"Classy, Mo." She stands in her underwear now, frowning furiously, and zipping up her recklessly packed suitcase. Anxiously, Marlowe glances at the clock; it's twenty minutes to nine. She snatches up the jeans and black tank top that she laid out to wear and marches to the bathroom.
It isn't classy, but it is classic Marlowe Ross. It is the latest battle in the long war she wages between her image as a woman and her identity as a woman, a war that she is afraid of losing. She was raised in the cult of the Southern Belles, but the image that fights for dominion over her is essentially the same from the West Coast to the North Shore: the Marilyn Syndrome - that's what Marlowe calls it. Unattainable and yet needy, flawless, timeless, and ultimately self destructive.
She believes in beauty. She pays her dues to the mirror just as she is doing now, brushing and primping, frowning at the stray hairs in her eyebrow line. She's female; she has ovaries - she can no more stop being a woman than she can stop breathing. It is the image that plagues her, the legions of women's issues that men and magazines encourage her to worry about though she wouldn't have otherwise. There are some women, like her friend Caris, who are born to glamour. Caris is lucky; God blessed her with that particular aesthetic that few women possess but most women crave. Then there are women like Marlowe who wouldn't envy Caris or second guess herself if the world didn't incessantly suggest that she is in some kind of danger. It is never spoken but clearly implied: you're fading everyday. Don't rest; be vigilant. Improve! Perfect! You'll be forty soon; you're getting old. You're becoming invisible.
It is already happening at thirty four. Marlowe sat on her ass for two hours at her brother's wedding reception, her pride in her looks diminishing every fifteen minutes. She has no husband, no children, and no parents or sister to cherish her and shore up her confidence. Only Roderick is left to see and appreciate her, but he owes that tribute to Tamara now.
Marlowe lifts her chin and winks at herself in the mirror, shoving the fear to its permanent home at the back of her mind. But she can still hear the threat: paint something on - you don't want to be invisible. She selects a neutral crème lip gloss from her bag and applies it carefully, plumping her lips with color.
She hears a knock over the drone of the bathroom vent. "One minute," Marlowe grouses, shoveling her toiletries into her bag with a heavy hand. She feels hemmed in. There is no getting out of this visit with Roderick; she's on vacation and she opted not to teach this summer. When she nearly imploded after the accident, she decided that she needed the time off this year. There are no excuses to offer.
Marlowe snaps off the light and opens the bathroom door. A crease cuts between her brows as she reflects on the fact that she couldn't escape to the airport even if she had an excuse. This man sitting on her bed, calm and collected in a navy blue suit, is holding her keys hostage.
"Good morning," Lucas says, his cool gray eyes belying his amusement as he surveys her outfit. "I didn't say that earlier."
She hadn't either. Marlowe takes a quick bracing breath. "Good morning," she says with practiced politeness. It's the next day, she thinks, repeating her own statement. Rewind; take it down a notch.
"You're ready?" Lucas asks, rising. He turns and reaches to pick up her suitcase.
"Yes. I just need to put this back." Marlowe comes up beside him. She shuffles her feet into a pair of red leather flip flops while she stows her cosmetics bag. Lucas is staring at her; she can feel it. It's the next day, she reminds herself, gritting her teeth. Be nice. "Okay," she says, yanking the zip and scooping up her bag. "Let's ride."
"I'll get it," Lucas offers, extending his hand.
"That's okay. I got it."
Lucas doesn't argue. He simply closes his hand over her hand and pulls. His hand is firm and slightly calloused the way a man's hand should be. Marlowe lets go of the handle, but his hand is still over hers, a warm cradle like a blanket in winter. He hesitates only a second before releasing her and picking up the bag. "After you," he says, gesturing toward the door. He slings his own dress bag over his shoulder and follows her out, quirking a brow at her stiff shoulders and truncated nervous gait.
"I haven't been to church in a while, but as I recall, there's a dress code." Lucas rests his elbow on the window sill and tugs at the neck of his shirt. He makes his living in uniforms, but button up shirts still make him feel like a caged animal. Adding to his misery, the summer sun pours through the untinted windows of the rental car with a vengeance, even though it is only nine a.m.
"I won't be darkening the doorstep of Antioch Baptist today," Marlowe replies flatly.
"You don't go to church?"
"Not that church." Even on her death bed she would refuse. If her parents hadn't been members, her eight year boycott of Antioch would not have been disrupted.
"Why?"
Marlowe takes a deep breath and turns her head to the passenger side window. She lost her heart at that church, and she left it there, branded and trampled.
Lucas flicks his gaze back and forth between the road and Marlowe. He touches her bare arm, trying to reach her through the palpable tension that emanates from her body and fills up the car. "Why?" he repeats when she looks at him.
"I don't want to talk about it," she murmurs, resuming her study of the window.
