Reality TV Bites (13 page)

“I noticed. She's spelling again.” I glance over at my mom. She's arranging the table just so. With Mitsy Holloway, everything is about appearances. She's Miss Manners and Martha Stewart rolled into one. But get her on a bad day, and she can turn into Joan Crawford with an attitude.

“So what's up, Dad?”

He's about secured the flag and says through teeth gritted with effort, “Trying to get this flag up and flying. There we go.” He dusts his hands together, dislodging invisible
particles of dirt. He slings an arm around my shoulders and stands back to admire his efforts. “So how do they look?”

“Who?” I glance around. My mother has enlisted Nicolo's help in pulling the table forward on the deck to make the most of the light.

“The flags? How do they look?”

I study the flags. What answer to give here? They look like flags. “Um, they look…patriotic.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He nods. Obviously more is expected.

I draw on my interior design experience. I should really call Columbia College and suggest they add a course to train the Interior Architecture students for moments like these. They could call it “Bullshitting 101: The Art of Saying What the Client Wants to Hear.”

“Um…I love the way you've spaced them. The two state flags flanking the American one.”

“You'll notice I've left gaps.” He gestures proudly to his creation, arm still around my shoulders, we two facing the vast horizon and three flapping flags bravely.

“The spacing is great. It creates the illusion of size.” Actually, the spaces pretty much look like big gaps between the flags, but you couldn't pay me to tell my dad that.

He gives me an incredulous look. “Really? That's what I was going for.” He points around a bend in the lake. “See the Boyds' place?”

I stand on tiptoe and peer through the towering spruces. “Yeah.”

“See his flags?”

“Yeah.” The Boyds are from Dallas, Texas, and they're flying not only the American flag, but the other flags that have, throughout history, flown over Texas. There's the Lone
Star, Mexico, France, Spain…“Dad, what's that one with the circle of stars?”

“The Texas Confederate flag.”

We both frown and narrow our eyes.

“I don't know what Luke's thinking. This is Yankee country. I talked to Dick down on the city council, but he said much as he supports my line of thinking, there's no restriction against Luke flying those Texas flags. So it's up to me to shame him into taking them down.”

I glance at my dad. “How are you going to do that?”

“Put up bigger flags. More flags. I think it's working, too. You just said my flags look bigger. I need to go into town and shop for a few more. Luke's got—what?—six flags? We'll fly seven.”

I do a mental eye roll. I've heard of penis envy, but flag envy? Everything is a competition to my dad. That's probably why he's so good at what he does and makes like five million dollars a year. I'm not sure what my dad does exactly. I never cared much, but a few years ago when Rory was at Northwestern studying accounting, we were here for the Fourth, and she asked him. I listened in, but all I got was that he makes money out of money. Rory had nodded sagely, and when I asked her about it later, she said—well, I don't know what she said—but I think it boiled down to investing.

“Donald, are the B-U-R-G-E-R-S ready?” my mom asks as she brings glasses and silverware onto the deck.

Dad starts. “Oh, uh, I'll check.”

I shake my head. He's totally forgotten them, of course. Flags will do that to a man, you know. I give my dad a kiss on his cheek and watch him walk away. He looks older, his hair almost completely gray now. My grandma used to tell me that growing up he had red hair like mine, but I can't remember it being any color other than steel gray.

“Lunch is ready,” my mom says. We sit down, and my mom, in her best society mistress role, passes the plate of burgers around and begins the conversation. “Allison, darling. How is your job at one of the T-O-P interior design firms in Chicago?”

I give her my please-don't-embarrass-me look, which I thought after the age of seventeen I'd never have to use again. “Well, Mom, it's pretty much the same as always. I'd love to tell you about the show, but I'm not allowed to.”

“A little bird told me there were TV vans at Lucinda Chippenhall's place. Is she getting something I'm not?”

“No,” I say firmly. I don't know whether it's good news or bad that my mom hasn't spoken directly to Mrs. Chippen-hall yet.

