Frost on My Window

by Angela Weaver

  I was reading the foreword in a book of Scottish history when he returned from the kitchen. His shadow fell over the page and I looked up to see his serious expression.

  “Do you mind if we watch TV in the bedroom?” he smiled. “I just want to stretch out.”

  If it had been anyone other than Sean who asked that question, I would have laughed the man out of the room. I stood up with an amused smile. “No surprise pillow fights?”

  “Promise,” he replied.

  I grabbed the tall glass mug he held out in his hand and then bent over to retrieve the book from the sofa before following Sean down the hallway. Quiet Japanese woodblock paintings lined the walls, while recessed ceiling lights led the way past what I guessed was the guest room.

  I entered the master bedroom behind Sean and found it different from the one I’d seen briefly in his house in L.A. The person who had designed it must have known him well, judging from the sage green walls, frosted, curtainless windows, and the Japanese-style soft tatami rug. I admired the decorated fireplace with a screen of wrought iron leafy vines and log holder, which held what looked like old books instead of wood. A large, light-colored wooden bed sat in the middle of the room.

  “So when did you become such a history buff?” I questioned, setting my cup on the nightstand before taking off my shoes and sitting on the bed.

  “When I realized one night on a late flight over the Atlantic that we all carry the past with us,” he responded, picking up the remote control and turning on the large flat-screen television that hung on the opposite wall.

  “Interested in learning more about your proud Scottish roots?”

  “No, not in that way. I’m not wanting to change who I am by grabbing hold of my parents’ roots. I just wanted to know a little more.” He stretched out on the bed and leaned against the headboard. “I think about the highland lords who rode over the valleys and into war against the British. I wonder what it felt like for them to go to fight for a cause. I pretend that I can hear the sound of a thousand hooves beating against the earth, smell the smoke in the air, taste the bitter fear and feel the icy winds on my face,” he said.

  “That sounds more like a nightmare than a daydream,” I commented after picking up my tea.

  “No way, Leah. You’d love it in Scotland. Think about it.” He spread his arms wide. “We could go walking along the banks of shimmering mountain lakes and picnic in fields of wild heather.”

  “Careful, your sentimental side is coming out,” I warned.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “I believe you,” I replied, taking a sip of the herbal tea. The fruity taste of peaches and the tartness of ginseng slid down my throat. “I mean, one minute you’re happily settled in a new bungalow in L.A., the next you’re flying to Arizona to build a ranch in the middle of nowhere, then you pull a disappearing act and call me from Glasgow. So how’d you find this place?” I asked, referring to the condominium.

  “Pete has an old college buddy who’s in the Manhattan real estate market. I saw a couple of places in Greenwich and Chelsea, but I liked the unexpected quietness of the area. Then again, with the name Hell’s Kitchen, I couldn’t pass it up.”

  “Nice neighbors?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to meet them. Pete’s barely given me time to eat and sleep on the tour.”

  “Speaking of the tour, when’s the last concert?”

  He leaned back against the headboard and took a sip of his tea. “Two more weeks. It’s been a lot of fun, but all of us agree that Seattle can’t come soon enough. I’ve got too many things that I’ve put on hold for too long.”

  “You guys have earned some time out of the spotlight. So what do you plan on doing besides taking in some much needed R & R?”

  “For one, I’ve shamefully neglected our son.” He shifted to sit cross-legged facing me. “I’ll understand if you’re a might bit angry with me.” His half-hearted attempt to wipe the smile off his face didn’t work.

  Simba. “I’d almost forgotten that you promised to take joint responsibility. You’re right, your son. He could definitely use some discipline. The oversized fleabag is bullying my next door neighbor’s chihuahua.”

  “Did you say chihuahua?” he managed to get out between chuckles.

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s not so bad then. Does he really have fleas?”

  “No.” I paused. “What do you mean, it’s not so bad?”

  “Can’t blame the cat for not liking the hairless overgrown rat, now can you?” His grin was devastating. I felt it roll over me from head to toe.

  “You’re insane,” I laughed.

  “No. I’m just a feline lover.”

  I rolled my eyes upwards and laughed at his off-the-wall reply. Glancing down at my watch, I started to move off the bed, but stopped as Sean caught my wrist.

  “Stay and watch cartoons with me.” He moved to stand up. “I’m just running to the bathroom. Promise not to disappear?”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  I moved to put down my glass mug of tea and found it next to a notebook. Curious, I opened it and looked at the date. The note was written last year, the day after he and I met on the cliffs. Fascinated, I read Sean’s words.

  Memory. An image, a feeling, a smell, and sound. The past is like a cup filled with what could have been. It’s the sweetest mead to drink. The more you take, the more you want as the present moves back to past. Nothing but the honeyed nectar of childhood days seems to fill the craving. The addiction of memories. Wanting only the stuff of remembrance and dreams.

  I turned to see Sean standing on the side of the bed. I hadn’t heard him enter the room. Embarrassment fought with guilt as I realized that I was invading the man’s privacy. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have opened this.”

  “I’ve shared far more intimidate details of my life with you than the scribbles in that book.”

  “Still,” I persisted. “I had no right.”

