What a Kiss Can Do Read online

  I hid my surprise well, I thought, because Kevin of the plaid shirt and khaki pants would have been one of the last people I would have associated the word “quirky” with. He did look a little like Spielberg with his longish hair and cool glasses, so maybe he had a streak that I hadn’t discovered as yet.

  “Really,” I said.

  “Oh yeah, the possibilities!” He warmed to the topic. “That tall woman.” He gestured to Celeste down the hallway. “There’s a story. And the hermaphrodite person, Jerry. There’s definitely some drama there. The lady with the elephant feet. How does she get shoes? And the dwarf. How does he meet women? And when he does, and a relationship develops, what happens then?”

  I’d just been wondering that and was starting to blush at the thought, when Fergie walked up to me, loaded with equipment and juggling a cup of coffee.

  “Are you blushing?” he whispered in my ear. “Love to know what that’s about.” He smiled and glanced around the rooms nodding. “Diane Arbus would have a field day,” he said softly.

  “Don’t start,” I hissed. Diane Arbus was one photographer I placed squarely in the category of bizarre for her distinctive subject matter—human oddities of all types.

  “Oooo, a sensitive topic.” He looked at me, eyes twinkling. His hair touched the epaulets on the linen shirt that hung untucked beneath a suede vest with many pockets for the memory cards, lenses and photographer paraphernalia it took to make his photos as gorgeous as they often were. He moved close to show me the camera screen with a few photos he’d already taken. The physical makeup of his fingers (long) and hands (strong) screamed artist, and I liked the way he pulled his fingers through his hair, pushing it back as he looked at me looking at the photos.

  “Let’s start in the dining room,” I said. “The food in there is, well, so colorful.”

  Coffee on the run, sitting in cars waiting for stories, grabbing a lunch here and there had given Fergie and me time to know a lot about each other, and to like what we knew. He had asked me out once, but I was in the throes of ending a relationship and not ready to bask in the glow of starting something new. So we, well I, limited our friendly interaction to collegial coffee, delicious desserts and casual conversation, mostly mine. Fergie seemed to prefer the role of good and willing listener. So, from the look on his face, I felt fairly sure of two things: one, he appreciated how I looked tonight, and two, being here was pushing his tolerance for strangeness. However, the subjects weren’t at all shy and the good news is that he could keep the camera in front of his face most of the time. So when Jerry struck a few suggestive poses, Fergie snapped away, grinning behind the camera.

  The very short man, as I was forcing myself to refer to him, was more subdued and stayed a bit apart from the rest. And yet, I still felt in my gut that if there was a story here, he had it.

  I had my angle for the newspaper story. It was going to be about Caroline’s continuing efforts to bring uniqueness and innovation to community theater. I knew this after Jerry, the man/woman, told me that some of the members of the J.R.R. Hooker Freak Show, a real circus sideshow, to which he/she belonged, had agreed to appear in two productions at the experimental theater here in town. Waiting for Godot was one of them and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was another. I could barely keep from smiling.

  “Which two parts are you playing in that one?” I asked innocently.

  “Aw, how’d you guess?” said Jerry.

  “A nose for news,” I said, stifling a giggle—so unlike me. I usually guffaw.

  Fergie was wandering around trying to blend into the woodwork, waiting for the shot that would win whatever photography prize he currently was seeking. Whenever he got near me, he would whisper “Arbus” and that was getting old.

  “Jerry,” I said. “What’s your friend’s name?” I gestured at the very short man sitting on the edge of a fountain that featured a frog with some carbonated drink spewing from its mouth. I figured I should get some background before we went to interview. Let me say again how much I hate this no background interviewing.

  “Oh, you mean Derek? He’s not my friend. He’s a lawyer,” said Jerry, as though those two things in Jerry’s world were mutually exclusive.

  “For the circus?” I said.

  “Just for anyone, I guess. Lots of corporate stuff, I’ve heard. Very lucrative. Has a few quid.”

