He could tell that she was playing it straight on this one. No sarcasm. No hiding emotions. He’d found a sore spot. And he’d do the respectable thing and leave it alone. “Your turn,” he said. Then he had a regret. “You can’t ask me the same thing, can you?”
“No. But I can change it slightly. Like I have never kissed a girl.” She swung her body around so she could face him. She smiled and said, “But I won’t. I can be more creative than that.”
Phew. They really would be here all day if he had to respond to that one.
“Besides, I don’t have time to listen to a list like that,” she smirked.
She’d just read his mind again. But he wasn’t going to acknowledge that. It would be bad form, based on the subject at hand.
It’s not like the list would be that long. He was only seventeen after all. Then again, he had started when he was thirteen. Paul had actually seen to it that Ben had kissing lessons. Paul had said that nothing would be more devastating than to have some girl come forward and say that Dan Wilder’s son was a horrible kisser. So Paul had arranged for a series of lessons taught by a handful of different women. Yes, they were women, not girls. Paul wanted them to be experienced kissers. That was probably illegal. Come to think of it, it was illegal on more than one count: these women would have been paid for their services. Oops. But it had been useful. Ben had never had anyone complain about his kissing. Or dump him for it.
After Katrina had thought for a solid minute, she came up with her next I have never. “I have never been in love,” she said.
Oh boy. That was a toughie. The kissing question might be easier. In fact, he suggested that they go back to that one. She refused. “Hmm,” Ben said. He scratched at his jaw as he thought about this. “Honestly, I don’t know. I thought I was … at one time.” Malia. Katrina probably knew all about Malia. His romance with her had been the hot topic about a year ago. Everyone knew. But he didn’t feel like it was appropriate to say Malia’s name in front of Katrina. So he kept it general. “It really felt like it. I even said it. But then …” oh yeah, this was painful, “she dumped me. That really changed how I felt—fast. I hated her, for a long time. And by the time I forgave her, I couldn’t remember why I had ever loved her. I didn’t have any good feelings left about that relationship … at all. Which makes me think it wasn’t love. Because love lasts, even if you are hurt. That’s what makes it hurt more. Because you long for what you had … what you felt. And when you heal, that love is still there. That fondness. Fondness burdened by a longing for things as they once were.”
They had stopped walking again. They were facing each other, about a foot apart. Katrina looked like she’d just watched a butterfly die. Seriously, she looked like she could cry. But then again, she had said that she sometimes cried when she laughed. So maybe she was busting a gut over this. But no. That wasn’t it. She was genuinely riveted to what he was saying. She felt what he felt.
“So I don’t know. I don’t know if I have ever been in love. I’ll have to get back to you one that one.”
……
They had run out of pier. And out of ideas for anything else to do. But they had been together for a good three hours. So it was time. Ben drove her back to her car, which was still in the parking lot of the flea market. She directed him to pull up besides a black VW Beetle. It needed a wax job. And bigger rims. And low profile tires. He had to stop himself from looking at the car. It needed some work. But at least she didn’t drive a Geo.
“Thanks for the ice cream,” she said as she put her hand on the door handle. “And for coming with me.”
“I’m glad I did. It was cool. All of it.”
She gave him a pleased smile and opened the door.
“Kat?” he asked. He’d never called her that before. He’d always liked the more formal Katrina better. But she no longer seemed like someone to be held at a distance. Someone to be treated with formality. She knew some of his secrets. He knew some of hers. “Kat” felt more appropriate now. He also knew that upgrading her to nickname basis meant that he was screwing the two week waiting rule, which—going into this date—he had still considered implementing once he fulfilled his obligation to attend the swap meet. “Do you think you’d want to go out sometime … like on a real date?”
Her smile was tight, shy. “I’d love to.”
“Okay. I’ll call you.”
“Kay.” She started to step out of the car. “Do you want my number?” she asked like it was an afterthought.
