Diary of a Heretic

Come Midnight

“Connie likes staying at your house better than ours,” Brooke said. She and Matthew were sitting in the meadow, where the fragrance of yellow lupines intoxicated them.

Having found all of fifteen minutes to steal Brooke away, Matthew held her bare feet—his approach, he remembered, that first afternoon when he had foolishly imagined that flirting with her could be amusing.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

“So,” she swung her legs away and crossed her knees, “why don’t you ask her to sleep upstairs with the kids?” Brooke’s fingers traced his shoulders and arms. “Since you’re rising before dawn for Taekwondo and not getting to sleep till late after play rehearsal.”

“I’d feel guilty asking her to sleep here the few weeks I’m home. She’s already agreed to take care of everything when I leave.” Dexter was right; if Matthew wasn’t careful he would get lost looking into her eyes.

Grinning, Brooke said, “Even if, whenever you slept in your office, this easily resisted, nice provincial kid who’s your most avid fan, rode her bike over? After she made sure the land and sky was empty, no vehicles on the road, no helicopters in the air?”

Matthew slid sideways in the tall grass and laid his head in Brooke’s lap, his second supposedly beguiling move that first afternoon. But this time, he momentarily covered his face. “You’d do that for me, Brooke? Risk everything?”

“What am I risking?

You’re the one—Mr. Felonious until Halloween.”

He smiled, reaching up for her. “Would anyone really care?” Brooke’s dark hair hung down and he stroked it. “Seems like the worst that could happen is I’d lose James Bond, which might not be terrible. The industry would hate me so much I might have to live here year round.”

“If my father thought he could get money out of you, he might press charges. Or—no telling with him—he might act moralistic instead of legalistic. He’s a devout Catholic drunk.”

“What worries me, Brooke, are your friends in school. And, ahem, your mother.”

“I get straight A’s. People have gossiped about me since I was six. And Connie? She could find us naked on the floor and come up with an innocent explanation. I’m not kidding. She’s perfect for Ivy and Dexter now. But when they’re teenagers? Put me or Tara in charge.”

“You’re both already in charge.” Unable to refrain another second, Matthew lifted his head and kissed her, unaware of everything except, shit, he was wild for this girl. He felt her taut, energetic body and angelically soft skin and only when his legs started pushing between hers did he stop.

Yesterday after they made love—it already seemed like months ago—Matthew had presented her with a rule: no quickies. Yes, he knew she could satisfy him in minutes. And yes, apparently, she didn’t need any more time than he did. “But fast sex gets impersonal,” he said .

Last summer, or no, weeks ago, he might have added, “Do that with people you don’t love.” Now, however, he loved only Brooke and needed to lure her into feeling the same about him.

How had this happened? And within mere weeks? If he had seen it coming, he would have passed on James Bond. He would have passed on anything. It’s not like he needed the money to make rent.

Brooke alone presented reason enough to quit acting. But she had given him even more reason by teaching him to love being with his children—love them as the wonderful kids they were and not just his offspring.

Her care and affection toward Dexter, who needed a mother more than any grown man had ever needed a mate, had awakened Matthew’s heart. The idea of watching Ivy and Dexter grow up brought him such joy and hope he could cry. It seemed absurd to him but it was true: Matthew would give up his life for Brooke.

She rolled away and he reached for her but then she was climbing onto his waist and leaning forward, her hands pressing into the ground near his ears. “Leave the back door unlocked when you get back from rehearsal. And I’ll talk to my mother about it when I rent the carriage house to your stunt coaches. Just be sure to act like you knew Connie was coming.”

Matthew lifted Brooke away—it was too much. He stood and they walked toward the house, his arm curled around her head. “How am I gonna leave in six weeks? Can’t you take a year off and come with me?”

“Six more weeks of summer, Matthew. Six weeks is forever.”

He wished. He wished he were sixteen and summer was endless and he and Brooke could make love until they needed an afternoon apart.

(to be continued)

Stage of Life

Angry and confused, seven-year-old Dexter had run from the dinner table before the meal began and raced away on his bicycle. Responsible for upsetting him, Brooke had excused herself and caught up with him before the turn off. They rode into town where she bought him ice cream and explained crushes to him, which he understood better than Tara. Dexter had liked a girl “all through kindergarten so bad it hurt.”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Brooke used a tiny plastic spoon to sample his ice cream and they agreed that peach was the best. Her description of grown-up crushes delighted Dexter. Now he had inside information on adult mysteries. Brooke told him enough so that, combined with his personal experience, he sympathized like a true confidante.

“Did you notice I was tapping your dad’s feet under the table?”

“You were?” he giggled and nodded. “Okay, I get it.” He licked ice cream off the tiny plastic spoon. “If you wanna go on walks and chase Dad around, I’ll teach Tara how to play catch.”

“We’ll see,” Brooke said. “Your dad’s movie coaches arrive tomorrow and he’s going to be busy every minute. Except he told me: breakfast, lunch, and dinner with you and Ivy until he has to leave.”

Dexter grinned, but then frowned. “Did you talk to them about me and Ivy staying here for school?”

“Not yet. But I will. Don’t worry.”

