2 Busy 4 Love

by Lucy Hepburn

  “I know. Things truly were that bad.”

  “Guess there’s no point seeing if one of these girls could fix your hair up for the party tonight then,” her mother sighed.

  “No way—no time. But the worst thing is, I needed to get to Mr. Simpson’s to hand over the deposit check for the apartment before it goes to public auction tomorrow, but he’d left, even though I arrived before the deadline.”

  “Oh, that’s so unfair.”

  Christy shrugged. “It is. But I guess I should have been there earlier. I shouldn’t have left it till the last minute.” That one was on her. “The guy at Clint’s told me he’d be back at a restaurant downtown at six thirty tonight, so if I can get there, like, in a few minutes, I may be able to persuade him to change his mind.”

  “Then you need to get yourself down there, sweetie.”

  “That’s the thing. I need to be at the airport at the same time, to meet Antonio. The real Antonio. And to hand over the papers to Will and get my phone back.”

  “Huh? Will’s at the airport?”

  Christy nodded. “Annie’s just told me he’s headed up there now.” She bit her lip.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  She hesitated before telling her mom the truth, then she remembered—no secrets. “I think I do.” She gave a snort of laughter. “But I’ve never met him! It’s insane! My crazy day has messed with my head! I know Annie works for his dad, but for all intents and purposes, he’s a perfect stranger.”

  “Aha, see what you’ve done there?” her mother said softly.

  “Nope.”

  “‘A perfect stranger.’”

  “Yes?” Christy asked.

  “Well, surely, oh, at least nine out of ten boyfriends or husbands start out as exactly that? Perfect strangers?”

  Christy shrugged.

  “Not everyone ends up spending the rest of their lives with their college sweetheart, Christy. I know what you had with Duncan was special—”

  “Mom—”

  “But that’s not the only way to get together with somebody.”

  “Mom, Will’s nice, sure, but…but, it’s crazy—I’ve never even looked into his eyes.”

  She looked away. Of course, she had looked into his eyes. On the train, one hundred years ago, or so it seemed. And she hated the fact that she couldn’t remember any details of them—apart from remembering how…gorgeous…they were. Her heart did another inconvenient flip.

  “Tell me something, sweetie, how exactly do you expect to find love?”

  Touching her daughter on the shoulder, she stood up and went to pay her stylist, then went over to introduce herself to Toni, who was now standing up beside the mirror, his hair given an elaborate bed-head twist. One of the male stylists had emerged from a back room with a camera to take his picture for the website. Christy’s head was spinning. Okay, so nobody had deceived her today, she didn’t think. But she cringed at the thought of Annie being by his side throughout their phone and text exchanges—it altered everything and nothing all at once.

  Her mother seemed to be engaged in a lengthy conversation with Toni. Huh? Surely Toni hadn’t been deceiving her all day as well? Could he speak perfect English after all?

  “Okay, everything’s sorted,” her mother beamed when she returned to Christy’s side on the sofa at the window.

  “Toni speaks English?” Christy squeaked.

  “No, sweetie, I speak Italian.”

  “You do not!” Christy spluttered with laughter at the absurdity of the statement.

  “Actually, I do now,” her mother smiled. “Annie’s been teaching me.”

  “Annie speaks it, too? Yeah, sure!”

  “Annie is fluent, sweetie. And if you think I’m going to have an Italian son-in-law without taking a little trouble to learn how to communicate with him, then you have a lower opinion of me than I thought.”

  “Oh. Um, right, well, I apologize,” Christy mumbled, feeling genuinely chastened. “Forgive me.”

  “I’ll put it down to the rough day you’ve been having…just this once.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, Toni and I will pick up the rug for you and drop it off with its owner, and then I’ll find a hotel for Toni to sleep in tonight.”

  Christy raised a hand. “No, sorry, Mom, but you can’t—”

  “I can, sweetie,” her mother smiled.

  “But you won’t know where—”

  “Write me a note.”

  “Or who—”

  “Put it on the note.”

  “Or how much—”

  “Christy…” With just one look, her mother pointed out how silly she was being.

  Finally Christy melted. “You know what? That would actually be…quite…wonderful!” She flung her arms around her mother’s neck and hugged her again, even more tightly than before.

  “The hair, sweetie, don’t knock it down! Now I hope that will leave you free to go after what you really want. The apartment? Or are you going to take a chance on love?”

  They looked at one another for a long time. “Oh,” her mother went on, “Toni asked me to tell you that as soon as his first paycheck comes in, he’s going to pick you up on his brand new Ducati 848 and take you out to dinner.”

  “Thank you so much, Mom.” Her eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Now give me the addresses Toni and I are going to need, and scoot.”

  She quickly did as she was asked before crossing the room to where Toni was wrapping up the photo shoot. All hairdressing work had ground to a halt as everyone, hair stylist and customer alike, watched his devastating performance. Christy arrived just as everyone had burst into spontaneous applause and Toni was bowing modestly.

  “Goodbye?” Toni said, pulling her close.

