Chapter Fourteen
Reverend Whitmore cannot take my bag of thongs and sex manuals, especially since I haven’t even paid for them. If he leaves the store with them, he’ll be busted for misdemeanor theft and thrown in jail!
I can see it now: him waddling through the shoplifting sensor oblivious to the sixty dollars’ worth of stolen sex manuals in his possession. Alarms ringing. Security personnel closing in from every side. And there will be the good minister, flush-faced and baffled to find he is holding my hot pink bag of naughty undies along with How to Blow Everything ... Including His Mind.
"No!” I scream, dashing from the aisle, turning the corner, and running—smack!—into, of all people, Nick.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He grips my shoulder, laughing as if we’re playing a game of tag. “You all right?”
Actually, I’m not since, aside from being filled with heart-pounding anxiety, I have had the wind knocked out of me after impaling my solar plexus on his elbow.
“Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to.You sort of sideswiped me.” Never mind my agony or the fact that, in his dark navy carpenters’ union T-shirt, Nick is spellbinding. I have no time to talk—even if I could.
“Sorry,” I gasp, when I get my breath back. “Gotta run.”Wiggling from his grasp, I make it as far as the railing when I spy Reverend Whitmore on the floor below, pushing open the double front doors. Miraculously, he has passed the sensors without so much as a beep, despite my pink bag securely in his grasp.
Too late, I realize, letting out a long sigh. I am just not meant to enjoy good sex, that’s all. I should be a Puritan like my alleged ancestor, the famous John Howland. Except for the all-day praying on hard benches.That’s a bit much.
“Lose something?” Nick asks, joining me at the railing.
“A friend of mine walked off with all my stuff.”
“Can’t you catch up to her?”
"Him,” I say. "And, no, it’d be too embarrassing.”
“Right. Of course. Horribly embarrassing.”
We are silent, watching the customers perusing tables below. Nick is no doubt at a loss to understand what the crazy woman next to him is up to now and, frankly, I don’t have the energy to explain.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Not that I think carpenters don’t read,” I hasten to add, lest Nick peg me for a snob.
“Killing time.” He holds up a slim copy of Fear and Trembling, which I haven’t read since a college philosophy class and I’m not sure I really read it then. “I’ve just gotten to the good part where the spy is being double-crossed by his Russian lover who’s selling nuclear secrets to the Chinese. Typical Kierkegaard, violence on every page.”
“Gee. I’ll have to give him another try, now that I know there’s that much action. How’s the sex?”
“Not bad, though he’s kind of conflicted. I think Søren’s about to break off his engagement to the love of his life, Regine.”
Is Nick hinting he knows my secret? Or is this true? Damn. Where’s my reserve of Kierkegaard trivia when I need it? “Well, it’s hard to keep a good Danish existentialist down. At least, that’s the way the song goes.”
He laughs. “You’re great, Genie. Very funny. I wish I were going for coffee with you instead of the person I’m supposed to meet. Anyway, I’m beginning to think she’s stood me up.”
She? What she would stand up Nick?
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee,” I offer cheerily. "Besides, I’m a good placeholder if she shows. First rule of being stood up—never be alone. Always pretend to be having the time of your life in case she arrives late.”
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely.The last thing you want is for her to find you looking forlorn and worried, milling around the remainders table and checking your watch.That’ll be a total turn-off. She needs to see you already in the company of another woman.”
He’s smiling now. "Meaning, you.”
“If you’re game. My recommendation is to grab a table by the window. That way, when she walks by, she’ll catch us in deep conversation and will curse herself for being tardy.You know what they say, ‘Those who dither, suffer.’ ”
"I thought it was ‘Those who procrastinate, mas—’ ”
"Shhh! Please. I’m a respectable woman. We’ll have none of that talk.”
“Sorry,” he says, feigning seriousness. “I forgot about your prior history as a virgin.”
“You can erase the memory of that conversation from your databanks, thank you very much,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him. “Now, do you want me to help or not?”
“How could I refuse?”And with that, he slides his arm around my waist and gives me a slight squeeze. “Is this too much?”
Not enough, I want to say, drinking in the smell of his clean shirt, the faint hint of soap. “Perfect. She’ll be seething with jealousy. ” We head toward the escalators, scanning for his date. “What’s she look like, anyway? I need to know so I can make a pass at you when she walks in.”
"Tall. Rail thin. White, white skin. Kind of scary, actually.”
“Sounds delightful. Do you always go out with skeletons?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, not with all the best women spoken for.” He lets go so I can step in front of him on the escalator. What am I doing with this make-a-pass business? I am playing with fire, is what I’m doing. And I better take care that I don’t get burnt.
