Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Read online

  “What the hell are you doing?” I said.

  “We’re going to make love,” he said into my cheek, and I could smell the brandy on his breath. I wanted to tell him that, yes, I knew we were going to have sex. What was I, an idiot? I mean, two people half-naked in a bed . . . You do the math. But that nipple tweaking just about iced me over.

  “I’m not into S and M,” I said.

  “Such a clever girl,” he said, kissing my neck. “Too bright for your own good. Don’t you see that I’m trying to turn you on?”

  And it was almost working. I felt a little tug of desire as his fingers slid down between my legs. The man seemed to know his way around a vagina, at least. He slid his hand in my panties and drummed a little beat down there. I know it sounds weird, but it was sort of ticklish and exciting at the same time.

  Yes, it was working. I could feel myself warming to him. I pressed myself into his hand, wanting more. How long had it been since I’d had sex? This was only the second time in New York, and ... Oh, damn! He pulled his hand away.

  “Hey, I was liking that,” I said.

  But he was already positioning himself on top of me, trying to fit his thing in with all the finesse of a carpenter lining up a bolt.

  And then he was pumping away, in and out, breathing heavy, making me wonder if his heart was going to burst. Which was never a worry while I was going at it with any other boyfriend.

  That was when I knew it was over, before it had ever really started. As Hugh nailed me in his musty bed, I stared at the ceiling and found myself wondering when he’d had it painted last. Which is not a good thing to be doing when you’re supposed to be rising to the big O.

  After that, I somehow repeated my mistake a handful of times, which is typical of me since I’m always looking on the bright side and telling myself things weren’t as bad as they seemed (and usually I am so wrong). Besides, I didn’t know how to turn down someone so overwhelmingly engaging. So I went to dinner with him again, and we ended up back at his place with me hoping that the sex would go better the second time. (Again, so wrong!)

  So even though I knew there was no future for us, I kept getting sucked in when Hugh would support my pitch in an editorial meeting, or take me along on a power lunch with a famous author, or offer to read my thesis. For a while we settled into this sort of business relationship in which I’d be his cute office pal and he’d be my mentor, which was fine with me, until sex came into play. Once, while I was in his office going over some queries, he closed his door and slipped off his shoes and told me he couldn’t live without me. Can you believe it? This guy was a charmer, I’ll give him that.

  “You’re kidding,” I told him.

  “My dear, you are the essence of springtime in the autumn of my life,” he said.

  “Really?” I smiled nervously. I was flattered, even though I knew it was a crock. But I didn’t have the nerve to call Hugh on his embellishment—I never did. The student does not question the master.

  That afternoon in the office, I have to admit, I wanted to do it with him. The danger of someone coming in was sort of a turn-on for me, and as I lifted my skirt and pulled my panties aside, I wondered again if a relationship between Hugh and me could work out. I mean, I wanted to be one of the planets in Hugh’s orbit. Ever since the day he first defended my pitch in an editorial meeting, everyone had looked at me with a little more respect, a little bit of awe. Besides, men never really bothered much with me in my years at Columbia, and now, here I was, Hugh’s girl, the rising young ingenue at Skyscraper.

  I wanted to be wanted by someone important. I wanted to ride on the wave of his vast reputation.

  But I also wanted a guy who could heat me up and make me shriek with delight, and on that level Hugh could not deliver. Christ, you’d think that after such a long dry spell I’d be happy to have any guy touching me. But Hugh was fast and methodical with his sexual ministrations, and no amount of skill was going to gloss over the fact that his body repulsed me. Yes, my dreams of being Hugh’s girl faded that afternoon as I watched him tuck his wrinkly, pink thing into his pants.

  Okay, so I let it happen once more one night at the office when I was working late fact checking a story, and Hugh sauntered in with a glass of sherry for me. I sipped the sherry but gave him a shrug when he said something about us working late together. I didn’t meet his eyes, but I didn’t stop him when he ran his hand up under my skirt and dipped into the waistband of my tights.

  That one I really regretted, mostly because I do not usually have sex with someone if there’s no potential for a relationship. With me, as with most girls, so much of the euphoria of a relationship is wrapped up in the emotional appeal of a person. It’s about wanting to connect with the guy, wanting a deeper, more intimate connection than a kiss.

