After much sweet-talking and stubbornness, she’d managed to convince them to call Walter’s next of kin and request permission for her to see him.
Even as she knew full well Oliver would be the point of contact. And that her chances of him giving her the go-ahead were slim.
But he’d surprised her. He’d given Naomi permission to visit whenever she wanted, so long as the visits were supervised by a staff member. That had stung, but she got it. And it was better than nothing.
She’d meant to just come the one time. To make peace or whatever, but this was her third time out to see him, and she found she enjoyed her time here. Sure, the man was the reason she had a small bald patch on her head where they’d had to shave her hair to stitch up the head wound, but a tiny part of her thought maybe she deserved that for keeping the truth from Oliver and Walter.
Like maybe they were even now in some weird, warped way. Or maybe perhaps it wasn’t about being even at all.
It was about forgiveness. And understanding. Maybe it was about choosing kindness, regardless of what had come before.
“Not that one,” he snapped as she began to read. “Your book.”
“My book?”
“The one you read before.”
Naomi smiled at the fact that he remembered her last visit, though she was a little surprised. She wasn’t much of a reader save for her Stephen King fetish, and since she could practically feel the observation caretaker’s judgment when she’d suggested It, she’d pulled up the only other book on the Kindle app of her phone—a childhood favorite that she never got sick of.
“You like Anne of Green Gables, huh?” she asked, finding the chapter they’d ended on last time.
He shrugged and looked out the window, but he didn’t ask her to stop when she began to read.
Naomi lost track of how long she read, consumed with the story of a redheaded orphan and her coming of age on Prince Edward Island.
Eventually she glanced up and saw that Walter had fallen asleep, looking peaceful and content as a ray of sunshine fell across his face.
Naomi set her phone aside, pulled a blanket off the foot of the bed, and draped it over his knees.
“I’ll see you next week, okay, Walter?” she said quietly to the sleeping man.
Without realizing she was doing it, she smoothed an errant flyaway on his gray hair and waited for the instant self-loathing, the guilt that she was betraying her mother.
It never came.
She swallowed, a lump in her throat at the bittersweet realization that she finally had her peace.
And at how much it had cost her.
Naomi picked up her purse, turning to tell the facility’s employee that she was off babysitting duty.
She froze. It wasn’t the petite blond woman who’d escorted her to Walter’s room standing in the doorway.
It was Oliver.
He was wearing a blue shirt that made his eyes look even lighter than usual, and his feet were crossed at the ankles as he leaned with one shoulder against the doorjamb.
“Hi,” she said nervously. “I didn’t—how long have you been here?”
He shrugged. “A while.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut in on your time with him. You could have kicked me out.”
“And missed story time?” he said with a slight smile.
She looked down, feeling embarrassed. “Ah, yeah. It’s an old favorite. He seems to like it. Well, at least until he fell asleep.”
Oliver nodded but said nothing else.
She forced a smile. “Well. It’s good to see you. And thank you, truly, for letting me see him. I would have understood if you’d said no.”
Still, he said nothing, his expression watchful.
Naomi forced yet another smile and walked toward the door. He straightened, making way for her to pass, careful not to touch her.
“Take care, Oliver,” she said, keeping her voice light.
“You, too.”
He let her get halfway down the hall before calling her back. “Hey, Naomi?”
She turned back.
He jerked his chin at her purse. “That book you were reading. The girl—Anne. Her nickname was Carrots. Sounds familiar.”
She laughed. “You were listening quite a while. And yeah, it was only her nickname in the mind of Gilbert, who was sort of her tormentor.”
“Ah. Whatever happened to them?”
“To who?”
“Anne and Gilbert.”
“They eventually became friends,” she said, choosing her words carefully. She was a little at a loss as to why they were discussing the fictional characters of Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe when they had major unresolved issues between them.
Oliver studied her a moment, then nodded and stepped into his father’s room without another word.
“Um, okay,” Naomi muttered to herself.
Still, she was a little proud of herself as she left the building. At least she hadn’t broken down and told him how much she missed him.
Her heart might belong to Oliver. But her pride was still her own.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1
I just want to point out that we’ve been friends for fewer than six months, but I have helped you move twice. Surely there should be an award for that.”
Claire paused in the process of unwinding packing material from a serving dish and gave Audrey an incredulous look. “You realize that help is a strong word in your case, right?”
“Hey, I’m doing stuff,” Audrey said, lifting her wine mug from where she sat perched on Naomi’s new kitchen counter. “I told those cute boys where to put the dresser.”
“You’re a real lifesaver, dear,” Naomi said, patting her friend’s knee.
“Right? I do love this place though. I mean, the other place was okay, too, but I did think it was sort of an odd choice for you. It smelled like mothballs in the hall.”
“A little bit,” Naomi agreed, ripping open another box marked KITCHEN and pulling out her pasta pot.
“This is much more you,” Audrey said, hopping off the counter and spinning in a circle.
“How much wine have you had?” Claire muttered.
