A Week at the Lake (24 page)

She could tell that she was blathering and yet no one called her on it.

“I take you.” Nadia looked up from the smoothie she was blending for Emma, whom the nurse insisted still needed “blowing up.” “Have date for day off.”

This got everyone's immediate attention.

Nadia took the lid off the blender and began to pour a truly horrendous orange concoction into a large glass. “Why you surprise? Kochenkov women are known for beat men off with stick.”

No one spoke. But no one looked away, either.

“I take you. But I not comink back until next morning.”

No one commented on Nadia's announcement or her obvious intention to spend the night with . . . someone. Serena didn't say anything, either. But then she was far less certain about anything than Nadia Kochenkov seemed to be. Including her reasons for agreeing to see Brooks Anderson again.

S
erena sat on a favorite shaded bench in Washington Square not far from its famous arch. The day was hot and muggy, the sky a dull gray that promised rain. Idly she watched camera-toting tourists stop to take photographs of the arch and the nearby fountain from every conceivable angle. As far as she knew this place didn't have a bad one.

The drive in had passed in a blur of scenery but Serena's thoughts had been thoroughly occupied with how best to handle the time she'd agreed to spend today with Brooks. She'd always thought of herself as an orderly person, far more so than most actresses she knew, but today her brain had pretty much abdicated, leaving her emotions and, yes, the fantasies she'd held so tightly in check all these years, free to run amok.

She'd debated whether to meet him near his hotel in Midtown? Get tickets to a show? Make reservations somewhere impressive for dinner? More than once she'd wondered whether she should be meeting him at all. He'd said he was in her hands, but she'd been determined not to turn into putty in his. Whatever she did or planned, falling into bed was not the goal. Which of course led to the question, what was?

In the end she'd decided to meet him on her turf, where she could show as much or as little of herself as she chose. After coming across so woefully vulnerable at dinner the other night, she intended to demonstrate her strengths not her weaknesses. What better way than to give him a tour of the life she'd created without him?

She studied him as he approached. Taking in the polished Ferragamos, the sharply creased gray dress pants, and the obviously custom-made white lawn shirt, she was reminded of just how easily he'd always carried off designer clothing. If he'd worn a jacket or a tie earlier, he'd shed them. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal lightly muscled forearms. The vee of his open collar revealed a tempting patch of taut, tanned skin that she had used to love to bury her face in. He took a seat next to her on the bench. Dropping both arms to the seat back, one of them skimming her shoulders, he crossed one knee over the other. “Nice spot.”

“It's always been one of my favorites.”

She used to picture them strolling down the shaded walkways, hands entwined. Or over on a blanket having an impromptu picnic or lingering over a kiss. “The NYU campus is all around us. Washington Square is almost like a commons of sorts.” She watched him take in their surroundings. “Of course, the campus has grown a lot since I studied here. A lot of people aren't happy about that.”

“What about you?” he asked, turning his eyes on her. “Are you happy?”

“I'm an alum. So I guess I'm mostly okay with . . .”

“You know that's not what I meant.”

“I do.” She studied his face and wondered if he'd been hoping for a “yes” or a “no,” before reminding herself that she didn't care.

“Okay,” he said when he realized she wasn't planning to answer.

For a few minutes they watched kids play in the fountain and the people strolling by them in silence. A few looked her way as if they thought they recognized her, but she was careful not to look back and was relieved that none of them approached her.

“If you're up for walking, I thought I'd show you around,” Serena finally said, ready now to give him a tour of her world,
her life, starting with when she'd arrived until now. To show him what he'd missed.

He stood when she did and motioned with his palm. “Lead the way.”

They strolled through the park and then she showed him some of the NYU buildings that surrounded it. They crossed MacDougal Street, passed through Father Demo Square, with its tiered wrought-iron fountain dedicated to the former pastor of Our Lady of Pompeii, which sat nearby, its Italianate bell tower thrusting into the gray cloud-filled sky. The breeze was warm and smelled of rain.

“I am completely turned around,” Brooks admitted as they left the square and began to walk down a busy shop-filled street.

“That's not uncommon here. The further west we head the more chaotic the street layout becomes. This is Bleecker. We can take it all the way to my town house, but we won't exactly be walking in a straight line.”

Shops and restaurants lined both sides of Bleecker and she pointed out those that had been here for as long as she could remember and others that were new. Above them rose apartment buildings and condos. Just past a glass-fronted doorway, Serena stopped in front of a window whose neon sign proclaimed it John's Pizzeria. Another sign announced that this was the original location and that it had been here since 1929. Large white letters on an awning screamed
NO SLICES
.

Brooks smiled. “I'm trying to imagine a restaurant on Broad or King Street in Charleston announcing what a customer can't have.”

“Unlikely in the extreme.” Serena laughed. “But the ‘whole pizza only' thing isn't uncommon at old coal oven pizzerias like John's. There's some story about it having to do with Al Capone's one-time control of pizza cheese.”

“Interesting,” Brooks replied.

“Actually, this building is the first official stop on the Serena Stockton memory tour.”

“Because?” Brooks prompted.

“Because this is where I lived when I first moved up here.” It was, of course, where they would have lived together had he come up as planned. Serena pointed upward. “That's my former living room window. Fifth floor, far left.” She waited for his eyes to find it. The window was small and still dirt caked, though it was likely newer dirt. “The even tinier window off the fire escape was my bedroom.” Where she'd dreamed about and cried over the man standing next to her. She hesitated as the anger she'd nursed over the years wavered once again. Serena took a slight step away from him. “Emma, well, we knew her as Amelia back then, she lived in that apartment.” Serena pointed to another window farther to their right. “I met her right here on the sidewalk the day I moved in.” She smiled at the memory. “Mackenzie lived a few blocks down Jones Street.” She motioned across Bleecker to the next intersection. “In this really cute daylight basement apartment. Adam, her husband, waited tables here to help pay for school.”

