An Evening of T & A, Chapter 2

"Do you think he's changed his mind?" Kirsten asked, anxiously peering out the French doors of the country club.

Even though they had been discussing the menu—sadly lacking in shrimp tacos, from Sandy's point of view—he immediately understood Kirsten's abrupt question. Unwrapping the fingers she had clenched around her necklace, he laced them through his own. "Relax, sweetheart. Ryan isn't even late yet," he assured her. With a soft chuckle, he tapped their clasped hands against his watch. "It just seems that way because we were early, remember? I know you're chair of the committee running this gig, but why we had to get to here four hours before it began, I don't know."

"Sandy!" Still distracted, Kirsten scanned the other entrance. "We have not been here for four hours."

Sandy lifted his shoulders in a rueful shrug. "Ah," he sighed, "not literally perhaps. But time is all in the perception. It seems like four hours, probably because setting up for an art auction is--well, sweetheart, it's pretty boring. Must be all these weird abstract paintings. Now, if there were a few female nudes . . ."

Wagging his eyebrows, he grinned slyly and Kirsten laughed in spite of herself.

"You're terrible, Sanford Cohen, and so is your taste in art!" She nuzzled Sandy's neck, but her tone grew wistful. "So you really think Ryan is going to show up? I mean it's not important that he be here exactly, just that he start to be . . ."

"Himself again," Sandy concluded. "I know." Suddenly serious, he pulled Kirsten closer. "As tragic as Marissa's death was for us, at least we could be grateful that our kid survived. We had that comfort. For Ryan though? All living did was heap guilt on top his grief. Watching him go through that, not knowing how to help . . ." His voice trailed off, and Sandy took a ragged breath before he continued. "But it does seem like Ryan is finally taking the first steps back. I think he's going to show up, honey. In fact--" Lifting his head, Sandy gestured in the direction of the door. "Seth and Summer just walked in. Shall we?"

Kirsten nodded and hurried across the room. She embraced Summer warmly, an almost maternal gesture that had become second nature over the past months, but her gaze remained riveted on the door.

"He's not here yet, Mom," Seth noted dryly. "Taylor and Ryan didn't ride with us. But don't worry. He's not going to bail. Not since he actually made it as far as Taylor's place. I admit, that was a critical point in the launch sequence, but now that he's in Taylor's orbit, trust me, she'll manage the rest. Even Kid Chino can't escape the gravitational pull of TT."

"Cohen!" Summer chided. She sounded reproachful, but her laughing expression belied her tone.

Seth smiled beatifically. "Hey. I'm just saying, that's all." He gave Kirsten a quick kiss on the cheek as she continued to survey the entrance. "By the way, Mom, nice to see you too."

"I wasn't--I mean . . ." Kirsten flushed. "Oh kids, I'm so sorry. Summer, I didn't mean to be rude. I just that this evening . . ."

"No, I understand, Kirsten. It's all right, really. I've been worried about Ryan too. What happened with . . ." Summer swallowed hard. The corners of her mouth pinched together, but she squared her shoulders resolutely. Her voice scarcely quavered as she finished. "With Marissa--it's been really, really tough on him."

Warm sympathy suffused Sandy's voice. "On you too," he said gently.

"Yes, it has been," Summer admitted. She leaned against Seth as he tightened his arm around her. "I miss her every day. But I wasn't there when it happened. I think that's what he can't get past--being there, and still not being able to save her. Ryan was all about saving Marissa. This time--well, he couldn't, and he can't seem to forgive himself for that."

The four of them stood for a moment in laden silence. Then Sandy nudged Seth's shoulder. "I think we should find that real food that your mother promised us, son. What do you say? Ladies? Shall we? I'm pretty sure there's a good look-out site over by the buffet. We should be able to spot Ryan as soon as he and Taylor get here. And meanwhile, at least we can eat. Personally, I'm starving. Even though, due to a sorry oversight, there are no shrimp tacos on the menu . . ."

