Authors: Megan Caldwell
“The Library of Congress, Mom. It seems they’ve just discovered those books I read are actually well written, and they wanted to invite me to do a seminar on Romance Novels and the Women Who Love Them.”
She scowled. Apparently she didn’t think I was as funny as I did. “Molly. It’s bad enough you read that trash, do you have to make jokes about it, too?”
“I’d rather read that trash, as you call it, than plod through another hundred pages of Hardy’s morose prose. Hey, can we call it morprose? Think of all the authors who’d qualify . . . James, Trollope, Richardson . . .”
She held her hand up, steam almost coming out of her ears. “Enough, Molly.”
I knew when to stop teasing her. “Sorry, Mom. Yes, that was Simon on the phone. He’s still coming out here, and I’ll drop Aidan off at his party and then we’ll be going out to brunch.” At least, I thought, with Simon I got fed well. Given my economic status, I’d take whatever I could get. Unless it meant I had to put out. I wasn’t that hard up. I hoped.
The phone rang again, and Mom’s face fell. I could tell she assumed it was Simon calling to cancel.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Molly, this is Stephanie, Nicky’s mother?”
“Hi, Stephanie. What’s up?”
“Well, it seems Nicky’s got himself a bad cold, so we have to cancel the party today. We’re rescheduling for next week. Can Aidan make it?”
I thought. “Um, no, actually, he’s at his dad’s that weekend. But I’ll drop Nicky’s gift into school this week. I hope he feels better.”
“Thanks, sorry about that.”
“No problem, thanks for calling.”
You’re
sorry. I’m the one who has to figure out what to do with my date and my son. Together.
I hung up the phone.
Mom had a midday meeting with a credit counselor, and she was already dying to cancel. I knew she’d volunteer to sit with Aidan while I went out on my big brunch date, but I really wanted her to see the counselor. Maybe he’d be able to figure out a way for her to keep her house and move back into it. Which, in addition to saving her house, would save my sanity.
“That was Stephanie, Nicky’s mom,” I said before she could ask. “Aidan, can you come in here?” I yelled.
Aidan trotted in, a big smear of chocolate Pop-Tart on his face. Thank goodness the Maternal Nutrition Police weren’t anywhere around. “What?”
“Nicky’s sick, so there’s no party today.”
His face fell. Or maybe didn’t fall so much as topple.
“But I wanted to see his house, and get a party bag, and eat ice cream and help him open his presents . . . this is the worst day
ever
!”
My son, the hyperbolic six-year-old. “Honey, we’ll do something fun. Mommy’s friend is coming over, he’s got a funny accent, and he likes to eat pancakes almost as much as you do.” God, I hoped that was true. His first time visiting my apartment and he’d be going out on a date with me and my son. “Now go get some toys to take to the restaurant.”
He left, still grumbling about the unfairness of it all. Hey, buddy, I feel your pain.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay here while you go out with Simon?” my mother said in an anxious tone. I knew she was thinking I’d screwed this up already, and he hadn’t even gotten here yet.
“No, Mom, you’ve got to keep this appointment. I’ll have another date, you might not ever get another house.” Her face paled. Maybe I had gone too far.
“Who knows, honey? This might be it, and you and I will be spinsters together for the rest of our lives.” Maybe I hadn’t gone far enough. Would it be wrong to tell her exactly how the thought of us sharing a residence until one of us croaked made me feel?
Yes. Yes, it would.
“No, Mom. We’ll be fine,” I said, gritting my teeth.
The buzzer went off only fifteen minutes later
than Simon had said. I couldn’t really complain, since I was about to tell him our romantic brunch
à deux
was going to be a ménage à trois.
“Hello, love,” he said, bending down to kiss me on the cheek as I opened the door. Aidan ran and hid in the living room.
“Change of plans,” I announced in a nervous tone. “Aidan’s party was canceled, so I told him we’d take him out to breakfast. Pancakes always help when someone’s sad.”
His eyebrows rose. “Hm. So where is the little urchin?”
I tried not to let his epithet bother me. To no avail. “In here. He’s a bit shy at first, so be patient,” I warned. I wondered how Simon the SuperEgo would get along with Aidan the Only Child.
