Authors: Judith Arnold
Unfortunately, they’d had to do this kissing in an empty practice room. Not the ballet studio she’d shown him, but a tiny soundproof booth for flute students. The room had contained two chairs and a music stand, and the walls and ceiling were coated in thick soundproofing foam. He’d felt a little claustrophobic, but once the kissing had gotten under way he’d lost his awareness of their surroundings.
He wished he could bring her back to his room. With his mother in the apartment, though, that wasn’t feasible. And Elyse was living with her aunt’s family on Riverside Drive and 112th while she was studying at Juilliard, and her aunt had a husband and two preteen sons, who Elyse said were really obnoxious. “They’re at the age where they think farting is hilarious.” Adam didn’t bother to enlighten her to the fact that most boys never outgrew that stage.
Maybe if he hadn’t spent so much time foreplaying with her in the flute practice room last night, he’d be feeling a little less cheerful about unloading pasta from the chute today. But honestly, working at Bloom’s wasn’t so terrible. As long as he didn’t let his family suck him in, he’d be okay. And he liked filling his wallet with cash. One thing about Julia—she paid decent wages.
The last load of pasta came down the ramp in another
crate, and Adam lugged it over to the shelf. Nonna Rossini’s was only one of the brands of gourmet pasta the store carried. The old lady’s cellophane bags shared shelf space with Palazzia Negri Ziti in boxes illustrated with paintings of Tuscany landscapes suitable for framing, and Segalini Lasagna in rectangular tins, and Chechi Gnocchi in rustic paper sacks. Adam was cynical enough to assume they all came from the same factory in Jersey City.
Once he’d gotten the crates unloaded onto the shelves, he pulled from his belt his inventory gizmo—it had a fancy name, itemized scanner or something like that, but Adam found gizmo easier to remember. The gizmo scanned the UPCs of all the items in inventory. As soon as he’d recorded the Nonna Rossini’s shipment, he could bring the gizmo upstairs to the third floor and enter the data into a computer there so the store would know just how much of what they had in stock. Uncle Jay had set up the system at Julia’s behest. Last year when Adam had worked as a stock clerk, they’d recorded all the deliveries by hand on a clipboard.
This new electronic system was an improvement, but it still seemed a bit unwieldy to Adam. Why couldn’t a cheap computer be kept in the basement, networked into the third-floor computers so the stock information could be entered directly? Why trek up and down in the elevator to enter the data? Not that it was his business, not that he had any investment in how the inventory was monitored, not that he wanted to interfere with Uncle Jay’s way of doing things, but if Julia was going to computerize the inventory records, why not do it right?
He could set up the software in an hour, tops, he
thought, whistling Phish’s “Sample in a Jar” as he scanned the bags of rigatoni with his gizmo. Julia must have a spare computer somewhere on the third floor. Adam would bet good money Myron never used the computer in his office. The man still took off his shoes and socks to add.
Not that Adam had the least bit of interest in streamlining things at Bloom’s.
Hell, he could donate his laptop for the summer, and good riddance, too. The last time he’d checked his e-mail, he’d had three notes from friends and five from Tash. She qualified as a friend, of course, but reading her e-mails infused him with guilt. She was spending her days picketing the Space Needle in downtown Seattle with a group of women who felt the tower was a phallic symbol and therefore insulting to the female citizens of their fair city. This coven of picketers had dubbed themselves the Needle Needlers, and they’d gotten a decent write-up in the
Post-Intelligencer
, which had in turn attracted a half-dozen vituperative letters to the editor.
Tash was in her glory, having the best summer of her life. And Adam was trying to score with a ballet student at Juilliard.
The truth was, he didn’t give a flying fuck about the Space Needle. He’d seen pictures of it, and the only way it could be phallic was if a guy wrapped a rubber band tightly around the middle of his
schlong
and glued a tiny umbrella to the tip—and glued a needle to the umbrella. The tower just wasn’t prick shaped.
Another truth, while he was admitting truths to himself, was that his lap felt more comfortable with Elyse perched on it than with Tash. He had nothing against
zaftig
women. He’d dated Tash for more than a year.
