by Karen Booth
I stood over my suitcase, trying to decide which to wear. Certainly, my audience would be pleased either way, but something didn’t feel right. At that moment, all I wanted was to be enveloped in Chris, to be as tipsy from him as I was from the Limoncello. His gray dress shirt sat puddled on the floor. As soon as I smelled it, I knew what to wear to bed.
He came out of the bathroom as I was rolling up the sleeves.
“That is the sexiest thing I’ve seen in a long time,” he said, stepping closer, a sly grin across his face. “We don’t want to get carried away with the buttons. That’s far enough.” He set his hand on mine and pecked me on the top of my head.
He dug through the refrigerator wearing only his gray plaid boxers, likely unaware of the effect on me when he did things like scratch his stomach while his hair flopped into his face or talk while stretching his arms above his head. He eventually decided on a turkey sandwich and I brewed myself a cup of decaf Earl Gray. At the kitchen table reveling in each quiet moment, I watched him as he made the sandwich disappear. I remained in awe of everything he possessed in his glorious body.
He reached for my hand after pushing his plate aside. “I have a surprise for you.” He smoothed my hair back softly, looking at it, rather than me.
“Really?” My heart and mind fluttered.
He left the table and returned with a small box that made me freeze—it was the instantly identifiable Tiffany blue, tied with a white satin ribbon. I couldn’t take the box from his hand without my throat feeling jumpy. I was so excited, from head to toe; I’d always hoped a man would give me a Tiffany blue box, preferably a small one. I’d never dreamed that the man would be Chris.
My hands quaked when I pulled at the ribbon. I told myself to remember every moment, frame by frame. He wore a luminous smile, soaking up my reaction as he sat next to me.
I removed the top and held my breath. There was a bracelet—exquisite, heavy silver links with a heart shaped charm. It was engraved Please return to Tiffany & Co., New York on one side and on the other, a perfectly good reason to cry, For Claire, with affection, Chris.
“Oh my God, Chris, I love it. It’s beautiful.” I pulled the bracelet from the box, admiring his excellent taste.
“I had to pull a few strings to get them to engrave it with words. They usually only do monograms.” He reached over to hook the clasp for me. “I just wanted to give you something. You know, I was thinking about it on my way to pick you up at the airport. I think you’re my first girlfriend that I’ve been friends with.”
That word—girlfriend, made for a flash of excitement inside me but I was bewildered by what he’d said. “That’s sweet, but are you sure? You must’ve been friends with a lot of your girlfriends.”
“No. I think you’re the first.” He held my hand, inching the bracelet along with his thumb. “I think it’s because we didn’t jump into bed right away. You know, the weeks we spent talking and getting to know each other before anything became physical, and even then it was just a bit of snogging since you shot me down.” He smiled shyly, not at all like him. “That’s never happened to me before, by the way. I didn’t want to tell you that night.” He continued to toy with the bracelet.
“Aren’t you glad we waited?”
“I was glad when it was over.”
I smiled. “You must’ve been friends with Elise. You were together for so long.”
“Not really. I’m not even sure we liked each other. There was chemistry, we were drawn to each other, but we never had what I already have with you. We never talked for hours on the phone. We never wanted to be alone with each other doing nothing. She never understood my love of music, but you feel the same way. You get it. That’s important to me.”
The fact that he valued the friendship that accompanied our romance made it feel as though he was unfolding everything inside me. He was proceeding slowly, taking great care—like you would with an old letter in hopes of deciphering the black scrawl, praying that it wouldn’t part at the creases. I knew then that I would never reside in the class of his disposable women.
I admired him with a brand new set of feelings when I’d been worried I already had too many. “That’s the nicest thing a man has ever said to me.”
“I’m not just being nice. It’s true.” He smiled, but it faded. “I could’ve saved myself a lot of heartache if I’d had you from the beginning.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
We talked in the dark for hours. One time, we laughed so hard that the headboard banged against the wall and I couldn’t catch my breath. Even the bittersweet subject of Sam and Jean-Luc was tolerable. Chris worried that he should’ve done more, but I’d already had time to resign myself to the facts. It’d gone exactly as he’d predicted—they wanted to have sex and found a way.
“You know, I’ve been wanting to ask about your mum.” He put his arm under my head. “You don’t talk about her a lot.”
He was right. I rarely talked about her. She and I were always discussing everything in my head. Some days it almost felt as if she was still around.
“Oh, well, her name was Sara. She was a great mom. She passed away when I was pregnant, about three weeks before Sam was born, from…” I choked back what had long been stuck in my throat, “ovarian cancer.”
“Claire, I’m so sorry. That’s awful. Were you two close?”
“We were.” My voice cracked. Seventeen years later, the pain was still tamped down inside me. My sister never wanted to talk about it and my dad simply wasn’t able. Worst of all, Sam had never known her. “We were a lot alike, emotional, but independent. Creative, she liked to write poetry. She looked out for me with my dad, because we never got along. He didn’t have a lot of patience for me when I was a kid. Especially when I was a teenager.”
I cleared my throat. “My mom thought my Banks Forest obsession was great, even though it drove my dad up a wall. She remembered what it was like to be a teenage girl.”
