Boomerang (14 page)

Of course she didn’t. “No, but that’s—”

“It’s all right that I asked him along, isn’t it?”

“Sorry to crash,” says Ethan, shutting the door behind him and stepping close. He smells fresh from the shower, and I am in
major
trouble. “I had no idea until we were on our way.”

“No, it’s fine.” I seem to have lost all major motor functions and just stand there, gaping at him. “Um . . . Come on in.”

We follow Adam down the short hall into the living room just as my mother enters from the other side. Dressed in flowing silk pants and a black kimono top, she extends an elegant hand to Adam. Now she’s Pearl Bertram, noted photographer, not Pearl Bertram, mom and horrific chef. She’s so smooth when she wants to be, and I’m such a dolt.

“Here’s the colleague I mentioned,” says Adam. He introduces Ethan to my mother and then to my father, who comes in with a charcuterie tray and wine glasses. Bless him.

“Ethan’s got an internship, like me,” I offer, forcing myself not to add how awesome it would have been to know he was joining this evening’s fun. Now’s not the time, and there’s no point making Ethan feel even more uncomfortable than he clearly feels.

“Interns and competitors,” Adam adds. “I like to keep things exciting.”

Ethan and I exchange a look, and I stuff an olive in my mouth to keep from breaking into an idiotic grin. I’d say we have exciting covered.

I catch Ethan looking around, and I try to see our home from his perspective. An expanse of floor-to-twenty-foot-ceiling windows overlooking an overgrown English garden, sleek Danish modern furniture in shades of slate, brown, and tan. A Lucien Freud hangs above the fireplace, and a pair of Judy Chicago sculptures prop up travel books on the mantel. Everything opulent and polished, thanks to Bitsy, our long-suffering housekeeper.

Suddenly, it all feels ostentatious to me, like I need to apologize for my parents or for myself. Or like I’m not entitled to want things because I come from wealth.

I want to explain that it’s because of my family’s wealth that this job is important to me. My mother has her art. My father had a business he built from nothing. I want that opportunity to create something entirely on my own, to feel utterly entitled to everything I earn. I want to take this person that’s so precious to me—my Nana—and immortalize her so that in some small way she’ll live forever. And I want to spend my life making films. This job isn’t only the best path; it’s the
only
path available to me right now.

“Adam, Ethan, why don’t I give you a tour of the studio?” my mother asks. “The light is gorgeous at this time of day, and we can finish our drinks out on the deck.”

Thank you, Pearl Bertram, for pulling out the normal when necessary.

I turn to go, and then I remember that my dad and I stashed all the nudes in my mom’s studio.

“Oh, uh, Mom, maybe you should just skip the studio.”

“Nonsense,” says Adam, rubbing his hands together. “I’d never forgive myself if I missed an opportunity to see your mother’s work in progress. It’s an honor.”

Crap.

It’s not so much that I don’t want Ethan to see me naked. Obviously. It’s that I don’t want him to see me naked and sitting in what looks like a cocktail glass filled with blood. Or covered in eyes and nipples.

“Ethan, why don’t you . . . uh, why don’t you come meet my Nana?”

“Sure,” says Ethan, giving me a puzzled look. “Though I’d love to see your mom’s work too.”

“I’m sure she’d be happy to bring out a few pieces to show you later,” I say as I try to shoot a telepathic message to my mother not to humiliate me.

Ethan follows me down the hall to my grandmother’s room but stops in front of a series of photographs my mother took of me—twenty-one of them, taken each year on my birthday. In each, I’m draped in white, my hair brushed back from my face, no makeup or other adornments. I love them, not because they’re of me but because more than any of her other photographs, they communicate something of my mother’s heart.

He stands there, looking at each one in order—baby to child to teen to . . . whatever I am today.

“These are amazing. Something in your eyes has stayed the same through the years.” Ethan turns to look at me, and the hall light haloes his hair, giving it a liquid sheen. “They say a lot . . . Your eyes do.”

“They do?” I ask. “What are they saying right now?”
Oh, Mia, I think. You are playing with fire.

Something darts through my consciousness—Ethan wet, my hands in his hair. Our bodies bare, slippery. We’re kissing. And laughing. What the hell did we do that night?

We’re in dangerous territory here, standing inches apart in the hall, his sweet, thoughtful eyes locked onto mine. But right now, I don’t care. I just know I want it again.

I step toward him. I can’t help myself; his pull is too strong. The hell with the job. The hell with Kyle. I just need to wrap myself in his gorgeous beach-fire scent. I want to feel the length of him against me, want those soft, warm lips all over me again. And I want to remember it this time.

I take another step, and he watches me come toward him, his eyes half-lidded, lips moist and inviting.

And then Nana calls for me from the next room.

Chapter 18

Ethan

Q: Grow old and gray with your partner at your side, or blaze a solo trail into the sunset?

I
follow Mia down a long hallway, past a glass atrium with a modern stone fountain, telling myself I’m just imagining our chemistry.

She did not just look like she wanted to kiss me. And she does not look amazing in that peach dress. And I’m not losing my head over her.

Nope. I’m good.

Mia pauses at a door and knocks softly. “Nana? Coming in!” She steps inside and moves right to a sitting alcove at the far end of a spacious bedroom. The decor is modern like the rest of the house, but a little more elegant, with crystal chandeliers and white furniture, and light brown walls. I think. They could be in my color-blind zone and actually be red.

