| |
“Let’s celebrate!” Kieran said as he jumped up from the club chair in his office.
The last couple of weeks had flown by as Angela wrapped up the editing on her manuscript and prepared for her trip to Barcelona in two weeks.
Kieran and she had easily settled into their roles as mentor and mentee, keeping all of their meetings to the bookstore and talking almost exclusively about business ever since his apology in late December.
Although part of her missed the more personal side of their friendship, it was a relief to not feel the inner turmoil she had experienced when their relationship was less defined.
She sighed contently as she ran a hand over her manuscript. She couldn’t believe how good the book was looking. Then again, she was certainly putting a lot of time into it—both with Kieran and by herself—and now it was finally ready to hand off to an editor. Her body thrummed with excitement.
She laughed, caught up in Kieran’s enthusiasm. “Okay, what should we do? How does one celebrate finishing a book?”
“With food of course. What would a celebration be without food?” Kieran shrugged, his eyes wide.
“I won’t disagree with you there,” she said, with a nod of her head.
“Why don’t you come over to my place, it’s really close to here. I’ll cook,” Kieran said with contagious excitement. He stood up and grabbed his leather jacket.
She tilted her head in disbelief. “You cook?”
Kieran zipped up his jacket, put his hands on his hips, and puffed out his chest. “I’m offended by that remark...of course I cook. I’m thirty-four, I live alone, and I love food so yes, I cook. Have you ever had Peruvian food before?”
She raised an eyebrow as she thought. “No I don’t think I have.”
“Great, I know just what I’ll make you then; one of my mother’s specialties. Follow me to the grocery store and then we’ll go to my place.”
A quiet thrill zoomed through her. She paused for a moment, wondering if they were crossing a line again, but her curiosity about his home and cooking got the better of her. She nodded her head. “Sure, why not?”
After a quick trip to the grocery store, Kieran pulled his motorcycle into the driveway of a quaint, 1920’s Spanish house off one of the small side streets at the southern base of the Hollywood Hills. He grabbed the grocery bags from Angela’s car, unlocked the heavy, wood door—studded with huge, hand-forged nails—and let her into his house.
The door opened into a small foyer that emptied immediately into a large, rectangular living room.
Angela looked around, admiring the raw wood beams overhead, the wood and cast iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and the beautiful terracotta tiles on the floor.
She gasped. “Oh, wow, Kieran. This place is amazing. I love the hexagonal tiles.”
Kieran shrugged off his leather jacket, laying it over the large sofa—upholstered in a brightly colored South American textile with thick stripes bordered by black. He smiled big, his dimples in full effect. “The tiles are what sold me on this place. There are many Spanish houses around here and most of them have the plain, square tiles. When I saw these hexagonal ones I just fell in love.”
Angela peeled off her lavender cashmere wrap, putting it down on the couch along with her bag, and then walked over to a large wall of windows looking out to a paved patio; her tall, equestrian-style boots clicking loudly on the tile floor. She looked around at the spotless, beautifully decorated home and found it hard to believe that Kieran lived here alone. It didn’t seem to fit with his James Dean look. Then again, Kieran was still a mystery in many ways.
“Did you have to do a lot of work, or was it already like this?” She ran her hand over the solid brass casement latch, admiring the quality of the old hardware.
“It was in good shape. I didn’t have to do anything structural, but I did do a bit of the restoration myself. See those beautiful rocks on the fireplace?” He pointed to the large fireplace at the other end of the living room.
“Yes...”
“I uncovered them. Someone had plastered over them.”
“No. Why?” She walked towards the fireplace, which looked like an avalanche of large rocks frozen mid-fall.
“Yup. Same with the wood beam ceilings.” He lifted his eyebrows and glanced upward. “I had to sandblast the paint off those.” He jerked his head to the left. “The kitchen is this way.”
Angela followed him. “Well it looks great. I grew up in a Spanish home. They are my favorite.” She sidled up to the large island, covered in tiles that ranged from watery green to cobalt blue.
“Why don’t you sit over there while I cook; it has a great view.” He gestured to a round, wooden pedestal table in the kitchen’s bay window that overlooked the courtyard she had seen from the living room. Wispy window treatments made out of an ethereal, but rustic, white linen framed the window.
Kieran opened the petite, arched metal frames of the floor-to-ceiling windows allowing the evening air to flow. The faint scent of citrus filled the air. Angela spotted an orange tree heavy with ripe fruit, standing guard over a small, burbling fountain that was crowned with a riotous vine of fuchsia bougainvillea.
