Windstar (9 page)

“Dickhead,” he stated and when her lips pursed with laughter, he said it again.

“I don’t think anyone ever called him that but it’s an apt description,” she said.

“And you and Dickhead were married thirty-five years, had two sons, and then divorced.”

“That’s about it.”

“Why?”

She looked at him. “He traded me in for a newer model with more stylish features.”

“And you went back to using your maiden name?”

“Yeppers,” she said and filled in another answer on the page.

Rory looked across the way at the high-rises. “He hurt you.”

“He hurt me,” she agreed, “and I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Was he a good lover?”

She sighed so deeply her shoulders dropped. “No, Boss Man, he was not a good lover. Adequate at times, but if I enjoyed it, fine. If not, well, too bad. Maybe next time, babe.”

“I’m an excellent lover,” he stated, tapping the magazine lying in his lap. “Generous of my time and sharing of my energy, completely giving and not content until my partner is thoroughly satisfied. I may well be the Energizer Bunny come to life.”

“So I read,” she said, not looking at him.

“Aye, well I never touched that conniving bimbo on or off the set,” he said of the co-star he’d had in the mystery/thriller he’d made just before Angela came to work for him. “I ought to sue her wide-load ass for libel.”

“So you didn’t pull her into the back of your agent’s car and bang her until her eyes crossed?” she inquired.

“Hardly,” he said with a snort.

“Makes good copy, though,” she commented. “And adds to your legend.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone other than you in over a year,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “You fell asleep in my lap once.”

“Yeah and look where that got me,” he said as he lowered his feet from the balcony rail. “Almost got me alone again.”

She watched him go back inside the apartment and gave up on the crossword puzzle, tossing it to the chair he’d vacated before sliding her feet into her sandals and going inside to see what he was up to.

“Don’t you be raiding that icebox, Keith,” she said. “Lunch is almost ready.”

He had the refrigerator door open and was just standing there looking in it.

“And shut the door. You’re wasting electricity.”

“Nag, nag, nag,” he said but shut the door. “I’m hungry, Granny.”

He’d taken to calling her that and it had become her nickname among his family and friends--except for Bobby who called her Warden.

She went to the stove and lifted the lid on the soup that was slowly bubbling away on the burner. “Sit down, then.”

He hooked a leg over the stool and plopped down just as the phone rang. When Angela picked up the cell phone and saw who was calling, he watched her face turn hard.

“I’m gonna change my number,” he grumbled.

“Keith residence,” Angela said when she answered.

“He’s not in at the moment. May I take a message?”

He propped his chin on the heel of his hand and stared at her.

“I’ll see he gets the message, Miss LeVane.”

Rory groaned and crinkled his nose, crossing his eyes as Angela glanced at him.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be sure to tell him. Goodbye.”

“She doesn’t give up, does she?” he asked in a disgusted tone when Angela hung up.

“If you didn’t want her calling you, you shouldn’t have given her your number,” Angela reminded him.

“I’m gonna change it.”

She ladled up a bowl of baked potato soup for him, sliced him some French bread, and then poured a large glass of sweetened tea.

“You’re not eating?” he asked.

“I’m going to the airport, remember?” she asked. “I’ll get something on the way.”

“Where’s she gonna be staying?” he asked before slurping his soup.

“At the Etesian,” she answered. “I probably won’t be back until late so you’re gonna have to make do with samitches for supper.”

“I may go out,” he said.

She knew he hated eating alone. “Call Bobby.”

“Don’t want to call Bobby,” he muttered.

“Then get out your little black book and call a nice female you can take out to supper,” she suggested.

“There aren’t any nice females in my little black book,” he told her. “They are all grasping, greedy starlets who want to be seen hanging on my arm, showing off their new veneers to the paparotten.”

“Then go online to Harmony.com and find yourself a compatible mate. Settle down, get married and have half a dozen little Keiths,” she responded as she headed for her room.

He made a face at her back then tore off a section of the bread and dropped it into the soup. “I found what I want,” he said under his breath. “But she doesn’t want me.”

