And I do.
* * *
The sun is beginning to dip lazily into the ocean as we wrap up our shopping trip. I sigh — even if some part of me is ready for more, the ache in my calves is telling me it’s time to go.
“Whew! That’s it for me,” declares Baby, as the Spongebobs of her manicure tap out a quick staccato on her phone. “Rosco needs me to check over some deliveries before we close up for the night. I’m still parked by the Thai Hut. Think you can drop me off?”
“You got it,” I say, slipping the xPhone from my purse. I make the little symbol Xavier showed me to unlock it, then give it a few taps to summon our limo. “It’s back to the hotel for me, I guess.”
We sit and wait for the car in front of a little bagel shop with a crisp blue-and-white awning. Baby is suddenly quiet, and at first I think she’s just pooped from all of our Adventures in Commerce. As the minutes tick by, though, I can see that she’s wrestling with her thoughts . . . trying to decide whether to tell me something or not.
When she speaks at last, her voice carries an edge of warning.
“Look, Veronica. I like you. And I even feel like I know you after today,” says Baby, her face full of concern. “But Xavier? With him I’m not so sure. He might be close to Randy, but I feel like even he doesn’t know him that well. Xavier is a tough person to figure out. I’m surprised to see him romantically involved, to tell you the truth.”
I exhale and look down at a crack in the sidewalk. “I can’t even tell if this whole thing is as weird as it seems,” I say. “Relationships are kind of a new thing altogether for me. My mom told me that school had to take priority over dating. Maybe that was just her way of coping with dad’s death. Maybe she was trying to shield me from some of the pain she felt. I don’t know.
“Even so,” I say, looking up at Baby, “I really think I’m in love with Xavier.”
“Oh, honey — I can tell,” she says, putting her hand to my shoulder and giving me a squeeze. “And I think you two should be together. Look, this is the best advice I can give you: Xavier may think that he wants total control over everything . . . but he doesn’t. Not really. Not when it comes to you.
“It’s like I said. He sees you differently,” she says. “And he might not be able to admit it, but Xavier needs someone who can do all the things that he can’t do himself. Someone who can turn a house into a home. Someone to save him from his hotel rooms and his life of temporary bullshit. But he also wants that status, you know?”
“Status?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “Not just money. The status of having special things in his life. Things that other men can’t have. You know, like that phone he trusted you with.” She lifts up her wrist and gives it a little shake; the golden fan on her bracelet catches a few rays of the setting sun and twinkles, just a bit. “That’s why men would give the world for just a little bit of time with an oiran or a geisha. They didn’t just want sex — they wanted to know that they had something no other man could, even if only for a moment. They wanted to know they deserved to be in the presence of that kind of erotic royalty. I’m not saying it’ll be easy . . . but make yourself a challenge for him. Make him want to win you. When you see yourself as that kind of prize, Xavier will see it, too.”
She gives me a soft smile. “Then you’ll have him forever.”
* * *
I sweep into the elegance of the restaurant with the stride of a woman possessed by a newfound confidence.
I’d only had a couple of hours to get ready after receiving Xavier’s message, but I’d made the most of it. There’s a shallow reflecting pool running between the tables down the center of the restaurant, and I steal a glance at my reflection without breaking stride. I’ve got a lot on my mind, but if I’m nervous it’s not showing on my face.
The brusque-but-competent fingers of the hotel’s stylist have taken care of my hair, and I’m expressing a bit more drama with my makeup tonight. Nothing compared to that disastrous night at Mirages, of course, but I’ve been more daring with the mascara and the eyebrow pencil. I’d used my Book as a guide, and the corners of my eyes sweep up provocatively like a 1950’s pin-up. The effect isn’t subtle . . . but then again, it isn’t supposed to be. When I look at Xavier tonight, I want him to notice.
I can see a few heads turn in my direction, and I beam inside. I’m ready for him, I think. Part of me can’t help wondering how true that is, of course. Am I reassuring myself, or am I telling myself a little white lie to keep my feet moving in the right direction?
