Honey (14 page)

“Of course you're staying for as long as you like.” Forever had a nice ring to it, but he feared saying so might well frighten her off.

“Are you sure? Because, I mean, I have some friends I could probably stay with.”

As if after last night he was going to relegate her to spending weeks, maybe even months, couch surfing. He opened his mouth to say as much when it struck him. Other than the window dresser for Ralph Lauren, she hadn't mentioned any friends.

“Of course I'm sure. But you know, you've never told me about your friends. Maybe I could … meet them sometime.” Although if they'd known about her living situation and the abuse she was taking, they didn't sound much like “friends” to him.

Her face took on that wary look he'd hoped last night might have banished. “Oh, I don't know about that.”

“Why not? Ashamed of me?”

The question, though jokingly posed, was grounded in past hurts. She wasn't the only one who'd made herself vulnerable last night.

“Of course not! It's just that … I'm not sure you'd have all that much in common.”

“Why is that?”

She bit her lip. “Well, for one, you're a doctor and you've always seemed like a pretty … straight arrow.”

“And they're not?” He hesitated. She barely drank and he'd never seen any indication that she did drugs. Still, had he missed something?

“It depends on the definition.”

He sat up straighter. “Why don't we start with your definition?”

“Well, they're not into drugs, if that's what you're implying.”

That was a relief. “I'm not implying anything. I'm asking.” He reached out, stroked a finger along her jaw, stopping at that sweet spot he couldn't seem to get enough of kissing. “Baby, we didn't just go to bed last night. We made love. I don't know about you, but I'd like to think that meant something.”

“Of course it did—does. It's only … ”

“Whatever it is, you can trust me.”

“Liz, Peter, Brian, Sarah—they're all former adult entertainers.”

Wow. Whatever he'd braced himself for, it wasn't that. “Okay. How um … did you meet?”

“Online.”

Shit! “Like in a … chat room or something?” If so, what was she into?

She shook her head. “Not in the way you're thinking. FATE is a weekly meet up. We get together on Monday nights, have coffee, and talk about what's going on in our lives.” She blew out a breath.

“But if they're all into … adult entertainment—”

“
Retired
from adult entertainment.”

“Okay, retired, but then how do you fit in?”

For what should be a fairly straightforward question, she hesitated just a little too long for comfort—his. Finally she answered, “What do you think being a mistress means? You have an audience of one, but it's still an audience, and your livelihood depends on keeping him entertained.”

Marc wasn't sure what to say to that. Instead he asked, “What do they think of Winterthur?”

“They only met him once, at Peter's wedding. I brought him as my date, and I think it's safe to say they all hated him.”

That, at least, was in their favor.

“They think I'm a stylist.”

“I'd still like to meet them—when you feel ready, of course.”

“O-okay.” The next several seconds were taken up with her plucking the pills from the worn blanket. “It's just that they don't know that Drew was ever anything more than my ‘boyfriend.' They think I'm a stylist.”

Few stylists Marc had ever met dressed like Honey did. Rather than burst her bubble and say so, he held his peace and let her talk.

“The group is for people who've left their pasts behind to live and work in the mainstream. Being … taken care of in that way is a major breach of the rules.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” Marc said, skeptical that Honey's “secret” was all that. If her friends had a brain between them, they must know. He reached for her hand. Carrying it to his lips, he turned it over and pressed a kiss to the soft palm. “You're safe with me, too, Honey. This apartment is your home for as long as you want it to be.”

Big brown eyes searched his. “And Cat's, too?”

So much for returning the kitten to the rescuer in Union Square—like that was ever going to happen. “Yes, and Cat, too,” he conceded, knowing it was useless to even try to appear to hold any lines with her. He was mush in her hands, and they both knew it. “Just be sure that whatever decorating you decide to do is kitten-proof.”

“I get to decide!”

If things played out the way he hoped, in the future Honey would be deciding a lot of things to do with the both of them, starting with what kind of engagement ring she wanted. But for now …

“Of course you get to decide. I want you to decide things. I want you to feel like you have a say. So, are we good?”

Jubilant, Honey launched herself at his chest. Wrapping her arms around him, she angled her face upward and answered with a kiss. Drawing back, her brown eyes beamed into his. “Yes, darling, we're better than good. We're divine.”

*

Midway through their monthly Friday night supper, Marc's mother looked up from pouring more sweet tea into his glass and asked, “So when are you planning to fill me in on this new girl you're seeing?”

Marc froze in forking up his food. He'd known the question would come eventually, even soon—just not
this
soon. Stalling while he gathered his thoughts, he popped the bite of cornmeal-battered cod into his mouth even though he wasn't a seafood fan. Friday night suppers at his mother's always meant fish for the main course. A devout Christian, she'd been serving fish on Fridays since he could remember, long before “Meatless Mondays” had come into vogue or even been heard of. Thankfully she also served sides that he really liked, such as today's au gratin potatoes, creamed spinach, and sweet cornbread. Judging from the aroma wafting into the dining room from the open kitchen, he'd lay down odds that the pie she'd baked, from scratch, of course, was either sweet potato or rhubarb. The comfort food, invariably fried, doused in heavy cream, and drenched in butter, wasn't heart-healthy fare—he'd never in a million years recommend it to his patients—but it had an undeniably soothing effect on his soul.

“What makes you think I'm seeing someone?”

It was, admittedly, an undeniably feeble attempt to fend her off until he could figure out what answer to give. Maternal radar might not have much of any scientific evidence to support it, but Marc would swear his mother possessed a sixth sense so far as he and his elder brother, Anthony, were concerned.

