by Cach, Lisa
I’d brushed my teeth. Spruced up my makeup. Done a quickie shave job on my underarms and then, when he still hadn’t returned, my legs. I’d changed the sheets on my bed.
Still no Ian.
My eagerness was fading, a tinge of annoyance creeping in. He hadn’t been gone very long, really, but it was longer than I’d expected. I scolded myself for getting ticked off at him for not following my imaginary time schedule, and looked for something to distract me.
The dining room of the house had been turned into a shared office for me and Lauren. My computer was there. I sat down at my desk and turned it on, thinking of that photo the girl at Pike Place Market had sent to me.
It was there, and even funnier than it had looked on the small screen of her phone. I looked utterly surprised, and Ian looked like a superhero in black, swooping in to save the day. The fish was still a blur, but there were a few faces in the background that showed surprised fear as they, too, thought that a real fish was flying into the crowd. It was a great picture.
A mischievous thought struck me, and I giggled. I played with my photo program, and a few minutes later was printing out multiple copies of the picture. As my printer was running I fetched my Christmas cards. I took one out of the box, opened the blank card, and began to write:
Dear Candice,
Merry Christmas! It was so good to hear from you, and I’m glad to see that you and Jared are so happy. Life here in Seattle has its own excitements, though—like being tackled by a Scotsman at Pike Place Market! Actually, his name is Ian, and he’s staying with me for a few days before heading back to London, where he works. The photo is of him “saving” me from an airborne salmon. It’s not a long-term thing between us, but sometimes the shortest affairs can be the sweetest.
Hoping you get everything you want for Christmas,
Tessa
Heh, heh! I might not have a husband nor any hope of a family on the horizon, but at least I could look like I was having fun with my life. I reached for another card.
Five cards later, a glance at the clock showed that Ian had been gone for an hour and a half. I scowled and went to the kitchen to fetch a spoon and one of the chocolate pots de crème that had been set aside for dessert, hoping that food would calm my rising tide of anxiety and impatience and a sick feeling of abandonment. That fax had better turn out to be life-and-death serious.
I sat back down at my desk and ate the chocolate while reading over my latest composition. The flying-fish story had evolved into something a little more dramatic, and a little farther away from the truth:
Dear Rachel,
Do you remember how, when we were teenagers, we used to make up goofy stories of how we’d meet handsome men who would sweep us off our feet and treat us like princesses? Well, I never expected that a Scotsman would do just that, and at Pike Place Market, no less! He thought he was saving me from a renegade flying salmon. As you can see in the photo, he literally swept me off my feet. Next thing I knew, I was lying on top of him on the ground, and it was like one of those moments in the movies where you look into each other’s eyes and think, Yes, this is someone I will love. I invited him to stay at my house for a couple days and now he’s spoiling me rotten, cooking for me and buying me jewelry and… Well, let’s just say that he knows how to make a woman happy. He’s flying home to London in a couple days, so we’re making the very most of his short time here in Seattle. I’ll probably have to wait until spring break to go to London, but that’s not so far away.
I never thought I’d get a gift this good for Christmas.
Love ya,
Tessa
I bit my lip, wondering if I’d gone too far. Nothing I’d written was a through-and-through lie, but there was plenty of distortion of the truth. I didn’t want to lie to my friends. Worse yet, sending the card would mean that at some later date I’d have to answer the question, “What ever happened to that Scottish guy you were so excited about?”
On the other hand, Rachel and I were mostly Christmas card correspondents, falling out of touch for the rest of the year. She’d get a kick out of the story—a kick, too, out of hearing in next year’s card that I no longer was with the Scotsman.
I shrugged and picked up another blank card. I’d write the cards, but wait until tomorrow before deciding whether to seal up my white lies and send them to my friends.
It was two thirty by the time I finished writing them and finished off Ian’s share of dessert, as well. It was with more than a little angry fierceness that I scooped the last bits of creamy chocolate out of the bottom of the glass. Where the heck was he? Couldn’t he at least call me and tell me when he’d be back?