All I could think was that my mom would’ve adored Chris. She would’ve bragged about him to her sister and her friends and said something off-color about his butt after he left the room.
He caressed my arm. “It must’ve been hard losing her right before Sam was born.”
“It was.” I started to choke up again. “Things would get tough when Sam was a newborn and I’d reach for the phone and remember my mom wasn’t there anymore. It just hadn’t sunk in. I had no idea what I was doing and I was all by myself. I just remember being exhausted and frustrated all of the time. You add that when you’re still grieving for someone and it wasn’t pretty.”
“How did you get through it?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. Sam was barely crawling when I moved to Chapel Hill and I only knew a few people—I had no girlfriends, my sister was wrapped up in her own kids and my dad was dealing with his own grief. I used to hold up the line at the grocery store to have a conversation with the cashier, so I could talk to a grown-up. Babies are cute, but they’re incredibly draining.” I heard the words come out of my mouth, not believing I could be so insensitive.
He cleared his throat. “Yes. I suppose so.”
“Oh, no, no. I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did. I’m sorry. That was an awful thing for me to say.”
He waited before responding, which only made me feel worse. “No, it’s okay. I understand what you’re saying. At least I think I understand. I’m sure having a child is a lot of hard work. I don’t doubt that it’s a very tough job.”
There was more silence and I felt a tug inside. “Chris, honey, I’m sorry. I was babbling. You know, seeing you with Sam and how you were so protective of her with Jean-Luc. I’m sure that you would’ve made an incredible dad.” I brought my hand to his face and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He kissed me lightly and that made me wonder how badly I’d hurt him. “I’m dead knackered. Can we say goodnight now?”
* * *
When I woke the next
morning, the other side of the bed was empty. I’d had a hard time falling asleep, replaying my idiocy. I just couldn’t pass up the chance to wallow in everything that had been hard at that time in my life. Good things had happened then, too.
I jumped out of bed to find Chris. He was nowhere in the house and didn’t answer when I called his name. Finally, I went out on the terrace and was relieved to find him swimming.
I walked down to the pool deck on the massive metal and concrete stairs that were cold and scratchy on my bare feet. I watched as his body skimmed through the water. His back was particularly beautiful, shoulder blades moving precisely with each stroke.
I perched on the end of a chaise lounge and waited, hugging his shirt to my body to ward off the morning chill. He stopped when he spotted me, popping up from the water and squinting through buggy goggles.
“Four more laps.”
“Sounds great. I’m just watching.”
He swam over when he was finished and climbed out, dripping and stunning. “Good morning.” He loomed over me and I couldn’t have cared less that he was getting water all over me.
“I didn’t know you were such a swimmer.”
“I love it.” He was still catching his breath, pushing his wet hair back and toweling his chest. “I get up early every morning. The pool at the house in St. Barts is too small for laps.”
I’d discovered something new about him and it all came together as I eyed him from head to toe: broad shoulders, skinny hips, and ridiculously long legs—a swimmer’s body.
“You must be starving,” I said, tracing my finger down his thigh.
“Dying. Will you make me breakfast?”
“I’d love to.”
After breakfast, we became sidetracked in the bedroom for most of the morning. It helped me work up an appetite for my lunch date, although I almost wished I’d taken more time to get ready. Angie was so put together; I wanted to look good.
Chris jingled the car keys when we walked out the front door. “Have you seen yourself in those jeans?”
“Uh, yes, I have,” I answered. I craned at my butt in the driveway. “Why?”
“You’re bloody killing me, that’s why.” He hooked his arm around my waist and we continued to the garage. “I can’t believe you’re going to put those on and then go somewhere without me.”
We stepped into the narrow space between the garage wall and his Mercedes SUV. Every other car he owned was, in his opinion, much too advanced for me to drive. He nuzzled my neck and pressed himself into me. I could smell his clean, damp hair above the faint aroma of motor oil.
“Are you sure you can’t be fifteen minutes late?” he asked.
“Aren’t you tired?” I bit my lip when I saw the look on his face, so charged that I was sure he could start the engine without the key. “Sorry. I won’t be gone long.”
He opened the car door. “You know I’m not good with delayed gratification.”
I slipped into the driver’s seat. He reached across and pointed to the dash, unsubtly grazing my breast.
“Careful,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “There’s the GPS. Please use it. I don’t want you getting lost.” He gave me a piece of paper with a five-digit number. “This is for the security gate. The clicker is being temperamental. Call me if you need anything.”
I felt like a teenager with permission to take the car out for the first time. “You’re cute, but I’m going to be fine.”
“No, you’re cute.” He leaned in and kissed me on the forehead. “Please be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you. And don’t be long. It won’t be any fun if I have to start without you.”
I waited for the automatic seat to inch forward enough for me to reach the gas. I then consulted the GPS and decided I couldn’t stand to get directions from the bitchy British chick. The hunky sounding Australian guy was more my speed. He could direct me to the nearest Outback Steakhouse if I got lost.
The thought of my lunch date with Angie was so exciting. In many ways, she was the best shot I had at a real girlfriend. It was impossible to make friends as a single mom in a town full of married people. The other moms most often greeted me with suspicion.
