The Girl On The Half Shell (19 page)

He lifts a brow. “Are you flying back to Santa Barbara early?”

I shrug. “I haven’t decided. Everything just changed yesterday.”

He smiles. “Have you decided what you want for breakfast?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s moving down the hallway to the kitchen. It’s almost as if he’s hurrying. Is this Alan’s version of the guy escape? Cook a girl breakfast, feed her, and run.

In the kitchen I find him going through the refrigerator, removing things and stacking them on the counter. It’s fully stocked. I hadn’t noticed. Jack must have seen to that before we left Santa Barbara. I never once thought about where the food came from. But the kitchen is fully stocked, and has been since we arrived.

“Would you like an omelet? Vegetable or meat? You have broccoli, you have peppers, and you have sausage, ham, bacon, a variety of cheese. Basically, everything for any kind of omelet you want.”

How does he know this? I don’t even know what goes in or how to make an omelet. Maria does our cooking. I don’t even know how to boil an egg. Alan looks right at home.

“I don’t care. Whatever is easier or whatever you’d prefer.”

“I like everything.”

“Then everything.”

I settle at the breakfast bar and watch him. I’ve never had a guy cook me breakfast before, and I feel a touch useless just sitting here. I watch him fill one skillet with bacon, and then bend to watch as he precisely turns up the heat. He moves to the coffeemaker and sets a pot to brew. He pours me a glass of orange juice and sets it on the mat in front of me.

“Don’t wait for me. Drink,” he orders. I lift the glass. I take a sip. I start to put it down. “All of it.”

He goes back to the stove. He turns the bacon. “Who brought you drinks other than the waitress last night?”

What an odd question. Why would he want to know that?

“Vince.”

“Just Vince? Or did Jimmy bring you drinks too?”

I don’t like the way he’s asking me that.

“I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Why do you want to know?”

He looks over at me. He smiles. It’s totally disarming. It bothers me for some reason and it shouldn’t because it’s just a friendly, no big deal kind of expression. I frown.

I watch him whisk eggs in a bowl before he pours the mixture into the heated skillet of melted butter. Damn, if he isn’t good at this. Where did he learn to cook?

“I have a thing in about a half an hour,” he says, carefully swirling the omelet in the pan. “A pretty full day.” He folds the omelet and slides it onto a plate. “I’ll swing by later to look in on you.”

Look in? What does that mean? What an odd thing to say.

He sets the plate in front of me. “Now, eat.”

I stare as he starts cleaning up his mess. “This looks good. Aren’t you going to make yourself one? Aren’t you going to eat?”

“My first thing is a breakfast thing.”

What is it about “thing”? Why does every male in my life take off for
thing?
I stab the eggs with my fork. Hmm… it is good, very good. He sets a cup of coffee in front of me.

I look up to find him smiling. “I’ve got to go, Chrissie. You should probably just stay in today. Take it easy.”

He doesn’t even wait for my answer. He disappears down the hall and I hear the elevator doors close.

* * *

My mood shifts immediately once Alan is gone. The rooms feel empty again. I set the candles in the living room ablaze and sit there and stare at them. I wish Rene were here. I can fight the mess inside me when Rene is near, since her mess is so much more naked and real and absorbing. What am I going to do for two weeks without her?

By two in the afternoon, that spacey feeling has left me and I’m sick of reliving minute by minute my latest encounter with Alan. I am crawling the walls of the apartment. For some reason, Rene hasn’t called today. I hope everything is all right in DC. Jack hasn’t called. A good thing, because after all that’s gone on the past few days, behaving normally in our completely abnormal father-daughter fashion just isn’t in me today. And as I suspected, hoping Alan would come back was a very foolish thing.

A familiar anxiety, impulse and sadness whispers through me. I stare out through the terrace doors at the April day.
Get out of the apartment, Chrissie
. I pull on a sundress and a pair of white Keds, grab my book of Chekhov and shove it into my woven rope tote with the small snack I packed in the kitchen. From the back of a chair, I grab the throw. It’s a beautiful day. I’m only a few steps away from Central Park.
Get out of the apartment now!

