Stumped

Thanks to Unsung Muse for the challenge of writing this story!

*

"Caroline! ... Caroline, wait!"

The last thing I wanted to do was wait. My cheeks were burning bright red and I knew I was going to cry. All I wanted to do was get out of there.

But my lawyer — who was also my friend — deserved at least a little courtesy, so I stopped. I held my eyes tightly shut and clenched my jaw, holding back the tears. His footsteps echoed toward me down the long marble hall.

The halls of justice

, I thought bitterly.

So much for that

.

Stanley made the mistake of touching my arm as he caught up. My stare was violent enough to make him let go.

"I just wanted to tell you, I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

"Thanks, I just don't want to talk right now, I'll call you later," my words came out in a rush.

He nodded. His firm blue eyes weren't wet like mine, but he was sorry. I knew it. I left behind the image of his pale balding head, his little salt and pepper moustache that always made me think of a jack russell terrier. He wasn't a classically attractive man. But he was a darn nice guy, and as far as I knew, a good husband and father.

I flounced down the courtroom steps, a bit less energetically than I might have before Stanley put a speed bump in my anger. I took refuge on a park bench, not giving a damn that it was 25°, and sat down to let the tears come. Douglas. Why?

In all honesty I did not know why. Ten years of marriage, tossed. Because he wanted to sleep around? Uh uh. So he claimed, but there had to be another reason. What had I done or not done? What had he failed to find in me when I had given all that I had, all who I am?

The questions quit gnawing and gave way to pure pain. I sat there drowning in tears. Passersby politely ignored me: a woman who might be pretty when she wasn't red-faced and sobbing. I found a tissue in the pocket of my long wool coat and stabbed at the end of my nose.

Eventually the tears slowed to a lazy creek instead of a rushing river. I was about out of tissues and that meant, pretty soon, I'd have to go "home." The thought of doing so put my emotions on spin cycle, so I pushed the thought away and just stared, only partly seeing the big open square in front of me.

The square wasn't what it once was. As little as eighteen months ago, elm trees danced to the fountain's music. But the fountain was turned off now because of the cold; and where there used to be beautiful elms, now there were stumps. An infestation of elm borers had left the city with no choice but to amputate.

Pigeons fluttered around in their revised three-dimensional territory. I wondered when it would get too cold for them to fly. I found a little packet of oyster crackers in my pocket. In the twisted logic of the newly divorced, it seemed like they were more deserving than me, so I tore open the plastic and began doling out the last bits of what I had to give. With a rueful thought, I realized that was just how I felt about my marriage: this was it. There just wasn't any more. I was down to my last emotional crumbs.

They ate the crumbs without any thought.

One of the birds seemed to be looking at me. He didn't come too close, but neither did he retreat. What did he want? I showed him the empty cracker packet. "There isn't any more." I shoved the wrapper into my pocket, but he stayed, as if to abide with me.

I sighed. Personifying birds was ridiculous. I knew I was just trying to avoid the inevitable, and was about to trudge toward my little Toyota, when a man had the nerve to sit down beside me.

"Nice day," he observed, not looking at me.

Since he obviously just wanted to pick me up, I made a rude face. My expression said

Are you nuts?!

But my voice didn't say anything.

As if sensing my thought, he smiled. "I guess it is on the chilly side." He turned to me and I quickly wiped the childish look off my face. I still didn't say anything, though, because he was handsome, and that pissed me off.

Great, just what I need. Not only a guy on the make, a good-looking guy on the make

. I knew all about the pretty ones; my husband—ex-husband, I corrected myself—was one. Women flocked to them so easily, they basically expected every female to bow and simper. "Oh, you're so gorgeous! [Squeal.] Can I get you anything? Want to fuck me?"

Not me. I had less than zero interest. I started searching for my car keys as he said, "Name's Hank."

"Hi." Couldn't he see I'd been crying? This was not a good time!

I found my keys and stood up. "See you later." My tone was as cold as the hollow fountain. I tossed my oversized leather bag over my shoulder and strode off, my knee-high boots making fresh prints in the crusty snow. My car was in the garage across the street.

At that point it struck me that I'd sure look like an ass if my car wouldn't start, and Hank was the one I wound up asking for help. The old words circled in my head: "Make your words as sweet as honey, for you may have to eat them."