  I knew it wasn’t there for Hugh and me. Why didn’t I stop him?

  The next day, when copy about date rape landed on my desk, I spent a good half hour feeling sorry for myself. I hadn’t wanted it, and he’d pressured me, and I just felt lousy about it. But by the time I’d marked up the copy, I’d made a few resolutions: I was not going to use sex to get a promotion at work, and I was not going to sleep with Hugh Paddington again.

  Which may be a long way to go to explain why it was so important that Leo accompany me to that party and protect me from the lascivious Hugh, who, by the way, breezed past us and said a bright, genuine hello, then headed off with Sebastian Lavor, the magazine’s publisher. And all the time my heart was beating like a rabbit because I wanted to be noticed by Hugh but I didn’t want to be snagged by him, which doesn’t really make any sense at all when you think about it.

  In any case, it was at that party that Leo agreed to join me for Christmas, and now, looking over at Leo, I suffered a pang of anxiety, worrying that he would be disappointed. I mean, I always loved San Francisco at Christmastime, but what if my enthusiasm didn’t rub off on my skeptical friend?

  The flight attendant was making the perfunctory announcements about staying in your seat, blah-blah-blah, but people were already up and rooting through the overhead compartments. Leo handed me my leather jacket and carry-on bag, which I slung over my shoulder.

  “This is going to be the best Christmas ever,” I told him.

  With a deadpan expression, he said: “ ‘God bless us, every one.’”

  2

  “I’m glad you two are here in time to help me decorate the tree,” my mother said. “I’ve baked the cookies but held off so you can help me with the icing, which is so time-intensive. And before I forget, I’ve signed you up for tonight’s lamplight tour of Pacific Heights.” Did I mention that my mother is a Christmas freak?

  “Sounds good.” I couldn’t help but smile as I snuggled into the backseat. Home for Christmas. What’s not to like?

  Leo reached up to ping the jingle bells hanging from the rearview mirror of Mom’s BMW, but ended up slapping the dashboard as Mom swung wide on the freeway. Leo had seemed pleased when I’d given up the front seat, but I’m no fool. Nineteen years of watching my mother’s car eat up asphalt had cured me of wanting a front-row seat.

  “You’ll never guess who I ran into at the symphony last week,” Mom said, flashing a look at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Uh . . . no, who?”

  “Just Mr. Brophy from the high school. He’s still the principal, and he wants you to come to the school to speak to the students about publishing.”

  “Mom, I’m just an assistant editor.”

  “At one of the hottest magazines on the East Coast!” Mom said, beaming with pride. “I told him you would squeeze it in before you head back in January. You are staying on for awhile, aren’t you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Leo needs to head back after Christmas, but I’ll be here.” The Skycraper offices were closed until the second week of January, and I was taking some vacation time. I’d been looking forward to holing up at home, eating for free, and heading out for a few shopping sprees with Mom’s cre
dit cards in my pocket. My father is an incurable cheapskate, but Mom has figured out ways to overcome that. She just says Dad was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and he worries that if he opens up too much, he might drop it.

  As the graceful San Francisco skyline rose before us, Mom chattered on about plans for our family’s traditional Christmas Eve bash. She was working closely with the caterer, she was making all her own desserts this year, she had melted wax into tiny molds in the shape of pine trees, she had acquired eclectic decorations from far and wide to trim the old Victorian house. “Gold, silver, lavender, and white,” she was saying. “Those are my colors. I’m keeping it simple this year, and quite tasteful.” The BMW’s tires screeched as she pulled into the driveway of the tall, twisting gingerbread house I called home.

  Mom got out, slammed the door, and popped the trunk. “Oh, geez,” she said, checking her watch. “You two had better toss your things inside and wash up. You don’t want to be late for the lamplight tour.” She slung one of Leo’s totes over her shoulder, then hiked up the stairs to the house.

  When Mom was out of sight, Leo turned to me. “Is she always this bossy?”

  I felt myself bristling. “What do you mean? The lamplight tour is fantastic. She just doesn’t want us to miss it.”

  “And the party details . . . white and silver? It sounds like she’s planning a wedding.”

