All of These Things (4 page)

“They’re here!” Sofie shrieks, jumping out of her seat to become a gracious and absolutely fabulous host.

I’ve forgotten about the company. I’m sleepy, but want to be amicable during her meet and greet. Desperately, I rummage through my mind, trying to find my treasured list of interesting topics. It’s the one I save for first encounters or stop-being-a-party-pooper-and-mingle
nights. I sway in my flip-flops, knees longing to cave in, and it looks as if Sofie will have her wish in the morning after all.

Damn her.

I also remember I haven’t called Ryan tonight and intend to, right after this group of curious faces walks over to me because in a nanosecond they’ll be standing in front of me.

Seriously.

It’s like I’m a freak show! What the hell did Sofie tell them about me? They might as well be sporting lab coats and holding up magnifying glasses. If I could choose any supernatural power right now, it would be the ability to disappear. I want to evaporate.

I look over my shoulder, searching for an escape route, and a heavy pressure builds in my stomach. I feel the hairs rise on the nape of my neck, and my breath is suspended at the sudden realization that someone is watching me from the palisade.

“Caroline! Meet my friends. Everyone, this is Caroline.”

Sofie’s voice pulls my attention from the spine-chilling culprit. He doesn’t move, and I sense him watching our interaction. He’s draped in a background of encroaching midnight-blue and a starry night. I dispatch my eyes to do what they’ve been assigned from the first day I opened them. They refocus despite the gripping influence of Rosés and Chardonnays and transfer a message to my brain that’s surely out of service.

The stranger smiles. It’s eerie and disconcerting, and… and I know it. I know
him
. White T-shirt! It’s that guy—the man with the painting, and I think we’re finally going to have that talk he motioned to me about.

Nathaniel’s Correspondence with Dr. Toussaint

I’ve been trying to convince Caroline that what is most likely to happen while she is away is almost the exact opposite of what she’s overplaying in her mind. My daughter frets over a horde of possibilities when it comes to her mother, and yet her worries are not entirely unfounded. You know better than all of us, Dr. Toussaint, that routine and supervision are crucial for keeping Amalia’s thoughts equalized and keeping her secure. Caroline has worked hard enough to be able to loosen the reigns a bit—not so much for Amalia, but more for herself.

I regret that my little girl only knows this life, and as much as I’ve tried to provide and offer her what every father should endow their only child, Caroline is stuck between a rock and a hard place. By the way, I did consider telling Sandrine about our sessions—telling her how I still seek your assistance and insight, how I email you before our phone appointments. But if truth be told, Sandrine and I are already in a tricky situation, and so I elected against it, following it up with a fairly imprudent decision. I’ll let you mull on that for a while.

I wonder if Caroline mentions Ryan to you, Dr. Toussaint. I know you won’t necessarily tell me, but they’re quite serious, although he does manage to irritate me at times. The boy practically drools over my daughter, and I sense he loves and respects her, but I don’t need to see a public display of affection all the time. It’s rude and imbecilic on his part. But what do I know? My own love life is practically a sham. They’re talking about meeting his parents, and I can tell that look in his eyes means he wants to marry my kid, and he loves her. He does, Dr. Toussaint, but I don’t see Caroline wanting to stray too far from Amalia, and for Christ’s sake she’s 27! She needs to get out there and see the things she’s missing out on. Leave it to my niece, Sofie, to come up with good ones.

Sofia-Marie essentially conceived and arranged this holiday for Caroline, and I’m sure my daughter alerted you about it in case Amalia should suddenly need you. When her mother and I first separated, I intervened as much as Amalia let me, but by the time Caroline was a teenager, our daughter was completely implicated. She ordered and sorted her meds. She supervised Amalia’s diet and television choices. She even researched supplements after school at a natural shop, and I gave her a crash course on paying bills and reserving funds from her mother’s disability earnings for all the expenses that could come up. She could manage it all, Dr. Toussaint. It’s no wonder she’s an accountant. Have I ever told you how much I love the fact that she works at my firm? She’s a junior assistant now, and it makes it so easy to keep an eye out on her and check in on Amalia. Sandrine’s complained about that in not so many words. She’s been reading between the lines, lately. Maybe she always has.

