“Don’t blame Claudia,” Horace said. He was on his big feet now. “I talked her into it. We’re both hurting, Tamara, we have to get this situation resolved.”
She ignored him. Damn room looked like a stage set for a dumb-ass holiday play. Lights turned down low, gas fire going, Claudia’s tree all lit up and twinkling blue and green in the bay window, Christmas CD humming and jingling in the background. He’d talked her into it. Sure, right. Looked like they’d planned it together. Sister Judas and the Cello King, co-conspirators.
“Where’re the caterers?” she said. “Call ’em in. I can sure use a glass of bubbly.”
“Caterers?” Claudia said. “What’re you talking about?”
“Never mind.”
Horace said, “Tamara, baby...”
“Who’s that barking? Some stray? Better let him out before he pees all over your Persian carpet.”
“Please don’t be a smartass about this. Can’t you just sit down and talk things over with Horace like a responsible adult?”
“Horace who?”
Claudia sighed. Ever since they were kids she’d done a lot of sighing, usually over something Tamara said or did that she didn’t approve of. She was four years older, ten pounds heavier, one shade darker, and as far as Tamara was concerned, two shades uglier. She was also a born-again vegan, wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t grown organically and washed eleven times in purified water, didn’t have enough sense of humor to stuff an olive, got her jollies reading obscure law precedents, refused to own a TV, and had a boyfriend who wasn’t only another lawyer but an oreo with a tighter ass than hers. And she thought her little sis had problems.
“I’m outta here,” Tamara said.
“No, you’re not. You’re going to stay put and have this out with Horace.”
“Don’t know anybody named Horace.”
Another sigh. “I’m the one who’s leaving. I have a date with Brian — I told you that this morning. We’re going to The Nutcracker.”
“You ask me, Brian ought to have his nuts cracked.”
“... What kind of thing is that to say?”
“I don’t know what you see in that man. He must do something pretty terrific in bed, all I can figure.”
“Tamara...”
“What’s his idea of foreplay? Reading you one of his briefs?”
“That’s enough!”
She looked somewhere between Claudia and Horace and said as if she were doing stand-up in front of a hostile audience, “What do you call two lawyers screwing? Anybody know?”
Breathless suspense while they waited for the punch line.
“Joint practice.”
Thud.
She let go a sigh of her own, one that outdid Claudia’s, threw her coat and purse onto one of the chairs, and stalked into the kitchen.
Unopened quart of milk she’d bought was in the fridge. She poured a tall glass full up, gulped it in three swallows. They were talking in the living room; she could hear the low mutter of voices but none of the words. Just as well. Who cared what they were saying? She wasn’t hungry any more, but she found a cold chicken leg and stripped it to the bone in ten seconds flat. Drank more milk. Rummaged up a hunk of cheese and took it to the kitchen window, the one that overlooked Fell Street and the long strip of park. Panhandle looked deserted, lonesome, headlights on the cars passing and the house and street lights opposite on Oak all blurry and cold. Damn rain.
The mutter of voices stopped. She finished the cheese, stepped to the counter to finish the milk. Pretty quiet out there now. Both of them gone? Might as well find out.
Claudia was missing, but not Horace. Standing over in front of the fire, warming his chubby behind. All hangdog, like a big package somebody ordered and forgot to pick up. Whup, mixed metaphor. Language po-lice gonna get her sure.
God, she felt awful.
And not just from all the crap she’d eaten, either.
Horace was looking at her with those big eyes of his, fierce and sorrowful at the same time. Kick his sorry butt out the door. Ignore him. Go off on him again. But she couldn’t make herself do any of those things. About all she could do was walk slow to the sofa and sink down on it.
Pretty soon he came over and lowered his bulk next to her. Better not get too close, better not touch her.
He didn’t. He said in a choky voice, “Tamara.”
“That’s my name.”
“You as miserable as I am?”
“Who says I’m miserable?”
“I do.”
“Well, you’re wrong. As usual.”
“I know misery when I see it.”
“Take a look in the mirror.”
“In the mirror, and right here next to me.
“So what if I am? None of your business anymore.”
“You’ll always be my business.”
“Sweet talkin’ b.s.”
“I couldn’t stand it if I lost you, baby. I swear to God.”
She closed her eyes. Leave it to him to say the one thing, in that choky voice, those brown eyes dripping sad, that could melt steel in her.
“I mean it,” he said. “You know I love you.”
“I hear you saying it.”
“And you love me. Neither of us ever loved anybody else the way we love each other. You know that’s the truth too.”
“Sometimes love’s not enough.”
He laid his hand, gentle, on hers. “We belong together.”
“Don’t touch me.”
He didn’t move his hand. Move it for him, she thought... but she didn’t.
“We belong together,” he said again.
“I’m not going east with you.”
“All right.”
“Not gonna marry you either.”
“All right.”
“So what else is there?”
“There’s now,” he said.
“Now doesn’t last very long. Then what?”
“Then we’ll have tomorrow. Christmas. New Year’s. One day at a time.”
“That old song.”
“Old song, true lyrics.”
“Until there aren’t any more days left.”
“Everything ends, everybody’s days run out. Better a little more time together than none at all, both of us alone and miserable.”
“Horace, the philosopher.”
“Horace, the man who loves you.”
He slid nearer, tentatively. She didn’t move. He put his arm around her, drew her against him, held her tight. She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t have if she’d tried. Big as a tree, warm, tender. Hers. And no denying she was his, like it or not. For the first time in a week she felt like bawling.
Damn man.
She lay with her head on his thick-furred chest, all limp and sweaty, her skin still tingling. Shouldn’t’ve done that, she thought. Sex doesn’t solve anything. But her body said different. Her body said she’d needed it as much as she ever had. Stress relief, misery relief. One thing you could say for Horace, he knew how to love a woman. Lord, did he know! But it was more than that. She knew it, even if she hated having to admit it to herself. He was what she really needed. All of him, every part, the good and the bad, in bed and out.
“Baby?” he said. “What’re you thinking?”
“Not,” she said.
“Liar. Thinking how good we are together, same as I was.”
“In bed, maybe.”
“In bed and every other way.”
“I still won’t change my mind.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
Liar, she thought. Not Horace — you, girl. Liar. Fool.
“There’s only one thing I will ask,” he said.
“What?”
“Don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us.”
She didn’t have to think about her answer. There was only one answer, and no use trying to deny it or fight it any longer. No more fool for the fool. Even if it meant giving up everything else she cared about — only one answer.