Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
She flipped to the back of her date book and quickly dialed the number he’d given her. The phone rang six times before it was picked up.
The man who answered had a heavy French accent, and Chelsea didn’t catch the restaurant’s name. It might have been Lou’s or Louie’s, but she wasn’t sure.
“Is John Anziano there, please?” she asked.
“Who this is?”
“Chelsea Spencer.”
“Who?”
She tried to speak slowly and clearly. “Chelsea.”
“You say you call from Chelsea?” Chelsea was also the name of one of the towns north of Boston.
“No, Chelsea’s my
name,”
she tried to explain.
“Oui, is what I asking you. For your name
?”
“Please,”
Chelsea said, giving up. “Just tell Johnny his wife is on the phone.”
“Aha! Hold now.”
It was nearly a full minute before the line was picked up, and Johnny said, “My
wife’s
on the phone.” He laughed. “Sorry it took me so long, but I’m not used to having a wife, and I was sure Jean-Paul had made a mistake, and that the phone was for Jim or Philippe, who
do
have wives. Jean-Paul’s English is a little basic.”
“So of course he’s the one who answers the
phone,” Chelsea said, happy beyond belief to hear his familiar, husky voice.
“He’s the dessert chef. He just happened to be the only one of us not up to his elbows in lobster bisque. So what’s up?”
I’m drowning in an ocean of debt and despair and I wanted to hear your voice
. “Actually, I’m calling because I was hoping it would be okay if we changed tonight’s plans a little bit.”
He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke she could tell he’d stopped smiling. “Change them, huh? You mean, cancel them?”
No!
she nearly shouted into the phone before she caught herself. “God, no. I was just wondering if you’d mind if I came to your place instead.”
“No, but … Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” He lowered his voice. “I was looking forward to using that key you gave me.”
Chelsea swallowed. “I was too. But I put the condo on the market this afternoon, and there’s going to be about two dozen realtors walking through the place at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”
“You’re selling your condo?”
“I have to,” she told him. “I still have those loan
payments to make. As it is, even if I sell the thing tomorrow, I’m going to be late with the first payment.”
“So … are you going to … Do you … intend to move in to my place? With me?”
His voice sounded funny, and Chelsea was instantly anxious. “Not if you don’t want me to. I guess I thought, since we’re going to be married for a whole year …”
“Are you kidding? Where else would you live? It would be weird if you lived anywhere else. I mean, you’re my wife, right?” He laughed. “I know because Jean-Paul said so, and he’s French, and everyone knows the French know everything. I just thought you’d probably want us to live at your place.”
“No, I’ve got to sell it,” Chelsea said. “I need the cash, and besides, it’s too far away from the office anyway. I’ve actually been thinking about selling for a while.”
He snorted. “What a liar. You told me you just finished renovating the bathroom.”
“Well, it turns out I don’t really like the color tile I chose for the floor, so—” She broke off, realizing she wasn’t fooling him—or herself. “It sucks.
But the alternative is to borrow money from my father, and the fact is, I’d rather try to sell my condo first.”
“Because you think asking your dad for money will be admitting you failed.”
“Are you going to tell me where you live, or will I have to track down your address through the phone company?”
“You’re changing the subject,” he noted.
“Give the man a cigar. Come on, I’ve got my pen ready. Stop psychoanalyzing me and tell me how to get to your place.”
She quickly wrote down the directions Johnny gave her.
“Look, I’ve got to get back to work,” he told her then. “I’m trying to speed things along so I can get out of here at a reasonable hour. The way it looks right now, I’ll definitely be able to leave by ten.”
“So … I guess I’ll see you at, say, ten-oh-one …?”
Johnny laughed. “How about ten-thirty? I’ll want to take a shower right away and maybe vacuum the living-room rug.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not every day that your wife
comes over to your condo for the first time. First impressions count, you know.”
Chelsea laughed.
“No rude comments about silly T-shirts, please,” Johnny continued. “Look, I’ve got to run. You know I’d love to talk to you more. …”
“Go,” Chelsea told him. “And call me if you think you’ll be done sooner.”