Taylor switched gears smoothly to pull onto the highway. Her posture was ruler straight, not even touching the back of the seat as she drove, and her hands were wrapped capably around the steering wheel at the ten and two o'clock positions.

Ryan laughed quietly, watching her. "You look like one of those illustrations in a driving manual," he observed. When Taylor's lips tightened, ready to frown, he added, "In a good way, I mean. Very focused and competent."

"Oh." Taylor sounded relieved. "Well, I've always believed that you should always give your full attention to the task at hand. Concentration is the key to succeeding at, well, pretty much everything." Without shifting her eyes from the road, she took a deep breath. "Ryan," she announced, "as I think you already know, I am nothing if not forthright--"

"No one would ever say you were nothing, Taylor," Ryan injected dryly.

Taylor darted a quick glance over, but his deadpan profile gave nothing away. She paused for just a moment, considering his comment. Then she lifted her chin decisively. "All right, that remark was a tad cryptic, but I'm choosing to take it as a compliment, Ryan. So . . . I'm just going to go ahead and say this. I think you and I will both be more comfortable if we acknowledge the proverbial elephant in the car."

Ryan shifted, his breath hissing slightly.

"It's been my experience that confronting sensitive subjects is the best way to deal with them," Taylor continued. "Simply talking about them helps to put them into perspective and makes them less formidable."

"Not always," Ryan muttered tightly. An edge of warning cut through his voice.

Taylor glanced at him, her face creased in an anxious frown. Then, smoothly and quickly, she pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the highway, stopped and turned off the engine. Turning to Ryan, she placed one hand over his clenched fist. "Yes. Always," she insisted quietly. "Ryan, I've never told you how sorry I am about Marissa."

A muscle jumped in Ryan's jaw. "Okay. Now you have. So we can get going."

"No." Almost unconsciously Taylor's fingers stroked the sharp ridges of his knuckles. Her words matched the movement, hushed, gentle, and slow. "When I heard what happened, I sent flowers to the Cooper family, of course, and I made a donation to MADD, but I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't here, and . . . and, well, 'sorry' is such an inadequate word, Ryan, especially coming from me, but . . . I want you to know that I am so sorry. For all of it." Taylor touched Ryan's cheek, the gesture fleeting and whisper-soft. "I can't even imagine what you've gone through—what you're still going through—but I had to tell you that I wish so much that it hadn't happened." Pulling her hands back to her lap, she folded them firmly. "And now I'm done."

Ryan's gaze slid sideways, opaque and haunted. "Really?" he asked hoarsely.

"Really," Taylor promised.

"Okay then." Ryan leaned his head back against the seat. His lashes fluttered closed. "Taylor," he added. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she replied promptly. Then she paused, confused. "Ryan? Did you mean 'thank you for taking the initiative and talking to me about Marissa' or 'Thank you for stopping'?"

Ryan didn't open his eyes, but he inclined his head pensively. "Um . . . both?" he ventured.

"Both. I see. Both." Taylor sighed, relieved. "Well, I suppose that makes sense. I remember this very wise old woman I met in Korea. She once told me that communication resides equally in the words you share and the air of your silences. At least, I think that's what she said. She spoke in the Chungcheongdialect, which frankly I don't quite understand, so I may have missed some nuances. Still, I believe I got her point, so--"

"Taylor?" Ryan interjected. "Shouldn't you start the car?"

Taylor stopped, startled. "Excuse me?"

"Start the car," Ryan repeated. Without moving his head, he glanced at Taylor. Behind his lingering melancholy, a faint smile flickered. "I remember a young woman in Newport telling me that punctuality is very important. She spoke English, so I'm pretty sure I got the message. And if we don't go now, we're going to be late to the fundraiser."

"Oh!" Taylor bit her lip, blushing. "Well. That young lady sounds very wise." With instant composure, she turned on the engine and put the car into gear. "You know, Ryan," she announced, as they pulled back into traffic, "I'm never quite sure what to expect from you."

