Prelude: Book One in The Interlude Duet

by Auden Dar

  Get a hold of yourself. He’s like a baby brother.

  You are not related to this fine British specimen!

  The man who has captured my attention takes a gulp of water, and I watch his head lean back a little. His long neck emphasizes his Adam’s apple, and I wonder what it would be like to kiss his neck. I lick my own lips.

  Stop thinking about his long, sexy neck.

  Oh, my God! Even the vein on the side of his neck is hot.

  I shake my head.

  Remember Andrew.

  I shake my head again.

  I’m only human, and there’s nothing wrong with finding a man attractive.

  I actually wipe a little saliva falling from the corner of my mouth.

  I find it difficult to stop myself from salivating especially when our seats face one another. We study one another and take turns smiling, not knowing what to do next. I turn my head a bit, now staring at the other jets on the tarmac. Stop thinking of him as the sexiest man you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Julian taps my foot with his black shoes.

  “Lina,” he utters.

  I don’t immediately respond, and he taps my foot again.

  I peek down. “Ouch, I heard you the first time. I was just lost in thought.”

  “What’s going on inside that pretty head of yours?” he inquires.

  How incredibly hot and sexy you are.

  “Nothing.” I stare at his shoes. “Nice shoes, Julian. Very cool.”

  He glances down at his vintage looking black leather sneakers with an H emblem on the side.

  “They’re Hogan shoes. I only wear them if I’m not wearing running shoes or Chucks.”

  I nod in approval and instantly notice he’s not wearing socks. I continue to stare at his shoes, and I smile, fondly remembering his hatred of socks. It’s as if he knows what I’m thinking. “Yes, after all these years, I still don’t like to wear socks.”

  We both start to laugh, and at this moment, we’re just the way we were years ago before the tragedy. I relax a little before it hits me. We’ve been apart for fourteen years, and I don’t know anything about the man who sits before me.

  “What is it that you do, Julian?” I ask with hesitancy.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, what do you do for a living? I assume that you work, right?” I ask teasingly. I can’t imagine he would be the kind of man who lives off his trust fund and does nothing but spend money, sleep with several women a week, and not have a care in the world. As I admire him, well, maybe sleeping with several women in a week would not be farfetched.

  “Well, I dabble in many things. Real estate, for one. And for the past few years, I’ve spent a great deal of time investing in start-ups. I’m a venture capitalist and just opened an incubator in Silicon Beach.”

  “Incubator? Silicon Beach? Very foreign terms, Julian.”

  “I’m sorry. The company I founded a few years ago develops and incubates new business ideas as well as advises in early stage start-ups. Also, when we find a company that desperately needs assistance, we help them reinvent themselves. Some companies become stale after a few years and need to rebrand. I’m excited about this new venture because I’ll be completely involved with the entire business cycle of a company from conception to possibly the sale. I used to take struggling businesses and would sell them piece by piece but then that got boring. There was nothing creative about it.”

  “Boring, really? Taking a company apart and laying off thousands of people got boring?” I ask with an accusing tone.

  “God, no. You make me sound like a heartless bastard. I apologize for giving you the wrong impression. On the contrary, one of our priorities is ensuring that folks maintain their employment. No profit is worth taking someone’s livelihood. And also, I prefer to create something, and I enjoy helping young entrepreneurs make their dreams come true. I’d like to think of it as paying it forward.”

  I simply nod, taking all of Julian in−admiring him not only because he’s delicious eye-candy, but also because he’s doing something he obviously loves.

  “Lina, I’m proud of you,” he says, surprising me.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been creating the most beautiful film music I’ve ever heard. Moreover, you’ve fulfilled your aspirations of becoming not only a film composer but also a successful one at that.”

  “Wow, Julian, thank you. That … that means a lot. You were the only one who knew.”

  “And I certainly have never forgotten. I have a confession to make.”

  I tilt my head, curious. “Okay.”

  “I listen to your music daily, and I have it on all of my gadgets. I am your biggest fan.” He smiles then reaches for something in his bag. Turning his iPad on, he hands me the gadget. I stare at the screen, and a list of all my compositions greets me. I beam, and when I return the iPad back to him, Julian says, “I’ll always be your biggest fan.”

  I blush and thank him again. Suddenly remembering our conversation, I ask, “So where is this Silicon Beach you’ve just mentioned?”

  “It’s where you live−it’s the Venice-Santa Monica area. Surprisingly, I like it there.”

  “The sun and surf?” I ask while teasing him. I remember the only time he and I went surfing together. We had taken a lesson in Santa Cruz. Even though he was small and seemed frail at the time, Julian had managed to surf like a pro the first time he got up on the board. I … I sucked.

  “Yes and no. Truth be told, I love the anonymity. There aren’t so many VC firms in Silicon Beach. You can drive on Sand Hill Road in San Francisco, and there are about seventy VC firms and all within a square mile of each other. That gets a bit too much. Everyone knows your business. This is more creative even though companies like Google have already transplanted themselves here. Not that they’re not creative but you get the gist of it.”

  “Really, Google?”

  Where have I been while all this was taking place?

