Champagne Kisses: A Timeless Love Story (11 page)

Inside, a girl with full tattoo sleeves leaned against the jukebox, feeding it quarters and singing along with the music. I could see where a fight had occurred earlier, a chair in pieces by the door. Several males were in a smoky corner, taking turns around a faded green pool table, but I wasn't there for them. I was there for the long-legged man sitting hunched at the bar, surrounded by empty whiskey glasses.

The bartender stood behind the bar, wiping a glass clean with a dirty towel. He saw me walk in, his eyes going up and down, and then again. He nodded toward Dean, setting the clean glass in a rack by the sink. I walked confidently to the tall bar.

"Dean, what are you doing?" I asked. Dean turned, his eyes languid but unsurprised.

"Getting drunk off my ass. Care to join me?"

"No. I want to get you to a hotel and me on a plane. It's time for us to go," I said. I grabbed his arm, feeling the strong muscle tense underneath my fingers. He pulled away from me, shaking his head.

"Leave me alone. It's what you're good at." He turned back to the bar, motioning for another whiskey. The bartender pretended not to see him.

His words stung. We had been politely distant since his hire, but that was as much his fault as mine. I wondered if he had been as lonely as I had. I sighed. We needed to fix this if we were going to work together. Our stony silence was not conducive to a working relationship, and with Jack transitioning to power in the next few weeks, Dean and I were going to be put together more and more often.

"Two whiskeys, neat." I motioned to the bartender. He quickly poured to whiskeys into glasses, sliding them directly to me. I picked them both up, stepping back and heading toward a small booth against the wall. I stopped and held one out to Dean. "Come sit with me. Like old times."

He looked at me warily, but then stood. Even while inebriated he moved with a deadly grace. He sat in the cheap plastic booth, taking the whiskey glass from me and nursing it gently. His eyes, those oceans of blue, watched me carefully. I took the whiskey in one swig.

"Will you tell me what you are doing here? This is a little out of the way to stop for a drink on the way home." I glanced around the bar. Our relationship was like this bar: once beautiful but now rundown and empty.

Dean sipped at his drink and cautiously eyed me. "Reliving old wounds."

I bit the inside of my cheek. I didn't want to be vain, but I had a feeling he was at least partially referencing me. "You want to talk about it?"

"What? Are we friends now?" Dean sneered and finished his drink. He motioned to the bartender for another and I nodded approval.

"Listen, Dean, I know we have some issues. I'd like to change that. Can we just pretend we never met each other until your interview? Water under the bridge and all that. Start from scratch." I watched him carefully. His face twitched for a moment, and then he leaned back in the booth, crossing his arms.

"Fine. We start over," he said. The bartender set two fresh glasses on the table. I waited for Dean to reach for his before I picked mine up. He sipped on his drink, and then, changing his mind, downed the rest of it in one go. I drank mine slowly, feeling the liquid burn down my throat and my body relax. I had needed a drink after today.

"It's all different now," Dean said. His voice was quiet, barely carrying over the noise of the jukebox. He stared at the empty glass in his hands, twirling it and letting it catch the dim bar light. "I went by Frontera's place. It isn't there anymore. It's a huge hotel now."

I sipped at my drink. Dean stared at his empty glass as though he could will it to fill, but he made no attempt to refill it.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" I asked again. He set the glass carefully on the table.

"It was my fault." His eyes never left the glass, lost in his own world. I sat quietly, wondering what exactly he meant. "It was my fault Frontera died."

The admission was kind of a shock to me, but he couldn't have been responsible. "What do you mean, it was your fault?"

He looked up at me, his blue eyes cold. "I had to choose between the mission and my friend. I chose the mission."

I swirled the last few drops in my glass. Dean looked up at me, as though asking forgiveness.

"We were supposed to guard a Kuwaiti VIP. Shit went down. I had to decide between protecting the VIP and completing the mission or saving Frontera... I completed the mission." Dean's voice cracked, and he took the glass from my hand and finished my drink. I let him.

