Timothy (9 page)

But I was so used to my dreams not coming true, I couldn't quite believe this was happening.

“I know I'm being impetuous, but you make me feel young again. You make me feel alive, and now that I know I can feel this good again, I don't want it to stop, either. Marry me, Mouse.”

“You aren't old.” I wanted to say yes so badly it felt like I would explode. But I still couldn't believe he was serious.

“That's very kind of you, but I know my age.” He smiled again. “I know, marry in haste, repent at leisure—and of course we can't be married here, but when we get back to New York, we can go before a justice of the peace.” He smiled. “And then I can take you shopping, get you some appropriate clothes. Wouldn't you like that?”

“I—I don't know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he urged. “You won't regret it.”

“Okay,” I finally said, and he leaped up, threw his arms around me and hugged me close.

“I promise you, here and now, Mouse,” he whispered in my ear, “I will spend the rest of my life making you happy.”

Predictably, Valerie was absolutely horrible.

Carlo had warned me she would be—“miserable people always envy and resent the happiness of others” were his exact words—but it still caught me off guard. I thought he was being cynical—surely she would be happy for me to have fallen in love?

I went straight to her room once Carlo dropped me off. He was going off to buy my engagement ring, which I insisted wasn't necessary, but he'd have none of that. “You've not had a conventional life so far, Mouse,” he said, “but from now on, you will—and it starts with a proper engagement ring.”

He kissed me as I was getting out of the car, and said, “Effective today, you are quitting,” he insisted. “I don't want you working for that horrible woman one more minute than necessary.”

“But I should give notice and help train my replacement.”

“Not one minute more,” he replied, shaking his head. “I hate the way she treats you, Mouse, and I won't have it. Go on up and quit, and we can start our life together.”

I'd read the term “walking on air” in any number of books over the years, but had always thought it ridiculously hyperbolic. But as I walked through the lobby of the hotel to the elevator bank, I knew exactly what those authors were talking about. My cheeks ached from the enormous grin on my face, and I felt like my feet weren't touching the ground.

I was humming as I rode the elevator up to the penthouse floor, where Valerie was staying.

I almost gasped when she opened the door. Usually, she was incredibly well put together—but the strep throat had obviously done a number on her. Her hair was greasy and uncombed, she wasn't wearing makeup, her eyes were swollen and reddened, and her nose was raw from wiping it. She was wearing a lavender silk bathrobe, and underneath it I could see cotton pajamas. She scowled at me. “What do you want?”

My grin faded. “Um, I need to talk to you, Valerie.”

“It couldn't wait until the flight home tomorrow?” She turned and walked back into the room, leaving the door open. I took that as my cue to go inside, and shut the door behind me.

I hadn't been inside Valerie's penthouse suite, and I was impressed. It was decorated in an art-deco style in matte pink, black, and white that matched the hotel's architecture. The door to the bedroom off her living space was open, as were the sliding glass doors that led out to the balcony in front. There was another set of sliding glass doors on the other side of the room, which led to the private rooftop pool the penthouses shared.

She sat down on the couch and glared at me. “This had better be good.” She blew her nose again.

I took a deep breath and calmed my nerves. It was ridiculous, after all, that the woman made me so nervous. “Valerie, I'm afraid—I'm afraid I have to give notice.”

Whatever she was expecting to hear, it clearly wasn't that. “What?” She shook her head. “I know I didn't hear that right.”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “I'm sorry, Valerie,” I said softly. “I really appreciate everything you've done for me, I really do, but I'm giving my notice.” I closed my eyes. “Effective immediately.”

“Effective. Immediately.” She sneered, her face twisting. “What an ingrate you are. Do you have any idea how many people would sell their soul for the chance to be my assistant?”

I took a deep breath.
Don't let her get to you, don't let her get to you
, I repeated over and over in my mind. “Yes, Valerie, and like I said, I really appreciate—”

“You were about to be
homeless
, have you forgotten that?” She spat the words at me, and would have said something else had a coughing fit not interrupted her.

