The Muse Read online

  I don’t give myself time to think—I follow the soaring of my heart and run to the door. When I swing it open, James’ fist halts mid-flight.

  I clear my throat. “Hi.”

  He sighs heavily, lowering his arm. “Christ, woman. You’re going to put me in an early grave. Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Standing before me windblown and worried, he’s so beautiful that my breath is taken away. His hair is damp from the rain, plastered against his temples. Beneath furrowed brows, his eyes are dark, forest green.

  I find my voice. “Would you accept it if I say I can’t talk about it right now, but I’ll tell you soon?”

  His brow clears even as his eyes narrow. “On one condition. You invite me inside and feed me dinner and let me hold your hand while we watch whatever ridiculous action movie you want.”

  Warmth surges through me, bright and encompassing.

  “Okay, but I have one more condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “Before dinner and a movie, you take off my clothes.”

  The last of his worry dissolves as his eyes brighten. “Sex before a date? You modern woman, you.”

  Laughing, I grab the lapel of his coat. “Get in the house.”

  We don’t watch a movie. We barely eat dinner, too hungry for each other to notice. We christen my new couch, the kitchen table, and end up listless and replete on the soft rug in front of the fireplace.

  “Someday we’ll make it to a bed, right?” I ask sleepily.

  He kisses my shoulder. “Beds are for ordinary lovers. And we’re anything but ordinary.”

  Rolling onto my back, I look up at him. “Inflated ego, much?”

  A soft smile curls his lips. “Whenever will you learn, little muse? In every way, you’re extraordinary.”

  His eyes and fingertips trail lightly between my breasts and down my stomach. I’m too blissed-out to mind when he begins tracing the various scars on my torso. Some are smooth and thin, some thicker and slightly raised, having been deep enough to need stitches. When his attention shifts to my right side, where the skin is thicker and whorled from burns, his eyes come back to mine.

  The intimacy of being emotionally and physically bare hits me hard. And while I know I’m safe with him—the desire in his eyes tells me as much—it’s still a battle not to reach for the nearby blanket and cover myself.

  “Iris,” he whispers. “So aptly named. Complex and radiant, deceptively delicate. Did you know why your parents named you that?”

  I nod. “Not the flower, the Greek goddess.”

  He smiles as his hand travels south, flirting over my belly button and teasing the apex of my thighs. “And did you know the goddess was considered a link between heaven and earth, that she guided souls to paradise?”

  I roll my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not going to say my vagina is a link to heaven.”

  He chuckles, because that’s exactly what he was going to do. Lowering his head, he places a soft kiss on my breast as his fingers sink between my legs.

  Arousal trips through my system, bringing my back off the floor in a languid stretch of desire.

  “Heaven,” he whispers as he shifts above me.

  As he settles between my legs, I lock my ankles around his waist. I don’t have to tell him how sore I am; he knows, entering me one slow inch at a time. As the delicious feeling of fullness intensifies, for the third time tonight I thank God for IUDs. Nothing in my life has prepared me for the soul-wrenching sensation of nothing between us.

  James drops his forehead to mine. “Give me words, little muse. I need them. I need to know you feel what I feel.”

  I arch beneath him, striving to pull him deeper. “I’m yours, James,” I whisper against his lips. “For better or worse, I’ve always been yours.”

  His mouth veers to my neck as he draws back, then sinks inside me again. “God, I hope you mean that. I’m not letting you go again. You’re mine.”

  For how long?

  I ignore the fearful whisper in the back of my mind, locking it beneath the here and now—the steady, swirling thrusts of his hips, the sweet, stretching burn, the way our bodies move together so effortlessly.

  It’s poetry. Pure and perfect.

  I cling to it, memorizing each small sensation. The whisper of his stomach against mine. His scent, surrounding me. Our sweat, mingling. Our tasting tongues and sighs. The skillful press of his thumb on my clitoris as he drives me to yet another shattering peak.

  All the wordless languages of our love.

  And I pray they will be enough.

  36. syntax

  On Wednesday, I call my mom to plan a visit. She excitedly informs me that Phillip and Victoria are going on a father-daughter trip the coming weekend. Despite the synchronicity, this time I have no sense of higher powers colluding, either for me or against me. I respond to the news with equal eagerness; as Claire said, it’s time to find out the truth.

  Armed with memories of the last two nights with James, as I board the plane I’m not anxious but coolly determined. I spend the brief flight writing him a letter, in it promising that nothing my mom says will change my heart.

  Palo Alto is unsurprisingly warm and sunny. My mom and I spend Saturday doing things we rarely did when I was young—getting massages, manicures, and facials. Our conversations are light, revolving around mundane things like recent movies and books, and what we want for dinner.

  At my request, she cooks my favorite homemade lasagna, and we eat on the back deck while the sun is setting. The bottle of wine on the table is mostly gone, and I can see by the softness in her eyes that now’s the time.

  It’s time.

  “Mom, I need to ask you something about dad.”

  My soft words hover in the space between us. I see the moment they sink in—her shoulders stiffen minutely. For the first time, it occurs to me that she knew this day would come.

  “Of course, baby. Anything.”