But Elyse was lighter than a dollop of Cool Whip. When she sat in his lap, his knees didn’t threaten to buckle under her weight.
Guilt had never been Adam’s long suit. He figured Julia claimed the monopoly on that character trait. Susie didn’t do guilt, and Adam had long ago decided not to do it, either. He could spend his summer feeling like a piece of shit because he was pursuing Elyse and ignoring Tash, or he could spend his summer feeling great because he was pursuing Elyse and ignoring Tash. The second option seemed preferable.
He finished scanning, squinted at the LCD monitor on his gizmo and shook his head. Simplifying the process would save man-hours, which meant it would save money. And despite his lowly status as a summer employee, Adam was a Bloom and the company’s profits were his inheritance. If he could program a computer to transmit the data from the basement to the third floor, he might ultimately wind up with just a little more money in his wallet, which was a good thing any way you looked at it.
As a committed socialist, of course, Tash would disagree.
Right now, Adam didn’t care.
Ron kissed Julia’s breasts. She loved when he did that, loved it so much she often found herself wondering whether nursing a baby could possibly be a sexual experience, which led to fantasies of having babies with Ron, which, given that they weren’t even married yet, was definitely a dangerous track for her train of thought to speed down.
A woman shouldn’t think while she was having sex.
So she closed her eyes, let her head sink deep into
the pillow and ran her hands up and down his arms and across his smooth, strong shoulders while he did amazing things to her breasts with his lips and tongue. She focused on the heat of his mouth and the chill of the air, the sweet burning in her nipples, the way sensation slid between her body and his, warming her belly where his chest pressed down into it, warming her thighs as they shifted against his hips. He had such a hunky physique, and he knew just what to do with what he had, and she was the luckiest woman in the world to be engaged to him, because he wasn’t just sexy, he was smart and successful and even Jewish, speaking of which, she needed to find out whether he’d gotten information on the synagogues in the area, although he’d said they might be able to set up a
chupah
in the reception room at the Torch Club at NYU, which meant they could skip joining a synagogue for now, although if they had children they’d really have to join one so their children could have bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs thirteen years later…
He lifted his head and peered into her eyes. “Am I losing you?”
“No, no.” She sighed, raised herself enough to kiss the crown of his head and fell back against the pillow. “I was just thinking.”
“Stop thinking,” he ordered her, then bowed and sucked her nipple into his mouth.
Okay. She would stop thinking about anything other than the gathering tension between her legs, and the way her entire being pulled tight, wanting him, burning for him—and her cell phone beeped.
“Don’t answer it,” he murmured, sliding his mouth from her breasts to her midriff, licking the hollow between her ribs.
It beeped again. How could she not think when her phone was ringing? The only people who would dial her cell phone at eight at night were her relatives. They probably assumed she was just finishing dinner. She and Ron had in fact started dinner—Heat’n’Eat falafel on pita, from the store—but then he’d started playing footsie with her, and they’d decided the falafel could wait, and they’d raced into his bedroom and stripped off their clothes and…
It beeped again. “I have to answer,” she said. No way was this lovemaking going to end well if her phone kept ringing.
He rolled off her and let out a ragged breath. “You should have turned your phone off.”
“Now you tell me.” She grabbed it from the night table and pressed the Connect button. “Hello?”
“Julia, it’s Mom,” her mother said. “I’m not interrupting your dinner, am I?”
“No,” Julia said, not bothering to tell her what she
was
interrupting.
“Is Ron there?”
She glanced to her left. He was lying on his back, frowning, his penis trying to decide if it should stay aroused or give up. It fluctuated at half-mast, but when she stroked her free hand down his side it shot back to attention. “Yes, he’s here,” she said. “You want to talk to him?”
“No. I just wanted to let you know his father called me. We’re having dinner together Saturday night.”
Julia yanked her hand away from Ron and sat up. “Dinner?” she said, her voice emerging in a squeak. “Why?”
Ron couldn’t help noticing her anxiety. He sat up,
too, touched her shoulder, and when she turned toward him, mouthed,
What’s going on?
She shook her head and turned away.
“Why?” her mother echoed. “So we can eat. That’s usually why people have dinner.”