Same thing, different name.
“Aidan?” Simon called. He spied Aidan’s head from behind the couch and winked at me. “Guess he’s not here.”
Aidan giggled. “Maybe we’ll just have to go on our own,” Simon continued.
Aidan leapt out from behind the couch and launched himself at Simon’s chest, knocking them both flat on the floor. “I’m here, don’t leave me,” he yelped, beginning to punch Simon’s sternum.
Simon looked at me, an appalled expression on his face. “Aidan, honey, Simon was just kidding,” I said, hauling my son toward me. “We’re all going together.”
Aidan crouched against my chest, his head buried against me. “Just don’t leave me alone, Mommy,” he said softly. I shot a quick glance at Simon, who was busy smoothing his shirt.
I squeezed him tight. “I’d never leave you, honey.” It shook me to see how upset Aidan was. He hadn’t reacted like this before, and I had to wonder if it was Simon in particular, or if it had been brewing since his father left.
I smoothed his hair. “Say hi to Simon, please, honey,” I whispered. He shook his head. “Please? Simon said he wasn’t sure if you would be able to eat all of your pancakes. Do you want to tell him how many you had last weekend?”
With Daddy and Simon’s ex-girlfriend?
Aidan lifted his head proudly. “Eight. With syrup, too.”
“Eight,” Simon echoed. “I’ve been known to eat as many as ten. I’m Simon, sorry for making you feel bad. You’re very strong, do you know that?” he asked, rubbing his chest.
Aidan preened. “Yup. Daddy practices wrestling with me, and I win every time.”
“I bet you do,” Simon said, almost ruefully. He looked at me. “Ready?”
“Almost. Aidan, do you have your bag ready?”
His eyes widened. “No. Where is it, Mommy?”
“It’s prob—”
“Aidan, why are you asking your mother to find something you probably put down somewhere?”
Uh-oh. Not good. Simon was already scolding my son, and neither Aidan nor I liked that at all.
“It’s probably in your bedroom, honey,” I said, patting his head. “Why don’t you check there?”
He ran out of the room. I looked at Simon, feeling my forehead furrow. “Are you sure you want to do this? I could just take Aidan myself.”
“Just because I chastised him? Of course not. I am looking forward to this,” he said, his face looking anything but happy.
“Okay. I promise to make it up to you.”
He moved close to me and breathed in my ear. “Promise?”
Why didn’t that move me? I moved away as I heard Aidan’s footsteps running back into the room. “I’m ready, Mommy, let’s go. Oh, and you, too,” he said, including Simon with a wave of his hand.
“Very generous of you, especially since I’m paying,” Simon drawled in his best Lord of the Manor accent. I gave him a sharp look, and he shrugged.
“Is Nick coming, too?” Aidan asked as we descended the staircase. Bad to worse to pancakes. It was going to be a long date.
I was lucky Lissa didn’t mind leftovers,
because that’s all I had in the house Saturday night, and I was in no mood—or financial shape—to go grocery shopping. We were in the kitchen, waiting for Aidan’s chicken nuggets to heat up, and I was venting. I was also lucky Lissa was such a good listener.
“And then Aidan asked him if he was going to take me away, and Simon said ‘only if she lets me,’ and Aidan gave me this totally betrayed look. I tell you, Lissa, it was awful.”
She sighed in sympathy and patted my hand. Lissa was the best pair of ears a complaining person could have.
I took the baking sheet out of the oven and laid it on the top of the stove. “And then Simon didn’t like his breakfast, so it just sat there on his plate while he sniffed in chefly disdain. And they forgot to refill my coffee, and Aidan spilled syrup all over his Pikachu Beanie Baby.” I grabbed Aidan’s SpongeBob plate and tossed the nuggets onto it. Then I took a single-serving applesauce container from the cupboard and turned to face Lissa again, waving the container for emphasis. “And when it was all over, and we were back in the house, Aidan told me he didn’t like Simon because he was going to take his daddy’s place. So I had to spend another hour reassuring him.”