It could be neither. It could be both.
The flowing white of my dress is a sharp contrast to the muted atmosphere of perpetual twilight that hangs in the opulent restaurant. Still, despite the dim lighting I recognize Xavier instantly. He’s seated at the far side of the room, and I find myself glowing as I sashay over to join him.
Xavier’s impossibly handsome face lights up at my approach — a blend of happiness and surprise I haven’t seen on him before. My smile widens at his reaction: Have I actually managed to catch Xavier Black off-guard?
“Nice dress,” he says, standing to help me into my seat. “Did I buy that for you?”
“Actually, you did.”
“Well! I have fashion sense I never knew I had, apparently. Remind yourself to thank me later,” he says, his mouth cracking into a grin. I don’t know whether to smile back or look shocked: Did Xavier Black just make a joke?
“What can I say? It just called to me,” I shrug. “You picked me out a lovely closet upstairs, but this is a lot more my . . . ”
Xavier raises a hand. “You can stop right there. It’s lovely. It makes me happy seeing you wear what you want. Very.”
I’m glowing inside and out now, but I decide to play off the compliment with a provocative cool that would make Marlene Dietrich proud. “I’m terribly glad,” I say, as I glance around the table for a menu that doesn’t seem to be there. “Where’s the menu? I’m starving, honestly.”
“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” says Xavier. “I hope that’s all right.”
As I’m about to say Yes, I remember Baby’s words about challenging Xavier . . . and I find myself suddenly taken with a wicked idea.
“It’s fine with me,” I say, airily. “Just so long as you know — I’m allergic to shellfish, peanuts, gluten, and most kinds of dairy.”
His face falls. “Uh . . . really?”
My face is the picture of innocence as I reply. “No. Not really.”
He looks stricken for a moment — and then he just closes his eyes, shakes his head, and gives a tight smile. “Veronica, I have had a very long day.”
“Really? Tell me about it. If you want to.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing you’d be interested in. Hell, nothing I’d be interested in either. Had a dispute with a vendor for one of my projects. His employees want more vacation time, which shouldn’t really be my problem . . . except he seems bound and determined to make it my problem.” He places a couple of fingers against his face in irritation, then rubs at his eye. “It’s too late to retool our entire line or change vendors . . . look, never mind. If I keep talking about this, I’m going to make myself mad, and you’re going to get sleepy . . . ”
I make a big show of stretching my arms above my head, then give him a dramatic-looking fake yawn.
“So tired . . .” I say, letting my head nod forward a bit. Xavier rolls his eyes at my performance, of course, but somehow he seems to enjoy seeing someone not taking him so seriously for a change.
I give a gentle laugh, then place a hand on his wrist. “Look, forget about it. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”
As if on cue, our meal arrives. It’s a creamy asparagus soup, followed by a light pork soufflé with truffle shavings. A bottle of cold Chablis arrives in a exquisite bottle chiller, and a few moments later we’re clinking our glasses together and getting started.
“So . . . you mentioned you were a medical student?” he asks.
“Mm . . . ” says Xavier, chewing thoughtfully. “I had an uncle who was a doctor. Internal medicine. G.I. That whole thing. Wonderful man. Not exactly a comedian, but very funny occasionally. Like you.”
“He sounds great. My mother wasn’t funny at all. Very strict. Very Dutch,” I say, clinking my fork aimlessly around my plate. “She was the one that wanted me to have a career in medicine.”
Xavier frowns. “I get the impression the desire was not mutually shared.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t . . . but I didn’t really know how to tell her that. She spent every day working so that we could live. So we could eat. She walked dogs, you know.” I sigh, and though the food tastes wonderful I’m suddenly not as hungry.
“Whatever problems I had with my mom, it was hard to argue with her,” I explain. “When someone like that wants something better for you, greater for you . . . it’s almost impossible not to listen.”
