Holly was the woman he’d waited for all his life. Strong, independent, and giving, from the top of her head to her sexy little toes. If she wondered how Carolann came to be Carolann, he couldn’t help wondering how Holly came to be. Where did her bottomless well of love come from? Her wisdom? Her caring? Her humility and pride?
A person was either born with those things or not. Granted, the Spoletos had guided her well, but Holly was born with the capacity. And why? Why Holly and not him? Or Elizabeth? Or Barbara? Or Johanna? Why was Holly’s capacity to love and give so great?
He smiled. It was a question it might take a lifetime to figure out, if then, and he was looking forward to investigating all the possibilities. She was a puzzle. A frustrating, irritating, intriguing puzzle. She was as predictable and unpredictable as... as life. His life. She was his life.
He snuck past a huge caldron of mashed potatoes and stepped around vats of peas and green salad and red Jell-O. He ducked around women with big bowls of rolls and men with carving knives, and finally settled his hands on her hips from behind.
She didn’t even flinch. If someone in that neighborhood had grabbed him from behind, he’d have... well, he wasn’t Holly, was he? She merely turned her head, grinned at him, served another helping of stuffing, and faced him.
“Hi,” she said, kissing him the way she did every time they met. It was always a pleasure, but it was always amazing to him the way her quick little kiss was a sign of her happiness to see him, her acceptance of him, her ownership of him. “You’re late.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be finished by seven-thirty.”
She shook a finger at him, laughing. “Don’t try to outthink me, Oliver. I was done at seven-thirty because I wanted to spend the evening with you. I know how much our time together means to you, and I was looking forward to it. But you weren’t here at seven-thirty, so I got back in line. And now...” She looked over her shoulder at the stream of people. When she looked back at Oliver, he was wearing a torpid expression and watching her unblinkingly. “What?”
“Do I look stupid?”
“Right now? Or in general?”
He laughed at her then. It was either that or wring her neck... or make love to her under the buffet tables.
“Oh, stop giving me that big innocent look and move over,” he said, elbowing his way to a tub of gravy. “I’ve got your number, babe, and you’re not fooling me for a second. This was your plan all along. You’re thinking that just because I know that when this is all over, you’re going to be hyped to the gills with excess energy and wanting to make love all night, that I’ll stand here and pour gravy on everything that passes by.” He picked up the ladle and dribbled the brown liquid over an outstretched tray. He smiled at the woman holding the tray and told her she was welcome to it, then turned back to Holly. “See. You’re not so smart.”
“Neither are you,” she said, grinning as she took up her spot over the sage dressing. “I was ready to go home and have sex on the floor an hour ago.” Simultaneously they noticed the man across the table avidly listening to their conversation. “The things we have to do to get volunteers around here,” she said to him, then laughed as she looked up at Oliver’s expression.
“Geez, Holly,” he muttered under his breath. “That guy’s going to be back here first thing in the morning, offering you every service you can think of.”
“Yeah, well, the things we have to do to get volunteers around here...”
Her dismissive giggling did nothing to ease the disapproving frown on his face. She had to lean over and murmur, “I love you, Oliver,” in his ear before people started asking for gravy again.
The days were lazy and pensive after Christmas as people wound down from one holiday and geared up for the next.
“How did you manage that?” Oliver asked, following her into her apartment. “Tonight and tomorrow off, as if you had a regular job? What’ll we do?” He paused and looked anxious. “This is our test, you know. This’ll make us or break us, spending more than four hours together at one time. Gawd!” he exclaimed putting his hands to his head. “What’ll we talk about? What’ll we do?”
“What’s your point here, Oliver?” she asked, fighting the smile that wanted to take over her droll expression.
He grinned. It had become his custom to take her into his arms whenever the opportunity presented itself. He did so now, slowly and with calculation.
“My point,” he said, bending his head to nuzzle her neck, “is that I’m overwhelmed with all the time we’ll have to do this to each other.” His body quickened as he reached up under her sweater to feel her soft, warm skin against his palms and he heard the familiar hum of satisfaction in her throat. “If we start now, we might be finished in time for you to go to work on Sunday.” He kissed her until her knees buckled, and he smiled. “...or not. We’ll see.”
She stopped the descent of his face toward hers with one finger to his lips.
“I worked Christmas so that families can be together, but mostly because New Year’s Eve is my night to celebrate.”
“We’ll celebrate like crazy, right here on your lumpy couch.”
“Nope. I want horns and confetti and champagne.”
“I’ll call Clavin and have him bring some over.”
“I want people. Happy people.”
“We’ll roll over at midnight and watch Dick Clark in Times Square. He’s a really happy guy.”
“Oliver,” she said, her tone cajoling, her smile the slyest thing he’d ever seen. “I have a new dress. I borrowed it just for tonight, just for you, to wear with the beautiful pearls you gave me for Christmas. Pretty dresses are a shame to waste, don’t you think?”
He had reservations at The Mark for eight-thirty and a night of festivities planned, but it was fun to watch her in operation. Of course, he’d have canceled all of it for a chance to spend the entire time sequestered in her apartment making mad, passionate love, but he was just as willing to take her out and show her off to the town.