  “Quid?”

  “Yeah. English money.”

  “Lives here?”

  “When he feels like it.”

  “And when he doesn’t?”

  “Place by the Thames.”

  “Oh,” I said, my voice rising at the end like a question.

  “Eh, Derek,” he raised his voice and gestured to the dwarf. “Rita here’d like to meet you.” Jerry sauntered off.

  Derek slid off the side of the fountain and joined me on the settee in the corner. His legs dangled a few inches above the floor. I noticed he didn’t seem to mind.

  We introduced ourselves and I felt he was sizing me up, like a good attorney would before he started the cross-examination. How did he see me, I wondered. Tall, dark and unattainable by virtue of height?

  Up close now, I could see brown eyes so dark that I could practically see myself reflected in them, and I could feel his aura of confidence. I’m not normally intimidated by much, but I was feeling a little that way now. And I didn’t like it.

  So, I was about to launch into my pre-interview introduction and get it over with, when he said “So, what d’you think?” Now that he wasn’t being brusque, his voice was deep and smooth and as he spoke more slowly now, he had lost some of the quick clipped accent I had heard on the porch.

  I have a reporter’s aversion to being on the receiving end of questions, so I parried with one of my own. “About what?”

  “About the people here.”

  “Well, it was a little strange at first.”

  “Ah. You don’t know many hermaphrodites, flame swallowers, dwarfs?” He said this in a suave James Bond sort of way.

  “There’s a flame swallower here?” I looked around with interest.

  “Next to the three-eyed man over there.”

  “How could I have missed him?”

  “Her,” Derek said with a dry laugh and nodded toward a petite woman with a brush cut. “She wears a wig when performing.”

  “Got too close to the flames?”

  “Something like that. So why’d you want to meet me?” This question was not said a la James Bond but a la Senate Subcommittee inquisition.

  I didn’t have a ready answer.

  “It’s because I am a person of short stature, isn’t it?” he continued.

  I made eye contact, which I hadn’t been doing because it hadn’t felt comfortable.

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re wondering about the truths of life with short stature,” he said. “I do know you’re a writer and writers tend to wonder a lot, I’ve observed.” To my raised eyebrow, he added, “You were looking so carefully at everything and everyone, so I asked around.”

  “Fair enough, I guess. Now by truths, you mean...”

  “Do I have a job? Can I drive a car? How do I get along at work? Do I have a girlfriend? Is she of short stature also? Do we breed outside of our own kind?” His voice had developed an edge.

  “Wait. Wait. Wait.” I said, holding my hands in front of me. “Actually, I have two reasons for wanting to meet you. First, I just wanted to apologize for calling you ‘Honey’ outside on the porch. And I am sorry.”

  He opened his mouth to say something but I held up my finger.

  “And second, I’d like to interview you for a story in the local paper. My colleague couldn’t make it tonight.”

  At that point, Fergie snapped our picture.

  Derek hopped off the settee and grabbed my hand, pulling me after him through the crowd and out the French doors into the freezing cold.

  “Here,” he said. He took off his cashmere jacket and held it up for me to slip o
ver my shoulders.

  “I like you,” he said, looking up at me in the dark.

  “How do you know?”

  “Never mind that. The point is, I want to see you somewhere normal.” He jerked his head toward the house and rolled his eyes. “Like a restaurant. For dinner. We could do the interview there.”

  I hesitated, obviously too long, because he suddenly held out his hands for his jacket, slipped it on and stepped inside, looking back at me over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

  “I don’t give up,” he said.

  I stepped back into the sitting room, a little befuddled, and ticked off. I needed that interview sooner rather than later. Fergie mouthed “Sorry” from across the room and motioned for me to join him. He met me in the center of the room and put his arms around my waist, pulling me to him. I was startled and looked embarrassed enough for him to look straight up at the chandelier—and at the mistletoe hanging above us. Then before I could pull away, he kissed me—a slow, wet, possessive kiss.