  She nodded, barely trusting herself to speak. “You…you take care, okay? And thank you for all you did for me today, and for what you and my mom are going to do tonight—Mom?” She called over to her mother, who was being helped into her jacket by the reception desk. “Please, could you tell Toni to make sure he calls me if ever he needs any help? I owe him so much.”

  Her mother smiled, crossed over to them, and translated the message. Toni waved it away shyly. “Christy, the best a man can get,” he said.

  She was too choked up to speak. Instead she went over to her mother, whispered a few words in her ear to bring her up to speed with her decision, kissed her, then, after apologizing to the receptionist for the earlier commotion, set off, alone, into the streets. She had urgent business to take care of.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WILL

  6:15 p.m.

  I know I’m acting like a spoiled kid, but I can’t help myself.

  Will was slumped in the passenger seat of his dad’s car as they drove out of New Brunswick, heading for the airport. His father’s face was fixed in an expression of grim concentration as he negotiated the busy traffic. It looked as though they may well be spending the entire hour-long journey in silence.

  Well, that suits me just fine. I’m not the problem here.

  Besides, he was thinking about Christy. Poor thing, being ambushed by her own sister like that. Even though Will understood almost straight away that it was a coincidence, at least he could see the whites of Nina—Annette’s—eyes and know that it was all genuinely not planned, but Christy had no such luxury. Annie had just grabbed the phone out of his hands.

  “That girl really got to you,” his father remarked, staring straight ahead at the road.

  “What?” Will sat up, instantly defensive.

  “This girl you’ve been talking to on the phone all day. Sounds like she’s quite something.”

  “Yeah, okay, Dad,” Will cut in and slumped back down in his seat again. He had to be careful not to stick his bottom lip out and sulk properly.

  His dad was right, that was the trouble. There was something really special about Christy Davies.
Something kind of poised and decent, even in the middle of all the crises she’d endured today. And she was cute. But, try as he might, he just couldn’t conjure up an accurate image of her face in his mind.

  She’d told him it was time to forgive his father. What was it she’d said? He had to be both a father and a mother to you…at least he didn’t leave…

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “When was the last time we spent time together?”

  He could see his father’s grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Hard to say,” he replied after a long, thoughtful pause. “We didn’t exactly spend every weekend playing football and fishing in the creek when you were little.”

  “I don’t like fishing anyway.”

  “Aha, maybe that’s because I never took you.”

  Will smiled, then immediately became thoughtful again. “No, but, I mean, now you’re here, and I didn’t even want to come, to tell the truth, and I realize—we don’t do this. We don’t—you know—talk.”

  His father glanced at him. His face had softened. “Well, we’re doing it now. What do you want to talk about?”

  Will shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. Anything. Growing up?” Then, after a pause, he added, “Letting go of the past.”

  “Don’t suppose I’ve left you much from the past to let go of,” Carl Thompson said in such a low voice Will had to lean closer to him to pick up his words.

  “Dad?”

  “Yup?”

  “You know what? I say, screw the past!”

  His father stared at the road ahead, his expression unreadable. But then, after what seemed like hours had elapsed, he inclined his head a little and replied, “Amen to that.”

  Immediately Will felt lighter, happier than he had been for a very, very long time. The last few minutes had been the most connected he’d ever felt with his father. It was a good feeling.

  The atmosphere in the car was still fraught with unsaid things, but still, at least they had reached out to one another and, given the lack of worthwhile communication over the past ten years or so, that was definitely progress.

  Will couldn’t look at his father when he spoke next. “I’m sorry I yelled at you back at the house, Dad.”

  His dad gave the tiniest smile. “I deserved it.”

  “You’re grieving. I should have been more sensitive.”

  “Nah, I…” his father shook his head, opening his mouth to say more but then seemingly deciding better of it.

  “Speak, Dad,” Will urged.

  “I was wrong,” his father replied. “You had a tough time when you were a kid, and I wasn’t really there for you. You were right: I didn’t think much about my responsibilities back then. It must have been hard for you.”

  Will’s heart had almost stopped beating as he realized how many years he’d longed to hear his father say these words. But then Christy’s advice came swimming up to the surface, and, in what was the bravest thing he’d ever done in his entire life, he reached over and touched his father on the arm. “Thought I said screw the past, Dad?”

  His father shook his head. “Easier said than done, I guess.”

  Outside, it had begun to rain. Thin drizzle peppered the cars and the road; drivers were turning their lights on. The wipers made an annoying creak as they dragged themselves across the windshield of Carl Thompson’s car.

  “I never gave much thought to the tough time you’d been having after Mom…died,” Will admitted. “No wonder we argued a lot.”

  “That wasn’t your responsibility,” his father replied. “You were the kid and I was the adult. Or, at least, I was supposed to be. But then…you know something? All of a sudden…you weren’t the kid anymore; you grew up without me even noticing. Then, well, I don’t know, I felt like I didn’t know you.”

  The comment stung Will. What sort of thing was that for a father to say?

  “And then it got clearer, and I figured out that, actually, I did know you, Will. I knew you because I already had someone just like you in my life.”

  “Grandpa.” Will said the name as a declaration, not a question.

  “Precisely,” his father nodded.

