The Lust of Linda Levy Read online

  THE

  Lust

  OF

  LINDA LEVY

  Dale Zaris Dye

  THE LUST OF LINDA LEVY

  Copyright © 2017 Dale Z. Dye.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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  ISBN: 978-1-5320-1835-0 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5320-1836-7 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903470

  iUniverse rev. date: 04/13/2017

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Endnotes

  To Doug, my love and my rock.

  PROLOGUE

  It was not because of the hair. Granted, it was a particularly unsightly hair, somewhat pubic in appearance and vaguely obscene in the way it jutted out from my chin. And granted, I did not notice it until I was wearing reading glasses and standing at the window with my magnifying mirror, scowling at some fuzz that I worried was an incipient moustache.

  No, it was not because of the hair. The hair was just one more thing reminding me of the inexorable passage of time. I only even mention it to help explain what I was struggling with as I was facing a birthday, whose number I am loath to utter even these many years later.

  It was not because of the flat tire. Of course, if it hadn’t been for the flat tire, none of the ensuing events ever would have happened. So I guess you could say that the flat tire was the precipitating incident in a chain of events that challenged my most fundamental perceptions of myself and turned my life into a “cautionary tale.”

  I know that nowadays fifty is the new forty—or maybe even thirty-five. But trust me, back in the day—as they’re so fond of saying these days—fifty was the stepping-stone to the old-age home. Or so I thought.

  CHAPTER 1

  On the evening of the day that I discovered the offending hair and plucked it out, I went to the local bridge club to meet my friend and regular bridge partner, Carolyn, to play duplicate bridge. Duplicate bridge is a game where the players sitting in the same direction play the same cards. The cards get passed from table to table, and the east/west players move to the next-higher table. It is quite competitive. Don’t picture little old ladies sipping tea and making genteel comments. I tend to think of it as sedentary ice hockey. There are definitely similarities—except, perhaps, for the ice and the broken teeth and concussions.

  I love it.

  Sue’s Philadelphia Bridge Club was in the rear of a midrise apartment building in Northwest Philadelphia that had seen better days. The club itself was dreary, but it had the best game in town. You parked in a lot behind the building and entered the club through a rear door.

  That evening, Carolyn and I had a mediocre game with no chance of winning, so Carolyn left as soon as the game was over. I stayed to gossip with an old partner who I hadn’t seen in some time. Before I left, I stopped in the bathroom, and as I was leaving, I noticed that everyone else had already left.

  When I got outside to the dark, unprotected lot, I was not very happy to see that the security guard was no longer out there. He had been hired by the bridge club after a few players had been mugged going to their cars.

  “Shoot,” I exclaimed as I reached my car. My left rear tire was completely flat. I stood looking at it for a minute, muttering pretty much all the curse words I could think of, which was unusual for me. It’s not that I’m a prude; it’s just that I maintain that people who must resort to profane and obscene language have a poverty of imagination—which I acknowledge I was afflicted with at that moment. This does not necessarily excuse my use of profanity, but it does, perhaps, explain it.

  I suddenly regretted my resistance to getting one of those cell phones that seemed grafted to the ears of everyone under forty and a sizable percentage of everyone else. It’s not that I’m a Luddite exactly, but who wants to be accessible 24-7? I guess everyone but me, come to think of it. My kids were always saying, “Mom, it’s almost the millennium—Y2K, for Pete’s sake!” My kids grudgingly respect my disdain of bad language, which was now pouring out of my mouth, although quietly to be sure.

  I shook my head in disgust, and clutching my purse tightly to my side, I rushed back to the now locked door and, I am embarrassed to report, upped the profanity volume. Looking anxiously about, I dashed around to the front entrance of the building, hoping to find a Good Samaritan and/or a phone.

  The missing security guard was leaning his elbow on the tall reception desk, chatting amiably with the night manager, who was sitting, partially concealed, behind it.

  “I have a flat tire,” I panted from the doorway.

  “Oh, yeah. I was wondering who the poor sucker was with that baby. No offense,” he drawled. “I thought everybody had gone home already. Sorry about that.”

  “Yeah, well. Think you could give me a hand?”

  “Oh, hey, I would, but I got a real bad back. And anyway, I’m off duty.”

  “I’ll pay you,” I said, desperately trying to remember if I had any money with me. Maybe he took credit cards.

  “Naw. It’s not that. I really do have a bad back. I’d never be able to straighten up.” He thumped the small of his back for emphasis.