“And are you working on any big projects?” She looks at Nicolo. “Last year you redecorated Oprah's studio.”

“The show's pretty much taking all my time,” I say, putting lettuce and tomato on my burger.

“What about you, Grayson?” Mom trills. “How is your career as a supermodel going?”

I glance at Gray. He's got that sulky model look on his face, which means he's annoyed at her act. He doesn't answer, but my father steps in. “This potato salad is wonderful, Mitsy. Have you ever eaten potato salad this good, Nicolo?”

“Ah, no,” Nicolo says. I glance at his plate. He hasn't taken a bite of anything. “It is delicious.” He glances at me, and I raise a brow.

He clears his throat. “Mrs. Holloway, tell me a little about yourself. What was it like raising two children who have grown to be so successful?”

My mother beams, and we're off. Embarrassing stories of my childhood aside, the rest of the afternoon goes pretty
well. After a while, my family forgets Nicolo is a prince, and we end up having a pretty good conversation. Nicolo is naturally charismatic, and he makes everything easy. He smoothes the rough spots, asks all the right questions, and steers the conversation in the direction he wants it to go.

I hold up my end, but mostly I watch him. Since dating Bryce, I'd almost forgotten how uncomplicated it is to be with a guy who can hold his own with my parents—hold his own socially.

Nicolo knows the unspoken rules, the intimations, what questions are really being asked behind the pretty veneer of light conversation. He knows and he plays his part. At the end of ninety minutes, my mother is in love with him, Gray's comfortable, and my dad's slapping “Old Nik” on the shoulder.

I'm impressed at how easily Nicolo charmed my family, especially my dad, but overall my feelings are still mixed.

The conversation settles into a relaxed after-lunch lull, and I allow my mind to drift. Sitting here on the deck, I feel young again. It's partly the association this place has with my girlhood, and partly Nicolo being here. He reminds me of all those childhood dreams and imaginings.

And so much of what is around me churns up those fantasies. The view of the lake is the same, blue and vast, now crowded with boats and Jet Skis. Our deck juts out, my dad's varnished mahogany boat,
The Lady Is a Tramp,
with its blue and red Chris-Craft flag, bobbing in the water at the end. I'm surprised he's gone to the trouble of taking it out of the boathouse, but my mom probably nagged him to do it because of Nicolo.

The house is the same, big and bright and comfortable; the neighbors, always friendly, stop by to invite us to a party or to play golf or to go out on their boats tonight. And my
parents are the same: My dad made the traditional hamburgers on the grill and my mom put them on low-carb buns with sides of low-fat potato salad and reduced-fat potato chips. Nothing has changed except Nicolo's presence.

When we're no longer stuffed full of lunch, my mom brings out dessert—fruit or sorbet—and the eating and drinking and promising the neighbors we'll play golf and tennis and stop by for a party catches up with me. It's already afternoon, and I'm feeling my late night.

“Allison?” my mother says, and I blink several times, shaken out of my drowsy state. “Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

She frowns at me, her lips thinning in a way that means she thinks I'm neglecting my guests. I glare at her, my eyes narrowing to communicate to her that he's
her
guest, not mine, and I'll be as neglectful as I want.

But Nicolo has other ideas. He asks me to play tour guide, and my mom glares at me until I agree. By the time we get back from viewing all the mansions, the town, and the Riviera Ballroom, where Tommy Dorsey and Louis Armstrong once played, there's a group going to play tennis and we get roped into that, too.

All in all, it turns out to be a pretty fun day. Nicolo kept me entertained with his dry sense of humor and his stories of an adventurous life, and as we step on my dad's antique Chris-Craft to head for my aunt and uncle's house and their party, I realize Nicolo is right back in my good graces.

Maybe I really did misunderstand him before. He seems like such a nice guy—my kind of guy.

Later that night, I'm lying in bed, the window open to the moon and stars, the
ruffles of the white cotton curtains swaying in the breeze, and my head full of Nicolo.