  “I’m not ashamed of being like him,” Will said, determined to at least attempt to be true to himself.

  “Nor should you be,” his father interjected. “You’ve got a real good head on your shoulders, Will, just like him. But it was like a generation had been skipped.”

  “You?”

  “Me.”

  “I never thought—”

  “You need not have thought! But there I was, caught in the middle of you two business hotshots, clinging to my artistic beliefs and values like I was some kind of lone, primitive voice in a land filled with technology!”

  “You felt that?” Will was staring at his father.

  “Well, not every moment of the day—that’d drive a man to drink—but, basically, yes, Will, I felt that. I felt…”

  Will wondered if he dared suggest the word.

  “Misunderstood?”

  His father nodded. “There you have it. It was hard to hold on to my values with you two around.”

  “You did a pretty good job!” Will laughed, remembering the fights, the shouting, the hours and hours of silence as his father locked himself away in his office, being ‘creative.’

  “You reckon? Well, maybe I didn’t need to defend them so bitterly.”

  Will was about to contradict his father, but then realized—yeah, Dad, you did give me a hard time back then.

  “You know something, Will, I do respect your business brain.”

  “Thanks.” Another moment to store up for the rest of his life.

  “I just feel…I just felt…that you focused your talents too exclusively on business, you know?”

  “Making a success of my life was important to me, Dad. It still is.”

  “Yes, and that’s fine, but it’s not how I see things—maybe that’s the nub of all this. See, Will, I sometimes think I’m at odds with the whole world.”

  “How come?”

  “All this rushing around, trying to get somewhere. But once you get there—oh, I don’t know—nobody takes a moment to look at the thing they came to see because they’re too busy taking photos of it. Does that make sense?”

  Will had to admit, he understood what his dad was trying to say.

  “It’s like life is a series of tick boxes, one job done and then straight on to the next. They always need to be somewhere else, making a buck, living the dream, but the dream never catches up with them…nobody puts the brakes on.”

  “Are you a poet, by any chance?” Will was smiling.

  “Who knows?” His father smiled back. “It’s all in the eye of the beholder.”

  To Will’s disappointment, they were almost at the airport. The signs by the freeway were warning of low-flying planes, and filter systems funnelled drivers toward different arrival and departure areas. The rain was getting heavier. It seemed to form a curtain between the outside world and the two men in the car who were, stage by stage, discovering one another. Will almost wished his father would just keep on driving so that they could keep on talking. He would have suggested it were it not for the fact that a certain young woman would be waiting for him inside the terminal building.

  His heart quickened at the thought.

  “Technology,” Carl Thompson continued. It was like he found the whole thing confusing. “I mean, look at this freeway. Those planes up there, that control tower, these giant buildings—what’s it all about?”

  “It’s progress.”

  “It’s like a movie put on fast forward. Now that we can all get from A to B in super-quick time, let’s do just that. Who cares if, once we get there, we don’t have time to look around because there’s some super-efficient technology in place to whisk us from B to C. Now, just suppose, Will, just suppose, there’s some really good stuff at B—not to mention the really go
od stuff left behind at A—what about that? That’s all lost in the mad, ridiculous, obscene scramble to get to C!”

  Will was staring out of the side window of the car, his brain a jumble of conflicting emotions. His father had never opened up to him like this before. Never.

  A thought occurred to Will. “That’s why you messed up signing the papers, isn’t it, Dad?”

  His father stared straight ahead and pursed his lips, as though putting all his energy into steering the car toward the airport arrivals car park.

  “Guess so,” he said as the car bumped down the ramp into the underground parking facility.

  “That old house…Dad’s old house; it means a lot to me. I know that we have to sell it someday. I know we can’t just keep it empty forever. I’m just not sure I’m ready to let it go right now. I know you won’t understand that.”

  Will said nothing.

  “I mean, I know, progress and all, business, efficiency, moving along from A to B to C, but I didn’t know any other way.”

  “It’s okay, Dad…” Will was too choked up to say anything else.

  6:45 p.m.

  He felt a little foolish standing at the arrivals gate inside the terminal building and holding a cardboard placard, cut from an old shoebox in the trunk of his father’s car, with the name ‘Antonio Santori’ written on it. Apart from anything else, he’d forgotten to ask Nina if her fiancé spoke English. He had a reasonably good command of Spanish but, to his shame, had no idea whether Spanish and Italian might just be interchangeable. His father had bought a novel from the bookshop and pointedly retreated to a coffee stand in a far corner of the building, leaving Will to do the tricky part. Every minute or so, Will would look around the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of Christy—would she be running toward him, flustered, as she had been most of the day? Would her face light up when she saw him? Would they hug?

  Yes, he decided. They would definitely hug.

  “Pardon me.” An older gentleman, also holding a placard, had nudged against him in his efforts to make it to the front of the crowd. They stood, side by side, behind the safety barrier.

  “No problem,” Will assured him.

  Through the arrival gate emerged a tall, handsome man with tousled, straw-colored hair and smooth olive skin. The man scanned his new surroundings uncertainly before settling his gaze on Will and then, after a moment, on the older man at Will’s side.