That's (Not Exactly) Amore (9 page)

The two of them continue down the sidewalk. “Mother!” I call, quickening my steps. Still no response from the pair. Fear rises in me as I imagine him holding a gun to her ribs and saying, “Don’t say a word or I’ll kill you and then her.” I pick up my pace some more until I’m running after them.

“Mom!”

Finally
she turns. She waits, her arms folded across her chest. But I don’t have time to think about the belligerence in her body language. My mind is still reeling from the mini-nightmare I just endured.

“Didn’t you hear me calling?” I can barely breathe. I really need to start working out.

Mom’s face is dark, and anger flashes in her eyes. “We heard you, Elaine. I told Aaron to ignore you.”

“Ma! I thought he was kidnapping you! The least you could have done was turn around and tell me to buzz off.”

“Fine. Buzz off, then.” She pauses and then adds, “Dear, I can assure you Aaron was not kidnapping me.”

“Well, I can see that now!”

I turn to “Aaron,” and his eyes twinkle. “It’s okay, Lydia,” he says to my mother. “Let’s hear her out.”

“All right.” Mom glares. “What do you need that couldn’t wait until later?”

“You . . . um”—I thrust the flower toward her—“you forgot your rose.”

“My rose? Good grief.” A huff escapes her. “Good-bye, young lady.” Without so much as a glance at the flower, she whips around.

Aaron (if that’s his real name) sends me a sympathetic smile before turning and offering Mom his arm. “I’ll get her home safe and sound by eleven o’clock.”

They leave me standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring after them.

Eleven o’clock? What on earth do a couple of elderly people have to do until eleven o’clock? I can’t give up just like that. Risking my mother’s anger, I rush after them once more. “Wait.”

“Elaine.” Mom’s tone holds warning. “I’m serious now. You let Aaron and me alone.”

“Mom, I’m sorry, but I want to know where the two of you are headed.”

“I am not sixteen years old! I don’t have to answer to anyone. Least of all to my own child.” Her frustration gives me pause, and for just a second I almost back down. Poor Aaron has this bewildered what-have-I-gotten-myself-into expression on his face.

“I know, Ma.” I keep my tone even and innocent. “But what if something happens to me while you’re out? How will I get in touch, since you don’t have a cell phone?”

Her expression softens. “I suppose it would be all right. Just in case you get hurt or something.” She turns to Aaron. “Do you mind?”

He shrugs. “Not at all.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me his card. “Here’s my cell phone number.”

I take the card but give him a dubious frown. “I’d still like to know where you’re taking my mother.”

“For goodness’ sake,” my mother huffs. “Fine, we’re going to a seminar about insurance after fifty.”

“Oh, that sounds . . . informative.” I swallow hard. “It—um—lasts until eleven?”

Aaron chuckles. A manly chuckle that sort of reminds me of my dad. “I was planning to take her out for coffee or a bite to eat afterward.” One eye drops in a wink. “Would that be okay?”

He’s mocking me. “Fine.”

Mom stares me down, and I know that as soon as she gets home, I’m in for it. “May we go now?” she says through clenched teeth.

I step back and nod. As I watch them go, a weird sense of nostalgia grips me. Aaron is much like my dad. Tall—six-one at least—twinkly kind eyes, good sense of humor. From behind, I would swear the couple walking away are my parents.

I wonder if Mom is trying to find a substitute. Poor Aaron if she is, because no one could possibly measure up to my dad.

8

M
ark is sitting on the porch swing when I get back to the house.

“I knocked,” he says. “No answer.”

I glance past him to the door, which I didn’t bother to close in my urgency to save my mother from kidnapping. In retrospect, the last ten minutes of my life seem ridiculous. But then, the last ten years seem that way too. “Why didn’t you go in and stay warm?”

He grins. “It’s called breaking and entering. Not a good way to start a relationship.”

A sense of unrestrained power surges through me—don’t ask me why. “Are we beginning a relationship?”

His hand is on the door and when he looks at me, I see only one side of his face in the shadow. Very Phantom of the Opera. “I hope so, Laini. I’m tired of being alone.”

Now, what’s a girl supposed to say to raw honesty like that? I fidget with my collar and duck past him, afraid he might grab me. If this were a movie, he’d do just that. Grab me as I brush by him, pull me close, look down into my face with intensity that takes away my voice and my breath. . . . Then he’d plant a John Wayne on me.