Didn’t he care about coming back and taking advantage of me?
I set the glass down with an angry clatter of the spoon. Lauren had warned me that he could talk the panties off a girl. Maybe, once he’d more or less achieved that, he lost interest. Maybe he hadn’t been interested to begin with; as I’d said to Lauren, I was the only deer in the sights. What else was he going to do with me all evening, other than try to get into my pants?
Wasn’t I worth coming back for? something small and hurt inside me asked. When he’d told me I was beautiful, I’d almost believed that I was.
“Dammit,” I said aloud, my voice cracking with tears. I sniffed them back. “Dammit, dammit! I’m not going to cry about him!”
I got up, stomped over to the fireplace and put the screen up over the embers, turned out all the lights but the one over the kitchen sink, and then went to my room and changed into my most raggedy flannel nightgown. I crawled under my covers and pulled them up tight under my chin.
I felt a tear seep out and pool on the side of my nose. I wouldn’t be crying if I hadn’t allowed my heart to get involved. I’d started believe my own Christmas card lies: I’d started to fall in love with him.
Dammit!
Chapter Eight
It was a crush that I had on Ian; that was all. A stupid, juvenile crush. It would go away the moment I met a man I could have a future with—a man who lived here in Seattle, and who kept his word.
Someone who found no sport in talking the panties off of women.
I finished pinning a piece of the red silk charmeuse into place and moved over to my sewing machine. I was going to finish the red dress and go to the party tonight. I’d ignore Alan and his new girlfriend—or better yet, be impeccably civil and as coolly aloof as the iceberg that had sunk the Titanic—and I’d charm Carolyn’s cousin-in-law Kevin, sweeping him off his feet and convincing him he’d found the woman of his dreams.
Ian could come along if he liked. It made no difference to me.
I sewed the piece of fabric into place and checked for puckers in the silk. None. It was coming together beautifully.
I imagined myself in the dress, my hair in a new, fashionable cut, my makeup sultry, my nipples making small beads under the fabric. The cut of the dress wouldn’t allow a bra: it would be only a silken coating of red between my breasts and the open air. I imagined myself in the dress, drop-dead sexy and sultry as Mata Hari, and imagined the look on Ian’s face.
He never had seen me at my best. He didn’t know the magic I could work with a bit of satin and my sewing machine. Talk about illusions—ha! He knew nothing of illusions. I knew how to fit a dress so that every asset was magnified and every flaw ceased to exist. I knew how to make short legs look long, a small bust big, a thick waist thin. I could turn a dumpy woman into a siren, an awkward gnome into a graceful fairy, a fat domestic duck into a wild black swan.
Ian would see me in my red dress and be sorry for last night—sorry he’d lost his one chance to touch me. He’d be sorry about it for the rest of his life. He’d go home to London and wonder forever after if I had been the magical one with whom he would have been happy.
I didn’t know what time he’d finally gotten home. The last time I’d looked at my clock it had been four fifteen, and when I’d awoken at ten I found the door to Lauren’s room closed
and the light in the kitchen off. So he’d come home, but hadn’t thought to let me know.
He hadn’t thought to sit down on the edge of my bed and gently nudge me awake, apologizing and explaining, and persuading me to let him come under the covers with me.
I tightened my lips against the hurt of it, and then silently scolded myself. No, no, no! Carolyn was right. I needed someone who would be here for me; someone who lived in the same city. Someone ready to settle down.
The last thing I needed was a womanizer who lived in London.
I did need a fresh cup of coffee, though.
The house was still quiet, and I guessed that Ian was still asleep. I padded down the stairs in my stocking feet and made a beeline to the coffeemaker. I filled my cup and started to raise it to my lips.
“Is this you and me?” Ian asked.
