Making a Scene Read online

  I drop the phone to the table and return to my desk. Let’s see if I can make this work one more time.

  I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, thinking of all the times that men have enjoyed my body and I have reveled in theirs. I think of their smooth backs, their muscular arms, their tight stomachs and abs, recalling their taut buttocks, the silky feel of the hair on their legs, the gentle abrasiveness of their stubbly cheeks as they trailed their way across my breasts. And their lips…

  Criminy, that’s the sweetest—and the most bitter—of my recollections. Of how they could deliver so many levels of pleasure and pain, from the passionate urgency of their kisses, the soft chat within the intimacy of their arms…to the abuse that slipped much too easily from Josh’s mouth. That is worth nothing without those.

  Bastard. Fucking ingrate. Bastard fucking ingrate.

  I look to my still-blank screen. That is worth nothing without those. I’m really hating him at this point, not so much what he’s done as much as what he’s still doing. I clench my eyes, trying to focus, trying to force myself to concentrate on my characters, but my bedroom keeps taunting me, those men from my past fading away, the long-lost ones who had worshiped my body and possessed a basic decency Josh knows nothing about, until all I can hear is that, those. Worth nothing. All I can see is those two writhing on my bed, spitting on my friendship, my intimacy, and my watching self a willing party to my own humiliation.

  Oh God, it’s useless. I close the lid of my laptop, surrendering. That bastard ingrate has poisoned my writing mojo.

  I get up, shove my hands in my pockets, start pacing. I end up at the window, looking down on the street, the long line of brick townhouses and stoops once so friendly, now not much more than a jail. It’s your own fault, girl. You invited the bastard in. Now what’re you going to do?

  For starters, get out. The place fairly reeks of him. I need to clear my head, recharge my engines, breathe the air tout de suite. I grab my jacket and fly out of the apartment.

  At least it’s a beautiful day, and I trot down the stoop and scoop up my newspaper, blinking against the bright morning sun. For weeks now I’ve been stuck inside for much of the day, hardly noticing how the gray winter is steadily lightening with the pastels of spring. I tuck the paper under my arm and hop off the stoop to the sidewalk, fortunate that Riverboro’s a walking town, one of those post-industrial New Jersey riverside hamlets gone gentrified, just up the Delaware from Philadelphia.

  There’s still a morning nip to the air and a shiver sweeps through me, my coffee jones made more urgent for the want of warmth. I pass the deli where I buy my milk and bread and a café that has some killer spinach salad and minestrone, but neither suits my needs at the moment. Then on the other side of the street and a little ways up on the corner I notice that new coffee bistro, Serious Joe. I’ve been hearing nothing but good things, but I just haven’t had the time. Seems now I do. I dodge a couple of cars and cross to it.

  A bell jangles and tinks on its old glass door and I walk in to a cozy mix of soft music, lively conversation and the glorious come-hither scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Eclectically covered tables line the wide street-level windows, potted plants hang from the tinned ceiling or sprout from urns on the wooden-planked floor, what looks like original artwork decorating the plastered walls in between. I snake around the packed tables to the equally crowded counter and its accompanying showcase of decadent pastries, croissants, cinnamon buns, brownies and breads, feeling immediately at ease as I scan the coffee menu on the wall.

  “Forget everything else. Try the Mocha Javette,” says the woman ahead of me, no doubt sensing my indecision. “Just enough chocolate, not overwhelming.”

  “But if you’re needing that morning kick,” says the man next to her, “get the Diamond Head blend.” He grits his teeth. “Legal crank in a cup.”

  “Infant formula,” says the man behind me. “Go with the Colombian Doubler. Had a medio yesterday morning and I’m still jittering.”

  I squint up at the menu; too many choices. What ever happened to a nice, conventional dose of liquid caffeine? “Jeez, all I want is a plain cup of coffee. How can you possibly pick from all these?”

  And as I’m trying to do just that, through the fog of my unjazzed brain, I hear from behind the counter, “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Oh, absolutely. I’ll take any help I can—”

  I look down, my gaze dropping to his. Oh. My. God.

  Chapter Two

  The man behind the counter has the darkest, the deepest, the most magnetic eyes I’ve ever seen. And they’re yanking me in like a tractor beam.

