Читать книгу My Favorite Mistake - Stephanie Bond - Страница 12

FOR AN HOUR I WAS NUMB. Alternately I stared at and reread the IRS letter commanding me and Redford to appear ten days hence, bearing proof that the joint return we’d filed three years ago was accurate as it pertained to a couple of items—primarily our income and the deductions we’d taken.

Or rather, the deductions I had taken. It had been the time frame when I was getting my financial planning business off the ground and, admittedly, I had taken some rather aggressive deductions regarding a home office. I chewed one home-manicured fingernail to the quick, then began to gnaw on a second. The fact that I was being audited by the IRS would not be perceived as a plus by my employer, or among my clients and potential clients. Ellen Brant, for instance, wouldn’t take kindly to the news. Barry—

My heart skipped a beat or two or three. Oh, God, what was I going to tell Barry about Redford?

Barry, there’s a tiny detail about my past I keep forgetting to mention…

Barry, you’re not going to believe this…

Barry, want to hear something funny?

Nausea rolled in my stomach. I couldn’t tell him about my annulled marriage now—he’d think I was only telling him because I had to.

Which was true, but still…

No, I’d have to be careful to keep this audit business under wraps. I paced and hummed to keep the panic at bay, my mind racing for a way out of the mess I’d landed in.

Suddenly I brightened: Barry would be in L.A. for two, maybe three weeks. By the time he returned to New York, the situation with Redford would be put to bed—er, put to rest.

If I were very, very careful, I’d come out of this situation unscathed.

I rubbed my roiling stomach. As if the secrecy and the possibility of being slapped with a fine or a penalty wasn’t enough to give me a bleeding ulcer, there was the thought of being reunited with Redford.

Would he come to Manhattan? Then I scoffed—of course he’d come if he were Stateside. Under order of the IRS, he had to come. Probably with a new, young wife in tow, and maybe even a kidlet or two. They’d make it a family vacation—see the Met, the Statue of Liberty, the ex-wife.

Although, in truth, I wasn’t really his ex-wife because the annulment meant I’d never been his wife. The potential complications swirled in my head, overridden by one gut-clenching question—had Redford thought about me since our annulment?

Annulment. Our marriage had been such an egregious mistake, it had to be indelibly erased. I eased onto the edge of a straight-back chair, remembering how overwhelmed I’d felt when I’d filed those papers. When I’d first arrived back in New York, I had still been awash with my lust for Redford, wistful and optimistic and certain we’d be able to work through any obstacles to be together. He would visit me in New York when he had leave from the Gulf and when he returned to his station in North Carolina. Then I would join him on his family horse farm in Kentucky when he retired from the Marine Corps in a couple of years. With his vision and my financial know-how, we’d grow the business exponentially. He’d made everything seem so…possible. I had been buoyed by the light of adventure in his eyes and blinded by the promises in his lovemaking.

But doubts about our relationship had set in almost immediately. I’d felt isolated and alone. He had warned me it might be weeks before he could call me or e-mail, and since none of my girlfriends had been with me in Vegas, I had no one to reassure me that I hadn’t imagined my and Redford’s feelings toward each other. Indeed, when I’d announced I’d gotten married, they all thought I was joking—sensible, down-to-earth Denise would never marry a virtual stranger in Vegas. Had I gone completely mad?

I didn’t even like horses.

When I started thinking about how little I knew about Redford and how much longer he would be in the Marines, my doubts had snowballed. His comment about not being able to communicate with me had seemed lame. But it was the article that appeared in the newspaper a few days later that had pushed me over the edge: G.I.’s Desperate To Say “I Do.”

I would never forget that headline. The story went on to describe how soldiers on leave from the Middle East conflict were driven to marry the first willing girl they met because they were afraid they wouldn’t come home, and eager to have someone waiting for them if they did. Not surprising, the story went on to say, the divorce and annulment rates for those speedy marriages were astronomical. The women were portrayed as desperate in their own right—caught up in their desire to attach themselves to an alpha male out of social loyalty and the pursuit of cinematic romanticism.

Cinematic romanticism. According to the article, I wasn’t in love with Redford—I was in love with the idea of Redford. Which explained why I would have fallen for someone who was so polar opposite to me, so radically different from the “type” of guy I usually dated…and so quickly. Over the next few days, I had come to the conclusion that it all had been a big, honking mistake. As soon as I’d gotten my period (thank you, God), I’d settled on an annulment.

