Marlowe blows out a long, frustrated breath that makes her lips vibrate. "I have to go, but I'll call you," she mutters darkly. "Three words, Mo: I'll call you." She slumps down even further on her sofa and shovels another spoonful of ice cream into her frowning mouth. "And what's your number? Seven words. Simple. Dumb ass."
She's been beating herself up all day for her failure; that moment is going down in her book of life as the greatest classic Marlowe Ross fumble of all. She is just beginning to imagine the problems that could spin off of her error: Lucas may think that she doesn't like him; he may not want to speak to her even if she does succeed in getting his phone number. She thought about driving to Virginia and showing up unannounced on his doorstep; it's only a three hour drive to Fort Monroe. When she realized that she didn't have his address, she had one more thing to kick herself for.
She does like Lucas. She started liking him the night they danced together - liking him isn't the problem. Seeing herself with him - that is the issue that her mind turns over and over, like trying to roll a hard stone into a smooth pebble. Marlowe still isn't entirely ready to be with him in full view of the public. But she can never be ready; you can never prepare for sneak attacks. You simply have to prepare to stand up for whatever it is that you want.
And Marlowe wants Lucas. She knew it before she kissed him, before he kissed her. She felt it the moment he turned to the camera in that tiny crowded photo booth and grinned like the idiot he thought he was. It was the kind of thing she would have done to lighten the burden of feeling completely inept. At that moment, she saw in him the person her subconscious had been searching for over the years of her adult life. She doesn't believe that there is one man out there waiting for her; she doesn't believe in soul mates. But she does believe that some people are cut out of the same cloth; when you meet them, you recognize in them the same texture that your own heart and soul are made of. Some of those people are friends, and some of them are lovers. If one of them happens to be both a friend and a lover . . . the feeling of destiny springs from that kind of incredible luck.
It is the lover in Lucas that has Marlowe shoveling spoonful after spoonful of cold ice cream down her throat. Nothing about him suggested that his kisses would be so fiery, so rich with unspoken sensuality. Kissing Lucas was like drifting out to sea - she lost track of time, she was no longer anchored to her mind. Her thoughts flooded back with the vengeance of a hurricane only after they parted. Then he kissed her again. "Again," Marlowe repeats, shaking her head in disbelief. She left then; she had to. She might have stayed there all day otherwise.
When the phone rings, Marlowe jams the spoon into her pint of ice cream and picks up the receiver. "Hello?" she says anxiously, hoping for Roderick's voice.
"You're back. I just pulled up; I can see your light on."
Marlowe smirks. "Hey Caris," she drawls.
"Hiya. Unlock the door. I'm coming up."
After hanging up the phone, Marlowe digs her way out of the overstuffed cushions on her sofa and shuffles barefoot across the floor. She unlocks the door and then spins right around and returns to the couch, to her ice cream and her thoughts. The sitcom on television goes to commercial break just as Caris breezes into the apartment.
Caris clicks across the floor in three inch stiletto heels, long and leggy like a giraffe. She's cut her hair; it tumbles in choppy mahogany waves over her ears and forehead in an elegant mess that only accentuates the fine long lines of her eyes and the impishly delicate features of her face. She wears what Marlowe might call a dress if it had more material. Whatever it is, it sparkles and drapes over Caris' figure like a net of jewels. Caris looks gorgeous, as always.
"Ugh. You're wearing those ugly pants. I thought I threw those out." Caris plops down on the couch next to Marlowe and knocks her knees together like the gangly teenager she is, but only between them.
"I rescued them," Marlowe replies dryly.
"They're awful. They make you look wide."
"I wouldn't look wide in a circus tent, Caris. I don't have any hips," Marlowe quips, scooping up some ice cream. When she pulls the spoon out of her mouth, Caris takes it, dips her own scoop, and eats.
"What are we watching?" Caris asks over a mouthful of half melted chocolate chip.
"I Love Lucy."
Caris silently raises and lowers her brows. But when the show comes back from commercial, she nestles her downy head against Marlowe's shoulder. "If I were a lesbian, you would be my girlfriend. I said that, didn't I?"
Marlowe snickers. "You always say that when one of your boy toys is acting up. Who is it this time?"
"Harris," Caris says, sighing. "Horrible hairy hateful horrible Harris. Why am I still with Harris?" she asks with a pretty dramatic lilt.