“I’m sorry. That sounds really bad. Almost as bad as what happened to me last night at Tony’s house.” The last part of her sentence was muffled by a tiny sob. I’d never seen Lissa cry, barely seen her out of sorts, so I knew this was something big.
“Wait a minute, let me bring this out to Aidan. Then you can tell me what happened.”
I scurried down the hall to deliver dinner; Aidan was already engrossed in his movie, and my mom was sitting on the couch reading. “Back in a sec,” I said to her, “Lissa and I are talking in the kitchen.”
She nodded, barely lifting her head from her book. It was a good thing my relatives could get so involved in media. I mean, if they actually needed me to talk
and
pay attention, they’d be in trouble.
When I got back to the kitchen, Lissa had pulled up a stool to the butcher’s cart and had her head in her hands. I leaned on the cart and took her hand.
She sniffed. “I was at his house for dinner, and he had a bunch of friends over. I was really excited because he hadn’t introduced them to me before. And they were all sitting around talking about books, and saying all these authors I didn’t know, and I mentioned Edith Wharton, and Tony, he—he said Wharton was for sophomoric females with unfulfilled lives. And this was right after how much I said I liked
Ethan Frome
.”
“That’s horrible. Why would he do that?”
“And then he told everyone it was the only book I’ve read in six months. Which is true, I told him that, but I’ve been so busy with the shows and everything . . .”
“You shouldn’t have to justify that to him. And he sure as hell shouldn’t be telling everyone at his party. What was he thinking?”
She grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. Even crying, she was beautiful. “I asked him that, after everyone left, why he said that. He said it wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, it was okay I wasn’t as literate as other people.”
I was so mad I wanted to go knock his pretentious head off.
“I don’t think he knew how much what he said hurt me,” she sniffled. Yeah, right.
“Maybe not,” I replied. “But maybe you could ask him not to say that kind of stuff anymore.”
“I did. He said I shouldn’t be silly, his friends liked me anyway.”
Talk about damning someone with faint praise. I wondered just how much longer she’d put up with him, then realized I’d done the same thing with Hugh for at least a few years. Only he’d always been after me to be less of an egghead so I could fit in with the Legal Crowd, and the wives who didn’t show just how learned they were. I hoped Lissa wouldn’t waste her time like I did.
“I brought zucchini muffins,” Lissa said, waving her tissue toward the shoe box she’d stuck on the table. “I don’t think Aidan will like them, but they’re really good.”
“Great, thanks, Lissa. And I bet if you tell him you made them, Aidan will give them a try.”
I pulled down a fancy plate from one of the never-used shelves, one of the overlarge party platters Hugh and I had gotten as a wedding present.
“So . . . have you gotten any decent responses from the online dating stuff?” she asked, unwrapping one of the greenish brown muffins. She took a bite and closed her eyes in bliss.
I picked one up myself and eyed it skeptically. At least it would be good for me, even if it looked funny. “No. I’ve gotten some e-mails back, but none of them have seemed appealing. I mean, one guy sent an e-mail telling me how fond he was of his cats, and he sounded really,
really
fond of them, and another guy asked me if I was into role-playing, and he was at least fifteen years older than me. And kinda creepy-looking, to be honest. There was a guy who was a college professor, but he wrote everything in haiku. That was just too weird.”
She gave a puzzled frown. “But all the girls at work who’ve tried it have had at least a few good replies. I’m so surprised you haven’t.”
“Maybe it’s me.”
“Oh, shush. It’s not. Unless you think you’re too picky?”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m open to this, it’s just I don’t want to completely waste my time. Partially, sure. Completely, no.”
We chewed in a moment of companionable silence. I finished my muffin and reached for another one. “Hey,” I said, “these muffins are really good. I’m surprised.”
“See what can lurk underneath an unpleasant exterior?” she replied in a schoolmarm voice.
“I get it, Lissa, I won’t judge a book by its cover. Unless the cover has a naked guy with rippling abs.”
It’s a world far removed from ours. A world where magical creatures hunt for the ultimate dessert ring, the dessert that will bestow power on whoever eats it. Our hunt has culminated in this rich, vanilla-scented cake, perfect for long days and nights on the road to Middle Earth.