“What did you say?” she called out.

“Nothing!” he grumbled.

Half an hour after Angela had left to pick up her friend from the airport Rory sat on the balcony and stewed as he listened to one of Angela’s CDs of Celtic music. He was at a loss to find anything he wanted to do and the thought of spending the day alone depressed him. Cursing when the phone rang, he ignored it, not wanting to talk to anyone except the one person who made him feel completely alive.

Shoving his hands behind his head, he threaded his fingers together and glared up at the ceiling of the balcony, tracing a crack that had appeared over the winter. He made a mental note to tell Angela about it so she could have someone come in and fix it.

“I wish someone could fix me,” he said and closed his eyes as he thought about the long conversation he’d had with his mom in London at Christmas.

* * * *

“She’s a very lovely girl, R.J.,” his mother said, using the name his family called him. “I can’t imagine why she’d not married.”

“She was,” he replied. “He left her.”

“Ah,” his mother said, nodding.

“What does that mean?”

“That explains the shadows in her eyes.”

His mother was sitting in the car with him as he drove her to the market and they were quiet for a moment.

“I’m in love with her.”

“Yes, I know,” his mother responded.

He’d nearly driven off the side of the road, snapping his head toward his mother’s calm face. “How do you know?”

“It explains the hunger in your eyes when you look at her, son.”

“How do I make her see me as a man instead of one of her sons, Ma?” he asked later on that afternoon.

“Her sons are about your age?”

“Actually,” he said, his cheeks warm. “One of them is older than me.”

“Oh,” his mother drawled. “That makes it a bit tougher, now, doesn’t it?”

“Would you date a man younger than you if you and Dad weren’t together?” he asked.

His mother--who had always guided him and his siblings with a firm but gentle and understanding hand--thought about it for a moment.

“If I loved him, I don’t believe it would be an issue, R.J., but different women look at the situation differently. She might not be able to get past the age difference.”

“There are a lot of women married to younger men,” he reminded her. “There is a twelve year difference in age between Sue Sarand and Tom Robbinson, sixteen years between Demi Morris and Ash Kitchen, there were nineteen years between Fran Annison and Calude Fiennes
and twenty-one years between Barbara Hertz and Nave Andrewson. That’s the exact same age difference between me and Angie. What’s wrong with May-December marriages?”

“You’re talking about marriage, is it?” his mother asked.

He’d pulled the car off the side of the road and sat there with his hands gripping the wheel. “I love her. Age doesn’t matter ….”

“Have you noticed she and I could pass for sisters?” his mother inquired and when he’d looked at her with his eyes wide, she’d smiled. “They say a man tends to marry a woman who reminds him of his mum. You could do much worse, R.J.”

He’d buried his face in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

His mother had put a comforting hand to his shoulder. “What’s meant for you will not pass you by. Give her time. Maybe she’ll come to know what you already do.”

* * * *

Thinking back on that exchange, Rory knew nothing had really changed for Angela. She still viewed him as she would a son, although he often caught her looking at him with what he knew was desire. He had not forgotten her wild admission on that fateful day he’d gone off the deep end and drank himself into her bad graces. She forgave him his lapse but he knew--at Bobby’s instigation--she was watching him like a veritable hawk. Another such lapse and he felt sure she’d be gone in a heartbeat. She had no idea it was she who was keeping him from touching the bottle again for fear of losing her.

“Fuck,” he said and got up to go inside.

He wandered around the living area, changed the DVD to something less melancholy, poked around in the refrigerator, looked at the clock at least a dozen times and scowled when time seemed to be trickling by instead of ticking away as it should. He went back out on the balcony and watched the sun set then must have dozed for awhile for he woke to noises inside the apartment and got up to investigate.

Angela was moving around in her bedroom and he sauntered down the short hallway, stopped at the opened door and leaned against the jamb.

“Did you have a good time with your friend?” he asked, happy she was home.

“She’s dying.”