"Good question, Caris."
"Harris and Caris Winslett. It used to sound so cute." Marlowe snickers. "Why are you laughing?"
"I always laugh. You should be used to it by now."
Caris blinks her wide girlish eyes. "This is very serious, Marlowe."
"Caris, your life makes 'I Love Lucy' look like CNN. It's not serious."
"It is," Caris insists, sitting up straight and grabbing the ice cream from Marlowe. "You'll see. When you're in love, you'll see."
In love, Marlowe repeats silently. She isn't in love yet, but there is potential. That was one of the things that Lucas kissed onto her lips the second time: affection. Not just sex, but affection . . .
"Wake up," Caris chirps. "You're doing that catatonic mental patient thing again."
"Sorry," Marlowe mumbles.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry. Stop doing it; it's weird," Caris comments over a mouthful of ice cream. "How was the wedding?"
"Lovely. It was very emotional. I almost cried."
"Really?" Caris stares at Marlowe in disbelief. "How was the dress? You looked fabulous, didn't you?"
Marlowe purses her lips. Caris talked her into buying a five hundred dollar dress the weekend before the wedding. She took it back the day before she left and then dug her black dress out of the back of the closet where Caris hid it.
"Did you take it back?" Caris cries. She heaves an exasperated sigh. "You took it back. We spent a whole day shopping for that dress."
"I don't need a five hundred dollar dress. Everybody ain't able, Miss Moneybags. I don't know why I let you talk me into it in the first place."
"You looked great it in - that's why. So what did you wear? That old black dust rag?"
"Yes, that old black dust rag," Marlowe parrots snidely.
"Awful," Caris says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Hides everything. Who's going to notice you in that thing? You're beautiful and you dress like a spinster. Awful."
Lucas noticed her. Lucas noticed her in jeans and a tank top. "Uh, Caris. Do you know how I could get a phone number with only a name?"
"Directory assistance," Caris replies, slurping. She jabs the spoon at the TV screen and giggles. "Funny. I love 'I Love Lucy'. Can you believe it?"
Marlowe frowns; she already tried that. "It's an unlisted number. Any other ideas?"
"Hmm," Caris says, biting her lip. "I could call Kenny."
"Legal ideas, Caris."
"What's the difference as long as you get the number?"
"The difference is that I don't want you talking to Kenny. I don't want you talking to him even if you need bone marrow and he's a match. He'd probably steal it from the black market," Marlowe finishes darkly. She looks sharply at Caris. "You ain't talking to him, are you?"
"No," Caris replies in a singsong voice. "But I still have his number in case of emergency."
"Caris."
Caris raises her right hand. "I promise. But I never erase. Phone numbers are vital information."
Marlowe clears her throat. "Right." She sinks down into the sofa cushions, frowning.
"Why don't you email him?" Caris crosses her legs and rocks back and forth, smirking.
"Who said it was a 'him'?" Marlowe demands.
"You did. Or rather, you didn't," Caris retorts, smiling. "If it was for work, you would have said, 'Caris, get me the number for so-and-so over at the such-and-such grandiose foundation for charity because all I care about is charity and I'm one step away from the convent.' You know, like you usually do." They fall silent. Caris waits while Marlowe decides whether or not to stage a denial. "What's his name?"
"Lucas," Marlowe murmurs, her arm snaking out to snatch back her ice cream.
"Lucas . . ."
"Klein."
"Lucas Klein," Caris repeats, sampling the sound of the name. "Lucas and Marlowe Klein. Sounds good." Caris falls silent, waving her crossed knees back and forth. "He's from D.C.? I feel like I've heard that name before."
"No, he isn't."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. You work at the State Department, Caris. You hear a lot of names."
"Hmm. Maybe you're right. But I'll check up on it."
"No," Marlowe protests. "I don't want you running a make on him."
"Why not? Don't you want his number?"
"I'll get it myself." She has just remembered that Lucas is on Roderick's email list. Marlowe feels certain that she has one of Roderick and Tamara's newsletters in her account, somewhere. "For real, Caris. Don't."
Caris puts up her hands. "Alright. I promise." They fall silent again, settling into the easy friendship that they have built up over years of living across the hall from each other.
"Am I that transparent?" Marlowe asks at length.
"As glass," Caris replies, smiling.