15
“SO TELL ME ABOUT YOUR MOTHER.”
I shot back before thinking who I was talking to. “You sound like my therapist.” And then gasped and held my hand up to my mouth.
Nick and I were at the bakery this Tuesday; a couple of flimsy metal chairs next to a stack of brushed metal tables. We were here to start working on integrating the marketing into the actual design. I had no real clue what that meant in terms of what I was expected to contribute, but I was game to try.
Thankfully, he chuckled. Whew.
The chairs proved surprisingly comfortable, even with my back still twitchy. Nick arrived with a huge cup of Starbucks coffee, made exactly the way I like it. There
was
a special place in
my bed
heaven reserved for people who remembered how you took your coffee.
He took a sip and gazed at me over the edge of the cup. The wafts of steam interfered with my view of his blue, blue eyes. What the hell was wrong with me?
Except for a few passing moments, and only with Aidan, this guy had done nothing to alter the impression I had that he disliked me. He definitely didn’t approve of the way I was hired, and I was betting he would definitely not approve of Simon seeing me.
I realized he was waiting for me to answer. “Oh, well, somebody gave her some advice on stocks, and she invested, and then she started going online to check how her stocks were doing, and then she got into day-trading, so now—”
He arched his brows. “Now she’s in over her head,” he finished.
I took a medicinal sip of coffee. “So anyway, things went well for a while, and then they started to turn bad. My mom kept thinking she’d rebound, and she just didn’t. She got herself another mortgage on her house and spent that money, too. Now her house is mortgaged, she ran through all her savings, and she’s living with me. She hasn’t lost the house yet, but she thinks she will.”
He stroked his chin. I saw a tiny patch of black bristles where he must’ve missed when he shaved. The rest of his face was smooth, the strong planes of his face defined by the sun streaming in the large plate-glass window we were sitting near. The light hit his hair, revealing the blue-black highlights in his ink black hair.
“Does she have an accountant? One she can trust?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about a lawyer?”
“I think so, an old friend, only I don’t know if he . . .” My voice trailed off and I made a helpless gesture.
He gave me an impatient glance, then grabbed the notebook I had placed on the table, pulled a fancy black and gold pen from the leather portfolio lying on the table, and began to write.
“First thing would be to get a lawyer to review the mortgage agreement and see if there is anything she can do to stave off the bank. She’s a senior citizen, right?”
I nodded. “Yes, that much I know.”
“That could help. Has she consulted with anyone about her finances? Anyone official, I mean?”
I nodded again. She’d come home last Saturday as dispirited as I had seen her, clutching pamphlets that promised rescue from uncompromising financial situations if she would just Make a Few Sacrifices.
Mom did not like sacrificing, I could testify to that firsthand.
“Good. At least she’s done something. She’s not trading anymore, is she?”
“No, she doesn’t have any money. Unless she and Aidan are investing with Monopoly money.”
He grinned at me. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s a smart kid.”
My heart warmed at the compliment. “Thanks, he thought you were pretty great, too.”
A tantalizing thought shot through my mind. “Do you think—that is, would it be possible—?”
He looked up from his notebook. “Yes?” he said, pausing his writing to stare at me. I was caught for a moment by the intensity of his gaze.
“Um, if you are free on Saturday, maybe you could come out to Brooklyn and meet my mom, stress how important all this financial organization stuff is. That is what you’re writing, right?”
He looked back down at the notebook as if he’d forgotten what he was doing. “Yes. I’ve got a few guide—”
I cut him off before he could say no. “But if you explain things to her, not me, she doesn’t listen to me, never has, she might actually do what she needs to, and she might not lose the house. And Aidan has this thing—” I twisted my fingers together, not even daring to look at him. I stared at my feet, instead, which were doing a weird twisty thing, too, almost mirroring my fingers.
“What kind of thing?” he asked, in as gentle a tone as I’d heard from him. It gave me the nerve I needed to finish asking him.
