Later, we lie on the floor, tangled in each other’s arms, clothing in tatters at our feet, and gaze at the shimmering chandelier above us. His chest rumbles beneath me. I lift my head, and peer down at his face.
He grins, eyes closed, and pulls me tight.
“We don’t really need a bed,” he whispers, holding me against him.
Epilogue
It’s not the first time Angelo has been to the East Coast, but it’s one of the few times he’s been up north. He looks at the Porsche in David’s driveway, irritated that the rental agency didn’t have the Mercedes Benz he had told his assistant to arrange for him. The coffee is hot in the cup and he’s leaning against the counter because David Jacobs, world famous actor and number one client, hasn’t bothered to buy any furniture
Angelo takes a sip and sets the mug down. It’s an ugly thing, the shape twisted into odd angles so you can’t even fill it all the way. The pottery looks like it’s made with sparkles and he wonders if any of this clay-glitter may have gotten into his drink.
“Did you want something to eat?” Jane, the woman for whom David left everything, enters the kitchen.
She’s pretty, certainly. Brown hair in waves, deep chocolate eyes, and a soft, full body that would catch any man’s attention. So unlike what he’s used to in Hollywood.
Friendly too. Meeting him downtown when he called David, lost in the woods on the way to town.
And smart, obviously. An actual professor. Publishes books and everything.
And welcoming. No judgements or pressure. No assumptions about agents or Hollywood.
Angelo shakes his head, taking another sip from the hideous glitter mug.
David enters the room, unshaven and shaggy-haired. Angelo makes a mental note to convince him to get a haircut. His friend smiles at him, those movie star good looks, but there’s something different now. Angelo can’t put his finger on it, but there is a definite change. He sees it when he watches the two of them together. When David peers down at Jane, the softness in his face, the light behind his eyes. He sees it when she smiles at him, passing him a paper, or mentioning that he’s working on a screenplay and she knows it’s brilliant. A screenplay about love, for Christ’s sake. Angelo wonders how he’s ever going to see that.
But whatever the change is, Angelo sees it. He even sees it when Jane bends over to pick something up and David’s eyes wander across her ass, a combination of lust and love and heat and hope passing over his face.
His friend has it bad.
Angelo takes another sip, shaking his head. He can’t relate to these feelings, can’t understand any of them. His job, as David’s agent and David’s friend, is to help him with his career. To guide him through his choices as an actor and, if he does indeed feel like changing things up, a writer or a director.
“Alright, fellas,” Jane smiles, those brown eyes twinkling and, for just a moment, Angelo can understand why David made the choice he did. “I’m off to campus, but I’ll be back by five.” She winks at Angelo. He mutters goodbye, but watches with morbid fascination as she presses a hand lightly to David’s chest. He catches it, bringing it to his lips and kisses her fingertips. He leans down, whispering something in her ear that creates a similar look of heat and longing in her eyes.
Angelo averts his gaze and takes another sip of coffee.
The front door closes, and Angelo looks at his friend.
He is so goddamn happy.
“So, is it worth it?” Angelo can’t help but ask, setting the weird mug with too much force on the kitchen counter.
“What?” David glances at him, pouring coffee into his own misshapen cup.
God, Angelo thinks, eyes on the other lump of clay. There are two of them.
“Giving everything up,” he gestures around him, “for this?”
David takes a sip and grins. He nods.
“Really?” Angelo stands up straight. “Seriously, dude, you don’t even have furniture.”
David shrugs, one hip resting on the kitchen counter. “It’s on order.”
Angelo looks around, a part of him irritated, disgusted even, that his friend would choose this bohemian life, out in the sticks, over what he had worked for two decades to achieve.
Another part of him, smaller but firm and resolute, is intrigued, even jealous.
“You want to see the town?”
Angelo shrugs. He’s irritated now. Irritated at David’s happiness. Irritated at his own unhappiness, a subject he never discusses with anyone, least of all himself.
David sets down his mug, “Ok, but we can’t leave before ten.”
“What happens at ten?”
“Penelope’s coming to drop off more dishes.”
Angelo glances down at the glitter lump containing his coffee. “You’re replacing these, I hope.”
David laughs and shakes his head. “No man, she’s bringing the rest of the set.” He takes another swig and sets his mug next to Angelo’s. “I’m going to have a shower, but I’ll be down in twenty.”
He walks towards the doorway, pauses and turns. “You know, your question is all wrong.”
Angelo looks up. “What?”
“You asked if it was worth it, giving everything up.” David smiles, his gaze lingering on the door where, a few minutes earlier, Jane had walked out. He turns back, face fucking radiant and Angelo cannot believe he’d ever see the day when his friend was so in love.
“I didn’t give up anything, Ange,” David grins, happier than Angelo has ever seen him, “but I sure got everything.” He laughs, practically giggles, and leaves the room.
“For Christ’s sake,” Angelo mutters, pushing the two offending mugs away from him. He shakes his head. Love looks good on David. And Jane seems alright. It’s not the worst thing.