Dexter threw away his empty cup, saying, “We better get back.”

Just before Connie left for her meditation group, Brooke took her mother aside. It didn’t surprise her to see Connie’s mouth and eyes pop open. She would love staying at the farmhouse and taking care of the kids while Matthew traveled the world playing James Bond. Of course, Brooke had known that better than anyone.

“So sit down with him,” she said. “Work out the details.”

After Connie left for her meditation group and Matthew was playing with his kids, Brooke and Tara drank iced tea on the deck. Looking at her sister sitting beside her, Brooke recalled how she had been dying to confide in Tara about the rushing-up inside her when Matthew made love to her and how it made speeding on her bicycle seem like standing still. But Tara didn’t even get the thrill of racing downhill. And now the urge to tell her sister had passed. So much had happened this evening that Brooke imagined she had been pining for Matthew for days instead of hours.

At eight-thirty, Matthew asked Tara if she would get the kids ready for bed—soap, wash cloths, teeth brushing and pajamas. Usually Tara just loaded the dishwasher and watched movies, so she couldn’t complain. She got paid the same as Brooke basically just to keep an eye on things.

So before Brooke read to the children and Matthew left for Fletcher’s, he led her into his room next to Dexter’s and closed the door. She stood peering into the middle distance while waves rose inside her with the tide that was relentlessly pulling her into him. Behind her, Matthew caressed her head and his desire caused the room to spin. They had twenty minutes at most and could hear Ivy whining in the bathroom.

Lifting Brooke’s hair, which was growing long while she, he swore, had grown slightly taller, Matthew fastened the necklace that fell between her breasts against a little, black t-shirt. His breath ran down her spine until Brooke’s entire body was demanding abandon. But Matthew didn’t dare kiss her because if he did, he’d never stop.

Instead, he embraced her from behind and lifted her bare arms. He gently stroked the undersides where her skin was fabulously soft—and not unknown to him—fabulously sensitive. They struggled to remain alert and standing. He held her tightly, still from behind, and whispered that suddenly their different ages mattered terribly. If he was nineteen, they could spend all their time together. Instead he was thirty-two with young children and a disruptive, lucrative, fantasy career. They had only the briefest slices of time.

Once the kids fell asleep, Brooke and Tara waited for Matthew to return from the play director’s.

“Don’t get into Fletcher tonight,” Brooke said. “Please? There’s—”

Tara interrupted with a spot-on Mark Fletcher imitation: “There’s nothing to be done,” and giggled.

Matthew arrived home sooner than he had expected but exactly when Brooke and Tara assumed he’d get there. The girls were watching the movie “All Mixed Up,” which involved two look-alike dogs and the couples who owned them, each better suited to the other’s mate.

Matthew asked to turn it off. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Wait a minute,” Tara said. “Weren’t you up for best actor in that?”

Matthew winced. “By default. Nobody did anything that year.”

“But people loved it.”

“Oh yeah. Big money.”

Brooke, the magic vanishing girl, was gone.

On the deck under moonlight, Matthew kissed Tara’s forehead good-night. As he stepped inside the bright doorway, Tara looked back and saw his penetrating blue eyes shining so darkly they looked black with resignation.

Pedaling hard to catch up with Brooke, she asked, “Fighting already?”

“No, but a dry little kiss would kill me, and he knows it.”

(click here to read the next episode)

Peter's Secret Place

I knew not to ask, “What’s that, Peter?” when he brought in the first wooden board. We weren’t that casual. Our conversations concerned the world and its needs, global hardship, destruction, and greed. And then, too, history and genius and fundamental, universal truth—nothing personal.

To an astonishing degree, Peter found navel-gazing repellent. “I, me, mine,” he said. “What’s wrong with people?”

When we met, I attempted to argue: People need to talk about their likes and dislikes; it’s how we relate.

But he said, no, it only leads people to demand that everyone believe what they believe. Well, all right; I went along. After all, Peter was the most intelligent, handsome man I’d ever met.

Averse to anyone worming around for validation, Peter naturally disliked revealing his inner life to me or anyone else. Initially, his secretive nature thrilled me—such depth and intrigue.

When we married, we made “non-intervention” our first vow. We would respect each other’s differences just as we respected other cultures’.

Our apartment has one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and tinier bathroom but high ceilings and thick brick walls. Behind the bedroom is a long, narrow, high area, set up as a closet, one half his, one mine.

Once, when he scolded me for examining his toy soldier collection, I said, “No worries, darling, if you need to be furtive.”  It was, I thought, just another guy thing.

But he said, “I’m never furtive, Angela.”

Of course, Peter wasn’t really furtive but should he ever wish for a furtive moment, I understood. I understood, too, not to question his privacy.

The stockpile of wood and carpenter nails accruing in his closet’s shadows meant nothing. I imagined it was like a musty, secret shrine. Or something.

As his project developed, however, I worried. Turned out, it was a boy’s fort, secured to the closet ceiling. I surmised but never saw that he shimmied up a rope and pushed open the fort’s trap door.

Our confines were such that I registered without actually watching him horde bottled water, batteries, flares, flotation devices. He acquired a Boy Scout uniform and soon spent—it seemed—his life inside his fort. His troops traded intelligence in muffled voices.