“It’s a birthday party in a couple weeks. The invite says to bring an agile adult, and while I think I am the latter, I am definitely not the former. I’ve been having this back pain—and my husb—, that is, his father is not available. So I know it’s a huge imposition and everything, but I was hoping, because otherwise Aidan will have to settle for me, and I can’t seem to move that well, and—”
“Yes.” The word stopped me dead in my tracks. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
He ripped the sheet of paper from the notebook and handed it to me. “Now give this to your mother, tell her to assemble the documents I’ve listed there, and we’ll go over everything on Saturday.”
“Oh, wow,” I said, folding the paper up without looking at it and stuffing it in my pocket. “Wow, thank you. Thank you, Aidan will be so hap—”
“I know, Molly. I’m happy to do it.” His ears were a little pink, as if he were embarrassed, and I tried to stop gushing.
He handed me the notebook, and I flipped open to where I’d begun working on the blurbs for the bakery.
It was actually getting comfortable working with him; he had a sharp wit, a quick mind, and he wasn’t afraid to tell me if he didn’t like the direction I was heading. But he never said it as if I was dumb or anything. I got the feeling he respected me, maybe even thought we were friends. And sometimes, when I caught him staring at my mouth, I almost imagined there was something more there.
Unlike Simon’s complete largesse of handsomery, Nick was streamlined. Basic. Utterly and completely sexy, with no extraneous curls, dimples, or suave manner. He must have gotten a haircut recently, since his hair was clipped closer to his head, leaving only a few long bits on the top. He was a wearing a V-necked long-sleeve T-shirt, the most casual thing I’d seen him in yet. It was dark burgundy and clung lovingly to his rugged build. His shoulders were surprisingly broad, and nipped in to a trim waist. His chest, what I could see peeking out from the V of his shirt, was smooth and hairless.
If he were a baked good, he’d be Irish soda bread. Not that I knew he was Irish; but I imagined he’d be delicious, filling, and packed with a few surprises. In the bread’s case, it was raisins, and I wondered what his would be: a shoe fetishist? Nah, he’d probably dismiss something like that as foolishness. A closet romance reader? Ditto.
An incredibly good lover? Now that I could see. He’d be thoughtful, unselfish, and get the job done—and done well—in as businesslike a manner as possible.
A far cry from Whimpering Hugh or Seductively Selfish Simon.
Nick tapped his pen against his thigh, and the movement startled me out of my reverie. Good thing, too, because I was starting to wonder just what was under that T-shirt. And jeans.
He gestured around the shop. “So to work. The basic framework of the shop is already decided, of course, and we won’t need you to weigh in on anything as out of your area as paint schemes or counter placement or anything.” He glanced at my notebook. “What we do want is something that is as visually clever as what you’ve written. A way to get across the whole literary-food-is-delicious schematic you’ve laid out in your prose.”
Those were a lot of fifty-cent words.
I drew a deep breath and hoped I could say enough of the right things to impress him. “Right. Well, the most obvious thing would be to make sure there were books, actual books, around—kind of the way Barnes and Noble has a café where you can eat and read, you’re turning it on its head by bringing the books into the café, and you don’t have to buy them.”
He drew his eyebrows together. “That’d be hard to maintain, wouldn’t it?”
I nodded. “It would be, it’s just one thought. I mean, if we could work out a deal with the library to take the books they’ve weeded out from the collection. That might be one way to keep a constant flow of books in.”
“Hm. Interesting thought. Maybe. And what else?”
This brainstorming thing was hard.
“Uh, well, we could also use pages from books as wallpaper. Print famous quotes on the shop’s bags.”
“Mm hm. Not bad.”
“So what is this place going to look like?” I surveyed the room, which in addition to the few tables and chairs was filled with construction materials of some sort.
It was already inviting, with big glass windows and high ceilings. I felt kind of a thrill to be in on something that had the potential to be so cool. Because,
hello,
a bookstore-bakery was my idea of heaven.
He followed my gaze. “From what I’ve seen, it’ll be a fairly basic design, just small tables, a big wooden counter, and a kitchen that the customers can see into.”
“That sounds perfect. As long as the lighting is good—nothing ruins a good design aesthetic more than bad lighting,” I said, thinking of the restaurants I’d gone to with Hugh for various corporate events.
