Missing Pieces Read online

  He reached over, his palm covering the top of my hand. “You seem a little nervous.”

  Was he playing with me? “I guess I’m not sure how seriously to take you,” I answered truthfully.

  “And that makes you nervous?”

  “I like to know where I stand.”

  “Take me very seriously,” he said, removing his hand.

  I was more confused than ever. I hadn’t engaged in this kind of elliptical banter in over twenty-five years. One of the things I’d always liked about my husband was that I’d known where I stood with him right from the very beginning of our relationship. There’d been no anxious nights by the telephone waiting for him to call. No emotional roller-coaster rides. So why wasn’t it my husband I was flirting with across the table of a cozy little restaurant in Delray Beach?

  “The secrets of a happy marriage,” I repeated, trying not to think of how handsome Robert looked in his dark green suit. “There are no secrets. You know that.”

  “You’ve been married almost a quarter of a century,” he reminded me.

  “You’ve been married over twenty years yourself,” I reminded him back.

  “Who said I was happy?”

  My mouth went suddenly dry. I looked around the dimly lit restaurant, decorated in shades of burgundy and pink, and wondered what was taking our food so long. We’d been sitting here, in a corner table at the back, for almost half an hour. We’d already tossed around a host of ideas for my so-called show: Was a daily hour-long format preferable to a weekly two-hour show? Would I interview various experts or go it alone? Should we concentrate on one topic at a time or should we open the phone lines and let the topics fall where they may? What about conducting real-life therapy sessions on the air? How about dramatizations? Was there a way to combine the two?

  We’d reached no conclusions. Clearly, we had a long way to go in our discussions. It was obvious more such lunches would be necessary.

  “You’re not happy?” I asked, the question out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  “I’m not unhappy,” he qualified. “My wife is a very nice woman; she’s given me four beautiful children and a very successful career. I owe her a great deal. I know that.”

  “Do you love her?” I knew the question sounded naive, maybe even trite. But in the end, it was the only question that really mattered.

  “Define love.”

  I shook my head. “Love means different things to different people. I couldn’t presume to speak for you.”

  “Speak for me,” he said. “Go ahead—presume.”

  I smiled, wishing I wasn’t such a sucker for his easy charm. Get up now, I told myself. Get up out of your seat, and tell him you’re not hungry, that this whole radio show idea is a bad one, that you’re not fooled by his newfound interest in your therapeutic capabilities, and that you have no more intention of sleeping with him now than you did thirty years ago. Go ahead, tell him. Instead I stayed put, twisted restlessly in my seat, said, “I can only tell you what love means to me.”

  “Please do.”

  I swallowed. “I think that love is a combination of many factors—respect and tolerance and acceptance of the other person for who they are.” My eyes shifted inexorably toward his. “And, of course, physical attraction.”

  “So, what happens when you have respect and tolerance and you accept the other person for who she is, but the physical attraction is no longer there?”

  “You work hard to get it back,” I said, somewhat stuffily, grateful beyond words when the waiter approached with our food.

  “Be careful,” the waiter warned, prophetically. “It’s very hot.”

  I tore into my seafood pasta as if I hadn’t seen food in weeks. It burned my tongue, seared the roof of my mouth. Still, as long as my mouth was full, I couldn’t get into trouble, I reasoned, barely taking a breath between forkfuls. My tongue grew numb. The food lost all taste. I kept shoveling it in regardless, aware that Robert was smiling at me from across the table, that he was enjoying my discomfort.

  “You’re suggesting that I fake it?” he asked after a long pause.

  “Why not? Women do it all the time.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t deny it.”

  “I’m not suggesting you fake anything,” I said, my mouth on fire.

  “That’s good, because it’s not always possible. From a strictly physical point of view,” he added unnecessarily, as I struggled unsuccessfully not to imagine him naked. “The male body doesn’t always cooperate with its best resolve.”

  “I don’t think we should get into this,” I said finally, swallowing, the pasta sitting like a lump of burning coal in the middle of my stomach.

  “What are we getting into?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.” I put down my fork, stared him straight in the eyes. “Why are you telling me these things?”

  “I guess I was hoping you’d have some easy answers for me,” he said, and laughed sadly. “The McDonald’s School of Psychiatry. Quick and effortless. Over eight billion cured.”

  “McTherapy.” I laughed. “Sounds like a good name for a radio show.”

  We lapsed into silence. I finished the balance of my pasta, felt it burn a trail through my esophagus, razing various internal organs on its way to my intestines, where it wrapped itself into a series of tight little knots.

  “So, how do you do it?” he asked calmly, sipping on his wine.

  “Do what?”

  “Keep your relationship … what’s the word they use? … vital?”

  I sighed, more deeply than I’d intended. I understood that “vital” was a euphemism for “sexy.”

  “Do you love your husband?” he pressed.

