The Deep End (31 page)

“Come in,” Joanne tells him, forcing the words out of her mouth.

Steve Henry stands before her smiling, his right hand half-hidden behind his back, his blond hair brushed away from his forehead. He looks relaxed and confident in tight white pants and a pale pink polo shirt. “Brought you something,” he says, bringing his right hand forward, displaying a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. “I didn’t know if you preferred red or white, and I didn’t know what you’d be serving, but I thought that white was the safer choice.”

“That’s lovely. Thank you.” Joanne takes the bottle, not quite sure what to do with it, what to do with
him
, now that he is actually here. Her fantasies have taken her only this far.

For the past few days, she has pictured this scene in her mind in any of a hundred ways, heard his knock at the door, imagined what he will be wearing, seen his hair parted in every conceivable fashion, listened to his opening words. She has allowed her imagination to progress no
further. And now Steve Henry is standing in the middle of her well-lit foyer—has she overdone the lights?—having just handed her a bottle of expensive white wine, and she sees that his hair is combed away from his handsomely sweet—yes, sweet!—face, that he is wearing tight white pants (which she thought he might) and a pale pink shirt (which she usually pictured as blue), and he obviously thinks he’s staying for dinner (Isn’t he? Didn’t she spend all morning and most of the afternoon cooking her little heart out?), and she doesn’t know what to do with him. (Thank you for the wine; it’s been a lovely evening?)

“Would you like to sit down?” she hears herself ask, the hand that is not holding the expensive bottle of white wine motioning toward the living room.

“You have a lovely home,” he says, moving easily inside and comfortably settling into one of the cream-colored swivel chairs, ironically, she thinks, Paul’s favorite.

Joanne remains in the foyer, not sure whether to follow Steve Henry into the brightly lit living room or to take the wine into the kitchen, wondering what Mary Tyler Moore would do. “Did you have any trouble finding the house?” she asks, deciding to put the wine in the fridge.

“No, I’ve been here before,” he answers as she disappears into the kitchen.

“You have?” Joanne deposits the wine in the fridge, then stands rooted to the tile floor.

“Well, not here exactly. My parents have friends who live over on Chestnut. Can I help you with anything?”

“No, not a thing. I’ll be right there.” She doesn’t move.

“I love your art,” he is saying. “When did you start collecting?”

Joanne has no idea what he is talking about. What art? Her mind is a blank. At this moment, she has absolutely no idea what her living room even looks like. She can see nothing on the walls.

“Joanne?”

“Sorry. What did you ask me?” She has to go into the living room—she can’t spend all night in the kitchen. She is being silly. She’s acting like an idiot. Still, maybe if she stands here long enough, he’ll take the hint and leave. She should never have invited him over in the first place. She can always bring his bottle of wine back to the club later in the week, with a clever little note of apology attached, something that will explain her rude behavior in twenty-five words or less, endearing her to him without encouraging him further. The last thing she needs is another enemy, she thinks, automatically glancing at the phone.

“I asked you about your art,” he is saying from the kitchen doorway. “How long have you been collecting?” he repeats, smiling.

“We started a few years back,” she tells him, unconsciously switching to the plural pronoun.

“I like your taste.” He takes several steps into the kitchen.

“It’s Paul’s taste mostly,” she explains, and he stops. “Dinner’s not quite ready. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes,” he says. “Scotch and water, please.”

“Scotch and water,” Joanne repeats, wondering whether or not there is any Scotch in the house, trying to think where it might be.

“If you don’t have any …”

“I think we do.” She hurries past him into the dining room, to the buffet against the tan-colored wall where
Paul keeps the liquor. This has always been Paul’s department—she has never been much of a drinker. Down on her knees, she rifles through the various bottles in the cabinet. She never realized before just how much liquor they kept.

“Here,” he says, his arm brushing against her shoulder as he bends over her to extricate the correct bottle. “All I need now is a glass.” Joanne moves immediately to the breakfront on the other wall and retrieves a suitable glass. “And a smile,” he tells her as she places the empty glass in his outstretched hand. She finds herself staring into his eyes, her mouth trying to form the requested shape. “That’s better,” he says. “I think that’s the first time you’ve really looked at me since I walked in the front door.”