And then, several times he refused to decamp for dinner. This battalion or that, I gathered, had been bombed to smithereens. Well, please. This isn’t how I’d envisioned married life.

Yet since I was married, I tried to remain loyal. 

Soon he wouldn’t come to bed due to military conflicts. He continued going to work, though. Until the holidays, when insurrections proliferated.

I’ve been staying at my brother’s and avoiding the landlord’s summons. I can’t run forever, obviously. My coworkers won’t cover for me another minute.

To be honest, I’m afraid here, ready with my door key, the hallway thick with silence and desolation.

One Act Nightmare

“Mark Fletcher’s not totally insane,” Brooke warned Matthew. “He’ll know who you are.”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Opening the door was a man in his fifties wearing a tailored jacket and a yellow bow tie. He brandished a cigarette holder in one hand and a champagne glass in the other. “Hail to your Lordship!” he said as Matthew emerged from Connie’s Prius.

Inside, Fletcher finished his drink and began concocting a fresh one. “Pardon me, 007. Name your poison.”

“Anything except alcohol.”

“One of those A.A. crybabies, are you? Life must be miserable; cash in on your memoir.”

“Never liked sarcasm,” Matthew said.

Fletcher found a liter of cold Perrier and filled a tumbler. “In this house, you don’t have a choice. It’s bitters, not citrus.” He rested his cigarette holder on the sink’s edge and mixed gin with vodka and Lillet Blanc in a cocktail shaker.

“What infuriates me is that nobody understands elegance anymore. People used to remark upon the extraordinary extent to which I possess Fleming’s flair. I’m glad to see you do too.”

Matthew became aware of the clothes he had grabbed leaving his idyll with Brooke. The white jeans and dark blue polo shirt were the ones he had worn during the screening in Soho. He’d also gotten a haircut there—short and crisp, no curls.

“Careful not to mimic every pretty little outfit.”

“Watch it,” Matthew said. The cigarette and holder fell.

“I’ll see to that later.” Fletcher found another holder in his side pocket, a cigarette case in his breast pocket, and asked Matthew for a light, which of course he didn’t have. “Insipid non-smoking celebrity brat. Nothing to be done, I suppose.”

“Fletcher, don’t insult me again.”

“Insult you? So sensitive. James Bond needs thicker skin.” Fletcher sipped his drink and led the way into a pale, velvety room facing the valley.

“Sit, nit-wit. Now, if you would be so kind, tell me a secret about the upcoming movie.”

“The script is new,” Matthew said. “Not Ian Fleming, which can’t be helped.”

“Nothing to be done.” Cigarette smoke engulfed Fletcher’s sallow face.

“You may like this, however,” Matthew said. “The director’s name is Ian Smiley.”

“You dare say. And yet, how beastly of you to lie to an old man; you must feel rotten.”

“Not entirely.” Matthew sat opposite the nighttime windows and caught glints from a stream.

“What’s the play we’re doing this summer?” Fletcher asked, tapping cigarette ash into a cloisonné bowl.

“Wind, Rain, Lightning, Thunder.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” Fletcher winked at Matthew.

“You must have.” He winked back.

“Is it true you’ve never been in a play?”

“First time for everything,” Matthew said

“So do you know Durang’s The Actor’s Nightmare? A fellow winds up on stage, completely unprepared—never acted in his life. It seems to be one of Noel Coward’s but he’s dressed for Hamlet and—”

“My high school performed it twice.”

“However, you were not in it. Righty-o?”

“Righty-o. I played baseball and basketball. Perhaps I should go.”

“You are tall,” Fletcher said, sipping his drink, shaking his head. “Not as cold as I like. Do you mind going back to the bar?”

Matthew walked toward the front door, but Fletcher said again, “You weren’t in it. That’s what’s so splendid.”

After pouring the drink, tasting it, and pouring it back into the icy shaker, he confessed, “I have a perfectly enchanting idea here. Instead of doing Durang’s actual play, you extemporize. No rehearsals, no prompters. You’re forced on stage and go from there.”

“You must be joking.”

“You might, if you consider it absolutely necessary, skim a few scripts the week before the performance. Hamlet, Private Lives, a little Sam Shepard. Or Samuel Beckett.”

“The committee meets tomorrow evening,” Matthew said. “Bring up your enchanting idea then.”

“That bunch of imbeciles? Brass tacks—were you raised Catholic? 2000 years of horribly funny material.” Fletcher filled his glass and drank. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

The front door beckoned. Turning the knob, Matthew said, “Oh my God, I’ve got to get out of here.”

“That’s the spirit!” Fletcher called after him. “‘Don’t quibble, Sibyl!’”

Out the door, into the Prius, he noticed Fletcher’s car parked on the steep incline: a vintage Aston Marton convertible begging for a few dings. And Matthew, who had never deliberately damaged anything before, was delighted to oblige.

(Click here for the next episode)

What It's Worth

Matthew and Tara remained at the dining table, watching Brooke pedal till she caught up with Dexter before they turned onto route 212. Apparently Connie was bathing Ivy after the child spilled milk down her clothes.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

“Wanna watch ‘Children’s Minds,’ with me?” Tara asked. “Season three’s on channel twelve and season two is on four.”