“Enough.” Audrey went to the window overlooking the Hudson River. “You know, I hardly ever come to the west side?”
“No,” Claire said, sounding scandalized. “We are shocked. Just shocked, aren’t we, Naomi?”
Naomi only smiled, relishing the sound of her friends’ good-natured bickering because it meant that she didn’t have to deal with her own thoughts.
Not that she didn’t love her new apartment. Audrey was exactly right. It was more her. A brand-new high-rise on the west side of Manhattan, in a trendy neighborhood, Naomi’s new apartment was perhaps the opposite of 517 Park Avenue, with its impeccable pedigree and old-money vibes.
Naomi may be new money. She may not be of the fur coat and Scotch set. She may drink cheap wine out of cheap glasses and fail to appreciate “good coffee,” whatever that meant, because it was all good with enough sugar . . .
But she was successful. She was financially secure, and then some. She was happy.
Well. Mostly happy.
She was sort of happy.
She was getting there, damn it.
She missed Oliver.
As she unwrapped a skillet, she noticed Claire checking her watch. For the fifth time in less than twenty minutes.
“Claire.”
“Hmm?”
“Got somewhere to be?”
“No! No, not at all, actually.”
“Well, maybe you would, if you’d given Naomi’s blind-date setup a chance.”
“I already told you, he was nice, I had a good time. And I have no intention of going out with him or anyone else for at least a year,” Claire said.
“Why a year?”
“I’ve decided it’s the proper amount of time for a widow to mourn before getting back on the dating horse.”
“It kills me to say so, but y
ou’ve been right all along,” Naomi said glumly. “I should have waited a year. Maybe then I’d have been smart enough not to get involved with Oliver . . .”
Damn it! How long would that last? The agonizing drop in her stomach every time she so much as thought of his name.
Claire checked her watch again, and Naomi tossed the box cutter on the counter and crossed her arms. “Spill. What are we counting down to?”
Right on cue, Naomi’s doorbell rang, and Claire gave her an innocent smile. “Don’t know who that could be.”
“Me neither, since I haven’t added anyone to my authorized guest list, and the doorman didn’t call to announce a visitor.”
“Well.” Claire picked imaginary lint off the sleeve of her sweater dress. “Hypothetically, a friend of yours could have mentioned to the doorman that you were expecting a visitor and to send him on up—”
Him . . .
Naomi went still. “Claire.”
Her friend was already moving toward the door, and even before she opened it, Naomi knew who was on the other side.
“Oliver, hi,” Claire said.
“Well, well,” Audrey said, with a knowing glance at Naomi. “Isn’t this an interesting episode of déjà vu.”
Even more so when Oliver entered the apartment carrying . . .
“Dom Pérignon!” Audrey announced excitedly, already reaching for the bottle of champagne. “At least we’ll get to enjoy it this time . . .” She caught Claire’s look. “Or, you know . . . not.”
“I’ve heard it’s excellent when served in a coffee mug,” Oliver said in a low voice.
Slowly Naomi forced herself to look at him, mentally cursing Claire for not telling her to change into something other than ratty sweatpants and Oliver’s Columbia shirt, which she’d “forgotten” to return.
His eyes dropped to the tee, then rose back up to hers. “Nice shirt.”
She put her hand to her stomach to calm the butterflies, ended up fisting the shirt, looking very much a flustered, awkward teen and not the cool, composed woman she’d imagined being the next time she saw him.
“You lied to me,” Oliver said quietly.
Claire was busily dragging Audrey toward the door, though they both gave an alarmed glance at that.
Naomi tried to wave them on with her eyes. Whatever Oliver needed to say to her had to come out. The sooner they did this, whatever it was, the sooner she could come to grips with the fact that she’d ruined things with them.
Audrey was clearly reluctant to leave, but she handed Oliver the champagne bottle as she passed him, along with a whisper that sounded suspiciously like, “She’s more fragile than she looks.”
Naomi wanted to deny it. To insist she wasn’t the fragile type, especially over a man, but it was hard to deny that she was incredibly close to shattering.
Oliver inclined his head slightly, taking the champagne bottle, but he didn’t give her friends another look as they scooted out the front door, pausing only long enough to make twin gestures to Naomi of “call me.”
Then the door was shut, and it was just Naomi and Oliver and a big, empty apartment.
He looked around. “Nice place.”
“Yeah.”
He looked back at her. “Sudden move.”
She refused to apologize. She would have told him she was moving if he’d bothered to be around. Or respond to any of her dozen messages.
“I don’t know that I belonged there.”
“No?” He asked it casually, looking down at the bottle as he did. “I don’t know if I do, either.”
Naomi frowned in confusion. “But you’re from there. You’ve always lived there.”
He said nothing, just stared at the label before holding the bottle up slightly.
Naomi answered just as silently, pulling two mugs off the counter that hadn’t found a shelf yet, and held them both out while he popped the cork.
Oliver filled both cups, set the bottle on a stack of boxes, and lifted his mug. “To your new home.”
She clinked her mug against his and took a sip, holding his gaze all the while.