  “Yes,” I answered quickly.

  “You have the right combination of respect and tolerance and acceptance of one another?”

  “Yes.” One-word answers were about all I was capable of at the moment.

  “And you still find each other physically attractive?”

  “My husband is a very handsome man.”

  “And my wife’s a very lovely woman. That’s not what I asked.”

  “I still find my husband physically attractive, yes.”

  “And he, you?”

  Did he? I wondered. “He says he does.” Really? I asked myself. When was the last time he said that?

  “You still make love?”

  I reached for my water, took a long gulp, half hoped I would choke, have to be carried out of the restaurant. I glanced around the room, hoping for a diversion of some sort—a waiter dropping a tray, a couple breaking into a loud argument at a nearby table, someone’s mother swinging a golf club at her head. “I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “For sure it’s none of my business,” he agreed. “I’m asking anyway.”

  I tried not to smile, felt my lips wobbling all over my face. “We still make love,” I answered.

  “How often?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, I did, and I have no intention of answering you.”

  “Not as often as you used to, I’ll bet.”

  “Pretty safe bet after twenty-five years of marriage.”

  “And are you happy about that?”

  “I’m not unhappy about it,” I replied, echoing his earlier phrase. Was that true?

  He smiled.

  Did he still have to look as handsome as he had so long ago? Couldn’t he have grown fat or bald or dim-witted? Did he still have to move with an athlete’s grace? Did his hips have to be so impossibly slim, his chest so impressively expansive? Did he have to look so damned … vital?

  “My wife and I haven’t made love in three years,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, I did.” Hadn’t we already had this exchange? “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
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  “What would you say if I were your client?”

  “I thought you once told me that if you wanted my professional advice, you’d make an appointment,” I said, trying to shift the conversation to another level, one I could deal with safely in the professional confines of my office.

  “Is that what you think I should do?” he asked.

  “Is that what you need?” I asked in return.

  “You’re the therapist. You tell me.”

  “I think if you’re unhappy with your situation, you should change it.”

  “I’m trying to,” he said, provocatively.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, crossed one leg over the other. “You should talk to your wife about this. Tell her how you feel.”

  “You don’t think I’ve done that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “My wife insists that part of her life is over. She’s done her bit for posterity. She’s gone forth and multiplied. Now all she wants is companionship and a good night’s sleep.”

  “Maybe it’s physical,” I offered. “Some women going through menopause experience a decrease in their level of sexual desire.”

  “Has that happened to you?”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  “I prefer talking about you.”

  “Have you tried courting your wife? Taking her out for dinner?” I persisted. Or lunch, I thought, but didn’t say. “Sometimes all it takes is a few kind words. Try saying at least one nice thing to her every day. You’ll see, it’ll change your life.”

  “You used to drive me crazy,” he said, sidestepping my advice, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’d come home from a date with you and head straight for the cold shower.”

  “You’d head straight for Sandra Lyons,” I said, remembering how hurt I’d been when my girlfriend first informed me of his extracurricular activities, experiencing a slight twinge even now.

  He looked surprised.

  “Didn’t think I knew about her, did you?”

  “Everybody knew about Sandra,” he said easily, recovering nicely, taking a long sip of his wine. “She was the girl everybody knew.”

  “She killed herself shortly after you left town.”

  The wineglass almost slipped through his fingers. “What?”

  I started to laugh, at first only a slight giggle, soon a great hearty guffaw. “I’m sorry,” I said, then laughed even louder.

  “You’re laughing?!”

  “I made it up. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “You made what up?”

  “Sandra Lyons—she didn’t kill herself.” I tried to stop laughing, couldn’t. “She’s fine. At least she was fine the last time I saw her. I don’t know—she could be dead by now.” My laughter was verging on hysteria.

  He looked horrified. “Why did you say she’d killed herself?”

  “I’m not sure,” I told him, still laughing, but that was only partly true. I’d been trying to shake him up. It wasn’t fair that only one of us was a quivering mess.

  He shook his head. “You’re a strange woman, Kate Latimer.”

  “Sinclair,” I corrected, the laughter suddenly freezing in my throat. Back to square one, I thought.

  “Sinclair, right. Tell me, does your husband often see this side of you?”

  “What side is that?”

  “This twisted, rather sadistic side that, for some perverse reason, I’m finding extremely attractive.”

  I tried to laugh, couldn’t. “I’m sure he sees it more often than he’d like.”

  Robert finished his wine, poured himself some more, studying me all the while. “Your husband’s the only man you’ve ever been with, isn’t he?” he said.

  I felt suddenly exposed, as if he’d reached over and unbuttoned the front of my dress, laid bare all that was private and untouchable. Probably I should have slapped his face. I definitely should have gotten up and left. At the very least, I should have told him to shut the hell up, enough was enough. Instead I said, “What makes you say that?”

