The Very Thought of You (5 page)

“Yeah, like the kind you're so sure doesn't exist.”

Molly laughed. He was good. She'd like to ask what man cave he holed up in at night, but for now she'd satisfy his curiosity. “I get a big break on rent. I live on the top floor of my aunt's Victorian.”

He turned onto Third Street and headed north toward Market. “Your aunt sounds very generous.”

“She is. My mom died when I was eleven and shortly after, my dad and I moved into the flat. She helped raise me.”

He hung a left, caught a light, and turned his head toward her. “You live with your father.” There was a flatness to his tone, as if he thought her social development had skidded to a halt somewhere between puberty and the legal drinking age.

“My father remarried a few months after I graduated from college. He and my stepmother live in Palm Springs.” She finished her coffee and looked around for a place to set the container.

“Here, give me that.” He took hers and added it to his. They approached the corner, and he pulled over and glided to a stop alongside a narrow space that separated two parked cars. The driver's side window slid down.

God, was he going to throw them into the street?

He leaned outside the window and tossed the empties over a car trunk and into a trash receptacle. A perfect three pointer.

Oh, he was Mr. Neat all right. Or maybe he was just plain fussy. Which didn't seem to mesh with his rating four mochachino grandes. Everything about the man remained a mystery.

“So, you have a whole floor to yourself.” He eased back into the stream of traffic. “That's great.”

He was digging again. Why should he care if she shared the flat with a girlfriend or even God's answer to a maiden's prayer? It wasn't as if he planned to date her.

He shot across Market, turned left, and then veered right onto Franklin. Several minutes later, they were well into an area affordable only for people that earned six figures and up.

“Don't you think we're headed in the wrong direction?” If he hoped to prove his point, he'd never do it in this neighborhood. The area would still be far beyond the reach of his tenants, even if he broke down and offered the hundred thousand. “Rents around here start at a minimum of twenty-five hundred a month.” She tapped a folder. “If you like, I can show you.”

“Not necessary.”

Molly shrugged.

He slowed for a red light. “I promised to stop by my folks' house for a few minutes.”

“Oh.”

“There was no way I could bail out. And, given the scheduling problems we'd faced, Sunday morning seemed the best possible time for us to get together. Trust me, a quick in and out. I hope you don't mind.”

“I guess it's okay.” She wondered what kind of people raised him. Did they have any inkling that the new condos their son was building required the displacement of tenants who couldn't afford to rent garage space in such an upscale area? Since she didn't expect to stop in with him, she'd never find out. Just as well. She didn't have the energy to condemn a whole clan. Dealing with their son took enough.

• • •

Nick cruised by his parents' house, the one he'd grown up in, a two-story white stucco with pitched red tile roof. As usual, there were no parking spaces anywhere near it. He circled the block and the adjacent streets. Nada. That left the one available spot in his parents' driveway. His aunt and uncle had parked to within inches of the garage set beneath the house. He could just about squeeze in behind the car with Arizona plates without blocking too much of the sidewalk. It shouldn't cause a problem since he and Molly weren't staying long.

Every time he dropped by the house he was reminded how lucky he was to grow up in a close-knit family. His father, an engineer with Bechtel, earned a good salary so his mother could stay home and take care of him and his siblings. Weekends had always been reserved for whatever activities he and his brother and sisters were involved in. Nick remembered all the ice hockey games they'd attended when he was in grade school and thought life revolved around a hockey stick and puck. The same thing had happened in high school, when his interests changed and he was never far from a baseball and bat. There'd been no time for sports during his four years of college at UC Berkeley, much to his regret. He'd become a spectator, which wasn't the same, but better than nothing.

Yeah, he was one of the lucky ones, never had to head home with a house key tied around his neck. There'd always been more than enough food on the table and money for a small allowance. He'd enjoyed the attention and camaraderie back then. He still enjoyed the camaraderie, but too bad his mother sometimes forgot he'd grown up and didn't need fussing any more.