"You're not?"

"No, I'm not," she affirmed, looking straight ahead and smiling at the road. "And I like that."

Sandy, Kirsten, and Summer stood in a line in front of a large canvas, hands clasped behind their backs, examining the painting with feigned interest.

Off to the side, Seth shifted from foot to foot as he munched an empanada. Then he craned his head around the panel. "They're here," he hissed.

Immediately, the other three spun around, eyes riveted on the entrance. "Where?" Kirsten demanded.

"Okay, relax, Mom. That was just a dress rehearsal," Seth declared. "And based on that performance, may I suggest a little work on subtlety? Because it's not like all of you staring will make Ryan feel ambushed or self-conscious or anything."

"Us?" Summer protested. "What about you, Cohen? Who spent all his time in the car coming here composing T & A limericks?"

"Seth!" Sandy and Kirsten exclaimed in chorus.

Seth retreated hastily behind Summer. "Hey! That was totally different. It's not like I was going to recite them to Ryan. Or Taylor. Anyway, they even weren't dirty. Well, not very anyway." His parents glared at him, and Seth lifted his shoulders in an abashed shrug. "What? Is it my fault 'Taylor,' 'sailor' and 'nail her' all rhyme? I didn't create the English language, guys. I merely use it."

"Very inappropriately sometimes," Kirsten chided.

"Yeah, that's true," Seth admitted. "It's just that, you know, I feel this instinctive need to joke when I'm nervous. Or relieved. Or excited. Or--"

"Awake," Summer concluded.

Sandy chortled. "Ah yes, son, she knows you so well. By the way, a word of advice from your dear old dad. Any poems, witticisms, or clever remarks that you feel like sharing once Ryan gets here? Keep them to yourself." Switching places smoothly, he positioned Seth in front of the painting, appropriated his plate, and stepped to the side where he had a view of the door. "Now," he declared, spearing the last empanada. "I believe it's my turn on Atwood watch."

"Right on time!" Taylor announced with satisfaction. She beamed at Ryan, who was opening her car door. "I told you we wouldn't be late."

"Uh-huh. And you told that cop who stopped us for speeding that you were just keeping up with traffic."

"Well, I was!" Taylor insisted pertly. "I make it a point never to drive any faster than the fastest car on the road."

"So what road were we on? The Indy 500 speedway?" Ryan shook his head with amused admiration. "I can't believe he let you off with a warning."

Taylor ducked her head, smiling, as she took Ryan's arm. "I've gotten quite a few warnings," she admitted, with an airy shrug. "No tickets, though. I think the trick when you're stopped is simply to greet the officer with respect, while avoiding any obnoxious bootlicking, of course, and--"

"Oh, Ryan! This is luck!" a voice trilled. "Ryan! Over here!"

From a spot near the side entrance, Taryn waved importunately. When Ryan and Taylor hesitated, puzzled, she rushed to meet them, her pace surprisingly swift considering her skin-tight leather dress and five-inch stilettos. "You are just the person I need, darling," she announced breathlessly. "Could I borrow you for just the teeniest minute?"

Before Ryan could answer, Taryn had grabbed his elbow and started steering him back toward the parking area. Frowning, Taylor trotted after them.

"Excuse me! Hello!" she called. "Is there a problem?"

"What? Oh, Taylor, isn't it? I didn't notice you there. No, there's no problem, exactly," Taryn confessed. Without pausing, she continued to wend her way through the lines of cars. "It's just that I have been looking everywhere and I cannot find a single staff member! Well, not unless you count a few cater-waiters. But frankly none of them look like they can lift anything heavier than a dessert tray. Now you, on the other hand, Ryan . . ." Smiling flirtatiously, Taryn stroked his bicep. "You are definitely in shape. Would you be a sweetheart and give Derek a hand?"

Ryan shifted to remove himself from her grasp. "Derek?"

"My new . . . well, let's just call him my friend." With a sly wink, Taryn stopped in back of a silver-gray SUV. A very tan, very toned and very young man stood next to the open trunk where a large, garish sculpture rested.

