Part 4 (1/2)
”Yes,” she played back. ”On top of both towers of the World Trade Center.”
Stacey looked south, but the landmark structures were masked by lesser, but closer buildings. ”Hmm. A little windy, but your choice could be interesting.”
”My dream was you handed me a green drink and told me it was what I needed.”
”Something with Midori, maybe,” Stacey said, nodding. ”Something right out of Oz.” She turned to Helen. ”That might match those elusive eyes. I'll be right back.” After several minutes, she returned and handed her a color photograph. ”Here's your drink. Take it slowly. No, in your case, you might want to chug that baby.”
Helen reached for the photograph and her mouth dropped open. There was the jogger and Stacey cheek-to-cheek, grinning like drunken sailors at the camera. Before she spoke, she gazed long at her would-be a.s.sa.s.sin. Was that the woman who would reduce her to a puddle of pleasure? The one who would tear down thick and tall defenses?
”You know her?” Helen leaned forward on her chair and stared at the photo. ”You knew who I was talking about and kept your mouth shut? Jesus, Stacey.”
”After hearing your description of her, I figured she was the one. You know I don't play matchmaker, but I'll stray from my policy a bit.” She returned to her seat. ”I don't want you to mourn the dead forever. Her name is Cory Chamberlain and she flew to Boston early yesterday. Otherwise, my bet is she would have met you at the restaurant.”
”Cory Chamberlain,” Helen said, and liked how the name felt when spoken. ”What can you tell me about her?”
Stacey propped her feet up again. ”Just about everything, but I won't say another word. That's for you to find out.”
”Just answer one question: Do you have her phone number?”
Stacey breathed a heavy sigh, hoisted herself from the chair, walked back inside, and returned with the Manhattan directory. She dropped it not so casually onto the table. Helen jumped from the thud.
”Yes, and you do, too.”
Helen considered the dense volume of pages in front of her. She refrained from touching it, as she had done with the box, but she knew that it held something that grabbed her attention and that was her fear of it. She estimated the weight of the book, and tried to guess on what page she would locate Cory's name. What page? Which seven numbers would bring Helen closer to giving life to the elusive ”yes?” Reluctantly, she touched the cover but didn't browse the register.
”Still with me, Blondie?”
Helen looked away from the book. ”Do you think I'm silly?”
”No. Things happen. Emotions stir and can fly into fitful directions. Sometimes that's good and sometimes it isn't. Cory's a d.a.m.n fine-looking woman and she's obviously interested in you. She's charming, knows who she is, and she knows what she wants. You'll have to determine if the direction is good or bad.”
”She sounds too good to be true. There has to be a catch.”
”There could be. Somewhere down the line there are bugs in all of us.”
Helen gave her a puzzled look. ”And what are my bugs?”
”You've made mourning a profession and you annoy people in their sleep.”
Helen put the corner of the photograph to her lips. ”You've placed a shroud of mystery around her.”
Stacey stretched and yawned loudly. ”There's no mystery to Cory. Let's talk on Wednesday about your party. You'll have my undivided attention then.”
”Do you think your friends might consider my idea, or are you patronizing me?”
She stood and pulled Helen up by her hands. Stacey hugged her tightly. ”Don't even think about your party. Just go home and call that dame.”
”Thanks. I'll think about it.”
”No, Blondie, don't think. Just do it.”
Chapter Five.
Helen tried to convince herself that her anxiety was a girl thing, that time right before her period when she possessed enough energy to swim the Hudson and East rivers while towing a Circle Line Cruise s.h.i.+p. She ignored the fact that her hormones had ceased raging a week ago.
Surely a woman who maintained a teasing distance wasn't a cause for concern. It didn't matter that Helen thought ”attractive” and ”great b.r.e.a.s.t.s” each time they met. No, because Stacey's friend was toying with her. d.y.k.e or not, that Chamberlain woman couldn't possibly be thinking the same things. Apart from all of the commotion, Helen wasn't on the market anyway.
To divert her restlessness, she frantically cleaned her apartment, labeled every neglected computer disk, alphabetically categorized her video collection, washed her hair, shaved her legs, and gave herself a complete manicure. With the final coat drying, the time was still only six o'clock.
”Now what? Clean the oven?” Not in this lifetime. ”Paint the walls or shampoo the carpet?”
Perhaps she should burn her copy of Katherine Forrest's An Emergence of Green. That's what all that frantic cleaning was about, wasn't it? She wanted to forget that the color existed and forget that Cory Chamberlain was right there in the phone book. Right there. Stacey had sent her home with the photograph and she promptly shoved it into her own phone book. A face, a name, and now somewhere within those inches of paper was a phone number.
Helen sat restless in her chair and looked across the room to the Manhattan directory at the bottom of her telephone table. The intrusion seemed vulgar to her. Vulgar because it compelled her to snare the book, devour the number, and have it spit out again through her fingertips. Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.
”h.e.l.lo? Cory Chamberlain? It's Helen. Would you mind too terribly if I kissed your b.r.e.a.s.t.s for a wonderfully long time? Perhaps I could interest you in a playful romp through the sheets. What's that? Yes, I like that, too. Great. Meet me 'round the corner in half an hour.”
Helen laughed at the absurdity of her imaginary conversation. She didn't chase women; she chased good columns and those wonderful Reubens from the New York Deli. Writing was safe; food was temporary. There was no loss, no death, nothing more serious to worry about than occasional retractions and lethal calories.
She fidgeted. She drummed her fingers on the fine oak grain of her Boston rocker; she tapped her foot to an unheard melody. She glared at the book and her blood tingled. The same tingle she had felt eons ago when she smoked cigarettes and knew when her nicotine level was dropping. It was as though her blood had turned into ants crawling through her, and it was then that Helen would know to light up. It was the only way to stop the jitters. She had to feed the addiction.
The voice inside her knew where to find the fuel. The voice that was Helen's, but it was deeper, insistent, and seductive.
Well?
Helen shook her head in annoyance. ”Stay out of this.”
She's a knockout, isn't she?
”What of it?”
She's been teasing you.
”Only once with the scarves.”
She's teasing you.
Helen pursed her lips. ”You sound like HAL from Kubrick's s.p.a.ce Odyssey.”
As HAL had control, I have control.
”And I don't?”