Mia kneels in front of a slender woman reading a book. She’s in her late sixties by my best guess. I’m surprised by how young she actually seems, knowing she has Alzheimer’s.

“Hey, Nana,” Mia says. “This is my friend Ethan.” She smiles up at me. “Ethan, this is my Nana, Evelyn Bertram.”

Evelyn looks up at me with green eyes that are startlingly familiar until I notice that they’re foggy, like glass that’s been exposed to the elements for decades. Still, there’s enough of Mia’s humor and warmth in them that I find myself smiling at Nana like I’ve known her forever.

“Hello, Ethan.” Nana extends her hand. “Call me Evie.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Evie.”

Nana beams at me. Then at Mia. Then back at me. “Well, sit down.”

“Thanks.” I sit in the chair facing her. Mia settles on her knees, her hand over her grandmother’s, which rests on a book. There’s love in Mia’s posture and her smile. It’s in her entire being. Maybe I’m inspired, being in the house of a famous photographer, but I want to snap a picture of her like that.

“Are you a university friend?” Nana asks me.

“No. Mia and I work together.”

“Work?” Nana looks at Mia like she’s lost, and I want to take back what I said. Suddenly, words feel a little dangerous.

“It’s recent, Nana. I just started earlier this week. Ethan and I are coming up with marketing ideas for a company called Boomerang.”

She talks steadily and slowly, but without patronizing, and I get the feeling she’s told Nana all of this before. Then she glances at me, and the sadness in her eyes makes me hurt for her.

“Actually, Mia’s coming up with all of the good ideas. I’m mostly there for support.”

“You certainly look up to the task.”

Mia lets out a small laugh. “What do you mean, Nana?”

“Look at him. He’s cute.”

“Thank you, Evie. And you’re a beautiful woman.”

Mia shoots me a look. “Are you flirting with my grandmother?”

“Yes, but she started it,” I say. Then I notice the black-and-white photo in the silver frame on the table. “Wow . . . Is that you?”

I lean forward, seeing a young woman who I’m almost sure is Evelyn. The man on her right is her husband, I’m guessing, but the man on
his
right is what caught my eye. Martin Luther King Jr. Mia mentioned her grandma was involved in the civil rights movement in the sixties, but this is mind blowing.

“Where was this taken? What was he like in person?” The questions just pop out. I can’t believe she was part of
history
. But the instant Nana looks at the photo, I realize I’ve made a mistake. There’s no flash of recognition in her eyes. Only confusion.

“That was in . . . It was . . .” She bends a little toward Mia and whispers, “What was the name of the place?”

“Selma,” Mia offers gently. “Selma, Alabama.”

Nana nods, and I can tell she’s disappointed with herself for not remembering. Then I see her make an effort to smile.

“Stan looks so young there. Doesn’t he, Mia?” She looks past us, into the room. “Where is Stan? Isn’t he coming to dinner?”

Aw, no.
Mia told me her grandfather passed away when she was a kid.

“He can’t come tonight,” Mia says, squeezing her grandma’s hand. “But we’re going to have a great night anyway.”

“What on earth could be so important that he can’t come to dinner?”

“Nana, he’s . . .” Mia bites her bottom lip. “Grandpa is . . .”

Watching this is brutal. What do you say? Your husband died years ago? How many times does this woman have to relive the death of the man she still loves? How many times does
Mia
need to watch her go through that?

“I’m sorry he can’t be here,” I say, needing to help somehow, “but it’s a lucky thing for me. See, I came here dateless, and I’m hoping you’ll agree to join me, Evie.” I stand and extend my hand to her. “Will you come to dinner with me tonight?”

Nana’s smile returns. “Yes,” she says, taking my hand. “Thank you, Ethan. I will. But don’t try anything. Stan gets jealous easily.”

“I’ll try to behave myself.”

I loop her arm into mine and offer my free hand to Mia, who takes it.

As we leave the room, Mia lets go and I feel her arm come around me. She presses close, squeezing my ribs. “Thank you,” she whispers.

And just like that, my night is made.

In the dining room, Adam and Mia’s father sit at the table, deep in conversation. Adam swirls a glass of red wine absently as he listens. I’m a little envious of the attention Mr. Galliano is getting until I notice the sparrow perched on the back of one of the other chairs.

An actual real live bird.

It ruffles its feathers and does that quick head-tilt thing birds do, looking like it’s just as surprised to see me.

“We leave the patio doors open a lot,” Mia explains. She let go of my hand somewhere along the hallway, which sucked, but Adam’s here. “Baudelaire sort of adopted our family.”

“You have a sparrow named Baudelaire for a pet?” I ask, helping Nana into a chair. “How have you not mentioned this to me yet?”

“Shhh,” Mia says. “He’s very sensitive about that word.”

“What word?”

“Pet. He finds it demeaning.”

“Sorry, Baudelaire.”

“He forgives you.”

“Great.”

I know we’re both just making words. Prolonging this small moment where we’re close and focused on each other. I can see her every eyelash. Her lipstick is peach, like her dress, and if I were to bend forward just a little, I could kiss her.

Mia licks her lips and a jolt shoots through me. We’re thinking the same thing right now.

“What’s for dinner?” Nana asks. “It stinks.”

Mia jerks away, our connection severed. “Dad, dinner?” she asks, a little panicked.

Her father looks up from his heart-to-heart with Adam and winks at her. “Under control. Should be ready in ten minutes.”

I don’t see how that comforts Mia. Nana’s right. Whatever we’re eating smells like road kill, but she visibly relaxes.