  “If all you want is a good, serviceable cup of coffee, I think you’ll like the house blend,” he says, that fathomless gaze sweeping me in a quick yet thorough assessment. He turns to the metal urn behind him and pours a cup. “How do you take it? Cream? Sugar? Or cutting those calories with something zero?”

  It takes a moment to register just what he’s asking. Because as he lifts the cup to the spout, I’m struck by the way his arms move—muscular, fluid arms seeming way out of place amid the fussy confines of that counter. Arms like those scream to be lifting more than Mocha Javettes; they need to be ripping trees out by the roots.

  “Cream and sugar, one each,” I finally manage to say.

  “Ah,” he says, smiling over one immensely broad shoulder. “Keeping it real. You must be a woman after my own heart.” He sets the cup to the counter and snaps on a sippy lid, those gorgeous arms leading to a no doubt equally sculpted torso beneath his t-shirt. Serious Joe it says, embroidered above the name Roark. Serious, indeed. “Go ahead. Try it.”

  I do, and holy cow! “You aren’t kidding. This is one serious cuppa joe.”

  He winks. “Hence the name.” I reach into my pocket but he holds up a hand. “No, put it away. I can see you’re a first-timer. This one’s on me.”

  “Well, if you insist.” I take another sip and mmm…is it ever good. “Thanks, really.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. It’s not like you won’t be back.”

  I toss him my patented flirty look. “Oh, you think so?”

  “Well, yeah,” he says, so smoothly my solar plexus goes a little twisty. “I got a feeling I’ll be making a lot of money off of you.”

  Presumptuous, isn’t he? I look around. “So this is your place?”

  “Sure is.” He extends his hand. “The name’s Roark. Roark Carmelli.”

  I take it. Coffee-warmed, slightly calloused, large enough to swallow mine. “I’m Pam—”

  “Flynn,” he finishes. “Our local celebrity.”

  “Oh, get out.” I know I’m turning red; I do whenever someone alludes to my minor notoriety. And this time I really must be flaming because he’s still latched on to me. Not that I’m complaining. “Wouldn’t take much in this town.”

  He squeezes my hand a little before letting it go. “So, what’s Jack and Dana up to these days?”

  It’s what they’re not up to more precisely, though I am instantly flattered. “You’ve read me?”

  Those eyes do another sweep. “Of course. Like I’m reading you now.” Then those eyes narrow as my insides go on a twirl, Roark painfully taking his time. “I believe…you’re saying you need a morning glory muffin to go with that coffee.” And while I’m standing there probably flashing a dozen shades of red, he slides a mammoth-size muffin onto a plate. “Here you go—breakfast. Sit down and take a load off.”

  I wasn’t planning on it, but what the hell. “Okay, why not,” I say, finally relinquishing my space at the counter. “Thanks again, Mr. Roark.”

  As he winks once more and shifts that electric smile to his next victim, I get the feeling he could sell earmuffs at the equator.

  “Hey, Pam! Over here!”

  I look toward the tables and by a window is my friend Leslie, phone clamped to her ear as she rearranges the lox on her bialy. She waves me over.

  “I got to go,” she says into the phone as I
set my gratis breakfast down and pull up a chair. “Pam’s here.” She holds out the phone. “Say hi to Linda.”

  I lean into it. “Hi, Linda. You still owe me five bucks.”

  Leslie laughs and says into the phone, “Next time you feel like losing at pool to Pam, play for shots. It’s a hell of a lot less expensive, cheap date that she is. Ciao!” She rings off and flips her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. “Well! Finally out in the world, I see. Where the hell have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages. What’s going on?”

  Leslie Parks owns the local copy and print shop and always gives me a deal on my paper and toner, not to mention lending a sympathetic ear to my bitch and moan. “In a word, Josh.”

  She frowns. “Now there’s a big surprise. How’d he screw you this time?”

  “It wasn’t me he screwed,” I say, halving the muffin. “It was my friend, Karen.”

  “Who’s Karen?” she says, taking a bite of the bialy. Which, by the way, smells heavenly. “Do I know her?”

