Miss Match

by Leslie Carroll

  “Yes, I am, as a matter of fact,” Kathryn responded, enjoying playing with him. When she saw the look of genuine consternation on his face, she relented and gave up the game. First, though, she looked down the hallway to her right to see if the gossipy Mrs. Horowitz was about. The homebound woman always kept her door open just a crack so she could hear if anything really juicy was going on in the corridor. “Okay, Bear,” she whispered. “I promised I wouldn’t spread this around, but I am Rick’s acting coach on his current film project.”

  “I see,” Walker said, not quite believing her.

  “Well, between the La Perla black net teddy and ‘Brünnhilde,’ the matron of the holding cell at Midtown North thinking I was a high-rise hooker and the fact that I have notoriously promiscuous gentleman callers up to my apartment in the middle of the day, I could admit to you that I have found that being an expensive call girl was an infinitely more satisfying—not to mention lucrative— profession than teaching high school. It may disappoint you to hear it, however, but it’s untrue. And there’s tea in those brandy snifters, by the way. They’re props for a scene we were working on.”

  “I notice you didn’t invite me in, yet.”

  “Bear . . . I thought, from your behavior at Six in the City the day I met Colin, that finally we were on the same page where our relationship is concerned. I think we’ve both realized there can’t be any gray area between us. Every time I allow myself to get closer to you again, the more ambivalent I become. You . . . you ‘rock my world’ . . . but you’re only willing to go so far. And that’s not far enough for me. So I keep going back and forth about it, thinking it might be better if we had nothing at all to do with each other, rather than my settling for less when I want so much more.”

  Walker reached down to the industrially carpeted floor beside him and lifted up a glass pitcher filled with snapdragons. “If I ever learned anything from Rushie, it’s that if I break something, I’m responsible for fixing it.”

  There was a Mexican standoff at the threshold to Kathryn’s apartment, as she and Walker waited to see what would happen next. Kathryn must have remained silent for over a minute while she searched Walker’s face for some positive reassurance, for an admission of love on his part, or at the very least, an affirmation or validation of her feelings. Finally, she took the vase from him and headed toward her coffee table. “Oh, all right. Come in,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Walker. It wasn’t fair to punish him because he was less forthright about his emotions than she was.

  “Check out the pitcher,” he said, as excited as a kid with his very first Nintendo.

  Kathryn examined the glass. “This is really similar to . . . almost the same-shaped branches . . . where did you find this?” she marveled softly.

  “Let’s just say I have my connections. Okay, you can thank Josh. He knows how to find people in the world of Arts and Crafts.”

  “This is amazing. Thank you so much!” Kathryn spontaneously threw her arms around Walker and gave him a hug. So much for my intention to keep him at arm’s length, she thought briefly, before she placed a gentle kiss on his lips, lingering there perhaps a fraction of a second too long.

  Walker drew her closer and deepened the kiss. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t plan on that happening,” he said, pulling away only when breathing had become a necessity. “Believe me, I really didn’t. I’m as screwed up as you are over . . . this . . . thing between us. But I didn’t hear you protesting.”

  “That’s because you were keeping my lips busy.” She looked at the flowers. “They’re beautiful, Bear. And the pitcher is . . . I don’t know how you did that. I know you said you felt responsible for replacing what you broke, but this is way above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “I wish I could do more.”

  “So do I, but you lack the tools in your kit to fix what else is broken around here. Now, would you mind leaving, before I lose what little remains of my resolve?”

  He waited a moment before responding. “Yup. I guess that’s probably a pretty good idea.” He set his jaw and gave her one long last look before he strode out of her apartment.

  Chapter 23

  Kathryn picked up the phone on the second ring. “It’s Colin,” she mouthed to Eleanor, who was sitting cross-legged on the couch, working on a needlepoint she planned to display in her new baby’s room when the time came. “I’m really looking forward to this Anguilla trip,” she told him. But there was apprehension in her voice.

  Perhaps the pilot sensed her squeamishness. Or perhaps he simply changed his mind about flying down to the Caribbean. “If you won’t be too disappointed, I was rather thinking of scooting off to Martha’s Vineyard instead,” Colin said. “It’s the height of fall foliage season, and you really haven’t experienced the exquisite beauty of New England at this time of year until you’ve flown over it in a Cessna 172.”

