We sit on the corner sofa and he grabs the remote control. On the wall opposite us, an abstract painting slides sideways revealing a flat-screen TV.
“So smooth.”
“Very James Bond, I know,” he says, deadpan.
With my legs folded underneath me, I pull the shirt down to keep as much of my modesty intact as possible. Meanwhile, he flicks through the channels until he reaches the Menu page. My favorite melody echoes throughout the room.
As Time Goes By. Ta-day, ta-day, ta-day. Ta-day, na-ni, na-na. The lyrics dance inside my head. I know the words as if I’ve written them myself. They are mine and hearing them now with him so close to me, I feel strangely exposed.
Zach stretches his arm over me to reach a quilt that is folded next to me. Carefully, he unfolds it and lays it over my lap, then tucks it in beneath me.
I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
He nods with a light smile, then raises the remote towards the TV again and the movie starts. I’ve seen Casablanca so many times I could write the script from memory, scene-by-scene. But today, I don’t become absorbed in the film until Bergman makes her entry in Rick’s joint and says: ‘Play it, Sam.’ At that point, I let the story work its spell, like it always does. I forget about last night, last month, last year…to swim deep into Rick and Ilsa’s love. Maybe they were never been meant to be, but a love like theirs must be worth the heartbreak. Can I ever be loved that way, that much?
I pull the quilt up to my chin and wrap my arms around my legs, my chin resting on my knees, the cashmere softly cushioning my skin. Zach remains engrossed in the movie the whole way through. He stretches a couple of times, but never infringes on the space between us.
I watch the plane taking off with Ilsa and Laszlo in it and I want to shout at Rick to stop that damn plane, to get on it, kick out Laszlo and fly away with Ilsa—his true love—towards their Happy-Ever-After.
When the final scene fills the screen with Bogart promising the ‘beginning of a beautiful friendship’ to Captain Renault, I’m more relaxed than I’ve been since the Oxford shit-show. Maybe I should watch Casablanca each time a man dumps my butt, stomps all over my heart, and throws it out with the trash.
I channel the tranquil beauty of the film, take a deep breath and exhale.
“Does this movie usually make you hyperventilate?”
I zero in on Zach who I fear has been watching me during one of my freak-out episodes. A stifled giggle is my only response but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he stands and extends his hand. I take it and we return to the kitchen.
“You’re really going to cook lunch?”
He has opened the fridge and is taking out ingredients: butter, eggs, milk, ham…
“I am and I’m imploring you to trust me. You need to eat more, Duchess, otherwise you’ll soon look like a sparrow.” His eyes flicker up and down my body. I cross my dangly legs at their ankles and pull the sleeves of the shirt down over my hands. His eyes shoot back to my face with a sorry expression. “Sparrows can be cute… in a wide-eyed, lip-puckering way.”
I burst into laughter. A laugh, which succeeds in untying the knot in my stomach.
“I didn’t mean to sound rude,” he adds.
“I know, Zach, I know. I just have to get used to the new ‘you.’”
“The new ‘me’?”
“Yeah, that less intimidating version of you.”
His shoulders droop slightly, as if in relief. “You always had preconceived ideas about me, Duchess.” He closes the door of the fridge. “Now, as much as I can’t keep my eyes off those endless legs of yours, why don’t you have a shower and get dressed while I prepare our déjeuner?”
“D’accord.”
I retreat to the bathroom where I piled my party clothes last night. My fluffy towel is still there too. I indulge myself in a very long, scalding hot shower. Afterwards, I get dressed quickly and pull my hair up in a messy bun.
On the way back to the kitchen, I check my cell, which I’ve left in my clutch on the hallway table. No texts or missed calls. In the kitchen, the plates are already on the table. I join Zach, having slid the cell in my back pocket. A delicious smell wafts up my nostrils and I start salivating.
“Omelette Jambon Fromage?” I guess, surprised by hunger that I haven’t felt before.
“Oui, with a salad. The dressing is a homemade vinaigrette.”