  “No, we grew up together in Trenton. She lives in Pittsburgh now, but we keep in touch now and then. A few weeks ago she called to say she’s coming down for a wedding and could she stay with me, then maybe hang out an extra day or so to do Philadelphia. Sure, I said, though I told her I had already made arrangements to be down in Washington to do research. But Josh would be here to take her to Philly if she wanted.

  “Well, apparently, Philadelphia wasn’t entertaining enough for either of them, because when I came home the other day, there was Josh and Karen in my bedroom, going to town on my—”

  “Wait a minute.” She drops the bialy. “I thought we were speaking metaphorically.”

  “Oh no, we’re speaking quite literally.” I clench my fists, looking out the window to the mailbox, the fire hydrant, the bus going by—anything to replace that humiliating mental picture. “A nice set of rumpled sheets they left me with.”

  “In your own bed? How original.” She presses her fingers to the table, eyes narrowed. “He’s history, needless to say.”

  “No,” I say dryly, “we’re quite the ménage à trois now. Karen’s making breakfast and I just ran out to get the coffee.” Did I just say that?

  She ignores it. “Quite frankly, Pam, you were the only one who couldn’t see what a dick he was. But I guess if he were making my meals and doing my laundry, I’d have to concede he was worth something. Anyway, he must have skipped town because I haven’t seen him at the bar.” Leslie’s store is just across the street from O’Dooley’s where he works. She could usually see him behind their tall plate-glass windows. “I’d ask Kevin, but you know how he’s always trying to hit on me. I haven’t gone there since we did lunch.”

  “The day before Karen arrived.” I start to take a bite of the morning glory, but an image of Josh assaults me and my appetite takes a hike. I drop it back to the plate. “Wherever he did go, he’ll probably be back. He left his glasses at my place.” I ought to mail them to Karen. “Oh hell…” I sigh, breaking apart bits of muffin. “I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  Leslie regards me a few seconds, then says, “Something else is wrong. You and boy toy weren’t that tight to get this weird.” She squeezes my hand. “Speak to me.”

  What else could I say? I just told her the PG version of Josh and Karen’s being caught in flagrante delicto, so no way could I tell her or anyone my triple-X reaction to seeing it. But she is one of my closest friends. “Well, ever since it happened, I’ve kinda gotten a bit of writer’s block.”

  “Oh come on, you know there’s no such thing.” Leslie blogs on the Philly arts scene as well as writing columns and reviews for the local press, so I guess she feels that qualifies her opinion. “Don’t let those idiots put you off your game.”

  “They’re not! Why do you think that?” Because if they did, like I’d admit it?

  “Oh, stop.” She bites into her bialy as though she’s a fish snapping bait, then drops it atop its paper wrapper. “This is me you’re talking to, remember?” She glances at her watch. “Oh damn, we’ll have to continue this dissection later, I got to go. In the meantime, get yourself back to work and that idiot out of your head. He isn’t worth it.” She proceeds to wrap her breakfast, then spies my muffin, leaning over to pinch off a taste. “Umm…this is good. Morning glory?”

  “That’s what the man said,” I say, distracted. She’s right about Josh, but giving direction always is so much easier than taking it.

  “Isn’t this place great? I just started coming here a few days ago. Packs them in. And all the stuff is made right here too.”

  “Is that right?” I ask, watching a Jack Russell and its human trot by.

  She leans back on her arm, glancing dreamily toward the counter. “And the interior decoration ain’t too bad either.”

  “Yeah, nice artwork,” I opine.

  She slaps at my arm. “Boy, you are losing it, worse than I thought, in fact.”

  I sigh. “All right, if you’re alluding to Mr. Roark up there…”

  “Who else? Talk about your Italian Stallion. I heard he used be a marine, or a Navy SEAL. Or was it a CIA operative—”

  “Or the strongman at the circus? What does it matter? He makes coffee and that’s why I’m here.” I toss a furtive look at the object in question. He’s stacking croissants inside a box while three women in very pointy heels fawn and giggle and shoot so many hormonal hints in his direction, a man of lesser prowess would have collapsed on the spot. Good golly. What must it be like to be that totally hot?

  “Got to go,” says Leslie, standing, sliding her half-eaten bialy in her tote. “Ted’s got a board meeting after work tonight. I’d be great if you could meet me for dinner. What do you say?”

  It’s not like I’ve anything better to do. Like write. “I suppose. What time?”

