by L A Pepper
He leaned against the archway in the foyer, a muscle leaping in his jaw. I wanted to put my fingers there. “She’s not the most beautiful woman in the world.” He stared at me.
“You should think your wife was the most beautiful woman in the world, James. Even if she wasn’t voted so by millions of people. Shame on you.”
“Shame on her.” He spat out, angry. “She’s a terrible person. We have nothing in common I and I was a fool for marrying her.”
“James,” I scolded.
“I signed the divorce papers right before leaving LA and coming to New York. It’s why I left. I signed a contract not to reveal our breakup until after she’s done with her movie release. It’s why I didn’t tell you. You can ask Bette. She knows the whole saga. She’s the only one who does. She and I have a tendency to share when our lives are falling apart. I offer her a brownstone, she offers me sympathy when the entire world believes the story my wife— my ex-wife is spewing.”
“But you’re telling me now? Isn’t that convenient for you? Do you expect you’re going to get laid or something?”
“No, it’s not fucking convenient at all. I just wanted to get away from her and LA and women entirely and I walked in on you dancing with a couple of weird looking giant dogs in my house. This is not convenient. Because you’re right. I really like you. And I haven’t liked a woman this much in a long time. You are not convenient.”
This was so bad. So bad. I was feeling the urge to touch him again. I couldn’t stop my body from wanting him and I thought he could tell. “They’re not weird looking,” I said, which had nothing to do with what he’d just told me, but what he told me was peeling back the shell of my heart and leaving me open. “They’re afghan hounds. They’re beautiful dogs.” My voice tapered off into a whisper.
He sighed heavily. “You make me feel alive again.”
“I don’t understand.” I did understand. This was terrible. I felt the same.
All of a sudden, he took two steps forward, and he was standing right in front of me, so close I could feel his body heat without him even touching me. I sucked in a breath and held it.
He put two fingers to my chin and lifted it so that I would look at him. In the shadows of the foyer, his eyes were deep blue, midnight blue like the endless expanse of space and I thought I would get lost. “I want to feel alive again,” he said.
I did too. Parts of my body I hadn’t felt in years were stirring. Parts of my soul I had forgotten were stretching and rolling through me. “James, you don’t know what my life has been like.”
“Tell me, then. I want to know. I’ll tell you about me. You tell me about you.”
“This is so bad, James. You’re married.”
“I’m not. Not anymore.”
“The world doesn’t know that.”
“I don’t care what the world thinks of me. Do you think I could be me and care?”
“I care. And I care that you’re using me as a rebound. Just someone to get over your wife with. You just got divorced,” I was taking him at his word. He might have been a jerk, but he’d always been honest with me. Too honest, which is why he’d sometimes been so insulting. “So that means, you’re still reeling from it.”
He nodded. “I get it,” he said, and let go of my chin. “You’re right. You deserve more.”
I was shocked at how sad I was that he was giving up so easily. “So I should leave.”
He grinned. “No. You should stay and have dinner with me. I ordered way too much food. I was so excited to be home again that I ordered half the menu from my favorite restaurant.”
“But you said--”
“I said you deserve more. Like some dinner and conversation and sangria.” The smile!
My heart flipped over in my chest like a trout on dry land. He held out a hand, and I took it against my better judgment but didn’t move to follow him. “Sangria?” As if it were the sangria that was luring me to stay and not his smile, his eyes, that lock of hair that kept falling into his face or the memories of the boy who had never looked at me the way he was looking at me now.
Maybe I deserved to have this good thing— just dinner, this one good thing, just this evening— because it had been years since I felt like I deserved a good thing.
“Sangria and tapas. I’ve already set it up in the garden. Have you ever had dinner out there? On a nice night like tonight, it’s like magic.”
The truth was, I knew dinner in the Silver garden was like magic. I used to climb up on the roof of my tiny house so I could see over the wall and watch as his parents hosted intimate gatherings there. They set lanterns to shimmer. They used crystal, and I knew because I remembered hearing the chiming as they toasted. The scent of the garden would rise over the city, into the night, up to where I was and I could imagine sitting in the garden with them. But no. I had never had dinner out there. I’d eaten with Bette, but always casual, with the dogs, maybe while watching tv, maybe while she told me about her awful parents and I told her about my awful ex-husband. It was never romantic in the garden.
Once, when I was seventeen and so in love with the unreachable eighteen-year-old James that I felt like I was dying all the time, I was up on the roof reading when he’d taken a girl out there. He’d given her illicit champagne. I heard the pop of the cork and her laughter. He’d danced with her and kissed her, and they lay on the lounge chair together.
And I’d imagined being that girl.
I’d left the roof before I could witness them doing more than kissing because it would have broken my poor stupid heart. But now he was inviting me, and we’d both had our hearts broken. We knew what life and love was like.
What if I wanted to put my heart out there a little, to enjoy something beautiful with someone I’d always wanted but never thought I could have? What if?
“Okay, Dinner,” I said, agreeing to what he offered but knew it wouldn’t take much for me to agree to take more.