He pulled in and turned off the motor. His mother gazed down at him through one of the living room windows. No, not just gazed at him, but at them — and then not so much at them, as at Molly. She wore the biggest smile since she'd suckered him into taking her friend's visiting daughter sightseeing and to dinner. That was six months ago. He'd brought a
girl
home to mama now. Why hadn't he seen that train wreck looming on the horizon. He yanked off his sunglasses and tossed them onto the dashboard. Then he slid out of the car and walked around to open Molly's door.

“Come on.” He extended his hand. She glanced at it as if it dripped acid and made no move to offer him one of her soft, delicate ones.

“Come on what?”

He kept his eyes on Molly's face. That way he didn't have to deal with the drama that was surely playing out up in the house. Just to make sure he didn't glance in his mother's direction, he dropped his eyes to Molly's cream-colored blouse with the ruffled V that wasn't nearly deep enough to show off more of her light tan. He let his eyes wander over her short brown skirt to her legs. Long, bare, tan legs. She must have figured on a lot of walking, as she'd traded Friday's strappy sandals for flat-heeled shoes. It didn't matter. Even if she wore combat boots, Molly Hewitt was the kind of woman who encouraged a man's heartbeat to break into a sprint. There were extra ticks in his now. He bent and leaned in closer.

“Come on inside. I have to make an appearance. It's a brunch for the out-of-town relatives who were at my brother's wedding yesterday. I'll give them a quick hello and good-bye. Twenty minutes tops, and we're out of here.”

“That's okay. I'll wait in the car.”

A covert glance at the house told him that would work about as well as a hammer without a head. He'd never intended to leave her outside. Jeez, why couldn't he just show up with a woman who landed a one-two punch to his gut and made him hot but who wasn't “the One” or even sleeping with him?

“You'll make me look like an a-ho … a jerk if I leave you here.” He plastered a smile across his face — the kind that rarely failed when beamed at a woman.

“You could have stopped by earlier.”

“I didn't want you to stand around and wait in case I got hung up.” He took the folders from her lap and dumped them on the floor. Then he caught hold of her arm. With his other hand, he unsnapped her seat belt, clasped her tightly around her waist, and almost lifted her out of the vehicle.

“Well,
okay
, if it's that important.” She showed as much enthusiasm as if he were about to introduce her at a nudists' convention. And she hadn't even spotted his mother yet. She slung her purse over her shoulder, straightened the neckline of her blouse, and fiddled with her belt. The sun hit her hair and gave it an interesting copper sheen. He caught the subtle scent of strawberries.

“Don't worry. We won't stay long.”

He led her along the flagstone path that paralleled the strip of garden that bordered the front of the house and up the short flight of concrete steps to the porch. His mother met them at the front door, her eyes hopeful. He hated to drive a nail through her heart, but he had to do it. Quickly.

“Hi, Mom.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “This is Molly. We … ”

“Oh, what a lovely name.” His mother reached out and drew Molly into an embrace. “It's so wonderful to meet you.” Her eyes swiveled to his and held them. She looked ecstatic. No, more than ecstatic. She looked fulfilled.

“Mom, we can only stay a few minutes.” He peeled his mother's hands off Molly. “We … ” He caught himself before he started to explain they needed to check out apartments and were pressed for time. That would have brought out the champagne for sure.

“You'll stay for something to eat.”

He spread his fingers across Molly's upper back and felt fragile wing bones. His palm grazed her bra strap. For an insane moment, he wondered how she looked without either the bra or the blouse. Or without both. He killed the thought. A wonder like that could cost him a million dollars. He reminded himself to keep his mind on business and guided Molly into the house in his mother's wake.

A large white crepe paper bell hung from the middle of the living room ceiling. Matching streamers, anchored to the moldings atop the high walls, floated out from it and tented the off-white sofa, coffee table, and familiar brace of maroon velvet wing chairs. His mother made a shooing gesture toward him, then took Molly's hand.