  “Yes, they’re in Frank Gehry’s iconic Binocular Building. And Snapchat has basically taken over Venice.”

  “I live a few blocks from there and didn’t know that. Talk about being clueless. My beach town is becoming digiworld.”

  “Yes, a much-needed digiworld that brings an influx of tech jobs to an area that welcomes it. I don’t want to discuss me anymore. I want to know more about you.” He slowly licks his bottom lip. “God, you’re even more beautiful.”

  Did he just say I was more beautiful?

  Did he just lick his full bottom lip?

  Those plump lips are so inviting.

  I lower my head and this time, I’m really overheated from his compliment. I tug the top of my jersey dress a little, hoping some air will cool me off. My eyes remain lowered, focused on the bead of sweat running down my cleavage.

  I am in heat.

  “Why are you hiding?” he asks tightly. “I just paid you a compliment and you know I’m not one for bullshit.”

  I peek up before admitting, “I rarely get them.” I’ve never been one to fish for compliments, but for the past few months, I’ve been silently begging for them from my fiancé.

  “I gather, though, that your boyfriend must tell you that a million times a day.”

  “My fiancé’s name is Andrew, and no, he doesn’t tell me a million times day.”

  “Andrew.” He smirks. “Ah, how could anyone ever forget him? He was … how shall I put it? Strange lad. I suspect he’s in academia, right? How long have you two been engaged?”

  “He’s a sociology professor at UCLA.” Slightly embarrassed, I softly blurt out “We’ve been engaged for almost six years.”

  “Six years?” He cocks his head, bewildered.

  “Yes,” I mutter. I glance around before offering, “Yes, we’ve been engaged for almost six years.”

  “What’s the holdup? For Christ’s sake, you’ve been together half your life. Most couples would have been married and divorced by now.”

  Before I can
answer, the pilot announces that we are ready to land.

  “Lina, I’m curious as to why that fool hasn’t married you yet.”

  Yeah, why hasn’t Andrew married me yet?

  Twelve

  At this time in my life, like most women nearing their thirties, I had hoped to be married to the man I love with a bunch of little ones running around. Add a dog or two barking in the background. Maybe a fat cat, as well. However, everything I had envisioned my life to be at this age is completely different. Although I am not single, I am not married. Having a child may never be possible unless we adopt, and at this point in Andrew’s career, it would be more of a burden for him than a blessing. A dog will never be raised in our home, as well. When I think about how the movie of my life has played during the past decade, the memory of my perpetual fiancé’s proposal comes to mind right before Julian and I leave the airport.

  It was a beautiful September day in New York. School was in session. Andrew had been unusually restless and decided to take a break from grading his students’ essays. At the time, he was an adjunct professor at Hunter College.

  After walking around downtown for what seemed like hours, we decided to grab a bite at Puglia’s in Little Italy. While eating bruschetta, Andrew took my hand. I had been rambling on and on about how nice it was to be back in our hometown.

  “Yes, the city is great. Lina, let’s get married. After all, we’ve been together for years. It’ll be good for us.” I almost choked on the piece of bruschetta that I had popped in my mouth.

  Oh my god, please don’t let me choke. Especially when he’s finally proposed.

  Not choking, after all, I wanted to make sure I heard correctly, “Really, Andrew? You want to get married?” I didn’t think he would ever propose. I just imagined that at some point we would finally move in together.

  “Yes, but not immediately. We’ll have to arrange something around both our work schedules.” At the time, I didn’t realize that he didn’t mention love, a ring, or spending his life with me. Simply put, it was a matter of convenience, a necessity; something that was inevitable. I was just thrilled that he finally asked. I had loved him since I was a teenager. Moreover, I was beginning to worry our status as a couple would remain as boyfriend and girlfriend. You know the ones who just didn’t make it down the aisle. We didn’t live together but not because I didn’t want to. Andrew refused to give up his tiny rent-controlled studio that was a block away from Hunter College, and I didn’t want to leave the home my father had left me. Secretly, I also loved having Roger as a roommate. Although once Andrew and I tied the knot, we would both live in the loft. I was thrilled he proposed, and the thought of my grandparents seeing me walk down the aisle was a happy one. I knew they had been worried about me becoming a long-term girlfriend and eventually just becoming a ‘spinster.’ My grandfather was so ready for me to get married. My nana, on the other hand, wanted me to marry … someone else.

  A few hours after accepting his proposal, I rushed to the corner newsstand and purchased my first copy of Modern Bride. The next day, I ordered a year’s subscription to the magazine, thinking I would be married within a year and a half at the most. Well, it’s been about six years since my fiancé proposed, and the subscription to Modern Bride has long since run out. After the third year, I stopped subscribing. All emails pertaining to weddings went to spam. I knew deep down inside he had proposed when he realized he would be relocating to LA and didn’t want to move by himself. There was never a doubt in my mind that Andrew loved me. However, I also knew I was his security blanket. He had difficulty with change. It was difficult for him to make friends, a reason he had transferred to Columbia after his first year at Princeton.