Outdoors is not a good ally to Chekhov. I discover this after twenty minutes sitting in the sun and finding myself still on the page I started. The good weather seems to have brought out all New Yorkers. The park is busy and crowded, with couples, children, dogs, bikes, and a group of young college age guys playing hacky sack. There are other people here alone, and yet New Yorkers seem to do the alone thing so much better than I do. They don’t look alone when they are alone.

Chomping on an apple, I watch the playful dance of hacky sack. It’s better than watching the couples when you are a single. As I set down my book, I catch from the corner of my eye one of the guys giving me a fast once-over. He’s cute, with dark wavy hair. Sort of looks like Alan, though no one looks like Alan. I lean back on one arm and watch him. I tilt my face toward the sun, closing my eyes. I look back at him.

He smiles. I smile. His friend punts the sack farther over, nearer to me, and then he begins to bounce it from ankle to ankle, inching closer to me. After thirty minutes of watching them, one of them has finally noticed me with interest. Rene would have had all ten of them sitting on the blanket with us in half a minute. But Rene is not here, so I have to make do with my less than stellar skills if I don’t want to spend the next two weeks in total silence.

The sudden enthusiasm of his movements tells me he’s trying to impress me. He loses the hacky sack and tumbles onto my blanket at my feet. He pushes up on an elbow and smiles. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

OK, so he’s not much of conversationalist. The way he says “hi” tells me he’s probably not the sharpest guy in the world, but this is weird. I’ve never lost the interest of a guy so quickly. One minute all smiles and stare, dropping at my feet, and now no smile..and his staring eyes shift ever so slightly.

My less-than-interested new friend looks up. “Aren’t you…”

“No, he died last year.”

I suddenly realize the shadow now covering my body is Alan standing over me. He came back like he said he would. I ignore the riot of my blood and my rapidly increasing heartbeat.

I make a face at Alan to cover my ridiculous pleasure at seeing him. “That’s not funny at all. You shouldn’t say things like that. Not even if you’re joking.”

Alan settles on the blanket beside me. Mr. Hacky Sack is still with us. My afternoon doldrums have instantly vanished, because I’m really glad Alan did look in on me and that he’s saving me from Mr. Hacky Sack who was a disappointment from word one.

I frown at him. “I thought you said you never do bullshit. That fib is a yellow card.”

Something in how he looks at me makes me shiver. “So you do remember parts of last night. This morning I wasn’t sure if you did.”

My face burns and my mind whirls. Why would Alan think I didn’t remember what happened last night? I wasn’t passed out drunk. Just sort of spacey and weird and not myself.

I bite my lip hard to stop my thoughts. I look at Alan. “Should we invite my new friend to stay for lunch?”

“Only if you think you have enough to go around.”

The heat rises in my cheeks like a burn. I wasn’t expecting that naughty comment.

Mr. Hacky Sack looks uncomfortable. He springs to his feet and makes a fast excuse.

Once we’re alone, Alan gives me a harsh, rebuking stare. “I thought I told you not to leave the apartment, and after Jimmy Stallworth I would have thought you’d figure out that you just don’t pick up any guy you meet in New York.”

I give him a frustrated glare. “What? Girls don’t date in New York? Where am I supposed to meet someone? Barney’s or Saks Fifth Avenue?”

He rolls his eyes and reclines back on his elbows next to me. “I think it’s safer for you to wait until you’re back in Santa Barbara to try to hook up with someone. You just don’t have that New York girl savvy and instinct.”

“How would you know? You don’t know anything about me.”

Smug, burning black eyes. “Jimmy Stallworth and Vince Carroll. A savvy girl would have run from both of them.”

I drop my gaze first because he made that point insultingly well. I still get nauseated when I think of Vince touching and kissing me. And I still haven’t processed that I was actually stupid enough to meet a New York drug dealer and help him crash a club to close a drug deal.

“I really hated leaving you today,” Alan says heavily.

I look up and my heart accelerates.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day.” Those penetrating black eyes lock on me. “I couldn’t stop worrying. How do you feel?”

I frown, more than a little irritated. “Why do you keep asking me that? It’s really getting on my nerves.”

He ignores the question.

I bite my lower lip and brace myself. “Why did you beat up Vince Carroll last night?”

If Alan has any reaction to that question I can’t see it. “Because he was stupid enough to let the tabloids get hold of you. He was supposed to quietly get you into the car.”

