by Girard, Dara
He waited, his tapping becoming more impatient.
She took a long swallow of her tea as if it were stiff bourbon, then placed it aside. "Timothy hated to see me sick," she explained in a rush. "He would call me a fat, disgusting slob and leave the house until I got well. He hated weakness, and sickness was a weakness. I didn't want you to see me that way."
Drake sat back and glanced around the kitchen and then returned to her face. "I hope you don't think you're flattering me by comparing me to him," he said in a bland tone.
"I'm not comparing you."
"Then why did you try to leave?"
"I just didn't want to disgust you. You already had a horrible night. I didn't want to make it worse."
He twirled the cigarette between his fingers. His voice grew husky. "Actually I had a very enjoyable evening."
She felt her face and body grow warm. How could he still look at her with such wanting in spite of what happened? "You know what I mean."
"Right." He put the cigarette back in the carton and pushed it away. "You mean if I had been sick you would have been disgusted at the sight of me."
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, surprised he would come to such a conclusion. "I would have taken care of you."
He nodded, then put his hands together in a steeple. His eyes roamed over her face speculatively. "Okay, then explain why you would take care of me and I wouldn't take care of you."
"You're blowing this out of proportion. Don't worry about it."
His eyes flashed fire, but his voice remained cool. "Right. Excuse me." He grabbed his carton of cigarettes with such force that some shot of out the box and landed unnoticed on the floor. He headed for the balcony.
"All right, I apologize," she said quickly, when he grasped the sliding door handle. She could feel the anger that he kept carefully in check. "I misjudged you."
He stared out the window. "Yes, you did." He slanted her a glance. "You seem to do it very well on a continual basis."
"I don't do it on purpose." She took a step toward him, but her foot got caught in the hem and she tripped and grabbed the table to keep her balance.
"Sit down before you hurt yourself," he ordered.
"I won't hurt myself. I just forgot how long your robe is."
"Was Timothy's robe shorter?" he drawled.
"I never wore his robe."
He nodded and opened the door.
"Try to see it from my side. I know at first I wanted to, uh..."
"Get rid of me."
"No, free you. But after we—"
"Had sex."
She placed her hands on her hips. "I am perfectly capable of finishing my own sentences, thank you."
He closed the door. "You're welcome. Go on."
"After we had sex, I wanted to impress you and when I got sick it was because of me, not you, that I had to leave. I didn't want to taint the picture of who I was."
"So if I ever get sick instead of shattering the illusion you have of me I should leave."
Cassie threw up her hands, exasperated. "You're misunderstanding me on purpose."
"No, I'm not. You're leaving out one important element."
"What?"
"I care about you. God only knows why, but I do."
"That's impossible." Men had wanted her, needed her, but never cared about her. The man didn't know what he was saying.
"No, it's not impossible. And believe it or not you care about me too."
"I hardly know you. I don't know what you do for a living, where your family's from, or anything personal." She shoved her hands in the large pockets of the robe and held out a crumbled piece of paper. "I mean, what is all this about? I don't know anything about you."
Drake stared at the label of the cigarette carton. "Probably because you tried so hard not to show any interest before."
"Well, I'm asking now. What do you do for a living?"
He looked up and shrugged. "I own a few restaurants. Two here in DC. The Blue Mango and the Red Hut."
She silently groaned in dismay. Restaurants—food— extra calories. "Impressive." She searched her mind for another question. "What is your middle name?"
"I don't have one."
"I thought everyone had a middle name."
"What's yours?"
"Annette."
His brows furrowed. "Annette is what you use to catch a fish."
She marched over to him and poked him in the chest. "Are you making fun of my name, Drake?"
He held up his hands. "I wouldn't think of it." He began to smile. "Hey, let's go play Ping-Pong. Wait, the table needs Annette."
She playfully swung at him.
He grabbed her hand; she trembled from his touch. "Relax, Cassie. I would never hurt you."
"I know."
A dark thought entered his mind. He narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip. "Did he ever hurt you?"
She emphatically shook her head. "No. Never."
He kissed her knuckles. "Lucky him," he murmured, beginning to suck on her pinkie.
"Drake!"
"Hmm?" He took her hand and led her to the couch. He sat down and pulled her onto his lap.
"This isn't going to work," Cassie said, trying to wiggle off his lap. "Do you know how much I weigh?"
He flashed a wicked grin. "Do you want me to guess?"
"No."
"I didn't think so," he murmured against her neck. "Please stop wiggling or I'll be forced to take you right here and now. I'm not sure you're ready for that."
She swallowed, feeling light-headed. She was sure it was from the lack of food, not from his words. No one could survive on peppermint tea. "You know you won't be able to hold me like this for long. Your legs will fall asleep. Perhaps you'll lose all muscle function."
"I don't care if they fall off." He kissed her behind one ear, then the other. "You're not going anywhere." He kissed her on the mouth, sucking on the lower lip.
"Drake?" she whispered.
"Hmm?"
"Could you do me a favor?"
"Anything," he breathed, ready to taste her lips again.
"Could you please let me have a slice of toast?"
He paused and shut his eyes as if in pain. "Cassie, you know I can't."
