Dry as Rain (2 page)

I glanced at the wall of mirrors hanging behind the penguin-dressed bartender. That's when I first noticed the baby grand behind me . . . and the redhead making it sing. I listened to her play against the backdrop of laughter, clanking wineglasses, and couples stealing kisses over ravioli.

Her hair was the color of spun sunshine, her skin as creamy and flawless as a porcelain doll, and her beautiful fingers flew over those ivory keys with such grace I couldn't help but be infatuated.

I've never been one to believe in love at first sight, but I just knew in the smoky reflection of that bar mirror that we were going to have one heck of a romance. Well, maybe I just hoped we would. She played “Fly Me to the Moon” as a waiter passed by with an oval tray perched atop his fingertips. The air filled with steam and the scent of beef and marsala cooking wine.

Something told me if I didn't make a move then, I might never get another chance. Having my date and her brother mad at me was something I could live with. Not finding out if the piano player was my soul mate was not. I turned to Bobby's sister to apologize for what I was about to do, but she'd already started flirting with the man on the other side of her.

I made my way from one end of the bar to the other and leaned between a middle-aged couple toasting something or other. After a few rounds of lighthearted negotiations, I'd purchased the rosebud the man had been wearing on his lapel.

When I walked over to my date holding the flower, I'm sure she thought it was hers. Instead of smiling, she looked embarrassed. I told her I had met the woman I was going to marry. She was so relieved to find out it wasn't her that she laughed, threw a look over her shoulder at Kyra, and grabbed her purse.

Feeling suddenly emboldened, rose in hand, I turned around on my stool and made no secret of studying her. Sophia's was warm with so many bodies confined to such a small area, but with my gaze fixed on the pianist, I felt like I was baking in a thermonuclear reactor. When she stood to take a break, some mafia type stuck a fifty in her jar and told her when she got back, he'd appreciate it if she'd play anything but Frank Sinatra.

She walked to the far end of the bar where the waiters picked up their patrons' drinks and the bartender gave her a bottle of water. I strolled right up to her and handed her that rose.

“Thanks,” she said, holding the stem, which had been clipped short. “Where's the rest of it?”

I felt my throat close in until she laughed. It was the most beautiful laugh I'd ever heard. We had dinner the next night—and every night leading up to our wedding reception.

If you had told me that twenty years later she'd be divorcing me, I wouldn't believe it. I loved her so much. I still do. But one person in love does not a marriage make.

Two

I woke up in bed with a woman who was not my wife. The candlelight that had cast the room in shades of gold earlier had long since died, taking with it the flickering illusion that all was rosy and right. Beside the bed, a merlot bottle sat empty next to two glasses stained with crimson.

How beautiful and exciting my coworker seemed just hours ago. Light from the adjacent bathroom fell on her face, still full from youth. I wondered what exactly I'd found so remarkable about this ordinary girl, barely a woman.

She wasn't half the beauty Kyra had been in her twenties, or even now. Her curves could not compete with my wife's willowy grace. She didn't have Kyra's intelligence, talent, or my promise on her finger. But what she did have had intoxicated me completely. She'd looked at me with wide, innocent eyes as though I was some sort of hero. As though I wasn't the disappointment I'd become to Kyra. As though I was the man I used to be.

Danielle's eyelids twitched from dreams, her fine lashes fluttering against her skin. The heat of her breath puffed against my neck. Careful not to disturb her, I rubbed a lock of her flaxen hair between my thumb and finger. It had seemed so much more wild and beautiful as we'd made love.

Love
—I almost choked on the word.

When I closed my eyes, it was no longer Danielle's blonde hair I touched, but Kyra's red. I remembered a time not so long ago that I lay with her in this very position. The light of dawn traced the outline of her face and her long, lean body like a golden aura. How I'd wanted to ravish her at that moment with a desire that was so much more than mere lust. So much more than what I'd shared with this girl.

When I opened my eyes, it was Danielle once again lying next to me. This was what I had fantasized about for weeks, but now that my belly was full of it, I barely remembered what the hunger had felt like. She hadn't changed, but somehow I felt no residue of my earlier lust.

As I watched her sleep, I knew it wasn't the shape of her young body, the curve of her hips or legs I was really looking at, but the death of my marriage. The finality of my actions struck me with unexpected force. Kyra and I were never supposed to come to this.

I shouldn't have done what I'd done—two wrongs would never make a right—but after being accused of it for so long, at least now the punishment would fit the crime.

And anyway, wasn't it Kyra, not me, who had insisted on the separation? Those almost always lead to divorce, I'd rightly argued, but she wouldn't be reasoned with. She'd seen a suggestive e-mail that had her convinced I'd been having an affair. I wanted to work things out. Begged her to attend counseling with me, but she'd had one foot so far out the door, it was a shorter walk out than in.

A small smile pulled at the corners of Danielle's lips. She stirred in her sleep and laid her arm across my stomach. I waited for her to settle before gently removing it.

Careful not to wake her, I pushed myself up, cringing as the bed creaked. She sighed, curled into the fetal position, and tugged the blanket up to her neck. Before my foot hit the floor, my cell beeped. I had to lean over her to get it. My arm brushed her chest and she awoke.

