by Patricia Kay
"What are you having?" She glanced at the half-full glass on the coffee table.
"Vodka and tonic."
"That sounds good. I'll have that, too."
"I'll be right back," he promised. "Don't go away."
She smiled and crossed her legs. The vivid emerald green dress glistened in the apricot glow of the setting sun. Carly Simon sang "Anticipation" as Alex moved to the makeshift bar he'd set up on the sofa table.
"Where are we going for dinner?" Ronnie asked as he handed her her drink.
Alex grinned. "We're not going anywhere. I cooked dinner for us."
"A man of hidden talents," she said. "I'm impressed." She hoped she'd managed to sound sophisticated, but the words of the song pulsed in her mind as tingles of anticipation darted through her body at the thought of spending the entire evening there ... just the two of them.
"I've always liked to cook," Alex admitted. "I used to follow my Aunt Isabel around and beg to help her in the kitchen." He didn't mention that his aunt would never tolerate his help. He'd taught himself to cook in the years before he'd met Margo. Cooking had always soothed him. Anytime he'd get upset about something, he'd head for the kitchen.
"Did your aunt live with you?" Ronnie asked.
"No, it was the other way round. I lived with her."
"Oh?"
"My parents died in an automobile accident when I was only five," he explained. The old feeling, the one he'd thought he'd banished forever, suddenly flooded his mind. He still remembered the loneliness and the pain, the feeling that no one really loved him. He pushed the feeling down. "I was raised by my mother's older sister."
Ronnie saw the lost, hurt look in Alex's eyes when he told her about his parents' death. She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. "We have something in common then. I told you my mother died when I was only a baby. She had leukemia. But, of course, I still had Dad and my brothers." She picked up her glass and took a swallow of the cool, crisp drink.
"Tell me about your family," Alex said.
Ronnie could see he had regained control of his emotions. She settled back in her chair and said, "There's not that much to tell. Dad's dead now, too. He died almost four years ago. He was only fifty-four. I have two brothers—Chris, who's thirty-six, and Larry, who's thirty-eight. Chris is a veterinarian and lives in Schenectady with his girlfriend, Michelle. Larry is a systems programmer and lives in Albany with his wife and children." She grinned. "Then, of course, there's Sam and Miss Agatha, both of whom think they're surrogate parents or something."
"I figured as much," Alex said. His eyes twinkled. "I don't think Sam likes me much."
"Oh, don't pay any attention to him. Sam's like an old lady in a lot of ways. And you have to admit you didn't exactly endear yourself to him when you imprisoned Hector."
"True." Alex drained the last of his drink. "I have to check the steaks." He stood up.
"Need any help?" Ronnie asked.
"No, but you can come watch."
Ronnie followed him out to the tiny, modernized kitchen. She leaned against the doorframe and watched as Alex quickly and efficiently turned the steaks under the broiler, tossed the salad and sliced the French bread. Then she helped him carry everything into the small dining room.
The small round table looked lovely, with a bowl of fresh flowers in the center and two tall candles in silver holders. Alex lit both after seating Ronnie.
Although dinner was delicious, Ronnie felt too jumpy to eat much. Alex had prepared something he called double baked potatoes filled with a mixture of potato, cheese, and onions, and the thick New York strip steaks were broiled to perfection, but she was too unsettled by her strong attraction to him to do justice to the food. She noticed Alex didn't seem to have any difficulty finishing his portions, though.
"Would you like your dessert now, or later?" he asked.
"Why don't we wait awhile?" she suggested.
"Good idea."
"I'll help you clean up."
"No," he said. "We'll just leave the dishes. I'll clean up later."
"I insist." Ronnie pushed back her chair and stood. She stacked her plates and picked them up. "Come on. It'll only take a few minutes."
She walked out to the small kitchen. It looked very clean and neat. She couldn't believe he'd prepared dinner without leaving a mess. She never seemed to be able to manage that. "It's too bad you don't have a dishwasher," she said.