“I have already said thank you for that,” I said, my voice remaining even despite the fact I was quaking inside. “And I may not ever be able to repay you for that kindness.”

“So what exactly are you going to do now?” she demanded, blowing her nose and tossing the tissue onto the coffee table.

“I'm getting married.”

“Married?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “But—I thought—to whom?”

I took a deep breath. “Carlo Romaniello.”

She barked out a harsh laugh. “Carlo Romaniello?” She ran her hand through her hair. “My, what a fast little worker you are. You just met him this week, didn't you? Clearly, I underestimated you.” She whistled. “I don't know how you managed to pull this off, but kudos. I have to admire someone who can land a fish like Carlo Romaniello so quickly.”

“It isn't like that,” I replied. She was making it sound—
nasty
, like I was marrying Carlo for his money or something, and I said so.

She snorted. “Aren't you? Surely you don't expect me to believe you've fallen in love this quickly.” She rolled her eyes. “You are pretty young, I suppose. And if you insist that this is all about love and has nothing to do with the money, I guess I'll have to take your word for it—but frankly, I don't believe a word of it. Yes, he's a handsome man, but he is old enough to be your father.” She waved her hand. “Frankly, I don't blame you at all, and as I said, more power to you for getting him to propose…I suppose he's just lonely, or trying to recapture his youth or something.” She sighed.

“Is it so hard for you to believe that he might actually be in love with me?” I said stiffly.

She stared at me for a few minutes, and finally said, “You'll undoubtedly think I'm a bitch for saying this, but your father meant a lot to me, and you don't have anyone else. I'm the only person who'll tell you the truth.” She took a deep breath. “I do wish you'd take a moment to think about this—and who knows, maybe once the novelty of the moment wears off, you'll be able to think about what I've said and not dismiss me as a hateful bitch. This marriage is never going to work, you know. You come from a completely different world than Carlo Romaniello.”

“I adapted when I came to New York,” I replied. “And Manhattan is a like a completely different universe than Kansas.”

“This is completely different, and you know I'm right,” she said. “Carlo Romaniello is used to men like Timothy Burke—and you're no Timothy. I'm sorry if that hurts your feelings, but you know deep down that I'm right about this. You have no experience with that world, you've never lived in a great house like Spindrift, you've never had any experience with people with that kind of money and family history. They have a phrase for people like you and me—‘not quite our class, darling.' And people in that class are very, very cruel. Cruel in ways you cannot even begin to fathom or imagine. The rich are very different from you and me.”

Her words cut me to the quick but I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she'd hurt me. “Well, you're entitled to your opinion, of course,” I said, raising my chin and looking her right in the eyes. “But no matter what, people are people.”

“Oh, dear God, you are so naïve.” She shook her head slightly, pityingly. “Well,” she said in a subdued voice, “I spoke my piece, and for what it's worth, I hope I'm wrong—for your sake. I'm sure you don't believe me, but I do wish you well.” She waved her hand, dismissing me. “Let HR know where to send your final paycheck.”

And just like that, I was no longer employed.

As I shut her door behind me, I took a deep breath and leaned back against it. She hadn't completely ruined my mood. It didn't matter to me in the least what Valerie thought of my upcoming marriage.

All that mattered was me making Carlo happy, and he wouldn't have proposed to me had he thought I wouldn't be able to—would he?

Of course he wouldn't.

As I headed back to the elevators, I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and I was a little light-headed. For a little over a year, Valerie had been the dominant force in my life—everything I did, everywhere I went, every moment I lived and breathed revolved around Valerie, her needs and demands. I rode the elevator down to my floor, reflecting on the year I'd spent as her assistant. She'd been tough, but I'd learned a lot from her—about writing and editing, how to run a magazine, and a lot about popular culture.