I faked a smile. “Good morning, beautiful.”

Her eyes lit up as she covered her mouth. “Hey, there.”

I put the phone to my ear. “Eric Yoshida.”

“Hi, Eric. It's Al.”

I shook my head at Danielle to indicate my regret in answering. “You got a new number, I see.”

“Yeah, it's a TracFone. You know your mother and bills.”

I cleared my throat. I didn't have it in me to worry about my stepfather's constant drizzle while I was dealing with my own tsunami. “What can I do you for?”

“Are you sitting?”

Looking down at myself perched on the edge of the bed, I felt the dread of the coming news. “Is it Mom? Is she—?”

“Your mom's fine. Everyone's fine.”

I exhaled as Danielle watched me intently. Without her makeup, she seemed even younger. At forty-five, I probably looked like an old man to her in the stark light of day with my sparse, gray body hair and the not-so-subtle pull of gravity. With my free hand, I picked my pants off the floor. I was relieved that she had the decency to look away as I slid them on.

“It's Kyra, son. She's been in an accident.”

I'd barely gotten my foot in the second leg hole when I had to sit again. “What kind of accident? Is she okay? Where is she?”

“Whoa, slow down. They told your mother that physically, she's fine. Anyway, I had the car towed to that body shop with the big eagle on the side. You know, the one down the street from Waffle House.”

“Why didn't they call me or Marnie? Why did they call you?”

“They said her phone just goes to voice mail and Kyra gave them the number you used to have back in Braddy's Wharf.”

I didn't bother asking why she would do that because the answer was obvious enough—she didn't want me to know. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Is she home?”

“Not exactly. They admitted her to Batten Falls Psychiatric Hospital for observation.”

I sat there stunned to silence as I listened to the bizarre news of my wife's whereabouts, all the while feeling the weight of Danielle's gaze. When I hung up, I found her sitting with the blanket wrapped around her like a beach towel.

“What is it?” She looked confused. “Who's hurt?”

I licked my lips, not knowing what to say.

“It's her, isn't it? It's Kyra.” She frowned as her eyes searched mine.

“It's okay,” I said, standing. “She was in a minor accident.”

When Danielle stroked my arm, her touch possessed all the comfort of burlap. “I'm sorry.”

I pulled away. “No biggie. She'll be fine.” But even as I said the words, I doubted them. She was in a psychiatric hospital. How okay could a person be to find themselves there?

She focused on my knees. “Thank goodness. Are you going to see her?”

“What else can I do? She's still my wife.”

“No. I know. I'm just asking.”

I said nothing for a moment, then set about picking up the rest of my clothes from the rug. Scratching at my freshly grown neck stubble, I asked, “Would you mind if I borrow a razor and some toothpaste?”

Without so much as looking at me, she shrugged. I ducked into her bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. A pack of disposable pink razors sat next to a battered box of Band-Aids, a bottle of watermelon body spray, and some peroxide, which, according to its expiration date, should have been thrown away two years ago. I grabbed a razor and the apple-scented shave gel resting on the edge of the tub. I'd smell like an orchard, but at least I would look presentable.

After squeezing a dab of toothpaste onto my finger and doing the best job I could for my teeth, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Veins of red fractured the whites of my eyes. When I frowned at my weary reflection, fine lines etched themselves around the corners of my mouth. Strands of silver had infiltrated my thick black hair so much that it was now almost a fifty-fifty blend.

Where was the dashing young man of my youth? The one my wife couldn't keep her hands off of? I sighed, turned the light off, and stepped back into the bedroom.

Danielle was looking at me once again with wide, admiring eyes. She now wore a white T-shirt and men's boxer shorts—trophies of a previous relationship? The thought both nauseated and relieved me. I didn't like thinking of myself in a long line of lovers, but then again, if I was, maybe she was less likely to have mistaken our night together for more than it was.

The way she looked at me, though, told me our tryst had meant something to her.
Great,
I thought, patting my pockets for my cell phone. Just what I needed, to add another boulder of guilt to my quarry.

I glanced around until I spotted my car keys resting atop her digital alarm clock. “I've got to go. I'm sorry.”

Though she smiled stoically, her eyes betrayed her.

“I wish you could stay,” she whispered.

I kissed the top of her head. “I'm sorry,” I repeated, feeling sorry indeed.

Three

I felt like an actor in a bad B movie as I made my way to the front desk of Batten Falls Psychiatric Hospital and signed in. I just wished somebody would yell, “Cut!” so I could take Kyra home. The receptionist eyed my wrinkled suit with disapproval and pointed to the waiting area.

The pleather couch looked like a relic from the fifties, but it was comfortable enough. I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and tapped my foot. A line of gilded-framed portraits stared at me from the wall to my left. Male and female, young and old, each board member shared the same baleful expression as if they knew what I had done.

Farther down the dimly lit corridor, sad plants drooped over macramé-hung pots. The dreariness of the place had permeated my soul the moment I'd walked through the door. Maybe it was the eerie silence, so stark I could hear my own breathing, or the vague nursing home smell lingering in the air. My gaze moved across the tiled floor, polished to a mirror shine. At least it was clean. That was something.