  “I was always pretty good at reading people.”

  “My mother says my face is an open book.”

  “Your mother’s right.”

  “Where is it written that my husband has been my only lover?”

  Robert reached across the table, traced the line of my lips with his index finger. “Right here,” he said, as a shiver raced through me, as strong as an electrical charge. “Aren’t you ever curious,” he asked, “what it would be like with somebody else?”

  Oh God, I thought, I’m lost. If I didn’t stop this and stop it now, I’d never find my way back. “No,” I lied, pushing my chair back, just slightly out of his reach. His hand remained where it was, absently caressing the space between us. His touch lingered on my lips. I felt it as one supposedly feels the presence of a recently amputated limb. “I’m not curious.”

  “You’ve never been tempted?”

  “I’m a married woman.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Has your husband ever been unfaithful?”

  “No.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  “I am very sure,” I said, and I was. There weren’t many things I was sure of anymore, but I was sure of this: Larry would never cheat on me. It was something I’d never doubted in all our time together. “This is a very dangerous conversation,” I finally acknowledged.

  “What is?”

  “This is. This—what we’re doing.”

  “We’re not doing anything.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “We’re laying a foundation,” I said, thinking of Larry.

  “A foundation for what?”

  “You know for what. Please don’t be coy.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m not interested in an affair,” I told him, pushing the words out of my mouth, hoping I sounded more convincing than I felt.

  “An affair? That’s what you think I want?”

  “Isn’t it?” Had I misinterpreted everything?

  “I’ve never gotten over you, Kate,” he was saying, his voice a soft blanket, inviting me inside. “I look at you, and I still feel the same sparks I did when I was a pimply-faced teenager.”

  “You never had a pimple in your life,” I said.

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “I want you, Kate,” he said simply. “I’ve always wanted you. I think you want me too.”

  “I want a lot of things. It doesn’t mean I’m going to get them. It doesn’t mean those things are good for me.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try?”

  “And what would be the point of trying?”

  “I don’t know.” He reached for my hands. I quickly put them in my lap. “I just know that something is missing from my life, and has been for a very long time. I thought I’d gotten used to it. I told myself that my life was full, that romance was for teenagers, all the stuff people tell themselves to get them through the night. But all that went out the window the day I saw you in the courthouse. There you were, every bit as beautiful as I remembered. And not only beautiful, but funny and smart and sexy as hell. It was like discovering my youth all over again, only better. I look at you and I feel that anything’s possible. It’s a feeling I’d forgotten. And I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to lose you. I want you. Is that so wrong?”

  “Oh God,” I said, trying not to be overwhelmed. “That was quite a speech.”

  “I meant every word.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything right now. Just think about it.”

  “It’ll be hard not to,” I told him.

  He smiled, then frowned, then smiled again, his hands retreating to his sides. And suddenly he was on his feet, his arms extended, and I realized we were no longer alone, that someone else had joi
ned us. “What are you doing here?” Robert was asking, sounding pleased by this unexpected interruption. I was amazed at how quickly he could shift gears. I was still locked in first, and slipping down that mountain road. “How did you know where to find me?”

  The next voice was soft and unmistakably feminine. “I called the office; your secretary told me you’d probably still be here. I hope I’m not interrupting anything too important.”

  Of course I knew it was Robert’s wife even before I turned around. “Actually, it’s perfect timing. We were just finishing up,” I told her, feeling dizzy and light-headed as Robert made the necessary introductions.

  Brandi Crowe was an attractive woman approximately my own age. She was on the short side, maybe five feet three inches tall, and she wore a lot of makeup, especially around her eyes, which were small and gray and untroubled by lines. She had that vaguely surprised look I recognized from her photograph. I found myself checking her hairline for signs of recent surgery, but her hair—a shade too black, a touch too long—provided suitable camouflage. Her Chanel suit was the same shade of pink as the tablecloth.

  “You’re just in time for dessert,” Robert said easily, pulling out a chair for his wife and signaling for the waiter.

  “Well, I’ll join you for some coffee, if you don’t mind.” His wife smiled in my direction. “I haven’t had dessert in years. It’s not fair, is it? I mean, look at Robert. He eats whatever he wants, and he never puts on a pound. I so much as look at a rich dessert …” Her voice trailed off. “Is that a new suit?” she asked her husband.

  He shook his head, but the slight blush that appeared unexpectedly on his cheek told me otherwise. So, he’d bought a new suit for our lunch, I thought, twisting the buttons of my newly purchased red-and-white-floral dress.

  “Do you work at the station?” Brandi Crowe asked as the waiter cleared away the dishes from our main course and passed around the dessert menus.

  “Kate’s a therapist,” Robert explained. “I’ve been trying to talk her into doing a little something for us.”

  Brandi Crowe looked confused. “Really? In what capacity?”