“Here’s the sake from the store. Relax while I get dinner going. Are you hungry?” He walked over to a pantry and grabbed a full apron hanging on a hook.
“Yes, starving.” She poured herself some sake and sat back in the chair.
“I’ll grab you some olives and almonds. Dinner will be ready in about an hour.” He tied the apron expertly around his back, winding it once around his waist and threading a kitchen towel over the strings in the front.
He really does cook, she thought with surprise and not a little admiration. No one but her mother had cooked for her in a long time. Part of her wanted to help him, but what she wanted more was a tour of the house and insight into what made Kieran, Kieran.
But how to ask?
Kieran brought a small divided bowl of fat Marcona almonds and huge Castelvetrano olives. She raised her eyebrows. “You know your nibbles.”
Kieran gave her a smug look before walking back to the island.
She popped a salty almond in her mouth, enjoying its fatty crunch. “What are you making?”
He rummaged around in his cabinets, getting out supplies. Without looking up he said, “Aji de Gallina.”
She furrowed her brow. “I’m guessing that’s a chicken dish?”
“Yes, it’s kind of like a Peruvian chicken curry. It’s amazing; you are going to love it.” He stopped and looked her in the eye seriously. “How spicy do you like your food?”
She scrunched up her nose. “It depends. I’m kind of a wimp. Usually I’d say medium, but when I order Thai food I always ask for mild.”
He pointed at her with his index finger. “Oh yeah, mild is still scorching hot in Thai food.”
Her eyes widened. “Exactly!”
They laughed loudly in unison.
Angela continued, “Your mom taught you this dish?” She picked up an olive and took a small bite out of one of the large, dark green olives, enjoying its creamy flavor. She closed her eyes. “Hmmmm. I love Castelvetranos.”
“Enjoying your food again I see.”
Angela’s eyes flew open and her cheeks blushed at the dimpled smirk on Kieran’s face. She picked up her sake and tossed it back, avoiding his gaze.
Kieran cleared his throat and started banging around in the cabinets again. Finally he hauled up a large, red enameled Dutch oven. “Yup. Ma taught me everything I know about cooking. Dad is a workaholic, always at his law office and my three sisters are all older. So a lot of the time it was just me and my Ma. She’s awesome.”
Angela liked hearing Kieran talk about his mom. In many ways he had a deep, dark personality, but when he mentioned his mom he seemed lighter, like a kid again.
“Thanks for remembering the sake,” Angela said as she refilled her glass.
“My pleasure. We’re celebrating, right? It wouldn’t be a celebration if I was drinking alone.” He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Good point.” She stood up and grabbed another shot glass from the cabinet she’d seen Kieran access earlier. She poured him a shot and handed him the glass. “Here’s to finishing my manuscript.” She lifted her glass.
He clinked her glass with his. “The first of many. Cheers,” he said as he shot back the sake. He squinted his eyes tightly and sucked air through his teeth. “Wow, that stuff is strong.”
Angela laughed. “Is it? I really don’t notice.”
He nodded, putting the shot glass down on the table and walking back to the stovetop. “What’s the alcohol content?”
Angela grabbed the bottle and studied the label. “Fifteen percent.”
“No wonder. That’s about three times stronger than beer but about half as strong as vodka.”
“Really? That’s surprising since I can’t drink beer at all; it gives me a gnarly headache.” She watched as Kieran chopped up an onion, a leek, and some carrots; expertly using the beveled edge of his chef’s knife to rock his way through the chopping. There was no denying that he knew his way around a kitchen.
A man who knew his way around a kitchen; what could be better than that?
She fantasized that it was Soren who was cooking for her, instead of Kieran, and an erotic thrill whipped through her unexpectedly. She pulled at the front of her raspberry-colored blouse, surprised at how turned on she was. But Soren doesn’t cook. The thought left her flat.
When she looked up, Kieran was giving her an inscrutable look.
She looked down and smoothed out the front of her dark jeans. “Can I help you?”
“No, no. You are my guest. If you want, you can take yourself on a tour of the house while I’m making dinner.”
Angela’s ears perked up. She cleared her throat. “You don’t mind?”
“Be my guest,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the living room. “Feel free to go anywhere.”
She poured them both another shot of sake and drained her glass fully. “Okay. I’ll be back in a bit.”
