till bedtime.

CHAPTER 25.

Time moves slowly when you're young, but when you're functionally dest.i.tute and in search of a dream, you feel like you're crawling through the Sahara in search of water. Every inch seems like a mile, every parched breath feels like your last, but you keep moving.

The goal is out there somewhere.

For two years, Lora and I sc.r.a.ped by. We ate condensed soup and store brand macaroni and cheese, clipped coupons, worked extra hours, and carpooled. We changed our own oil and set the apartment thermostat at sixty in winter and eighty-five in summer. Our idea of a big night out was to grab a Big Mac and go for a walk in the park, but it was worth it.

Lora kept me focused. Without her, I would have folded the first month and moved back in with my parents.

In that time, we'd grown. We'd done everything we could imagine in the bedroom, learning what we liked and what we didn't. We'd discovered different ways to bring each other to shattering o.r.g.a.s.ms and found out how to put the exhausted pieces back together. But we'd experienced more than s.e.x. Lora and I had nursed each other through colds and bouts of the flu. We'd spent hours studying, forcing trivial facts into each other's heads, and lazed away Sunday afternoons in bed watching low-budget horror movies, content to share a few quiet moments. Being together was our life. Apart, we were lost.

I'd learned little things that made me love her more. She always rolled the toilet paper under. She loved puppies and kittens and would drag a stray all over the neighborhood to find it a home before taking it to the animal shelter. To her, pizza was nature's perfect food, and after an especially good meal, she could break wind with the gusto of a drunken sailor. But her most amazing quality was her capacity for love.

If she'd stayed home with her parents, Lora would've had nice clothes, cable TV, a VCR, and a new car. It broke my heart to see her do without those things just to be with me.

Some nights I'd wake up and watch her sleep. She mostly slept on her back, one arm across her stomach, the other curled around her head.

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I often wondered what she was dreaming when her eyelids fluttered and her breathing went shallow. Did she see a better life, one that wasn't so hard, one where she didn't have to break her back for pennies just to be with me? I swore to myself that I'd make that life a reality.

But our best intentions often cause us the most trouble, and in my case, my obsession with giving Lora a better lifestyle became my biggest regret. Over time, I had become determined to make money. If we just had a little more cash, things would be so much easier. Little did I understand that once you become obsessed with money, enough is never enough.

My undoing started on a Monday night. Eight hours into my last shift of the week, I was feeling the strain. My neck ached, and I'd been though a bottle of eyedrops just to keep blinking.