Читать книгу Baby Bones - Donan Ph.D. Berg - Страница 4

Noel’s arm trembled, right hand raised and cupped, aligned knuckles poised in midair. Casting fear aside, he rapped the door’s brass doorknocker twice. Hinges creaked; the door, encouraged by the second bolder knock, inched backward from its frame. Invisible through door crack, spice aroma, perhaps oregano, bombarded nostrils. He didn’t know, grandma would. He should leave.

“C’mon in,” a familiar voice said from within. “Dinner’s ready except for extra garlic bread.”

Melanie Stark’s house, next to a park, had been easy for Noel to find. As a youngster, he’d chased rabbits, often with a BB gun, through the adjacent woods. This westside Kanosh land since cleared for homes. Noel parked on a wide concrete apron that connected the house to a rear detached, extra-wide two-car garage. He stepped into a white sanctuary of cabinets, sink, and appliances. Wheat-colored curtains framed the eat-in kitchen table and side-by-side triple windows.

“I’m glad you came. Let me take your jacket.”

Noel searched brain for conversation. “Saw the fireplace, you grill much?” He’d marveled at the four-foot wide cooking grate of the huge masonry fireplace erected between the house and garage at the driveway’s concrete edge. Two flues emerged from the single chimney.

“When it’s warmer.”

Noel shrugged off a denim jacket. Ms. Stark hung it on a white peg inside the door. He breathed a sigh of relief that choosing a light blue dress shirt and khaki pants meant he hadn’t underdressed. He flinched when Ms. Stark, dressed in a clinging, fully buttoned white blouse tucked into black slacks, brushed his left arm with her right elbow.

“I’m delighted you’re here. Guess I’m repeating myself.”

He shifted leg weight from right to left. “Thank you ... Ms. Stark.”

“Please, please call me Melanie. We’re not at work.” She bustled between the sink and stovetop. “Would you like red or white wine?”

The lace-edged skirt trim of a folded blue and white apron laid exposed across a chair back as the neck ties dangled. Tongue-tied, he rested right hand on the apron. Plates on the kitchen table set for two elbow-to-elbow diners. A dangling, twitching hand rubbed left thigh. He didn’t know why he decided to come. He telephoned Dino, who pressed him to go. Afraid of others’ ridicule, he’d kept the invitation to himself. From the side, he watched her bend forward to remove the slender, elongated garlic bread sticks from the oven inside rack. With oven-mitted hand, she gently placed each on a cookie sheet spanning two burners. The spaghetti sauce smell told him it must be in the right rear burner pot. If the preparation consumed her attention, he could remain silent.

He tilted head sideways, unable to avoid the heat generated by steaming hot, draining spaghetti strands in a colander on the table. A handkerchief cleared steam-fogged eyeglasses. If he concentrated harder on food sights and smells, twitching fingers wouldn’t broadcast the fear of being in her house. What did she expect? When her hand grabbed a cabernet sauvignon bottle, he realized he hadn’t answered the former wine question.

“Follow me,” she commanded.

His foreman barked orders in an identical tone. Obey or suffer the consequences. Noel shortened forward steps lest he bump into swaying female hips before they reached the first floor living room he’d eyed from the kitchen. Soft beige living room carpet cushioned loafer footsteps where a vaulted ceiling dwarfed an upright white piano. To the left beyond the Baldwin without displayed sheet music, he perceived a separate dining room. Before Melanie shut the door, he glimpsed stationary bike, computer equipment piled high on a wood table. His peek, through an open archway, into a family room discovered a flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall. Below it, high-stacked electronic gear aroused a deeply hidden envy bone.

“Join me on the sofa.” She pointed; he complied. “We’ll enjoy a glass before eating.”

Melanie’s right hand picked up a Kitchenaid corkscrew by its triangular top and loose unengaged wings clinked. With the tilted wine bottle nestled between seated thighs, the hard metal tool point angled sideways between the rounded glass circumference before straightening and twisting in its initial penetration of the soft cork. Melanie, revolution by revolution, controlled the insertion. Deeper and deeper, the invading screw became one with the cork. The external force of eight fingers clamped the corkscrew’s upraised and spread wings against its shaft. A tug, stronger pull, and final twist generated the pop, or release of adhesion, that signaled success.

