She nodded. “I wanted to tell him about my coup this afternoon. I mean, he is supposed to be my fiancé. My husband-to-be. I thought, wow, I had this great day at my job. The person I should share this with is the man I’m supposed to marry, right?”
Nick wasn’t enjoying the turn the conversation had taken, but he knew he had to listen. What she was saying was important.
“And he just…” Her smile now seemed brave but futile, her eyes glistening with tears. “He said, ‘Well, that’s very nice, Diana. When are you coming home?’ He just dismissed the whole thing. It was like, ‘Oh, aren’t you a good little girl. Now snap out of it and get back here where you belong.’ Like he was patting me on the head and pasting a gold star next to my name.”
Having never had a gold star pasted next to his name, Nick could only imagine what that was like. Flattering. Patronizing. Dismissive.
“I was so excited, and he didn’t want to share my excitement with me.” She was still smiling, but the moisture in her eyes overflowed, a few stray tears trickling down her cheeks. “And I thought, well, I’ll see Nick tonight. Maybe he’ll get it. Because I just wanted to share with someone. Is that so terrible?”
“No, of course not.” He longed to gather her in his arms and hold her tight, to let her rest her head on his shoulder and cry her heart out. Even if she’d be crying over her son-of-a-bitch fiancé.
But she was laboring hard to conceal her distress. When she dabbed at her cheeks with one of the flimsy paper napkins the waiter had delivered with their order, she pretended she was wiping her mouth. She didn’t want comforting. She was too proud for that.
“When something cool like that happens,” he said, “you want to celebrate. Celebrating alone is the pits.”
“Well, I’m celebrating with you.”
“I’m honored.” He hadn’t known he would say that, but it was the truth.
Her tears spilled more heavily now, a trickle turning into a torrent. He handed her his napkin, because hers was sure to be saturated soon. “I’m going to break up with him,” she said.
Because of Nick? Because of the fiancé’s inability to acknowledge how important her professional accomplishment today was to her?
Because of the song? Because she was changing?
The reason didn’t matter. She was breaking up with the bastard. And Nick was thrilled.
***
Chapter Nine
After they’d finished the pizza, he drove her back to the community center, where she’d left her car. She’d made arrangements with the rental company to drop the car off in Boston tomorrow, after which she would pick up her own car and drive it back to Brogan’s Point. She wasn’t done here, wasn’t even close to being done. She wasn’t even sure what “being done” might mean. But whatever it meant, she’d rather have her own car while she figured it out.
At least she’d figured one thing out: she had to end her engagement to Peter. It wasn’t just his reaction to her big coup today that convinced her. It wasn’t his inability to enjoy a beer in a working-class bar without passing judgment on everyone and everything in the place, right down to the glassware. It wasn’t his stuffiness, his grumpiness, his arrogance.
It wasn’t even Nick Fiore’s kiss.
That kiss weighed heavily on her during the brief drive back to the community center. She thought it best that they not kiss again, not only because she hadn’t yet officially ended things with Peter but because if Nick kissed her, her brain would go into melt-down mode and she would be unable to think at all. And she had a lot of thinking to do.
The parking lot was nearly empty, and Nick was able to pull into the vacant space next to Diana’s car. He turned off the engine and twisted in his seat to face her. “Diana—”
She braced herself. How could she say no if he kissed her? How could she deny them both something she desperately wanted?
But instead of leaning across the gear stick, he simply studied her. Several glaring spotlights hanging from the building’s eaves illuminated the lot. The silvery light played over his face, emphasizing its sharp lines and angles and making Diana even more aware of how profoundly dark his eyes were.
“If you’re breaking your engagement because of me…” He lapsed into silence for a moment, then continued, “I feel bad about that.”
She sensed a subtext in his words, but she couldn’t decipher it. Was he saying he felt bad about the possibility that he’d broken her and Peter up? Or was he warning her that even if she ended the engagement, he wasn’t about to step in and take Peter’s place?