“Oh, I will.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was huskier than usual. “I’ll see you later.”
“Bye, John.” Chelsea hung up the phone and looked at her watch: 2:30. Eight more hours. She rolled her eyes in exasperation.
God, would this day
never
end?
There was a pair of boxer shorts hanging from the back of one of Johnny’s dining-room chairs. He scooped it up as he breezed past on his way upstairs, taking off his shirt and kicking off his shoes and pants as he went.
He took the quickest shower in the history of Western civilization and vacuumed the living-room rug as he dried himself off.
He slipped into a clean pair of jeans and a plain red T-shirt, and then quickly set the table.
He’d turned on the oven the moment he came through the door, and it was preheated enough now to put in the still-warm containers of food he’d brought home from the restaurant.
He’d made a lamb stew early in the afternoon, and it had simmered all day, along with his buzzing anticipation, constantly reminding him of the night to come. Now the meat was so tender it seemed to melt from the pressure of a fork.
The sauce was up to his usual near-perfection standards, delicate and light, with a flavor that added to the richness of the lamb rather than covering it up. This was going to be a five-star meal. He couldn’t wait to see Chelsea’s face as she tasted it. He couldn’t wait to watch her eyes as she realized the man she’d married was well on his way to becoming a master chef. He knew she hadn’t asked him about his work because she’d been embarrassed for him—working in a restaurant. She probably thought he was a glorified waiter or a sous chef at best.
The water he’d put into a pot when he’d first come in finally reached a rolling boil, and he
quickly rinsed a cupful of basmati rice and tossed it in with a dash of salt and a pat of butter. He stirred once, then put the lid on and turned down the heat. The rice’s fragrant aroma soon filled the house.
He’d brought fresh lettuce and vegetables already cut for a salad from the restaurant, and he tossed them together in a cut-glass bowl and placed it on the table along with a small bottle of his own apple-cider vinaigrette dressing.
As he lit the candle in the center of the table, the doorbell chimed. Hoping he hadn’t missed picking up any of the stray laundry that magically seemed to appear around the house, he went to open the door.
He took a deep breath before he pulled it open, but still, the sight of Chelsea standing on the steps outside nearly knocked him over.
His wife. Her blond hair was loose around her shoulders, and underneath her jacket she was dressed as he was, in jeans and a T-shirt, a gold wedding band around her left ring finger, and a matching blaze of desire in her eyes.
“Honey, I’m home,” she said, in a decent enough imitation of Ricky Ricardo.
He laughed, but then stopped, afraid he sounded as giddy as he felt. He opened the door wider to let her in. “Did you have any trouble parking?” he asked, trying to sound casual, knowing that grabbing her and pulling her inside, tossing her over one shoulder in a fireman’s hold and carrying her up to his bedroom to tear off her clothes and bury himself inside of her would not be good form.
“No,” she told him. “I took a cab.”
Neither would pinning her to the wall with a soul-shattering kiss as his fingers found the zipper of her jeans and …
She was carrying a leather gym bag over one shoulder, and he took it from her as he closed the door behind her. His fingers brushed the warmth of her shoulder as an intimate whiff of her sweet perfume invaded his senses. He had to close his eyes briefly in an attempt to steady himself.
He watched her glance around the small entry-way, taking in his somewhat eccentric collection of mismatched watercolors on the walls, and the soft—and recently vacuumed—beige carpeting underneath her feet. She looked at the stairs going up to the bedrooms, at the old-fashioned coatrack
and umbrella stand in the corner, and the rather battered antique that served as a table for the telephone.
She stood back, slightly ill at ease, waiting for him to lead the way. This was going to be her home for the next year, but right now she was a guest here. “Something smells great.”
“Yeah. I thought we could have a late dinner. Did you eat?”
For a moment she looked a little odd. “No,” she said. “But I’m not very hungry—I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, and …”
He set her bag down by the stairs and walked backward into the great room, unable to turn away from her for even a moment.
Chelsea looked astonished, then confused as she took in the huge single room that served as living area, dining room, and kitchen combined.