She walked back through to the living room. To her right was a formal dining room with a thick, rectangular table surrounded by six leather and wood chairs. Filigreed, copper candelabras flanked a slender wrought iron table pushed back against the wall. A bay window looked out onto the tree-lined street where her car was parked.
On her left, a full wall of doors and windows opened out into the same courtyard as the kitchen. The tinkle of the fountain and the bright blooms of the bougainvillea were also on full display here. Across the room, two other windows looked out towards the street.
She walked along the wall of windows and doors through to a narrow, glassed-in hallway with three arched, wooden doors. Two of the doors lead to spare bedrooms with floors of gleaming hardwood, with the middle door opening to a shared bathroom tiled in black, ivory and green.
The first bedroom was obviously Kieran’s office. A sleek, silver laptop sat alone on a heavily carved table that served as a desk. A black leather, Recaro desk chair seemed extremely industrial and modern compared to the desk it was paired with, but somehow it worked. Three guitars hung on the wall: two electric and one acoustic. All three looked well used, the bodies and fingerboards displaying patches of unvarnished wood where Kieran’s fingers had rubbed repeatedly.
Angela raised an eyebrow. Kieran had never mentioned that he was musical.
Yet another mystery to unlock.
A huge aloe plant dominated one corner of the room, reminding Angela of the day Kieran bandaged her hand. Her cheeks flushed as she recalled the unbidden—but enjoyable—kiss. Even though she hadn’t initiated it, she still felt guilty about it. She could only imagine how angry Soren would be if he ever found out.
She shook her head, not wanting to dwell on that thought.
There were two black and white pictures on the wall. In one, Kieran was standing in front of Jabberwocky. He was smiling like a maniac and an older woman, his mom she guessed, was kissing him on the cheek. He definitely had his mother’s coloring; the black curls on the woman’s head were the same as the ones Kieran was always trying to keep out of his eyes.
In the second picture, Kieran was much younger. Angela guessed he was in his early 20’s. He had his arms thrown over the shoulders of two other guys. They were all wearing matching black shirts with white, graffiti-style writing that read “Entre Dos.” Kieran and another man had guitars slung over their bodies, while the third man was holding a pair of drumsticks. They were all wearing sunglasses and laughing; the photographer catching the three young men in a moment of carefree joy.
Angela studied the two pictures intensely, as though she could decipher Kieran if she looked at them long enough.
When they didn’t reveal his secrets, she reluctantly moved on to the next room.
The second bedroom seemed to be a guestroom. A picture of Kieran as a young boy was on the nightstand, along with a rosary, and a bible. The queen-size bed had a white lace coverlet thrown over it.
She closed the door to the bedroom and continued down the hallway, which ended at a final, closed door.
This must be Kieran’s room.
She looked back down the hallway, uncertain if she should open his bedroom door. His words came back to her. “Feel free to go anywhere.”
She laid her hand on the cold, cast iron doorknob and twisted. The wood door opened with a loud creek on its hinges. Angela walked into a sparsely furnished room that bordered on the monastic.
On the left, a wall of windows with a door framed the courtyard, just like in the living room. Directly across from her was a low coffee table covered with a dozen thick, pillar candles—some heavy with drippings, others with brand new wicks—and religious relics ranging from a collection of crosses and hamsas to statues of Buddha and Quan Yin.
She hadn’t seen a collection this eclectic since her semester on world religions in high school.
On the floor in front of the table was a single large, square floor pillow. Angela knelt onto the pillow and traced the enameled edges of a colorful hamsa; its bright, paisley-like shapes almost psychedelic. She studied the serene face of Quan Yin, her eyes mostly closed in thoughtful meditation, her lips hinting at just the barest of smiles. In the center of the table sat a small, brass bowl shaped like a gourd and containing a small amount of water. Next to it sat a thick piece of wood, partially covered by cloth.
Curioser and curioser.
On the right side of the room was a low, wooden bed frame with a futon mattress and only a thin, coarse blanket covering it. There wasn’t a pillow anywhere. On either side of the bed were two massive, floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books.
Above the bed hung a colorful textile with a variety of plants and animals depicted. Angela guessed it was Peruvian. On either side of the fabric were pictures of Kieran as a child, wrapped up in his parents’ arms.
Angela stood up and took one last look around the room, but didn’t see a single article of clothing, pair of shoes, or random out-of-place object. She never would have imagined Kieran’s home would be so nicely designed and yet also purposefully minimal.