  “Ha! Fat chance of that, especially with all the action I’ve seen lately.”

  “You’re right,” Leo said as he lugged his suitcase up the steps. “Maybe it’s good that she has a party-planning outlet. You’re not getting to the altar anytime soon.”

  “All right, already! Do you have to pour salt on the wound?”

  Leo just laughed and bumped his suitcase onto the porch.

  As I stepped into the old house, a magnificent building painted lavender with dark purple trim, I walked into a swirl of old feelings and memories: the soapy smell of the marble floors in the front vestibule, the laughing gingerbread trim along the rising staircase, the cozy, round turret room where I’d lost my virginity one weekend when my parents had been away at a medical conference. I had to resist the urge to drop everything in the hall and plotz on the couch with a bowl of ramen noodles and the remote in hand.

  But Mom would have none of that.

  “Better take those bags right upstairs,” she said with all the flexibility of a drill sergeant. “You’ll want to freshen up and head out. The tour starts at Pacific and Van Ness, and it includes a few of the grand old mansions. I hear the Wedding Houses are strung with Christmas lights.”

  “Wedding Houses?” Leo shook his head.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen photos of them,” Mom answered with a dismissive wave. “They’re really quite famous.”

  I began to wonder if Leo was right; was Mom a bitch? I’d never really questioned her authority, and we’d seemed to get along just fine.

  “You’re in your old room, Madison,” she called after me. “Leo can have the guest room. Sadie already cleaned up there, but let me know if she missed anything. And there are extra towels in the linen cupboard. Use the yellow. The red ones run.”

  “And you think I’m controlling,” Leo said at the top of the stairs.

  “Shut up and get your rear in gear,” I said. “Mom doesn’t tolerate tardiness.”

  “And you think this family is free of issues?” He nodded smugly, heading down the hall with his bag.

  Best friend or not, he was beginning to get on my nerves. “Leo, promise me you are not going to spend this entire trip analyzing my family.”

  Leo paused at two tall doors and tugged one open. It was the linen closet. “Where the hell am I supposed to go, anyway?”

  “End of the hall,” I told him.

  He closed the door and grinned. “Sorry. I promise, I won’t peek into any more of your closets. Wouldn’t want any family skeletons popping out.”

  You gotta hand it to Leo, he does have a way of getting under your skin.

  “Well, that was a fabulous tour,” Leo said as we climbed one of those incredible staircases cut into a hill. “So informative,” he said, beginning to puff with exertion. “Quaint. Christmasy. Remind me to wear my jingle-bell earrings tomorrow.”

  “You know, I’m beginning to enjoy your Christmas defiance,” I said, trudging up behind him. “You’re like the Joan Rivers of Christmas. Can we talk about mistletoe? Why in the world would I want an excuse to kiss my Uncle Harry? The man has goiters the size of”—I was running out of breath—“of . . . Santa’s . . . sled.”

  When I reached the top, Leo was leaning against the rail, laughing between jagged breaths. “I love Joan! Am I really that sarcastic? No, I’m not!” He pinged my shoulder.

  “Did you have to make that snide comment about the tour guide’s costume?”

  “Did you see how he was dressed? I thought he meant to be a Christmas elf.”

  “The theme was Victorian Christmas,” I defended. “And we were lucky to get inside the Whittier Mansion. It’s rarely open to tourists.”

  “Well, you can’t tell me that they wore green velvet lapels in Victorian times.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I said. Growing up in San Francisco, I’d been immersed in Victorian-influenced architecture and pieces; you get to the point where you don’t question excesses.

  We headed down Geary Street to a bar that had always been a popular grad student hangout when I was in high school. Dartmouth Castle was probably still as tacky as ever, but they served excellent brews, and I knew Leo would like the dartboards. It’s something that I had learned about men from my father when he taught me to play billiards: Men don’t like to talk face-to-face. You’re always better off sitting side by side, pretending to watch television or shop or even watch a ball game. When men have a place to focus their attention, they are much more relaxed conversationalists.

  Inside, we ordered two pints of Anchor Steam and waited our turn at the dartboard. Leo took a long sip of beer, then sighed. “Heaven. Why can’t they brew a decent beer in New York?”