Then she went for it. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”
“You lied,” he said again.
She closed her eyes. “Look, I can only apologize so much. I should have told you who I was—”
“You said that Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley became friends.”
Naomi blinked rapidly, trying to follow. “Um, what?”
“The other week, you read my dad Anne of Green Gables. The boy called Anne Carrots, much as I called you Carrots.”
“Right?”
“Well, I read it.”
Naomi gave a startled laugh. “You read Anne of Green Gables?”
“Whole series,” he said, taking a sip of the champagne. “You lied.”
“About—”
“Gilbert and Anne. They weren’t friends.”
“Well.” She fidgeted with her mug. “They were, they just . . .”
“They were a hell of a lot more than that.”
“Yeah. Okay,” she relented. “Gilbert called Anne Carrots because he was in love with her all along, that was the only way to get her attention. But surely you’re not comparing that story to . . . us. You didn’t call me Carrots because you were in love with me at ten.”
“Oh God no,” Oliver said, setting his mug beside the bottle on the boxes. “I hated you.”
She smiled at the emphatic tone.
“But I think I’m in love with you now.”
Naomi’s smile dropped, even as her heart soared. “What?”
He took the mug from her hand, set that aside as well. “I’m going to need a little time to confirm for certain. Preferably naked time. But I’m pretty damn sure. Actually, no, scratch that. I’m sure. Seems I can’t stop thinking about you. Even my dad can’t stop talking about you, and that’s something.”
“Oliver—”
“Why’d you go to see him?” he asked, stepping closer.
Naomi swallowed. “I don’t know. I just . . . well, I guess I missed him a little. I don’t have family, and he needs someone, and I think I need someone, too.”
“Any chance you need two people?” Oliver asked, his hand slipping beneath her hair to cup her neck in that way she loved. “One as a difficult, trying father figure, the other as . . . a lover?”
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” she whispered, her hands coming up to grip the lapel of his suit. “I can’t lose you twice.”
“Oh, I mean it,” he growled, brushing his lips against hers. “Carrots.”
Naomi smiled against his lips. “You really thinking about moving?”
“Eventually,” he said, his hands coming up to her face to kiss her more deeply. “I need a fresh start.”
“I’ve got a proposal that might sound a little crazy.”
“I’m listening,” Oliver said, still kissing her as he slowly backed her up, maneuvering around boxes, until her hips hit the kitchen counter.
“Keep your place,” she said, her hands sliding up his chest, her arms going around his neck. “But spend some time here. A lot of time here. And maybe when you’re ready to move, you’ll want a roommate?”
“Would this roommate have red hair, blue eyes, and a bit of a temper? Maybe prone to holding a grudge?”
She smiled against his lips. “Perhaps.”
“Did you just ask me to maybe, someday, move in with you?”
“I guess I did. Romantic, right?”
“You know what would be more romantic?” he asked, lifting her so she sat on the counter.
She tried to kiss him again, but he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “If you told me how you felt about me.”
“Ah,” she said, lightly setting her hands on his shoulders and brushing her lips against his temple before moving her mouth near his ear and whispering, “I love you, Oliver.”
His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer. “I love you, too, Naomi.
”
Later, much later, a naked, panting Oliver kissed the side of her head where it rested on his shoulder as they lay on her hardwood floor.
“Woman, we have got to stop wasting nice champagne.”
“Who said anything about wasting,” she said, wiggling away to retrieve their mugs. She handed one to him as he pulled himself to a sitting position against her counter.
Naomi sat in front of him, her back resting against his chest. “Warm champagne and boxes,” she said, sipping her sparkling wine and tilting her head back to look at him. “Is it all you ever wanted?”
Oliver smiled down at her, running a finger over her cheek. “All I ever wanted and more.”
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
Okay, so it’s big enough for the two of you,” Audrey said, gesturing with her cracker at Naomi’s apartment. “But what happens when you have babies?”
Naomi choked on her wine. “What?”
“Easy,” Oliver told Audrey, setting a hand on Naomi’s back and giving it a slight pat. “I haven’t even managed to coax her into a ring shop yet.”
“Because it’s too soon!” Naomi insisted. “A cautious woman does not get engaged to a man she’s known for a year—and has been dating less than that. At least this one doesn’t.”
“No? What about a man she’s known for twenty years?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Doesn’t count. Anything prepuberty is off-limits.”
“I agree with Naomi,” Clarke said as he refilled wineglasses. “All of the good stuff starts when hormones kick in.”
“Don’t your loins get tired?” Audrey asked.
Clarke shrugged. “Not really. Claire, love, more wine?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You should,” he said, topping off the wine. “We’re celebrating these two smitten kids moving in together.”
Naomi looked at Oliver and grinned. “Told you my plan would work.”
“It was actually my plan, Carrots. And besides, we didn’t technically move into your place. We moved into your building. But a bigger unit.”
“I’m jealous,” Claire said wistfully. “My place is so tired.”
Passion on Park Avenue Page 23