She shot him The Look, the face that said, if not in so many words:
Boy,
why are you messing with me?
It was an expression he'd seen countless times over the years. As always, being on the receiving end of it made him feel as if he was physically shrinking. Suddenly he was thirteen again, taken to the mat—and the principal's office—for cutting school to spend the spring day skateboarding with, according to his mother, his “shiftless, no account” friends. The principal had been circumspect, his mother less so. She'd made him toe the line—a hard one at that. Since he liked being outdoors so much, he could spend the next month of weekends helping with cleanup and plantings in nearby Fort Tryon Park. The skateboard, which he'd paid for with his own money, was promptly donated to their church's thrift shop. In its place, she'd given him a gift-wrapped stack of secondhand books, classic greats of American literature: Mark Twain's
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
, Ralph Ellison's
Invisible Man,
and Maya Angelou's
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
. “You can take these to the park, sit yourself down on a bench, and read,” she'd said, ruffling his hair.

Her steady stare brought him back to the present. “You're freshly shaven even though it's your day off, you look more at peace than I've seen you in years, and unless I'm mistaken, those are cat hairs on the front of your sweater—and I know for a fact you don't care for cats.”

So maybe she didn't have extrasensory perception—maybe she was more of a mentalist. Surrendering, Marc set down his fork on the side of his plate. “What would you like to know?”

Done eating, she steepled her hands as if at prayer. “Why don't you start by telling me her name?” she suggested, expression softening now that she'd won her way.

A simple, straightforward question, easy to answer, or at least it should be. But with Honey, everything was the opposite of simple, complicated as hell, down to her name. Hortense Gustafson or Honey Gladwell—really, who was she?

“She goes by Honey.”

Raised eyebrows met the admission. “Honey? It sounds like a name for a strip—”

“But her given name is Hortense.” He grabbed for his iced tea glass and took a deep drink to ease his dry mouth.

Her eyebrows lowered and her eyes warmed. “That's a fine name. She should use it. You don't hear of all that many Hortenses these days. Her people must be very traditional.”

Marc nearly spat out the sip of tea he'd just stared to swallow. “Traditional” in his mother's “book” counted as the highest praise. If she so much as suspected that Honey's “people” weren't blood relations but friends who were former adult entertainers, she'd “turn up her toes,” as his Aunt Edna was fond of saying. Other than her mention of a mother, apparently still in Omaha, Honey hadn't spoken of any family. Her “FATEs,” as she called them, sounded more like close-knit siblings than support group members. Marc was still waiting for an invitation to meet them. Maybe he expected too much too soon. She'd been at his place not quite a week. Still, he couldn't stop wishing she'd take the proverbial plunge and let him all the way in.

“You two serious?”

Again Marc hesitated. “Honestly, Ma, I'm not sure. I know I am.”

Her mother gave an injured sniff. “She must know how fortunate she is to find you. Why, look at you: handsome, good-hearted, and God-fearing—at least you'd better still be—not to mention whip smart—a
doctor
! If she's looking for someone better, he ain't out there.”

“It's not that … She uh … recently ended a long-term relationship.”

He sensed rather than saw her shoulders stiffen. “She divorced?”

Marc hid a smile. Until recently, Honey had been the longtime mistress of a married man, but to his best knowledge she'd never tied the knot. “No, Ma, she's single, never married.”

She relaxed visibly, her shoulders descending to their more or less normal position. “Well, that's a relief.” She hesitated, turning a teaspoon over before adding, “What does she do for a profession?'

“She's a photographer,” he answered without thinking.

Shit, he'd just lied to his mother. He hadn't meant to. Up to now, he'd prided himself on never having lied to his mother. Sure, there were things he hadn't told her, things that would have been inappropriate to relay and were none of her business now that he was an adult. But those were sins of omission, if even sins at all. Outright lying to the woman who'd borne and raised him was a big breach in his book. But the answer had slid out as if his brain was on autopilot and now it was too late to take it back. Thing was, his answer might not be true—it wasn't—but it
felt
true. With her keen eye for detail, for artistic composition, Honey
was
a photographer. She just hadn't owned it yet.

Evidently his answer pleased her. Her tentative smile spread into a broad one. “So when are you going to bring her around so I can meet her?”

It was yet another totally predictable, totally reasonable question for which he had no good answer, not even a good guess. “Honestly, I can't say right now. We're taking things slow.”

That was the truth—mostly. He and Honey were taking things slow, in every way but in bed. The sex was mind-blowing; Honey an exquisite, mesmerizing lover. But even in the midst of grooving on all the good loving he was getting, he couldn't shake the sense that she was always acting out a role, playing some fictional part. Just once he'd like to take her in his arms, and to his bed, and know that it was the real
her
he was making love with, not some glamorized imposter.

“Let's … give it a while.”

“All right, I won't push—for now. But know my door, and heart, are always open.”

“I do know that, Ma—and thanks.”

“Speaking of open hearts, I'm going to visit Anthony this week. Why not come with me? It's been … a while.”

A while—two years and four months, not that Marc was keeping track. Anthony, his once adored big brother now doing prison time for possession with intent to distribute a Class A drug—crack—was a sore subject between them. As always, she bided her time before bringing him up—though she did usually wait to cut the pie first. His ongoing rift with Tony must be weighing on her mind.

“I don't think so but … tell him I said hi,” he added, a pretty big concession since he hadn't so much as written since the conviction.

“Why not tell him yourself?”

“Because I have better things to do than spend my day off riding Metro North to go see someone I have absolutely nothing to say to.”

The pained look she sent him was like a knife twisting in his gut, but Marc held firm. His mother's wasn't the only heart Tony had trampled on. Growing up, Marc had worshipped his big, athletic older brother, had wanted to be absolutely like him.

Not so now.

“Then maybe you could try listening instead.”

Hungry no longer, Marc pushed his plate aside. “What, and turn the other cheek so he can slap that one, too?”