Nothing she could have said could have surprised him more. He pushed away from the jamb and went into the room as she sat down on the edge of her bed and stared at the floor. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked softly.

“Ovarian cancer,” she said. “In the advance stages.”

He winced, knowing that wasn’t good. “How long?”

“She was already dying from it when they diagnosed it,” she told him and reached up to wipe at a tear falling slowly down her cheek. “Two months, they say. Three if she’s lucky.”

He moved to the bed and sat down beside her, reached out to take her hand. He held it on his thigh. “I’m sorry, love,” he said.

“When we were growing up, we talked about taking a trip by train from Halifax to Vancouver. Neither of us has ever been to Canada and we thought it would be a wonderful trip.”

He smiled. “I lived in Canada for awhile. It’s a beautiful country. I did a movie in Calgary.”

“She wants to go now,” she said. “She’s already bought the tickets for us. The train leaves May 2
^nd
.”

“That’s nine days from today,” he said.

She turned to look at him. “I want to go, Rory.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “I need to do this for her. It may be the last chance she gets.”

“How long are you talking about?” he asked.

“The trip is seventeen days but she suggested we drive up along the eastern seaboard and see the six states between here and Halifax,” she said. “We’d leave as soon as we can rent a car tomorrow.”

“You’d be gone nearly a month,” he complained and felt her hand jerk in his. He was selfishly thinking of being without her and that irritated him. He could see the hurt gathering in her face that he would deny her.

“I’ve got vacation time coming, don’t I?” she asked. “I could ….”

“You don’t need vacation time,” he said, looking away from her. “If you want to go, you go.”

Her hand tensed in his. “You mean it?”

“Sure,” he said. “What kind of bastard would I be if I told you that you couldn’t go with a dying friend on such a special journey?”

She stunned him by turning and putting her free arm around him, hugging his neck tightly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you, Boss Man,” she said. “Thank you so much!”

He shrugged, wrapping his arm around her waist and holding her closer than he should have. “I’ll waste away while you’re gone so you’ll probably come back to a find nothing more than a shell of a man, but I guess I can do with losing a few inches ‘round me middle.”

“You’re as buff as a body builder and you know it,” she said and unhooked her hand from his and got up, going to her closet to start packing.

He felt bereft and she hadn’t even left yet. Watching her as she pulled clothes from the rack and brought them over to lie beside him on the mattress, he noticed she wasn’t smiling, that there was no obvious excitement in the way she was methodically removing clothes from the closet.

“I’ll get the itinerary off the Internet and give it to you so you’ll know where we are on any given day,” she told him. “We plan on staying a full day in each of the states to see the sights.”

“It won’t take you an entire day in Rhode Island,” he scoffed. “Maybe an hour or two.”

She half-smiled at his remark. “We want to tour the state capitol buildings.” She glanced at him. “Sharon loves architecture.”

He nodded. “Don’t forget I’ll be in New Mexico most of while you’re gone.”

“And making a pig of yourself on salsa and guacamole,” she declared.

“Not to mention fried plantains,” he mumbled.

It didn’t take her long to pack and when she had the bags at the front door, she cut through the kitchen to put on a pot of water to boil for the spaghetti she was serving him for supper. He was still sitting on her bed, his hands clenched between his thighs. She came to stand beside him, wrapping her arms around the thick column of the foot board column.

“I wish you could go with us,” she said, surprising him.

“I wish I could, too,” he said and when she reached out to run her fingers over his hair, he felt his heart begin to ache.

“I hated you having to chop off your hair,” she said then trailed her fingers down his cheek.

“I’m going for the grunge look so it will be more realistic of a man just getting out of an old west federal prison,” he replied of his upcoming movie role. “Short hair, no lice, I hear.”

“And what is this? Did you forget to shave this morning?”

He scratched his cheek. “To tell the truth, I hate shaving. Most men do”

“Actually, I like it,” she said and stroked his face gently before lowering her hand.

“Hey, you’ll call me every night, okay?” he asked.