I frown. “That’s a severe response to a mistake, don’t you think?”

He starts to rummage in my bag. “Do you have aspirin in here? I have a terrible headache. I could really use two aspirin and about an hour’s sleep …Cheez-Its, Oreo cookies, Diet Coke...”

“Here, give me that!”

I grab my bag from him.

“Oreo cookies and Diet Coke. Really? I’ll never understand the logic of a girl.”

I hold out the bottle of aspirin and a Diet Coke. “I’ll have you know that Oreo cookies and Diet Coke are one of my favorite things.”

He downs about four tablets. “Why? It sounds repulsive.”

“I’ll have to show you. This is something you can only get by doing it.”

I take a cookie and hold it up to his mouth. He looks suspicious.

“The whole cookie. It only works if you do the whole cookie, and don’t break it and don’t swallow.”

That prompts a look that makes every cell in my body burn while I put the cookie in his mouth. My fingers touch his lips and that draws my eyes to his. This is so childish. Why am I doing this lame stunt with him?

“Now fill your mouth with Diet Coke.”

In a half second, it’s fizzing and I can hear it. I start to laugh.

He swallows, makes a face and I laugh harder. “God, you are amused by the strangest things.”

I ignore the jab. “Rene taught me that at ten.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Rene would definitely be amused by things that swell and fizz in your mouth.”

“Be nice.” I give him a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Why don’t you like Rene?”

“I’ve known lots of girls like Rene. The world is full of girls like Rene. You get sick of them after a while. I can’t figure out why you like her.”

He settles back down on the blanket and puts his head in my lap. The unexpected closeness hits me like a freight train. Such an intimate thing to do, violating personal space, and he does it so naturally.

“So what have you been doing all day?” I ask, trying not to sound completely flustered.

He closes his eyes. “An appointment with my lawyers. Lunch with Lillian, misery in every way. Seven interviews.”

Lillian? There is something in the way he says that name that tells me this person is important to him. “Who is Lillian?”

“My mother. Terrible mother. Marvelous agent.”

I feel absurd relief over learning that Lillian is just his mother.

Those black eyes focus on me. “Why are you laughing?”

I blush. “You sound more British than when you left this morning and I was wondering if that’s the aftereffect of having lunch with your mother.”

He rolls his eyes. “Have you decided what you are going to do, love? Are you staying in New York?”

“I think I’m staying. I want to be close if Rene needs me.”

“That’s a stupid reason for spending your vacation alone. Personally, I don’t think she’s worth it.”

A dozen sharp, defensive retorts about Rene fill my head, but for some reason I don’t say any of them. Perhaps, it’s because he sounds tired, halfway to sleep. I watch the slow softening of his features and stare at his lustrous, dark hair. I really want to touch that hair. I grab my book instead.

Ten minutes pass with me pretending to read before I realize that it’s just not going to happen. Chekhov in the sun was difficult enough. With Alan it’s impossible. Instead, I peek over my book and just watch him. Is he asleep? I can’t tell. He’s still. His breathing is quiet.

My hand refuses to obey my command. My fingers find his hair. The black strands are soft and they flutter through my fingers. I like the way his hair feels. What is it about a guy’s hair? It’s always softer. Probably because they don’t do so much to it.

A woman walking on the sidewalk smiles at us. A random smile from a New Yorker. Miracles never cease. I look at Alan. Two miracles in a single day. He did look in on me. I never expected that. And a woman smiling at me as though I were part of a couple instead of the dreaded single that I always seem to be. I wonder how we look together?

“If you don’t turn a page eventually, you will never finish that book.”

I still. His eyes are closed. How did he know I was reading? How did he know I haven’t turned the page?

“I can’t focus on this book. I hate it.”

His eyes shoot open. “Is that a recent problem?”

I frown. Jeez, another of those questions that seem like more than a question-question. I roll my eyes in frustration.

“I’ve been trying to read this book for three months. I will never finish it, only I have to before I return to Santa Barbara.”

“Why do you hate the book?”

I crinkle my nose. “It’s Chekhov. Everyone hates Chekhov. I picked it because it was short, which is completely stupid logic because long and enjoyable is better than short and yuck.”