What Nora Knew (6 page)

Bruce stood and made a toast welcoming his neighbors
and welcoming summer. Pamela seconded the toast, and everyone agreed and toasted each other. Cameron Duncan smiled when he clinked my glass. He smiled at Rachel Starr when he clinked her glass. He smiled for Heike and Marya and Pamela and reached his wineglass across the bread basket to Lindy Sue. Every woman got clinked.

Lindy Sue winked as he clinked. “Is that my water glass or your water glass?” I heard her ask Russell.

“Your water glass,” he said.

She winked at him. She was wearing a fitted vest with a fringed scarf draped around the front of her neck and over her shoulders. No blouse. Just the scarf and vest.

Thatcher Kamin stood and made a toast, thanking Pamela and Bruce. Amid more clinking and sipping, Cameron clinked me again and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He wasn’t content with all the drooling women, he had to win me over, too. “What do you do?”

“I’m a writer at
EyeSpy
,” I said. “I cover human interest.”

“Major responsibility.”

“Yes. There are a lot of humans out there.”

The end of the toasting signaled the onslaught of food, a parade of servers presenting platters of Spanish dried sausages and applewood-smoked meats, fresh foie gras, Portuguese cheeses, trays overflowing with sliced Scottish salmon, chèvre wrapped in fig leaves; the server poured tender cabernets and smooth merlots.

While passing the salmon, Rachel said to me, “I can’t believe you’ve never read any Mike Bing mysteries. His heart
gets broken at the end of every book when his girlfriend gets killed.”

“He doesn’t sound like a very good detective,” I said.

“Oh, he’s amazing,” Lindy Sue said, winking at Cameron.

“Pamela, I love your sausages,” Marya said.

“Thanks,” Pamela said. “I love your earrings.”

Lindy Sue turned to me. “Mike Bing’s stopped a drug cartel, a nuclear bomb attack, and in book three he saved the national treasury. But the books are really about crimes of the heart.”

I could see Russell perk up. “Did you see
National Treasure
?” he asked Cameron.

“Nicolas Cage is my hero,” Cameron said.

“What’s the name of your book?” Russell asked.

Heike halted her texting. “Books,” she corrected. She picked up a fork and stabbed at a turkey meatball.

“Books,” Russell repeated. I could tell he didn’t want that fork stabbing
him
.

“Will there be a new love interest in your next novel?” Rachel, horticulturist, asked Cameron.

“They never survive?” I said. “Not one of them? What woman would date this guy?”

Rachel scowled at me.

“I’d date him!” Blair said. “I cried in book two when he sent Monique a white rose every Monday and then buried her with white roses. You know what women want, Cameron.”

Yes, nice funeral flowers,
I thought. The truth is, I was jealous of this Cameron guy. Nobody ever fawned over my writing.
I never got fawning. “How’d you become such an expert on women?” I asked.

“Four sisters,” he said. “All older.”

“Any brothers?” Lindy Sue asked with a wink. I admire good winkers. My winks look more like a tic.

“No. Just me,” Cameron said. “I’m the baby in the family.”

Did he just refer to himself as the baby in the family?

“That is so sweet,” Marya said.

“Adorable,” Rachel said.

“No wonder you’re so sensitive,” Blair said. “And Mike Bing’s so romantic.”

Cameron did this fake aw-shucks, shy-guy thing, complete with humble shrug and sheepish smile. “I think men are much more romantic than women give them credit for,” he said. “What man doesn’t love
Sleepless in Seattle
?”

The women all cooed. The men all looked confused.

“Is there any more corn?” I asked.

After a short discussion praising the delicious garden-fresh zucchini, and who had Lyme disease, Rachel said, “I hated when Mike Bing couldn’t save Sasha on top of the power plant. Darn arachnophobia.”

“Acrophobia,”
Cameron said, smiling. “Heights. Not spiders.”

“I can’t wait for the movie,” Blair said from one side of me across to Cameron on the other side of invisible me.

“Me, either,” Cameron said. “I’ll be sitting in the very front row like I’m part of the show.” He turned to me. “Sylvester Stallone’s making my movie.” Another humble shrug. Another sheepish smile.

“Really?” I said.

“Really?” Russell piped in.

“Who’s playing Sasha?” Rachel asked.

“That’s up to Sylvester,” Heike said. “We’re hoping for Angelina.”

Pamela paused mid-fig bite. “Oh, they’ll be a terrific couple. Slygelina!”

