The Value of Vulnerability (29 page)

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said as if he could read her thoughts.

“Then what?”

“You really aren’t going to believe this,” he warned.

“Try me,” she suggested dryly.

“He’s not going to be concerned with consent,” he said very coolly.

It took a minute for that to sink in, and when it did, she gasped. “You’re talking about
rape
.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

She slid off the bed, reaching for her robe. “That’s insane, Ford. How can you know such a thing? He’s a friend. I have a few male friends. Is this going to be the issue for all of them?”

“I haven’t met them,” he said, aridly amused, “so I don’t know. Maybe you attract the type.”

“Thanks very much.” She tightened the belt on her robe. “That wouldn’t say much for you.”

“Are we friends?” he asked with irony.

Not knowing how to respond to that, she took it rhetorically. “Joe is not a rapist.”

“I did not say he is. I said he’s not necessarily going to be looking for consent. Then he will be a rapist.” Ford sat up and held out his hand to her
. She reluctantly took it. “Erin. I don’t want you to be shocked like I was. Shocked by that moment when the person you thought you knew showed not merely a different aspect of personality, but an entirely new person you had never met. Never dreamed they could be. A monster. A villain. I don’t want it coming out of the blue to hit you between the eyes, leaving you in a daze that lasts for years.”

Dazed?
Was that how he felt? Filing the information away for review in a saner moment, she snapped: “Hells! What am I supposed to think? Who do I believe? A friend I’ve known for three years or a man I’ve known for a few weeks? And still barely know anything about,” she added coldly, removing her hand from his. “You don’t know Joe at all! A few minutes over a beer where you obviously intimidated the crap out of him.”

“Yes.” He smiled reminiscently, as if the memory pleased him. “But I know him.”

She digested that. It wasn’t meant as an assessment of his own intuitiveness, which she gathered made up a good chunk of his ego. She studied the attempted innocent nonchalance of his expression.

“Omigod. Omigod, Ford. You had him checked out.”

“Of course I did.”

“And?” Her hand slashed the air. “No. No! Don’t answer that! Hells. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you. And there was nothing in Woods’ past to suggest a pattern. That does not prove I’m wrong, however, and we will proceed assuming I am correct. Which I am.”

Her lips parted in astonishment at this rampant arrogance. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Think about it for a minute,” he said, rather cheerfully—which did not endear him to her, considering the timing—and left the room.

She sank to the floor, stunned, leaning her head back on the edge of the bed.

When he returned, he had donned his suit trousers and was shrugging into his shirt. “Hey . . .” He crossed to her and got her on her feet. “Don’t be so upset. I had to tell you what I saw.”

“Vermin,” she whispered.

His head jerked back in surprise. “What made you say that?”

“That’s how you looked at him. As if he
was vermin. That’s why you wouldn’t touch my hand, why you told me to go wash. As if I were dirty.”

“Not you,
sweetheart. Him.” His arms enfolded her. “I glimpsed it the first time I saw him at the Xcess party, the way he looked at you—in front of his wife, no less. And last night, when I arrived at Zuzu’s, I saw it in full force, the creep beneath the lust. I have good instincts for such things, Erin. I know people.”

“Do you?” she asked. “I thought you were jealous. Thought that I might be interested in him.”

“Not in my wildest imaginings would I ever be jealous of Woods.”

She pushed at his chest and his hands settled on her upper arms as he granted her distance. “You asked if I had slept with him. If I would want him if he were available.”

“Yes. I asked.”

“Was that checking on me, Ford? Testing my worthiness?”

He was silent, considering. “They were just questions, Erin. If you had answered yes to either of them—” He inhaled deeply. Breathed out slowly. “I don’t know. It would have . . . coloured my perception of who you are. But people do make mistakes, and I think I could have overlooked it.”

“I don’t think you have any idea how arrogant you sound.”

“If you thought I desired an inappropriate woman, or had slept with some—” He sought a polite word.

“Skank?” she provided coolly and not at all politely.

“Fine. Skank. Would that not colour your opinion of me?”

“Aside from Diane—no prize there—I don’t know about any of your women. They could have all been skanks.”

He smiled slightly. “We’re getting off topic.”

“Are we? I thought it was a comparative discussion of former lovers.”

“No. It was a discussion of an inappropriate member of your social circle.”

“Right. My bad taste. Not yours. Are you going to forbid me to see him? Socially.”

“I can’t forbid you to do anything, Erin,” he said softly. “You choose.”

“Him or you?”

“Do you really want to lay it out to me like that?” His fingers curled into her tender flesh.

She looked pointedly from his hands to his face, and he released her with a muffled curse.

“I’m worried about you,” he said, thrusting his fingers through his hair.

He worried—did that equate to caring? A step up from ‘liking’? Would he open up to her now? In a way, he had been telling her that her silent and undemanding comfort of last night was new for him and appreciated, but mostly the story of Diane was given callously, only to underscore his impression of Joe, not to bring them closer together as a couple.

Essentially, though, he had destroyed her easy friendship with Joe—she would never be entirely comfortable with him now. Ford’s warning would linger forever.

She slumped, sinking onto the bed. “I need to be alone. I have to go to work.”

Ford crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his. “Call me later? Confirm Saturday?”

“How?” she demanded angrily. Still she had no way of reaching him. Their entire relationship was under his control.

“I programmed my cell number into your BlackBerry. Just now. Needed a charge, by the way, so I plugged it in for you, too.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just go
.”

He left her then, whistling on his way out. Ford Howard—whistling! Of all the nerve!