  “Six thirty? How about Jesters?”

  “Anywhere but O’Dooley’s. See you then.”

  “Listen to me—try to get some work done. Maybe a change of venue is all you need. Why don’t you grab your laptop and go to the library?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

  Leslie just shakes her head, waving over her shoulder as she walks out.

  A few moments later the Pointy Heel Posse follow, giggling and huddling and whispering loud enough for me to hear, “Just one night, that’s all I want. Jesus! The man is sex on a stick!”

  “A real big stick, I’m thinking!” another says, and they giggle and snort and shove each other out the door.

  Oh brother. I take a bite of muffin, which would be beyond fabulous if I were in the mood for eating, and open my newspaper. But it’s getting too loud in here as the place fills up, and after a few more bites and sips I drop all into the trash and ease toward the door, slipping out as two more members of the Pointy Heel sisterhood trot through it.

  I stand on the sidewalk and look up at the sky. It’s blue like a robin’s egg, the morning crisp as it edges into the workday. But the idea of actually starting mine just seems too remote, so I cross the street and walk the two blocks to the river. I sit on a bench and let the world swirl around me, the birds swooping and the river reeds swaying, a few squirrels scampering up the yet-to-bud trees. But this idle life doesn’t work for me either, and after ten minutes of watching the coal barges float by, I give it up and start the walk home, panicking the closer I get.

  Six days. Six days left to write the sex scene and I haven’t put down a word. Because the only sex scene that keeps invading my brain is the free-form porn show of Josh and Karen, replete with grunts, sighs, smacks, screams and my inexplicable, humiliating reaction to it. Damn them, how I hate this. How I hate myself, at least this latest idiot version. If I’ve ever had anything, it’s an imagination that just wouldn’t quit, but now? The brakes are on and locked. I stop at the corner for a light.

  Across the street is that boutique Leslie’s been telling me about. I’ve been dying to stop in but I’ve just been t
oo busy. Well, that excuse certainly doesn’t apply at the moment. And don’t I need a new dress for my friend Malcolm’s book party in New York this weekend? No time like the present. I trot across.

  Inside is all posh and flowers and brightened-up for spring, the scents of linen, silk and lavender greeting me as I walk inside. A woman glides over and says hello, telling me with her wide, lipsticked grin to just ask! if I need any help.

  “Thanks, but I’m just looking around,” I say, gravitating to their sale rack, sliding dresses until I reach a size twelve. Had I been looking for pants, I would pass right over twelve to fourteen, as I carry a fair amount of luggage in this trunk. But I work out and walk a lot, so it’s firm enough to bounce a quarter off of, though some would consider me a bit chunky.

  Then I come across a nifty little fuchsia number with a flirty peplum in the back, and a deep-scooped bodice that will show off my unaltered cleavage perfectly. I take it into the dressing room and damn, if it doesn’t fit like it was made for me. I pull my hair from its clip and let it drape around my breasts, posing a bit in the three-way to assess the effect. With all my curves accentuated, with my eyes narrowed and my lips gone pouty, I ought to feel sexy, a mantrap, at the height of my game. But I don’t.

  Because something is wrong. Terribly, awfully wrong. I put my clothes back on, pay for the dress and practically run home.

  As soon as I get in the door I drop my stuff and head for the bathroom. If anything will calm my nerves and give me some time to sort things out, it’s a bubble bath. Maybe I just need to indulge the more sensual part of my brain, and what better place than where I’m naked and wet. I turn on the tap and dump in some swirly pink liquid, then strip and sink myself up to my neck. The water is as hot as I can stand it and the bubbles feel slippery against my skin. I rest my head back against the wall and after a minute or so, the tension begins to ease.

  I close my eyes and try to concentrate on my characters, on Jack Tanaka and Dana Shields, on the bodies I have fashioned for them in my mind, on his silky voice and her cool demeanor, on how they have respected and looked after each other, and how they would now cross that tenuous divide from partners and friends to lovers. I try to think of how I can actually do it, make these two whom I’ve come to know so intimately, who rely on me for every breath and recourse, turn away from me to each other. It almost seems like a betrayal, as silly as it is to even think it of imaginary characters! But they’re of my imagination, and they belong to me.