Wait for Me

by Mary Kay McComas

  How long would it last? Should he run for an exit or stay where he was? Was he safe, or would he be buried under several tons of airport rubble? Before he could come to any decisions, the earthquake was over.

  He was starting to look at the people around him when he glanced in Holly’s direction. Whatever drew his attention to the ceiling above her would remain a mystery forever, but the crack and the widening gap, the specks of falling plaster, and Holly’s bent head directly below, shot him into action.

  “Holly!” he shouted, running toward her, bumping into several other dazed people when they stepped into his path. “Get out of the way. Holly! Move!”

  At the sound of her name, she looked around in a haze of confusion and residual fear. By the time she saw him and realized that he was coming at her, he was upon her. He grabbed her, and she instinctively resisted his attack. They tripped over each other’s feet and fell, rolling and sprawling on the terminal floor as the ceiling came crashing in a few feet away.

  Arms and legs entangled, they helped each other sit up. Through a cloud of plaster dust, Holly stared up at the enormous black cavity in the ceiling, then down at the pile of debris where she had been standing.

  “That would’ve hurt,” she said, speaking aloud the first coherent thought to enter her mind.

  The understatement caught Oliver’s fancy. He started to laugh, and once began, it was like a faucet for all his pent-up emotions. Grief. Sorrow. Fear. Relief. He laughed harder.

  It was contagious. She grinned as she watched him, then chuckled, and before she knew it, she was giggling uncontrollably with tears in her eyes.

  Tourists walked wide of them, staring, setting off new fits of chuckles. Every look at the hole in the ceiling was a fresh source of amusement. And trying to stand on fear-jellied knees was hilarious—not to mention brushing white plaster powder off each other’s noses.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Oliver asked when he could stand and speak at the same time.

  “Don’t I look all right?” she asked, still chuckling as she tried to brush herself clean. “I feel great.”

  Airport personnel had arrived to inquire likewise and to begin cleaning up the mess.

  “You’re not hurt? Bruised? That was a hard fall we took.”

  “As falls go, it was the best I’ve ever taken,” she said, straightening. Her expression sobered as she looked at him. “You saved my life.”

  “No.” He knew what was coming.

  “Yes you did. I owe you my life.”

  “No you don’t,” he said quickly.

  “I do. But since you already have a life, help me think of some other way to repay you.”

  “There’s no need. Really,” he said, uncomfortable with her gratitude. “I’m just glad that I saw the ceiling cracking before it fell. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  He handed her the tote bag she’d been carrying and looked around for his carryall. It lay where he’d dropped it when he’d started after her.

  “I know,” she said, following him back toward his bag. “It’s not much, but two of my brothers own Spoleto’s. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “It’s the best Italian restaurant outside Rome, and I want you to come. Just tell them who you are, and they’ll feed you the best meal you’ve ever had—on the house.”

  “That’s not necessary. I was glad to do it and...” He was suddenly inspired. “...and besides, I owed you for your kindness on the plane. Let’s say we’re even.”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked, turning to chase after him in the opposite direction. “Empathizing with someone doesn’t come close to saving someone’s life. I empathize with people all the time. It’s nothing.”

  “In my case, it was very much something. I needed...”

  “Whoa!” she cried, reaching for him as the floor began to vibrate again. Automatically he took her in his arms, and they stood together, wide-eyed, as the earth trembled beneath them.

  “Aftershock,” he muttered seconds later.

  “I know.”

  Through his suit jacket, she could feel his heart pounding close to hers. His arms felt like the safest place in the world.

  Oliver had the oddest sensation that he’d held her close to him before. Not too tall or too short, not too fat or too thin, she was a perfect fit.

  “Is someone picking you up?” he asked, holding her away from him. He felt an urgency to get her out of the airport and on her way to her family before anything else could happen.

  “No. I’m taking a taxi.”

  “I should have a car waiting for me,” he said. “I can take you to wherever you’re staying.”

  “It’s nice of you to offer, but I’ll take a taxi.”

  He frowned. He hadn’t expected a refusal. Who’d pay for a cab in L.A. when they could get a free ride? Surely she knew she’d be safe in a car with him.

  “You need to be with your father,” she said, setting his thoughts straight once again.

  He nodded, feeling a clear and unforeseen sense of sadness at having to leave her.

  “So, it’s good-bye... again,” he said, his hands falling to his sides.

  She nodded and, after a few jerky movements, extended her hand to him, saying, “Thank you. For saving my life.”

  “You’re welcome. It was well worth the effort.”

  The handshake was warm and strong—and enduring.

  She accompanied him to the front of the airport, smiled, and said good-bye one last time, then continued down the walk to the cab stand.

  But she didn’t walk alone. She could feel his presence beside her. She sensed that he was still with her. Her skin prickled, as if he were touching her.

  She looked back, and though the distance was great and the pedestrian traffic obscured a complete and steady view of him, he was standing in the crowd, watching her.

  A pleased sort of warmth settled in her heart. People had a way of coming and going in her life. Some left vivid images on her consciousness. Others faded to vague, dreamlike memories. A few passed through unnoticed.