She was beginning to elucidate the mystery that was Kieran.
Angela walked over to the bookcase and scanned the shelves. “Autobiography of a Yogi, The Science of Mind, The Power of Intention, The Art of Happiness, The Social Contract, Looking Backward...” she read the titles aloud.
Angela recognized a few of the books, but not all. She had attempted to read The Art of Happiness many times, but never managed to complete it. She studied Looking Backward in a class on utopian literature in college. She remembered finding it quite profound.
Every single book on the shelves appeared to be religious, spiritual, or philosophical in nature, and deep creases graced the spines of each volume. She considered herself to be well read, but Kieran’s book collection impressed her.
She scanned the shelves, looking for the most worn covers she could find, hoping for some indication of what Kieran’s favorite book might be. Among the most handled was a leather volume with gold writing that spelled The Sonnets of William Shakespeare.
Poetry?
She continued scanning and noticed other books of poetry, including a favorite of hers: The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou.
She removed the book from its place and opened the familiar, deckled pages. She turned to a page that read “PART ONE: Where love is a scream of anguish.” A smile danced on her lips.
She wandered towards the windows as she read a few of her favorite poems, sighing as she closed the book.
The faint orange scent of the courtyard beckoned to her, and she walked outside, the book tucked under her arm.
The courtyard was set with large, stone pavers in decomposed granite that crunched quietly underfoot. Beneath the orange tree, sat a fountain composed of a curved wall about 6-feet wide and 4-feet high behind a semi-circular pool about 2-feet deep. A wide ledge mounted into the curved back of the wall gushed forth a stream of water powerful enough to create a musical splashing in the pool. The entire fountain was tiled in soothing blues, grays, and greens, reminding Angela of fountains she had seen in Spain.
She walked passed the fountain and saw that the pavers continued as a meandering pathway into a lushly planted area, but she couldn’t see what lay beyond the first bend.
She turned towards the kitchen and saw Kieran add something to his pot, stir, and then cover it. Dinner must still be a good half-hour away.
She followed the path deeper into the garden as it banked around a mature avocado tree at least twenty-feet high. The air was noticeably cooler in the shade of the tree’s dense canopy.
As she continued on the path, winding between heavily planted borders, she came to a small clearing with a modern, aluminum lounge chair next to an Asian ceramic stool. A book was face down on the stool, holding open the page Kieran must have been reading. The book title read The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.
She sighed. Kieran’s library was starting to give her an inferiority complex.
In the cover portrait, the Founding Father was wearing a deep red coat with a fur collar; the look on his face serious and slightly smug. Or maybe she was just imagining the slightly smug part.
The path continued to the left winding around a large oak tree beyond which stood a small, grassy area dominated by a Buddha statue made out of gray pumice standing about 3-feet high. The Buddha was seated, his eyes closed, both hands lying upwards in his lap. Angela felt very calm looking at it.
This looks like a nice place to meditate.
She curled up her lip ruefully. She’d never been able to meditate longer than five minutes in her entire life, and even that felt like torture.
She lingered for a little while, taking off her shoes and walking on the cool, moist grass as she read some more Maya Angelou. She flexed her toes into the springy earth, enjoying the texture of the mown blades of grass as they roughly tickled her feet while the poet’s words danced in her mind.
She glanced at her watch. It had almost been an hour.
She inhaled deeply one last time, the fecund scent filling her lungs with cool, moist air. Even though she hadn’t meditated, she felt lighter as she walked back along the path to the courtyard, and walked into the kitchen where Kieran was busy stirring a pot.
The kitchen smelled heavenly; the scent of frying onions still hanging in the air.
She closed her eyes and inhaled. “Hhhhmmm, it smells good.”
He stuck his finger in the pot and tasted it. “It should be ready soon. Did you have fun exploring?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Yes, and you—my friend—are very, very neat. Anal much?”
Kieran tossed back his head as he guffawed loudly. “Wow. Judgey much?”
“Not judgey, more like jealous,” she said with a smile. “But seriously. Do you actually live here? This place is crazy neat.”
He wiped his hand on the kitchen towel hanging on his apron. “I am pretty neat, but I have to come clean and admit that I have some help. My mom comes and stays with me one or two nights a week, and she’s a busybody, always in motion. If she isn’t cleaning or cooking something, she isn’t happy.”