"I don't mind," he answered. "I don't generally dirty many dishes."
Ronnie filled one side of the double sink with hot water and added a generous dollop of liquid soap. She began to wash, and Alex dried and put the dishes away. Because the kitchen was so narrow, he brushed against her several times as they worked. Each time Ronnie felt the same charge of tension and electricity she'd felt earlier in the evening. It was hard to keep her voice level as they talked. She wondered if he felt the currents, too. She felt lightheaded, suspended in air, as if any moment she'd come crashing down to earth.
Later, as they sat over chocolate mousse and coffee, Alex began to tell her about his new play.
"I'm having some difficulty with it," he admitted. A lock of dark hair had fallen forward, and he brushed it back.
"What kind of difficulty?"
Alex shrugged. "Oh, different things. It's hard to explain, and you'd probably just be bored."
"Oh, no. I'd love to hear about it. I can't imagine how anyone sits down and writes a play. I'm fascinated."
Alex smiled, and Ronnie's heart caught. In that moment he didn't look sophisticated or arrogant or any of the things she'd first thought about him. Instead he looked pleased at her interest and ... sweet. Sweet? Ronnie couldn't believe she had actually come up with the word sweet in connection with the great Alexander Summerfield.
"One of the problems I'm having is that I know what I want to happen at the end of the second act, but I'm not sure about the right way to get there."
He leaned forward, earnestness tinging his words. "See, it's important to foreshadow, let the audience get a glimmer of what will happen, so that when it actually does happen it isn't so much of a surprise that they don't believe it. Foreshadowing takes careful planning."
"I never realized—"
"No, of course not. Why should you?"
"Well, what is it you want to happen?"
"It's hard to explain if you haven't read what's taken place up to that point in the story."
Ronnie smiled. "Would you let me read it?"
"Uh..." He hesitated, his eyes narrowing. "I usually don't let anyone see my work ... well, no one except Bernie, my agent."
"If you don't want me to read it, that's all right." She shouldn't have asked. She could see she'd made him uncomfortable.
"It's not that—"
"Really, Alex. I understand. I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that. I don't know anything about it. You're right not to trust me."
“It’s not that, I ... look, I’m sorry.”
"No. Don't apologize,” she said. “I'm the one who should apologize. It's your work."
He studied her for a long moment. Ronnie could see the conflicting emotions on his face. "Maybe I should let someone completely fresh and objective take a look at it. Bernie and I have gone over this stuff so many times, I'm not sure either one of us is capable of seeing anything new." He stood up. "I may regret this, but I do want you to read it. The only thing is, I don't have any extra copies. I'll have to give you my working copy."
"I'll take very good care of it," Ronnie said softly. A warm glow suffused her at the thought of the trust Alex was placing in her. She thought she understood his feelings. What he was about to give her was a part of himself, and he didn't even know her. At that moment, Ronnie felt very special.
"I know you will."
A few minutes later he returned with a three-ring binder. He handed it to her, then sat down again. She glanced at the binder, noticed the dogeared pages inside, then set it on the coffee table.
> "I'm excited about reading it," she said. "I'll try to have it back to you in a day or so."
"There's no hurry," he said. "I only gave you Act I and the first part of Act II—just enough so you'll know what I'm talking about. I kept the part I'm working on now." Suddenly he was very glad he'd given her the play to read. "I think I made the right decision in coming to Juliette for the summer."
"Juliette's a nice place to live," she said. She drained her coffee cup, then placed it on the coffee table next to the binder. "Peace, quiet, no distractions."
"Peace, quiet, and no distractions, huh?" Except for you, pretty lady. You're a definite distraction. As soon as the thought formed, Alex knew it was true.
"Well..." She stood up. "On that note, I'd better be going. It's getting late, and you're a working man."
"But tomorrow's Saturday," he protested. He didn't want the evening to end. He hadn't felt so relaxed, so easy around anyone except Bernie, in years.
