by Janette Rallison, Heather B. Moore, Luisa Perkins, Sarah M. Eden, Annette Lyon, Lisa Mangum
“What? You don’t think I’m really sightseeing with you?” she asked.
“Just checking.” He brushed his fingers against her arm. “You do feel pretty real.”
Winona laughed, hoping to cover up the fact that goose bumps had broken out on her arm at his touch. “I’m not that horrible, am I? I mean, I get caught up in my work, but my aunt never demanded that I tour the city with her neighbor as some ploy to get me outside.”
“Are you sure about that?” Steve said as the taxi pulled over and let them out. “I haven’t seen you outside since you arrived.”
Winona raised her eyebrows.
He lifted his hands. “Not that I’ve been stalking you or anything.”
“Sure you haven’t.” She climbed out of the taxi, letting him take her hand and help her out. She tried to keep a smile off her face.
“This way,” Steve said, letting go of her hand and motioning toward a traffic light. “We’re only a couple of blocks away.”
They walked to the corner and stopped, then Steve sidled up next to her. “What do you do for fun back home? Southern California, right?”
Pretty pathetic that Winona had to rack her brain to come up with something. When she was dating Paul, it had been everything Paul. After him… well, there had just been work. “Driving along the PCH is always great. Tons of shops and art galleries to explore.”
“Do you have a favorite artist?”
“I’ve liked Monet since I was a kid. My mom had a bunch of his framed prints around our house. And of course Van Gogh.” The light turned green, and they crossed the street together.
“The Starry Night?”
“Definitely.” She cast a sideways glance at him. “That painting was kind of my inspiration for getting into digital art.”
He nodded. “I can see what you mean. So, are you ever going to show me your work?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”
“Don’t go all out for me,” he said, making her laugh.
As they walked, he pointed out a few things, like his favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian café and a place where one could buy vintage records.
“Do you have a record player then?” she asked. It was interesting seeing the shops through his eyes, it was like seeing a whole new city. When she’d arrived in the taxi, everything had been a rainy blur.
“I do,” he said. “There’s nothing purer than vinyl.” He started singing a Journey song—way off-key.
“I get the idea,” she said, motioning for him to stop.
“What?” He widened his eyes. “You don’t like my singing?”
She hid a smile. “I’m hoping you have other talents.”
“I have many talents.” He nodded to the record store as they passed. “We can stop in on our way back, and I’ll dazzle you with my vast knowledge of music.”
“We’ll see what time it is. I can’t take a whole day off of work.”
“You’re killing me, Winona.”
She laughed. “Tell me more about your gallery.”
So he did. Winona had always loved art, but hearing about that world from a different perspective was fascinating. He explained how most of the business was about networking, who you knew and who they knew. “So you’re basically a brownnoser?”
He chuckled. “Exactly. I brownnose the artists, then the buyers, then the public, and it all starts over again with the next showing.” He slowed his step as they reached the final intersection before the ferry launch.
They crossed together and barely made the 10:30 a.m. ferry.
“This thing is huge,” Winona said, as they walked along one of the outer decks. She glanced at a brochure on the history of the ferry. Reading it would be a good way to keep her from watching Steve too much. His eyes were almost the exact shade of the shirt he wore. “Did you know that twenty million people ride this every year?”
“And you just increased that number by one.”
“Genevieve will be so pleased.” Winona looked back down at the brochure as Steve leaned against the rail and gazed out over the water. “Did you know that in 1926, the city’s original white color scheme was eliminated in favor of a red-maroon? That was changed to municipal orange later so that the ferries could be seen in heavy fog and snow.”
Steve didn’t answer, so she looked up to him watching her. He was smiling.
“What?” she said. “You knew that already? Or you think it’s funny that they changed the ferry colors?”
“I’ve never had anyone read a brochure to me,” he said.
She leaned against the rail. “Really? You didn’t go to museums with your parents and listen to them as they droned on and on reading the brochure and every plaque?”
“Not exactly.” His voice went quiet. “Never knew my mom, and my dad tried his best, but it didn’t quite work out. I left home at seventeen. Genevieve is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mom; she’s saved me more than she knows.”
His tone wasn’t particularly sad, just matter-of-fact. Had his childhood contributed to his alcoholism? Or was it something else entirely?
“Then my aunt saved us both,” Winona said. “My parents divorced when I was seventeen, and my mom was faced with paying bills while working as a waitress. Genevieve paid for college. My dad’s still pretty much out of the picture, living happily with his new wife and kids.”
Steve’s eyebrows rose. “So your life turned upside down at seventeen too, huh?”
“We have something in common,” Winona said.
He nudged her shoulder. “It appears we do.”
“Sad stories and Genevieve.”
His smile was back, and relief shot all the way to Winona’s toes. She liked the smiling Steve much better than the quiet one.
He reached over and took the brochure. “Did you know that on February 8, 1958, the Dongan Hills was hit by the Norwegian tanker Tynefield and fifteen passengers were injured?”
Winona tugged the brochure out of his hands and read, “Did you know that in 1978, the American Legion crashed into the concrete seawall near the Statue of Liberty ferry port during a dense fog? 173 were injured.”