As I waited for the elevator, I remembered my vow earlier in the week to focus on
living
my life, rather than just letting it happen. What was I going to do now? I stepped into the elevator and rode down. No school and no job—how would I fill my days? I hardly wanted to be the do-nothing spouse of a wealthy man, who just filled his hours with shopping and having lunch.

I went back to my room and started packing up. We were flying back to New York in the morning—Carlo said he would pick me up at ten. I spent the evening watching mindless shows on television, still not quite certain it was all real—that I wasn't dreaming it all and I was going to wake up in that horrible little apartment, needing to get ready to go into the office as always and prepare Valerie's day for her. Finally, I turned everything off and went to bed, but I couldn't sleep. I was restless all night, anxious and full of nerves.

Valerie's words kept ringing in my head as I tossed and turned. I refused to believe she was right—I wanted to believe that Carlo loved me and we would live happily ever after. But so much of what she'd said mirrored my own thoughts from earlier in the week, as I was falling in love with him. And it all did seem far too good to be true. How many shy, nondescript gay men from Kansas wound up with handsome millionaires? Not too damned many—so why was it happening for me? It was going to be hard filling the shoes of someone as gorgeous and smart and witty as Timothy Burke.

I was already awake when my alarm went off at six, lying there in the bed and staring at the ceiling as the darkness began to fade to light. I ordered coffee and showered, my nerves shot. The face that stared at me from the bathroom mirror had enormous bags under his bloodshot eyes—which was, of course, just perfect. I drank my coffee, ate my fruit and checked out, and was standing out in front of the hotel at ten. I didn't have room in my suitcase for the garment bag from Versace, so I held it.

Ten came and went.

By five after, I was beginning to sweat—and not just from the heat. I kept watching Ocean Boulevard, but there was no sign of the little red convertible. Horrible thoughts started running through my mind—what if he'd changed his mind? What if this was all some kind of horrible joke?

I began remembering horrible jokes or tricks played on characters in books—poor Miss Havisham still in her wedding dress years later, Carrie White at the prom—and I struggled to keep the tears from rising in my eyes. I kept compulsively checking my phone—
oh, I'll have to return it to the magazine, but if he doesn't show up…I'll be begging Valerie for my job back.

She'd certainly enjoy that.

Ten past.

Other guests at the hotel were coming and going—in various types of beach attire. The bellhops kept looking at me, but I just smiled back at them, resisting the urge to say, “Seriously, my ride
is
coming for me.”

By ten fifteen I was ready to just start crying.

I sat down on my suitcase.
Call him, just call him—he's just delayed and you're making a big deal over nothing at all.

He'd never been late before—he was always prompt.

If you call and he's just running late you'll look like a control freak or a jackass or something worse.

I covered my face with my hands as the battle raged on in my head.

“Mouse?”

I uncovered my face and looked up into Carlo's face. A black town car with tinted windows was idling at the curb, and a uniformed man was standing by the open trunk.

“Hi,” I said, my voice shaking a little as I stood up. The man picked up my suitcase and the garment bag and placed them in the trunk, closing it.

“Sorry, I should have called,” he said in a kind tone. He kissed my cheek, and it took all of my self-control to not start sobbing in relief. “The rental agency was late picking up the convertible, but I kept thinking—”

“It's okay,” I replied, walking over to the car, a foolish smile on my face as I climbed into the backseat.

Carlo's phone rang as we pulled away from the curb, and he gave me an apologetic smile as he took the call. I tuned out his conversation as I watched Miami speed by. I was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the previous twenty minutes, and I leaned my head against the door and closed my eyes.

“Mouse, wake up,” Carlo whispered in my ear, and my eyes opened ever so slowly. I yawned. “Come on, the plane's loaded already.”

Not sure what he meant, I looked out the window and saw the driver loading my bags into the storage compartment of a small jet. I got out of the car and followed Carlo over to the steps leading up into the plane. Carlo was still talking on his phone as I climbed into the luxurious interior.