  Now that the moment’s upon me, words clog my throat and tangle on the way out. “The locked box in your nightstand, the letters that dad found—was that… did it—”

  “Are you asking if I had an affair like Richard thought?”

  She doesn’t sound insulted, but tired beyond her years. I nod. “Yes, I am.”

  She takes a sip of her wine, then sets the glass down. I watch her fingers twitch and curl around the stem. “You’re back with James Beckett, aren’t you?”

  Foreboding shivers down my spine. “Yes. Why does that matter?”

  Meeting my eyes, she smiles slightly. “You were my cautious child. My thoughtful, introspective Iris. So perceptive, so sensitive.” Her gaze goes unfocused. “Derrick was the wild one. My risk-taker. My freedom-seeker.”

  “Mom?” I ask softly.

  She shakes her head a little, eyes refocusing on my face. “When your father and I met, I was in love with someone else. But love’s a funny thing—I fell in love with Richard, too. Can one love eclipse another? It certainly felt that way. When I was with Richard, the world was brighter. Everything was clearer, more vibrant. Poetic. I loved him because I didn’t have a choice. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  She nods. “Having met James, I think you truly do. They are very similar, you know. Minds like razors, smooth as silk and at the same time so sharp that when you’re cut, you don’t feel pain at first. Richard, as you know, was mercurial to a fault. A hopeless romantic who wanted a family more than anything. But he was also a narcissist and struggled with feeling like he couldn’t love both his family and poetry. He felt that whichever passion he chose at any given time, an equally vital piece of his life was being smothered.”

  I have no idea where she’s going, but from her wistful tone it’s nowhere I’ve considered. The thought doesn’t comfort—it scratches at the surface of my buried fears, bringing them alive.

  She finishes her wine in two long swallows. The glass hits the table wi
th a dissonant clank.

  “Something not many people know about your father was that he believed strongly—profoundly—in the sanctity of life. He also wanted a large family. At least five kids, as he often told me. But there was a disparity, obviously, between his fantasy and reality. I was raising you and Derrick virtually alone. When Richard chose us, was emotionally present for us, he was magnificent. A perfect partner and father. When he chose poetry…” She shrugs.

  “I remember,” I say mutedly.

  And I do, primarily the inconsistency. The not knowing if the man walking in the door at night would be my dad or a stranger with his face. One who didn’t want hugs and kisses and bedtime stories, but who disappeared into his study for hours at a time.

  With a sigh, she tells me the rest.

  “That weekend I disappeared, I went to Los Angeles to visit a female friend from college. She went with me to a clinic so I could get an abortion.”

  My breath stalls. For a few moments, my mind is blank with shock. Definitely not an avenue I’d considered.

  At length, I ask, “Will you tell me why?”

  “I was in a dark place, barely able to care for myself while trying not to fuck up you and Derrick.”

  “You were—are—a great mom,” I say firmly.

  She smiles sadly. “I tried. But when I found out I was pregnant, that my birth control had failed, I couldn’t fathom another child. Not with our marriage beginning to fall apart, with his absences on tours and speaking engagements growing more frequent and longer. So many times, Richard promised to be more present, to stay invested, but he couldn’t.” She shrugs a shoulder. “He tried. He really did. But he just couldn’t do it.”

  Tears fill my eyes and I reach for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “Oh, mom. I’m so sorry. That must have been so lonely for you.”

  “Yes, it was. And believe me, Iris, I didn’t want to deprive you or Derrick of a sibling. I honestly didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” I ask at length.

  She sniffles, releasing my hand to wipe at her eyes. “I was young and afraid. As progressive as he was on some counts, Richard didn’t believe in abortion. In my darkness and confusion, I thought he’d feel my decision was more of a betrayal than infidelity.” She sobs quietly, stifling it with her arm. “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder if things would have turned out differently had I just told him. For all of us.”

  I know she means Derrick, and to lesser extent me. What if a third child had changed my father? What if he’d become the positive, loving presence we’d once known? Would that night have happened? Would I have sought love from someone who ultimately took advantage of me? Would I have been raped, and would Derrick have died?

  What if, what if?

  “I’m sorry, Iris,” whispers my mother.

  As I look at her, I feel no resentment. Only sympathy for her pain. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, mom. But can I ask another question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why did you keep the letters from your high-school sweetheart?”

  “If my love for your father was a summer thunderstorm, my love for Phillip was a steady spring rain. It was often overshadowed by the beauty of lightning, but in the end it lasted longer.”

  “Phillip?” I echo in shock. “The Phillip? My stepfather?”

  She nods. “I never wrote him back while I was married to your father. It’s important to me that you know that.” She waits for my nod before continuing. “By the time Richard and I divorced, Phillip had married and moved away. But nine years ago, we ran into each other at the grocery store of all places. And I found out his wife had passed away from cancer five years before, and he’d moved the girls back here.”

  “The timing was finally right.”

  She smiles softly. “You could say that, yes.”

  Sitting back in my chair, I close my eyes and try to absorb everything I’ve just learned. The unmet potential of a sibling. My mother’s fear and difficult choice. The conflict of two loves. For her it was two men. For my father, love and art. What all of this means for myself, my heart, and my love for James.