Luckily, we do find a table by the window, where I wait while Nick orders us two coffees. I decide it’s not just his Mediterranean magnetism, as Todd calls it, that attracts people to Nick. It’s his overall demeanor. He is one of those naturally friendly people who talk to total strangers as if they’ve known them for years.
Like the girl behind the counter, for instance. Something he’s said has her giggling, and it appears as if she’s throwing in a chocolate croissant for free. (Oh, goody.) Sure, his good looks help. The longish wavy dark hair.The masculine jawline and trim physique. The shoulders out to there.
Nor does it hurt that he just stuffed a wad of cash in the tip jar. Hugh never would have done that.
Hugh boycotts tip jars. In his opinion, tip jars put the slack in slacker. “Mere mendicants,” he used to say. "That’s what we’re becoming. A society of lazy mendicants.”
“Can I tempt you?” Nick slips the croissant onto a napkin and slides it to me. It is bursting with dark chocolate. My very favorite, next to almond.
“I couldn’t. Too fattening.” Such a hypocrite. The cream and sugar in my coffee is worth at least two pains au chocolat.
“Come on.You know you want it.” He breaks off a corner and pops it into his mouth. “Man, is that good. Dark chocolate. Pastry. How can you say no?”
Trans fats, Hugh would point out.
“A real date wouldn’t eat a chocolate croissant,” I observe. "She’d demur. Until . . . later.”
He raises an eyebrow. "Later?”
“Until after we got to know each other better.You don’t want to pig out in front of a guy before he sees you naked for the first time. A girl’s got to create the image that she’s almost, well, divine, a goddess who has no need of mortal food.”
“I see.” He sips his coffee, mulling this over.“I’ve never thought of that but, looking back on my previous dates, I guess you’re right.”
How long have Nick’s women had to wait before they could eat, is what I want to know. My guess is not more than a night.
“So,” he says,“I’ve bought you a coffee.We have the table.The next step is for me to take your hand, don’t you think?”
A flutter ripples through me as I extend my hand with its newly done nails. “You learn fast.”
“I have a good teacher.”
Instead of chastely touching hands, we link fingers. Oh, God. We have just linked fingers and Nick is grinning that grin of his. I know it’s an act.We’re putting on a show for his date.
Still.
“Now,” he says, “what should we talk about? Our hopes? Our dreams?... Hugh?”
Quick. Think of something, Genie. Anything but Hugh. “I know. How about the house?”
“The house?” He squints. “What house?”
“The house you and Todd are working on. I was at the gym this morning and ran into a woman I knew from high school. She’s a real estate agent now and she said Cecily is finally putting the house on the market. She wants to sell it fast so she can go to California and be with her boy toy.”
Nick doesn’t let go of my hand. In fact, he absently strokes it with his other, his fingertips gently caressing my wrist. Clearly, he is an innately sensual man.
“Boy toy, huh? I knew she was eager to go to California, but Cecily never mentioned a boy toy.”
“But you did know about her selling the house.” I am trying very hard not to seem as if I’m at all excited by what he’s doing with his hand.
“Of course.We’ve been in deep negotiations about me buying it for weeks now.”
“Buying it?” He can’t, I think, yanking my hand back and mulling over what he means by deep negotiations. “How come?”
“Excellent investment. Plus, I can finish the downstairs bathroom and kitchen while I continue to live upstairs.”
“I didn’t know that’s where you lived.”
"Yeah. I moved in when we started the project, part of a deal I cut with Cecily to keep her costs down.What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know if Todd mentioned this,” I start, worried that I might sound like my brother’s spoiled baby sister, “but I want to buy it, too. It’s my dream house. I love its location, the fireplace, that it has a backyard big enough for a garden. I have visions of planting roses all along the front. Big red roses. Mr. Lincolns.”
“Roses,” he repeats, smiling. “You really must love it then.”
“I do.You could even say I feel sort of desperate.”
“Then how come Todd said Hugh wouldn’t go for it?”
“Todd doesn’t know squat. If I want the house”—here comes another whopper of a lie—“Hugh will agree. Sight unseen. He totally trusts my judgment.”
Nick brushes a few crumbs off the table. “Well, then why haven’t you two made Cecily an offer?”
Good question. So good that I don’t have a decent answer to it. “To tell you the truth, not enough money.”
“Got that right. Cecily’s looking for cash. A half a million at that. She’s out of her mind.”
“Who’s she going to sell to? Drug dealers?”
“Fine by her. As long as the house is off her hands and she can go to California without waiting a month to close.”
