Part 15 (1/2)

”Invite me in.” A meaningful medley of warnings swims around Lena's head: blood tests, condoms, HIV screenings, complications from one-night stands for baby boomers unaccustomed to playing the field after such long timeouts. Harmon holds her; his lips soft against her own seem to fit her mouth. He leans against the doorjamb, holding her hand, and Lena feels like a teenager at the door of her parents' home.

”Why should I?” This is not revenge, she thinks, although it is definitely l.u.s.t. Her chance to prove him wrong. She wants s.e.x, and she'll have it. Maybe Harmon, maybe not. She is probably overthinking s.e.x-like Bobbie knew she was overthinking Tina.

”We're adults. Adults way over fifty.” Harmon slides his forefinger down the length of Lena's cheek. ”No need to play games. I want to be with you. I want you to know how sorry I am.”

”You've apologized.” Lena smirks, thinking back to that long-ago conversation with Jessie. ”Why would I want to be with someone who was less than satisfied with my bedroom performance?” Gotcha.

Harmon chuckles. ”Like you say, that was a long time ago. I could offer a couple of bulls.h.i.+t reasons to explain my idiocy. Hopefully, I'm smarter than that now.” He pulls Lena into his arms and kisses her again. Long. Slow. Hungry. Hard.

Lena slips the magnetic card into the lock; the machinery whirs and the door springs open as Harmon turns to leave. Inside, the lights are on, the room is empty, and Cheryl is nowhere to be found. Why, she wonders, should she deny herself? What difference does it make what Harmon thought twenty-six years ago? She's not the same person she was six months, let alone twenty-six years, ago. Old habits die hard. Break those habits, is what Tina would say. Take the next step to the new Lena.

”We're both too old for games this time around, Harmon.” She reaches for his hand and guides him into the room, presses her body, her lips, against his. He tastes like wine: blackberries and currants. She is in control, and his body shows her he likes it.

Slow. Slow. She wants to go slow. To relish what she hasn't felt for almost eight months. Harmon's body, uncannily familiar in this foreign place, molds into hers. He smells like a waning winter fire, like expensive cologne she knows but can't remember the name of. Not like Randall: pepper and cinnamon. Lena shrinks away from Harmon and moves to the other side of the room. Will she remember how to make love, to screw, to get it on? ”I can't.”

When he reaches her, leaning against the curtains as if they were the only things holding her up, Harmon presses his fingers to her lips. ”You're safe with me.” With the rhythm of an easy two-step, they move past the bathroom and the desk and the mess she wishes wasn't there. To the bed. They touch: she his rounded belly, he her rounded hips.

Lena bends beside the lamp and reaches for the switch. Let the darkness hide her imperfections: the scar of her caesarian, the mound of her stomach, her dimpled thighs. Harmon pulls her hand away from the light.

”What do you fear right now?” He makes the moment stop; his way of going slow. Talking. He strokes her neck, glides his tongue across her shoulder, unzips her dress, the metal of the zipper so close to her skin she s.h.i.+vers as Harmon inches it down her back. Her dress slips to the floor with a faint swish.

”My body... I'm not twenty-nine anymore.”

Harmon takes off his jacket, unb.u.t.tons his s.h.i.+rt, and lets his pants drop to the floor. Stepping out of his pants and shoes, he removes the rest of his clothes and tosses them on the other bed. ”And neither am I.” He stands, naked, in front of Lena and takes her hand. Like a brush skimming an artist's canvas, he moves her hand to his shoulder. ”This is where they cut me when I had surgery on my shoulder.” He presses her hand against the thick scar and lowers it to a rough, keloid line of skin near his waist. ”And this is from having my appendix removed.” His voice is deep and thoughtful. ”They thought I might die, I was in so much pain before they took it out.”

The memory of s.e.x with Harmon floods back. He likes to mix up the senses of touch and hearing, of taste and sight. The effect of concentrating on mind and body makes the room seem to spin around them. Randall's hands talked all over her body. Randall's hands talked all over her body. Harmon unhooks her bra, slides her panties down down down, drops to his knees, and nibbles at the scar that crosses her stomach. ”Tell me.” Harmon unhooks her bra, slides her panties down down down, drops to his knees, and nibbles at the scar that crosses her stomach. ”Tell me.”

”I was in labor sixteen hours before they cut me.” Twenty-three years with one man. They grew accustomed to one another; predictable. ”Take your time.”

Harmon kisses the mole below her collarbone, cups her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his hands, kneads them, blows his warm breath across her nipples, presses his lips to them. Lena's body goes limp, then arches, relis.h.i.+ng in this touch, in the here and now.

They go on like this and more. Licking, sucking, swaying in rhythm to the music in her head. He hears the same song; he moves with her. Onto the bed, beneath the sheets, grinding like there is no tomorrow. They are awkward and familiar at the same time.

”Feel it, Lena.” He pushes while her body throbs. ”Feel how sorry I am.”

This is not making love; she does not love him.

Pepper and cinnamon. The thin scar at the base of Randall's throat. Unexpected sadness and joy.

Slow then fast. Fast then slow. ”Say you forgive me.”

Randall's fingers played her back like a piano. Lena s.h.i.+vers. Old images creep between the sheets and, as hard as she tries, the vision of Randall, of that curve between his shoulder and neck, the knot of his Adam's apple, will not disappear. Will not disappear while her body follows Harmon's moves so strong and sweet. Lena s.h.i.+vers. Old images creep between the sheets and, as hard as she tries, the vision of Randall, of that curve between his shoulder and neck, the knot of his Adam's apple, will not disappear. Will not disappear while her body follows Harmon's moves so strong and sweet.