“Thanks, anyway.” Matthew continued staring out the window.

Tara called, “They’re previewing the episode where the boy dreams future catastrophes.”

“That’s okay.” Matthew had been twenty-five during season three, playing a thirty-five-year old psychiatrist. At twenty-five, he still felt that whatever he wrecked, he could go back and fix; and whatever he lost, he could recapture. Between thirty and thirty-two he learned what he should have always known: you can never go back.

By seven pm, he wondered if the family was going to eat dinner at all. His temples throbbed. At nine he had a meeting with Mark Fletcher, the play director, at his octagonal house halfway up the mountain. A line of pain burrowed behind his right eye. He was in love with Brooke, but if she kept acting like Dexter’s sister, he would need to seal off that endless well of love and desire. He must have groaned, because lovely, reassuring Tara was beside him at the table, patting his shoulder. “Baseball preempted your show.”

He started to speak and stopped. Just as anything approaching incest—even the unofficial kind—was out of the question so was mentioning it to anyone, let alone Tara.

“Do you have a present for Brooke?” she asked.

“I’m afraid she won’t like it, because it’s a necklace and I know you girls have been making and selling your mother’s jewelry for years. Except this was like your tea set, Tara. Seeing it brought Brooke to mind.”

“But isn’t Brooke always in mind—in your mind? And by the way, Dexter’s wrong; you don’t stare at her.”

“Thank goodness for that. Now if I run next door and get the necklace can you tell me if you think she’ll like it?”

“If you show it to me first, Matthew, she’ll hate it.”

“You’re sure she’ll know?”

“Yeah, absolutely. But go get the necklace. She’ll like it because it’s from you. Ever think of that?”

Matthew stood up and Tara tilted her head. Connie and Ivy were coming downstairs, singing a nursery rhyme. He raced over to his office.

When he returned, Dexter was sitting beside Tara who had switched places with Brooke, eliminating any confusion about staring. Thus, Brooke bestowed upon Matthew a pure, sweet smile as he sat in the chair next to her.

Dexter said, “Dad, did you know Brooke has a crush on you?”

Brooke laughed but waved her finger. “Hey, you said you could keep a secret.”

“Oops.”

“Everyone has a crush on you,” Connie said, a blotchy flush spreading across her face and neck.

“I don’t,” Dexter said. “I’ve never had a crush on you, Dad.”

Ivy asked Brooke if she was reading them two chapters before bed. “Like Dexter said.”

“I promised.”

Matthew’s headache subsided while they ate. Obviously, Brooke was nothing like a sister to Dexter and Ivy. She was more like a mother. Why hadn’t that occurred to him? Above all, she was his one true lover, having tapped into an unfathomable depth of feeling he had never imagined.

After he left for Mark Fletcher’s and Connie had left for her meditation group, and after Dexter and Ivy were finally fast asleep, Tara pulled her sister into the bright kitchen.

“Show me, Brooke.”

“What? Oh.” She lifted a white gold chain that reached between her breasts and pulled the pendant up from her t-shirt. The smoky quartz was a translucent teardrop; its red and brown tones wavering like the first glow signaling twilight.

Tara shrieked, “I know that stone from the catalog! A hundred flawless carats, Brooke. It cost five thousand, five hundred dollars, plus the extra long chain, plus tax.”

“You really nailed down the dollars and cents.”

“Why not? It’s only sensible to figure out what things are worth. Did you look at my tea set? I’m scared to bring it home. Unless the store marked it up, it cost eight hundred dollars. Plus tax.”

“Did you price the baseball mitts? Or Mom’s sweater?”

“Of course not.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Tightrope

Matthew stepped inside and the late summer light slanting from above threw him off balance. He heard Brooke and Dexter before seeing them. If he’d seen Brooke crouching by the stairs, tying Dexter’s shoe, he would have asked what the hell was going on—why wasn’t Dexter tying his own shoe?

Instead, their voices hit him first. “Dad said, ‘I’m sorry,’ a zillion times and it took all day.”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

“Of course not,” Brooke said. “But I’m stubborn, especially if people are keeping secrets.”

“Yeah, me too. So what was your present?”

“Sunglasses. You saw them.”

“We all got sunglasses, Brooke, and another present. Like my baseball mitt. Tara got a giant breakable tea set.”

“Maybe my present’s intangible.”

“What?”

“Intangible means anything you can’t touch. Like an idea or a plan. Maybe your dad’s planning to take me hiking.”

“Hiking’s not a present. No wonder he had to apologize all day.”

Rather than send Dexter off so Matthew could whisper in Brooke’s ear that her present was still in his travel kit, he turned away before she looked up. He stepped back onto the deck stunned by an unexpected emotion. He hadn’t felt so afraid since he was a child, before his father left. Matthew and his sister were relieved when their father took off, promising never to return. And their mother had remarried a year later.

