The Gift Bag Chronicles (27 page)

“Well, I don’t see you.” I’m outside the American terminal on my cell peering down the line of cars. LAX on a Sunday night is worse than NASCAR. Limos, buses, cabs. A million cars. All of them endlessly circling. “Are you driving the hearse?” I say, backing away from the SUV that’s pulled up at the curb disgorging a family of Asians and their mound of luggage. Aren’t they supposed to be picking people up down here? Departures are one floor above.

“Yeah, I even had her washed just for the occasion.”

“I still don’t see —” And then I do see. The familiar faded red. The wood paneling. And Oscar. Out of the car, grinning like my oldest friend, reaching for my bag.

“You’re home,” he says, standing up and studying my face, like he’s searching for something. Some sign.

“Am I? I can’t be sure.”

He cocks his head. “I’d say the evidence is all here. Long flight. LAX. But then again, it’s up to you.”

“What if it’s not up to me?”

He smiles, shakes his head. “Don’t go all Plato on me, Alex. I’m double-parked.”

I’m not, I want to say. It’s just, is it really as simple as desire? I mean, there’s history, baggage. There’s Elsa.
Charles
. Doesn’t all that count?

The flood of Asians surge by, yammering. One of them jostles me with his bag, and I stumble. “Sorry, lady,” the guy says, sweeping by, toting some Houdini-size trunk.

I catch myself and realize Oscar has me by the arm. “Here,” he says, handing me a small white bag. “I was going to give this to you later, but obviously the moment is now.”

“What is it?” I say, eyeing the bag.

“Your ‘Welcome Home’ gift bag,” he says. “Since you obviously need reminding that you are, in fact, home.”

“You got me my own gift bag?”

“Even an event planner needs a gift bag now and then.”

I take the bag and peer inside. A pint of whole milk and a tin of Scharffen Berger unsweetened cocoa.
Gallant
doesn’t begin to cover it.

“At least sixty percent cocoa content?” I say, looking up, grinning like an idiot.

“At least,” he says, smiling. “You want to get in the car now?”

“Yeah,” I say, clutching my bag. “I want to get in the car now.”

“So there’s something I think you should know.”

“Are you ever going to stop talking?”

“I think this is a really bad idea.”

“Well, I don’t, and since I’m bigger than you, older than you, and I’m the guy, you’re outvoted.”

“See, now, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

We’re in my kitchen, surrounded by paint cans, drop cloths, and a ladder Brad thoughtfully left open in front of the refrigerator, staring at the pot of chocolate just coming to a boil on the stove. Actually, it’s a pot of milk, and Oscar and I are deep in debate about when exactly to add the chocolate.

“It has to develop a skin on the surface — didn’t you take home ec in high school? — so you know it’s scalded,” Oscar says, dipping a finger in the milk. “Needs a few more minutes,” he adds, licking his finger.

“Why? I mean, what’s the point in waiting?” I say, sticking my own finger in. Seems plenty warm.

“You have no faith,” he says, opening drawers, cupboards. “Women are all the same. If it’s going to get done, you think it should just get done
now
. What’s the point of waiting — of timing? Right?”

“Why do I think you’re about to use some sports metaphor to prove your point?” I say. “And what are you looking for?”

“A pot holder?”

“Don’t own one,” I say.

“And you roasted a bluefish on the Cape. Okay, that’s the second thing I’m going to get you.”

“No, I just think you don’t have to finesse the details to such an obsessive degree,” I say, reluctant to let this go. Maybe I’m overcompensating for the past ten days, for the stress of nursing Helen back to life, but debating the merits of hot chocolate techniques
in my kitchen at 11:30 on a Sunday night seems blissfully, luxuriously normal.

“Oh, really?” he says, shutting the cupboard and turning to me.

“Really,” I say, nodding. “It’s all about the end result. The
end
, not the means.”

“Okay, well, I’ll prove you’re wrong, and I won’t use a single sports metaphor.”

“Fine,” I say, shrugging. “I still say—”

And suddenly Oscar’s mouth is on mine. Oh, dear God, that was a long time in coming. I’m just starting to sink into the kiss, into his body, when he abruptly pulls back.

“See,” he says, holding up his hands. “Exhibit A. The end without any means.”

“Umm,” I say, opening my eyes. “I’m not really following you.”

“On the other hand, if I do this,” he says, pulling toward me again, his body tight against mine as he pushes me past the ladder and up against the refrigerator.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“And this,” he says, running his fingers down the side of my neck. “And this,” he says, bringing his fingers along the edge of my collarbone and then slowly down along my breastbone.

“I’m starting to get the picture,” I say, feeling my body grow warm.

“And then I do this,” he says, pulling back and smiling at me, “before I do this.” He pauses and then very, very gently pulls my face toward him, kissing me again.

“It’s different,” he says after a long minute, leaning his forehead on mine. “You have to admit, it’s different.”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “It’s different.”

We stand there for a minute, arms entwined, gently breathing.

“So, you admit I’m right?” he says, pulling back, grinning again.

“Well, I might have to compare the evidence again,” I say,
matching his grin. I hear a faint hiss and catch sight of the stove out of the corner of my eye. “But there’s one thing you forgot.”

“What’s that?”

“You burned the milk.”