She didn’t expect him to. They were still nearly strangers. Close strangers, strangers strongly attracted to each other, but strangers nonetheless. She hadn’t grown up with Nick. She hadn’t gone to school with him, or beaten him at backgammon, or discussed politics with him. She hadn’t seen him at his worst, and he certainly hadn’t seen her at hers.
“It’s not because of you,” she assured him. “It’s because…” Because she felt freer and happier and more self-assured without Peter. Because she liked not having to keep taking his emotional temperature, soothing him, making sure he was happy. Because her world seemed more spacious when he wasn’t occupying so much of it. Because she was finally listening to herself rather than to him.
She couldn’t begin to explain all that to Nick. Instead, she said, “It’s because of the song.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know.” She smiled.
He smiled, too, and then leaned forward, as she’d expected him to earlier, and touched his lips to hers. Not a blazing kiss like the one he’d given her on the dock, but a gentle whisper of a kiss, full of promise, full of temptation. It was the sort of kiss that made her want much, much more.
But first she had to sort out her life. She had to do the right thing. “I’m going to Boston tomorrow,” she said.
He settled back in his seat, his expression darkening slightly. “So this is goodbye?”
“No. I’ve got to be back here Thursday to oversee the packing and moving of the estate I bought.” That wasn’t the only reason she planned to return to Brogan’s Point, but to suggest more might be presumptuous. “I’m going down to Boston to meet with my boss and with…with Peter,” she said, carefully avoiding the word fiancé. She’d stopped wearing the ring, and she had to stop using that word in reference to Peter. “And then I’ll come back.”
He accepted her statement in silence. Just as she didn’t want to make presumptions, he apparently didn’t want to, either. She would come back. They’d figure out their next step then. Maybe they’d return to the Faulk Street Tavern and hope for another song to emerge from the jukebox, telling them what to do.
She would come back, and she’d turn to face the strange changes.
A long moment passed between her and Nick. She wished he would kiss her again. She hoped he wouldn’t.
He didn’t. “Thank you for inviting me to the game,” she said. “I’ll call you when I get back from Boston.”
“Okay.” He managed another smile, this one tentative. He seemed as cautious as she felt, as eager and as anxious.
God, she wanted to kiss him again.
“Good night,” she murmured, then let herself out of his car.
***
She made arrangements with the car rental company to drop off her car at one of the company’s Boston outlets, then drove south to the city, her suitcase filled with clothes for her laundry hamper and the precious, bubble-wrapped Tiffany lamps wedged into the back seat. As soon as she reached her South End building, she transferred the lamps to her own car, which she kept parked in a neighborhood garage one long block from her building, and then dropped the rental car off and settled the bill. She walked back to her building, wheeling her suitcase behind her. Lugging it up the stairs to her third-floor walk-up, she thought about how nice it had been to have Peter carry it down the stairs for her when they’d departed for Brogan’s Point last Saturday.
Not nice enough to
justify remaining engaged to him, though. She was strong. She could carry her own suitcase.
She took a moment to appreciate the welcome familiarity of her apartment once she’d unlocked the multiple locks and let herself inside. It was small—a great room with a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom—but sun-filled and comfortable. She’d furnished it herself, arranging an assortment of old cast-offs from her parents that had been accumulating dust in their basement, and inexpensive new pieces she’d purchased online. Peter had groused about her having bought chintzy, do-it-yourself junk and he’d refused to help her assemble the occasional tables and breakfast bar stools. Fortunately, the instructions had been pretty straightforward, and a helpful neighbor from across the hall had let her borrow his toolbox. And somehow, by adding an interesting vase here and hanging a framed sepia photograph there, she’d managed to tie the entire room together. Even Peter had grudgingly admitted that her apartment looked good, although he never let her forget how cheap her coffee table was.