Sinking into a deck chair, Matthew shuddered. Maybe his sister hadn’t been tying his shoe for him when he was old enough to do it himself, but that’s how Matthew recalled one incident. His father had knocked him backwards for acting like a baby. Vicky jumped out of the way. And their father had slammed Matthew’s head on the slate floor—several times, on several occasions.

When the drunk finally left for good, Matthew discovered that whatever came his way was nothing compared to what he’d already been through. He had acquired an easy, all-purpose nonchalance, whether enjoying fantastic luck like starring in a TV show or facing an awful situation like Sasha’s increasing desperation, addiction, and psychosis. You helped where possible and moved on when necessary.

Except after witnessing the exchange between Dexter and Brooke, gravity rushed up and any second Matthew could plummet into nothingness. It wasn’t his life now—it was his kids’ that were at stake. Their lives were always at stake; he just hadn’t paid attention before. Within three weeks, Dexter and Ivy had become part of Brooke and Tara and Connie’s family. Most families were miserable, but not this one. Dexter and Ivy belonged to the Logan women. There was no going back.

Tara had been sitting several feet away, busy with her laptop. Matthew noticed her a moment after she noticed him. Or maybe the recognition was simultaneous, but Tara spoke first.

“What’s wrong? Did Brooke tell you our mother’s going out so you need to sleep upstairs tonight?”

“No, but that’s fine, Tara.”

“What isn’t fine?”

“I’ve suddenly realized how helpless I am. Thanks to you and your family, Dexter and Ivy have love and cooperation that goes so far beyond child care, you can’t buy it. It’s incommensurate with money. But it’s what my children need. And to top it off, I’ve made a deal where I’ll rarely see them for years and years.”

Tara lowered her sunglasses and briefly touched her mouth. “Talk to my mother tomorrow. We love Ivy and Dexter; that’s not gonna change.” She closed her laptop. “Leave ’em here and Connie will take care of them.”

Then Tara pulled Matthew from the deck chair. “Come on, dinner.”

They gathered outside the sunroom while Ivy kneeled on each chair and filled everyone’s water glass from a plastic pitcher. “Perfect,” Connie said, when the little girl finished. “You didn’t spill once.”

Matthew looked at Brooke the same as he looked at the others. But she kept trying to catch his eye and when he glanced at her, she smiled and dropped her chin. He diffused his gaze, but she’d catch him off guard and tap his feet under the table.

Connie was passing a platter of grilled chicken when Dexter wiggled his fingers under Ivy’s nose and she spilled her milk. It spread over the table and seeped down into the carpet. Tara brought towels and Connie followed Ivy, who ran screaming upstairs.

“We’ll wait for them,” Brooke said to Dexter. “But go ahead and pass the salad.”

Matthew slid homegrown green beans onto his plate. “You teased her, Dexter. That was mean.”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

Matthew nodded all right, but Dexter said, “You’re the one that’s mean. It’s rude to stare, Dad.”

“So I’ve heard.” Matthew winked at his son.

“You stare at Brooke and you keep staring at her.” Dexter’s voice was belligerent. “You never stop staring at her.”

“It might look like that, Dexter, but I’m not staring. If you think I’m rude, I apologize. If anyone thinks I’m staring, I apologize.”

“So what? That doesn’t help.”

“Now you’re the one being rude,” Matthew said.

 Dexter ran outside.

Matthew, Tara, and Brooke turned in their seats and watched the boy yank his bike from the rack, buckle his helmet, and ride away. “He’s mad because we didn’t go bike riding,” Brooke said. Matthew caught his breath, seeing her face turn genuinely bashful. “I better go after him.”

(Click here for the next episode)

Not Tonight

Tara and Brooke hurried past the kitchen, into the first-floor bedroom where Connie stayed. She had already moved half her clothes and all her Natural Path cosmetics into the bedroom’s walk-in closet and mirrored bathroom.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Brooke said, “Wait, Tara, while I rinse off.”

“Tell me tonight when everyone’s gone and the kids are sleeping.”

“But Tara, tonight I’m…going…”

“You can’t; not tonight. Mom’s going to her meditation group. So Matthew needs to sleep in his room upstairs with the kids.”

“How do you know?”

“While you were gone all afternoon, Brooke, she told me tonight’s mantra: ‘Health in the body, health in the mind.’ And afterwards, she sleeps at Chase’s.”

Tara glanced down, expecting Brooke to accuse her of knowing everybody’s business. Instead, her sister’s dark eyes widened and she grinned. “You’re right! Mom and old Chase with his huge blonde pony tail. What? Did she just come out and tell you?”

“Noooo, she did not. One morning I needed to unlock the necklace cabinet and when I stepped into the work room, I could see them through the window. They were coming from his front door. And it was obvious—Mom and burnt-out Chase.”

“Yuck. But I hope you’ll listen to how…how really incredible…”

“Yep, I want the details, Brooke. Because I’m into everyone’s life but my own.”  

“I’m sorry I said that, Tara. It was mean.”

“But it’s true. I stand back and information that has nothing to do with me flies in my face.”

“Wait—” Brooke stepped into the shower.

“Can’t. I’ve gotta talk to Matthew about the play.” Tara peered into the mirror and used her mother’s mascara. She dabbed on blush and applied a little too much lipstick. Like their mother, both girls were keeping half their summer clothes there. Tara fixed a blue head band in her hair and changed into her best sandals.