Noel felt a sensuous bead of sweat tickle his neck’s nape.

Melanie reached for two glasses on an end table, handed one to Noel, and poured. He clicked full wineglass bowl to hers offering a verbal “good health” toast. A tongue on a moistened lip relayed the wrong signal. Ms. Stark’s stretched blouse buttons shifted his gaze toward the middle of the room, not at host. On the coffee table a picture of Ms. Stark with another woman, arms encircled each other’s waists. Straight blonde hair and lithe figure of the unrecognized female contrasted sharply with Stark’s darker curly hair and midsection bulging above a tightened belt.

Sofa cushion contact widened Ms. Stark’s upper thighs. Feeling heat building behind both facial cheeks, he gazed toward the safety offered by straight-ahead, eyeballs elevated to the far wall landscape painting. He thought it depicted a foreign country, perhaps Germany or France.

“I’m happy for this opportunity.” Melanie lifted half-filled glass, and twisted torso toward him. “I don’t like to talk shop when entertaining, but I’ve one question I didn’t ask this morning in the warehouse. You’ll pardon me won’t you?”

From a sideways perspective, he thought he saw dual eyelashes flutter casting a wavy cheek shadow. “Guess so.” Two shallow breaths and he coughed, almost choked, on her perfume. He assumed it had to be expensive, imported, or both. It definitely wasn’t subtle.

Her right palm brushed his shoulder only to land mid-thigh. “Can you tell me if the union voted to strike when they met yesterday morning?” Extended fingertips slid along his thigh to rest at the knee, the touch hardly strong enough to compress khaki fabric to skin.

He shouldn’t have come. What had he expected? They, the guys, were right. You couldn’t trust any “suit.” He swirled a sip of wine to think. It wouldn’t be unusual for one of the guys to slip, break a promised confidence and divulge union meeting information. “Yes, they did.” He jerked shoulders backward. “You can’t say I said that.”

Noel recalled Dino instructed all attendees to keep the vote secret. However, the more he thought, how was he different that other members being overheard in bars or spouses whispering to relatives. He relaxed shoulders; a smooth double wine sip flowed from glass lip to bathe molars.

“You can trust me, Noel.” She splayed fingers across his knee, advancing six inches toward stomach. Stopped. “I like you. Wouldn’t dream of hurting you.”

All his muscles below the waist tightened. He fixed gaze on the lingering footstep outlines in the beige carpet pile. Her hand playfully kneaded right shoulder. His raised gaze, before it plummeted to the floor, determined the pictured landscape to be California. He dared not peek right. Her face and lips would be near his if he rotated face. Within right peripheral vision, past Melanie and the sofa arm, a predominately red, multi-colored vase stood on a table. He struggled to divert her pressing fingers into his thigh, say something, anything.

“Is that red vase valuable?” He shifted gaze left, from her, as soon as words spoken.

“Not really. A friend sent it to me from Mexico.”

The warm puff to his neck’s nape piggybacking Melanie’s explanation ignited tingling nerves up and down spine’s full length. “Oh.” Mind cells continued to race. Guys gossiped she’d been hired because she passed Chesterton’s Campbell Motel interview. One snapped a cell phone picture of President Chesterton’s car there. What would Chesterton do to him? Melanie’s voice interrupted before he could panic and bolt.

“How many were there?”

“How many what?” Her repeated leans toward him, then retreats, generated waves of nostril perfume attacks. Her hips, he sensed by the caved-in cushion, wiggled closer to his.

“How many at the union meeting?”

The words traveled inches to enter right ear. Shaky left hand rocked wine in his glass. He steadied the glass’s bowl with a two-hand grip. “About a hundred thirty.”

“When will ... when will this strike happen?” Words whispered closer, softer into his ear.

“Don’t know.” He briskly shook head sideways, nearly bumping skulls and dislodging wineglass raised to her lips. He reverted to a straight-ahead gaze. “That’s ... up to ... up to the executive committee.” He felt a forearm on right leg, fingers again kneading kneecap. Melanie’s left thigh pressed his right. Her fingers edged toward stomach. Last time the hand stopped. This time? He loudly exhaled when another question interrupted the uneasy silence.