Technically, he already had her number. Or his people did. But he probably should go through the proper motions. He saved her number to his phone and told her goodbye. He watched her drive off.
Their game had been a scratch. They couldn’t agree on the scoring. But he still felt like he owed her … something.
Chapter Eleven ……
Kat sat by her phone for days, waiting for his call. Kay, not really. He called within an hour. An hour! He asked if she wanted to make cannoli with him. That night!
So now Ben was driving her to his house. To the Wilder Estate. Wow. And he was driving Bumblebee. “So how many cars do you have?” she asked.
“Ah … counting the limos?”
“Let’s not, just for the sake of time,” she teased. “Just count the ones you drive.”
“Six. I have six right now.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. But I’m looking into getting something new for my birthday.”
“But I thought the Shelby was new.”
The car conversation was confusing, but the conversation about his house was even more so. He was driving her up this winding canyon road (fast, of course. Dramamine please.) that seemed to lead to nowhere. So she asked, “Are you sure you’re taking me to your house? You’re not going to go dump me in the woods, are you?” That’d teach her to not fraternize with celebrities.
He began to explain how his family had purchased land from the government several years ago. One-hundred acres to be exact.
“So they just sold you land in the middle of a state forest? I thought that state forests were supposed to be protected: to never be developed.”
“Well, yeah. It’s not like they sell off a lot of land. They are selective about which pieces they don’t need any more. Then they sell them. It helps to increase revenue.”
“So is it like an auction? A parcel becomes available and thousands of people put in bids?” Wouldn’t everyone want to live in the forest—if they had the chance?
“Ah. No, not really. The state contacts realtors with … discerning buyers. They ask top dollar.”
Kay, that didn’t really seem fair. Only those with big bucks get the chance to live in the woods? In the woods that all the people of the state are supposed to be able to enjoy. But it was getting sold to the rich to increase the state’s budget. Hmm. It must be great to be a Wilder.
When they finally reached the top of the mountain, Ben pulled off the main road and onto a smaller one. They soon came to a guard house. It was cute. It looked like a miniature cottage. A guard stepped out. Ben came to a complete stop; he rolled down his window and introduced Kat to the guard. “This is Vince,” Ben said.
Kat waved at Vince. He didn’t look like retired military: he looked like active military. Buzzed short hair, tight shirt and camo pants. He looked like he could crush a refrigerator just by giving it a hug. Vince looked in the backseat, in the trunk, then underneath the car. Sheesh. The Wilders took this security thing seriously. As if a squirrel would have jumped onto the bumper and hitched a ride. And we don’t want your type in here! Really, wouldn’t they trust their own Ben not to smuggle someone into the compound? Seemed weird.
The house was another 100 feet down the lane after the guard house. Huge. Holy huge. Probably fifty of her houses put together. It was white. It had a million windows. It seemed to be glowing; the setting California sun reflected off the windows in brilliant reds and golds.
She didn’t really know how to reac
t. Was she supposed to say what she was thinking? Something like: “Oh my gosh! You’re house is bigger than the White House!” Or was she supposed to play it cool—blasé even—and say nothing at all? She opted for a middle of the road approach. “This is really pretty,” she said. She tried to keep her voice from sounding overly excited.
Ben parked in the garage, which attached to the house through a breezeway. He took her straight into the kitchen. She realized that she was looking at walls, artwork, distant corridors and such when he said, “I’ll take you on a tour later. We need to get started on the cannoli first. It’s a bit time consuming.”
So she forced herself to focus on just the kitchen. She realized that even if she didn’t get to see the entire house … er, mansion … that the kitchen was incredible enough. She had never seen a kitchen even in the same league as this one. It was complete elegance—every square inch. Dark cherry wood, white marble, fixtures in antique pewter, and decorative accents in deep hues of red adding contrast to the room. It was stunning. It looked like Lena. Like how some dogs look like their owners: this kitchen looked like its owner. Only that Lena didn’t cook. As Ben had said earlier, Lena didn’t even know how to boil pasta. But still, this was Lena’s warm, cozy kitchen. It had her signature all over it.