It resembled nothing so much as an engorged penis.

"What. Is that?" Ryan demanded.

"It's a monstrosity," Taylor hissed.

Taryn didn't appear to hear. Smiling fondly, she ran a palm up and down the purplish stone. "This is my contribution to the auction. It's called 'Ecstasy Number Six.' Isn't it magnificent? I know I should have had it delivered earlier, but silly me, I completely forgot! Derek and . . . well, we were doing other things." She wrinkled her nose and shimmied against Derek's chest. "I'm sure you understand."

"Yeah," Ryan said dubiously. "I don't think so."

Beside him, Taylor rolled her eyes. "They got distracted," she mouthed, with a meaningful nod. Ryan shuddered in response and took a step back from the car.

"It's sad, really." Taryn sighed, oblivious to their reactions. "I do adore this piece, but I just redecorated my bedroom and now it doesn't seem to belong anymore."

The opening chords of "Sexy Back" interrupted her. Holding up one finger, Derek dug his cell phone out of his pocket and turned to answer it. Taryn took advantage of his inattention to sidle closer to Ryan. "Actually," she confided, "this piece was a gift from my ex-husband on our last anniversary. Since we split up, it just didn't seem right to keep it anymore. The memories, you know?"

Taylor shook her head with apparent sympathy. "I imagine just looking at it aroused all kinds of . . . sensitive feelings."

"Exactly!" Taryn gushed. "Of course, the artist isn't famous yet, but I'm sure that he will be, and it's so exciting to discover new talent, isn't it? So I thought, what better to do with my 'Ecstasy' than donate it to a charitable cause?"

Taylor edged next to Ryan's ear. "I can think of something," she whispered, as Derek flipped his phone shut.

His lips twitching, Ryan shot her a wry glance before he pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. "Okay, let's get this inside. Derek—you want to grab that end?"

"What? Oh yeah, man. I guess," Derek replied. Reluctantly, he took a position by the smaller side.

"Derek could have managed it by himself, of course," Taylor claimed, as they hefted the sculpture out of the car. "It's just that his muscles are a tad sore because we've been playing a lot of . . . tennis, and--Oh, Derek, darling! Watch it! You're getting dirt on your shirt!"

"Fuck!" Derek muttered. Immediately he released his grip, tipping the sculpture completely into Ryan's grasp. Staggered by the sudden weight, Ryan stumbled backwards, fumbling to balance the piece. He might have dropped it except that Taylor slipped into Derek's place and clutched his end.

"Hey, man!" Ryan snapped. "You mind?"

"What?" Derek mumbled indifferently. He was peering over his shoulder at a faintly smudged spot that Taryn was rubbing.

With an awkward shove, Taylor maneuvered the tip of the sculpture onto her shoulder. "It's all right, Ryan," she panted, swaying on her high heels. "I've got it."

"Taylor, let it go."

"No, seriously. I've been working on, on . . ." She paused to take a labored breath. "My . . . upper body strength. My trainer says I've been making . . . real progress . . . with free weights and . . . okay, this is really, really heavy."

Immediately, Ryan lifted the sculpture off Taylor's body. In grim silence, he settled it against his chest, angled himself so he could see around it, and turned toward the club.

"Ryan!" Taylor scurried to catch up. "I didn't mean for you to take it! I just needed to get the right leverage. Carrying a heavy weight is all in finding the proper fulcrum. Honestly, I can help--"

"Yes, you can. Make sure I don't walk into something," Ryan ordered from behind the bulbous mass that nearly blocked his sight. Over his shoulder he called back to Derek, "Really appreciate the help there, dude!"

Derek didn't bother to reply. Still engrossed in cleaning the stain on his shirt, Taryn fluttered her fingers in Ryan's direction. "Thank you, Ryan!" she chirped absently. "Oh—and don't forget to tell Kirsten that I came through after all!"

TBC