I know I’m not being fair. I’m not being considerate and forthright at all. Sandrine doesn’t deserve to be misled. There’s honestly nothing gentlemanly about me. I barely even recognize myself. It was just around three o’clock this afternoon when I decided to leave the office. I left to see her, Dr. Toussaint. I left to see Amalia, and then came back here to the office and could hardly get my mind on work. But that’s, in fact, what I told Sandrine I was doing—working.

Chapter Five

The small crowd is friendly—too friendly in my opinion. I’m fussed over: hugged and kissed, and although everyone is more than nice, I’m overwhelmed by the immediacy of it all. I’m discernibly the youngest here, followed by the creepy guy and Sofie. Everyone else is at least in their forties. I’ve never been more grateful for my hair like I am right now. It’s relieving to know my limp, beachy waves can at least hide my flushed cheeks. Their secret is well covered, and mindlessly I begin twirling at the damp ends. I stop, worried I look the epitome of a blonde bimbo, and notice everyone’s interest shift passed me.

“Evening, mates.” The voice comes from behind, and I know it belongs to the lurking stranger. Was that... an accent?

“Alecsander! Look, Caroline,” says Sofie. “It’s our knight in shining armor. Hurry up and light this thing up, Alec. It’s gusty out here.” She claws a hand around his arm, kissing his cheek and pulls me closer, stroking a hand across Alec’s stubble. I’m taken aback.

“This is Caroline. Care, this is Alec Vaughn.”

I don’t know why Sofie’s even bothering to introduce everyone by their full names when I can barely remember my own right now. Was I named for the princess or the Kennedy daughter? Mom’s stories have fluctuated, but my name definitely has something to do with her
passion
—Dr. Toussaint’s term, sugar-coating my mother’s fixations and over-interest in a subject—for real-life princesses and Hollywood.

“Alec—with a
C
,” I say, delivering a harsh squint with my sarcasm.

“Ah. Someone has been talking about me. Does my reputation precede me?” he asks, clearly British, and clearly very interesting, to say the least.

Sofie becomes distracted by Paul O’Something’s wife, and she’s in her element. She’s jovial, gracious, and slightly unfamiliar to me.

“What?” I ask turning brusquely to Alec. He’s staring almost self-contentedly.

“I apologize, love. The truth is, I did witness a certain person cowering at the notion of having to get up on her feet from that comfortable chair. It seemed like quite the task to make pleasantries.”

What I’m quickly establishing is that Alec, with a
C
, is an eye-catching, smartass Brit that irks me and smells absolutely divine, perhaps of Burberry or Dunhill—those are the only English colognes I know.

“So, can you explain exactly what’s going on here? I just saw you!” I take a moment to think about what day of the week we are. “On Saturday! I saw you at the clinic—at Catherine’s House. You… you were hanging a painting, and you recognized me, and you knew my Mom. How is this possible? How are you here?”

“There’s a simply brilliant explanation for that,” he says.

I recoil. So he’s a smug bastard.

“I met Sofie last year, and she mentioned the center. Everything she had to say was absolutely engaging and remarkable, so I promised myself I would donate a piece. I try to do that every year, and this summer I had that organization in mind.”

“But how do you know Sofie? Are you friends with Jason?” I ask impatiently. My mind knocks around ideas and rationalizations as to how this man is possibly here after seeing him at home in Canada.

“Yes, and yes,” he answers, not adjusting his sanctimonious expression. “Jason introduced us. I’ve been renting in town for several seasons, now, and collaborate with galleries in Ogunquit and Portland.

I slowly register the information he’s presented. The world and business of an artist is so alien to me that it’s necessary to process the data cautiously and without appearing too ignorant and laughable.

“So Sofie knew about the painting? Did she know you came to town to make a donation?”

“Indeed. Sofie knew, yes.”

“Did you know I was here? And why tulips?”

“I asked Sofie for a recommendation, and she offered tulips. Apparently they’re the preferred flower of a woman she cares very much for, and I had no reason not to go with that.”

“But how did you recognize us? Why were we familiar to you?”

“Do you really want to know, or will you just shudder, Caroline?”

Coming from him, my name has an instant rippling effect. “I want to know.”

“Very well,” he says, cocking his head to one side. “Sofie’s laptop was on every time I came over for a drink, and her screensaver was a photograph of her with you. I therefore came across your lovely face several times last summer, and I never forgot it. And so, for this reason, I recognized you, and truth be told, I was hoping to meet you in the flesh.” Alec smiles wryly. “Your mother looked quite a bit like the blonde dolly bird in Sofie’s picture, so I just figured you were close by. And in fact, there you were.”