The center island had been designated as tonight’s workspace. All the necessary ingredients were set out, premeasured. All needed bowls, pots, mixers and such were also laid out. Kat thought the she could learn to cook too—if someone was there to do all the leg work. If she couldn’t mess up the measurements, how could she possibly go wrong? But she didn’t hold it against Ben. It was still way cool that he enjoyed cooking. Or baking. He’d already corrected her on that one. He didn’t like cooking meals. Only the sweet treats that came along after the food someone else prepared. She realized most people probably felt the same. If you weren’t starving, or lacking essential nutrients, why bother with the cooking?
Ben mixed the dough, then he placed the dough on a plastic mat and began to knead it by hand. Kat felt her eyebrows rise. She couldn’t help it. Wowza. She never realized how Italian Ben looked before. He should change his name to Antonio and open a pizza parlor. She could see Ben’s arm muscles tighten as he worked with the dough. She was dying. She had to bite on her lip to make sure her mouth remained silent. She didn’t want any kind of stray moans to creep up from her heart.
Kneading the dough must have made Ben feel Italian too, because he began to speak with an Italian accent. But, thank Khan, it was a goofy one. Had it been authentic, Kat knew she would have pounced. Thankfully, he was toying with her. She needed to get her mind off those arms. And, while he spoke Ameritalian in jest, she knew that there was actual knowledge behind his tales of Italy. He spoke of villas in the countryside. The vineyards. The food. Things he had experienced. Things that were a part of him. And things that he was sharing with her. The thought sent shivers through her body.
The dough was put in a bowl, covered with plastic wrap, and placed in the fridge. Or was that a closet? Yeesh, she’d never seen one so big. Vince wouldn’t be crushing that one anytime soon. Ben told Kat that the dough needed to sit for a few hours. Then he began mixing the filling. The prepared filling went in the fridge as well.
“You ready to see the house?” he asked.
Ben took her back through the garage and walked her to the front door. He wanted her to see everything in proper order. Including the views of the ocean from the second floor. It looked tiny from here, but, like Ben said, it increased the value of the house to have an ocean view. Like this house needed any help inflating its value. The price tag on this place? Kat couldn’t even begin to fathom.
The tour took a half-hour. And it would have taken longer had he actually let her go into every room instead of just opening doors and letting her peak in from the hallways. “Do you have to have GPS to find your way around in here?” she asked. And she wasn’t really kidding. She would be completely lost without her guide … her guide who was holding her hand, BTW.
They were downstairs, in the basement. They had just left the theater room, where Ben had played a few minutes of the latest superhero movie so she could feel the rumble of the sound system. She didn’t quite understand why guys liked their movies to feel like earthquakes. But still, she had acted enthused and said how awesome it was. Because, really it was way better than anything she had experienced in any theater. But still. What’s wrong with a quiet little chick flick? No need for a sound system like that to watch the latest Jane Austen recreation.
They went to a French door across the hall from the theater room. Ben held his hand on the doorknob. He seemed hesitant to open it. “Do you want to see the shrine?” he asked.
“The shrine?” she was a lost again. Does every mansion have a shrine? A … oh. Yeah. For his dad. She responded with sincerity. Yes, she’d love to see the shrine. So he opened both doors and reached for the light panel. It really was a panel, not just a switch, as the ceiling was lined with several rows of track lighting. The room lit up like center stage.
It looked like a rock-n-roll memorabilia museum. Framed pictures of Dan Wilder everywhere. Ones of him on stage. Him with famous TV personalities and other famous rockers. Gold and Platinum records. Grammy awards. Guitars. Even clothes. The room even had this unusual smell. Sort of a musky, incense smell. The kind of smell you would imagine clung to a guy like Dan. A mixed smell of bars, cigarettes, and expensive cologne.