  “Apology accepted.” Sean grinned and jumped on the bed. He looked over and glanced at the open page. “I’ve been thinking about turning that into a song,” he explained.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s been a while since I felt that way. I hadn’t realized how much I still held onto the past.”

  I nodded. “As you said before, we all carry the past with us, it seems.” I wore mine like a jacket, keeping out possibilities.

  “True. But I couldn’t let go of Mom,” he replied, sitting down on the bed.

  “Have things gotten better?”

  “Thanks to you and my music.”

  “I can’t take credit for that. You took the first step to get your life back,” I reminded him.

  “You helped, Leah.” He took my hand in his and kissed it gently.

  “What am I going to do with you?” I shook my head, smiling.

  “Stay up all night and watch cartoons with me,” he answered.

  “It was a rhetorical question,” I replied, settling back down on the bed.

  “And I was giving you a rhetorical answer. Now where’s that remote control?” he asked.

  “Over there.” I pointed to the nightstand and rolled my eyes. Sean, a thirty-five-year-old man, was transformed into a ten-year-old kid at the touch of a button. I had gotten used to his changing moodiness. There were times when he was a little kid again and other times when he seemed to withdraw into himself just to hold the pain and turmoil of life away.

  A couple of months into our friendship, I knew when to push and when to walk away. Everyone needed time to be alone, and Sean needed more than most. I respected it. I didn’t envy his life-style, the people, the money, and the fame. Its price was too high.

  Soon after we’d settled into friendship, Sean had tried to give me presents and convince me to take on a job as his publicist, something I had no experience or interest in doing. I’d politely said no to both the job and the diamond/emerald bracelet he’d bought as a to
ken of friendship. Spoiling for a fight, Sean had turned the whole thing into a battle. I didn’t call for two days, thinking to give him space. The following Saturday morning I opened the door to find Sean standing on the front steps holding a quart of chocolate chip ice cream and offering an apology.

  “You’re such a spoiled brat,” I teased, wanting to make him smile.

  “Hey. I don’t get much time for the fun stuff.”

  “You’ll have plenty in two weeks.”

  “No, I won’t. Jon doesn’t believe in vacation. The man is a machine.”

  Jon was one of Sean’s publicists and he happened to be one of the best in the business. “What do you mean?”

  “He agreed for me to go on The View and he didn’t tell me until yesterday. I can’t back out of the damn thing.”

  “You’ve done lots of interviews before,” I pointed out.

  “True. It’s just…” His voice trailed off as his eyes refocused on the television screen.

  “Just?” I leaned closer.

  “It’s four women, not to mention the Barbara Walters.” He shuddered.

  I leaned forward and buried my head in the pillow to keep from laughing. This six-foot mega star was afraid of four women. Priceless.

  “I’m sure you’ll do a good job,” I encouraged. “Once you give them that smile of yours and throw in a couple of witty answers in that Scottish-American brogue, they’ll be eating out of your hands.”

  “Umm,” was Sean’s only reply. I looked down to see his closed eyes.

  “I used to be a brat,” he murmured. “Everything I ever wanted, but the cancer didn’t listen to my prayers.”

  “I can believe that you were the world’s worst brat,” I teased.

  “You would. You know me too well. I feel so comfortable around you. You’re nice to be with…”

  “Sean, you make me sound like a favorite pair of jeans.”

  “Not a bad idea.” He smiled with his eyes closed, then cracked open an eye. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “It means we fit, darling.” His voice slurred with the beginnings of sleep. “Quite comfortably, if I say so myself.” Before closing his eyes, he gave me a smile that could charm the girdle off a sixty-year-old nun.

  I ended up cradling Sean’s head in my lap. Sliding my palms under his head I used my fingertips to massage his temples with small circular motions. I watched Tom and Jerry until Sean’s breath came evenly and the arm resting against my stomach went limp. Rubbing my fingers along the nape of his neck, I savored the feel of soft, baby-fine hair.

  Looking down at Sean’s sleeping face, I could barely keep from sighing. Whenever his arms wrapped around me, I was reminded of putting on a just-pressed shirt in the middle of winter. I would bury my face in the sleeve and savor the smell of lemon starch as the warm fabric settled over my bare skin.

  I managed to move his head from my lap without waking him. I paused in the doorway to look back at him sprawled out on the bed asleep. Turning out the light, I quietly returned to the living room, gathered up my purse, put on my sneakers, and left the apartment like a thief in the night.

  As I rode down in the empty elevator, I thought about what Mom would say if she could see me now. I laughed out loud. Truly unbelievable. The doorman didn’t look all that surprised to see me leaving. Then again, I didn’t think there was anything a New York City doorman hadn’t seen or heard before.

  Just as I’d expected, I saw Will, Sean’s bodyguard/driver, leaning against the back door of the black Lincoln as soon as I walked through the glass doors. I paused and then let him open the door, take my hand and lower me into the car. I’d never get used to the life Sean led, people who adored him, assistants at his beck and call.

  The car pulled away and drove through the still-buzzing Times Square while I stared blankly out the window at the taxis darting through the streets. As the soothing sounds of piano music drifted through the car, I couldn’t get the words I’d read in last month’s entertainment magazine out of my mind.