My benchmark has always been if they spend the night. And he did. Not that we got much sleep. Well, not until later, after we were done going over all the empirical evidence again. And again. And a third time, just to be sure. When I finally woke in the morning — at 6:00
A.M.
, because of course I was still on EST, which means I had technically slept in until 9:00 — the bed was empty but there was the smell of coffee in the air. Like I was being welcomed back to life.

“You made coffee,” I say, heading into the kitchen, pulling my hair into a ponytail. Oscar is sitting at my kitchen table, shirtsleeves rolled up, mug in hand, reading the
L.A. Times
. All the paint stuff is stacked neatly in a corner. The ladder closed and leaning against the wall.

“I did,” he says, looking up and smiling — thank you, Jesus, because after that first night together, there’s always that little moment of panic, doubt, like maybe it was all a huge mistake, a one-time-only offer — a totally genuine smile. “And I have to say it’s the one decent foodstuff you have in this house.”

“Well, I try,” I say, heading for the coffee.

“Where’re you going?” he says, reaching out, pulling me into his lap, and curling my ponytail around his hand.

“Umm,” I say, playing along. “Unfortunately, the office.”

“Let’s go to Santa Barbara for the day. I know a great fish market. We’ll have lunch, plus we can stop and get you some orchids on the way back at one of those wholesale nurseries just outside Montecito. You could use a few other life-forms in this house.”

“You’re only saying that because you haven’t met my painter,” I say, grabbing his shirt collar in my hands and shaking him slightly. “And he will be here any” — I crane around to read the clock on the stove — “any hour now.”

“Seriously, let’s go,” he says, pulling on my ponytail again so my neck cranes toward him. “Come on,” he says, bringing his mouth close, so I feel his breath.

“Don’t you have a business to run?” I say, closing my eyes and leaning into him.

“I have a cell phone.”

“Well, what about poor Patrice’s party?”

“It’s not for weeks.”

“Well, what about all the other events we have on our calendars?”

“Alex.
Alex.”

I open my eyes. I’m not in the kitchen in Oscar’s lap but in bed. With Oscar leaning over me with a mug of coffee in his hand. “Hey,” he says, smiling at me. “I thought the little girl was a goner there for a minute.”

“Why does everyone quote
The Wizard of Oz
to people?” I say, struggling to sit up. Struggling to shake off the dream.

“Well, I don’t know about the others, but personally I find it appropriate for almost any occasion involving a woman.”

“Oh, that is comforting,” I say, shooting him a look and reaching for the mug. I take a sip and realize it’s almost empty. Oh, it was
his
coffee. Well, this is going well.

“Sorry,” he says, nodding at the mug.

“Never mind,” I say, handing it back and checking my watch. Or trying to. After all the excitement last night, it’s AWOL. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight,” he says, pausing nearly imperceptibly. “I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking up at him, forcing a bleary smile.

“You know, I wish we could just go to Santa Barbara for the day or something,” he says. “But I’ve got a business to run.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

“Look,” he says, bending down and kissing the top of my head. Oh, great. The top-of-the-head kiss. Just what every girl wants after your first night together. “I’ve left coffee in the kitchen,” he adds. “Call me later.”

Call you later. Those are ambiguous words if I’ve ever heard them. Call you later and say
what?
“Hey, how’s your day going?” Like we were still just friends? Just work pals? Or do I get to talk about how we are something else now? Now that we’ve slept together.

“Actually, you call me,” I say, lobbing the ball back into his court and fumbling under the sheet for my watch. “I’ve got an incredibly busy day after being gone almost two weeks.”

He looks at me a second. “You okay?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, you seem a little, ah, defensive. Compared to last night.”

“I’m fine. You’re leaving and I’m fine.”

“I’m leaving because it’s
Monday
. I have to go to work.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” I say, forgetting about the watch, pulling the bedclothes up to my neck, and scrunching down underneath. “Just go.”

He looks at me a second.

“Just go,” I say again. “And don’t quote anything else from
The Wizard of Oz.”

“Look,” he says, reaching out and pulling the sheet down from around my neck. “I know what you want. You want to know what this means. You want to know what last night means.”

“No, I don’t.”

He looks at me.

“I don’t. Okay, I do,” I say, dropping the sheet and whatever
dignity I have left. “I do want to know what it means. Maybe Elsa or Tammy or whatever their names are don’t want to know what it means, or they don’t care, but I do. Okay? I
do
. I’m thirty-six years old, my mother almost died, I’ve been married and divorced, and supposedly I have a boyfriend, so yes, I’m sorry, I want to know what it means. I don’t have time to
not
know what it means. For all the women in the world who slept with someone and woke up the next morning and wanted to know what it meant but were too scared to ask,
I want to know what it means.”

“That’s a really good speech.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” I say, flinging his hands away. “We were, at least, we were friends. And friends deserve better than that.”

“I’m serious. That’s a really good speech, and I wish I had an answer for you.”

“Oh, is this where the break-it-to-her-gently comes in?”

“No, it isn’t,” he says evenly. “It’s where I give you my speech. Such as it is. Since we’re ‘friends.’ You want to know what last night meant? I don’t know. It’s not up to me. And if you think it is, well, what does that say about you? That you’re leaving it up to me to decide?”

“Well, you seem to have the answer for everything else.”

“Okay, if you want it to mean something, then it means something.”

“Well, it meant
something
,” I say. “Or it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Look,” he says, pushing up from the floor and easing himself onto the edge of the bed. “I’m not a bad guy.”