Angela furrowed her brow. “Doesn’t your mom live in Los Angeles? Why does she come stay with you?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “She used to teach biology at some of the city colleges, but now that she’s retired, she’s kind of bored. Plus, I think she gets tired of my dad. So she comes over here and we cook together. She’s always got something to teach me from all the cooking shows she watches.” His eyes crinkled up as he smiled.
Angela thought it was sweet that Kieran allowed his mom to continue to play a role in his life. She knew her own mother would probably appreciate the same privilege someday. As it was, they only lived two miles away but her mother still called her daily.
Kieran continued to stir the pot as he used his fingers to waft the steam towards his nose, his expression considering.
“Is it missing something?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the countertop.
His eyes shifted to her. “No. It smells done actually. I’m just trying to decide if I want to let it thicken up some more.”
She lifted her chin in understanding. “I see. Well I can wait if it’s better thick.”
He nodded his head and continued to stir. “So what else did you find on your adventure?” His eyes glanced in the direction of the book tucked under her arm.
She pulled the book out sheepishly. “Sorry, it’s one of my favorites. Is that okay?” she asked as she waved the book in the air.
He smiled and nodded. “Of course. I love Dr. Angelou. So powerful.”
Angela raised a brow. “Which of her poems is your favorite?”
He pursed his lips and looked up, considering. “Changes. ‘Fickle comfort steals away, What it knows, It will not say.’ It’s around page 200.”
Angela paged through the book until she found it. “Oh yeah, that’s a good one. Life is definitely a funny, fickle thing.” She studied Kieran as he cooked, a thought popping in her mind. “Do you write?”
Kieran seemed to start at her question. He kept his eyes trained on the pot and after a beat, he said, “Not really.”
She furrowed her brows. “What does that mean?”
He sighed, pushing his errant curl off his forehead. Without looking up he said, “I used to, but I haven’t really written since I opened Jabberwocky.”
Angela opened her mouth to ask another question, but was silenced when Kieran continued.
“Poetry. I used to write poetry,” he said with a tone of tense finality.
Her brows arched. She wanted to know more, but it was clear he didn’t want to talk about it. She cleared her throat. “Well, you are clearly a minimalist.”
He looked up from his cooking and smiled, clearly grateful by the change in topic. “Yes I am. Minimalist and proud!” He put his fist over his heart as though he was pledging allegiance to a cause.
Comprehension struck Angela suddenly. “Is that why you always wear the same thing?”
He nodded, his face growing a shade darker. “About five years ago I decided to simplify my life, and my wardrobe was part of that. I only own a couple of dozen items of clothing.”
Her eyes widened. “Why? Why limit yourself so radically?”
He took a deep breath and shrugged. “Because it gives me more mental, emotional, and spiritual space for things that are more important.” He stirred the pot, lifted the wooden spoon out, and banged it against the enameled edge; creamy, mustard-yellow droplets of sauce dropped back into the pot. “It’s ready,” he said with a satisfied smile.
Angela cocked her head. “I can also see why Jabberwocky appealed to you as a business. You have quite the book collection. It looks like your guitars, your religious relics, and your books are the only things you own.”
“Those are the things I love; they bring meaning into my life. Reducing the other stuff,” he waved his hand in the air as he said the word “stuff.” He continued, “It was like silencing loud background noise for me. It allows me to really appreciate what matters.” He held up his sake glass in salute and took a sip.
She raised an eyebrow. There was no end to Kieran’s depth. “Tell me about your garden. It’s gorgeous.”
Kieran grabbed two brightly patterned plates from the cupboard and scooped out a small mound of white rice onto each, followed by a heaping serving of Aji de Gallina on top.
“Thanks. I can’t take the credit for it. A good friend of mine is a landscape architect and he designed it. The three trees were already here, but everything else was his idea. All I told him was that I wanted a fountain, a place to read, and a place to meditate.” He handed her a dish.
“The area with the Buddha, that must be the meditation area.” She said as she studied her dish, noticing the bits of shredded chicken and golden potatoes covered in the creamy-looking yellow sauce.
Kieran nodded, gesturing to the door leading out to the courtyard. “Yes. I meditate once in the morning and once at night for at least twenty minutes. I started doing it when—” he stopped himself and then said, “It really saved me during a rough patch five years ago.”
Angela’s ears pricked up. Kieran had referred to that time at least twice this evening. “Five years ago was when you opened Jabberwocky, right? Was that what made you start meditating?”
Kieran looked down at his plate. “Sort of.” He cleared his throat and added, “Anyway, I picked that Buddha specifically because his hand posture is supposed to inspire meditation.”