The party was fun. For the second time today, Nicolo was fun. He was witty and exuberant and so charming. Normally I like to mingle at parties, but tonight I didn't want to leave Nicolo's side. I wanted to see what he'd say next, what he'd do.

And I wanted to know who he knew. We hadn't yet played that tedious “who-do-you-know” game, but Kristen Browning and Ashley Smith-Roberts wasted no time. Pretty soon names like Rockefeller, Kennedy, Hilton, Blair, and Spielberg are being tossed around, followed quickly by J. Lo, Brad, Ashton, Justin, and Madonna. I'm not buying Kristen's story about Madonna, though.

It seems like Nicolo knows everyone and has been everywhere. He speaks English, French, Italian, Greek, and a bit of Japanese. He can converse about events as varied as the Crimean War and the Crusades as if they happened yesterday and involved his close family friends. And when someone asked what our favorite opening line for a book was, Nicolo had the most intriguing answer.

He quoted a line from
The Odyssey. In the original Greek.
Okay, now that's pretty sexy, right? “Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy.”

Watching him wrap his full lips around those ancient words, his voice seductive and velvet, left me slightly breathless.

Just thinking about it again makes me restless, and I roll over onto my stomach. Nicolo and I walked home from the party, and now I can't seem to shut out the feel of his hand in mine, the silk of his shirt as it rubbed against my bare shoulders, the light kiss he gave me at the bottom of the steps as we parted—me to my room and he to the guest room.

I sit up and bury my head in my hands. I need to get some sleep or I'll be a zombie tomorrow. I'm about to lie back when I hear a creak. I sit very still, listening. The house is dark. My parents went to sleep hours ago, and Gray stayed late at the party, but surely by now he's home and asleep. It could be him, but I know it's not.

I listen again, staring into the darkness. My heart's pounding, and I feel like I'm fourteen again. I glance down at my tank and boy shorts, wishing I'd worn something sexy to sleep in. And then the door handle turns silently, and Nicolo is standing in the entrance.

“May I come in?” he murmurs, and at the sound of his sexy voice, I shiver.

“For a moment,” I answer, then scoot over to make room for him on the edge of the bed. He sits and for a long time we don't speak. I stare at his face—the dark eyebrows framing shadowy blue eyes, the patrician nose and cheekbones, the mouth with its European sensuousness. He's wearing silk boxers and nothing else, and I put my hand on his chest, the bright pink La Paz-itively Hot OPI shade gleaming on my nails in the moonlight as I make a figure eight over his heart.

He's not built like American boys from the Midwest. His chest and shoulders aren't broad and muscled and brown from the sun. He's slim and fine-boned—a true aristocrat. He's not weak or puny; there's power and strength under that long, slender physique.

I look into his eyes again, prepared for chatter about how neither of us could sleep or what a great party it was or whether we should go out on the boat tomorrow. What I'm not prepared for is Nicolo's hand sliding into my hair, cradling my neck, and pulling me gently to him. His mouth, warm and skilled, closes on mine. I don't kiss him back at first. I let him take control, let him kiss me at his own pace, run his hands over me and linger where he wants.

He's slow and thorough and enticing. And when we break apart, I'm breathing hard. I push him back and slide over him, feeling the silk of his boxers on the inside of my thighs, the heat of the flesh at his waist against my knees. He's hard where our bodies meet, sleek where I bend down to press my breasts against him. I feel his warmth, his strength through my thin tank, and tighten my legs around him.

Then I look up, into his half-closed eyes, and I kiss him,
my hair forming a curtain around us. His arms come around me, pulling me closer, eager to divest me of the layers of material keeping us apart. But we're moving at my speed now, my level of intensity, and I don't break the kiss until I have his full attention, until he's kissing me back with unreserved focus. Only then do I pull away, dragging my lips over his jaw to kiss his neck and touch my tongue lightly against his earlobe.

He groans softly, and I smile, breathe in his scent. There's nothing remarkable about it—expensive cologne and French-milled soap. He smells like I imagine a prince would—money and privilege and pride. It's a scent I'm not altogether unfamiliar with, considering some of my previous lovers.