He led me through the familiar lower level of the brownstone, it’s impeccable decorating something I’d gotten used to being around, just perfection as usual for this family. The fine art on the walls and architectural details like moldings and archways offset the raw brick wall and industrial appliances. It was a home that said, “we have taste, but we’re down to earth.” I wondered if this house had been like this before his parents died or it was James’ taste now. I’d never been invited into this house when his parents were alive. But was this really his house? Had he taken it for his own and made it his? It felt like him, like who he was inside, not just as a public figure, but his private identity. I didn’t know why, but it bothered me that I didn’t know who James was outside of his reputation. Had I ever known?
I followed him silently, and we stepped through the French doors onto the slate patio and I lost my breath.
It WAS magic.
The sky was not quite dark, almost purple, and it cast the lush, rustling foliage into deep mystery. Set amongst the branches were tiny white lights, punctuated here and there with gently swaying lanterns in soft lemonade colors. The patio table was set with a pitcher of deep red sangria and lit with candles. An array of jewel-toned platters were spread across it and filled with tempting dishes.
My heart fluttered. It was so romantic. James Silver was romancing me. ME. I could hardly believe this was my life I was living. This wasn’t the life I’d led lately. I was living in my parents’ dumpy house and walking dogs, for god’s sake. I’d taken my tiny retirement package at 28, although I knew it was a stupid decision, just so I could have something to live on while I tried to get my life back together. And here was James Silver pulling out all the romantic stops. For me.
“I’m not dressed for this.”
He chuckled throatily and it shouldn’t have been so sexy but it set a trembling low in my body. “You look beautiful.”
I looked down at my ratty tank top, cut-off jeans and flip flops. “You’re a liar.”
The sound he made low in his throat pulled
my eyes back to his. “No. You’re stunning.” He tucked a lock of my hair back behind my ear. “I am stunned.”
He cleared his throat and stepped back, pulling my chair out for me. “Would you like a seat, Hannah? Just friends, I said. Remember?”
“Mmm,” I agreed. Semi agreed. He poured sangria into a round goblet and pinched a flower onto the rim of it. “That’s such a friendly garnish, James.” I wrinkled my nose at him.
He winked back and then sat down, not across the table from me, but right next to me, so that he would be within arms reach. He looked at me and grinned, “Do you like Spanish food?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, I don’t think I’ve had it, but it looks delicious.”
“Well then let me treat you.” He served me from the platter. “This is esparagos con romesco--”
“Asparagus.”
“Mmm,” he agreed. “And here are patatas bravas.”
“Potatoes.”
“Do you want to do this?”
“I could. I can serve myself. I’ve been known to scoop food out of dishes on my own.”
“Ah, but then I couldn’t impress you with my knowledge of cuisine and my perfect Spanish accent.”
I bit my lip. “Are you trying to impress me?”
“Is it working?” I nodded. “Good. This is my favorite. Gambas de palamos.”
He put giant red things on my plate. Not lobster. Not shrimp. “What is that?!” I screeched. “I mean. What is that?” This time in a normal tone of voice.
“Prawns. We get to peel them. They’re terribly messy. I can’t wait.”
I had to laugh. “You’re crazy. None of this makes any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t, but for some reason, it feels right anyway.”
I didn’t answer, but I agreed. He continued to serve me, impressing me with the way he rolled his ‘r’s, and then we ate and talked and the sangria made me feel more relaxed than I should have let myself feel. “Tell me about her. Brigitte. Your wife.”
He instantly tensed. “You’ve read all about her in the magazines. She’s everywhere.”
“No. That’s not what I meant. I don’t care about her.”
“You don’t? Everyone else does.”
“I don’t. I meant your relationship. Your divorce. It just ended. I know how that is. You must be torn up about it.”
“Oh. That.” He piled the now empty plates to the side. “I think I should be torn up about it. But I’m not. I think that was part of the problem. We had a honeymoon, and that was fabulous. She was amazing. I was amazing.”
“So modest,” I teased.
He grinned at me, a dimple appearing in his cheek for a moment. “We were great on paper, Hannah, but when the paparazzi weren’t around, I realized it was just paper. There was nothing else. I think she was playing a part the whole time and then she got tired of it.”
“So it was all her fault.”
“No. I bought her act. I think I knew it was an act. But I wanted to keep on pretending. We were rich and beautiful and fabulous and it should have worked.”
“A marriage isn’t made of rich, beautiful and fabulous.”
“Ah,” he said and his eyes caught mine. They were almost purple in the shadows. “Then you know about marriage. You’re not just a gorgeous, freewheeling dog walker.”
“No, James.” I had told very few people about what had happened with Marcus. My parents only got the barest bones, and that was because they let me live in their house while they retired to a condo in Sarasota. Bette knew, but that was because she caught me breaking down in tears when it was just supposed to be me and the dogs. “I was married, too. And we were not rich, beautiful or fabulous. And it ended.” That was the kindest thing I could say about my marriage.