Kieran put down his plate on a tiled, wrought iron dining table located adjacent to the fountain, and pulled out Angela’s chair for her.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, touched by the gesture.
Kieran tilted his head, a small smile on his lips.
She studied his face. Now that she knew him better, she was no longer overwhelmed by his striking good looks, and she could see him for who he really was. His deep brown eyes no longer smoldered, they looked sensitive. His James Dean wardrobe wasn’t rebellious, it was purposefully simple. Where she used to see mystery etched in his face, she now saw wise contemplation.
And now she knew he was a writer, which made so much sense given his love of books. But why didn’t he write anymore? What else was he holding back?
Angela spread her napkin on her lap and took a bite of her stew, her eyes growing wide at the combination of flavors. It was unlike anything she had ever tasted: spicy, smokey, and creamy without any of the sweetness of a Thai curry or the tanginess of an Indian one.
“This is amazing Kieran, really. Wow. You have to give me the recipe.” She took a bite of potato and closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling as it dissolved in her mouth, its starchy granules spreading across her tongue.
She opened her eyes to take another bite and saw him staring at her with amusement.
He looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. He shook his head and then said, “I’m glad you like it. Do you cook?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Yes. I love to cook. In fact, one of these days I’ll have to cook for you as a way to thank you for this amazing meal.”
“It’s a date,” he said quickly.
She sucked in her breath.
In his actions, Kieran was always the perfect gentleman. Almost always. Their passionate kiss flashed through her mind. Of course, Angela was as responsible for that kiss as he was—it was she who hugged him first. A warm thrill passed through her as she remembered how nice the kiss had been, trailed by a smaller thrill of guilt.
However, although his actions were always appropriate, he sometimes skated the edge of her comfort zone with his words.
She raised her eyebrows. “It’s a non-date,” she said meaningfully.
He rolled his eyes. “Right, a non-date.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, how are things with Soren?” He kept his eyes on her as he forked a helping of chicken into his mouth.
She pursed her lips. “That wasn’t a very subtle segue you know,” she said with an arch of her brow.
“Subtlety is not something I’m good at.” His dark eyes flashed dangerously.
An electric jolt coursed through her stomach and her heart started thudding in her ears.
Maybe dinner wasn’t a good idea after all. She had forgotten how electric things got between them whenever they drifted off course, the last couple of months of platonic working together had lulled her into a sense of security.
She took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing pulse. “Things are great, thanks for asking,” she said brightly, her throat tightening at her lie.
They had only spoken twice since his birthday, and the conversations had been short and strained. She chalked up their emotional distance to the ten weeks of physical separation—even the phone sex didn’t help her feel close to him anymore—but she knew that the real problem was the subject of London. It was the elephant in the room. She hoped her rapidly approaching trip to Barcelona would help to rekindle their fire and give her a safe opportunity to let him down easily.
He arched an eyebrow. “That’s all?”
“Yup, that’s all,” she said as she rubbed the back of her neck. “Hey, is there any more of that sake?”
They ate the rest of their meal in relative silence and then moved to low lounge chairs nearby, sitting in front of a terracotta chiminea. Kieran retrieved a Mexican beach blanket for Angela—its red background layered with white and green stripes—and wrapped it around her shoulders to chase off the chill of the Spring night. The chiminea crackled happily and white, fairy lights crisscrossed over their heads strung from bull-nosed wood beams under the eaves.
Kieran grabbed the sake bottle and held it up to the light. It was three-quarters empty. He poured more into their two glasses, surprised at how intoxicated he felt and how sober Angela seemed.
Angela picked up her glass and gave him a mischievous look. “So Kieran, why did you start Jabberwocky?”
He sighed heavily, the corner of his mouth turning down. He took a sip of his drink and winced as it burned its way down his throat and chest.
She cocked her head at him with a pleading look that he was certain had gotten her just about anything she wanted in life. A flush of warmth bloomed in his torso, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t from the sake.
Angela leaned forward in her chair. “Come on Kieran. Whatever happened is ancient history. Maybe it’s time to let go of it. After all, hasn’t Jabberwocky been a good thing?” Her tone was playful, but he sensed her sentiment was serious.
He sighed. Maybe Angela was right. Maybe it would feel good to unpack this baggage. If he was going to tell this story to anyone, it would be Angela.
