by Jolie Moore
Chapter 19
Nari
It wasn’t work calling. The number on the phone was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. A shiver shook my arms and I nearly dropped the phone. Andrew’s number. Not his, but his parents’. Wildly I did an sweep of Lucas’ apartment as if it were possibly bugged.
On the fourth ring, I tapped the green phone shaped button.
“Nari?” The voice was Andrew’s. I nearly fainted from the shock of it. Wild speculation filled my head. Had his death been some wild and crazy mistake? Had they collected the wrong body? I steeled myself against hyperventilation and panic. Was this a guilt-induced hallucination? I put my picture of Minnie back into the secret compartment of my wallet where it should have stayed.
I turned my back against Lucas’ scrutiny and paced toward the kitchen, wishing the apartment had more distinct boundaries. The well laid out open plan wasn’t pretty any more. Instead it exposed me, made me vulnerable. I opened my eyes and gathered my wits. The voice wasn’t Andrew’s. It was the same deep, northeastern self-assured voice of a Clarke brother.
“Simon? It’s Nari.”
“How are you?” he asked. This time I could hear the difference like night and day. Simon’s voice had always been more confident, throatier than his brother’s.
“Good. I guess. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“It’s still hard.” I heard his swift intake of breath through the three thousand mile space between us. “I’m coming to Los Angeles.”
“When?” My question must have been loud or hopeful. Lucas stopped fiddling with his clothes and he looked at me, a question in his eyes. But it wasn’t about who was on the phone, but about the baby. There were too many question marks from Lucas. I turned my attention to repacking my bag and to…Simon. “Did you say you’re coming to L.A? Why? When?”
“I’m landing tomorrow morning. I was hoping we could go out for a late lunch.”
“Give me your flight information. Hold on.” To Lucas, I asked, “Can I have a pen and paper?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening.” Simon’s voice was full of hesitation and apology. That wasn’t at all like him. Instantly, I regretted the distance I’d put between me and the Clarke family when I’d gone away to have the baby.
“No worries. You would never an interruption. I’m so glad that you’re coming to town. Are you working out here?” Simon had done what their dad wanted. Gotten one of those jobs that was about making money, not making anything. Last I’d heard, his company had bought up a bunch of small retail chains. He was probably coming out here to fire some unsuspecting hourly workers.
Mentally chastising myself, I stopped the direction of my thoughts. I was being terribly unfair. Andrew’s youthful idealism may have worn off. I’d have still loved him if he had one of those jobs. My parents may have learned to adore him if he’d had one of those jobs.
“I actually have to go pack,” Simon said, stopping the speeding train of judgment I’d let loose in my brain. “Let’s meet tomorrow. Thanks for picking me up.”
“Anytime,” I said. I put the phone back in my purse in a daze, realizing I’d missed the Clarkes; Andrew and Simon’s effusive mother, their taciturn father, the boys' antics.
“Who was that?”
“Andrew’s brother, Simon. He’s coming to town tomorrow. For lunch. I’ve got to go get ready.”
Chapter 20
Lucas
She ran out of my apartment like her hair was on fire. No explanation on this Simon character. No comment on the fact that she’d had a child. A little girl she’d given away. Nothing. Because despite what she kept saying, one way or another she was running back to Andrew.
I let her go this time. I didn’t ask her back, call her on being a hypocrite or a liar. There was something very wrong in my judgment of women. Maybe because the first two women in my life hadn’t been up front with me, my compass pointed in the wrong direction. There had to be women out there who didn’t say one thing, but mean something entirely different.
Undressing, I left a trail of clothes in my wake. I’d never had much in the way of traditional faith. But maybe there was something to the idea of reincarnation. What in the hell had I done to have two women in my life who gave up babies without a second thought?
Regret. I’d wanted a lot more of it from Laura that afternoon. How could a mother let something as trivial as a crappy adult male-female relationship get between her and the child in her womb? I didn’t have any children, but couldn’t imagine a more unshakeable bond. But I’d watched two women talking about pushing a baby out and handing it away as if it were no more difficult than giving clothes to Goodwill. There wasn’t a single sappy Lifetime Channel, Hallmark moment between them.