Prickly, Lucas thinks, adding that item to the list of things that he has learned about the real Marlowe Ross. Brooding. Distant. Another man would have reconsidered. Another man would have taken her for a harpy instead of seeing her for the wounded creature that she is. He'd spent a lot of time with wild things in his youth. He knew the sorrow that swirled in the irises of wild creatures in captivity, the way they became unresponsive, the way life dwindled down to mere survival, joyless and tiresome. Marlowe Ross has scars, and Lucas wants a name for each one of them. "Because of your parents?"
Marlowe sighs but remains silent.
"You were sick after it happened. Is that why?"
She whips around, her eyes bright with surprise and irritation. "Just drive the car! You took the keys; you're the driver. Just drive." She folds her arms over her chest.
Lucas frowns. He'd hoped to provoke her into asking him how he knew so much about her. But she shut down.
He makes a left into the massive gated community where Roderick and Tamara live. It was a small, exclusive complex when Tamara's parents bought the lot and built a house for their only child and her future husband. But Atlanta grew right up to their doorstep. Lucas makes five different turns inside the gates, driving slowly over tiny streets with ridiculous names like "Maple Leaf Trail" and "Shady Brook Pass," even though there isn't a maple tree or a brook in sight. Finally, he rolls into a cul de sac of four houses and pulls into the driveway of Roderick and Tamara's two story brick house.
Marlowe jumps out of the car before he even cuts the engine. She circles around to the back on autopilot, curses brightly when she can't open the trunk. Instead of hitting the release, Lucas gets out, walks to the trunk, and unlocks it with the key.
"Don't even try it," he says when her arm snakes out. He isn't a Southerner, but he is old fashioned.
"I can carry my own bag," Marlowe insists.
"Not today." He retrieves the bags and closes the trunk.
Tamara meets them at the door, decked out in a pink linen skirt suit and a smart pair of matching pumps. She is smiling until she looks at Marlowe. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," Marlowe mumbles, folding herself into Tamara's arms for a hug. "You look sharp."
"You don't." Tamara holds Marlowe's tall lean frame at arm's length, clucking her tongue like a mother hen. "You didn't pack any church clothes?"
"No." Marlowe didn't pack much more than her black dress and the clothes that she is wearing. She wasn't planning to stay. "But even if I did, I wouldn't be going."
Tamara sniffs, lifting her eyebrows. "I heard that." She ushers Marlowe into the house and turns her attention to Lucas. "Hey," she says warmly.
"Good morning." Lucas steps forward and extends his free hand.
"Boy, this ain't no business meeting. You better hug my neck." Tamara launches all five feet four inches of her petite frame at Lucas, hugging him over the luggage. She kisses his cheek. "Dimples? Never seen those before."
Lucas chuckles through his wide smile. "You bring out the best in me, Tamara."
"See? I knew I liked you for a reason," Tamara replies, drawing him into the house. "You can drop those bags right here," she says, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. There are only three bedrooms carved out of the 3200 square foot house; a great deal of the extra space was spent on the foyer alone. "You're in the guest room down here, Lucas. Mo, you're in the nursery. But we need to get a move on - ya'll are late." Tamara skips halfway up the carpeted steps and shouts, "Rod? Baby, hurry up. Mo and Lucas are here."
"The nursery?" Marlowe inquires when Tamara returns. Marlowe pinches her lips together and looks meaningfully at Tamara's flat belly.
"Not yet," Tamara replies, giggling. "But I saw a basinet that I couldn't pass up. It has the cutest little carving of a teddy bear on the . . ."
"Hey, hey!" Roderick interrupts, bounding down the steps with a gray suit jacket slung over one shoulder. His matching vest covers a silver dress shirt and coordinated tie. Smiling broadly, Roderick descends like a fashion model, robust and confident. He grabs Lucas' outstretched hand and pulls him into a back clapping hug. "I was about to put out an A.P.B."
"When have I ever failed you, Rod?"
"First time for everything." Roderick turns to his sister and falls silent, his jaw clenching like a fist. The two siblings stare each other down like gunslingers.
Lucas observes silently as Tamara links her arm with Roderick's. "Don't start. Let's go," she says, pulling her husband towards the door.
Roderick doesn't budge. "Spilt milk, Mo."
Marlowe shifts on her feet; her hip juts out as she folds her arms over her chest.
"Spilt milk my ass. Oh, excuse me, Lord," Tamara says, raising her manicured fingertips to her lips. "But if it was me, I wouldn't go either. Leave Mo alone."
"Yeah. Leave Mo alone," Marlowe repeats. And then she turns right and shuffles across the copper colored tile to the living room, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Come on, Rod. You hate to be late for anything except church. Let's go," Tamara insists, pulling her reluctant husband to the door.
Lucas pauses in the threshold. He considers staying, using the time alone with Marlowe to get under her skin. But the prospect of matching a name to the 'spilt milk' incident proves too tempting. Sighing, he pulls the door shut behind him.