He snatched the brochure again. “Steam was used on the Staten Island ferries up until the 1980s.”
“And,” Winona said, reaching for the brochure. But Steve held onto it, so she leaned against him to read. “‘On July 7, 1986, a mentally disturbed person named Juan Gonzalez attacked passengers on a ferry with a machete. Two people were killed and nine others were wounded.’”
“Ferries are dangerous,” Steve joked. Then he started reading again. “‘After the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center, the Staten Island Ferry transported tens of thousands of people out of lower Manhattan to safety on Staten Island.’” He released a slow breath. “‘The captains docked the ferries while under zero visibility as smoke and debris from the collapsed buildings filled the sky. In the following days, passengers were not allowed on the ferries.’” His voice cut off, and he handed the brochure to her.
Winona continued in a soft voice. “‘The fleet was used to transport emergency personnel and equipment to and from lower Manhattan. In addition to the emergency personnel and equipment, the ferries were also being used to transport military personnel and equipment to Governors Island and lower Manhattan. Included in this were U.S. Army tanks. Since that day the Staten Island Ferry no longer carries cars.’” She blinked rapidly as the words swam before her. She couldn’t read any more.
Steve slipped the brochure from her hands and folded it. Then he put his hand over hers and threaded their fingers together. The feel of his hand warmed the rest of her as they stood watching the New York skyline, not saying anything, not needing to.
Steve realized he was holding Winona’s hand; he’d hardly remembered doing it. Maybe it was just his natural reaction while reading about the sobering details about 9/11. She didn’t pull away though, and that made Steve’s heart skip a beat.
But she’s an artist.
And s
he’s Genevieve’s niece.
Two things that should make her off-limits. And she lived in California. Three strikes.
But he liked her— although that hadn’t been his purpose in holding her hand. It might be why he was still holding her hand, though.
She’d been quiet for several moments as they looked out over the harbor. Steve stole a couple of glances at her. He was glad that she’d finally come with him. It was probably doing her a lot of good to take a break from her work, just as it was doing him a lot of good. Having Winona’s company was a bonus.
On the ferry’s return route, her phone rang, and she let go of his hand to pull it out of her pocket. She looked at the caller ID then sent the call to voicemail.
“Boyfriend?”
“Client. I’ll call him later— he likes to go over everything on the phone instead of through email.” She scrolled through what had to be texts on her phone.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Steve asked.
“Had.” Winona’s voice sounded a bit uneasy.
Steve cursed himself. He’d been an idiot to bring it up.
“My aunt is a bit worried about me because I haven’t dated in several months, since… well, since Paul dumped me.”
So she was willing to talk about it. Steve took that as permission to ask another question. “He dumped you, huh? Been there.”
Winona turned toward him, and he was glad he saw humor, not sorrow, in her gaze. “Which? You dumped, or you were dumped?”
“Mostly I get dumped.” He quirked his mouth into a questioning smile. “I don’t get it. I’m pretty much perfect. Maybe it’s the AA meetings.”
Winona laughed. “Yeah, that could be a deterrent.” She turned back and looked over the water. “Or maybe it’s because your girlfriend called you a two-timer.”
Steve snapped his head to look at her. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” Then it hit him. “Oh, you mean Leisa… She’s a disgruntled artist. Thinks she should be featured in my gallery.”
Winona’s expression looked relieved. Steve wasn’t sure what that meant. Unless… “She’s not good enough?” Winona asked.
“She’s good, but she’s what I call a dime a dozen artist.” He saw the confusion on Winona’s face. “Not to be cruel about Leisa’s talent, but it doesn’t stand out. There are dozens of other artist who paint landscapes like her. When I mentioned it as gently as I could, she switched to nudes. Said that would get her some attention.”
Winona was staring at him. “Did it?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe if she painted you?”
Steve nearly choked on his laughter. “Don’t think she hasn’t asked. A nude painting of me would surely ruin her career.”
Winona’s brow arched. “Maybe not.”
He was turning red; he knew it. Wow. “I’d have to start drinking again.”
Winona nodded, a small smile on her face. “Then you should probably avoid Leisa and her penchant for nude paintings.”
Steve chuckled. “Believe me, I’m trying my best.”
“It wouldn’t scare me off, of course.” Her smile was coy.
“What?” He teased. “A nude painting of me?”
“That, or AA meetings.”
Steve felt his breath leave him, but he quickly recovered and said in a casual voice, “Good to know.”
“I mean, you are clean now, right?”
“Yes. Six years.”
“What have you done to celebrate?”
Her question surprised him. “Nothing.”
“Steve,” she said. A shiver traveled through him at the sound of her saying his name. “You need to celebrate.”
“What do you have in mind?” Steve half-hoped that the celebration would include her.
“Have a medal made?” she suggested.
He laughed. “I could wear it to the gallery opening.”
She was looking at him again, and he steeled himself against getting too caught up in her hazel eyes. Her mouth was quirked into a smile. “Maybe not. Something less loud?”
“Definitely less loud.”
“Lunch? After the ferry? You choose the place, and I’ll buy.”