Naked, I stood before my open closet. Reaching into the back, I pulled out the gift Brooke had given me last Christmas. My sister’s infectious laugh had filled the room when she’d handed over the box.
“For your new L.A. lifestyle,” she’d said, barely keeping our mother’s hazelnut coffee from snorting through her nose. If I’d been less jet-lagged, I’d have taken her outside for a snowball fight and shown her what’s what. But I’d played the mature oldest brother and had taken the box without comment.
Inside was an outfit worthy of the upstairs neighbor Larry in old reruns of Three’s Company—minus the gold chains. I’d laughed good-naturedly along with my brother and parents. On my return to L.A., I’d quickly stashed the outfit in the back of my closet, planning to donate it the next time the Mission called to let me know their truck was in the neighborhood. But I’d never let it go. Maybe I could put it to good use.
To hell with it. I was single, successful, reasonably attractive. I pulled the shiny midnight blue shirt from its hanger, snipping the tags with cuticle scissors from my dresser. The pants were skinnier than I was used to. But maybe that’s what guys who went clubbing in Hollywood wore. Gossip magazine hound that Brook was, she’d know that better than me.
I pulled some tighty whities from the back of my drawer. I wasn’t going to try to stuff my very comfortable, medically sound seersucker boxers into those pants. One shave and twenty minutes later, I practically had to wolf whistle at myself. Not bad at all.
I took the lime green Subaru—not going to get any cooler instantaneously—over to Sunset and drove down the electronic billboard-illuminated street under twenty miles per hour, studiously looking away from the no cruising signs. When I saw a club that looked loud enough and dark enough to chase my Nari blues away, I pulled over and gave The Green Machine to the reluctant valet who looked crestfallen that the other vest guy got to park the new Tesla. Despite the uncoolness factor of my car, he happily took twenty of my hard-earned dollars to park five feet away from the front door.
Though my clothes were better than the car, the bouncer wasn’t keen on letting me in the club. I’d forgotten this part. The sacred velvet rope.
When I’d been with other medical residents letting off steam in SoHo or Tribeca, the wait had been part of the fun. Now I felt old and awkward. Five seconds from taking myself back downtown and chalking this up to the worst idea ever, a gaggle of three twenty-something girls grabbed me by the elbows.
“We’re Heidi, Lori, and Marci,” the blondest and toothiest of the group announced. “I got a part on Two Broke Girls and we’re celebrating!”
On that exclamation point, I was swooped into the inner sanctum, past the velvet rope and to a tiny table for four. One of the “i” girls clicked her fingers and a waiter appeared at the table in an instant. I didn’t hear a thing over the music, but Grey Goose and mixers arrived.
“Bottle service okay?” the actress asked.
I shrugged. What the hell? I was along for the ride.
They poured four shots, toasted to booking the role, and drank. Not to be left behind, I threw back the concoction they’d called the cranberry kamikaze.
By the time the girls got up to dance, I knew who was
who. Heidi was the actress. Marci was a casting assistant, and Lori worked in the mailroom of some talent agency, if I’d heard the acronym right.
Eight years of college had well shielded me from dark rooms and pounding bass. But I’d also missed out on gyrating flesh on display, apparently. It was a sight to behold. Thousands of hot girls were within spitting distance of my apartment and I was twisting myself into knots over Nari.
When they came back, we all did something called Bomb Pops. It was red white and blue like those popsicles from my childhood and about as sweet. But when Marci parked herself on my lap, and leaned in for a little lip action, sweet was good.
They dipped the next round of glasses in cake sprinkles and we all toasted and downed something called a cake pop. There was a lot of vodka and little cake in the drink. Marci had straddled my hips by then and had turned the full force of her charms on me.