“Will your friend Dino tell you ... give advance warming?”

When he didn’t answer, she splayed right hand across his stomach. “I’m sure he will, won’t he,” she whispered. “Think of us.”

Her fingers lifted; Noel couldn’t feel them land. A compressed outer thigh muscle triggered an eerie nerve sensation as her left hand squeezed between their thighs. Finger oscillation indicated she rubbed herself, each movement closer to his groin than knee. She wouldn’t.

“Don’t ... don’t know,” he sputtered. “Really ... really can’t say.” He raised a hand opposite her to smooth hair he couldn’t see expecting another question. A finger wiped forehead moisture bead. He’d have reached for handkerchief, but it was tucked in back pants pocket nearest her.

When silence ensued, he glanced toward Melanie. She’d abandoned wineglass on the coffee table next to the pictured female twosome. Her right hand unloosened a blouse top button.

The recalled warehouse cleavage exposure experience jolted Noel upright. “Must leave.” He didn’t turn to speak directly to her. “I shouldn’t have come.” His moist fingers on the wineglass stem slid to the half-full bowl. He bent forward and reached to set it on the coffee table, pivoted, and shuffled feet backwards around the table.

His eyes focused on Melanie’s right hand releasing the next fastened button. “What? What’s the matter?” Her eyelids dropped to half-mast; lips trembled as breasts jutted forward. “I’m not too old for you am I?” She reached, both hands encircled retrieved wineglass, righting temporary slant.

“No.” He hadn’t wanted to display fear or lack of interpersonal skills. “I don’t feel comfortable ... the union questions and all. Dino’s my friend. He trusted me.”

“Let’s sit at the kitchen table.” Widened eyes pleaded. “Please. We’ll have a nice dinner. No more questions.” Putting wineglass on the coffee table freed her hands to button blouse.

Noel, distracted by a multi-colored cat from origins unknown that scampered and brushed stomach fuzz across front loafer top, said, “No. It’s best I leave now.” Left foot stepped backwards. When Melanie rose from the sofa, he stopped turn toward the kitchen fearful the cat circled behind.

“At least you can give me a hug.”

Noel felt like loafers had been sucked into the carpet up to the ankles, a loose carpet thread stuck to dark navy-blue socks. After three steps, Melanie flung arms around his neck, upper body pressed into his. With the feminine warmth attacking exposed pores and trying to radiate through cloth, Noel’s physical urges competed for control. After all, he’d agreed, no matter how forced, to eat, if not enjoy dinner. Her face burrowed into right shoulder allowed the choking perfume to refill nostrils. He clasped the delicate hands encircling pulsing neck veins and pulled them apart. He rocked back, turned face momentarily to cough. Her eyes, he thought, glistened with fresh tear moisture. No. He had to exercise willpower and do it now. “I must go.”

The last words she spoke before he released the kitchen door a shout of “Shoo, Buttons.”

Noel’s drive to Kanosh apartment afforded him time to try and unravel unending confusion. Melanie acted sluttish. Why had he acted so righteous? Bill McNamar in the warehouse break room speculated the real reason Ms. Stark advanced to vice president had been because she lacked one or more genes God bestowed upon all other women. Stark’s missing genes, Bill said, replaced by a dominant male gene.

Noel didn’t know what to believe. He’d observed her warehouse behavior with its command, testosterone-like directness, and steadfast assuredness. Never was it soft, compliant, and geared to forge a consensus. Yet, a prissy female would’ve been ignored. He could respect a results orientated woman in a man’s work world.

In Melanie’s living room, Noel’s conscience trumped any desire to stay longer. His quelled qualms she could inflict pain at work vanquished his initial stay-away fear. Her age comment surprised him; he’d never have thought that. If rumor and his calculations matched fact, she celebrated eight more birthdays than he. He detected no unsightly wrinkles. A brownish neck blemish could’ve been a faint birthmark or a dark freckle. He didn’t regret being socially nice to her, but he anguished the betrayal of Dino. Well, at least not total betrayal.

When the first time came to make love to a woman, he wanted the memories to be unforgettable. A night planned by him, a night lasting forever in memory if not in fact. Not a quickie wham-bam reward for violating the trust of a friend.

Which would be worse: dashing out or if he’d never arrived at all?