She moved through the great room to the bedroom, where she emptied her suitcase into the laundry hamper and repacked the suitcase with clean garments. She paused to water the potted philodendrons along the window sill—hardy plants, they required blessedly little attention—and then left the apartment, bolting all the locks behind her. On her way down the stairs, she sighed, not from the weight of her suitcase but from the realization that Peter might never have occasion to criticize her low-priced furniture again.
She rolled her suitcase down the street to the garage, locked it in the trunk of her Saab, and pointed her car toward Back Bay, where Shomback-Sawyer’s main office was located. She was able to find a parking space not too far from the front door. The lamps weighed less than her suitcase, and she didn’t have to lug them up or down a flight of stairs. She entered the showroom and headed straight for the elevator.
She had phoned James Sawyer that morning before leaving Brogan’s Point, and he was expecting her. His face brightened as she swept into his office with the lamps. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said, hastening across his office and easing the carton from her hands.
James was tall and thin, with a narrow face and a hooked nose. Diana thought he resembled a male version of Olive Oyl. He dressed in a prim, prissy style, favoring suspenders and bowties and wing-tipped shoes. Looking at him, and knowing he was one of the founders and named partners of a successful antiques business in an antiques-crazy city, one would never guess that he was known around town for sponsoring auctions to raise money for homeless shelters, soup kitchens and early childhood education programs. He was stern and his personality was as dry as overcooked toast, but within his bony chest he had a generous heart.
He set the box down gently on his desk—a flame mahogany partner’s desk dating back to about 1920, a bit fussy for Diana’s taste but a beautiful specimen. In fact, James’s entire office was filled with beautiful, if slightly fussy, pieces: the leather wing-back chair with its lion’s-claw feet, the ornate hunt-board, the burgundy brocade drapes flanking the windows, the elaborately patterned Persian rug. James’s office décor was as fussy as he was. Today’s bowtie, Diana noted, appeared to be silk and featured a pattern of birds so closely woven together they might have been an Escher print.
“Genuine Tiffany?” he asked, gingerly removing the bubble-wrap from the lamps and looking for their official stamps and numbers. “Oh, my. Very nice.”
“We’ll need to have the wiring and switches checked,” Diana said. “Given how cheap the price was, I didn’t want to take the time to check that at the shop where I bought them. I just wanted to grab them and run.”
“Not a problem.” He lifted one, admiring it from different angles. “Very, very nice.”
“I have the documentation for the purchase,” Diana continued, pulling the receipt from her purse.
Usually, James was as fussy about paperwork as about everything else. But he didn’t even glance at the slip of paper Diana handed him. He tossed it onto his desk and turned to face her. She realized with a start that his uncharacteristically glowing expression was a reaction not to the lamps but to her. “Look at you!”
She did, glancing down at her jeans—clean but ordinary—and her ribbed sweater and wool jacket. Her hair was probably a bit mussed. She’d been unable to pat it into place when she’d entered the building, because she’d been burdened with the carton containing the lamps. Nor had she taken the time to apply any make-up at her apartment.
It occurred to her that James might disapprove of her casual appearance. But she wasn’t planning to spend the day at the office, and he knew that. He was aware that she would be heading back to Brogan’s Point today. She needed to be there early tomorrow morning, before the truck arrived to pack up and move the contents of that humble Cape Cod house full of goodies.
She lifted her gaze to James’s face and saw he was beaming. “You look so robust, Diana! So invigorated.”
“Well, I’ve had a good couple of days.” She was referring to her antiques finds. Everything else about the past few days had been turbulent, to say the least.
“I heard it in your voice on the phone,” James said. “And now I’m seeing it. You’ve changed.”
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, she thought, suppressing a bemused smile. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. You just seem…more alive, somehow. Whatever it is, it suits you.”
“Thank you.”
James grinned. “So you’ll be up there tomorrow for the big move?”
“Yes. I’d also like to do some more exploring in the area. I feel like there’s more to be discovered up on the North Shore. Is that okay with you?”
“If your big purchase yesterday pans out, yes, of course, it’s okay with me.”