He nodded and made a note on his Moleskine pad. “Good point. I’ll make sure to stress that to the designer.”
He glanced at his watch and frowned. “It’s later than I thought,” he said, getting up out of the chair.
I looked at my watch and jumped up also, spilling my notebook and pen. The notebook splayed out on the floor, and we both reached down for it, bumping heads in the process.
He handed me the notebook and smiled, his eyes getting all crinkly in the corners. “I didn’t think we’d be butting heads so soon in our working relationship.”
I smiled back at him, and our eyes caught. For a moment, I felt his warmth surround me, hold me, respect me. I sucked my breath in and broke the gaze. It was painful, but necessary. Sort of like a root canal.
“Well.” I stuffed my notebook into my bag. “I have to go, Aidan doesn’t like it when I’m even five minutes late.”
“You’d better go, then,” he echoed, a dazed look in his eye.
I hopped off the chair and began to pull my coat on. “Okay. Well, see you Saturday. I’ll e-mail you the address and directions.” My left arm got stuck in the ripped lining. Damn vintage coat.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a dangerous grin as he rose from his chair. “Allow me,” he said, guiding my arm through the sleeve. He was so close I could smell his scent—a woodsy, masculine aroma I’d smelled before—and a very faint odor of toothpaste. Clean and sexy, that’s how I liked them.
I fumbled for my bag and threw it over one shoulder. A piece of hair had fallen in my face and I blew at it, but it merely lifted, then fell back on my nose again. He put his hand up and smoothed it back, resting his hand on my head for just a moment. I wanted to lean into him, to see if he tasted as good as he smelled, but I knew that would be a bad idea.
Not just because it would be unprofessional and far too forward, but also because I knew it would make him uncomfortable. He had made it clear we were to have a professional working relationship, no matter how blue his eyes were and how he looked at me every so often and how he made my heart race.
“Okay, thanks, well, good-bye then,” I stammered, heading for the door. I stifled a moan when the door stuck. In seconds, he was behind me, pulling it open. His arm slid alongside mine, and I had a mad urge to turn around so I’d be pressed against his chest.
Thankfully, the door opened, and I hurried outside before my id could do something my superego would regret. I turned to look at him. “Okay. Thanks. Okay, see you a week from Saturday.”
“Saturday.”
I felt his stare all the way down the street to the subway.
I’d dreamt of him that night.
So I was almost ready for her question as I was seated in her big leather patient’s chair. “So you like this guy then, this Nick?” Dr. Lowell would have done well in the Spanish Inquisition.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” I admitted.
“What about Simon? You still seeing him?”
I shrugged. “Sort of? It’s complicated.” Great. Reducing my life to a Facebook status.
“And you think a relationship with Nick would mean something?”
I felt my ears turn red. “God, no, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, it’s just so . . . refreshing to be able to be with a man who’s honest and forthright and basic.” Not to mention handsome, smart, and nice to my son. And arrogant, intimidating, and totally determined to keep everything professional.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Do? I can’t do anything.”
She frowned in that “you’ve regressed” way. “You most certainly can, Molly Hagan.” I’d have said she was talking to me as if she were my mother, but my mother never talked to me that way. “If you like this Nick, then you should tell him. If you want to just have a sexual relationship with this Simon, do it. And Aidan—”
“I don’t suppose I could just tell him I want to sleep late on Saturdays, could I?” I asked.
“No, but you will have to talk more to him about his father and you and the changes in your relationship.”
I thought about how upset he got when Simon mentioned leaving without him. “I will. More, at least, I mean. He has noticed Hugh isn’t living there any longer.”
She regarded me over the tops of her glasses. “Of course, Molly, but Aidan is young. You forget that sometimes because his vocabulary is so large. But his emotional age is still six, and it’s important to keep his concerns in mind and try to address them before they become an issue.”
I heaved a breath of exhaustion. “But what if I just want to crawl into a hole and pull the covers over my head? What then?”
“Why then, my dear,” she replied drily, “you will miss out on the joy of watching your son grow and thrive, seeing yourself grow and thrive, and completing next week’s assignment.”