  The gossip reporter had hinted that Sean’s days as a sought-after bachelor might be over. According to friends of model-turned-actress Dalia Deburgh, she hoped so.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I walked into my dark, stuffy apartment and hit the button on the answering machine.

  Saturday, 9:15 p.m.

  “Lee, it’s Lance. I just got back in town and wanted to hook up for dinner. Buzz me on my cell when you get this message.”

  Beep.

  Sunday 1:32 a.m.

  “Leah, Hope the concert went well. I’m going to spend the night at Nina’s place. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you, Rena.”

  Every feeling of annoyance I felt disappeared at the sound of Rena’s voice on the answering machine. That Nina could leave the hospital was good news, but the heavy weariness I heard in Rena’s voice tied a knot in my stomach. All thought of sleep left to be replaced with worried anger.

  Buzz me on my cell.

  Like I was some dog brought to heel. Like Lance was so important. I kicked off my shoes and sat on the coach. Picking up the remote control, I flipped through channels and stopped on the Cartoon Network. Wrapping my arms around the paisley pillow, I lay down and stared at the screen. Sleep washed over me as Wile E. Coyote took yet another fall.

  Chapter 9

  When Sean left for the West Coast Sunday night, I still hadn’t seen Rena since she’d left to look after Nina. I missed my cousin’s solid presence, and, as much as I liked Nina, I wanted the beautiful singer to pick someone else to lean on. I was just finishing the last set of changes to a proposal when the phone buzzed.

  “Leah Russell.”

  “I’m eighth in line for take-off and can’t wait to see the last of Seattle’s infamous clouds and rain,” came Sean’s voice over the static-filled phone line.

  “You loved Seattle that much, huh?”

  “Love the people, hate the godawful weather. I don’t think my clothes will ever dry out.”

  “So where are you headed this time? Some secluded beach in the Florida Keys?” I teased.

  “I’m coming your way.”

  “Oh. You’re flying to New York?” I suppressed the small quiver of glee his announcement brought.

  “With a little stopover in Chicago. I’ll be landing on Friday morning. How about we hang out and have dinner?”

  I played with my pen and stared blankly at the flashing appointment reminder message that scrolled across the computer screen.

  “What time?”

  “How about two o’clock?”

  “I’ve got work. How about later?”

  “Play hooky,” he encouraged.

  “You’re going to get me into trouble,” I responded, but my mind was automatically rescheduling my regular Friday afternoon meetings to Thursday.

  “You, Ms. Leah Russell, are trouble.”

  I could hear the revving sound of the jet engine in the background.

  “Two o’clock Friday,” I agreed.

  “I’ll pick you up at the office.”

  That was all I heard before the line went dead. I hung up the phone and turned the chair around to stare out the window, down through the haze to the city below. Reaching over I switched on the headset and dialed Carol’s phone number. I needed the humor and pep talk that only a sista-friend could provide. Anything to push back the memories of Sean’s face as he slept.

  “Saunders and Goddard, may I help you?”

  “Carol Rogers, please.”

  “One moment while I transfer you.”

  “Carol speaking.” Her calm voice came though the line.

  “Cece. What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Trying to keep from taking a gun to this laptop. The damn thing just gave me the blue screen of death and then shut off.”

  “Sounds bad.”

  “Yeah, and the tech support guy just left after thirty minutes of standing here and scratching his
head like a dumbass.”

  “Ouch.” Laugher bubbled out of my throat.

  “What’s up, girlfriend?” Carol asked.

  “I’ve been robbed, girl.” I put all my heart into sounding serious.

  “What?” came the loud screech on the other end of the phone. I pulled the headset away from my ear.

  “I’ve been robbed,” I repeated, trying my best not to laugh.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “At the office.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Forget the police. I need to call Johnny Cochran.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m suing the IRS, New York State, and New York City.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Why in the world are you going to sue the New York government?”

  “The IRS took half my relocation bonus, New York State and City took the rest.”

  Carol’s laugh came through the phone and set me to giggling.

  “Girl, this ain’t funny.” I waved my pencil towards the window. “I’ve been robbed, hoodwinked, bamboozled, tricked.”

  “Hold up, Malcolm X. Do you have enough for a pair of shoes?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I reluctantly admitted.

  “Well, that’s all you need. Look on the bright side. It’s more than what you had.”

  “I still feel like I’m working to pay the IRS.”

  “We all gotta pay Uncle Sam, girl…”

  “Please,” I rolled my eyes. “No uncle of mine steals.”

  “That is so true. Hey, love to take longer but the tech man just came back. We still on for Wednesday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Houston’s?”

  “Sounds good to me.” I leaned back.

  “See you.”

  “Bye.”

  I clicked off the phone and looked out the window. Back to my thoughts about Sean, back to images of a gorgeous man, images of a friend and feelings that had nothing to do with friendship and more to do with late nights.

  * * *

  Later that evening, I walked in the door of the apartment and started venting. “Rena, you won’t believe what happened at work today. I swear the IRS is out to get me…” My voice trailed off into the silence of the apartment.