“I picture Gwyneth Paltrow,” Blair said. “Slytrow!”

“Gwyneth’s too young,” Rachel said. She was checking her lipstick in the blade of her knife. “I hate these eight-hour lipsticks. They last eight minutes.”

“I wonder if they gave couples combo-names back in history,” I said. “Romeo and Juliet: Julio. CathCliff or Heatherine?”

“You read romantic literature?” Cameron asked me.

“I’m just making a point.” Nobody seemed too interested in exploring my theory further.

“Mike Bing’s girlfriends aren’t bimbos,” Lindy Sue said. Why was she looking at
me
? “They’re always age-appropriate.”

“Did anyone watch that terrible Diane Keaton–Justin Bieber DVD?” Russell asked.

A general mumbling of
Never saw it, never saw it
followed, interrupted by Heike’s barking, “It’s not my fault Justin Bieber can’t act!” while punching her thumbs into her BlackBerry.

I wondered if it was too late to change my seat to the Bruce side of the table.

“How old is Mike Bing?” I asked Cameron.

“Forty-two,” he said.

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“Sounds like this Mike fellow and you might get along. Do you like age-appropriate women?”

“I like all women.”

“Really? How time-consuming.”

The plates were cleared and desserts served—lemon curd cheesecake, chocolate bundts with créme anglaise, poached pears with apricot sauce, fresh watermelon slices—and the conversations broke down into smaller configurations. Pamela was talking to Marya and BlackBerry-tapping Heike. Rachel was talking with Lindy Sue. Russell was handing Blair his business card. Farther down the table Thatcher and Darrin were arm wrestling next to a plate of pastel-colored macaroons. Somehow it was just Cameron and I chatting while I ate watermelon. I love watermelon. I consider seedless watermelon the single most marvelous invention in the history of man. Right after Post-its.

“So, Cameron Duncan, if your Mike Bing’s good at love, he must be good at recognizing it.” I was using a knife and fork; at home I would have just picked up my watermelon rind and gnawed it. “If you were speaking on his behalf, how does Mike know when someone’s the one?”

“A Magic 8 Ball comes in handy.”

“Was that a serious answer?”

“Was that a serious question?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“You should try salting that to bring out the taste,” Cameron said. “Watermelon’s really good that way.”

“There’s taste here. I can taste it.” I continued eating sans salt.

“I guess it’s a Midwest thing.” Cameron sat there watching me chew. I felt more comfortable when I was posing naked.

I said, “This detective of yours must be pretty desirable if he can find a new girlfriend every book.”

“He believes in love. He holds out for love. He’s a romantic.”

“And he’s fictional.”

“But not unrealistic.”

I bit into a renegade seed in my seedless watermelon, doing my best to remove the little rascal while daintily covering my mouth. I didn’t think Pammie would appreciate my spitting it out onto her lawn. I asked, “So, do these Mike Bing girlfriends have anything in common? Other than they all end up dead.”

“Yes. They all salt their watermelon.”

“Too bad. I guess I’m not his type.”

“He might not agree with that.”

I was about to say something on the order of
Ha!
or roll my eyes and tell Cameron I hoped his prose was as smooth as he was, when he said, “You’ve got watermelon dripping.” He pointed toward my napkin. “May I?” I looked over at Russell. He was talking with Lindy Sue and eating a blini.

“I can manage.” I wiped my face.

“You missed a spot.”

“Did not.”

“Trust me.” Cameron leaned closer, took the napkin from me, and dabbed my chin lightly, almost tenderly, and only for a moment, but the weird thing is, after he moved his
hand away I could still feel the pressure of his fingers against my skin. Warm. And confusing.

He smiled at me, as if the two of us had shared a secret while surrounded by Pammie’s guests.

What the hell was that little back-and-forth?
my inner Molly wondered as Pammie was cupping her hands around her mouth shouting to get everyone’s attention. “Who wants to play touch football!”

A rumble of interest rose up, probably enhanced by all the bottles of wine that had been consumed, except from Heike, who said, “You’re kidding, right? That’s a joke?”

Russell was the surprising one. He abandoned his blini and said, “I love touch football! C’mon, everyone, it’ll be fun!”

I had no idea he was such a fan. Then again, anyone who threw out their back could mean potential business.