"No rest for the wicked," she teased. "Don't writers work seven days a week? And didn't you just tell me you have problems with your play? No distractions, remember?"
Alex loved the mischievous smile on her face and the look of devilry in her beautiful eyes. He stood up and walked around the coffee table. He reached out and with the tips of his fingers he touched her cheek, tracing the outline of her cheekbone. He felt the tremor in her body, and an answering tremor shook him. Her skin felt like satin against his hand, cool and smooth and lovely. His fingers moved under her chin, and he lifted her head. A faint pink stained her cheeks, and her breasts rose and fell rapidly.
"You're definitely a distraction," he murmured. "A beautiful, sexy, desirable ... distraction." He saw the quick leap of pleasure in her eyes. What am I doing? he wondered. He'd meant to keep it light and friendly. "Good thing I've got a lot of willpower," he said.
"Yes," she whispered. "Good thing."
Alex called on every ounce of that willpower as he forced himself to drop his hand, to move back, to smile.
"It was a wonderful evening, Alex," she said. "Thank you for asking me."
"The pleasure was all mine," he said inanely. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep that night. He might tell himself he wasn't going to get involved with Veronica Valentine, but the plain fact was he already was. And he wanted her. He wanted her badly. But we don't always get what we want, do we? he asked himself. Remember that, Alex old boy. Each thing we want carries a price tag. He must keep reminding himself of what had happened the last time he'd allowed a woman to become too important to him. Was he willing to risk the loss of his peace of mind again and in turn the loss of his ability to write?
They walked outside together. The air felt cool on Alex's skin, and the good summertime smells surrounded them. Crickets sang, and somewhere off in the distance a dog barked. The moon shone full and bright, and the navy night had a magical feel.
"Goodnight, Alex," she said as she turned to face him.
He knew she expected him to kiss her, and he wanted to ... he wanted to more than he'd wanted anything in a long time. But he kept thinking about that price tag; and, full of regret, he backed away and said softly, "Goodnight, Veronica."
He turned and walked away.
Chapter 5
Ronnie floated through the ensuing weeks in a kind of golden haze. After that first dinner together, she and Alex fell into a comfortable routine. Each day Ronnie would go to work and take care of the hundreds of details and problems her position entailed, and Alex would work on his play. Sometimes Ronnie would catch herself daydreaming about him, but most of the time she managed to concentrate on her work, knowing she'd probably spend the evening with Alex. The knowledge that they were friends, that their relationship became more cemented with each passing day, that he depended upon her companionship and advice, that he was beginning to respect her opinions and views, that he trusted her enough to begin reading the day's work to her each evening and wanted her suggestions and feedback: all these were enough.
They discovered they both enjoyed almost every kind of music, from classical to pop to rock to bluegrass to country. Alex had brought his extensive collection of records up from the city, saying he knew he couldn't spend a summer without them, and Ronnie had been an avid collector for years. Many evenings they would sit and listen to Rosanne Cash or James Taylor or Bruce Springsteen or Whitney Houston and discuss the merits of this or that song, or this or that rendition.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays they'd jog together. Each admitted to the other how much they really hated running, but each agreed that the activity was a necessary evil in their lives. Alex told Ronnie how small and physically inactive he'd been as a child, how his classmates had made fun of him when he was a teenager because he preferred to stay inside and read rather than play basketball or touch football or baseball. Ronnie could picture the young Alex with his underdeveloped physique and shy, sensitive nature, and her heart felt squeezed by a huge fist as he related in a neutral voice how many jeers and indignities and hurts he'd suffered through at the hands of his peers.
"When I was sixteen I finally realized I had to do something about my life," he said. Ronnie could tell by the absence of emotion in his voice just how painful those growing up years had been. "I had to have a tantrum to convince Aunt Isabel that spending the money for a weight bench and other workout equipment wasn't throwing away money, but she finally agreed. After that, I worked out every single day until I was no longer the brunt of jokes."