He hadn’t felt this comfortable around another person for over five years, and although they’d only met six months ago, he felt as though he’d known her forever. “Are you sure you want to hear it? It’s kind of a long story.”
“Go for it. I’m all ears. Bottoms up.” She raised her glass and snuggled back in her chair.
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “When I was twenty-five, I started dating this woman named Olivia. Olivia and her best friend Rebecca had known each other since they were children and always dreamed of owning a children’s bookstore together. Rebecca and her husband Jeremy agreed to invest half of the startup costs, but Olivia didn’t have the other half so she asked me to invest in the bookstore with her since she knew I was a book lover. By this time, we had been dating for two years. We were very serious and I wanted to help Olivia realize her dream.
“We opened the store in the fall, just before my twenty-eighth birthday. It was called Wonderland back then. To help keep costs down, the four of us took turns working the store. Olivia worked at the store full-time, the rest of us rotated in as we could around our regular gigs.
“After the store had been open about a year, the cracks were beginning to show in the arrangement. The stress of owning a business took a toll on Olivia and Rebecca’s friendship. They couldn’t agree on anything and were fighting all the time. But the truth was, Olivia was just not an entrepreneurial type. She hated having to sweep floors and take out the trash. The bookstore was not living up to her fantasy of being a business owner.
“On our 4-year anniversary I took the day off—I was working as a studio musician at the time—to surprise Olivia at the bookstore with lunch. I had ordered takeout from our favorite restaurant and had bought her a first edition Alice in Wonderland as a gift.
“When I got to the store the sign that says ‘be back in 15 minutes’ was facing out and the door was locked. Since Olivia was often at the store alone, sometimes she had to lock the doors to go run to the bank or post office. I had a key of course, so I let myself in expecting to wait for Olivia to return from her errand and...” Kieran trailed off as the painful picture of what he saw splashed itself across his mind’s eye.
After several seconds, Angela cleared her throat loudly. “And then?”
Kieran blinked his eyes rapidly as he inhaled. His face flushed as he said sarcastically, “And then I walked into a fucking soap opera.”
Angela furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”
“You know, chick banging her best friend’s husband on top of an office desk.” He tried to act nonchalant as he said it, but his heart clenched at the memory. Not only had Olivia cheated on him, but she also ripped apart a marriage and a lifelong friendship. It wasn’t something one forgot—or forgave—easily.
Angela gasped.
Kieran nodded. Despite the pain of reliving the memories, he was surprised at how easily the words were flowing. He continued, “I saw Olivia and Jeremy going at it on top of the desk in the private office. They didn’t even hear me enter the store. I’ve since replaced the desk obviously.” He shifted forward in his seat.
Angela frowned, her eyes concerned. “And then what happened?”
He shrugged. “I left the takeout food at the register with a note that said ‘Hope you and Jeremy enjoy the food. Fuck you, it’s over.’ and I walked out of the store.”
Angela stared at Kieran in horror. “I’m so sorry. That’s horrible.”
Kieran cracked a weak smile as he nodded. “It was pretty horrible. But something good came out of it. By that time, I had fallen in love with the store, the customers, and the neighborhood. It gave me some roots and stability, which I needed. The life of a musician can be itinerant.
“Once the initial storm passed, Olivia wanted out of Wonderland and Rebecca and Jeremy had to liquidate all their assets for the divorce, so I offered to buy everyone out.” He shrugged. “At least I got a good deal in the process since everyone was anxious to get away from each other.
“Six months after walking in on Olivia and Jeremy, the store was mine. I renamed her Jabberwocky and the rest is history. She’s my wife.” He chuckled thinking how true that was. He’d barely dated since becoming the owner of Jabberwocky. “We’ve been ‘happily ever after’ ever since.” He raised his sake glass at Angela and tossed it back, wincing as he swallowed.
Angela’s mouth was agape. “Shit Kieran. That sucks. Now I feel bad for asking,” she said as she shifted in her chair, the metal scraping against the stone paver.
He waved his hand in the air. “Don’t feel bad. Seriously. It’s been five years. I should get over it. This is the first time I’ve talked about it with anyone besides my family. At first, I couldn’t talk about it because it was too painful, and then I think I just didn’t talk about it. But it felt good to tell you. I’m glad you made me do it.” He smiled earnestly, feeling about a hundred pounds lighter.
Angela sighed and gave him a sad smile as she lightly covered his hand with her own. A familiar shock of electricity ran up his arm. He was no longer surprised by his reaction to even the slightest of her touches; his body whirred with kinetic energy whenever she walked into a room.