I put the empty glass on the ledge behind me and focused in on two of her charms. She looped her arms around my neck and leaned in for a kiss. Her friends hooted when she opened and our tongues met. I moved my hands from her shoulders to the huge breasts nearly spilling from her powder blue tank. Damn. She felt nice and soft and free of emotional baggage.
The other girls went back to the dance floor, and Marci pulled me upstairs to a private VIP booth. She yanked the curtain around the white leather couch and lifted her tank over her head. Whoa baby. Holy mother of God. Where in the hell had women like this been during my horny teens?
“Go ahead, touch me. I know you want to,” Marci invited.
“I’m kind of involved with someone,” I heard my truth serum-vodka filled self blurt out.
“She’s not here. I am.” Marci leaned close, her nipple nearly brushing my lips. “I won't tell.”
“Excuse me. I gotta go,” I said and shoved my way from the VIP area to the first men’s room I could find. Those very sweet girly shots hadn’t seemed all that potent, but my head was swimming.
I tried to piss away some of the alcohol, and got a glass of water from a sympathetic bartender before making my way back to the table we’d shared downstairs. The girls were nowhere to be seen, but the tab was there.
Eight hundred dollars plus gratuity was what this moment of stupidity was going to cost me.
“Your friends said thanks for the drinks. They headed out to celebrate.”
Ouch. Made the fifty-dollar cover charge seem cheap. I handed over the plastic and signed away a chunk of my savings. I wasn’t Nari. Trying to act like her wasn’t my speed. I wasn’t some douchy guy who had sex with girls in the back of nightclubs.
The staff eyed my table and all but said it was time for me to move on. They had more idiots willing to toss their money at overpriced vodka and blond twenty-somethings.
The valet handed me my keys, but I pocketed them. There was no way I should get in that car and drive downtown. I didn’t want to add death to my night of irresponsibility and stupidity. So I walked further down Sunset and dialed the last number I’d called, Nari.
Thirty minutes later, she pulled up to the bank across the street from the club.
“Even your sweats are designer,” I said into the cab of the Range Rover.
“Thanks for calling me,” she said, her face as serious as if she were giving a cancer diagnosis. “No matter what happened between us, I wouldn’t want to lose you to a drunk driver.”
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any shittier. I pushed the button down, opening the window. I needed fresh air to ease the nausea in my stomach. Vomiting in Nari’s very expensive looking chrome and leather and wood filled car would be the last straw.
When Nari pulled up to her building, I spoke up. “Why aren’t you taking me home?”
“Look. I don’t have time to drive you downtown, then pick you up in the morning to rescue your car from where in the hell ever it ends up.” Nari looked pointedly at the car clock, twelve-thirty am pulsed from the LED readout searing my eyeballs. It was like I already had a hangover before the morning sun. “I have to go to the airport tomorrow.”
Not able to argue with her reasoning, I followed her upstairs. “I’m going to bed. You can sleep off what in the hell ever you drank and figure it out in the morning.”
I didn’t hear anything else she had to say, because I had to run to her guest bathroom and puke up the rainbow of alcohol shots I’d taken in. Probably should have eaten something more than a slice of apple cheddar tart before I went out. Probably shouldn’t have thrown down all the silly colored alcohol.
Nari’s bedroom door was firmly closed when I rinsed out my mouth and pulled myself together, so I pulled off my shiny club clothes, tossed them into her empty washer. The door to the second bedroom was locked tight as well, so I positioned myself on her couch. I was out cold before I could think about what a mess I’d made of the day.
Chapter 21
Nari
I wasn’t stupid enough to wake the beast on my couch. Mortified by what I’d shared yesterday, I tiptoed out of my apartment. Hopefully Lucas would have the good sense to find himself a cab and lock the door on his way out.
Putting off any conversation with him until we were safely in the confines of the clinic was at the top of my priority list.
Once out the door and down to the garage, I climbed into my big SUV and sat for a moment before starting the ignition.