Through the Internet I’d found a Vegas attorney to file the petition for a civil annulment. He’d had a greasy demeanor that made me feel soiled, but he seemed to be experienced in dissolving quickie marriages. He’d filed the petition on the grounds that “before entering into the marriage, the plaintiff and defendant did not know each other’s likes and dislikes, each other’s desires to have or not have children and each other’s desires as to state of residency.”

All true, except for the part about having children. Redford had expressed a desire for little ones, girls in particular. But I had assuaged my guilt by the fact that we hadn’t discussed when or how many.

The attorney warned me that Redford could contest the annulment, and I have to admit that a small part of me had hoped he would. But upon returning to his unit, he must have come to some of the same conclusions because the papers were returned promptly, with his signature scrawled across the bottom, making it official: Redford and I had never been man and wife. Kenzie, Cindy and Jacki pledged their secrecy, and I pledged to drive Redford from my mind. They had kept their pledge. I had been somewhat more lax.

Sometimes a month would go by without me thinking of him. And then something out of the blue would trigger a repressed memory and I would spend a sweat-soaked night reliving the amazing ways Redford had turned my body inside out…the ways he had stroked and plied me to pleasure heights I hadn’t known existed. Then whispered that he loved me and had taken me higher still.

During those long, lonely hours, regrets would hit me hard. I’d close my eyes against the dark and fantasize about still having Redford in my bed, with his strong arms and legs wrapped around me, his warm sex inside of me, his sigh in my ear. And I would entertain what-ifs…

The mornings after those tortuous nights I would drag my sleep-ravaged body out of my cold bed and promise myself it would be the last time I would lose sleep over Redford DeMoss. I attributed my recent and more frequent recollections of him to all the weddings and bridal talk among my friends—I had consoled myself that the wayward thoughts would recede when the excitement passed.

But now I wondered crazily if I had somehow willed this IRS audit through all the kinetic vibes about Redford that I had sent out into the universe. Cindy’s theory about a self-fulfilling prophecy taunted me…

I don’t remember falling asleep. One minute I was stewing in troubling memories, and the next, Barry was shaking me awake and sunshine streamed in the windows.

“Why did you sleep on the couch?” he asked, his eyebrows knitted.

“I was watching a movie,” I mumbled, pointing to the TV, which was still on. I felt thoroughly miserable, still wearing my expensive (and now crumpled) dress, my face gummy with old makeup, my mouth furry and hot. At the crackle of the IRS letter beneath my hip, panic struck me anew.

Thankfully, Barry didn’t notice the letter. He reached toward me and pushed my hair out of my eyes, gazing at me with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” I lied.

“Are we all right?” he asked, surprising me.

But it was just the gentle reminder I needed to bring me back to the present. Barry was here and he cared. My heart squeezed and I nodded. “Of course we are.”

He smiled, seemingly relieved. “You know I love you.”

I blinked. Barry and I had professed our affection for each other before, but he wasn’t particularly verbal about his feelings. “I know,” I murmured, feeling guilty that only last night I had questioned his loyalty to me.

“Good,” he said. “I’m sorry about zonking out on you last night. I guess I was more tired than I realized, and the allergy medication took care of the rest.”

“That’s okay.”

“So,” he said, his voice suddenly sultry, “how about letting me make it up to you tonight—meet me at Millweed’s at seven?”

My eyes widened. “A girl can’t say no to Millweed’s.”

He winked and kissed my ear. “My thoughts exactly. I need to take off.” He stood and pulled on the jacket he’d been wearing last night, then picked up his toiletry bag and moved toward the door. “Do you have any big plans today?”

Track down my ex-husband. I swallowed and considered telling Barry about the letter that was burning into my thigh. But I didn’t want to break the romantic mood or raise any red flags. Besides, who knew if I would even be able to locate Redford? If he were still overseas, the audit would be a moot point. It seemed silly to bring up the subject in the event it amounted to nothing.

“No big plans,” I said breezily.

“Okay, see you later.”

My heart moved guiltily. “Wait,” I called, and sprang up from the couch, heedless of where the letter might fall. I ran over to the door to stretch up and give Barry a full-body hug. “See you later.”

He grinned, then angled his head. “You have something stuck to your butt.” Before I could react, he reached around and peeled the letter from my backside.

I snatched it out of his hand and manufactured a laugh. “It’s nothing,” I said, crumpling the letter. “Junk mail,” I added for convincing detail. Then I shooed him out the door and closed it more forcefully than I intended.