For the second time that day, I hesitated. My lips firmed. I really had no interest in this guy other than to apologize for being rude. That was it, that was all.

Focused on this thought, I turned around and went back across the street. Hank watched me, a look of mild curiosity shading his tanned features. I couldn't keep my eyes on his.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry I was rude. I'm having a really bad day."

"Thanks. That was why I sat down. I could see you were having a tough time of it and I thought maybe a bit of human company might help. You know," his grin was somewhat embarrassed, "just someone to tell your troubles to."

He offered me his card. I studied it for a moment and slipped it into my pocket, along with the snotty tissues that were probably starting to freeze.

I held out my gloved hand, and he shook it. "Caroline."

"Nice to meet you."

"I, uh, have to get going." I thought of the house and the packing that had to be done. "See you later."

Having discharged my social obligation, I made my way back across the street, again stepping awkwardly to avoid the greasy slush. Thank god for tall boots. I hate those short ones where one misstep can let the icy nasty stuff slide down your ankle, and then you have to deal with wet-sock all day. Ick.

My trusty little Toyota started just fine, thank you, and heat surged out of the vents within a few minutes. My breath stopped making clouds in front of my face. I relaxed a little.

Hank waved, and I gave him a nod, as I left the garage and drove away.

* * *

Ten months later my friend Babette might have been a tad bit angry with me. I couldn't really tell.

"Come

on

, Caroline, you're going!" She put her hands on her hips in exasperation. Was she really ticked, or not?

I shook my head. "I just don't think I'm ready."

"Okay, then, we'll do this the hard way." Babette took the hem of my sweater in her hands and pulled it up, exposing my ribs.

"Hey!" I laughed.

"Play Superman," she directed sweetly. This was probably the same tone of voice she used with her four-year-old son. Almost automatically I lifted my arms. Her eyes focused on my waistline.

"You're lookin' hot, babe. Don't make me push you down and take off your pants."

Turning a faint pink, I undid the zipper myself. Apparently I was going to the party. "Can I at least wear my ordinary underwear?"

"Hmmm..." my friend looked me up and down. "Absolutely not. The St. Pauli Girl does not expose her bra straps."

We hunted through my lingerie drawer until we found the white corset. That almost got me; Douglas used to love seeing me wear that. He enjoyed taking it off, too.

My friend didn't let me choke up. With a firm hand she steered me into the Bavarian beer wench costume, and off we went.

Just before we left, she reminded me that it was damn cold outside, and I ought to wear a coat. I hadn't yet lived a full year in my new apartment (how long until I quit calling it "new"?). All the winter stuff was still packed.

"Just a second." I hurried back to the spare bedroom, my store room, and creaked the hangers around in the closet. The first coat that came to hand was my heavy wool one, the one I put on for vicious cold.

I stopped; the last time I had worn this coat was ... the day my marriage was guillotined ...

I told myself to cut it out. I had to let go and move on. Something else rang faintly at the back of my mind, but I refused to let those memories surface. I was going to a party, dammit, and I was going to smile and laugh and have a drink.

* * *

Stanley met us at the door as if we were Ed McMahon and his TV crew.

"Caroline! You look

great!!

And who is this sexy she-devil?"

"This is my friend Babette..."

"Babette the BABE! Come on in, have a drink!"

I think Stanley had already had a few. His Fu Manchu costume was pretty funny, though. He had on a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses with extremely fake-looking Chinese eyes instead of lenses. He took off the glasses to show that underneath, his make-up and eyebrows were an identical mimic! Despite my reluctance to be there in the first place, the piteous gag made me chuckle, and I relaxed a little bit.

Babette and I made our way past vampires and genies to the bar. If I had to guess, I'd say there were at least fifty people crowding my attorney's living room. Stanley is a gregarious guy. Like a happy St. Bernard, he loves people—the more, the better.

At the bar I saw a couple who looked almost ordinary. Clearly there was something going on, though. The man wore jeans and a camouflage top. The woman had on camo pants and a black t-shirt.

"What are you supposed to be?"

The woman grinned broadly. "Upper and lower GI!"

I had to laugh. "That is

sick

." We introduced ourselves. It turned out the woman was a nurse and her husband was an x-ray tech. They had worn their costumes all day at work, just for the sake of getting a few cheap laughs.