What’s wrong with that? I could use a great kiss, honestly. I try to think back to the last time I was honest-to-goodness in a man’s arms. Too long!

“Let me just get my coat.” No sense belaboring the issue. And really, now that I think about it, a kiss can’t happen until at least the next date. Because, technically, this is the first one.

I leave him in the living room while I rush to grab my coat from the kitchen chair where I left it earlier. Before joining him, I pause at the mirror in the hallway to check my appearance. Not bad. That jog in the cold gave my cheeks some color. And for once, my nose isn’t beet red.

“So what did you have in mind for tonight?” I call, running my fingers through my curls. No matter how much gunk I use, these curls are almost impossible to tame. I’m seriously about to chop off my hair and buy a straightener.

He’s looking my way as I reenter the living room. “I want to take you to meet someone.”

Meet someone? “Like who?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“You know someone in Freeport? Or are we going somewhere else?”

He grins. “I spent a lot of time here growing up. I thought we’d find a bite to eat on Woodcleft and take a walk if it’s not too cold.”

“I’ll bring my coat.”

I love the Nautical Mile on Long Island. It’s a tourist attraction in the summer, but in the winter it slows down to a nice easy pace. Less hectic. Far enough away from Manhattan that I can breathe.

I love Manhattan too. But if I could, I’d own a home on Long Island for the weekends and summers. I know it’s an unlikely dream, but a person can’t help the dreams in her heart, can she?

“So who is this person you want me to meet?” I say, taking Mark’s arm like I’m some 1940s movie star.

He covers my hand with his, like he’s a 1940s leading man and I pretend we’re Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall as we walk along past restaurants and nightspots and little novelty shops. We land in a tiny seafood shop, a little run-down and almost invisible in the midst of all the renovated hot spots.

“Seafood.” I smile as he opens the door. “My favorite.”

“Of course. You can’t grow up here without loving seafood.” He leans in close to me. So close I can feel his heat and smell his musky aftershave. My stomach does a flip-flop.

“I guess not.”

“But that’s not why I brought you here.”

The place smells of clam chowder, fried shrimp, and the sea. I gather in a deep breath, a wonderful full breath that fills my senses. I’m not sure why I’m responding this way to a place like this. But I almost feel like I’ve come home.

The hostess appears, and her face lights up when she sees Mark. I’m almost jealous. Almost.

She’s blonde and petite and cute as a button. She’s also at least six months pregnant. She reaches around him and gives him a hug. “You did come by! Wait’ll Pop sees you.”

Pop?

The lovely girl turns to me, her enthusiasm infectious. “You’ve got to be Laini.” Her pudgy little hand reaches for mine and gives it a shake. “Mark’s told us all about you.”

I turn to Mark. I know I look surprised, but I don’t want to embarrass him, so I don’t play off her words by stating the obvious, which is that he hasn’t said a word about having family on Long Island—especially so close to where I live.

“Put a cork in it, Liz.” Clearly Mark is shutting her up before she can reveal any more secrets.

“Sheesh, edgy, ain’t he?” Grabbing a couple of menus, she motions for us to follow. “Pop kept number eighteen open just in case you showed up. I told him he should wait and see before saving our best table. But he knew you’d come.”

Liz turns back to me over her shoulder as she walks without looking where she’s going. “In case you’re wondering, I’m his sister. Our pop owns this place. Our mom divorced him and lives in Brooklyn.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks, Liz. I don’t usually learn that much about a guy on a first date—not from his sister anyway.”

She stops at a corner table and moves aside for us to sit. “Well, I didn’t figure he said anything about us. You’re the first date he’s brought here in a long time.”

I look across at Mark. A boyish grin curves his lips and he gives me a shrug of those incredible shoulders. This is a great guy. I think I actually might have hit the jackpot.

“Anyway, you two decide what you want.” She turns to Mark. “I’ll tell Pop you’re here.”
Here
sounds like “He-ah.”

“So, this is your dad’s place,” I say. A statement of the obvious—just trying to break through this tension. It seems to work . . . a little. In the past few minutes, Mark has suddenly become the strong, silent type. But then, Liz didn’t exactly give him much of a chance to speak, did she?

“Yeah, like I said, I spent a lot of time here growing up.”