Matthew and Dexter were tossing the softball, making their way toward the house. Near the gate, Matthew palmed the ball and asked Dexter to please change out of his bathing suit and put on a shirt before dinner.

“Hey, Matthew.” Tara wore a guilty smirk. “Did Mark Fletcher, the play director, call you?”

“After dinner, I’m stopping by his place on Overlook Drive.”

They leaned side by side over the deck railing, the pool less dazzling now that the sun had quieted down. Matthew said, “You look very pretty, Tara.”

“You might not think so when you hear what’s next. Remember I told you he’s a great director? The last two summers Brooke and I have been stand-in directors because he gets drunk and doesn’t show up. Or he shows up, screams at everyone, and leaves. It’s possible he’s better this year, but probably not. Last year he was paranoid out of his mind.”

“Christ, Tara, why’d you set me up for this? My training for James Bond is exhausting. Last night I read the play and I hate it. Weather and politics? Fun! Not to mention, as you already know, I have never been on stage before.”

Tara stared at her feet. “There’s more.”

“More? What more?”

“The actress, Rachel Evans? She’s still making a movie so I’m playing Lucinda.”

“My daughter. Well thank goodness for that,” Matthew said. “Rachel Evans will never know how truly inept I am.”

“You mean, you’re not angry? The town already knows about Mark Fletcher. And I’m right about the gossip. You can forget your lines, fall off the stage, and people still won’t have a bad word to say about you. ”

“—or your sister, right?” He squeezed Tara’s shoulder, “We’re in it together then,” and hurried inside. If he was lucky he might get to touch Brooke and maybe even kiss her before dinner.

He had spent the last four hours in his office, an old stone building separate from the house. The basement contained a gym and work-out area with a shower. The first floor had a desk, a big computer, two screens, shelves, and a couch. On the second floor, under a big elliptical skylight, he kept an immaculate bed, fresh fruit, and mineral water.

He had made love all afternoon to Brooke, who was the most exciting, excitable lover imaginable. Now all he wanted in all the world was to carry her back to that bed and feel her everywhere feeling him on and on, until she wept ecstatic tears. When she dreamed in his arms, he’d stare at her shining hair and luminous skin. He’d breathe her breath and inhale her scent until she woke. They’d talk and laugh, trading sips of water and bites of melon until before long they were ravishing each other again.

Nobody was as eager as Brooke but if she had even a hint of how strongly he felt about her, he’d be afraid that she’d be afraid of him. And naturally, he must bide his time, attend to loving his children, work hard, and meet his obligations. For if he did, she had promised she’d return to him as soon as humanly possible.

(Click here for the next episode)

We Love You Too

Connie Logan played rhyming games with Ivy while they collected lettuce and tomatoes from the garden. She tried to engage Dexter but he wasn’t interested. Ivy loved using the salad spinner. She arranged dried lettuce leaves on two dish towels, which Connie stored in the refrigerator. Dexter sat on the deck and watched cartoons, first one for a few minutes, then another.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Tara asked him if he wanted to ride bicycles with her. “I know the same trails Brooke does.”

“Dad said she was fine but he’s been gone since lunch.”

“She’s just angry, Dexter.” Tara sank into the chair opposite him. “Your dad must be talking it over with her or he’d have come back by now.”

“Why is she angry?”

Tara shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. She’s mad at me.”

“Did you get into her games and mess them up?”

“Does Ivy do that to you? Same thing, in a way.”

“But she’s mad at Dad, too.”

“We talked behind her back,” Tara said. “Your dad’s gonna be in the town play because I pressured him into it. Brooke’s the festival assistant and we forgot to tell her. And she still doesn’t know I’m in the play. Opposite your dad.”

Dexter was drawing with his fingers and didn’t look up. “When I get mad at Ivy, it’s never like I can’t go bike riding.”

“Ask Brooke to make it up to you, that’s what I’d do. Tonight, tell her to read you two chapters of ‘The BFG’ before you go to bed.”

Dexter smiled. “Good idea.” Then Tara picked up the baseball mitts and he said, “Hey, that’s mine,” grabbing his mitt.

Tara bit her bottom lip. “Yeah, it is, and your ball,” which she handed to him.

Standing up, she caught Dexter’s reflection in the glass doors. Her gaze followed from there to his reflection in the pool to him on the steps, where he was tossing and catching the softball.

“Let’s play catch in the field,” Tara said. “Unless you think your dad would mind.” She tried on the big baseball mitt, suddenly aware that she hadn’t ever used one.

Soon Dexter was complaining that Tara couldn’t throw. She couldn’t catch, either.

“Brooke’s good at sports, not me. Do you play T-ball?”

He shook his head. Dexter was just athletic. So his father had taught him to move his hand and shoulder back as far as possible and snap his wrist when he threw.

Tara tried that instead of throwing underhand.

“It takes practice,” Dexter said. “But can you tell the difference?”