Ronnie wanted to put her arms around him, but she didn't. She and Alex were maintaining a very careful distance; there was a line between them that neither seemed willing to cross just yet. Alex hadn't tried to kiss her once, hadn't put his arm around her or touched her except in the most casual way. Sometimes Ronnie wondered if he really didn't feel the tension and awareness and electricity in the air between them.
But she respected his obvious decision to ignore it, to keep their relationship one of close and valued friendship without sexual overtones. Deep down, Ronnie knew this course was wisest. At the end of August, Alex would leave Juliette, and she would never see him again. But some small part of her ached inside, a part she managed to keep deeply buried except for occasional bursts of hunger and need, even though she knew the situation wasn't going to change, even though she told herself not to be a fool.
During this period, an incident happened to reinforce the knowledge that this was a go-nowhere-but-friendship relationship. Ronnie and Alex had decided to take a picnic lunch down to a small park by the Juliette River, intending to spend the afternoon there. Alex had enthusiastically gone along with Ronnie's plans, telling her he made the best fried chicken in the world, and that would be his contribution to the lunch. "I'll also furnish the beer and wine."
"Okay," she said, "I'll bring everything else." She unearthed a big wicker picnic basket from her mother's things and packed it with French bread, cheese, a jar of Kosher pickles, a container of potato salad she'd bought at the supermarket, brownies from the Juliette bakery, and a couple of crisp apples. Cooking wasn't Ronnie's strong point.
She found an old quilt they could spread on the ground and threw it on top of the steadily growing pile of stuff for the picnic. A Frisbee and Mary Higgins Clark's latest book joined the quilt.
Alex laughed when he saw all the things she had ready to be put in the trunk of the car. "We're only going to be there one afternoon," he teased.
"I like to be ready for anything," Ronnie said.
It was a beautiful, hot day with clear skies and a stiff breeze. The leather seats of Alex's car burned Ronnie's thighs as she slid in. "I should have worn jeans," she complained.
"I like you in shorts," Alex said as he started the car. He gave her an appreciative glance, his eyes lingering on her tanned legs in pink shorts.
Ronnie felt that queer, lighter-than-air feeling Alex always managed to produce in her when he looked at her in that lazy way. Veronica Valentine, you're a fool. This is just a friendship, a summer flir
tation with a gorgeous man, something to write about in your diary and remember when you're old and fat and have ten kids. This is nothing to build your hopes on.
When they reached the park, they unloaded their things, and Alex spread the quilt in the shade of a leafy maple tree. The river sparkled under the bright noonday sun, and the air felt heavy with rich summertime smells. Ronnie sighed deeply and sat with her back supported by the trunk of the tree. Alex lay next to her, his head propped up on his arm, and he looked up at her. Ronnie turned her head, and something painful squeezed her heart as she looked into Alex's clear gray eyes.
Oh, God, she thought. He was so handsome. He was dressed in dark blue shorts and an open-necked white T-shirt. His arms and legs were tanned and muscular. He'd kicked off his sneakers, and he was wiggling his bare toes.
For a long moment, their gaze remained locked. A bee droned nearby, working at a patch of clover. In the distance, the shouts of children on the swings and seesaws carried clearly in the country air. Still holding her eyes, Alex reached over and lightly touched her hand.
"It's going to be hard to leave Juliette," he said softly, rubbing his thumb against the back of her hand. "I'll miss you."
The knot in Ronnie's chest grew tighter. Her heart thudded painfully as she struggled to keep her voice light. "I'll miss you, too." She forced a smile to her lips, but knew the smile was wobbly and prayed Alex wouldn't notice.
"We've had a lot of fun together, haven't we?" he said. She nodded.
"You're very different from the women I meet in New York. I feel much more relaxed around you. You're so natural and easy to be with."
"I'm glad." Oh, Alex. The part of her that had remained buried most of the summer pushed its way to the surface of her feelings, and she swallowed. Tears clogged her throat. She could feel herself falling apart, splintering into millions of pieces, and she knew she was very close to making a complete fool of herself.