He wanders out of the kitchen and into that Disney library in the back of the house. The chandelier hangs above him, books surrounding him. He feels a moment of panic, thinking back to when he was young and teachers yelled at him for struggling with reading.
Fuck love, he thinks.
Fuck libraries.
Fuck romance.
Fuck those goddamn glitter mugs.
And fuck Penelope. Whoever she is, some ancient old hippy forcing his friend to buy tacky crap.
Angelo shakes his head and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him and moving away from all those books and the memories they stir up.
Love isn’t for everyone.
Certainly not for people with his childhood. His background.
For some people, love just doesn’t work.
And for some, he thinks to himself, it’s not allowed.
**Thank You**
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Keep reading for an excerpt of the next love story from Midnight, Maine:
Pride and Penelope, Around Midnight Book 2
Coming August 31st, 2020!
Pride and Penelope
Around Midnight, Book 2
Anna
Wellschlager
Available for Pre-Order on Kindle
Coming August 31st, 2020
Angelo
Hippy.
That’s the first word that comes to mind.
I’m standing at David’s counter, staring at two mismatched clay mugs, both lumpy piles of…more lumps, with sparkles, and the doorbell rings, but before I can even answer it, she walks in.
Woman doesn’t even knock.
Who is this chick?
“Oh, hi!” She’s friendly at least. “You must be Angelo. Jane told me you were flying in.” She walks straight in, a giant box of something in her arms. Sets it down on the counter like she owns the place, and sticks out a hand covered in…paint? Clay? I don’t look too closely. It could be mud.<
br />
“Hello,” I extend my hand. Begrudgingly.
“I’m Penelope,” she shakes my hand, her grip warm and skin soft, despite the mud.
She’s cute, in a backwoods sort of way. Wild hair, dirty overalls, and…bare feet. There’s a smudge of something on her cheek. I have a feeling its clay. I glance down at the mugs in front of me.
So, she’s the one responsible for you poor bastards, hmm?
“Did you walk here?” I can’t help but ask, staring at her feet. Each toenail is a different color.
She grins and shakes her head. Her teeth are slightly uneven, a small gap between the front two. Dimples appear on each cheek.
“Did you drive barefoot?” God. The last time a woman drove barefoot I had to spend three hours on the phone contacting lawyers to get her out of jail and off the cover of US Weekly.
Damn celebrities. More money than sense.
She nods. “Yeah. Ran into Jane on the road. She says you’re staying for a while?”
I nod.
“That’s so great! Midnight is a lovely town, and you’re here just for the end of summer. It’s a nice season. Tourists aren’t in yet, but weather’s still good. I bet you’ll catch a few hot days, if you want to go swimming.”
Chatty hippy.
“I don’t swim.”
“Oh,” her smile dims a few watts. “Well, we’ve got great farmer’s markets and some lovely galleries and restaurants downtown. David’s new, but he’s found a few places he seems to like. Maybe he can show you around.”
“I’m here for work.”
Her smile dims a bit more, but it’s still there. Warm and welcoming.
Jesus, can’t this woman take a hint?
There’s a moment of silence. I’m about to turn, maybe walk back towards the giant Disney library David built as a sign of his love and wait for her to leave, but she reaches forward, patting my hand.
I glance down. I can’t remember the last time someone has casually touched me. Or touched me without specific invitation.
Word is, I’m intimidating.
Whatever that means.
“So, you’re his agent?” She asks me, hand warm on mind, still interested in conversation
I nod.
She stays in front of me, eyes open and curious.
I pull my hand back, and pick up the hideous mug in front of me. I take a sip and realize I’m drinking from the mug that David poured for himself.
Great. One day in this bumblefuck place and I’ve already lost any sense of boundaries.
I pull a tissue from my pocket and wipe my mouth.
“I’m glad you like the cups,” she smiles again, wider this time.
“I don’t.”
Her eyebrows go up, eyes darting between the mugs on the counter and my face.
“Is something wrong with them?”
I pause, tempted to tell her the truth. Yes, something is wrong with them. They’re fucking ugly. But that would be rude and I am, for the moment, a guest.
I may be intimidating, but I’m not cruel.
“They’re not my style,” I grind out, feeling like I’m under a spotlight, forced to lie to an inquisitor.
“Oh, that’s too bad. Jane loves them. I hope David does too, but…” she rolls her eyes, “he’s so in love, I don’t think it matters.”
She smiles again, brighter, and reaches for the box on the counter. The cardboard is faded, various notes and addresses have been written across it, crossed over, and written again. Faded stamps and a few stickers decorate the weathered sides.
She reuses her boxes to deliver gifts. Classy.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” I mutter. Her eyes light up and I instantly regret my comment.
“See about what?” She asks, eyes curious.
I’m irritated. I’m jet lagged. I’m tired. I realize I’ll be sleeping on the floor, now that my multi-million dollar client has decided to not only associate with hippies but become one, and decided against furniture. And now this woman, who would be attractive if she didn’t look like she just rolled off Haight Ashbury Street, is talking about love and romance. My least favorite topics.