Joanne is about to protest when she realizes that this is probably true. She immediately looks away.

“No, don’t do that. Look at me,” he instructs her. Reluctantly, her eyes lift back to his. “You look lovely,” he is saying. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that since I arrived, but we always seemed to be in different rooms.” She finds that she is smiling in spite of herself. “You’ve done something different to your hair.”

Joanne’s hand lifts automatically to her head. “I had a few streaks put in it,” she tells him, feeling instantly self-conscious. “Too much? I told him to just put in a few.”

“It’s beautiful. Just the right amount. I like it.”

“Thank you.”

“I also like what you’re wearing.”

Joanne’s eyes drop to her body. She is wearing a pair of narrow, gray silk trousers and a wide-shouldered yellow cotton blouse, a yellow and gray silk scarf belted around her hips the way the saleslady showed her, all of which
are new, as is her cream-colored satin and lace underwear. Joanne blushes at the thought.

“Why are you so nervous?” he asks.

Joanne tries to dismiss the question, to laugh it away—Who me? Nervous? Don’t be silly. Instead she replies, “You make me nervous.”

“I do? Why?”

“I don’t know why, you just do.” She abruptly turns and walks back into the kitchen. He is right behind her. “I don’t know anything about mixing drinks,” she says somewhat defensively. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to mix it yourself.”

He does so wordlessly, the only sound that of the tap water running. Joanne keeps her eyes on the glass in Steve Henry’s hand, eventually following it out of the kitchen and back into the living room as if she is under a hypnotic spell.

“You’re sure I can’t get you anything?” he asks after they have resumed their former positions, he leaning well back in Paul’s favorite chair, she perched on the very edge of the sofa.

“No, thank you. I’m not much of a drinker.”

“You still haven’t told me why I make you nervous.” He is holding his glass in front of his mouth, forcing her to raise her eyes. She notices that he is smiling. “You think I’m going to pounce?”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

Who are these people? she wonders momentarily. What are they talking about?

“Why did you ask me for dinner?” he is asking.

“I’m not sure.”

“Is that an improvement over ‘I don’t know’?”

What is going on here?

“I’m sorry, I must seem like a real idiot to you,” Joanne exclaims, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “I mean, I’m forty-one years old and I’m acting younger than most of the girls I’m sure you date …”

“I don’t date girls,” he corrects. “I date women.”

“What does that mean?”

He laughs. “It means that I think most women don’t get really interesting until they reach thirty.”

Joanne stares into her lap. “And men? When do they get interesting?”

“You’ll have to tell me.”

Joanne’s head moves restlessly from side to side. “I hope you like chicken,” she says when she can think of nothing else to say.

“I love chicken.”

“I’m a good cook.”

“So you told me.”

Her head returns to her lap. “This was a mistake,” she says finally. “I should never have asked you here.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Yes. “No … yes!” No.

“Which is it?”

“No,” Joanne whispers after a pause, realizing it is true. “I want you to stay.” She tries to laugh. “I spent all day cooking.”

“All day?”

“Well, almost all day. I took a few hours off this afternoon to visit my grandfather.” Steve Henry looks interested. “He’s ninety-five,” she continues, not sure why except that it feels
good to take the focus off herself. “He lives in a nursing home. Baycrest Nursing Home over on …”

“I know where it is.”

“You do?”

He nods and takes a sip of his drink.

“I visit him every Saturday afternoon,” Joanne continues, reassured by the sound of her own voice. “Most of the time he doesn’t know who I am. He thinks I’m my mother … she’s dead … she died three years ago … so did my father … anyway, I visit my grandfather every Saturday afternoon. I tell him everything that’s been happening, try to keep him up on things. Everybody thinks that must be very hard on me but the fact is that I enjoy it. He’s kind of like a father confessor, I guess. I tell him everything; it makes me feel better.” Why is she going on about this? What does Steve Henry care about her relationship with her grandfather? “Are your grandparents still alive?” she asks.

“Both sets,” he smiles.

“You’re lucky.”

“Yes, I am. We’re a very close family.”