“Of course.”
I sit down and place the napkin on my lap. He does the same and prompts me to start eating with a resounding “Bon Appétit”. The omelet is warm and fluffy and the zest of vinaigrette complements the soft leaves of the salad.
“There’s a lemony taste…” I start to say after my last mouthful, “is that in the olive oil or the vinegar?”
“The olive oil. I get it from a little shop in a village near Marseilles.”
“Do you go there often?”
“As often as I can. I’d like to buy a house down there in Provence. But, in the meantime, I stay in a family hotel. The owners have become friends of mine and I always get the same room. It overlooks the sea and in the summer I can hear the waves lapping over the shore and the cicadas. Nothing else.”
“There are worse places to spend your down time. I’ve never been there though.”
“We should…” He leaves the sentence hanging, his eyes fixed on me and my brain rushes to finish his sentence for him. We should… spend a weekend there?
I’m not prepared for these mind games. Either I’m Zach’s friend, or I’ve to get the hell out of here. There’s no middle ground.
I cut the moment short. “So you’ve become a fan of Casablanca?” Movies are safer territory.
He draws his attention back to the food on his plate, twisting the handle of his fork between his fingers. “As far as love stories go, it’s one of the most guy-friendly ones out there. It doesn’t grate my nerves like The Notebook.”
“So you’re admitting to having seen The Notebook?” .
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“It’s Clara’s favorite movie.”
I swallow hard and fight the tightness in my throat. The Clara-road is a slippery one. “I didn’t figure her to be a… Notebook fan.” Let’s move on. “Anyway, Casablanca isn’t full of clichés, like a happy ending. Plus they never say ‘I love you’.”
Zach takes a sip of his water, then shakes his head. “You’re wrong. Bogart says it a few times.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Each time he tells Ilsa, ‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ he’s telling her he loves her”
I think about what he said, replay some scenes in my head, and concede a “Maybe.”
“Still got space for dessert?”
I don’t but if the dessert is as good as the rest of the meal, I can make some. My cell rings. Reluctantly, I take it out from my pocket while mumbling an apology. When I check the I.D, my heartbeat races.
“Mom!”
“Are you still with Charlie?”
I hesitate. My mother may have checked with my cousin before calling me. That’d be totally in character.
“I’m in the middle of a shopping spree.” Worry fills my heart. “Why? Are you okay?”
The line goes silent for a while. “Mom?” My grip on the handset tightens. “Mom?”
“Can you come, please, baby? I feel a bit down.”
Baby? “Have you taken anything?” My voice cracks and Zach’s hand rests on my other hand which lays flat on the table.
“Of course, I haven’t.” She sounds angry at my question, which is a bit rich. “I’d like some company, that’s all.”
My shoulders droop. She is okay. For now. “I’m coming now, Mom. Hang in there. I’ll get us some ice cream and we can have a girly afternoon.” Where does that come from? My mother and I do not share ‘girly’ afternoons.
“That would be nice.” Her answer surprises me even more than my out-of-the-blue offer. “But get sorbet instead. Fewer calories.”<
br />
Yes, definitely much more like my mother. “I’ll hurry.” I end the call. “Sorry, but I have to go. She needs me.”
Zach’s hand slides onto the table top, breaking the touch between us. “I’ll drive you back.”
“No,” bursts out of my mouth. “That’s nice of you, but I’d prefer to take a taxi.”
If my mother is in one of her needy moods, I have to be mentally available for her. That requires preparation. Right now, I’m acutely tuned in to Zach and a drive across Paris by his side will only make it worse.
“As I said, I’ve taken the day off, so has Ziggy. It’s no—”
“Please,” I give him my best smile, “I’d prefer to take a cab.”
He straightens up. “As you wish. Let me order you one.”
We wait fifteen minutes before the taxi arrives. By Parisian standards, it’s quick. I don’t argue when Zach insists on accompanying me downstairs. I give the apartment one last look and wonder—with an uncontrolled squeeze of my heart—if I will ever return. The elevator ride is quick. I’m grateful for that because I have nothing smart or spirited to say.