I now understood why he was here, in this bar and drinking like a fish. Today he had to choose between his client and someone else. He chose the client. This time it had cost him nothing, but last time it had cost him his friend. This bar was where he and Frontera had been happiest before Frontera's death. That it happened to be a place significant to me as well was just an unlucky item of misery to add to his guilt.

I got out of my seat and slid into his. He didn't fight as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pulling him to me. His body shook with silent sobs. It was twenty years, but he hadn't forgiven himself yet.

I remembered Tony's shy smile. I remembered the way he and Kimberly whispered in the corners, wrapped up in a serendipitous love. It broke my heart.

Dean quieted, his body no longer shaking. "I was shot during that mission. So was Grinswald. I told them it hurt to hold a rifle because of the wound, and they let me out. Truth was, I couldn't stand to be in the military anymore. I lost one of my best friends, and another one nearly died for nothing."

We sat there, silent. He was broken in a way that I would never understand, a way I never wanted to understand, but I didn't want him to be alone.

He glanced over at me, and I recognized the look well. Those eyes were undressing me, and I couldn't say that I didn't like it. "You know, I kinda want to check out that hotel where Frontera's place used to be. Do you want to come with me?"

I knew exactly what we'd be doing if we went to check out that hotel, and even with just the couple of drinks that I had, I was sorely tempted. I looked down at his muscular arms, wondering how well he had kept in shape...

I shook my head. "No, Dean. There's a flight that leaves the airport near here in an hour. We should be on that flight."

He turned to face me. "Come on, I just want to have a peek."

A peek at the rooms, or a peek at me? "Dean, I'll close out your tab, and we can go."

He sighed, then staggered over to the bar. I blew out a whole lungful of air. It had been close, but I had resisted. I knew that if we did something, we would both regret it in the morning and we both had enough regrets to last a lifetime. We didn't need any more.

I walked Dean out to the car. On the way to the airport, we passed the spot where the old surf shop had been. It was a Sunglasses Hut now. Dean groaned loudly.

"Everything's changed, hasn't it?" he asked, sounding heartbroken through his drunken slur.

"Yes, it has," I said.

"This town will never be the same, will it? We'll never be the same, will we?" I heard a drunken sob leave his body.

I put my hand on his shoulder. I wanted to comfort him, but I had to keep my distance. "Maybe it's for the best." He didn't have an answer to that, but I felt him sob a few more times.

Dean managed to act sober long enough for us to get on the plane. Before the plane even took off, his head was on my shoulder. He was snoring softly, just as he had been when I first woke up next to him. I felt like sobbing myself.

J
une 16
^th
, 1990

I stumbled into my apartment, dropping the stack of bills on my kitchen table. They merged seamlessly with the other bills and junk mail, all waiting for me to be responsible and look at them. Nothing I was hoping for had come in the mail. I closed the door and kicked off my shoes, letting my toes stretch out and relax. I had been home for a week and was missing the beach terribly. No, I didn't miss the beach. I missed Dean. Six days, eight hours, and thirty-seven minutes since I had seen him last. And I had no idea how to fill the hole that was growing in my heart.

I leaned back against the door, closing my eyes and remembering his face. Maybe a letter would come tomorrow. I had sent one off two days ago, carefully checking and then double-checking the address. It had been hard to write, not knowing where to start and then not knowing where to curb my words. I wanted to tell him that he was all I could think about, that I would wait for him to come back if he wanted. But I had no idea how to put that in a letter without sounding overenthusiastic or sappy. What if he didn't feel the same way? What if he had just been using me to have a good time before he disappeared back to war? For all I knew, he actually had a boring sales job and the whole going off to Saudi Arabia was just a really good cover story.

No
, I told myself,
he really was into me
. There was no way he could have faked all of it. No one was that good. Besides, he didn't have to give me the letter; he only would have done that if our time together had meant something to him too. I wasn't sure if that made my heart ache more or less. I wished for the umpteenth time that he was here and not far away. I completely ignored the fact that he was probably in mortal danger at that moment because that was just one straw too many. I knew I would break if I tried to carry that knowledge too.