Stanley's wife Linda was working the bar. She was dressed pretty much like a bartender, with a long kitchen apron hiding most of her clothes. The front of the apron read, "This

is

my costume." She and I had met a few times.

"What can I gitcha?"

I shrugged. "I guess, given the way I'm dressed, I'll have a beer."

Linda stroked her chin. In that instant I could see something of how her marriage worked: where Stanley was an outgoing people-lover, Linda was more of a thinker who worked behind the scenes. I could easily picture her thinking up the logistics of the entire party, while Stanley went around slapping colleagues on the back and urging people to be there.

"I have just the thing!" she announced. She rooted through some cupboards while I made the Oh, you don't have to go to any trouble noises. She ignored me like a pro and came up with a black and silver beer stein. On the side, it read:

"The wonderful love of a beautiful maid,

And the love of a staunch true man,

And the love of a baby unafraid

Have existed since life began;

But the greatest love, the love of love,

Even greater than that of a mother,

is the tender, passionate, infinite love

of one drunken sot for another."

"Robert Burns!" Linda named the poet. Again I had to laugh. This party had been a good idea, after all. Linda looked so pleased with her hostess efforts that I asked her to fill up my mug. I was really starting to feel like rubbing elbows with the human race again.

Babette had disappeared at some point. I was looking around the room for her when our hosts started whacking their wine glasses with forks. The ding! ding! ding! quieted the room.

As usual, Stanley was comfortable in the spotlight. "Ladies and gentleman!" His clear baritone was a gift; he had the ability to project without yelling. Lawyer's talent, I guess.

"It's time to decide the winner of this year's Halloween costume contest." Whistles and applause greeted this announcement, along with some indistinct shouts. He explained that every contestant would get a chance to model, and if they wished, say a few words about their costume.

I sincerely hoped that I wouldn't be pressured to get up there. Going to a party is one thing, making a public fool of myself is another. I definitely wasn't interested in the latter.

It turned out I had no worries. There were plenty of contestants. The first was a man dressed completely in black with little fuzzy yellow things glued all over. I craned my neck and could see they were baby chicks.

"I'm a chick magnet!" he explained. Somebody yelled at him to go home, but he flapped a careless hand and went on having a good time. Good for him.

Next was a couple whose costume initially made no sense. The man wore love beads and frayed bell bottoms. The woman was dressed as a mime. As she pretended to walk into a fierce wind, he held up two fingers in the universal "peace" sign. The crowd noise died down as people tried to figure it out.

Stanley intervened. "Anyone? ... Anyone?" he droned in his best impersonation of Ferris Bueller's economics teacher. A few last guesses were called, none of them correct.

"Okay!" Stanley gave the couple the cordless mike.

"We're Peace and Quiet." The crowd groaned and laughed. Maybe because P&Q got the better of them, this couple wound up winning the prize: a pair of tickets to see

Wicked

. All the other contestants got a packet of beer nuts.

As the laughter and applause died down, I started hunting around for Babette. She'd been on the other side of the room from me during the costume contest, but disappeared again. The main room was pretty big, and my search was fruitless. At last I went back to the bar and asked Linda.

"I think she went to the poker game."

"Poker game? You mean she left?"

"No, no." My host smiled and pointed down the hall. "First door on the left, downstairs."

Wonderingly, I followed the directions. How big could this house possibly be?

The room downstairs held a poker table and a pool table with room to spare. Nobody showed interest in the latter, but the card game looked full: Babette was surrounded by a cowboy, a vampire, Glinda the Good Witch, and Darth Vader.

The cowboy smiled when he saw me. "Relief from the bar! We're saved!

Wench!!

" he cried, banging his mug on the table.

"Hear! Hear!" growled Darth. The others followed suit:

"I'll have a beer."

"Red wine, please." This, from the vampire.

"Nothing for me. I'm a

good

little witch!"

"Whoa! I'm not here to take orders." I took an empty chair by Babette, much to the crowd's chagrin: "Awwww!"

Besides Babette, Darth was the only one I recognized. He was one of Stanley's law clerks. As I scanned the faces, one seemed faintly familiar.

"I know you..." My words to the cowboy came out slowly, as I tried to think where I had seen him before.

"Name's Hank," he drawled. "Fold."

The wonderful mood of the party receded for a moment as I remembered a particularly cold day —bawling my eyes out—the pigeons with wings impervious to ice—

"Hank." I reached across the table and shook his hand. "I'm Caroline."