  “It’s those treadles. You’re the third one this week.” This from the night manager, who I was just noticing as he moved his chair slightly back from the circular encompassing desk.

  Noticing. What an innocuous word. It’s like saying I was just “noticing” a Mack truck that had run me down and pinned me to the wall.

  Picture Brad Pitt. Then picture Brad Pitt’s handsomer brother. I can’t remember ever having a reaction like that to a man. It was like someone had laced my Geritol with crystal meth. I immediately sucked in my stomach and raised my chin an inch or two. My throat made a clicking noise as I swallowed dryly and croaked, “Whuh?”

  “You ought to complain to the manageme
nt,” he went on, paralyzing me like a helpless rabbit in the incandescence of his gaze. “There’s something wrong with those treadles. They’re like bent or jagged or something. They been chewing up tires all week.”

  I was dimly aware that the security guard was muttering something and ambling off down the hall.

  “Treadles,” I repeated.

  Handsome was beginning to look at me as if I were a little dim. “Um, do you have Triple A or something?”

  Even though the ol’ pins were still a little wobbly, and I had this warm, melting sensation in my lower abdomen, my brain was getting back in gear. “Yes, of course. Oh, yes. Can I, um, use the phone?”

  “You don’t have a cell phone?”

  I just stood there. Finally, looking at me as though I were a museum specimen, the night manager tilted his head in the direction of the phone on his desk.

  Somehow I was able to cross from the entrance of the lobby to the desk without my knees buckling. But it took a great deal of concentration and effort. First I had to remember where my feet were. And then I had to concentrate on placing one in front of the other. But eventually, by dint of determination and extraordinary perseverance, I made it to his side.

  All I could think of as I stood so close to him that I could feel his body heat was “Thank God I plucked out the hair.”

  I fumbled in my purse for reading glasses and my Triple A card and managed to make the call.

  “Is it okay if I call my husband? He’ll be worried.”

  “I would be,” he muttered. He wasn’t quite so obvious as to look me up and down, but let’s just say I felt appraised. Well, maybe he did actually look me up and down, but it was not in an offensive way—more appreciative than predatory, if you know what I mean.

  I briefly inventoried what he was staring at so intently. Starting at the top, as it were, there was the flowing, wavy, black hair, parted in the middle and just hanging loose. The random silver streak further attested to my embracing of the natural look. My face, which in my youth had been compared to that of Judy Garland, still retained a somewhat elfin, waifish look (I had been told), with my high cheekbones, large brown eyes, and (what has been described as) a pouty mouth—though I am not given to sulking, as a rule.

  I am just over five feet tall, and with my small frame, I guess my ideal weight would be about 100 to maybe 108. The bad news was that I weighed about 112. The good news was that several of those extra pounds had settled in my bosom, which in my youth had been unkindly described by my best girlfriends as “flat as a board and square on all corners.”

  While I was going through this mental inventory, I was dialing home; of course my husband, Bob, was already asleep—and annoyed to be awakened. But he would have been worried if he had been concerned enough to wait up for me.

  Maybe he should have been worried.

  As I said, I’m quite short, so even though I was standing and the night manager was sitting, he was not that far below me. In fact, what was in his direct line of vision was my neck.

  I felt as self-conscious as a fourteen-year-old. It seems that no matter how youthful our faces remain, there is no way to disguise that neck. I kept my chin raised as high as I could without actually staring at the ceiling. I took off my glasses and looked at him down my nose. This was, of course, not from snobbishness but because of the awkward position in which I was holding my head.

  “I’m serious about complaining to the management. Why should you have to pay for a new tire when they have these tire-munching treadles?”

  I was so focused on myself and the impression I was making that I started at the sound of his voice. I quickly composed myself. “Won’t you get in hot water stirring up trouble for the management?” I smiled at him conspiratorially.

  “Fuck ’em.”

  I have to admit I was a little taken aback. It’s not that I am a stranger to four-letter words, even though I am not in the habit of using them myself, despite this evening’s lapse. Bob uses them all the time. In the past, even I had been known to utter the occasional expletive. Well, maybe more than occasional. So my resistance to that kind of language has to do less with prudery and more with a commitment to maintaining certain linguistic standards—as I explained before. Pay attention.

  Even so, I have noticed over the years that most people will be circumspect about the language they use with total strangers, particularly older strangers. And here I was, this strange woman, old enough to be his mo … mothe … well, aunt.

  Before I could respond, an elderly woman came striding purposefully across the lobby from the direction of the elevators.