Xavier nods. “Still, there must be something that you want for you. Just for yourself. That girl that tumbled into my lap at Mirages certainly seemed like she was capable of finding her own path.”
“Maybe,” I say, slowly. “Probably. I think I just saw dancing as a way to try something new, you know? A way to come out of my shell a little bit. But there’s always been that part of me that’s wanted something bigger for myself. Even before that. I mean, all along there’s been my Book.”
I’d mentioned it before on that first night in the car, but I begin to truly enthuse about it now, as the memories of all of those days spent in my room poring over its pages come flooding back. Even now, even here in this new city . . . it’s so much a part of who I am.
I need Xavier to understand this about me, and I begin to sense that he does — I can see the intense interest on his face as I tell him about Pickford and Colbert and Fontaine, those gorgeous monochrome Goddesses that got me through the enforced dullness of my former life.
I even tell him how my mother had discovered the Book, the secret TV . . . and how she’d waited until the end to tell me.
When I finish, Xavier is quiet. It’s a while before he speaks.
“We can never throw away what hurts us most,” he says, lost in thought.
I’m pretty sure I haven’t heard the phrase before — but something seems familiar about it, somehow.
“Is that from a movie?” I ask.
“It’s something that my father used to tell me,” says Xavier. “He was in Vietnam, and he fell in love with one of the locals there. A beautiful woman who lived near their encampment. He loved her, he truly did — he wanted to find some way to get her back to the States, to marry her . . . but she died. A stray round took her from him in an instant.”
Xavier shakes his head slightly, the movement impossibly sad. “He still has the locket she wore around her neck, in a battered tin box under his bed. He’s touched it so much it’s corroded from the salt of his hands. It’s hard for my mother that he keeps it . . . but I think she understands that my father hates it as much as she does, in a way. A painful reminder, of course. But to get rid of it would be all the more painful.”
I’m beginning to understand. “Maybe that’s how my mom felt. About my Book.”
Xavier tilts his head. “Maybe. I think your mother saw something of herself there. Something she was forced to leave behind. Those are strong women in your Book, all of them. Strong women of great beauty. I think your mother couldn’t destroy that Book even if she wanted to, or she’d be destroying a part of herself. Some unrealized dream from her past that she couldn’t let go of.”
I look at Xavier for a long, long time. The low murmurs of the dinnertime conversations around me mingle with my own thoughts. Can that Book become real for me, Xavier? I wonder silently.
I know that I want the beauty of a Goddess. And I know you can help give it to me. But if I allow myself to slip myself between those pages, into those dreams . . . where will I disappear to?
Alice. Alice White. That girl . . . she’s still inside me, I realize. She’s an uninvited guest at our dinner table, yet I just can’t let her go, somehow.
But Veronica Kane truly doesn’t want to think about her.
Not now.
I decide to do the only thing I can think of. I take a sip of wine . . . and I change the subject.
“By the way, this dress? Baby helped me get it. She’s the one that took me shopping today.”
Xavier looks genuinely surprised at the sound of her name. “You two are shopping buddies now? So soon? During our drinks together you seemed a bit . . .”
“Bitchy?” I offer.
He smiles. “I might have chosen the word curt.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I think we understand each other a little better after today,” I say. “She told me about her and Randall, a little . . . ” I leave it at that. I’m not sure how many other details I should mention about our conversation.
Xavier rolls his eyes. “Those two. Honestly, I can’t imagine a couple in the world that deserves each other more. I suppose it beats the alternative, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lifeless marriage,” he says. “Whatever those two have figured out to keep themselves interested in each other, it seems to be working. I mean, you saw them. They’re like horny teenagers when they’re together. Poster children for affection. I’ve never met two people so devoted to each other. In bed or out.”
I smile. “Lucky couple.”
I think I see a faint twinkle in Xavier’s eye, and he almost looks like he’s about to say something . . . but a waiter takes the moment of silence to interrupt.
“Sir, Miss, if I may,” he says, clearing the table of our empty plates with a practiced economy of movement. “Your dessert.”