“How long have your parents been divorced?”

Absently fingering the checkered tablecloth, he keeps me in his sights. I like that, a guy who makes good eye contact. “At least twenty years. Dad moved to Long Island where his family is from, and Mom stayed in Brooklyn with hers.”

“Did either of them remarry?” I know I’m being nosy, but these questions just seem like the natural progression of things today.

He shakes his head. “They’re both too stubborn. No one else would put up with either of them.”

“Mark! You made it!”

Mark’s dad is an average-looking man, barely embarking on his senior years. Hard to tell if he’s fifty or seventy, to tell you the truth. I don’t detect much in the way of gray hair. One thing is clear: he adores his son.

Mark stands and the two men embrace. “Good to see you, Pop.”

“Good to see you too, son. Been too long.” Then he turns to me. “But if this is the reason, I don’t blame you.”

Mark slides back into his side of the booth while his dad ogles me and takes my hand. He steps close and presses my hand against his chest. “You’re a vision, honey.”

Feeling a little uncomfortable with this man. . . . I can see why Mark doesn’t bring dates around to meet him. That’s for sure.

Mark looks embarrassed. “This is Laini Sullivan, Pop.”

Mark’s dad leans forward and kisses my hand. I can’t believe this guy!

“Hands off,” Mark says. “She’s with me.” He sends me a wink. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out, but this is my dad, Carl Hall.”

“Nice to meet you, Carl.” Inwardly, I’m begging him to give me back my hand and stop creeping me out.

Thankfully, he does so and turns to Mark. I tune out their conversation and watch the two men.

I stare at Mark, whose features are so similar to his dad’s that I picture him in thirty years or so, holding a young woman’s hand, making her feel uncomfortable. Hmm. How far does this apple fall from the tree?

The food is perfect: shrimp scampi served in garlic butter, an enormous baked potato, crab cakes. I had to forgo the biscuits and dessert, which seemed to disappoint Mark’s dad so much that I finally agreed to take home a large slice of chocolate fudge cake. Not that it took much persuading.

Carl and Liz walk us to the door. “You make sure you come back, you hear?” Carl says.

“I’ll do my best.” I’m not exactly one to promise when who knows if Mark will ever want to see me again? And if he doesn’t, I’m not likely to waltz into this restaurant alone and order fish.

The temperature has taken a dive during the past two hours and a strong north wind creeps under my jacket pretty quickly.

Mark raises the collar of his bomber jacket as we step away from the warmth of the restaurant. Then he snatches my hand and pulls me along the sidewalk.

Hand-holding is permitted on a first date. By the time dinner is over, if you’re still interested, a little finger-weaving is definitely acceptable. Especially through gloves. Who can feel a thing anyway?

He smiles down at me. “I thought maybe we’d walk a little, if it’s okay with you.”

What is he, nuts? It’s like Antarctica out here! “Um, sure. I love to walk.” Okay, it’s official: I’m lying for a guy.

He tugs me closer to his side until I’m practically walking on his feet. “Warm enough?” he asks.

I nod. “Sure.” But my chattering teeth give me away. I shrug. “I will be as soon as I get used to being outside.”

An indulgent smile lifts his lips. “Let me get a cab. I’m not going to take a chance you might get sick all because of me.”

I’m so grateful that by the time the cab stops and we slide into the backseat, I’m willing to snuggle close while Mark’s arm encircles me—clearly a second- or third-date privilege, but in this case, I’ll let it slide. I need the warmth.

By the time we arrive back at Mom’s, I’ve finally thawed out. Mark opens the door but speaks to the cabbie before climbing out. “Wait for a sec, will you? I want to walk her to the door.”

The guy points to the meter. “It’s your money.”

Mark’s arm is firm around my shoulders as we walk. “I had a really nice time.” His voice is sort of husky all of a sudden. I have a weird feeling he’s going to move in for a kiss . . . and I don’t care how cold I am, a kiss is not a negotiable option until the third date, and even then only if I really, really like the guy. I’m definitely not ready for Mark to make a move.

I smile as big as I can and stick out my hand. “Thanks for dinner, Mark. I had a great time.”

A look of bewilderment, then amusement, flickers to his eyes. “Can I call you again?”

Is he kidding?
Play it cool, Laini.
I give a slight nod. “I’d like that.”