Ever the gentleman, Zach opens the car door for me. I stare blindly at the backseat of the taxi and sway on my Manolos. Getting into that taxi feels strangely final. I won’t call Zach again. I can’t be his friend. And he can’t be what my weak, weak heart is still begging him to be.
I’m done with toxic relationships. Done. Done. Done.
“I won’t call you again, Duchess.” My gaze flows to his face. His is lost somewhere beyond my shoulder. “If that’s what you want, I won’t call you again.”
“Zach, I can’t—”
“But I want to… I want to be there for you because you need me.”
“I don’t need anyone,” I throw back.
“Yes, you do.” He has finished staring into space and his focus turns to me. “You need someone who can help you find yourself again, someone who knows you.”
“What makes you think you do?”
“You walk on those skyscrapers you call shoes because they make you feel safe. With them on, you can look down at the world. They make you believe you’re in control.”
I chuckle. “Seriously? You think you know me based on my choice of footwear?” Unfortunately, he’s probably right.
He shakes his head. “I won’t call you again. I have no right to be in your life. I screwed up so badly. I have no right… unless you need me to be.”
“I don’t need anyone.” I repeat. “What I need is…”
The devil must have swirled into me because I take two steps forward, lift my arm and run my fingers along his neck. He shudders. I bury my fingers in his hair and pull him towards my face. I kiss him. My tongue seeks his. The taste of him shoots through my veins. It’s delicious and dangerous. I’m in charge until…
… until his hands cup the sides of my face and gently pry my lips away. I hear a sharp intake of breath. Mine? His?
The shaking in his voice is palpable. “Believe me, that is not what you need from me.”
That is what he can never give me.
My lips burn with shame and I cover them with the tips of my trembling fingers. I flee into the car and shut the door.
“Démarrez, s’il vous plait.” I prompt the driver to whisk me away.
But the window is open. Zach hunches forward so that his head is inside the car. “I’ve been where you are, Duchess.” He gives the tip of my cheekbone a quick brush. “You know where to find me.”
He straightens back up. The engine of the taxi roars and I’m on my way back to my mother.
Chapter 10
ZACH
East Hampton ~ 28th July, five years earlier
Duchess’ face has turned a putrid shade of green.
Had I known she was prone to seasickness, I wouldn’t have invited her aboard Renegade. I haven’t taken anyone sailing with me since my grandfather died. Renegade was his and he’d given her to me when cancer had made him too weak to sail. The ocean was a passion we shared and sharing it with anyone other than him felt like a betrayal. Until today.
Although, I now have serious reservations about Lenor’s proclaimed interest in sailing. I have to find an escape for her¸ one that won’t trample over her pride.
“It’s time to head back to Sag Harbor,” I shout from behind the wheel, taking a large lungful of wet, salty sea air. “The weather’s turning.”
“Really? So soon.” Her fingers grip her knees, which are glued tightly together.
I hide a chuckle. She’s good at pretending. That’s what she’s spent her life doing: Pretending to be the perfect daughter, the perfect student. One day soon she’ll have to pretend to be the perfect wife. I turn the wheel too sharply and Renegade tilts more steeply than I had intended. I get the wheel back straight.
I don’t like the idea of Lenor married to one of those vapid losers Louise strategically places in her daughter’s orbit. She deserves more. She places one foot after the other on the wooden deck, aiming in my direction. I swear I see her swallow hard. Guilt, for dragging her sailing, dampens the smile I always have when I look at her these days. There’s something about Eleanor Carrington that makes me happy, something about her that makes me believe in goodness. And I’m the chronically cynical type.
“Give me a smile, please!” She points her camera at me.
I have lost track of how many pictures she’s taken today or since we’ve started sharing our summer. It feels like the camera is an extension of her. I hate people taking pictures of me. It’s like they’re stealing something from me, but with Lenor I pose as often as she asks me to—and that’s often.