  “Who was on duty here at 7:00 p.m.?” she demanded.

  “I was. Why?” replied Brad’s handsome brother, a little insolently, I thought.

  “A flower delivery man came right up to my apartment, unannounced, and knocked on the door.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you mean, ‘Yeah?’ Aren’t you supposed to find out visitors’ names and the apartment they’re going to and notify the tenant before they are permitted onto the elevators?”

  “So I missed one, so sue me … ma’am.”

  The woman stared at him, mouth agape. “I am reporting you to the management,” she huffed, stomping off to the elevators.

  “Dried-up old cunt ought to just be grateful that someone sent her flowers,” he muttered, flipping the bird to her back.

  Now, I have to admit I was having an odd reaction to all this disrespect and profanity. I knew on an intellectual level that it was deplorable, but by his doing it so brazenly in front of me, I felt like he was drawing me into an intimate circle. The fact that he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen in person didn’t hurt his case either. Sexuality radiated from him like an aura. I was perspiring.

  Sweating, actually.

  He turned to me and winked, breaking into as impudent a grin as I had ever seen. He seemed to feel he had been terribly witty. I was irritated with myself for being so attracted to this, well, bratty young man.

  “Well, it’s obvious how you got this job. Your people skills are nothing short of astonishing.”

  He laughed. “For what they pay, they should pay me to work here.”

  Bemused, I mulled that over for a few minutes. It sounded like something I would say.

  He looked at my expression and laughed again. “I figure I’m doing them a favor working here. People aren’t exactly lining up for the job.”

  It seemed impolite to ask him what he was doing here if it was such a bad job.

  As though he sensed my unasked question, he added, “I need to keep my days free. And I have to work somewhere until I get my big break.”

  “Your Big Break,” I said, capitalizing the words with my voice. I find sarcasm a very irritating trait. However, that never stopped me from using it.

  I was still standing by his desk and saw he had what looked like a screenplay open in front of him.

  “Oh, are you an actor?” I asked, thinking it would explain a lot.

  “Nah. I’m a filmmaker. I do some independent work. No feature films—yet.”

  “Is that right? My son is a freshman at NYU Film School—Tisch School of the Arts.”

  Now he really studied me. “No way,” he said.

  “What are you talking about? You don’t even know my son, do you? He happens to be very talented …” I began babbling in confusion.

  “You’re not old enough to have a son in college,” he cut me off. He said it so offhandedly that I knew he was not simply trying to flatter me.

  I could feel myself blushing. Was he coming on to me? He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, if that. He was a kid, for heaven’s sake. Why was I getting so flustered? I could feel myself getting ready to babble some more and make a fool of myself. I controlled the impulse to tell him about my older daughter, or anything else for
that matter, and asked him about the film he was making. It seemed like a safe topic.

  “It’s about a group of nuns at this convent who get it on with a carful of lost Elvis impersonators.”

  I looked at him, and he continued to look back at me, guilelessly. “Sort of a gritty, slice of life drama,” I deadpanned.

  He laughed. “I also do videos—weddings, bar mitzvahs … And some still photography. Art portraits. With a real camera. Not one of those digital kiddie cameras. Nobody takes real pictures anymore. They only Photoshop ’em,” he said dismissively.

  Right, I thought. Or maybe you can’t afford a digital camera.

  “You know, you have great bone structure. Ever done any modeling?”

  Now, I am nothing if not realistic about my attributes and shortcomings. I already told you I have rather large brown eyes and high cheekbones and that in my younger days I was sometimes compared to Judy Garland—post-Dorothy and predrugs. But come on. Here I was, staring into the muzzle of my fiftieth birthday, even if I did have great skin for my age. So not having been born yesterday, as the cliché goes, I figured he was hitting on me.

  “Er, um, uh,” I said. It had been many years since I’d had to deflect a man’s advances. I was at a loss.

  Then, noticing some magazines on the lobby coffee table, I stammered, “I think I’ll go read until the Three A’s guy comes.”

  He laughed again, obviously greatly amused by my discomfiture.

  I sat on the sofa with my back to him and reread the same four lines of a recipe for pecan pie in a three-year-old copy of Southern Living. I could hear his breath. I fancied I could hear his heartbeat. Every time he moved, my own heart lurched. He made a few more tries to get my attention, such as asking, “Interesting article?” I gave him noncommittal replies (what can you really say about a recipe for pecan pie?). But try as I might to ignore him, I have never been so aware of anyone in my life.