Inside the restaurant, Angie’s red hair was immediately evident in the sea of blonde. We shared a chummy hug and audible kisses on opposite cheeks before sitting. The restaurant was your typical southern California bistro—white tablecloths, aspiring actors as waiters, and plenty of artificial sweeteners on the table. We each ordered an iced tea and read the menu.
I couldn’t help but notice Angie’s mood. She seemed on edge, even when she smiled at me. I tried not to over think it, like I always do. Her hair was pin-straight, not a strand out of place about her pristine face. I squinted at one point to see if she had any wrinkles and then realized I was only making the crease between my own eyes worse.
Angie set her menu to the side. “Claire, I’ve brought something to show you and I really hope it doesn’t ruin our lunch.” She reached across the table for my hand. “I wish I were bringing you a gift.”
Her comment was so out of the blue. I couldn’t begin to guess what she was talking about. “Okay.”
She reached into her exquisite black leather bag and pulled out a magazine. “I saw this while I was getting my pedicure today.” She held it to her chest. “This happens to a lot of people and you shouldn’t let it get to you.” She set a dog-eared magazine before me.
My heart stopped when I saw the two photos. One was large, half of a page—Chris and I on the beach the day we first argued, me with an editor’s bar of jumbled pixels across my naked chest and Chris’s hand on my stomach. The smaller inset picture was a close-up—the two of us at the breakfast table, kissing. I read the caption and felt my head spin.
“Notorious rock bad boy Christopher Penman canoodles on a St. Barts beach with music journalist Claire Abby. The couple reportedly visited Penman’s luxury villa last week with Abby’s daughter. Ms. Abby wrote the upcoming Rolling Stone cover story about Penman, in which he is rumored to tell all about his rocky marriage to ex-wife, Elise Penman. The former Mrs. Penman has written a book containing her own account of their marriage due out next month.”
Angie’s expression was so awful that it was hard to imagine how bad mine must’ve been. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s hard the first time this happens. I was horrified the first time it happened to me.”
“Unfortunately, this is the second time.” I squeezed the lemon wedge too hard into my tea and squinted.
“Oh. I didn’t know.” The concern on her face never wavered. “Well, the good news is that neither of these show you two in an unflattering light. You’re kissing and talking, they’re quite sweet.”
Actually, under further inspection, the beach shot was highly unflattering—one of my thighs was spread out on the towel like a pancake.
“I am so screwed. My editor is going to find out and that will be it for me. He warned me twice about getting involved with Chris.” Our waiter brought our salads but food was the last thing on my mind.
“I wondered if you were trying to keep your relationship quiet.”
“You and Graham are the only people who know about us other than my daughter. Even my dad thinks I’m out here visiting a friend.” I looked down at the pictures again, trying to deduce who could have taken them. Then I remembered the guy on the boat with a camera and the only other person who had spent so much time in the kitchen. Marisol. “Chris said we’d have privacy on the island.”
Angie looked at me with pity, she the seasoned veteran and I the ditzy novice. “He did? Photographers love St. Barts because so many celebrities vacation there. I’m sure someone got a tip about where he would be and that he’d brought a new companion. I hate to say this, but I think he’s going to have to call and have his cook fired. I’m sure she took the photo of you at the table.”
Angie shared the story of her first go-around with this sort of public embarrassment. It’d been short
ly before she and Graham were married; they were photographed picking out wedding bands, through the jewelry store window. It wasn’t horrible, but it was the invasion of privacy, especially when they were sharing a pivotal romantic moment, that had bothered her so much.
It had been only the beginning for Angie and Graham. There had been photographers outside of the hospital when their daughter was born and that was nearly two decades ago. The paparazzi were much more aggressive and unscrupulous now, tracking them down when they went to visit their daughter at university and waiting for them outside their home.
“Please, let’s talk about something else.” I finally had enough appetite to start on my salad, but my hand trembled. “You’re coming to Chris’s show tomorrow night, right?”
“We wouldn’t miss it. Graham is really excited for Christopher. It’s so cute. We should have dinner beforehand; a double date.” Her eyes sparkled and she eyed my wrist, for at least the second time. “That’s an awfully pretty bracelet. Tiffany, right?”
I blushed. “Yes. Chris gave it to me last night.”
“Interesting.” She smiled at me and winked. She was so effortlessly beautiful and I had such a girl crush on her. I wished she could be my sister or my best friend. “Christopher isn’t much for jewelry. He must like you quite a lot.”
I set down my fork. “What do you mean?”
She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “Well, there were issues when he was with Elise…”
“Go on, please.”
“Christopher used to buy jewelry for her all the time. Then they’d have a fight and she would leave for weeks. She’d sell whatever he’d given her to, um, support herself.”
“Buy drugs?”
She looked at me with a note of surprise. “Yes. It happened many times before they got married. Graham was worried when Christopher bought her an engagement ring because he’d spent a fortune on it.” She took a sip of her iced tea and we sat quietly while the waiter topped off our glasses. “Graham was right. Christopher and Elise had an argument a few weeks after the wedding and she left for a month. She eventually came back, but the ring was gone.”