I jumped as a knock sounded on the door behind me. The peephole showed a well-dressed man in a business suit, the sun shining warmly around him. I opened the door, cautiously peeking around the heavy wood to see what he wanted.

"Ms. Weber? Ms. Rachel Weber?" the man asked in a thin, nasal voice. His suit was nicer than I had expected. It was definitely a designer label from this year. Maybe he was one of the designers I had applied for an internship with!

"That's me. How can I help you?" I hoped I didn't sound too eager. His shoes were also from this season.

"My name is Edward Martinez. I'm a representative for someone who is very interested in your design work." He pushed a pair of oversized glasses back up higher on his nose.

"My design work? That's wonderful! Please, come in," I said, opening the door. He stepped inside, glancing at the stack of mail on my table before discretely looking away. He was probably in his early forties; his hair was still dark but the creases around his brown eyes gave him away. He settled gracefully on the couch as I hurried to close the door and join him.

"Ms. Weber, my employer would like to ask you to come out to New York for a consultation. She was very impressed by your work and would like to meet you." Mr. Martinez gave me a warm smile, and I couldn't help but to return it.

"That sounds wonderful. Who is your employer?" I suddenly had a horrible, sinking feeling that this was all a scam. I imagined him telling me that for the low, low price of just $99.99, he would be happy to introduce me to someone in the industry.

Mr. Martinez pulled a card from the inside of his suit pocket and handed it to me. In beautiful swirly, gold letters the name Bianca Saunders dominated the card. I didn't recognize the name, and there was nothing else on the card to give me any hints as to who she might be. Bianca Saunders was not one of the major fashion houses I had applied to.

"I'm afraid I don't know who this is," I said slowly. Mr. Martinez's face fell a little.

"You don't know who Bianca Saunders is?" Mr. Martinez frowned and looked at me like I might be an alien.

"No, I don't." I handed him back the card, but he just held up his hand for me to keep it.

"Bianca Saunders is the wife of Daniel Saunders..." he said slowly, waiting for me to recognize the name. When my face stayed blank, he continued, "...of DS Oil and Gas. You know, the huge billion-dollar oil company? One of the only oil companies that's not being affected by the current events in Kuwait?"

Just the mention of Kuwait made me think of Dean. Was that where he was now? I shook my head at Mr. Martinez slowly. Despite everything he said, I had never even heard of the company.

"Well, Mrs. Saunders saw your senior design project, and she is incredibly interested in meeting you. She is hoping you can design more like it." Mr. Martinez crossed his legs and settled into the couch.

"She liked my design? That's fantastic!" I felt elation run through me. My professors had loved that I had created something fashionable for a pregnant woman to wear. I knew it was an under-served market, and that it was probably a poor choice for a senior project, but I had made something similar for my aunt, and when the project came due, the fabric had taken a life of its own. Other than my professors, though, no one had expressed any interest in my design.

"Yes. As such, she has arranged for you to come out to New York City. She would like to see more of your designs and meet you in person." He leaned in conspiratorially. "If she likes what she sees, she is interested in hiring you for your entire fall line."

I sat back in my chair, trying to keep myself from getting over-excited. My design was for a pregnant woman, so if Mrs. Saunders was interested in it, that must have meant she was pregnant. She was also a very wealthy lady. If I designed the clothing for her pregnancy, and she wore it to social events, I would become a household name. Even though it would be for maternity wear, this was an opportunity I couldn't resist.

"Well, Mr. Martinez, I am definitely interested, but I'm afraid I don't really have the financial means to be traveling to New York City without some sort of assistance." These were fancy words meaning that I was poor.

Mr. Martinez smiled, his teeth gleaming a perfect shade of white. "Of course. Mrs. Saunders has already arranged for the flight, your room and board, and a small assessment fee. She understands that you are a busy woman, and that she must pay for your time." He took an envelope out of his pocket, making me wonder just what else he had stashed in his jacket, and handed it to me.

Inside there was a check for a thousand dollars. I swallowed hard. It had my name on it.