  Is he like my father? Can he give himself equally to a partner and to his passion? But the more important question is, Can I let go of the past in order to embrace the future?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  37. transition

  My mom and I enjoy a low-key Sunday. We relax, watch movies, and laugh a lot. With yesterday’s confession behind us, she seems lighter, unencumbered by at least one of the regrets she’s carried for so long. She’s still a woman of many layers, but not so mysterious anymore. And infinitely more beautiful because of it.

  On the flight home, I put the truth in black and white as I finish my letter to James. Giving both myself and him the resolution we sought three-and-a-half years ago. The truth about the weekend my mother disappeared, which changed the course of my father’s life and all of ours. A truth both less sensational and more momentous than expected.

  After we land and I collect my car from longterm parking, I drive straight to the place my heart sings for. To him.

  When I’m getting off the freeway, I call to make sure he’s home. And when he doesn’t answer, I figure he’s writing and I have the unique opportunity to surprise him. I stop at my favorite Thai place and grab takeout, then drive to his house.

  As I pull up, I’m surprised to see the driveway blocked by an idling cab. The gate stand open, James’ car in the port. The first tendrils of fear rise but I shove them down, unwilling to be controlled by doubts. There are hundreds of logical explanations for a cab being parked outside his house.

  Right? Right.

  Parking against the adjacent curb, I grab the food and lock up my car, then head toward the driveway. The cab’s window is down, so I wave hello.

  The cabbie tips his head. “‘Evening.”

  I glance at the house, at James’ BMW in the carport. “Are you picking someone up?” I ask, because it’d be rude to ask if he has the right address.

  “Yep. Lady called a half-hour ago. I’m a few minutes early.”

  My fingers and toes go cold and numb. The tendrils of fear become thick, suffocating vines. “A lady?” I repeat weakly. “Did you catch her name?”

  The cabbie’s eyes narrow. “Nuh uh, not going there.” He points at the house. “If your man is in there with another chick, I want no part of it.”

  I force a smile. “Understood. Have a good night.”

  One difficult step at a time, I walk up the driveway to the side door. Please, please, please. I don’t know what I’m asking for. Mercy, maybe. A swift end to my misery.

  The hum of anxious blood in my ears, I press the little silver doorbell.

  And wait… and wait.

  A little voice whispers, Just leave. Walk away. I tell it to shut up and press the doorbell again.

  Rufus barks somewhere in the house.

  Finally, I hear a voice. A female voice. “Coming!” she calls, then says more softly, “Cab’s here, James. Call me tomorrow?”

  I hear his voice but can’t make out the words.

  Frozen, I watch the door open. Stare at the woman who stops abruptly. Her eyes widen as she recognizes me, then a slow smile spreads across her face.

  “Well, well,” Jessica purrs. “If it isn’t the prodigal student. Still stalking your professor, pet?”

  In lieu of throwing a bag of food in her face—or better yet, a can of gasoline and a lit match—I turn around.

  Walk down the driveway.

  Get in my car.

  Start the engine.

  Pull away from the curb.

  Drive past the cab.

  Drive.

  Drive.

  Drive.

  U-turn.

  Accelerate back the way I came.

  I’m done running.

  I hold down the doorbell until I hear Rufus going berserk, loud footsteps runni
ng, and James’ angry voice muttering about skinning someone alive.

  The door swings open. “What the fuc—” Shirtless and dripping from an interrupted shower, James blinks at me in stupefaction. “Iris? What’s the matter?”

  “Hi, James. You said you weren’t seeing Jessica anymore.”

  He frowns. “I’m not.”

  I guess I’m angrier than I feel, because I have to clench my hands to keep from slapping him. Or strangling him. Or trying to take a bite out of his neck.

  “I want the truth,” I grind out between my teeth. “Was all of this just to get back at me for three years ago? Make me fall in love with you again so you could rip it all away?”

  He crosses his arms as a breeze picks up. Goosebumps lift across his chest. “What the hell are you talking about? Jesus, it’s cold. Will you come inside?”

  “Nope. Tell me the truth. Did you fuck her today, when she was at your house?”

  Confusion.

  Dismay.

  Comprehension.

  Anger.

  “Are you kidding me? For fuck’s sake, is it always going to be like this?” He pauses, eyes smoldering. “Will you ever trust me?”

  Doubt stirs through my rage like heavy ink, cooling and dampening. I recall Jessica’s smart business attire, her perfectly coiffed hair, and the crisp lines of her lipstick. Had she looked like a woman just fucked? No, she hadn’t.

  “I want to trust you,” I say in a more reasonable tone. “But you told me you weren’t seeing her, and I brought you dinner, and she answered the door, and… and… she’s such a bitch!”

  He bites his lips but can’t disguise the laughter brimming in his eyes. “Unfortunately, Jessica was the architect I hired to help with renovations when I bought the house. She was here yesterday to finalize the transfer of the remaining work to one of her associates. You must have just missed him. His name is Gerald. Trim fellow, very tall. Has a mustache like a circus ringleader.”

  I manage, “Oh.”

  “You brought me dinner?”