  When she thought about such things as life and death and the impact she made on other people’s lives, she always wanted to be a vivid image. In some small way, she wanted to leave a part of herself in everyone she touched, to achieve immortality in their memory.

  She would be a vivid image to Oliver Carey, she knew. They wouldn’t meet again, but he’d never forget her. With one tiny, effortless act of charity, she had carved a place for herself in his memory that would last forever. Recollections of his father were lifelong in the making, yet every time he thought of his father, he would remember Holly’s kindness as well.

  As for Holly, well, how could she possibly forget the man who had saved her life? They had forged a definite bond that day, and she was well pleased.

  She raised her arm high in the air, and after a brief moment he did the same, then disappeared into the crowd.

  TWO

  THE SCENT OF FRESH-BAKED bread laced with garlic and oregano wasn’t what most people would consider the traditional aroma of Thanksgiving, but it was for Holly.

  It brought to mind a big table surrounded by the faces of people she loved. In her head she could hear them laughing and talking. In her heart she could relive the impressions of being safe and wanted.

  “Nepotism never works,” Tony Spoleto said, wrapping an arm about Holly’s neck and squeezing playfully. “The help isn’t worth day old pasta. It stands around daydreaming and lets the bread get cold.”

  Holly laughed and waited to be released before she slid her arm around his waist, saying, “It’s also cheap and cheerful. Besides hot bread, what more could you ask for?”

  “Speed?” he asked, grinning. “Did Mama leave already?” he asked, scanning the full-to-capacity restaurant—plus three extra tables—that he and his brother owned and operated 365 days a year.

  “Bobby took her home a little while ago,” she said, looking specifically at the
tables in her section. “She said you had a good crowd this year and the cannelloni was overcooked.”

  “It wasn’t.” He was outraged. He’d grown up speaking mostly Italian at home. And though he spoke perfect English when he wanted to, he preferred to use the more impassioned broken English of his parents for atmosphere. “What does she know, huh? She gets older and older every year.”

  Holly smiled. Some things never changed. Marie Spoleto’s boys had talked irreverently about their mama since the day Holly met them—always behind her back and always with great affection.

  “Who would know better?” she asked. “It is her recipe, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Someone teaches you how to cook, and for the rest of your life she’s telling you the cannelloni is overcooked,” he said, his speech passionate, his eyes amused. “Go wait on a table or something. It’s not good to see the help standing around with nothing to do.”

  He gave her shoulder a fond and indulgent squeeze, then disappeared into the kitchen—to check the cannelloni, no doubt.

  She turned to prepare a tray of coffee and espresso for a table of six. She sensed his presence before she heard his voice.

  Like the flash from a bolt of lightning, he appeared vivid and sharp in her thoughts. For no reason she knew of, her chest grew tight and achy with emotions she couldn’t decipher. Then she heard it. A voice. It came softly but clearly from a distance. A familiar voice. A voice she was glad to hear. A voice that eased the discomfort around her heart.

  She turned her head and she saw him halfway across the room.

  So, Oliver Carey had decided to take her up on the free dinner she’d promised him for saving her life. She was pleased. She wanted everything to be perfect for him and his guests, an elderly lady and two very beautiful young women, she noted with no little interest.

  She’d told Marie Spoleto and her brothers about Oliver Carey at supper the night she’d arrived. They would be happy to see and meet him also, for, as they frequently said, Holly was their favorite girl.

  “Louis,” she hissed, motioning frantically with her hand to a man in his mid-forties. Louis was headwaiter, wine steward, maître d’, and troubleshooter all rolled into a nice round little body, with sharp eyes and a bald top. He’d been at Spoleto’s since the day before the grand opening. “Louis. Come here.”

  “What now?” he asked. His tone was gruff, but his presence was patient and obliging. “Have you lost a customer’s credit card? Gotten your sleeve caught on a gentleman’s toupee? Dumped antipasto down the front of a new bride?”

  She grimaced, recalling each incident with humbling clarity. “I’m not much of a waitress, am I?”

  “No. But you are... stimulating.”

  “I like your attitude, Louis.” She grinned and stepped closer. “And if that’s the way you’re thinking, then I’ve been very dull tonight. So I’m going to pester you for a favor.” He braced himself. “See that man over there? Red tie. Handsome. Dark hair. He’s sitting with three ladies?” He nodded. “He’s a friend of mine, and I’d like you to give his table lots of special attention.”

  “I give excellent service to all the customers.”

  “I know that. But he’s special.”

  “How special?” he asked with a raised brow, as avidly interested in her life as her family was.

  “His father is ill and he needs some cheering up,” she said. Louis was a devout romantic. She didn’t want him to read anything into her request that wasn’t there.

  “Why don’t you take him?”

  “I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable, or as if he has to talk to me every time I go to the table. I’ll serve coffee later and say hello then.”

  He studied her face with narrowed eyes, then patted her cheek. “I’ll make him feel like a king,” he said, then added, “You are a good girl, Holly.”