“You’ve never been married?” Why is she asking that? Why is she bringing the conversation back into this room?

He shakes his head. “Came close once, but it didn’t work out. We were too young.” He finishes his drink. “How old were you when you got married?”

“Twenty-one,” she says. “I guess that was pretty young, but it just seemed right.” Her voice lapses into silence. “I think maybe I will have a drink,” she says suddenly.

“What’ll it be?” He is already on his feet.

“Is there any Dubonnet?” She feels instantly foolish. The man has never been in her house before tonight, and she is asking him what liquor she keeps.

He disappears into the dining room. She can hear bottles being moved about, soon the sound of liquid being poured into a glass, followed by footsteps, and the sound of water running in the kitchen. She watches as Steve Henry returns several minutes later with a freshly filled glass in each hand, handing her one. “Are these your daughters?” he asks, pointing to a framed photograph of Robin and Lulu on the mantel over the fireplace. The picture is two years old; the girls have their arms entwined around each other’s waists and are mugging broadly for the camera.

“Yes,” Joanne tells him. “The one on the left is Robin, she’s fifteen now, almost sixteen … she’ll be sixteen in September, and the other one is Lulu … Lana, actually, her real name is Lana, but we’ve always called her Lulu. She’s eleven.”

“They look very sweet.”

Joanne laughs. “Well, I’m not sure sweet is a word I would use to describe them.” She shakes her head, recalling some of the events of the last few months. “There are some days when they’re wonderful, when I wouldn’t trade them for all the money in the world. Then there are other days, I’d sell them both for a wooden nickel. They’re at camp for the summer,” she continues. “I got a letter from Lulu the other day … she seems to be having a great time. Robin, I’m afraid, isn’t much of a letter writer …” She stops abruptly. “Why am I telling you this? You can’t be very interested.”

“Why can’t I be?”

“Why should you be?”

“Because things that interest you, interest me.”

“Why?”

“Because
you
interest me.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Joanne lifts her glass to her mouth and takes a long swallow, trying to organize her thoughts into something vaguely coherent. “For one thing, I’m twelve years older than you are. I know that you think that women don’t get interesting until they hit thirty,” she continues quickly, “but the fact remains that I was a teenager while you were still in diapers.”

He laughs. “I’m out of diapers now.”

“What do you want from me?” she asks.

“Dinner?” he ventures shyly, watching with a smile as Joanne downs the remaining contents of her glass.

“That’s the best lemon meringue pie I’ve ever tasted,” he is telling her as he finishes his second piece and pushes his plate into the center of the long, rectangular, oak table. “I’d ask for a third, but I’m afraid I might never walk again, let alone live to dazzle on the courts.”

Joanne smiles, grateful that the dinner is over and that it has been a success. Steve Henry is sitting at her right elbow, having moved his placemat from the far end of the table to the place beside hers. He has said all the right things, made none of the wrong moves. He has complimented her on the decor, the food, and even the coffee. They have discussed tennis, her toes, and the state of world politics. He has been pleasant and attentive and generally nice to be around. Why then does she so desperately wish that he would leave?

“How about a liqueur?” he asks, pushing his chair back and moving swiftly to the liquor cabinet, fully at ease now and obviously not in any hurry to rush out.

“No thanks.” She shakes her head for emphasis.

“Drambuie, Benedictine, Grand Marnier,” he reads, reciting the various labels. “I think I’ll have a little Tia Maria. You’re sure I can’t persuade you to join me?”

Joanne hesitates. She has always found the taste of liqueur too sweet. “Maybe just a bit of Benedictine …” she ventures. Benedictine has always been Paul’s choice.

“A bit of Benedictine it is.”

In the next minute, they are toasting each other with delicate glasses of amber liquid. “To tonight,” he says.

Joanne nods without speaking and takes a tiny sip from her glass. The thick syrup warms her insides immediately, tasting sweet and curiously pungent at the same time. “It’s good,” she has to admit, savoring its conflicting nature.

“Tell me about your husband,” Steve Henry says, surprising her. She feels the small glass almost tumble out of her hand, catching it by its rim just before it slips through her fingers. Has he noticed?