I yelped in surprise, then yelped again as I sloshed hot coffee on my hand, dropping the mug and yelping a third time as it shattered and coffee splashed on my dancing feet.
“Tessa! Are you all right?” Ian appeared out of the dining room and rushed toward me, grabbing a dish towel on his way. He crouched down and dabbed at my feet, shoving aside the pieces of broken coffee mug. He was unshaven, his hair unkempt, and looked like he was wearing the same clothes as last night. He looked good with his perfection rumpled; he looked vulnerable.
“You scared me!” I said, trying to hide how much I wanted to take his face between my hands and cover it in kisses.
“Sorry, sorry!”
I squatted and started picking up shards.
“Let me do that,” he said, gently nudging my hand away. “I don’t want you cutting yourself.”
I made a noise, reaching for another shard. “I’m capable of cleaning up broken crockery without hurting myself.”
I could feel him looking at me, but I kept my gaze on the mess on the floor, biting the inside of my lip to keep from asking him the half dozen questions that had plagued me for the past ten hours. He helped me pick up the rest of the pieces in silence and we both stood and dumped them in the trash.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said.
I hesitated, then shrugged, turning on the water and washing my hands. Was he sorry he hadn’t come back, or sorry he’d touched me at all? “It was business. I understand.” I dried my hands and looked at him, my “brave” face firmly in place. “It’s for the best, really. I’d had too much wine and wasn’t thinking clearly. I shouldn’t have let things go so far between us.” I said it almost as a challenge, daring him to contradict me. Wishing he’d contradict me and say that last night had been more than wine-induced passion and the convenience of the moment, that it had meant something to him.
Instead, he said nothing. I couldn’t read the expression on his face, or what thoughts were behind his beautiful dark blue eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw. The silence stretched.
I felt myself swaying toward him. I wanted to lean against his chest and feel his arms around me, I wanted to hear him murmur soothing sounds against my ear. I wanted to press my lips into the crook of his neck, against that tender bend of flesh.
“So did everything work out with the fax?” I asked suddenly, brightly, trying to break the tension and forcing myself to walk past him toward the dining room. Embarrassment began creeping up my neck as I belatedly remembered the pile of photos I’d printed out. They were a giveaway that I was not as indifferent as I was pretending. A girl didn’t print out a dozen photos of a man unless she cared about him.
“I got it, yes,” he said, following me.
“Was it a crisis in the company?” I looked down at my desk and saw the last Christmas card I’d written wide open, my exaggerated story of the flying fish right there for anyone to read. I quickly flipped the card shut and looked at him. How long had he stood here at my desk? Had he read it?
“Not a crisis. A crossroads, though, and coming much sooner than I’d expected.” He came to the desk and picked up one of the photos, ignoring the Christmas cards. “This is you and me, at the market. How ever did you get it?”
I explained about the girl with the camera phone.
“Can I have a copy?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” Why did he want a copy? My obsessive girl brain worked the question over, looking for some hint of his motivation. An interest in me? A wish to appear interested? A meaningless impulse? Or did he just want the picture of himself? “So what’s the crossroads?”
He sighed and ran his hand through his rumpled hair. “I’m not allowed to discuss it.”
“Your boss said you couldn’t?”
He gave a startled laugh. “My boss? No. My legal counsel.”
I frowned, not understanding, but didn’t ask anything more.
“It’s nothing bad or unsavory,” he said.
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
Another silence fell between us. I fidgeted.
“Lauren’s sister had her baby,” he offered. “Late last night. Lauren called while I was at Kinko’s.”
“Great!”
“A girl, Elspeth Miranda. All the fingers and toes, and apparently a pair of lungs that could wake the dead.”
I smiled. “Quite a name. Lauren will make a terrific aunt.”
“A fiercely protective one, I think.” He smiled wryly. “She’ll probably persuade her sister to send little Elspeth to a girls’ school, far away from the pawing hands of boys.”
“What makes you say that?”