“I thought you wanted to lose twenty pounds before my wedding.”
“Have you set a date yet?” her mother asked. “I can still eat until you set a date. Unless you’re planning to get married in the next month.”
“No, of course not.”
Ron poked her shoulder again, and when she turned he mouthed,
What?
My mother and your father
, she mouthed back.
He fell back against the bed and groaned. Ignoring him, Julia said, “Where is he taking you?”
“Tavern on the Green.”
Oh, God. Out-of-towners believed Tavern on the Green, tucked into a cozy corner of Central Park, was the most romantic restaurant, especially on a Saturday night. “You said yes, I take it.”
“I should say no? Of course I said yes.”
“Your daughter is marrying his son,” Julia reminded her.
“So we’ll discuss the wedding. I just wanted you to know.” Her mother paused, then issued a giddy laugh. “I can’t imagine why you always used to complain about the dating scene. Dating is fun! I don’t want to keep you. Go eat your dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With a click, the connection was severed.
“Your father is taking my mother to Tavern on the Green,” Julia reported, folding her cell phone shut and watching Ron’s face for signs that he recognized the potential for disaster in this date.
“Big spender,” Ron muttered. “Forget about it.”
“How can I forget about it? It’s important.”
“Not that important.” He snagged her with one long arm and pulled her on top of him. “Your mother and my father are grown-ups. They’re allowed to have dinner together. Okay?” He dug his hands into her hair and drew her down for a kiss.
It was a lovely kiss, almost lovely enough to keep her from thinking. But her brain refused to shut down. “What if after dinner they wind up like this?” she asked, stretching her body along his.
His eyes darkened with horror. “Yuck.”
“Exactly.”
“They’re grown-ups,” he repeated, clearly able to dismiss ghastly thoughts more easily than she. He kissed her again, slid his thigh between her legs, cupped her bottom and came very close to emptying her mind. He pressed his thigh higher and she groaned, every last thought draining from her.
“Good,” he whispered, arching against her. His penis was at full alert once more, pressing and poking, needing just a little assistance to line up properly…and her cell phone beeped again. “You didn’t turn it off?”
“Obviously not.”
He reached for the night table but she got there first, grabbing her phone and popping it open. “Hello?”
“Julia, it’s me,” Susie said, the words dissolving in a sob. “Casey’s dating Halle Berry.”
Julia rolled off Ron and sat up. Her womb ached. Her thighs clenched. Her entire body screamed at her to get off the phone and back to Ron—but her heart, her soul couldn’t abandon Susie. “Halle Berry?”
Ron sat up and mouthed,
What?
Julia ignored him.
“Some lady who looks like her,” Susie said.
“Where are you?” Julia asked. Her sister’s voice seemed strange, and not just from crying. “You sound like you’re standing inside a metal barrel.”
“I’m in the bathroom,” Susie whimpered. “It’s a very small bathroom. I don’t want Ricky to see me crying.”
“He can handle it,” Julia assured her in a soothing tone. “He loves you.”
Is it your mother again?
Ron mouthed. Julia shook her head.
“I’m supposed to be the sane one on this trip, remember?” Susie sniffled. The noise echoed off the bathroom walls and through the phone. “I can’t fall apart. Anyway, Ricky talked to Anna and he’s all goo-goo. Anna was the one who told me. She called to say she saw Casey with this Halle Berry lady in the East Village.”
“You broke up with him,” Julia reminded her. “He’s allowed to date other women.”
“Just because I don’t want to marry him doesn’t mean I want him dating other women!”
“Susie, look. There’s nothing you can do about it now. When you come home—”
“He’ll probably be married to her by then. He wants to settle down.”
“Believe me, he won’t be married to her that fast. Planning a wedding takes time.”
“We should elope,” Ron said, responding to Julia’s end of the conversation.
Susie must have heard him. “Is that Ron? Oh, Julia, I’m sorry. I’m interrupting something, right?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first interruption.”
“Oh. Okay. I’m okay, Julia, okay?”
“Stop saying okay.”
“Okay.” Susie drew in a long breath. “I’ll get off now. I don’t think I’m crying anymore.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Julia promised.
“Okay. I mean—whatever.”