Simon. It had been how many years since I’d seen him? I ticked back on my fingers. Maybe three, four. He’d headed up the liquidation and bankruptcy of a discount housewares chain with a zillion stores in California. We’d had an awkward dinner where we talked about everything but Andrew. Didn’t make for a lot of conversation.
After starting the car, I pulled out of the garage. The roads to the airport were empty on Sunday morning. Los Angeles wasn’t a city of churchgoers. All the club hopping people, like Lucas, were doing the same as him, probably, recovering on someone else’s couch.
I pulled over to a coffee shop on Sepulveda when my phone dinged. Simon had texted. He had landed. I looked down at my clothes. Sleeveless off-white silk top, beige linen pants. I hoped this was okay, that the cashmere sweater wasn’t overkill. There wasn’t time to make an emergency trip to the mall.
Flipping down the mirror, I gave myself a final once over. Which fashion guru was it who’d said pick the accessory that stood out the most and ditch it? The pendant was too much, so I unclasped it and stuffed it far into the recesses of my bag. With pearl studs, I felt simple, understated, the kind of woman I’d have become if I’d stayed in the Clarke family.
The Indy 500-like roadway around the airline terminals kept my mind off the reason I’d never be in the bosom of the Clarke family. On my second go-round, I finally saw him waving like a demon. Simon’s hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen him. I guess he’d outgrown the longish mane he and Andrew both sported during their late adolescence.
I popped the locks and swallowed the lump in my throat. In so many ways, he reminded me of Andrew. The same big knuckled hands. The same eyes. Blinking more rapidly than usual, I looked away. Needed to focus on getting out of the terminal’s traffic spiral and on to Sepulveda.
“Where are you staying?” I asked. It was easier than hello.
“Checking into the Fairmont. Thought we could have Afternoon Tea. I remember you liked that.”
I fiddled with the navigation, zooming in on the map, though I knew exactly where I was going. I changed the temperature to maximize Simon’s comfort. I opened the sunroof.
“Weather’s great today.” It must have been the wind coming in that was making me tear up. I leaned closer to the wheel, cutting my brother-in-law out of my periphery and focused on getting us there in one piece.
While Simon checked in, I found us a table on the restaurant’s outdoor deck. I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d already made a reservation. The Clarkes had been amazingly thoughtful about formalities like that.
“They brought sandwiches, scones, and water. I hop
e that’s okay…I didn’t order tea yet. I didn’t know what you’d want,” I said when Simon wove his way to the table.
As if hearing what I’d said, the server materialized at the table.
“Nari?” Simon asked in a voice so much like Andrew’s, I wanted to get up and walk away from the memories flooding through me. But I kept my butt firmly planted like the mature adult I’d grown to be. I wasn’t a clueless twenty anymore.
“I’ll have the chrysanthemum,” I said. Maybe the tight bud blooming in the clear pot would keep me from staring too hard in the face of a man who embodied the past I was constantly trying to forget.
“Earl Grey.”
The Clarke brothers were the only men I knew who could order tea or wine and make it appear utterly masculine. I’d never been attracted to Simon. Nevertheless, I wanted to lean forward and caress the hint of stubble on his cheek, or lean into the shoulder that I knew would fit my head like Andrew’s had. Even the faint smell wafting across the table reminded me of my deceased husband. Though logically I knew it was only because they probably favored the same brand of soap, it still made every fiber of my being want to reach out to his.
“Are you seeing someone?” Simon asked, turning his whole body and attention toward me, eroding my resistance.
The sandwich I’d pulled from the tiered tray fell from my hand, making an indelicate salmon and cream cheese splat on the table cloth. Deftly, Simon rescued it and placed it on my plate.
“It’s okay, you know. We’re not expecting you to live like a nun.” The gentle permissiveness in his demeanor only amplified the guilt.
“It’s not really working out anyway. I think …”
“Why not?”
“It’s stupid. It’s a guy from work. A doctor. Lucas. He’s in the middle of reuniting with his birth mom. That kind of thing doesn’t leave much space for a relationship.” I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about the bundle of bad decisions that was Lucas.