  “Whatever you say. Actually, that sounds wonderful, Colin. Even better than Anguilla, in fact. What is a Cessna 172 and where does one get such an aircraft?”

  “My connections at Teterboro. I’ll arrange to lease one. And I know the most romantic inn in Vineyard Haven. The Tugman House. Ever been there?”

  “Nope. I’ve never been a Vineyard Girl. I’m more of a Hamptons Girl. It’s a bit more accessible if, like me, you don’t drive.”

  After they finalized their plans and she hung up with Colin, Kathryn presented the latest romantic getaway option to her sister.

  “That’s better,” she acceded. “But I’ve got one word for you: Kennedy.”

  “Which one?” Kathryn asked.

  “Take your pick.”

  “First of all, Colin is a professional, experienced, veteran pilot. If he flies the Concorde for B.A., then he’s not exactly JFK Jr. And secondly, stop trying to freak me out with oblique Mary Jo Kopechne references. Chappaquiddick was decades ago, and Ted Kennedy was driving an automobile and not flying a plane, anyway.”

  “I really do wish you well, you know,” Eleanor said, stitching in the dots on Curious George’s nose. “Chalk it up to sisterly concern. I don’t want you flying over the Atlantic with an axe murderer.”

  Kathryn rolled her eyes.

  “Or maybe I’m just feeling a bit envious. It sounds like you’re starting to fall for this British guy and the last romantic thing I did was rent a Julia Roberts movie.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Kathryn assured her sister. “I’ll be just fine.”

  Kathryn stood on the Teterboro tarmac and gazed at the aircraft Colin had rented for their trip. “I’ve never been in a plane this small,” she said hesitantly as Colin placed her bag into the Cessna. He gave her a boost and she climbed inside. “It is safe, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing to worry about. These planes are thoroughly inspected every time they go out and come back. And if it’s the pilot you’re worried about, I’ve flown everyone from Mick Jagger to Kofi Annan with no complaints.”

  “Well, Mick might have been wasted and Kofi Annan probably would have been diplomatic about any misgivings.”

  “Sister Wendy has been on my aircraft. Does that assuage your fears?”

  Kathryn decided to kick back and enjoy herself. Once they were in the air, she was surprised that the flight was as smooth as it was. It was a little unnerving looking out the window and down at the water, though. Being aloft was less scary from an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet when what you saw below you were fluffy, harmless-looking clouds. “Are there any peanuts on this flight? Complimentary drinks?” she teased.

  “Not for the pilot, thank you. You’re flying Air Fleetwood, not Northwest. There’s a chilled split of champagne in my flight bag if you want to start without me. Otherwise, if you can make it ’til we get to Tugman House, they make a mean hot toddy.”

  Kathryn looked out the window as they approached their destination. “Is it just me, or does Martha’s Vineyard look sort of like a lobster claw from up here?”

  “No wonder you wanted to come he
re,” Kathryn remarked, as they rode in a taxi along the Edgartown-Tisbury Road. “It’s glorious!” She unrolled her window and breathed in the autumn air, a crisp blend of cranberry, sea salt, and crackling firewood.

  They passed a small white sign. “Hey—Oak Bluffs! Is that far from where we’re staying? Isn’t that where America’s oldest carousel is?”

  “It’s not far at all from Vineyard Haven,” Colin told her. “I should warn you, though. They make you give back the brass rings.”

  Kathryn reached over and took Colin’s hand. “I’m . . . this is wonderful,” she said. “I am very happy to be here.” She scooched over in the back seat so she could snuggle next to Colin. “I love this time of year . . . and this setting. Russet and gold and leather and tweed, maple sugar and oatmeal cookies. There are more textures in autumn.”

  The taxi rounded a bend and turned onto a long driveway bordered by hedges. The driver slowed as he reached the main gate. “This is it,” Colin said as they approached the white Queen Anne. “Tugman House. It used to be a private estate. The rooms at the top have a completely panoramic ocean view with a widow’s walk and the ones on the ground floor have their own private decks and access to the private beach.”