“This is beautiful,” she murmured, looking at the vaulted ceiling, the sliders that led out to the deck that had a million-dollar view of the harbor, and the sparsely furnished yet comfortable-looking living area. She turned to look at him, narrowing her eyes accusingly. “You have money.”
“Not really,” he said, moving into the kitchen
and checking the rice. “Not the way your family has money.”
“But this place must’ve cost—”
“It was bequeathed to my mother by one of her patients.”
“I thought you told me she had a clinic near the Projects. How could one of her patients …?”
“His name was David Hauser,” he told her. “He was about a million years old. He lived next door—we had no idea he owned prime real estate all over town—and my mother always made a point to stop in and see him after she came home, no matter how tired she was.”
Johnny took a pair of wineglasses down from the cabinet as Chelsea perched atop one of the bar stools on the other side of the counter that separated the kitchen area from the rest of the room. She was watching him, her eyes following him as he moved around the kitchen.
“She always made me cook a little extra at dinner,” he continued, “and take a plate over to Mr. H, even on the days we were stretched a little thin for cash. Sometimes, if I knew she was going to be really late, I’d take my plate over, too, and eat with him. He was very cool. He was born in 1875, so he
could tell the most incredible stories about Boston, before the advent of the automobile. He’d lived through the turn of the century and both world wars. He was amazing. My mother was convinced he was going to live forever—and he damn near outlived her.”
He took a deep breath. “After my mother was gone, I thought about selling, but I’d lived here with her the last year before she died, and I liked it here too much, you know? There’s a little bit of Davey and my mom still here. Their spirits linger—and I don’t mean in a bad way,” he added hastily.
“I know what you mean,” she murmured, resting her chin in the palm of her hand, still watching him with those impossibly blue eyes.
“I never had a place like this before,” he told her, losing himself in the ocean of her eyes. “I always lived in crappy little basement apartments or fifth-floor walk-ups with a courtyard view of the neighbor’s bathroom window. So I decided to stay and see what it was like to have a real home. That’s when I put in this kitchen and did the rest of the renovations—I tore down the walls and opened this area up.”
“Your mother and Davey would’ve approved,” she told him. “It’s gorgeous.”
She
was gorgeous, with the overhead light from the kitchen glinting off her golden hair as she turned to look out at the dimly lit dining area, the living space beyond that, and the harbor lights twinkling on the other side of the sliding glass doors. Even dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, she looked glamorous.
“How about a glass of wine with dinner?” His voice sounded raspy, and he cleared his throat.
She turned to look at him. “Dinner?”
“Yeah. The rice is just about ready. What do you say we eat?”
She looked uneasy. “John, I realized when I walked in here that there’s something kind of important about myself that I haven’t told you. I mean, I didn’t
think
to tell you, and it hasn’t come up when we’ve talked, which is odd, because it usually does, but …”
Chelsea took a deep breath. “I’m a vegetarian.”
As she watched, her words sunk in. Johnny first laughed at the absurdity, then gazed at her with questioning disbelief, then looked incredibly disappointed.
Finally he tried to hide his disappointment with a smile.
“Well, damn,” he said. “If I’d known, I’d have made something with chicken or fish.”
She shook her head at his common mistake. “I’m a
vegetarian
. I don’t eat chicken
or
fish. I follow the face rule.”
“The what?”
“The face rule: If it used to have a face, I don’t eat it. I also don’t eat any milk or dairy, although I will eat eggs if they’re cooked into a bread or a cake—John, I’m so sorry. You went to all this trouble to make this nice dinner. …”
He definitely didn’t look happy. “So what
do
you eat?”
“Lots of things. Beans, salad, pasta, tofu, vegetables—
lots
of vegetables … Just not meat of any kind.”
“I’m not a vegetarian,” he told her. “Obviously. Is it going to bother you to have meat around the house?”
“Not if you keep it in the kitchen.”
He forced a smile as he crossed the kitchen and turned off both the oven and the burner under the pot of rice on the stove and made his own attempt
at humor. “At least I found out before our appearance on
The Newlywed Game
. We would have lost big points, me not knowing this one.”