He tipped his hat, as a gentleman does to a lady. "Ma'am." His eyes held a hint of a twinkle.

"Nice to see you." I smiled at him and turned to Babette. "But I'm kind of ready to go home."

"I'm not quite, yet," she protested. Apparently she was doing pretty well at the game. A nice-sized pile of chips was stacked in front of her.

The cowboy spoke up. "Ah'll be glad to give ya a ride. Ah'm headed that way m'self."

"Whah, thayunk yew, suh." I played along, batting my lashes.

Hank looked so pleased with himself. He also looked as if he were trying very hard not to show it. I could see why he wasn't much good at poker.

A series of events happened just then, like cracks appearing in a thawing ice shelf. The smile on my new friend's face was so warm and so clear, I couldn't miss the message: he thought I was pretty.

Do you have any idea how that makes a woman feel, to be looked at like that? Not the leer of someone who just wants to fuck, but the friendly greeting that says, "Hello. I like you." To be complimented, not flattered: that is what makes a woman feel sexy.

He stood and touched my arm. The warm shiver he gave me told of May, as if someone had opened a window and let in a breath of spring, and the breeze was like a soft kiss on my cheek. Did I hear birds singing? I turned, thinking we were going back upstairs, but he took my elbow with a gentle firmness.

"I'm pretty sure our coats are down here." Hank pointed down an unlit hallway.

"Okay." I smiled, ready to follow him anywhere.

We slipped down the dark hall, past doors that might have concealed anything. Did Linda have a craft room, stuffed with fabric and beads? Did Stanley have some kind of smuggled contraband from a foreign head of state? Or maybe it was the other way around...Stanley secretly enjoyed needlepoint, Linda consulted with Sheiks from Arabia. The mental image made me smile.

One door had a panel next to it. With a mischievous grin, Hank pushed several buttons at random.

"Don't do that!" My whisper was squeaky with laughter. "You'll set off an alarm!"

To our horrified astonishment, the thing chirped. Its light flicked a go-ahead green. Hank tried the aluminum bar handle. The door drifted open, silent and heavy as a freshly-oiled Mercedes.

We looked at each other with the glee of conspiratorial children, and stepped inside.

Stanley's private den was a celebration of bureaucratic hedonism. The hand-knotted custom rug hushed our footsteps in a cradle of wool and silk. A heavy bust of some philosopher topped a gleaming marble pedestal, spotlighted in a CD-sized halo. A few expensive-looking paintings looked down with a haughty gaze.

But most impressive of all was Stanley's desk. It appeared to have been carved, whole, from one tree. The thick trunk formed the base. Just where the branches would have reached skyward, some craftsman had leveled an even plane. As a consequence the desktop was an irregular oval. It was entirely magnificent.

I'm sure this was not a room where Stanley would have entertained a cowboy and a barmaid.

Far from feeling out of place, however, Hank moved around the room, flipping on lights and running his fingers over the costly

objets d'art

.

After staring around breathlessly for a few moments, I had the presence of mind to shut the door. There was a definite

click

, and I padded over to that magnificent desk. I simply couldn't take my eyes from it. Even the drawers seemed cleverly carved from the same piece of wood.

I pushed stuff out of the way—really, who uses a miniature Chinese vase to hold paper clips?—and marveled at the tree's rings. Hank stood beside me.

"This is just like that Hitchcock movie." Pleased as a child on Christmas morning, he pointed: "Here's the Louisiana purchase," and with a nod, invited me to join in the game.

"Here's the Gold Rush." My bare arm crossed over his flannel-clad one. I inched closer to my companion. The Fahrenheit from his body was kicking my own furnace into gear.

His fingers brushed against mine, pointing at another of the tree's rings. "Here is the Civil War." His chaps brushed against my crinolines. A faint scent of saddle soap greeted my nose.

Ten months of unmet need rose in me, answering the call of his divining rod. "Here's the..." I didn't know what came next in American history. I only knew that Hank and I ought to come next.

"...the..."

Hank's mouth at my throat scattered what remaining thoughts I had, like a flock of doves disrupted by a thunderbolt. His lips were smooth, even as the stubble of his beard rode roughshod against my neck. I moaned like a teenager and tilted back my head.

He swiped at my skin with his tongue. "You taste good," he breathed in my ear. His voice was gruff with passion.