I swallow.

I know my voice is small before it climbs every chord as if it’s coagulating. I drink him in but intend to hold out for answers. I need Sofie to confirm the events.

“You sound like a stalker or some Peeping Tom,” I murmur, reclaiming my seat. It’s safe to say that Sofie’s right about me, and I am obviously pretty brave when my blood turns to alcohol.

“Neither, darling. Don’t misunderstand me. I enjoy privacy, but a voyeur, I am not. You have nothing to worry about,” he says, moving towards me at a creeping pace. Towering directly in front of me, Alec extends an arm.

“Friends?” he asks, and a wide, dimpled smile sinks into his cheeks.

What a mistake for an egomaniac to own such a luring face.

“Friends,” I concede and grant him a clasp from my hand. A gust of wind rouses my pores, but I’m only slightly distracted by the exhilaration of touching him.

“Let me make you a fire, love. I wouldn’t want Sofie to chastise me twice.”

Perhaps, I think, calling Ryan
right now
would be a good idea. A formidable idea, in fact. But I choose to sit back and watch Alec instead. It’s obvious he knows exactly where to find everything he needs. He collects newspapers, wood chips and logs, and positions them handsomely together in the pit. Alec’s quite skilled and resourceful—adroit at handling his duty with a graceful virility. He sits on his heels by the makeshift cavity in the ground. A tattoo peeks out from under his sleeve, and Ray-Bans hang perilously in the V of his t-shirt. Occasionally, his long arms bend, tensing his biceps and triceps.

He stays concentrated without seeming too serious and stands abruptly, startling me for the second time tonight. Alec trots into the kitchen by the side door and returns with a bottle of wine, two stemmed glasses, and a lighter. He places the glassware on the side table next to me and winks before returning to his masterpiece.

“Keep this safe for us.” He grins.

I’m thankful for the darkness because, without a doubt, I’m blushing. My toes curl and other muscles around my thighs, which I have no name for, clench with them.

Alec lights the paper and timber, and immediately Sofie’s guests gather round, oohing and ahing as though he just discovered fire. He sits at the tip of an Adirondack, occupying one of the few seats by the blazing pit. After all that work, he deserves it more than anyone. He uncorks the bottle, and it releases a wild pitch. Sofie opened a couple today but none freed such a blow. He pours the wine and offers me a glass.

“Thanks,” I say meekly, although I reckon I should refuse.

“Relax, Caroline. You’re not driving anywhere. No need to twist into a knot, darling,” he answers, as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking. That accent will certainly pose a problem for me. And I am not
twisted
into anything.

“Jerk,” I mutter. “You know,” I continue, “you really are quite handy.” Alec looks at me with a raised brow. “You read minds, you start fires, and you’re around at just the right time to watch a girl practically stumble on her own feet. Sofie’s lucky she met you.”

“I can be crafty,” he says, beaming another wolfish grin and licking his lips.

I think I’m noticing too much about this man. “Crafty? Huh, because I was thinking something along the line of dexterous but in a very sly, underhanded kind of way.”

My heckling doesn’t offend him, and he looks sincerely amused. Why I’m choosing to assess his footwear is beyond me. I suppose I’m impressed because I’ve never really found boots with a military flair attractive before, and surprisingly his black, bulky ones appeal to me.

“How long will you be staying?” he asks.

“A week.”

“Montreal is quite lovely. It’s comforting to experience a European flavour when I’m away from home. There are a lot of beautiful people there.”

Haughty little pervert.

“Do you enjoy art, Caroline?”

“Depends the form. I enjoy literature... but I can’t say I know all that much about paintings. I do love the tulips. They’re perfect. The colours are so dramatic.”

“Well, I’m delighted to hear it,” he says with a straight face. “How about architecture? Has any particular style made an impact on you?”

I need a moment to consider the question.

“Well, I do like the hints of Victorian elegance in this town, but I’m keen on contemporary, too. So it’s an eclectic taste, I suppose.”

“Do you live alone?”

“No.”

“Describe it to me.”

Alec leans back, sipping his wine casually and obviously not at all hesitant about staring at me. It’s eerie how truly curious he is.

“Describe it to you?” I ask, disconcerted. “A kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms, and a living room. Not much to say, really.”