Thoughts of Marcus rose up and tried to choke me. I put the glass of sangria down. He inched his chair towards me and put his arm around me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
I leaned into him just a bit. “No. It’s okay. But I learned that divorce isn’t always a failure. Sometimes it’s a victory.”
“A victory?” He seemed puzzled.
“Getting out.”
A question passed over his face and I knew he wanted to ask. I didn’t want to tell. There was too much to tell, too much to reveal, and I wanted to keep living in this fantasy he had created. This was a mix of my childhood longing and impossible dreams with an opportunity that I believed would pop like a bubble if I poked at it. “No,” I said, and dashed away a tear that I didn’t know had risen from my eye. “This won’t do.” I stood up and held a hand out to him. The music from the kitchen wafted through the open French doors. Some man with a velvet voice singing. He’d picked the music, not me. “Dance with me,” I said.
He breathed in as if I’d given him the magic, and not the other way around. “I have been jealous of the dog since I first saw you with her. Now I get my turn.” The dimple in his cheek was back, along with a heart-melting grin.
He pulled me by the hand into his arms and we danced around the patio, laughing, full of happiness, willing to let the sadness and loss go for tonight. I loved the way he led me, easy and open, leading our steps but listening to me, to my body, flowing with me like we were one being. It felt good to be held in strong arms. It felt good to press up against his chest and smell the warm spicy vanilla of his skin. “This is nice, James,” I murmured. All of it was. But most especially him.
His hand smoothed up my spine, to the nape of my neck. “This is more than nice, Hannah.” His eyes tracked from my eyes to my lips and back up, and yes, I wanted him to kiss me. It had been so long since I’d been kissed and this moment now, here, this was perfect. As perfect as anything could be. I leaned up, and he kissed me.
His lips were just like the velvet of the night around us. His arms were warm and gentle, like the June air. When his tongue slipped out to tease my lips, it was like every bit of light that sparkled through the garden. He was the magic. We were the magic.
I wound my fingers through his dark hair and pressed into him.
“Hannah…” he murmured against my lips. “Hannah…” His voice broke and emotion poured out of him and into me.
I couldn’t say his name although my mind was repeating it over and over again. James, James, James, like a prayer.
Somehow, it felt like he heard me, anyway. His hands were reverent as they slid under my tank top and caressed the muscles of my back. I moaned into him, unable to stay silent. This was not a kiss. This was a confession. A sacrament and an offering, and I was his.
His hand slid around to the front and he cupped my breast. I was already trembling. He flicked my nipple with his thumb and I shuddered, deep with longing, and I felt terrified. I gasped and pulled away.
He didn’t let me go.
“Hey,” he whispered, “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s okay. Too fast, I know.” He removed his hand from under my shirt and instead cupped my jaw, turning my face to look up at him. He saw the tears in my eyes and drew in a gasp. “Sweetheart, no. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” The tear fell and his face broke. He wiped it away with his thumb.
“It’s not you,” I said, tried to be strong, but my voice came out shaky and quiet.
He nodded, and I could see the fight in him, whether to pursue it. His curiosity won out. “Is it your ex-husband?”
A pang of fear ran through me, and that’s when I realized he was right. The last time I’d given myself to a man, it had been Marcus, and he’d taken me until there was nothing left for myself. I nodded, unable to say anything else.
“Okay,” he said, not asking me to elaborate. His hands went back to my back, petting me, soothing me. I swallowed, trying to get my emotions back under control. The music crooned on. It wasn’t my favorite, but there was something to be said for his choice.
He rocked with me, a gentle movement, and the dance started up again. I couldn’t tell what had changed, but what had been unbearably romantic a minute ago was now
like being wrapped up in a comforter. How had he done it? He danced in place with me as I tucked my face into the spot between his neck and shoulder. It felt good but different than it had before.
“Would you like to hear a funny story from my childhood?” he asked, lightly.
I nodded into his neck, still too unbalanced to speak.
“Okay, so you probably realize that this garden is a great way to get girls.”
I huffed a laugh into his skin and he patted my back.
“But, I had to wait until my parents were out of town to really make use of it,” he laughed. “Parents can put a crimp in a man’s love life.”
“A boy’s love life,” I couldn’t help adding, into his silky skin.
“Fair enough. A boy. But this boy was really interested in this girl from school. She was perfect. Everything a— boy— could want.”
“So you brought her here to seduce her.”
“Of course. But that’s not the funny part. The funny part is that there was another girl.”
“Billionaire playboy. Emphasis on boy.” Teasing him was making me feel better.
“Oh, no. Not like that. She wasn’t that kind of girl. I would never have gone out with her. She was the funniest little thing. She wore baggy clothes all the time and had a head full of hair that I swore was part animal with the way it seemed to exist outside of her control. It was everywhere.” He chuckled. “And she read the most intellectual, philosophical books that existed.”
I was getting a bad feeling, but I didn’t stop him. I needed to hear more.
“And she had the biggest crush on me. She followed me around like a puppy. Or she would have if I let her.”
“James,” I needed him to stop, and I didn’t know how to get him to stop.