“A definite waste. Is it red? I like you in red. And black,” he added, remembering her Freudian slip.
“You’ll like me in white too,” she said, pressing her body to his in all the right places. “And all night long you can think about taking it off.”
He set her away from him.
“We’ll see about that,” he said, his voice strained, his body coiled and tense like a spring about to be sprung. “You better hurry.”
She chuckled, knowing exactly how he felt and loving the notion that she could make him feel that way any time she wanted to. It was very heady stuff, love. It made her feel as if she might live forever; as if she had power over the universe and that every wish she made would come true.
“I still haven’t figured out where your friends got the idea that you’re such a tough guy, Oliver,” she said, moving off toward the bathroom. “I think you’re...”
“A pushover?” he said, his body aching.
“I was thinking... sweet,” she called out.
“Don’t push it, Holly.” He threw his coat over hers on the back of a chair and started looking around for something to do while he waited for her to shower and change.
“Putting those little battery-operated fans on Mrs. Quinn’s wheelchair, so she could feel wind in her hair, was pretty sweet, Oliver.”
He cringed. It had been a simple, mindless, impulsive act on his part, and he was beginning to think he’d never hear the end of it.
“They were lying around the boardroom, from when I used to smoke,” he said with a shrug, uncomfortable with gratitude and praise. “The board would sit in there with those little fans and blow the smoke back in my face.”
“So you quit.”
“I quit for me. I still smoke at least two cigarettes during every board meeting as a matter of principle.” Holly laughed and said something, but he didn’t hear. He was distracted by her answering machine. “Do you know you have thirteen messages on this thing? Don’t you ever list
en to your messages?”
“Thirteen?” she asked, coming to the bathroom door in her bra and panties. “I wonder who... Did you call earlier?”
“Yesterday. I forgot it was Thursday.”
“Then I must have forgotten to erase it,” she said, frowning. “I wonder who the twelfth one is?” She went back into the bathroom.
“Well, aren’t you going to listen and find out?” he asked, his finger itching to press the button.
“I’ll listen to them later.”
“What if they’re important?” He couldn’t help himself, he pressed the blinking red button—it was reflex.
Holly came back to the door when she heard the machine beeping. Smiling, she leaned against the doorjamb to listen, her eyes wise and knowing as she watched Oliver’s face.
“Holly, it’s John. I’m just calling to wish you a happy birthday. The kids and Annie send their love, and you know you’ve got mine. Call when you get a minute and... have a blast, babe.”
“Holly? It’s Mama. I love you. You hava nice birthday and you call me in the morning, yes?”
“Little girl, it’s Tony. Are you out with your friend Oliver again? When are you going to bring him back to meet us properly? I promise to be good and not ask too many questions. I’ll even stuff a loaf of bread in Roberto’s mouth. Did I wish you Happy Birthday yet? I think I forgot, but you have a good time tonight and you bring him home, you hear?”
“Holly? This is Bobby. Who is this fellow, this Oliver, Antonio talks about? I think I should meet him, yes? Just because you’re having another birthday doesn’t mean you can forget about your family. You call me tomorrow.”
“This is me again, Bobby. Happy Birthday, little girl. I love you.”
“Hol-ly! Happy Birthday! Remember when you turned twenty-one and we all took you out New Year’s Eve and you said it was like having the whole world celebrate your birthday? Every New Year’s I think of that and cheer your birthday more than I do the new year. Oh, in case you can’t tell one message from the next, this is Tom. Bye. I love ya.”
In all, there were twelve birthday messages. One from her mother, two from her brother Bobby, and one each from her nine other brothers—and Oliver’s missive from the day before made thirteen.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” he asked, disappointed that she hadn’t, flabbergasted by the outpouring of love he felt from her family. His father had always remembered his birthday, but it was usually a quiet, simple thing that came and went each year without much ado. “I should have known from your name it was sometime around Christmas.”
“Yeah,” she said, laughing. “I used to wonder about that. Then I decided Carolann must have been strung out on something and thought it was still Christmas—otherwise, she might have named me Time or Eve or Passing or something else very hippielike. I lucked out, huh?”
He smiled. “I still wish I’d known.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. As you heard, I’ve always had more than enough to put up with on my birthday.”
“But I want to get you something... a gift.” Wholly unconscious of her attire, she walked into his embrace and kissed him as if he were the beginning and end of all she knew.
“You are the best present you could ever give me.”
Ten
MERCHANTS RUTHLESSLY REMOVED ALL signs of Christmas and the New Year from their windows and within days were pushing hearts and flowers and shiny boxes of chocolates. A few moved straight into spring—setting shamrocks and leprechauns and daffodils and baby ducks in the same window.
Holly stood at one such window and wished she could make time travel as fast. She wished it were April and that whatever was to happen between that moment and then, was over and done.
The grant hearing was scheduled for the twelfth of January, eight days away, and if she were facing anyone but Elizabeth George, she might have been able to sleep soundly at night. As it was, she slept fitfully, waking often to ponder the future of the clinic, of the people it served. She made mental lists of other available grants, private and federal. She rehashed her own budget, cutting already dull corners, squeezing out every penny she could spare.