  Feeling him close, my adrenalin was surging. And the kiss, well, if someone had a meter for measuring body heat, mine would have been off the charts. For the first time in a long time, I gave myself to the moment. I pressed even closer and responded with my own version of a slow, sexy kiss, even putting my arms around his neck to hold him to me, never wanting this kiss to end. He held me tighter yet and kissed more deeply. People actually began to clap.

  The clapping brought us back to earth. We separated, both breathless. We looked at each other with equal elements of surprise and desire.

  “Ummmm. Nice,” Fergie said. “Couldn’t resist it. You. The snazzy dress. Candles sparkling on the mantel. The fragrance of mulled cider. It’s all just captivating.”

  “That says something about you, doesn’t it?” I said, for something to say.

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t say a bad thing necessarily.”

  He put his arm around me and led me to the dining room, away from our audience.

  It’s funny what a kiss can do.

  Since our previous relationship, if you can call it that, had been strictly collegial, it took guts, kissing me like that. And surprisingly, I hadn’t melted into a mound of embarrassment. Plus, there must be something to that mistletoe legend because taking a really good look at him out from behind the camera, he was the kind of man I should go for. Not the tall handsome type who is more interested in looking at himself in the rear view mirror than he is in watching the traffic. Two of my formers were like that. He wasn’t like the third either, the deep, silent, existential type who, I think, turned out to be so brooding because he was married and was worried that I would, or maybe that I wouldn’t, find out. Yes, Fergie was good looking, height was good, his blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and curiosity; but perhaps even better, he had a good sense of humor and his smart repartee was attractive. The fringe benefits, I knew from previous assignments together, were that he liked to cook, loved coffee as much as I did and read the New York Times every Sunday. I knew all this about him without even one real date. Great kissing was new and a welcome addition.

  “Coffee?” he said. “At Gracie’s?”

  “Let’s go,” we said simultaneously and laughed as we went to find Celeste, which wasn’t that hard. She insisted on helping me on with my coat, which I could barely let her do without cracking up because of Fergie’s face aimed heavenward, trying to get a good look at all that was Celeste.

  Then Derek walked into the front hall, all urbane and fashionable and once again, I have to say it, Bond-like, looked at me and said, “Sorry. It’s this chip.” He brushed at his shoulder. “Can’t get rid of it. Call me.”

  He looked at the two of us, a look I couldn’t quite pin down, handed me his business card, shook my hand firmly and turned abruptly back into the crowd. I slid the card into my pocket.

  “Call him why?” Fergie asked.

  “Interview,” I said. “I was supposed to stand in for Boss and do it tonight. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  Fergie and I left, he with his cameras, me with my thoughts, promising the entire universe of mistletoe an unequivocal apology. Fergie opened the door for me, and I slid into the car. I felt hot and cold, uncertain yet confident, excited yet wary. I shivered and he covered my hand with his, rubbing my palm with a slow steady stroke. I felt warmer right away.

  Gracie’s Coffee Corner, always cozy with its wall-lined bookcases and desks and strategically placed candles, was nearly empty and we sat close and talked for a long time, I think both of us energized by the prospect of something new.

  Fergie walked me to the door of my condo, put his arms around me and held me. He was warm and solid and smelled clean, a scent I recognized from a men’s cologne I used to buy for a former boyfriend. I liked the scent and the warmth of Fergie and the gentle deep kiss he left me with. And the way he waited while I unlocked the door and stepped in.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, his voice husky. “I’ll have pictures.” He drove off.