  A good girl, she thought, watching him approach Oliver’s table. Always a girl. Never a woman in their eyes. She shook her head at the strangeness people called life. She had been eight years old when she’d moved into the Spoleto household. Frightened. Insecure. Unloved. They had taken her to their collective bosom in a greedy embrace. They had loved her hard and fast, made her feel special, raised her healthy and whole. But she’d had to move to San Francisco to feel like a woman. Independent. Freethinking. Capable of making her own life and living with her own mistakes.

  They were family, and she loved coming home to wallow in the luxury of being treated as a cherished pet for a while. But just once she’d like to hear one of them say that they’d created a fine woman, instead of a good girl.

  She kept a close eye on Oliver and his lady friends. She managed to stay at his back or with her back to him, leaning low to talk to the patrons as if she had laryngitis.

  Louis was a pro. He complimented Oliver. He flirted with the ladies. He entertained them with amusing anecdotes and served their meal with great aplomb. She could see that Oliver was enjoying himself. His smile was like a beacon that lit every corner of the room. He was animated and cordial with all three ladies, though to Holly’s eye the blonde at the table seemed a little overly cordial in return. Only occasionally would Holly catch a sad, somber look in Oliver’s eyes. In those brief moments, she would know he was thinking of his father, and her heart would reach out to him.

  “Hello, Oliver,” she said, coming to stand at his table when they had finished their meal. She carried a coffee tray with both hands. Her hands were trembling a bit, and she wasn’t taking any chances with a mishap. Not with Oliver. Please God, not with Oliver. “I’m glad to see you changed your mind.”

  “Holly,” he said, surprised, getting to his feet to greet her. “I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t change my mind. I hadn’t planned to come. This is sort of a... a coincidence. What are you doing here?”

  “Serving coffee. Please. Sit down.” She set a cup of espresso in front of the blonde and served the others coffee, Oliver last.

  “Do you work here? I thought you were only visiting,” he asked, hardly blinking while he watched her circle the table in a pseudo-tuxedo that made her seem a little taller than he remembered.

  She looked down into his face and grinned. Her insides lurched abruptly. She reached out to straighten the small cornucopia centerpiece.

  “It’s sort of a busman’s holiday. I’m going home tomorrow. How was your dinner?”

  “You were right. It was the best Italian food I’ve eaten outside Rome.”

  “You’ve been to Rome?”

  “A couple of times,” he said, amused by her surprise, inordinately happy to see her.

  If she were a snappy tune, he would have found himself humming it a hundred times since they’d parted at the airport. He’d thought about her over and over during the long hours in the hospital waiting room. Wondering who she was and what she was doing was a harmless haven of distraction in a sea of misery and heartache. But it was with the assumption that he’d never see her again.

  It had seemed only natural that when Johanna suggested Spoleto’s for dinner, he readily agreed. But it had been with the simple idea of connecting with something she was connected to; perhaps to see a member of her family—someone who might look like her; to learn a bit more about her. He hadn’t dared to hope she’d be there.

  Though why he would hope at all, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t fall-on-his-face infatuated with her. She was just a woman he’d met on an airplane. A nice woman. A kind woman. An appealing woman. But certainly no one to get brain-bogged about.

  Speaking of brain-bogged, he suddenly remembered his companions.

  “Holly, this is my aunt, Elizabeth Carey George. Her daughter, my cousin, Johanna Reins. And a family friend, Babs Renbrook.”

  She recognized Ms. Renbrook from the society pages, now that she’d heard her name. Elizabeth Carey George suddenly had a face to go with a name she’d heard many times before. It was with a mixture of pleasure, resentment, and intrigue that Holly connected Oliver Carey to a world she touched
every day, battled with constantly, and could never be a part of.

  “Barbara,” the socialite corrected him, her voice as sweet as church music—a divergence from the hard, possessive glint in her eyes.

  “This is Holly, uh...” He knew every detail of her face, but couldn’t remember her last name? Odd. But then, what was a name compared to bronze-colored eyes that seemed to look gently and fondly on the world from the center of time?

  “Loftin. Holly Loftin,” she said, unperturbed.

  “We met on the plane coming down and screamed together during the earthquake.” They exchanged secret smiles.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said to the ladies.

  Elizabeth George shook her perfect silver coiffure. “Why your father insists on living down here is beyond me,” she said to Oliver, ignoring Holly. “Palm Springs is nothing but a showcase of wealth and decadence. We don’t have nearly as much trouble with the earthquakes at home.”

  He gave his aunt a sharp look, then turned back to Holly.

  “How is your father?” she asked before he could speak.

  “He’s holding on,” he said, responding to her inquiry as he might to an old and dear friend’s. “He’s in pain, but they keep him pretty well medicated. He sleeps a lot.” He smiled. “He sent us away this afternoon. I think we make him nervous, hovering around as if we’re waiting for him to die.”

  “Oliver!” Elizabeth admonished.

  Truth to tell, Holly couldn’t blame Oliver’s father for being nervous under the eye of the watchful women. She was too. With the exception of Oliver and his cousin, Johanna, who sat with a quiet, polite smile on her face, she was getting the distinct impression that she was not a welcome addition to the party.

  “We decided to go out for a nice family Thanksgiving dinner,” he said. “But none of us felt much like eating turkey. Johanna’s been here before and wanted to come back—”