  An attendant opened the taxi door for them and unloaded their luggage. Kathryn and Colin were ushered into a spacious, yet cozily furnished lobby. It was the quintessential New England inn. A roaring fire was burning in the stone hearth at one end of the room. Elegant colonial sofas and wing chairs formed comfortable sitting areas around mahogany tables. Off to one side was another table with several daily newspapers and a magazine rack for the guests, offering everything from Gourmet to Popular Mechanics .

  “This is one of our common rooms,” the concierge told them in her local accent. “You’re welcome to relax here and read one of the newspapers or periodicals, but you also have a mini library in your own room. If you want any other books,” the woman gestured to a closed maple door bearing a brass plaque, “the Hawthorne Room is well stocked with classics and best-sellers. You can take a peek in, if you like.”

  “Thanks.” Kathryn grinned. “I’d like to.” She opened the door and stuck her head inside. The room was impressively furnished, with a floor-to-ceiling library and two overstuffed couches made even more inviting by enormous tasseled cushions upholstered in silk shantung in bright, autumnal tones of persimmon, saffron, tamarind, marigold, and fuchsia. A sole guest was reading a magazine while sipping a glass of cider.

  “If I ever have a nervous breakdown,” Kathryn thought, “this is where I would want to be sent to recuperate. It would make a hell of a sanitarium.”

  “Here’s your key, Mr. Fleetwood,” said the concierge. “You and Mrs. Fleetwood are in the Carriage House. The Winston Room. I’m Edie, in case you need anything.”

  Kathryn felt a pleasant little shudder at the concierge’s unwitting “promotion” of her marital status.

  Colin and Kathryn crunched along the gravel path to the Carriage House, accompanied by a young bellhop, a local boy who introduced himself as Damon and told them he was working part-time to help defray college tuition costs.

  “This is the best room, actually. At least I like it the best. It’s very quiet,” the young man told them as he unlocked the door and beckoned them in.

  “Wow,” Kathryn breathed.

  “And this is the oldest piece of furniture at Tugman House,” Damon said, indicating the queen-sized, canopied four-poster bed. “It dates from 1795.”

  “Jeez. Imagine! George Washington literally could have slept here! I mean this is Martha’s Vineyard . . . get it?” she said giddily. Kathryn took in the rest of the room, including the overstuffed reading chair and matching footstool upholstered in pastoral red toile, the working fireplace, which was already blazing, and the little decorator touches like sterling silver dishes of potpourri and a wicker basket of apples and pears.

  “You’ve got a balcony out here,” Damon told them, opening the back door to the room. “And that’s your three-hundred-gallon sunken hot tub. No one can see you from the outside, so whatever you might want to do . . .” the young man reddened a bit. “Well, you won’t have to worry about peeping Toms.” The deck was appointed with both a hammock and a pair of Adirondack chairs, from which there was an unencumbered view of the ocean. “Now, if you go through your private gate here and follow that little walkway, you’ll hit the beach. It’s Tugman House’s own entrance, so you won’t have to cross the road.”

  Colin thanked Damon and handed him a sizable tip.

  “Excuse me for a sec,” Kathryn said and went to check out the bathroom. It was the size of most Manhattan apartments. The huge clawfoot tub surrounded by votive candles looked old-fashioned but was really a jacuzzi; it would also accommodate both of them with room to spare. The fittings were gold plated. “You’ll feel very much at home here,” she called out to Colin. “There’s a phone in the bathroom. The only other places I’ve ever seen that were in England! And there’s a library in here, too. A bunch of classics, half of which I never got around to reading and always intended to. Louisa May Alcott, Nathaniel Hawthorne . . . hey, you can read to me from The Scarlet Letter while we’re taking a bubble bath in the hot tub!”

  “I’d be happy to inspect the premises as soon as you’re through,” Colin said, chilling the split of champagne. “Tugman House may seem all simple, quaint neo-colonial charm, but this is a four-star hotel. They’ll give you anything you want here . . . fresh fruit, champagne, a massage at any time of day . . .”

  Kathryn stepped out of the bathroom in time to catch one of the staff clad in a fisherman knit sweater and jeans knocking on their door.