Until death do us part; loving his body, his mind, forever. Never, never again was she to be with, to feel this good with, another man. Never, never again was she to be with, to feel this good with, another man.

His caresses move from her throat to thigh. Tingling, a moan stirring between her thighs, pulling, moving up her stomach, over her breast, and catching in her throat. It consumes her, that heat, and she holds her breath, releases, breathes into his stroke until she cannot remember where she is. ”It doesn't matter. Doesn't matter anymore.”

Lena squints at the clock beside her bed and tiptoes into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, she splashes cold water on her puffy face and prays that Harmon took her tears for joy. She turns the shower on, steps into the oversized tub, and lets the hot water beat against her skin.

”Can I join you?” Harmon asks from the other side of the bathroom.

”Isn't it time you went back to your room?” She grins and summons him with her fingers. In the old days they smoked after s.e.x like in the movies, and she wonders where those dark cigarettes are. Harmon presses against her back. She wants him to leave, wants him to stay. Wants to do it one more time.

His body says he wants her, too, and she wants to say, not so bad after all; but this touch, this rubbing against her, this heat is all she wants. Harmon's hands glide over her body. He turns Lena around to face him. ”Seeing ghosts?”

”Now it's my turn to be sorry,” she whispers. Slowly, deliberately, she nuzzles with lips, with hand, his swollen organ, the curve of his arm, the scar at his waist, the rise of his chest. Lena nibbles his shoulder, strokes him until he moans and moans. He is a hungry man-her body his buffet: her face, her navel, the crisscross scar on her knee. He sucks at her impatiently while the water beats against his back, enters her sweet wetness, pushes pushes pushes until she believes she cannot breathe; and yet she does.

Chapter 27.

So, did you sleep with him?” Cheryl lets the sugar from the shaker rain into her coffee. ”I waited a polite amount of time before I asked. Aren't you proud of me?”

The air is filled with the aromas of everyday life: bread and yeast, croissants, thyme, rosemary, lavender, rose potpourri, orange blossom tea. The cafe at the old Negresco Hotel is a comfortable meeting spot after their full morning of aimless rambling, watching the tourists and the huge yachts make their way across the sea. Lena grumbles and sips one of the two cafe cremes sitting in front of her and dips a flaky croissant into the other.

”Oh, you did! You did!” Cheryl's shrill excitement attracts the stares of the people around her. She lowers her voice. ”If you didn't, you would have denied it by now. Hooray! Tell me everything.”

Lena flips through Paris Match, Paris Match, eyes fastened to the page, even though she doesn't understand one word in the famous French magazine. ”Nope. You tell me about Bruce.” eyes fastened to the page, even though she doesn't understand one word in the famous French magazine. ”Nope. You tell me about Bruce.”

”You are sooo chickens.h.i.+t.” Cheryl yanks the magazine away from her girlfriend's hand and grins. ”Well, if you won't talk, I will.”

Bruce and Cheryl stayed out all night; it hadn't been their intention, but that's the way it ended up. The restaurant hostess told them, on their way out, about a disco for the over-forty, sophisticated crowd. They found their way to the club, danced until one to old Motown music, then left when the deejay changed to techno. Feeling full of energy, they went to Monte Carlo and gambled all night long, with Bruce's money. Cheryl kept her winnings.

”I won a thousand euros at the roulette table. And to top it off, we didn't even sleep together. We found a cafe and ate a big American-style breakfast. We talked. Can you believe that?” Cheryl slaps Lena's arm. ”So... did you or didn't you?”

”I wonder if they have cheese?” Lena turns to the side, the side opposite Cheryl's eager face, and scours the chalkboard sign above the bar. ”Fromage. That's it, right?”

”What are you hiding it for, Lena? You're a grown woman. It's not like you're having an affair. You might as well tell me now. I'll be able to tell when you two are together, anyway.”

”You'll just have to wait till then.” Lena yawns. ”Lighten up.”

Bruce and Harmon look like Mutt and Jeff together. Instead of short and tall, they are tall and taller. As the two men approach the cafe, women on the street turn, their smiles flirtatious and appreciative at the same time. Both men acknowledge the women and keep their eyes on Cheryl and Lena.

”Yep, you did,” Cheryl teases. ”He stared last night. Today he looks satisfied.”

Bruce runs his hand over the top of her head. Cheryl cuddles into him. Lena has never seen any man dare to touch Cheryl's hair, nor has she ever seen her friend's blush appear because of a man's attention. Bruce is different from the kind of man Cheryl dates, perhaps because he is closer to her own age, perhaps because his stomach extends beyond his waistband by more than a little and there is a lot of gray in his thinning hair. Lena thought Cheryl preferred struggling artistic types-she asked for Imara-bartender-artist's number after Marcia's party. The heavy bracelet dangling from Bruce's left wrist, the gold Cartier digging into his right wrist, his alligator sandals-all suggest money. There is tenderness in his eyes when he looks at Cheryl, and his look evokes the same in hers.

”So what's the plan?” Bruce asks.

Fourteen days to the concert; days of moderate heat, cloudless skies, and soft breezes. Four have come and gone since Lena and Cheryl arrived in Nice, and Lena hasn't researched Villefranche or figured out how she can get backstage to meet Tina without seeming like a crazed fan.

”Lena's looking for Tina Turner. I'm just along for the ride,” Cheryl t.i.tters. ”She's her role model.”