But since she was who she was, she’d probably forgive who he was in time for Saturday.

Ford was not given to prayer, but there had been some concentrated wishing for the weather gods to send a blizzard. Yes, Erin’s company was delightful (if he understood the meaning of the adjective), but the mysterious belated Christmas gift was cause for some apprehension.

Despite his hard wishing, Saturday dawned cloudy but warm for January, with not a hell’s chance of a snowball, and seeing Erin was virtually trembling with excitement over her plans, he reluctantly quashed his idea of inventing some emergency.

He had spent the night at her place, and ‘Ford’s Christmas’ started with a tour of the cobbled lanes and historic buildings of the Distillery District, ducking into a café for takeout coffees and pastries, and relaxing for a spell at a table in the window to watch the people go by.

Then he was dragged onto a streetcar—which he braved stoically—that carried them into the core while she pointed out several buildings of note—most of them bars, he realised, amused by her historic tour. Up the CN Tower, because, “No one who lives here does this! Have you?” To which he had to confess, no, he had not. Nor had planned to. Though the view was adequately spectacular.

Her whirlwind tour of the Hockey Hall of Fame proved she knew every hockey player who ever played, plus his stats. A quick cut through Brookfield Place to admire the juxtaposition of new and old architecture was followed by a stroll up Yonge Street that included a lunch of hot dogs (to which Erin referred unappetisingly as “street meat”) from a street vendor, while listening to some not-terrible buskers play in Yonge-Dundas Square. Latching onto a walking-tour group while munching popcorn, they arrived at the AGO and spent an hour or so admiring the exhibits, she clutching his hand all the while.

Outside again, they walked south. She stopped suddenly, looking at him with solemn eyes as he turned to her.

“Are you having a good time?” she asked.

“I enjoy your company immensely.”

“Mm. Disappointed about the lack of clowns?”

“Well, now that you mention it,” he said dryly.

“Look.”

He looked where she pointed, into the window of a costume rental store next to where they had stopped. A mannequin dressed as a clown stared out at them.

“Ha! Come on!” she cried. “Chinatown next!” And grabbing his hand, tugged him along, laughing happily, all smiles and sunny disposition.

There was more
—much more—on the itinerary. So much packed into one day.

As the sun plummeted in late afternoon, they walked hand-in-hand through Liberty Village in the gloaming. His steps hesitated as they passed
a sculpture, and Erin stopped to let him look.

“‘
Spirits
,’” she read the title from a plaque, and together they studied the four pocked and ethereal figures. Finally, she mused: “I wonder why they don’t have arms.”

“Because the dead are powerless.” His voice was colder than normal.

She pressed herself against him, her arms threading around his waist as she kissed his cheek.

“Come on,” she
whispered. “Let’s take a break.” And taking his hand again, she led him further up the street to sit on a brightly painted blue bench.

“Haaalloooo!” she called softly, turned away from him.

He laughed as her voice came from the opposite end of the bench through a sort of echo-y speaking-tube sculpture stuck into the ground, obviously attached underground to one on her side.

“It’s the Interval Bench,” she called in ghostly howl. “Merrrrry Christmaaass, Forrrrd Matthhhiasss Braaaaxton Hoowwwwaarrrd! Answer meeeee!”

They played for a few minutes with the Bench, making him feel as he had never felt, the mischievous child—though the suggestions he made to her through the Bench tube were not of a juvenile nature.

For his edification, she pointed out the McLuhan quote carved into the Bench. “He’s someone in media, I think,” she said. “Famous, I guess.”

Damn, she was sweet.

And then she produced with a flourish five sealed envelopes from her pocket, saying each contained the name of a restaurant
. No two were the same, and each was in a different neighbourhood. “Pick an envelope. Any envelope,” she invited, grinning, fanning them like playing cards.

His selection took them to an exquisite little dive in Koreatown near Christie Pits.

“Too bad there’s so little snow,” she observed of the steep slopes of the park as they went past it. “We’d’ve gone tobogganing!”

The weather gods were on his side, apparently. Who knew?

Seated at a rustic table, she handed him a package. “Merry Christmas.”

He stared
at it. It was small. Indeed, she had fished it out of her coat pocket. “What is it?”

“A present,” she chuckled. “Open it.”

Holding his breath, he did so, and set the gold and black figurine on the table. “It’s a cat.”

“A
maneki-neko
. A lucky cat. See how the paw moves? It’s to beckon good fortune—or good luck—to the owner. It’s Japanese,” she said knowledgably. “I got it while we were in Chinatown, when you weren’t looking.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he said with the utmost honesty.

She laughed. “You can say you’re glad it’s not a dog. And that it won’t shed on your clothes.”

He smiled. Then laughed. “Thank you, Erin. It’s an appreciated and thoughtful gift.”

“You’re welcome.” Her grin widened. “You’re going to stick it in a drawer and never look at it again, aren’t you? No,” she laughed, irrepressibly cheerful. “Don’t answer. It doesn’t matter. Really.”

He believed her. Everything today was for his entertainment, with no pressure.

Her only insistence for the day had been that she pay for everything. But it was how she expended her abundant energy on ensuring he had a good time that touched him. Though she presented everything as very casual and spontaneous, it was obviously a carefully constructed timetable. Right down to the clown in the window. The
maneki-neko
.

He touched the mobile paw of the cat and watched it swing.

Real thought and effort had gone into her planning, not the least of which was that nothing was rushed. It came across as entirely impromptu.