  “Your complimentary hot toddys.” New England verbal economy at its apotheosis. He handed them two glass mugs, fragrant and steaming. “I’m Dave, if you need anything. Welcome to Tugman House.”

  Kathryn reached for her mug. “Colin, did you say a massage? I haven’t had one of those since . . .” Bear. When she’d jumped off his table the night he sprung her from the holding pen at Midtown North. It was hard to keep him off her mind, including when she had asked Eleanor to check her answering machine for her, in case some other Six in the City bachelors decided to phone. After all, while things seemed to be working swimmingly with Number Five, Walker did owe her a Number Six.

  Kathryn remembered the last time she’d seen Walker and how sweet he’d been. His snapdragons had long since died a natural death and the etched glass pitcher was stored in a safe place. Thinking about the kiss they had shared wasn’t doing her any good right now. She took a small sip of her hot toddy, savoring the warmth as it coursed down her throat. “This is truly heaven,” she said, enraptured.

  “We don’t use a blended whiskey for our toddys. We use Bushmills purple label instead,” Dave told them. He gestured to a small refrigerator tucked into a corner of the enormous room. “Your minibar is fully stocked, but if you don’t find your favorite liquor in there, please dial two, and we’ll be happy to accommodate you. We also serve Afternoon Tea in the Alcott room in the main house until five-thirty P.M.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Colin handed the staffer a $5 bill.

  Kathryn had a strange lurching feeling in her stomach, an anxiety pang about what was supposed to happen next. Did Colin expect her to immediately hop up the cherrywood step unit to the queen-sized bed and make love? For some reason, she wasn’t in the mood. All the ingredients were present, yet . . .

  The complimentary toddy was evidently not enough of a celebration for the high flyer. Colin popped open his split of Taittinger, poured two champagne flutes and handed Kathryn one, raising his glass to hers. “Cheers, love.” He deposited a soft kiss on her lips.

  Kathryn sipped the champagne slowly. She closed her eyes and allowed the wine to fizzle on her tongue before swallowing it. “Ummm.”

  “Are you glad you accepted my invitation?” Colin came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He nuzzled the back of her neck.

&
nbsp; “Yes. Oh, yes.” She turned around to face him. “Would you mind terribly if I took a shower and washed my hair? I’ve never flown in a plane that small before and I think I was so nervous my scalp started sweating.” She ran her hand through the tangled mop with limited success. “I’ll feel much more human afterwards.”

  “Not at all, love. I could use a shower as well, but I think I’ll pop ’round to the front desk and ask about the fitness center hours. I wouldn’t mind working out the knots in my back.” Colin took Kathryn in his arms and kissed her nose. “See you in an hour or so.” He drained his champagne glass in one long draught, and tossed a sumptuous pine green terrycloth bath sheet over his shoulder. With a grin and a wave, he crunched down the gravel path headed for the main house.

  Kathryn surveyed the room, then decided that she had to test the waters. She yanked off her suede boots, rolled up her jeans, and followed the path down from the Carriage House to the private beach. It was pristine and desolate, uninhabited by another living soul until a gull flew overhead, its dinner a captive in its beak. The cool sand, silvery white, cushioned her feet. A crisp breeze wafted across her face and the scent of salt and sea filled the air. The late afternoon sun made geometric patterns of light and shadow on the shore.

  She raced down the beach into the gray-blue water, surprised to find it much warmer than she had anticipated. Kathryn stood in the surf watching the gulls dip and soar as she monitored the progress of a dilapidated fishing trawler. Seafood scavengers, all. The play of the water across her ankles and the gently abrasive tug of the sand beneath her feet as it was pulled back into the sea had a tremendously calming influence. It was as though all of her urban anxieties receded along with the tide.

  It had been a long week, Walker thought to himself. Ever since he’d rung Kathryn’s doorbell to give her the pitcher Josh had helped him track down. And her favorite snapdragons, too. And found her with that vapid excuse for an actor. Walker regretted the day he’d accepted Rick Byron’s Six in the City application. At least he hadn’t fixed the actor up with anyone else before Eleanor saw the Liz Smith column that blew the star’s cover. Kathryn’s wounded emotions aside, at least there were no lawsuits, Rushie had said pragmatically.