Then he thought about Soren and his heart ached knowing she belonged to another.
“Thanks for trusting me with it.” She held up the sake bottle to the light of the chiminea. “I think this is our last shot, are you ready?” She poured out the last of the ivory-colored liquid into their glasses.
He shook his head. “How are you not shit-faced? I’m really buzzed—bordering on intoxicated.”
She shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I guess I metabolize sake differently. I must have rice running through my veins,” she laughed loudly.
The chiminea’s fire cast a warm glow on Angela’s face. She’s gorgeous. He cursed the rogue thought. It was hard enough to reign in his conscious admiration for Angela, now his unconscious was getting in on the action.
He couldn’t deny that he was attracted to her. If she offered an inch, he would ask for a mile, but he wouldn’t try anything as long as Soren was in the picture. Meeting Soren over Christmas had made the other man real in Kieran’s mind, and he could never do to someone else what Olivia had done to him.
It was hard though. Working with Angela on her book had made them closer than any author he’d known before. He wasn’t sure where the line was between colleagues and friends anymore. And he knew that he would like the line to move even further. But he didn’t want to push her and risk scaring her away. If friendship was all she could offer him, he would take it.
He needed it.
Because ever since Angela Holguín had walked into his life, he had begun writing again. He hadn’t written a word since the day he walked in on Olivia and Jeremy. Not a single couplet; not a single lyric.
His well had dried up.
But from the moment they met, words had begun to trickle out from his fingers again. At first, he didn’t realize it was because of her. The day they met, he wrote a poem about colors: midnight copper, jungle green, salmon pink. Only later did he realize he had actually been writing about her: her hair, her eyes, her lips.
He glanced at her lips and his heart started to race. He was entering dangerous territory. He needed to clear his head. “I need some water, can I get you some?”
“Yes thanks. No ice please.”
He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of glasses. As he filled them, he thought back to his conversation with Dalia and her encouragement for him to find a way to win Angela over. He needed to talk to her again. See if she could give him any insight into Angela and Soren.
He walked back out to the patio. “Here you go,” he said, handing Angela her glass. She began drinking it immediately. “Hey, could I get Dalia’s number from you?” he blurted out awkwardly.
Angela coughed loudly. “What? Why?” She brushed off the water she had spat on the blanket.
Oh crap, I didn’t think this through. Why do I need Dalia’s number?
Kieran said the first thing that popped in his head. “Telling you about Olivia makes me realize I’ve been single too long. I was thinking about asking Dalia out. You don’t mind, do you?”
Part of him hoped Angela would say she minded.
Angela blinked rapidly. “You should ask her out. Here, I’ll program her number into your phone.” She grabbed his mobile phone off the arm of his chair and punched in some numbers. She set the phone down and quickly finished her water. “I should get going. It’s getting late, and I want to go for a hike tomorrow.”
Kieran was caught off guard by her sudden desire to rush out. “A hike? Where?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said as she got up and headed inside.
He followed her. “Well give me a ring. Maybe I’ll meet you.” He shoved his hands into his front pockets.
She looked up at him with wide eyes as she wrapped her sweater around her. “No thanks. I’d like to be alone. I need to do some thinking.”
He was disappointed that she was leaving already. His house felt fuller with her presence. “Okay. Be safe. I’ll see you on Wednesday?” he asked, referring to their meeting with the editor.
“Yup, great. See you then,” she said over her shoulder as she walked out to the car.
She got into her Volvo and started it up. Kieran stayed on the front porch, watching her pull out of his driveway.
Angela rolled down the window and turned on the radio. Her face felt hot and irritated. Why should she care if Kieran asked Dalia out?
Angela snapped on the radio hoping to tune out the unwanted pangs of jealousy she was feeling. She had no right to feel this way, and worse than that, she felt guilty because her thoughts should be on Soren.
Soren, the dream turned reality that was so beautiful when they were together, and so ephemeral when they were apart. And at this point, they had been apart too long. Phone calls were not enough to sustain a relationship forever. No matter how his words made her feel, they were just words.
Which is why he wants me to move to London.
Angela slammed her palm on the steering wheel, and wiped a tear of frustration from the corner of her eye. Alicia Keys soulful voice came on the radio singing her song Fallin’. She turned it up and sang along for a few lines, the cool night air stinging her cheeks as she accelerated through the Hollywood pass.