  “It’s the water,” I said, lifting my glass. “Way too clean.” I took a sip. The cranberry flavoring was noticeable, but I sort of liked it. Somehow, it mingled well with the Jackson 5 version of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” playing in the bar.

  Leo unwrapped his hand-knitted muffler and twisted his stool to lean against the bar. “Don’t look now. Sailor at five o’clock.”

  I turned around to gape, and Leo hissed. “I told you not to look!”

  “Like that’s going to stop me,” I said, checking out the worthy sight: a handsome boy in his crisp Navy uniform, smooth and white as a vanilla milkshake. That is, the uniform was white; his skin was more the color of peach flesh. He was bobbing behind two dart players, commenting on the game.

  “What did I tell you?” Leo beamed. “Hunk, or what?”

  “He’s a cutie, all right,” I said, “but not my type. I don’t go for soldiers. Unless they’re dancing in the Nutcracker.”

  Leo’s face scrunched in disapproval. “He’s not a soldier; he’s a sailor. Don’t you know your armed forces?”

  I didn’t argue. I was too busy eyeing Vanilla Milkshake, sure that I knew him. Not that I know any military types. That whole military program puts me off, from the advocacy of violence to the blind compliance to authority. Which is why I have always been attracted to the rebel type, the bad boys with shades and leather jackets and unregistered motorbikes.

  As I was staring, Vanilla Boy looked over, and suddenly I was caught. I sort of rolled my eyes, as if I had no control over them. When I looked back at him, he was cruising right at me.

  “He’s coming over!” Leo hissed in a loud whisper. “He’s waving, like he knows you.”

  “I think he does,” I said, checking out his nameplate. Wilkinson.

  As Vanilla smiled in my direction, it hit me. “Ohmigod! Ryan?”

  “Madison?” Ryan nodded. “How are you?” From up
close his uniform looked even crisper. Crispy, crunchy, and smooth.

  Leo eyed us suspiciously, trying to decipher how we were connected.

  “This is Ryan Wilkinson. We used to be ... I don’t know. What were we, Ryan?” Did I sound idiotic or what? I’d tried to avoid saying that we’d been a couple for awhile in high school, until it all ended badly. My fault—totally.

  Ryan’s smile seemed confident. “We used to go out.”

  Leo seemed impressed. “You dated a sailor?” he said to me. “How unexpectedly patriotic of you.”

  “We were in high school,” I said. “Ryan had a lot more hair back then. I mean . . . it was longer!” I was really stepping in it today. But while Leo would have freaked if I pointed out prematurely thinning hair, Ryan didn’t seem to mind. He took off his cap and ran a hand over his buzz cut.

  “Bristly.” He grinned. “The girls love it.” He bowed his head. “Wanna try?”

  I waved him off, but Leo reached out and delicately grazed the edge.

  “Oooh!” Leo almost giggled. “That would tickle.”

  I had to smile. Despite the uniform, this Ryan was looser than I remembered him being. This was not the guy who asked permission to kiss me, the guy who was afraid of pulling his zipper down in front of me. I wasn’t sure I liked the new Ryan, but then, I was never too crazy about the old one, either. “So the Navy’s made you cocky,” I said.

  Ryan blinked. “Me? No, ma’am.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Are you ma’aming me? Oh, please! I’m way too young for that.” I wanted to add: And I’ve seen you with your pants down, bud! But I didn’t think Ryan would have appreciated it.

  “No offense, Maddy.” Ryan tucked his hat under his arm. “It’s second nature now.”

  Maddy . . . Only my parents called me that these days. Amazing how a nickname can reduce your age and thrust you back into another era of your life—an awkward era for me. Feeling a little uneasy, I lifted my pint and took a long sip. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had known that Ryan was in the military. I must have heard it from one of my old high school friends, because two years ago, when we huddled in someone’s dorm room on campus watching bombs streak through the night sky of Baghdad on CNN, I had worried aloud that Ryan might be caught in the crossfire until someone pointed out to me that the military didn’t pluck college kids out of their academies to serve in war. At least, not since World War II, but what did I know? I was a registered Democrat who had donated money to Greenpeace.