Sighing in relief, I leaned against the door and smoothed out the letter, just in case its meaning was somehow less ominous in the light of day.

I scanned the words addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Redford DeMoss and worked my mouth from side to side. No—just as ominous. A slow drip of panic started to raise the acid level in my stomach. How could I prepare myself for speaking to Redford again? Assuming I could track him down, would he be angry? Belligerent? Aloof? Sarcastic? Disinterested?

Mrs. Redford DeMoss. Denise DeMoss. Redford had said it sounded like a movie star’s name, and that I was as beautiful as one…

I set aside the letter long enough to take a shower. But as soon as I closed my eyes to allow the warm water to run over my face and shoulders, memories of Redford came flooding back. Everything about the man had been big—his body, his laugh, his spirit. He had made me feel special and protected and desirable. His lovemaking had awakened a dark, daring side of me that I hadn’t known I possessed. He had been a generous lover—slow, thorough and innovative. I was pretty sure that a few of the things we had done were illegal in some states.

With a start, I realized my body had started to respond to the erotic memories. Feeling sentimental and keenly frustrated from my lack of sex, I slid my hands down my stomach to lather the curls at the juncture of my thighs, thrilling from the warmth of the water and the slick pressure of my soapy fingers. Redford had adored making love in the shower, had kissed and suckled and caressed me until I nearly drowned. He had an amazing way of prepping my body with his fingers, readying me for his entry until I thought I would die from wanting him inside me. My own fingers weren’t as strong and firm, but they found the essence of my pleasure ably enough, and strangely, even though there were some details about Redford that had faded in my mind, when I closed my eyes and sent my mind and body back in time, I could conjure up his presence in two breaths.

I leaned into the tiled wall and he leaned into me, the shower spray bouncing off his broad, muscled shoulders, his dark hair slicked back from his tanned face, his sensuous mouth nuzzling my shoulder, the soapy water mingling on our skin. He seemed to derive pleasure from mine, pleased that he could excite me, murmuring encouragement and throaty laughs when I was close to climaxing.

“I want to hear you, Denise…tell me how good it feels…”

I’d never been with anyone who was so…conversational during sex. The novelty of it—and the naughtiness—had pushed my level of sensitivity higher than I’d thought possible. “Um…oh…Redford…it feels wonderful…feels like…I’m going to…explode.”

And I did, convulsing as the warm water pulsed over me, losing myself in the exquisite torture of a powerful orgasm that weakened my knees. I slid down the wall and sat on the shower floor, shuddering, recovering slowly under the cooling spray. As always, the inevitable guilt set in.

I told myself that I had fantasized about Redford this time only because Barry had left me in a state of unfulfilled arousal. And Redford was uppermost in my mind only because of the IRS letter. I was a sensible woman—everyone said so. What possible good could come of rehashing the past?

I turned off the shower, stepped out and pulled on a robe, giving myself a mental shake. But my traitorous feet took me into the bedroom to stand in front of the trunk at the foot of my bed, and I relented with a sigh. My heart was clicking as I raised the lid and moved aside family photo albums, high school and college yearbooks, and a box of cards and letters I’d collected over the years, my fingers keen to find a secret cache.

At the bottom of the trunk in a corner sat a Punch cigar box—the brand that Redford had smoked. I’d never before dated a man who smoked cigars; I remembered finding it so male and strangely attractive. Over the past couple of years I had felt comforted by the fact that I couldn’t conjure up a picture of Redford in my mind—it convinced me that what I’d felt for him was a mirage. But when I touched the smooth surface of the box, I could clearly see him smiling and smoking a cigar by the pool at the Las Vegas hotel where we’d stayed.

Thick, dark hair with sun-lightened streaks, bronzed skin, laughing black eyes, sharp cheekbones…and a Tom Cruise smile that made me want to sprawl on the nearest horizontal surface in hopes he would trip and fall on me.

He had fallen on me quite a lot—that detail was burned into my memory.

My hand shook as I removed the cigar box, untouched since I’d left it there just over three years ago. When I lifted the lid, my breath caught in my throat and I felt as if I was being pulled backward through a time tunnel.

The gray velvet box holding my wedding ring sat on top. I used two hands to open it and at the sight of the wide gold filigree band, I was overcome with bittersweet memories…

“Do you like it?” Redford had asked while we were standing in the most garish jewelry store in the western hemisphere. Among the flashing lights and salesmen with bullhorns, I’d been doubtful we could find anything simple. But Redford had pulled one of the salesmen aside and cajoled the man into showing him the estate jewelry that Redford was sure was being held in the back for special customers. Sure enough, the man had disappeared, then returned with a tray of exquisite rings. I had fallen in love with the filigree band on sight…much like I had with Redford.