“We’ll see about them,” I say, casually, but I know it’s not casual. It’s a shitty thing to say. David would punch me if he heard me say it. Well, he’d want to punch me at least. He’s probably become a pacifist in the few months I left him to his own devices, let him fly across the country, land in Maine, and get swooped up by a professor and her coven of women.
Penelope continues to look at me. I’m anticipating an outburst, probably swearing. Maybe a slap. But she just looks at me, curious. As if I have said or done something she has never seen or heard before.
Apparently, in Midnight, Maine, there are no cynics.
In Midnight, Maine, everyone believes in love.
I don’t know why, but this thought makes me even more irritable.
I glance over her shoulders. Where the hell is David?
She shrugs, and turns her eyes to the box. One by one, a collection of lumps appear before me, each wrapped in newspaper. My morbid curiosity gets the best of me and I don’t look away.
When the box is empty, she moves it to the floor and begins to unwrap the lumps, dropping the newspaper into the box.
More hideous mugs, each one more sparkly and lopsided than the rest, appear before me. A bowl of sorts, barely tall enough to contain liquid. Something tall and thin and phallic shaped.
“So, you must be a big fan of the Saviors of Space franchise,” she says, eyes on me again, that mega-watt smile in full place on her face. The dimples are cute, I have to admit. As are the smattering of freckles across her nose. Combined with the slight gap in her teeth, she reminds me of a post-pubescent Raggedy Ann doll.
She leans over, unwrapping another lumpy disaster, this one, I think, aspiring to be a teapot, but with a half-formed handle and a lid that seems two sizes too small.
She’s looking at me again. I assume wanting an answer to her question.
“Sure.”
Eyebrows up. Another smile. She finishes her unwrapping and the counter is covered in a collection of these deformed creatures. They look like the leftovers of a nuclear plant’s explosion. A tea party in Chernobyl.
I hear David’s footsteps coming down the stairs and look over Penelope’s shoulder to him.
“Hey, Davey!” The woman smiles widely, offers a sisterly pat on his chest as he gives her a side hug.
“Wow,” he looks down at the collection of ugly shit on his counter. “These are great! Did you finish them this weekend?”
She nods, picking up the demented teapot. I half expect it to turn to me and beg me to put it out of its misery.
“This is Charlene.”
Of course. Of course this woman names her pottery.
David nods, reaching for Charlene. “She’s gorgeous.”
“Right?” She grins. “She belongs with the others- Frank, Liz, Biff, and Oswald.” She points to each of the lumpy mugs.
“No David?” He asks, still smiling at Charlene.
She picks up the phallus. “This is David.” She reaches for the not-quite bowl. “And this is Jane.”
He nods. “I love them both.”
“I knew you would.”
“The handle’s broken,” I mention. Wondering if I am the only person with accurate vision in this kitchen.
“David and Jane don’t have handles,” she looks me patiently, as though explaining basic math to a child.
“I mean the…big one,” I point to the tea pot. “Shouldn’t that have a handle.”
“Why don’t David and Jane get handles?” David asks, reaching past me for his coffee cup, Oswald, I think. I’m tempted to tell him I drank from it, but judging from his bare feet, unkempt hair and still unshaven face, I doubt he would care.
God. What is this place? Midnight? Or Woodstock?
She turns to him, placing both hands on either side of his face and peering deeply into his eyes. “Beca
use both you and Jane are autonomous, independent beings. No one carries you, because neither of you needs to be carried.”
David grins, pats her hands, and turns to me. “Did you hear that, Angelo? No one carries me.”
I nod. “Great.”
“Charlene has a handle,” she picks up the teapot. “It’s only partial.”
“Why?” I don’t know why I am engaging with this lunatic.
“Because it’s art.”
I stop. I look at David. He raises an eyebrow, a smile on his lips as he takes a sip of coffee. That ugly fucking mug practically winks at me in the light of kitchen.
“Don’t you like art, Angelo?”
“This…isn’t my kind of art.” I mutter, wondering how long I have to stand in this kitchen, talking to this nut job.
“Oh, not your taste?” She tilts her head to one side.
I shake my head.
“What kind of art do you like?”
David moves away, walking towards the fridge and opening it. My eyes follow him and I’m jealous of his exit.
“What kind of art do you like, Angelo?” She asks me again. Her eyes are focused on my face, watching my movements.
“I don’t…” I stop. Again. There’s no point in carrying on this conversation.
“You don’t like art?” She asks, “But your career is working with artists.”
“I represent them,” I shrug irritably. “I don’t work with them.”
“Oh, come on dude,” David calls to me from the fridge. “We are peas in a pod.”
I roll my eyes.
She looks between the two of us.
“Angelo was the one who encouraged me to do Saviors of Space.” David walks back towards us, a bowl of berries in his hand. He offers the bowl to Penelope, she takes a handful and pops them all in her mouth at once.
Jane Air Page 22