Of course, it’s not an accurate run-through of the apartment. The honest answer is I’ve shared a queen bed with my mother from the time Dad moved out. Mom decided my bedroom was better off as her private space, and I was forced out for a dressing room. Our kitchen is fairly eccentric with red painted cabinets and white counter tops, complimented by a black toile skirt. On an antique hutch, a collection of vintage tea cups and Pyrex bowls are on permanent exhibition, displaying my mother’s other minor fixations.

“I still live with my Mom. My parents divorced a long time ago, but my Dad owns the building, so it’s well maintained,” I say uneasily.

Alec’s watching me intently, but I don’t look at him at all. It’s the wine. I’ve said too much.

“He made a point of taking care of you. I respect that,” he says. “I respect that a lot. Good lad.”

I allow myself a closer look, but it’s an awkward, passing glance at his face. It’s scary, what I find there. His eyes are pinned on me, and his face is gentle even when it’s unsmiling. It’s grave and humourless, but entirely mollifying.

“He certainly had a million reasons to desert us, but he raised me none-the-less,” I say.

“Well, I’m glad you have him.”

I finally penetrate a fearless gaze his way, spotting gunmetal, blue eyes. “You and me, both.”

The fluctuating light from the flames wisp his face. He’s handsome. In fact, Alec’s really very sexy. His light brown hair is short with unfussy curls forming mostly at the top. Thin, modest sideburns merge with the short re-growth of his beard, and his raspberry lips are inviting, so I stop to stare some more. They’re plump and look moist around the plunge of his upper lip. Michelangelo himself could not have carved a better mouth. It’s ripe, juicy, and I’m beguiled by it. My eyes drift slowly away to meet a salacious stare. Alec is amused, and I want to smack that smirk off his face.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, revelling in my humiliation.

“So what’s your story, James Bond? Born in London?” I query, trying to divert my chagrin, stooping to condescending him, instead.

“I’m from Wales, actually, but yes, I’ve lived in London.” Alec attempts half a smile and finishes his wine. “And I have family drama, too.”

I make an understanding nod and decide to pour wine into the empty glass that’s still in his hand.

“Thank you, Caroline.” His voice is barely audible, and his eyes are lasers coming straight at mine. He looks vulnerable and conflicted compared to the pompous ass he was a minute ago.

“You’re welcome,” I say, biting my lower lip because I don’t know what else to say.

“How many times have you heard how beautiful you are?”

And welcome back the
pompous ass
.

I clear my throat, and my chin dips into my chest from embarrassment. My voice is weak. “Um... I think the wine is getting to you, Alec.”

“Doubtful. I’ve only just begun my second glass, thanks to you. Don’t be shy, Caroline. You’re beautiful. It’s impossible you don’t already know this. Boyfriend?”

Boyfriend? Yes! Oh, what is wrong with me? I either have one or not. And I do! Of course I do but I take a few extra seconds to answer.

Ryan and I met at Starbucks. Actually, I met him at a book store which is connected to the coffee shop. I noticed him noticing me, and initially, I didn’t know what to do with that. Then we mustered out a few sentences while in line and sat to chitchat. The rest was history, as they say.

“Yes—Ryan,” I say firmly, and suddenly I’m brought back to the fact that we’re not alone.

Flocks of people have gathered around in small groups, and Sofie manages to be the centre of attention in all of them. She’s absolutely beaming. The music is louder, and her company braver than when I was first introduced to them. One very married man is unashamedly staring at me as his wife maintains conversation with two other women who send quick glances at Alec. I recognize the music as Sofie’s, with Ella Fitzgerald in the mix.

Two couples dance and sway with red wine swinging hazardously in their glasses. Promiscuity isn’t entirely absent in the vibe, and the ambience is buoyant, hardly a single discerning eye around.

It’s refreshing, and even in a fuzzy state, I begin to understand Sofie a little clearer—why she loves this place and who we can be here.

“Eat. I want you tipsy not unconscious,” Sofie says with a paper plate practically under my nose. It’s covered in bite-size hors d’oeuvres with a napkin beneath it.

“Alec, I’m pretty sure Fatima made her famous hummus and chicken skewers just for you. Why don’t you make her night and give them a try?”

He looks uncomfortable, and it’s both strange and pleasing to catch his awkwardness. At once, he’s on his feet.