"Please." Her eyes begged him. For a moment, he felt himself weakening. He shook his head, steeling himself against her charms—her beautiful pleading butterscotch eyes and pouting raspberry mouth. "No, if you get sick again I wouldn't forgive myself."
She toyed with the curls at the base of his neck. "I'd forgive you."
He unwrapped her arms and held them in front of him. "You're a dangerous woman."
"Come on," she urged. "Just one piece of toast with butter and cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top."
He shook his head sadly. "I can't."
She let her shoulders slump. "I don't think I like you very much anymore."
He lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry about that." He said the words so solemnly that she knew her joke had missed him again.
"Drake, I was just teasing."
He didn't look at her. "You can leave now if you want."
There was a moment of silence and then she said, "I don't."
His eyes met hers, filled with amusement. "That's what I figured."
"You big fibber!"
"Hey, I know how to tease too. We all have our talents."
She wiggled off his lap and surged to her feet. "I'll get you back for that."
"Ah, does the lady speak of revenge?" He kissed the back of her hand. "I accept the challenge."
He strolled into the bedroom, before she could reply to his outrageous statement.
Cassie darted into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were only drinks and Jell-O present. She opened the cupboards and saw cans of soup. Where was the real food?
"Looking for something?" a deep voice asked behind her.
She gasped and spun around. Drake stood there fully dressed, swinging his keys in one hand.
"Just making
sure we have everything," she said, swinging her arms in an attempt to look innocent.
He nodded gravely, but his eyes danced. "What would you like me to get for you?"
She rested against the counter and folded her arms. "Is that a trick question?"
He laughed. "No. I mean from your house. Are there books you want to read?"
She let her arms fall. "I thought you were taking me home today."
"I'm not," he said, walking to the hall closet He pulled out a black windbreaker and slipped into it. "So what would you like?"
He was doing too much for her. Soon he would become resentful. "Look, you've been really kind, but I think—"
He shut the closet door and rested a hand against it. "You aren't going to annoy me by arguing about this, are you?" He flashed a bland smile.
Cassie shook her head, sensing the temper that kept the smile in place. "No."
"Good. Now what would you like from your apartment?" He picked up a pen and paper from the hallway table.
"I have a book I'm supposed to be working on. It's on a disk."
"That's fine. I have a computer. Anything else?" He soon regretted the question when she gave him a list of items. Drake studied the list, then said, "Perhaps, I should just bring your entire apartment."
"Oh, could you?" she asked sweetly.
He stuffed the note in his jacket pocket. "You're high maintenance. I should have known better. Most beautiful women are."
She wrapped his robe tighter around her. "It's just a facade really. I'm truly horrible inside."
"I disagree. I've been inside you and you're anything but horrible."
Cassie opened her mouth, but no words came forth.
"Good, I've left you speechless." Drake handed her his cell phone number. "Call me if you need anything else." He glanced at the list. "Though at this point I think that's impossible."
She began to feel guilty. "Perhaps I shouldn't have—"
"I'm joking." He tweaked her chin. "You need to work on your sense of humor."
She smiled, amazed that in this odd circumstance she felt so happy. "Thanks for everything."
He opened the door. "This isn't everything. It's just the beginning."
Cassie watched the door close, then turned. The man was a complete puzzle. She glanced around the condo, curious as to what items would give her a clear picture of the man Drake was. He didn't have an extensive music collection, a few classical and reggae Tapes; his bookshelf was filled with business manuals, cookbooks, and travel guides—Italy, Greece, Barbados. He'd highlighted certain cities, writing in the margins what restaurants and dishes to try. Pushed in the corner of the bookshelf was a dog-eared copy of The Fear of Ridicule. How could a man who had succeeded at so much still have that worry? She held the book close to her. She would be kind and gentle with him. She sat on the couch and shook her head, sighing. The guy was smart. He had been able to put a word to all the mixed feelings she had. She did care about him.
* * *
Drake heard the door next to him creak open as he placed the key in Cassie's door. A rough voice followed the sound. "Get away from there before I call the police."
"It's all right," he said. "I'm just getting Cassie's things."
The door opened wider. "What have you done to her?"
Drake paused, taken back by the strange question. "Nothing. She's staying at my place."
The man was silent a second. "Then what are you doing at her place?"
"Getting her things."
"Why isn't she getting them herself?" he demanded.
"She isn't feeling well." He shook his head, amazed that he felt the need to answer. But the man obviously cared about Cassie, so he couldn't blame him.
"I see. So what is your name?"
"Drake Henson."'
"Do you have some ID to confirm that?"
The guy was definitely weird, but fortunately he was in an indulgent mood. "Yes." He took out his wallet.
The middle-sized man came out into the hallway scratching his thinning pepper-black hair. Drake handed him his driver's license. The man studied it for a while before handing it back.
"She's done worse." He stared at Drake through pale blue eyes. "What do you do for a living?"
He replaced the license and his wallet. He was becoming impatient, but kept his voice mellow. "I own a few restaurants."
"Names?"
"The Blue Mango and the Red Hut."
He grunted. "My name is Mr. Gianolo and Cassie is important to me. She follows my advice on whether someone is worth her time or not. What are your intentions?"