Somewhere in the house there's a light thump and a bang, and Nicolo and I freeze, listening for footsteps on the stairs. When it's silent again, I peek up at him and we both laugh.

“I feel like I'm seventeen again,” I whisper, laying my cheek against his chest. “I was this close”—I hold my hand up, two fingers a millimeter apart—“to getting caught a half dozen times.”

“The danger can be its own aphrodisiac.”

“Hmm.” At seventeen I would have agreed, but I'm beginning to think I'm too old for that kind of adventure. Maybe a long leisurely night rather than a fast fuck is more appealing to me at this point. Or maybe I'm just tired of sex without emotion. I want to feel more than attraction. I want the connection, the knowledge that the man I'm with knows and wants the real me. I want something more, something real.

The house is quiet, and I listen to Nicolo's heart beating. This is nice, very nice. My body's reacting as it should, and I'm going through the motions, but my head is somewhere else.

I don't know what Nicolo feels, but he doesn't look pleased when I roll off him. “I want you to go back to your room.”

“Why?” He watches me back away, but the room is too dark to read his eyes.

I shrug. “I don't know. This doesn't feel right.”

“I can change that.” He pats the mattress next to him. “Come here. Let me show you.”

“Not tonight.” I shake my head. “Sleep well.”

His face seems to darken in the moonlight, and he finally murmurs, “You, too.”

He leaves, closing the door behind him, and I tug the covers snug around me. I adjust them, pull them tighter, but they still don't feel like a man's arms. And for the first time in thirty-two years, I feel lonely in bed by myself.

 

I don't come down until almost noon on Monday, and by then everyone has progressed from coffee to beer and mimosas. I make a fresh pot of coffee and settle in a chair between my mother and Nicolo.

The atmosphere is kind of gloomy today. My father's unhappy because he didn't find the flags he wanted yesterday, and now he can't prove to the neighbors that if size matters, the Holloway flag is biggest of them all. My mother's unhappy because my aunt, her sister-in-law, was showing off the results of her liposuction at the party last night, but my dad told Mitsy he wasn't paying to have her nonexistent fat sucked out. And Gray—Gray's a model, so he always looks pissed.

Only Nicolo appears happy, though from the detritus around him it looks like he's already smoked a pack of cigarettes and drunk three beers. That might account for the absence of his usual ennui.

“Well”—Grayson rises and stretches—“not much going
on here. Why don't we take the boat out and show Nicolo some of the lake?”

“More coffee first,” I say, begging off.

My mother only rides in the boat when no car is available, and my father is about to leave for the neighbors' house two doors down. He's thinking of buying their catamaran, so Gray says, “I can take the boat out. Where are the keys, Dad?”

My father frowns, glances at my mother, and then down at the dock and his antique wooden baby. “Why don't you wait until I get back from the Goldbergs? We can all go then.”

“I'll take him for a ride, and on the way back we'll pick you up from the Goldbergs.” Grayson turns to Nicolo. “You should see how
Lady
moves when we get on the open water. That baby's a 1941 Chris-Craft Deluxe Runabout, made in Holland, Michigan. We'll take it for a spin, then head over to the Coral Reef for a beer and be back for an early dinner with Mom and Allie.”

“Honey,” my mom says, “why don't you just wait for your father? Or maybe Allison could drive the boat?”

Gray's face darkens, and everyone tenses. I set my coffee mug down and place my feet on the deck. Oh, fudge. Here we go.

“You don't want me to drive the boat,” Gray says, his voice dangerously calm.

My dad holds out a hand. “It's not that, Gray, it's just—”

“You don't trust me. What do I have to do to make you stop treating me like a juvenile delinquent?”

“Gray,” I say, “not now.”

“Why? Because royalty's here? He'll stick around if you let him in your pants.”

“Grayson!” my father bellows, while my mother's jaw drops.

Nicolo stands. “How dare you talk to her like that!”

As much as I'd like to smack Gray right now, that would only make things worse, so I grab Nicolo's hand and pull him down.