Pammie called down the table, “Bruce, sweetheart, do you want to be one captain and I’ll be the other?” and lunch was officially over. As everyone—even a reluctant Heike—pushed back their chairs and discussed choosing teams or whether they preferred volunteering for cheerleading duties, I mouthed the words
no thanks
to Russell.

“Don’t you leave without me getting your autograph!” Blair said to Cameron as she raced off.

“Or me,” Rachel said, turning to call out, “I want Bruce’s side!”

“Have fun,” I said to Cameron.

He remained seated. I remained seated. After a minute or two of our sitting in silence, I said, “Mike Bing’s not an athlete?”

Cameron shook his head no.

I asked him to pass some more watermelon.

He picked a wedge off a platter and deposited it on my plate. All around us servers were removing plates and glasses and folding up chairs.

“Do you really like Nicolas Cage?” I asked.

Cameron smiled. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Why’d you claim you did?”

“I made a book sale.”

“So you’ll say anything?”

Cameron didn’t say anything.

“I bet you don’t love
Sleepless in Seattle
either.” I glanced around at the empty table. “Your audience is gone now. You can fess up.”

“It’s a perfect movie,” he said. “The last scene on the Empire State Building is one of the most romantic scenes ever. In the perfect setting.”

I concentrated on my watermelon. Told Cameron, “I think you say what you think women want to hear, not what you really believe.”

“That’s your big assessment?” he said. “When’d you get so cynical?”

“Five years ago when I divorced a divorce lawyer.” What was I going to say? That after my divorce I ended up madder at myself than at Evan because I no longer trusted my judgment? That the day I read his wedding announcement in the
New York Times
was about as bad a day as a day can feel.

“Five years is a long time to be a skeptic. Life’s too short,” Cameron said.

“Yeah. Especially for anyone who dates your detective.” I crisscrossed my knife and fork on my plate. “Excuse me, but my boyfriend is waiting.” I scanned the lawn looking for Russell. He was busy getting tackled.

Oliver West was walking up to Cameron and me. He stopped, snapped his fingers, and pointed at my chest. “I
do
remember you! Gorgeous!”

*  *  *

On the drive back to the city that night, sitting and not going anywhere in our Zipcar, bumper to bumper, honking horn to honking horn, Russell and I taking turns adjusting the air-conditioning level, then readjusting it, and changing the radio station from his favorite to my favorite, I said, “Can you believe that Cameron Duncan’s arrogance?”

Russell drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I didn’t notice.”

I made my voice sound deep and mocking. “Sylvester Stallone is making my movie.”

“That’s not arrogance,” Russell said. “
Ben Affleck is making my movie
is arrogance. Not Sylvester Stallone.”

“Well, it sounded like bragging to me.”

“He seemed like a decent guy.”

“I talked to him more than you did. He’s a phony. And I know one when I see one.”

Russell kissed me good-bye and drove off in his Zipcar. Five minutes later I was exiting the elevator on my apartment floor. Lacey and Kevin Gallo, my newlywed neighbors, were pressed against each other outside the trash-chute room, making out next to a Hefty bag. What was it about tossing garbage that they found such a turn-on?

The Gallos look alike, all arms, legs, lips, and tongues. Same mussed hair and pale complexions—probably from never leaving their bedroom. They’ve lived next door to me for seven months now, and I have no idea what they do or where they came from; they never talk, maybe not even to each other, they just rub up against one another and play tonsil hockey.

“Have a nice holiday?” I asked as I passed them.

Inside my own four walls, I was unzipping my suitcase when somebody buzzed. I opened the front door without peeping through the peephole.

Angela held up a half-eaten Twinkie. “Want a bite?” she asked.

I shook my head no.

“How was the Hamptons?”

“How was the Shore?”

She was wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, her hair pulled into a ponytail; she looked cute. She followed me into my bedroom, and while I unpacked, she sat on my Hallberg-upholstered reading chair, blue-and-white-striped, with perfectly matched seams. “Were there any good people there?” she asked.

“Good how?”

“Famous.”

You have to watch what you say around Angela. You can’t have a conversation without her tweeting. Say anything she considers halfway clever and she’ll whip out her phone. Her biggest client is a gourmet grocery store, Iannuzzeli’s. She tweets about sales and produce tips under the fake name of a fake customer.
Like us on Facebook and learn how to sniff a cantaloupe!
It makes her nuts that the store name takes up half her letters. The fake customer’s name is Flo because it only has three letters. Angela also tweets as Angela.