Cecily the real estate flipper. Poor Todd, having to work with her all these months.What a nightmare.
“We have to think of something,” he says. “We can’t let that house fall into the hands of some wise guy or a gun runner.”
"Okay. Let’s think. Let’s resolve not to leave this place until we have a solution.”
Nick and I drink our coffee in mutual silence and wrack our brains. A half a million is a lot. No matter how happy Mom and Dad are to have me married, they’ll never go for it. For one thing, Lucy would have a fit.
Finally, he says, “How much cash can you scrape up? If you don’t mind me asking.”
"Right now, about twenty grand if I close out a couple of CDs. However, I might be able to get as much as three hundred thousand dollars. That’s what my parents gave Lucy and Jason when they got married—not that I’m assured of the same.” Not that I’m really getting married.
A glimmer of shock passes across his face as Nick lets out a low whistle. “How do I know you’re not a crack dealer?”
“You don’t. How about you? How much can you scrape up?”
He twirls the napkin on the table, hesitating. “About a hundred grand less.”
“So, we’re both drug dealers, since I don’t know too many carpenters who’ve been able to sock away two hundred thousand dollars.”
“I keep my expenses down.”
“No kidding.”
“Genie,” he says, looking up. “What would you say if I suggested we split it?”
“The house?”
“Hugh would probably hate the arrangement. But from what I hear, Hugh wouldn’t live in a two-family on Peabody anyway. So it could be strictly an investment while you two live somewhere else. If you put in three and I put in two, Cecily gets her cash.We could turn it into two condos. I’d finish the downstairs, no charge, and I’d take out a loan to make up the difference. It’d be doable.”
Yes, I want to say, but there’s no way I could plunk down that much money and still live in my apartment. My parents would never understand that. What am I saying? My parents won’t understand when I tell them Hugh broke up with me weeks ago.
“The thing is,” I venture, “I’d have to live there. I can’t afford to live somewhere else and also own a home.”
“You?” Nick asks. “Or you two?”
“Do you care?”
He’s about to answer when something over my shoulder suddenly grabs his attention. “She’s here.”
“Who’s here?”
“Cecily Blake.”
"The Cecily Blake?”
"On the up escalator.”
I turn around and sure enough there’s a woman who meets Todd’s every description. Impossibly tall, rather thin, with a pout that seems permanent. Cecily Blake in a crisp black shirt and white pants accessorized by clunky jewelry is going up while staring down at us like a buzzard on roadkill.There’s no doubt about it—she’s pissed Nick is with another woman.
“Shouldn’t I kiss you now?” Nick asks.
Spinning around, I say, "Kiss me?”
“So she’ll seethe with jealousy.” He starts to lean in my direction and stops. “Wait. What’s your preference? Do you like the first kiss to be one of those prim pecks or should I go for more? I know, you don’t have to tell me. No tongue.”
A surge of emotion wells inside me, though I can’t tell if it’s because Nick is talking about kissing or that I’ve just realized he has a bigger advantage than I do in getting the house.
“Cecily Blake is your date? Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I’ll explain later.” In one fluid move, he plants his lips on mine. It is neither a pristine peck nor a sloppy fumble. It is an absolutely perfect kiss. Soft. Full. Entrancing. The contrast between this kiss and Steve’s pass is stunning. Steve’s kiss I barely tolerated; this kiss I don’t ever want to end.
Nick seems to be enjoying it, too, since he gently cups the back of my head, bringing me closer to him.
Which is when I see Reverend Whitmore at the window holding up my pink bag and gaping in horror.
"Crap!” I gasp, pulling away and getting up to go. "Crap. Crap. Crap.”
“Was it that bad?” Nick looks hurt.
“No. Not at all.”
For a moment, our eyes meet and something so powerful comes over me that I have to turn to the window, even though that’s where Reverend Whitmore is standing.
“It’s my friend. He’s got my bag.” I give a finger wave to my “friend,” who is still frowning. “If I don’t run now, it’ll be too late.”
“Sure,” says Nick, rapidly writing something on a napkin. “Here’s my home phone number. Call me if you have any more ideas about the house.” He hands it to me. “Or if you just want to pick up where we left off.”
Tucking the number into my purse as if it’s a treasure, I say, “I don’t know about that. I’m engaged, remember?”
“I remember. My question is for how long? If that kiss is any indication, I’d say not very.”
Wow, he’s bold. “You might be surprised.”
“I might be,” he says, sitting back and folding his arms confidently. “Fortunately, I’m a very patient man.”
That’s good because, unfortunately, I’m a very impatient woman.