“We do trust you, Gray,” my mother says. “But your license was revoked, and we don't think it's a good idea for you to take the boat.”

Gray crosses his arms. “I get it back in two months. Even the government forgives after a year. It's been a decade or more since I was arrested, and you two are still acting like I'm a criminal.”

“Gray.” My dad stands. “We don't think that. The past is the past, but you've been drinking today and—”

“One beer, Dad. One. You've had more than that. Shit. You should have seen Allison the other night. She was drunk off her ass and making out with some guy from the basketball camp.”

My eyes widen. How dare he say that in front of my parents? “Fuck you, Grayson. Don't take this out on me.”

Nicolo stands and holds out the keys to the Porsche. “Have you ever driven a Porsche, Gray? I find the speed, the roar…therapeutic.”

Gray narrows his eyes. “I wouldn't know.”

“You should drive one. It's good for the soul, yes?”

“My license is revoked.”

Nicolo shrugs. “Eh. Your laws do not apply to me or my property. Let's drive.”

I hold my breath, ready for Gray to take a swing at Nicolo, but Gray only nods, catches the keys when Nicolo tosses them, and follows him off the deck and around to the front of the house.

My parents look torn. Object or keep quiet? Thankfully,
they elect to keep their mouths shut. Nothing like male bonding to make everything right with the world. Only, what right does Nicolo have to bond with my brother? The whole argument wouldn't have happened if Nicolo hadn't come in the first place.

I sigh as the men retreat, leaving my mother, father, and me behind. I had thought we'd finally gotten this tension between our family worked out.

“I don't understand that boy,” my mother says. “Why does he get so angry?” She looks at me.

“Because he's thirty-six, and you treat him like he's sixteen.”

“I wish we'd treated him like this when he was sixteen,” my dad growls. “Maybe then he wouldn't have spent a year in jail.” He rises and stalks away, presumably to spend twenty thousand dollars on a sailboat. Who said retail therapy is a woman's-only sport?

My mother turns back to me. “What was Grayson saying about you being drunk and kissing some camp counselor?”

I sigh. “Nothing. He's mad and lashing out.”

She sips a mimosa—how else does one cope when told liposuction is not an option and your son blows up at you?

A while later, I go for a walk. Out of habit, I take the path dotted with trees and flowers. Rory and I used to play hide-and-seek back here, and Gray used to scare me with ghost stories about a man with a hook lying in wait for me.

As I walk, I keep thinking about Gray's blowup and all the years of tension and fighting among all of us. Is it normal? Is any family normal? I glance down, studying the pine needles underfoot, then walk down to the trees where they meet with the sand, plop down, and stare at the water, at the vista I've seen a thousand times before. What is wrong with
me? Why am I so reluctant to take what I've always wanted? I mean, Nicolo's what I've always wanted, right?

I hear the brush behind me crackle and see Nicolo tramping through the foliage in his jeans and loafers. He looks casual, relaxed, very handsome.

“Your mother said I might find you here.”

I rise, running an appreciative eye over him. “Where's Grayson?”

“At the house, but I think he got rid of his anger.” Nicolo takes my hand and leads us down toward the lake. “After the TV show is finished, you must come visit me in Roskilde. No expectations.”

“You're being very nice.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, I said some pretty harsh things at the fashion show. And two, you couldn't have been happy when I sent you back to your room last night.”

He stops and turns to me. “As for the first, I deserved all you said that night. I do not apologize often, but I am sorry. You were right.” He lifts my hand, kisses it. “As for the second, I await your pleasure. When you are ready, you will come to me.”

A group of kids in a paddleboat wave from the lake, and we wave back.

“I like this place,” Nicolo says, standing with arms akimbo, like a king surveying his dominion. “I like your mother and father. They are good people, and even your brother. Tell me, why was he so upset this afternoon?”

The sun is warm, but the water laps softly against the docks and the shore. We follow the gentle curve of the lake, Nicolo still holding my hand. His hand feels good in mine, familiar, like that of a longtime lover.