“Go say hello to your father and your aunts and uncles. You won't see most of the relatives again until we have another wedding.” Her look said she expected it to be his. “Or a death, God forbid.” She touched the gold cross that dangled from a slim chain around her neck. She escorted Molly toward the archway that led into the dining room.

His mother saw only what she wanted to see. Forget reality. She had it wrong about Molly, and he didn't know how to set her straight. Maybe he'd call her tomorrow. That way he wouldn't have to look her in the eyes while he crushed yet another hope that he'd finally found his ideal woman.

Molly cast a last glance at Nick as he disappeared into a circle of men. When one reached out and hugged him, he returned the gesture. He looked comfortable being hugged by another man. She liked that about him. Also that he brought her coffee and kept his promise to his family to drop in at the brunch. It showed a sign of warmth. Warmth showed promise vis-à-vis her crusade to wring more money out of him for his tenants. Also, there was the show of good citizenship when he'd disposed of the coffee containers properly. He smelled good, too. The scent of his aftershave was subtle but not so insipid that it was practically unnoticeable. It reminded her of the woods after a rain shower.

If he'd raise the ante in his buyout offer, she could possibly see him as something other than a greedy moneymaking machine. Just as important, he had to keep his wrecking ball away from the clinic. If she pressed hard enough, maybe she'd find a way to bring up any expansion plans before the day ended.

Nick shook hands and made the rounds of the other men. Someone said, “The baseball game is on in the family room,” and the circle moved as one toward another part of the house, taking Nick along with it.

Molly followed Mrs. Mancini into the dining room. A large table covered with a white lace cloth and laden with chafing dishes sat against one wall. A white frosted cake, edged with a ring of icing and creamy pink roses, occupied the center of the table. A banner, adorned at each end with Cupids, spanned the wall and read “Congratulations Tom and Beth.” The bride and groom, apparently. Sunlight spilled in from two large windows and turned some of the chandelier crystals into prisms, which made an already bright and cheerful room more so. Several well-dressed people clustered near the table; most sported white hair. The out-of-town relatives Nick mentioned earlier. Everyone held plates of food.

“This is Molly,” Mrs. Mancini announced. “She came with Nicky.”

Nicky
. A name left over from childhood, no doubt. In spite of the warm greeting, she wondered if Mrs. Mancini suffered from separation issues. Maybe that was why he was still single. She decided he
was
single — otherwise, a wife would have met them at the door or been glued to him like an insect strip in the front seat of the car.

And she wasn't really
with
Nick, in the sense his mother seemed to have assumed, as much as he just dragged her along.

“So, Molly, do you live in the city?” Mrs. Mancini released Molly's hand and selected a white china plate. At least a quarter inch of gold circled the rim. She began to place food on it.

“Yes. I live on Haight Street, about a block and a half from Golden Gate Park.”

“Haight Street. You don't remind me of a hippie.” This was said in a tone completely devoid of censure. Although if this woman, impeccably dressed in aqua silk, ever saw Molly's Aunt Vi, whose hair hung in braids as if she channeled the old Willie Nelson, the tone might have changed considerably.

“No, I missed the hippie era.” Though, Molly had the privilege to relive it most Friday nights when she went downstairs for the poker game.

Mrs. Mancini handed Molly the plate now heaped with food. “How long have you and Nicky known each other?”

Molly was about to tell her she and her son had met for the first time about forty-eight hours before when a woman who seemed about Nick's age and who resembled Mrs. Mancini right down to the dark hair and eyes and flawless complexion approached.

“Mom. Aunt Rita and Uncle Ed are ready to leave for the airport. They're looking for you.”

“Must they go so soon?” Mrs. Mancini gave a wistful sigh. “Well, we don't want them to miss their flight.” She patted Molly's arm. “You'll excuse me, dear. I'll leave you with Barbara for a few minutes.”

“Oh, sure.” Molly eyed the slice of quiche that nestled against two plump prawns and what resembled a crab meat stuffed mushroom. The seafood aroma along with that of egg and bacon made her almost swoon in anticipation. However, this was no time to shovel food into her mouth, not with introductions imminent.