She wasn’t going to give up. Between Joan Ellerbey and herself, they would find a way to keep the clinic open... she hoped and prayed. But then there was St. Augustine’s.
Every day she went to visit Carolann and every day she wondered if, when St. Augustine’s was threatened with a loss of funds, would she go to Oliver for help? She had no real influence there; she wasn’t aware of the complete financial situation. Could they withstand the loss of a single grant? Or would it break them, force them to close their doors? And if she did turn to Oliver, would it be fair to do so to ensure her mother’s safety, when she wouldn’t do it for the hundreds of needy people at the clinic?
Holly was a gut-reaction sort of person. She acted on instinct, thrived on impulse. But lately her judgment was clouded with the dust from the battle between her love for Oliver and her pride.
He’d have given her the moon and the stars, too, if she asked. It would make him happy if she asked. All she had to do was ask, but she couldn’t. She went over every reason and found fault with each. Oliver knew she didn’t need him to fight her battles; he knew she wasn’t after his money; he would know that she wasn’t asking for herself but for countless others... and still she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
“Will you please pay attention,” Oliver spoke sternly, scattering her thoughts. “I’m not doing this for my health. I’m doing it for yours. Pay attention.”
He stood before her in gray fleece sweats—formal wear at Bill’s Health-o-Rama, where, for her birthday, he’d given her a lifetime membership. He’d said it was the closest thing he could find to a real gym within walking distance of her apartment and that if he couldn’t make her see reason, he would at least see to it that she could defend herself.
For the first half-hour he’d coached her through a series of muscle-building exercises. He’d been wholly indelicate in pointing out what he called flab on her body, and he’d pushed her aching muscles to a point where she could have taken said flab and beat him about the head and shoulders with it.
Now he was showing her self-defense techniques—and he was a brutal instructor.
“You have to be focused. Tune into everything around you. Nine tenths of the battle is surprising your attacker with your awareness. Make it a habit.” He stopped, his body relaxed, then he cocked his head to one side and asked, “Are you okay? You seem sort of out of it today.”
“I’m fine. I’m tired and I want to go home and I don’t think this is really necessary, but I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, taking on an attacker’s attitude, ignoring her complaints. “Now, be ready and be focused. Remember, there are five prime targets. Their sight”—he pointed to his eyes—“their breathing”—nose and diaphragm—“their ability to walk or chase after you”—legs and feet—“and where they live.”
She followed the direction of his hands and smiled.
“Does Clavin press your sweatpants like that, or do you wear a new pair every time you go to a gym?”
He screwed up his face at her. “At least mine are in one piece and there aren’t great gaping holes to show everyone the color of my underwear.”
She pulled at the elastic and peeked into her pants.
“I thought you liked these pink ones,” she said, trying hard to look hurt.
“I do,” he said, quickly glancing at the bodybuilders. “Everyone does. They’re distracting as hell.”
She grinned at him—the time-tested grin, the grin she knew made his blood boil.
“Are you going to pay attention or not?” he asked harshly, feeling a little overexerted.
“I really can take care of myself, Oliver.”
“Humor me.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes, ever indulgent.
“Okay,” he said. “Turn around and let’s say I come at you from behind
. Like this. I grab you around the neck like so and twist your arm back like this. What are you going to do?”
“Scream?”
He tightened the hold on her neck enough to make her realize that screaming wouldn’t help.
“Poke you in the eyes with my other hand?”
She tried, but he shifted his weight, pulled on her twisted arm, and kept her defenseless.
“Not so smart now, are you, Holly?” he said, close to her ear. “This is why I want you to learn self-defense. You’re an easy target. If I wanted your money, I’d take it. If I wanted your body, I could take that too. If I wanted to bash your head in, I’d do it now...”
She knew his intentions were good, but there was just something about his attitude that was starting to tick her off.
Before he could take another breath or say another word, she stomped down on his instep, and as his head reared back in pain, she twisted and rammed her elbow into his diaphragm. When he bent forward, she nailed two more targets with an upper cut, catching his nose in a hit directly between the eyes. He reeled backward on his heels, and she tapped his groin with only enough force to let him know that had she wanted to, she could have cracked his family jewels wide open.
He landed on the mat on his backside, and when he felt blood trickling through his nose he went flat on his back. When the stars began to fade and he could breathe again, he opened his eyes.
Holly stood above him, looking concerned until he opened his eyes and glared at her. Then she smiled, shrugged easily, and said, “Ten brothers.”
“Your brothers taught you that?” He struggled to a sitting position, trying not to notice the delighted smirks on the faces of their bemuscled audience.
“They taught me the important stuff, but I picked up the fine points at the YWCA when I first came to Oakland and had to move into a potentially tough neighborhood.” She leaned forward and helped him to his feet, looking closely at his nose. “It was great therapy while I was going to court for Carolann. I’d pretend all my attackers were lawyers. We’d better get some ice on that. Are you all right?”
Wait for Me Page 14