Diana and James exchanged a few more pleasantries before she said goodbye and left his office. In the elevator descending to the ground floor, she allowed herself a moment to savor his approval and his compliments. Did she really look more alive? Did she feel more alive? Could a single song have made such a difference in her life?
Apparently, it had.
Yet her smile faded as she reflected the final stop of her trip to Boston. Peter would also notice that she’d changed, but he wouldn’t be pleased by the change. The next hour of her life was not going to be anywhere near as much fun as the past hour had been.
The receptionist recognized Diana as she entered the complex of offices that housed the equity firm where Peter worked. The reception area was sleekly designed and modern, with glass walls, streamlined leather seating, and Rothko and Klee paintings on the walls. Not prints—originals. The firm was awash in money.
“Hi, Diana,” the receptionist said. She was younger than Diana and model-gorgeous in a snug-fitting knit dress with an asymmetrical neckline, her make-up impeccable, every hair in place. “Is Peter expecting you?”
“No,” Diana said, not bothering to add that Peter was certainly not expecting what she’d come here to tell him.
The receptionist’s eyes glittered. “You’re surprising him! How nice. Let me see if he’s in his office.” She pressed one perfectly manicured hand to her temple, holding her tiny ear piece in place, and tapped a few buttons on her high-tech console. “Peter?” she murmured. “Guess who’s here? Diana!” She probably would have liked to toss a fistful of silver confetti into the air, just to celebrate this wonderful surprise.
The receptionist’s joy stoked Diana’s sense of dread. This was not going to be a confetti-worthy encounter. It was going to be awful. Maybe she should leave, right now. Maybe she should rethink everything. She and Peter had been a couple forever—or at least, they’d been destined to be a couple forever. Everyone wanted it. Everyone believed they were fated to be together.
But that was before Diana had heard the song. Before she had changed.
The receptionist exchanged a few more words with Peter, then released her ear piece and smiled at Diana. “He’ll be with you shor
tly,” she reported. “He’s on a conference call.”
If he were on a conference call, Diana thought, how could he have chatted with the receptionist? Wouldn’t his phone line be tied up?
Diana suspected that he wasn’t on a conference call at all. He’d asked the receptionist to lie for him. He probably wanted Diana to cool her heels for a while before he granted her an audience with him. He was angry with her, and so be it. He was going to be a lot angrier with her once she ended their engagement.
She returned the receptionist’s smile and took a seat on one of the leather sofas. Waiting for Peter to summon her gave her a chance to rethink what she was doing. Was breaking up with him a huge mistake? Was the disappointment her decision would cause her parents and Peter’s worth the satisfaction the decision gave her? Was she truly satisfied? What if she floundered on her own? What if she got lonely? What if her days in Brogan’s Point were a vacation from reality, and reality—the life she was intended to live—was here, in Boston, at Peter’s side?
If ever she needed to talk to her sister, it was now. She and Serena had never been close. Serena had been the rebellious Simms daughter, the one who had never given a damn what their parents wanted. She’d dropped out of college and moved to London, where she worked as a shop clerk by day and hung out with punk rockers at night. She’d cut her hair short and spiky and gotten a tattoo of a rose on her left shoulder. Diana hadn’t seen her in a year, but Serena posted photos on her various social media pages. Viewing the pictures of Serena’s hairdo and the tat, Diana had been alternately appalled and amused.
Serena had always been wild. To compensate, Diana had always been obedient. Their parents would not have survived two wayward daughters. The more defiant Serena was, the more well-behaved Diana felt she had to be. Someone had to be the good girl in the family.
At times, Diana had envied Serena. How liberating it must be not to care! Yet Diana knew there were benefits to remaining in her parents’ good graces. They doted on her, praised her, made her feel loved. As a second child, the younger sister of a bold, beautiful drama queen, Diana had always felt kind of insecure and deficient. She lacked Serena’s courage and flair. She lacked her certainty. But at least she had her parents’ approval.
Changes (The Magic Jukebox Book 1) Page 9