Xavier smiles. “Watch, Veronica. You’ll like this.” The waiter pushes an immaculately-polished espresso machine alongside our table on a little cart. It’s old-looking, almost arcane, with the most complicated-looking mechanism . . . so entirely different from the automated push-button models I usually see at coffee shops. I see the waiter pause for the briefest of moments; he runs a gloved hand over one of the machine’s gleaming silver handles, as if reassuring it.
Then there is action — a fast flicking of his wrists, and he’s suddenly in full movement, his hands breaking into an incredible ballet of graceful precision. Now the basket, now the coffee, now the tamper; now the white-noise hiss of the steam in a chilled pitcher of milk.
It’s incredible.
Two porcelain cups appear from nowhere — at first empty and then full, without any noticeable transition between the two states. It’s like magic . . . no, it is magic . . . an effortless culinary conjuring of remarkable skill.
Then there is fire — a kitchen torch is in the waiter’s hand, crackling its burst of flame over the rim of the two cups.
I can only stare. “Is he . . . burning something?”
Xavier chuckles.
“Not exactly. He’s brûléeing something.”
The scent of caramelizing sugar fills the air, mingling with the heady smell of fresh-pulled espresso. A moment later and it is done, and the waiter places the cups neatly in front of us.
He gives a little nod. “Enjoy,” he says.
Then he is gone. I almost want to applaud . . . but instead, my eyes fall on the cup. The foamy white head of the drink holds the golden brown crust of the brûlée with a delightful tension. On top, five large crystals of shiny rock salt balance improbably, but they do not move.
I put my hand on the cup, and I’m just about to take my first sip — but Xavier stops me.
“Wait,” he says. “I want to capture this.”
Xavier takes out his xPhone, does the special movement to unlock it. He points it directly at me, and I smile. I hear a soft click sound. Xavier takes a second to admire his work on the glossy illuminated screen.
“Perfect,” he says, turning the phone around to show me.
I’ve never really liked looking at pictures of myself, but I have to admit that this one is nice. The dessert drink in the foreground looks a little huge, but in my dress and in this light the composition definitely works.
“I want a copy of that, okay?” I say.
“Your wish is my command.”
At last I take my first mouthful of the dessert drink. It tastes as scrumptious as it looks.
We don’t say much as we enjoy those first sips together. It’s nice when you can stop talking — just let go of the noise, and enjoy the warmth of each other’s company. Xavier and I seem to be reaching that point, and yet . . .
I hope he deserves the trust I’m putting into him. I need this to be real. So much of his true self still seems locked off to me. If there actually is a man named Xavier Black, if he exists beneath his skin, I know now that I’m ready to search until I find him. He’s a cypher — a man so wrapped up in his vision of the future, he’s forgotten to build a present for himself. A here and a now.
Baby had said that Xavier was actually homeless. It was so hard to believe that someone could get to his position in life without having accumulated any number of important things . . . along with a place in which to keep them.
It’s too bizarre not to ask about. “I just realized: I don’t even know where you live,” I say, trying to make it sound like an off-handed comment.
It’s been pointed out before, Xavier’s nod seems to say. “To be honest, I don’t know myself,” he says, as his charmingly sculpted face becomes thoughtful. “I consider myself something of a nomad. Perhaps I think of life itself as a thing of impermanence . . . or perhaps I spend too much of my time with digital distractions,” he says, tapping the darkened screen of the xPhone in front of him. “I’m not entirely sure. I just feel as if the more things you own, the more problems you create for yourself. So maybe I worry that if I had a more permanent home, it would end up getting full of things I don’t need.”
“Oooookay . . . ” I say slowly, not liking the sound of that at all. “But in that case, I’m a little confused. What about that car you showed me — the one that drives itself?” I say, thinking back to the terror-filled moment on the highway when Xavier had taken his hands off the steering wheel. “You said something about wanting to have unique things, didn’t you?”
More Than A Maybe Page 12