As I gazed at the ring, bittersweet pangs struck my chest. I was mistaken about being in love with Redford, but I was still in love with the gorgeous wedding band. He had paid an enormous sum for it—we’d argued over the cost, but Redford had parted with his money during our time together as if there were no tomorrow. And according to the newspaper article, that had been Redford’s frame of mind exactly.

I had sent the ring to the attorney to include with the annulment papers that were served to Redford, but Redford had returned the ring with the signed papers with no explanation. The attorney had advised me to sell the ring to offset the fees of the annulment, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it at the time…or since.

I bit my lip and snapped the ring box closed, then set it aside to riffle through the remaining contents of the cigar box: a coaster from the hotel bar, a matchbook from the place he’d taken me dancing, the key to our room at the Paradisio hotel, ticket stubs to shows, a party horn, postcards, our marriage license, the annulment papers, and our wedding pictures.

I knew women who had hired no fewer than three photographers on the day of their wedding to circumvent a no-show, faulty equipment, or a drunk cameraman. Other women had white satin albums trimmed with ribbon and lace, crammed with studio-quality photos of them in their designer gown, a glowing groom, twelve bridesmaids, twelve groomsmen, three flower girls and a ring bearer. Other women had 5x7s, 8x10s and 16x20s of the special day. I had three blurry Polaroid pictures.

The first showed the two of us smiling at the camera through the driver’s-side window of Redford’s rental car. In the second picture, I wore a paper veil and held a small bouquet of silk flowers. We were exchanging vows—Redford’s mouth was open slightly, caught midword. His voice came floating back to me, a deep, throaty drawl that had wrapped around me and stroked me like a big, vibrating hand…silken sandpaper. A shiver skated over my shoulders—apparently memory cells existed in every part of one’s body.

The third picture showed us kissing as man and wife. Unbidden, my mouth tingled and the elusive elements of his kiss came back to me—the way his eyes darkened as he inched closer, the possessive feel of his mouth against mine, the promise of his tongue…

With effort, I forced myself back to the present and to the photo in my hand. We were covered in confetti the witness had tossed on us through the open window. Redford was wearing a black sweatshirt. I couldn’t tell from the photo, but remembered that I’d been wearing a T-shirt with no bra, my hair messy and hanging around my shoulders, not a speck of makeup. Natural, hedonistic…what had I been thinking?

In hindsight, I hadn’t been thinking—at least not beyond the next orgasm. Redford had been the first man to tap in to my sexuality and I’d been blinded by lust. I had mistaken enthusiasm for love.

I did have a fourth picture, although not of our wedding. I carefully withdrew the framed 5x7 from the box, drinking in the sight of First Sergeant DeMoss in his dress uniform, achingly handsome in his official U.S. Marine Corps photo. He had given it to me somewhat sheepishly at the airport, and I had clutched it all the way back to New York. I ran my finger over his face, my heart full over my naiveté at the time.

The phone rang and I picked up the handset on the nightstand, happy for a diversion from the troubling thoughts on the continuous loop in my head. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Kenzie.”

I smiled into the phone. “Hey, yourself.”

“So, did you wow the boss lady last night?”

“The dress was a hit. Thanks again for your help.”

“Did you get the account?”

“I’ll find out more this week, but I’m hopeful.”

“You’ll have to call me in Jar Hollow to let me know how it goes.”

“You’re not coming back to the city this week?”

“No, that’s another reason I called—Oh, wait, Sam just walked in and I need to, um…give him a message. Can I call you back?”

“Sure,” I said, then hung up with a smirk. A message—right. Good grief, the two of them were like teenagers. But I wasn’t jealous…really I wasn’t.

I tried not to imagine the acrobatics going on in Jar Hollow while I stared at Redford’s picture and waited for Kenzie to call me back. The phone rang again less than two minutes later—of course, if the stories were true, she and Sam had had time for a quickie. I picked up the phone and sighed dramatically. “Please stop dangling your sex in front of me.”

Dead silence sounded on the line.

My chest blipped with panic. “Hello?”

A deep, rumbling laugh rolled out. “Well, that’s what I call picking up where we left off.”

I swallowed. “Who…who is this?” But I would have recognized that orgasmic voice anywhere.