  I stepped into the dark foyer, closed the door and leaned against it. I flipped the switch for the tabletop Christmas tree I’d put up earlier in the week and let my eyes not truly focus on the colored lights so what I saw was a swirling mix of colors. At the end of the narrow hallway there was light from a small lamp I always left on in the kitchen, so it wouldn’t be dark or feel empty or lonely when I arrived home. It seemed brighter than usual. I looked at the photo of me on the table in the hallway, the one I’d had taken one day at the mall when I felt I was at my personal best for weight, hair, clothing, the works. I’d had it taken in sharp focus and in soft focus and framed them both so I could switch the photos as the mood struck me; the unused photo waited in the drawer of the table for easy access. The one displayed was in focus, sharp and clear, the way I felt when I was professional and in control. I opened the drawer and took out the soft focus shot, somewhat blurry and indistinct, the way I felt when I was vulnerable and unsure. I held one in each hand, two images reflected in the twinkling Christmas tree lights.

  “Soft focus, you win,” I said out loud and put the other photo in the drawer. I walked through the archway into the living room and perched on the arm of my Christmas gift to myself, my new red couch. I wrapped my coat tighter around me and shivered...but not with cold, although I had programmed the thermostat to run the furnace at a fairly low level while I was out. It was a bona fide shiver of anticipation.

  The kiss. The possessive kiss. Something new.

  An irritating little voice in my head suddenly started one of its chants: Take a risk, take a chance; take a risk, take a chance. I’d heard that before and it was never good.

  I lit the cranberry candle on the coffee table and sat down on the couch, closing my eyes, leaning my head back against the pillows. I stuck my hands in my pockets against the chill and pulled out Derek’s business card. A distinct story possibility was the last thing I thought, before I dozed off.

  Chapter Two

  It’s Probably Nothing

  Early afternoon the following day, Fergie arrived with photos. He’d taken digital shots and had dithered with them using his software to enhance the image or whatever photographers do. From these shots, I was to select the one image that would tell the previous evening’s story for my society page article in the next edition of the Bridgefield Sentinel-Post.

  The Sentinel-Post suburban newspaper office where I worked was in a nineteenth-century home constructed with the entrance close to the sidewalk in the way of that day. The rooms were small and boxy, the windows large with panes in the colonial style. Some afternoons in my alcove corner office with the picture window, sitting at my hulking rolltop desk, I would daydream about women in Jane Austen’s time gathered in what I assumed used to be the sitting room, now our largest space with several desks crammed into it. I love Jane’s novels and some days I would even imagine some of her characters strolling down the street, having tea and cakes in the parlor, and chatting—but in true Austen styl
e, certainly not sharing their innermost feelings about family, money and men.

  I felt lucky to have the alcove to myself but, on the down side, the view allowed me to see everything happening on Main Street, and I was perfectly capable of letting my mind make up fascinating stories, fascinating at least to me, about everyone I saw, whether I knew them or not. The other thing in the alcove was my purple overstuffed chair. It had been my dad’s favorite reading chair, and maybe writing chair too, as he was a salesman with a side-career as a journalist for several national magazines. I say “my” chair because now it is mine. It’s part of me and goes where I go.

  As I loaded Fergie’s images on my laptop, I was aware that this was the first time he had stood this close to me at the office, although we had stood very close last night as we waited for our coffee and gotten closer still as we kissed in his car and on my porch. I felt like everyone in the office was looking at us, and for the first time it occurred to me that some people on Main Street could stand outside and look at me, too. I put that aside and started studying the images.

  There was the photo of Jerry holding court. Not sure if the community was ready for that. There was one of the elephant lady, but she was not smiling and it seemed like she should be. I was looking for one of Caroline, as she would be the featured person, and found one of her with Derek, chatting by the fountain of whatever the drink was that the frog had been spewing forth.

  “Yeah, this one,” I said. “This is good.”

  “Some of these have possibilities, too,” Fergie said, grinning as he leaned over me and fanned out a pile of prints he’d made. He coaxed me into a standing position and over to the light table where he placed the photos side by side on the surface. I looked through them, ruling out many because the subjects didn’t look exuberant or artsy enough for the tone of my story.

  Fergie moved closer and was watching my reaction, but I could tell he was excited about something in particular. I figured he would tell me.