Thinking she should be able to play catch with a seven-year-old, Tara twisted to the right. She was turning her head when she caught a glimpse of Matthew and Brooke—finally. She flashed on the two of them rising over the hill her first day babysitting here, the two moving as one. And again Monday evening, Brooke and Matthew in sync, both angry. This evening, this time—although she was possibly imagining it or some of it—Matthew was wearing the straw hat tilted low on his forehead. His hands twirled Brooke around him in an intricate circle. Brooke was wearing her bathing suit and new sunglasses and spinning around Matthew, forward and back as if there were faraway music. Popping into Tara’s head, too, was the idea that even if Matthew and Brooke were illegal, they were not wrong. She squinted as they came closer. Brooke was strolling along, Matthew’s arm wrapped around her, the hat in his hand.

Dexter was yelling, “Come on, Tara! Throw the ball!”

She did and Dexter ran up to catch it. Matthew laughed and touched her shoulder, saying, “Thanks, Tara. Okay if I take over?”

Matthew took the mitt and the ball was flying. Dexter was running and searching the sky and the ball landed deep inside his leather glove. Brooke took Tara’s hand. “Sorry, I screamed at you. All out of proportion.”

The sisters walked toward the house. But first Brooke stopped by the pool to get her skirt. Dexter yelled, “Two chapters,” and Brooke held up her thumb, nodding okay.

Matthew or Dexter or both of them called out but almost certainly only in her mind, “We love you, too, Tara.”

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Precarious Height

They could sit close together on the highest ledge. But not for long the way Brooke was positioned. After Matthew moved so near the waterfall that dazzling sprays misted him, there still wasn’t room for Brooke to crouch with her forehead pressed into the rock face. No matter how angry she was.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Matthew said, “I’m sorry, Brooke. Please don’t think I belittled or betrayed you.” Reluctantly, she held onto him while maneuvering so her legs dangled beside his. “I was overcome with regret for everything I said before I left. Getting the sonnet to you, as well as my own fumbling expressions seemed urgent…”

She crossed her arms beneath her high, round, turquoise-clad breasts. Matthew didn’t risk a look but she filled his mind, sitting beside him at precarious height, close but distant.

“I couldn’t rest until you forgave me. But now I’m begging for double forgiveness. The whole time I was wooing those movie billionaires, you were all that mattered. And it was that perspective that got me the part. Although it’s going to mean eighteen months away from you and Dexter and Ivy.”

“Don’t forget Tara.”

“Yes, Tara. But I missed only you. When Tara answered the phone, I was desperate and stupid enough to ask her if you loved me. You’ve every right to be insulted. But Brooke—please forgive me.”

Just like that? Brooke thought. Try again.

Matthew changed the subject and dropped his recently acquired accent for another. “Wanna know how cool I was? When I jumped off the pier and into the water—the group watching me on film stood up and applauded. I was so in the zone.”

So in the zone? Brooke smirked.

“And just like that I marched into a shop so highfalutin even their sunglasses have meaning. ’Cause when you’re in the zone, you need meaningful sunglasses.”

Brooke bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“I called, ‘Hey there, saleslady, ya got any shades that scream movie star?’” He reached into his shirt pocket for his new “shades.” The sides didn’t even reach his ears. “Whadda ya think, Brooke? Do these scream movie star—or what?”

“You look ridiculous!” She snatched the sunglasses and tossed them down the waterfall.

“Brooke,” he said in his real voice. “Those were for you.”

“They were? Chanel sunglasses?” She stood up and dove from the ledge after them. Matthew, her hat in hand, climbed down the rocks. Placing the hat on high ground, he waded into the water, the better to see her turquoise bottom rise from the water and descend, rise and descend, until she shot up. “Eureka!”

On shore, she shivered with cold, but beamed with such exhilaration, it was all Matthew could do not to embrace her. He leaned in to kiss her but she stepped back, adjusting her wet sunglasses. “So, on me, do they scream movie star?”

“No,” Matthew said. “They whisper, Brooke is an angel.”

Shaking her head, then, she wrapped her arms around him, the sunglasses covering half her face. He lifted her to kiss her lips and feel the roof of her mouth. When he set her feet on the ground, Matthew said, “Come on.”

Nobody saw them enter his office behind the garage. Brooke had missed lunch and while she showered he found cheese and crackers.

In his shower inside his gym, Brooke used his shampoo and soap. A green towel surrounded her with his smell. Clean and dry, she had no choice but to wear her wet bathing suit.

Upstairs, Matthew asked: “Are you still angry?”

“No.”

“Do you love me, Brooke?”

“Yes.”

Oddly, she wasn’t hungry. Tip-toeing, she led him to the couch and unbuttoned his shirt. Straddling him, she bent forward and ran her hands along his shoulders and neck. She took off her turquoise top and pressed herself against his chest. Matthew fought the impulse to take over. He should let her go first.

Brooke kissed him in a line from his collarbone to his navel. She unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. Aching, Matthew lifted his shoulders and peered into her endless dark eyes. “Are you sure?”

She nodded and he shed his clothes, his muscles twitching between strength and tenderness. Brooke encouraged him to stretch full length on the couch. Still wearing her canvas shoes, she bestowed her love using her hands, mouth, and tongue…

To his surprise, Matthew managed to stop her at the last possible moment.