She opened the door and led him inside the restaurant so that he could see the place that had served as their unofficial headquarters and clubhouse. The place where they'd lingered in both good times and in bad.

It was well after lunchtime and not yet time for dinner, and the restaurant was nearly empty. Serena breathed in the tomato-y smell of memories and pizzas past. She watched Brooks take in the scuffed checkerboard linoleum floor, the ancient wood booths with the hat racks attached to their sides, the dark red tin ceiling with its exposed ductwork and fans, the murals of what she'd always assumed was the Amalfi Coast or Italian Riviera, the old concert posters. The kitchen was in the back, mostly hidden by a tall takeout counter. A waiter poked his head out and asked if they needed anything.
“No, thanks. Just showing my friend here my favorite pizza place.”

Brooks ran a hand over the side of the nearest booth. “Did they hand out switchblades when you came in the door?” His eyes skimmed over the walls, the tables, the coatracks. Every nonmoving surface had been carved, inked, or painted with the names of patrons and sometimes their thoughts or favorite phrases.

“No.” She smiled. “But it was a point of honor to leave your name here somewhere.”

“Where's yours?” he asked, a smile tipping up the corner of his lips.

“Oh, back by the ladies' room,” she said, sorry now that she'd opened up this line of conversation. Because on one especially bad day she'd carved his name and enclosed it in a heart with hers. On an even worse day she'd added what were supposed to be teardrops that spelled out the word
ASSHOLE
. “I'm not even sure I could find it.”

She shifted uncomfortably at the collision of her old and current life, but it was too soon and too late to call a halt. “You okay to keep walking?”

“I think I can keep up,” he said. “Lead on.”

In the brief time they'd been inside, the sky had grown darker. Thunder rumbled. The breeze had picked up sending her hair whipping around her face. Serena stepped up their pace, continuing west on Bleecker and angling across Seventh Avenue into the heart of what she thought of as “her” neighborhood, a place whose architecture and history differed from the city of her birth but whose beauty she felt just as keenly.

Here the blocks were leafy and tree lined. Ivy-covered brownstones and Federal-style townhomes sat side by side, most of them renovated, many of them combined so that they took up a good part of their block. Front steps were bracketed by wrought-iron banisters that were works of art in their own right. Flower boxes clung to stone sills beneath tall
lentil-topped windows. Decorative pots overflowing with bold-colored plants and greenery anchored front stoops and accented massive wooden doors of differing shapes and colors that were topped and framed in stone and wood details.

They passed Grove and Christopher streets and were crossing West Eleventh when the first raindrops fell.

She had planned a leisurely stroll between Bank and Charles streets to look at the shops before heading to Cafe Cluny for drinks and dinner, thereby giving her time to decide whether she wanted to merely point out her own home or invite him inside. But the rain grew stronger and in less than a block they were both drenched.

“Where to?” Brooks grabbed her hand and they broke into a run. Without even debating it she led him to her town house and raced with him up the steps.

“Crap!” She bent toward him and yanked open her purse, intent on locating her house key. Brooks hunched over her in a vain attempt to shield her from the now driving rain as she pawed through the bag, her head practically buried in his chest. “Got it!” She raised the key and looked up at him in victory. Before she could register what was happening, he'd leaned down. Then he was kissing her while the rain pounded down on them, soaking them to the skin.

“God, I've been wanting to do that since I saw you sitting on that bench,” he breathed against her lips while her heart pounded in her chest and every nerve ending in her body sprang to life.

She pulled away, shocked at how much she wanted to kiss him back. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her breath was labored, as if they'd run much farther than they had. This was not what she wanted. Not at all what she had planned. She hadn't avoided his suite at Erlowest just to fall into bed with him here. But what was she supposed to do now—send him out to get a cab? Turn around and drag him through a thunderstorm to the nearest café, where they'd sit soaked and
dripping because she was afraid to let him in her home in case she couldn't resist him? Was she that big a coward? What had happened to the steel-willed self-control that had kept her on the outside looking in at every relationship she'd had since him?

She turned and fit the key into the lock then pushed open the door. They rushed into the foyer, dripping water, spraying droplets all around them. He pulled the door closed and then before she could reason her way through anything, he was reaching for her, pulling her to him, crushing his lips down on hers.

Her first thought wasn't how to stop him. Or even if she should. This was Brooks.
Her
Brooks. The man for whom all the others had been merely stand-ins. Even as she thought these things she was already kissing him back.

Rain and wind beat against the windows. Thunder pounded at the door. Desire pooled within her as stark and elemental as the storm that raged outside. Her shaking fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. His snaked up beneath hers. Their clothes came off in a sopping pool of rainwater. Naked, he stepped over them, palmed her breasts, and brushed his thumbs across her nipples.

He groaned as a spark lit deep inside her. All those years imagining this. Remembering him. All of it paled in comparison to what pulsed and rippled through her now.

She tried one last time to pull up the reasons not to do this, but they were flimsy and insubstantial compared to his naked body against hers, the strength of his hands as he lifted her, the feel of her bare legs wrapping around his waist.

And then there was no room for anything but the heat of his body fusing into hers.