Her legs are planted wide apart to help her keep her balance. I look into the lens with the brightest smile I can muster.
She checks the result on the screen. “You look like a pirate.”
I burst out laughing. “One with an eye-patch and rotten teeth?”
“Nope, rather a dashing, mysterious pirate.” She manages to stumble and is standing next to me. She has her back to my chest, so that I can see the picture over her shoulder. The wind blows her hair into my face and it’s like a caress.
“I haven’t shaved for a couple of days.”
With my hand still on the wheel, I lace my fingers around a wisp of her hair and twirl it around my index, then I let the wisp go and start playing gently with her earlobe. She stiffens against me, then peers into my face. An unfamiliar sensation climbs from my stomach to my throat. Fear? Panic? At that moment, she can see me. I’m not hiding anything. I’m not hiding myself. I clear my throat.
The corner of her mouth curls up. “You have to take me sailing more often.”
“Lenor, you’re clearly seasick and Renegade isn’t your best friend.”
“No, but she’s yours. That makes me like her. It’s the first time you look human and approachable.”
“Are you saying that I’m usually some kind of social psycho?”
She twists her mouth as if she’s considering replying with the affirmative. “Well, I’m sure Meg Alistair finds you perfectly sociable.”
I roll my eyes. “How long are you going to make me pay for my brief fling with her? What has she done to you anyway?”
“She’s been mean to me ever since she realized I’d grown boobs.”
I zero in on her chest with a joking frown. Lenor isn’t busty. Her breasts are small and firm and… I shut my eyes. Thinking about that part of her isn’t a smart idea. “Meg Alistair doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”
Where did that come from? Lenor’s startled expression asks me that exact same question. Her hand comes to rest flatly on my forehead as if she’s checking my temperature. “No sign of fever. Pupils not dilated… no explanation for your erratic behavior.”
“What have I done this time?”
“You’re being nice. To me.”
I place my free hand on my chest as if in pain. “Miss Carrington, your words are incredibly harsh.”
She slaps my forearm. “Come on, big boy. Toughen up!”
I look down at her. Her hair is now completely tousled but the color has returned to her cheeks. They are sweetly pink and I swear I’ve never seen anything as cute.
Warmth spreads throughout my chest, engulfs my heart and my fingers move to cradle her face. Her smile freezes. Slowly I lean forward and my lips brush hers. I should stop. I’m about to, but she opens her mouth and the kiss deepens. It’s as if with every breath I take, I’m filling myself with her.
I break the kiss and step back, lightheaded.
Lenor still has her eyes closed. She finally opens them to stare at me. “Don’t freak out, please. It was only a kiss.” She’s rushing through the words.
“Have you been kissed before?”
The pink on her cheeks veers to red. “Of course, I have-––silly!”
Definitely her first kiss and it makes me stupidly proud. I laugh and kiss her forehead, pulling her against me with my free arm while I plan a change of trajectory for Renegade.
“We don’t have to go back to Sag Harbor quite yet, do we?” she almost begs.
“If you promise me you won’t puke on the deck, then we can stay out here a little longer.”
“I will be perfectly fine.” Then she adds, “But if I do, I will clean up. Promise.”
She snuggles closer against me. My hold on her tightens. With Lenor by my side, I’ve never felt better.
Chapter 11
LENOR
Paris ~ Present.
When the taxi turns the corner of Zach’s street, I call Jeanne’s cell and ask her to check on Mom. There is no need, Jeanne answers, because Madame Carrington is currently having her nails done by her personal beautician. And here I feared a relapse.
The lump in my throat dissolves. I let out a strangled cry and wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. I hang up only to hear my cell ringing again immediately. It’s Mom with a request to fetch some lemon sorbet from Le Nôtre, the most prestigious chocolate maker and deli in Paris. They have a boutique on Boulevard de Courcelles, so I ask the driver to take me there and wait for me outside. Indulging my mother is what I’ve done my whole life. You don’t change a pattern that easily.
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