Steve couldn’t move for a moment. “All right,” he said, or at least he thought he did. She had turned to look over the railing, and he gazed at her profile. Did she just set up a lunch date with him? Winona Grant was becoming more interesting by the moment.
“Price isn’t a concern,” Winona said as she and Steve walked off the ferry. The more time she spent with Steve, the more she let down her guard, which wasn’t as painful as she thought it would be. “But it has to be in New York. I’m not flying you to Paris or Rome.”
Steve grinned. “It seems that price really is a concern.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Expensive is okay, but within reason.”
“I think I know a place, and we can walk from here. Follow me.” The crossing light turned green, and Steve touched her back as she stepped off the curb, as if he were watching over her.
It felt nice to be with a gentleman. And it was nice to tease him, as if they were good friends or even siblings. Winona stopped short at that thought as they reached the other side of the road. Not like siblings. There was nothing in her feelings toward Steve that resembled anything she felt for a family member.
She admitted that she was attracted to Steve— which probably wasn’t much of a feat for him. He was good-looking, charming, sweet, and his smile was contagious. And he was flawed. She hadn’t had too much time to analyze how she felt about this growing friendship with a recovering alcoholic. When he’d told her about his past, it hadn’t bothered her. She hadn’t wanted to take off or never see him again. If anything, she wanted to get to know more of the real Steve.
“This is it,” he said, stopping.
Winona looked up at the sign above the restaurant windows. “The Italian place? It’s just a small café.”
He was watching her with a smile, as if he had been waiting for her to say that exact thing. “Yes, and you’ll love it.”
She moved her hands to her hips. “Why don’t we go someplace fancy and memorable? Six years deserves a big celebration.”
“Don’t you like Italian?”
“I love it, but I thought you’d want to go to someplace where you have to know the manager to get a reservation.”
Steve tugged her hand from her waist and squeezed it briefly, then let go. “What’s better than eating my favorite Italian food with Genevieve’s favorite niece?”
Winona could still feel his warm fingers against hers. “Are you sure?”
“It will be the perfect celebration. Besides, they know I don’t drink.”
Good point. Winona felt as if she’d had a tiny glimpse into the many challenges he must encounter on a regular basis. “Then it’s settled.”
Steve stepped forward and opened the door for her, and she walked into the quaint restaurant. Soft music played, and small lamps glowed on each table. One wall was taken up entirely by a seascape painting. The floor was made of beautiful marble tiles. Only three tables were occupied; they’d likely missed the lunch rush.
A hostess stepped around the podium and kissed Steve on each cheek. “Welcome!” She drew back, her lipsticked mouth a wide smile. “We’ve missed you.”
She was probably in her mid-thirties, and she was stunning in the natural way Italian women were blessed with.
“Cynthia,” Steve said, “this is Winona, Genevieve’s niece.”
The woman practically flew at Winona and proceeded to kiss both of her cheeks. “How wonderful to meet you! Genevieve is our favorite.” She flashed Steve a smile. “After Steve, of course.”
Winona checked Cynthia’s left hand for a wedding ring. There was one. Winona let herself relax. Then she berated herself. She was not interested in Steve. She’d be here for the summer only, and besides, the Paul-disaster made her want to put off dating anyone else for at least a year.
But as Steve casual
ly took her hand and led her to the table Cynthia showed them, Winona found herself swallowing back a hard lump in her throat. It had been months since she’d had a man’s affectionate touch. Granted, Steve wasn’t being affectionate— just courteous. Even so, she could almost let her mind wander and enjoy the way he held her hand.
It was over in moments when Steve released her hand and pulled out a chair.
“Would you like to see the wine menu?” Cynthia asked Winona.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“Ah.” Cynthia arched a brow at Steve. “You brought a good one.”
Winona was sure that every part of her turned red. “We aren’t dating,” she said, only making herself blush more.
“We’re celebrating,” Steve jumped in, saving Winona from her awkwardness.
Cynthia tilted her head, looking back and forth between Steve and Winona, clearly not buying that this was not a date. “Oh?”
“Six years dry.”
“Wonderful!” Cynthia beamed. She squeezed Winona’s shoulder. “He’s a good man.” She bustled away before Winona could respond. “I’ll bring appetizers,” Cynthia called over her shoulder. “They’re on the house!”
“How are you doing?” Steve asked, throwing Winona for a loop.
Was he referring to how she’d embarrassed herself? “You’ve missed, what, three hours of work? Is it driving you crazy yet?”
“Not really.” She’d been too caught up in everything else to think much about work. The realization stunned her. “The ferry was fun.”
“Your aunt will be so pleased.”
“I didn’t do it for her.”
His eyes widened slightly at that, but then he covered his almost-confession up with taking a drink of water. She smiled. She was flirting, and he knew it. What am I doing? I am going to so regret this. Someone needed to pinch her, hard, to remind her about how Paul had dumped her flat on her—
“Tell me about your last boyfriend,” Steve said.
He did not just ask that. But apparently he had. “Oh, well, you know. The usual… boy meets girl, girl falls in love with boy, boy falls in love with another girl, boy dumps first girl, first girl falls apart and becomes a hermit.”