  My fiancé has always found an excuse for not making wedding plans. A date has not been set, and an engagement ring has never been placed on my left ring finger. Maybe it will happen; maybe it won’t. I tell myself daily that getting married is just a piece of paper. However, it is the act of commitment itself that I still long for. And although we’re not married, I know in my heart that Andrew and I are committed to each other.

  As we depart the jet, Julian’s left hand is on my shoulder. He taps it, and I turn around.

  “I’m sorry if I said something to upset you,” he says with concern.

  “No need to apologize. I’m just uncomfortable talking about my long engagement.”

  “It seems more like a perpetual one.”

  Mugpie snorts as if he agrees with his dad.

  “Please, Julian. I don’t want to discuss it right now.”

  He squeezes my arm as a way to comfort me. But it doesn’t work.

  Thirteen

  We landed at a small, private airport in San Rafael. We don’t engage one another for most of the forty-minute drive to Julian’s father’s estate. The only sound heard throughout the ride is the sound of Coldplay’s first album Parachutes. We’re in Julian’s 1964 black Aston Martin and cruising away.

  I break the silence by telling him, “I feel like a Bond girl in this car.”

  “You look like one,” he responds and I can’t help but have a few butterflies in my stomach when he winks.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “Seriously, this is one hell of a car.”

  Staring ahead, he shares, “Driving this is one of my favorite pastimes.”

  Ooh, I’d like you to drive me.

  As my salacious thoughts linger, the hot driver a few inches away from me continues, “I’ve always dreamed of owning this as well as a 1966 Shelby Cobra.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll be driving one soon.”

  Another image of me riding Julian in the back seat of this car appears.

  Dammit. Stop.

  “For the most part, yes. There are only two Shelby Cobras in the world. I can’t imagine their owners selling them.” He turns his head and looks at me. “However, I don’t have what I’ve desired the most in my life right now, but I’m working on it.”

  I notice from the way he purses his lips that he doesn’t want to discuss it, so I don’t push the conversation. The convertible’s top is down and the chill from the San Francisco marine layer has me shivering.

  “We’re only a few more minutes away. Are you warm enough?” Julian asks.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Lina, do you mind checking on Mugpie?”

  I turn around and find the chubby bulldog sprawled out, snoring. “Does Mugpie do anything other than sleep?”

  Julian chuckles. “Yes, I should have warned you. He passes gas a lot.” And I can’t help but laugh along with him.

  We drive along the water’s edge, past the financial district and the small eateries on North Beach, moving along the hilly residential neighborhood of Pacific Heights. Among some of the most expensive real estate in the nation, I am amazed at the architecture that surrounds this area. Advancing along Broadway, I notice that we’re in an exclusive corner of Pacific Heights. All the mansions along this road offer spectacular views of the bay. I visited here once as a teen and at the time, I had been too young to understand the wealth surrounding me.

  “Do you believe that an unfinished house on Broadway was listed for $65 million a few years ago?” Julian says as if he can’t believe it himself.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not at all. The most expensive home in this area sold for $40 million not too long ago. When your neighbors are Larry Ellison and the Gettys, you can ask for that kind of money.”

  “You’re really into real estate, huh?” I ask.

  “Yes, that’s how I started.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. While at University, I invested some of the money that Mum left me on several studio apartments on the lower east side. They were ridiculously cheap at the time. Do you remember Helena Emerson?” His hands remain on the wheel as he darts his head and looks in my direction.

  “Of course. She was your mother’s close friend and neighbor.” I stare at his go
rgeous eyes, and in this light, they sparkle.

  “That’s correct. Her husband and my father are still close. The Emersons still live at 740. Helena’s not only an incredible architect but also an interior designer. I was so new to real estate and needed someone to partner with. I’ve always admired her. She reminded me so much of Mum. It didn’t take much to convince her to become a partner and we sold our first four studios in a matter of hours. Hours. Nothing can compare to New York City real estate. Brooklyn is hot, but there’s nothing like Manhattan. Helena still helps me when she can. Do you remember Allegra?”

  “How could I ever forget that precocious girl?” I smile, remembering the little girl who always had a sketchpad with her.

  Julian laughs. “Brilliant, brilliant girl. Did you know she graduated from high school before she was fifteen?”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Not at all. Allegra became an architect before she turned nineteen. She’s drawing up the plans for my satellite office in Santa Monica. She actually lives in Venice. She was the friend I met with at the café a few days ago.”

  Although I love hearing about his success in real estate, it also instills a little pain in my chest. The boy I had written letters to, e-mailed and called daily for several years had kept in touch with his neighbors yet not once did he respond to any of my messages. I was his best friend, or so I thought. A small tear falls from my eyes. With the pad of my forefinger, I wipe it.

  I was smart for not wearing makeup today.

  “What’s troubling you?” he asks with concern, unaware of the sadness he has brought me. Or the tears I cried for years because he simply forgot about me.

  Rather than scream, cry, or confront him, I cast aside the hurt. “Just allergies,” I lie, reminding myself that although we had shared a lifetime of tragedies together, we are just getting reacquainted. I pray I’ll have the chance to learn what has happened to him during our time apart.