Ben hadn’t grabbed her hand again after leaving the theater room. But she stood close enough to take his in hers, so she did. She felt like she was holding the hand of a mannequin. He was stiff. Rigid. Even though his skin was still warm, she could feel a coldness coming off of him. Like he didn’t want to be in this room.
Ben walked her down the length of the room, making a few quiet comments about this award or that picture. They paused in front of a beautiful acoustic guitar. Its wood was dark, instead of the classic light. And even though it had a glossy sheen, Kat could see that the wood was well worn.
“This was his favorite. He bought it when he was still in high school. There were times when it was his only possession. No car. No house. No clothes. Just this guitar and a pad of paper.”
“You ever play it?”
“No,” he answered instantly. Then he looked at her. He gave her a slight smile. “Well, I did … once.” He carefully reached for the guitar, touching as if it was made of glass. He turned it over and pointed to a scratch. It was about an inch long, near the top of the body. The scratch was old and had faded to a grayish brown. “I dropped it. It hit the coffee table.” Ben ran his thumb across the scratch, as if he could rub out the nick. “I … never wanted to touch it again.”
While Ben smiled, like he was trying to assure Kat that this was just a silly story—a silly memory—she could see something else in his eyes. Pain. A pain that she had never known. Because she still had both of her parents.
Next to the guitar was a glass case with a tattered notebook enclosed. The notebook had pen markings over every centimeter of the opened page. It looked like a different language. She stooped over the case, looking closer. She could make out some of the words. And then she could see guitar tablatures. This was Dan’s first big song, “In the Dark.” It was Dan’s stray thoughts. Lyrics forming, a tune being drafted on paper. “This is so cool,” Kat said. She smiled at Ben. “Is that whole book full of his songs?”
“Yeah. It’s his songwriting notebook. From the early years.”
“Wow.” Kat was about to ask if they were allowed to look at it … out of the case. Turn the pages and see all the songs. How incredibly cool would that be? But Ben pulled on her hand and led her away from the notebook. Kay. Must be time to move on.
They stopped in front of a series of pictures. Concert pictures. It was an outdoor concert. The crowd looked as innumerable as the sands on Redondo Beach. One of the frames had a newspaper article about the concert. Central Park, 1985.
“My da
d went to this concert!” Kat realized. She studied the pictures more carefully. Not like she could see him in the crowd, but she had heard so much about that concert from her dad and now she was getting a glimpse of what it must have been like. “My dad said it was the best concert he ever went to. He said that the sound was incredible. And the energy … New York really loved your dad. I guess it was pretty wild.”
Ben didn’t accept the compliments about his dad and instead shifted the subject. “What was your dad doing in New York?”
“He was on leave from the military. He drove across country with some friends. Jack’s dad, actually. And a few others. I think it was the highlight of his life … before me, of course,” she teased.
“Of course.” It wasn’t really in the tone of a tease that he replied. It was more complimentary.
He pulled her away from the concert pictures. Now they were looking at the last of the Grammy’s and Gold Records. “Wow. What a legacy. I didn’t realize how … decorated he was.”
Did that sound wrong? She knew that Dan was uber-famous. But she didn’t know that he had won every possible award a songwriter/performer could win. Not wanting Ben to think she was ignorant, she added, “He was a rock god.”
Ben smiled at this. But it wasn’t necessarily a happy smile. Not a I’m-so-proud-of-my-dad-smile. His stoic response: “Yeah, he was. Music was his life.”
They went farther down the wall, close to the end of the room. “And this would be the bomb section of the museum,” Ben said in a deep tour-guide voice. There was an album cover that Kat had never seen. It was called Fences. And the cover, coincidently, had a picture of a tall, barbed wire fence—the kind that safeguards society from convicted killers. “This was his first album that didn’t have a number one hit. Kind of devastating for him. It came out when I was two. As far as bombs go, this one would be considered a grenade.
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