His gaze met mine. “She looks out for those she cares about.” Before I could question him on that he changed his tone, saying lightly, “I heard you sewing upstairs. I hope you’re going to tell me that you’re finishing the red dress and are going to that party tonight. It sounds like there’s someone waiting to meet you.”
He took the wind right out of my sails of spite. The little that was left of my “I’ll show him!” defiance deflated and flapped in the breeze. He wasn’t supposed to want me to go to the party and meet men. Where was the jealousy? Where was the possessiveness? I wanted anger, I wanted hurt, I wanted yearning and suffering, the pulling of hair and the rending of garments!
I didn’t want, “I hope you go to the party and have sex in the middle of the carpet with half a dozen marriageable guys. I’ll stay here and eat French cheese, thanks, and you can tell me all the details when you return.”
“Yes, I thought it might be fun to go, after all,” I said. “I can’t let Alan scare me off from doing things.” And I couldn’t let a foolish wish to be with Ian keep me from meeting a man who might give me the type of relationship—and future—that I wanted. I was too old for crushes on inaccessible men. “Besides, maybe I can still make him sorry that he let me go.”
“You don’t want him back, do you?”
“No…” I said without total conviction. If Alan dumped his date and went after me, would I want him?
“Are you sure?”
“I think I can do better.”
“That’s my girl!” he said, and gave me a light, awkward punch on the shoulder.
“Chin up, stiff upper lip, what ho? Carry on, soldier, and please, may I have another?”
He laughed, but the examining look he gave me said that he wasn’t sure of my resolve.
“You’re welcome to come with me,” I said in as neutral a voice as I could manage. I wanted him to see me shine. I wanted him to see that other men might find me irresistible. “The invitation said ‘and guest.’”
“Thanks. I think I will, if it won’t bother you.”
“Why ever should it bother me?”
“Why ever indeed?”
Chapter Nine
I turned around once more in the mirror, making sure that there were no unseemly puckers in the red silk, or hints that I wore nothing but a half-slip under my gown. No bra, no panties.
The dress rippled over my curves like a crimson river. It was deceptively simple in front, with a V-neck and narrow straps, but the back had a V that went down to the sma
ll of my back. Double-sided fashion tape secured the straps to the tops of my shoulders. Without it I’d have been at risk of playing Amazon warrior and flashing a breast.
I checked my teeth for lipstick and arranged my newly cut bangs just so over my forehead. This afternoon I’d gotten a drop-in appointment at a salon a few blocks away, and for the first time in many years I had a stylish mane of hair. It was still long, but there were layers, shape, and movement to it now, and it shone like the impossible tresses in a Pantene commercial. I felt worthy of a blowing fan and a slow-motion camera.
This was as good as I was going to get, and I thought I looked pretty damn fabulous.
Didn’t I?
A twinge of doubt pierced me, and I hoped I hadn’t crossed the line from “beautiful and sexy” to “slutty and skanky.”
Oh, well. Too late now, even if I had.
I heard Ian leave his room and go out into the living room. He must be ready to go. I’d spoken to him through my door an hour ago, but hadn’t seen him since late this morning. He’d gone out, saying he had business to attend to, and had been gone all day.
My bedside clock said that the taxi should be here any minute. I’d decided it was the safer bet, considering that there would be alcohol consumed.
I opened my door and went out, my high heels loud on the wood floor. Ian was sitting in the rocker, reading a book. He looked up at the sound of my entrance, and slowly, slowly the paperback in his hand slipped out of his grip and fell to the floor.
“Good Christ,” he swore softly, his eyes roving up and down over my body and then resting on my face as if he were looking at a stranger. He stood and continued to stare. “Tessa?”
“I do clean up well,” I said lightly, struggling to keep my grin under control.
“You’re friggin’ gorgeous.”
“Until midnight, anyway. At the stroke of twelve my silks turn back to sweats.”
“Burn the sweats. It’s a sin to put them on someone as beautiful as you.”