“What? Was I doing it wrong?”

“Absolutely not. Almost too well.” He placed her in front of him and peeled off her bathing suit bottoms. “I couldn’t hold back anymore.” He stood up to look at her and in honor of her naked beauty, he pressed her hands together and kissed her fingertips. “I want to make love to you, Brooke, so it takes all day.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Sunglasses for Everyone

Brooke sat on the diving board, urging Dexter to kick without so much splashing. She was wearing the straw hat that Tara said made her look like the young actress in Matthew’s French DVD, Marié Deux Fois.When Brooke had rented the movie, any likeness except for the hat eluded her.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Tara was simultaneously playing Tetris and writing a grocery list on the deck outside the kitchen.

Ivy and Connie picnicked with stuffed animals beneath a trellis smothered in pink clematis.

“Hello, Hello,” Matthew called.

Dexter sprang from the pool and hugged his father, drenching him. Tara threw an arm around his waist. “Congratulations.” He bent and kissed her cheek and then Connie’s cheek and lifted Ivy into his arms.

Brooke left before anyone noticed—except Matthew, who watched her racing toward the meadow. She sped away so fast she left the little skirt she wore before swimming, draped over a deck chair.

Significantly taller than anyone, Matthew hugged his kids and Tara and her mother and still watched Brooke flying off in a bathing suit he hadn’t seen before. One arm was up and bent, her hand holding onto the hat, its trailing ribbons fluttering above her hair. Her two-piece bathing suit was turquoise, the top T-shaped in back and the bottoms cut like very short shorts. Even from a poor angle and an ever greater distance, her legs caught his attention. They seemed longer than he remembered—and Matthew spent every free second envisioning Brooke.

She was long gone when Connie and Tara served lunch. Brooke’s disappearance upset him, but since nobody said anything he ate sandwiches of Connie’s homegrown tomatoes and watercress with cream cheese as if he couldn’t be happier. Everyone laughed hearing how he’d missed the boat. “My first stunt and I was up to my neck in cold water.”

Everyone carried dishes inside and Matthew pulled the shopping bags from behind the couch. Sunglasses for everyone. The shop girls in Soho had dropped their haughty demeanor upon recognizing him. When he asked first one and then the other to try on the expensive designer models, so he could choose for Tara, Brooke, and Connie, they had pranced and posed and puckered their shiny mouths.

“Which are your favorites?” he asked.

They giggled and showed him huge sunglasses with crayon-colored frames. He selected his favorites. “Do you mind?” And they tried on his choices, saying how right he was. He had the best taste. The round-faced girl, his model for Tara and Connie, tapped the electronic credit card box, “Autograph?” Under her breath, the girl with hair extensions had asked, “James Bond, no?”

For Tara he bought reddish rectangular frames with brown gradient lenses; for Connie gun-metal aviators; and for Brooke’s heart-shaped face dark frames with lenses that were wider on top, rounding to a narrow curve. He and the kids got regulation Ray-Bans.

“Now for the real presents,” he said. They kept their sunglasses on after Tara said she saw fine inside. “That’s how you know they’re good ones. You can wear ’em night and day.”

“You’ll look silly at night.” Connie winced. “Shoot. Now you really will wear them at night.”

“Mom, don’t be like that.”

“Where’s Brooke?” Dexter asked.

Matthew glanced at Tara: what was up? Of course, he’d already figured something was wrong. “She’ll show up soon; don’t worry.”

Ivy’s real present was a strand of hanging prisms. Matthew showed her how to throw rainbows around the room.

He gave Connie a light blue cashmere hoodie. Tara’s gift was a gamble. “We’ll exchange it if it’s not your cup of tea.” Ha-ha. He’d bought her a Limoges teapot and four cups and saucers.

Implacable Tara paced in circles, saying, “Oh my God, Oh my God, Matthew!”

He hadn’t known her “high tea” fantasy. Or even guessed, but when he saw the white porcelain edged in silver displayed in Bendel’s, he had thought of Tara. She hugged him and signaled, bend down.

After kissing his cheek, Tara whispered, “Brooke pried it out of me. She knows we talked about her.”

So that was it. He bent down again, “She’ll forgive us.” (He hoped.)

He had gotten Dexter a softball and mitt, which thanks to a knowledgeable salesman fit just right. Matthew pulled out a new glove for himself. “Today instead of bike riding, will you play catch with me?”

Dexter nodded and stepped outside, ready to play ball. But Matthew recognized a brave show. “What’s wrong, Dexter?”

“Brooke doesn’t feel well and nobody cares.”

Matthew promised he’d find her before dinner. “You’ll see; by then Brooke will feel great.”

“How do you know?”

“I bought her a present, too.”

Twenty minutes later, Matthew found Brooke on the highest ledge above the waterfall. “Will you come down or do I have to climb up?”

She twisted toward the rock wall. Matthew removed his shoes and socks, preparing for another cold, fully clothed swim. He grasped the ledge but Brooke refused to make room for him. He stepped past her and started to slip, eliciting a gasp at least. But he stopped in time and Brooke resumed ignoring him.

(Click here to read the next episode)