Drake folded his arms, prepared for any reaction that followed his statement. "I intend to marry her."
Mr. Gianolo's face spread into a toothy grin, making him look both young and old at the same time. He slapped his hands. "Hot dog! I should have known. You're one of those quiet serious types, not like her playboys and poets. I've been waiting for this day. Come inside for a drink, young man."
Drake ran a hand over his graying head. He hadn't been called a young man in years. He began to protest, but Mr. Gianolo had already disappeared inside the apartment.
"Sit down anywhere," Mr. Gianolo called from the kitchen.
Drake chose a tweed couch with pillows in the shape of footballs. Mr. Gianolo came out of the kitchen with a tray. He handed Drake a beer and a bowl of peanuts.
"Don't have nothing fancy. Haven't gone shopping yet."
"This is fine."
"Where did you go to school?"
Drake told him; Mr. Gianolo nodded. "A man of education and manners. A rare breed. You should have seen the first bum my daughter married. And my Cassie's first husband wasn't no good either."
"Ever met him?"
"Nah, saw him a couple times though. Carries his ego in a separate bag." He paused. "He just came by."
"What? Right now?"
"Yep, heard his footsteps. He has a distinct pounding sound. You won't catch him now," he said as Drake stood. "He's already gone."
They talked a little more and then Drake said good-bye.
As he approached her apartment, he saw a bouquet of flowers in front of Cassie's door that hadn't been there before. He picked them up and read the note: To my dearest love, Timothy. Drake scowled. He went into Cassie's apartment and promptly threw the flowers in the trash bin. He replaced Cassie's cutting board and knife set with the one he bought and began taking off messages from her answering machine. The first three were from Adriana, who sounded frantic, and then a male voice came on.
"Hey, babe—hon—girl—I mean Cassie. Have a hell of a headache. No hard feelings. Take care of yourself. Kevin." Then, "Hello, this is Glen. Remember our date for Thursday. Bye."
Drake wrote down the messages, then listened to the last one again. It was the tone rather than the message that disturbed him. Who was this Glen guy and what did he mean to her? How many more Glens were there? One thing was for certain, Cassie would certainly keep him alert. She kept an active social life and enjoyed her freedom in this sea of admirers. It would take a lot of strategy to stay on top.
Suddenly, the refrigerator began its strange vibrating dance, and he kicked it. It shuddered, then stopped. He'd worry about Cassie later. Right now he had to do something about that.
* * *
"Who's Glen?" Drake asked once he had returned. "He left a message on your machine." He waved the note in the air.
"Oh, no. I forgot about him," Cassie said, trying to snatch the note.
"Who's Glen?" he repeated.
"Glen Randall? He's a forty-year-old English teacher at—"
Drake shook his head. "That's not what I mean."
A slow smile spread on her face. "Are you jealous?"
"Insanely."
Cassie laughed, certain he was teasing her again. "Careful, I didn't ask you to check my messages." She waved a finger at him. "That's what happens when you snoop. You find out things you might not want to."
He hesitated then sighed. "I was t
rying to be helpful."
She nodded and her smile grew. "I know."
He nodded also, biting his lip. Though he didn't repeat the question, it still burned in his eyes.
"He's just a friend," she answered. "I'm supposed to go out with him to a poetry reading at eight-thirty on Thursday. Do you like poetry?"
"It seems to make Hallmark very rich." He handed her the note. "So he's just a friend?"
She quickly read the message and folded it in two. "You don't approve?"
"Oh, I approve. If he's anything more, it will give you the perfect opportunity to say good-bye."
"I'm not saying good-bye. He's a nice guy. It's comforting to be with a man with no hidden agendas."
Drake flexed his fingers. "I don't have any hidden agendas."
Cassie tapped the note against her lower lip. "Don't you?"
He took the note and tore it in half. "Actually, my agenda is quite clear."
She pursed her lips and sent him a coy look. "And just what would it be?"
"I plan to marry you."
She rolled her eyes. "You do know how to ruin a good flirtation, don't you?"
"I'm serious, Cassie."
She stared at him for a moment. "Was that a proposal?"
"Not yet."
"Good, I would hate to have to reject you right now."
He sat down. "I know you enjoy your carefree life—"
"I don't just enjoy it," she said firmly. "I treasure it. Being married to Timothy was the lonely hell of just being someone's wife and I don't intend to do that again."
Drake recognized any amount of discussion was fruitless. He nodded. "So he's just a friend?"
"I said yes."
He was quiet in consideration. "What's the name of the other guy you're seeing?"
"Other guy?"
"Yes, the one you're involved with."
She had forgotten about that lie. "Oh, yes. Right. He's out of the picture right now."
"If he ever was in it," he muttered.
She changed the subject. "Did I get any other messages?"
"Kevin has a hangover." He handed her the phone. "And I suggest you call Adriana. She's in a panic."
Cassie quickly dialed, knowing her friend was probably dreaming up horrible events of Cassie's demise since she hadn't heard from her.
"Where have you been?" Adriana shouted, after Cassie spoke.
She held the phone from her ear. "You don't have to shout."
