He waited to see if she’d say anything else, but instead she slid off the bench and stood. “I’m going to make a pot of tea. Do you want a cup?”
“I’m English,” he reminded her, getting up to follow her.
The kitchenette was scrupulously clean. “Noah does a good job with the housework,” he commented, leaning against the countertop as Simone filled a cherry-red kettle with water from the tap.
She smiled. “He would if he had to, but the cleaning is all me. They won’t let me do anything in the bedroom, but I come through here with a vacuum and duster a few times a week. I told them if they didn’t let me, I’d come over and sing to them every single night. They caved immediately.”
She opened a cabinet over the sink to get teacups. The shelf was a little too high, and as she rose up on her toes, he came up behind her. “Let me.”
His chest brushed her back as he grabbed two mugs and set them on the counter. He closed the cabinet door, but instead of stepping back immediately, he stayed where he was, feeling Simone’s pert, perfect backside against his body and inhaling the spiced-cherry scent of her hair.
She turned to face him, and he was struck again by how petite she was as she tilted her head back to look up at him. How could such a big personality fit into such a tiny package?
His hands went to the counter on either side of her. His eyes went to her lips, so full and soft and sweet. He remembered their kiss earlier that night and his body hardened in an electric rush. Without even thinking, he lowered his head toward hers.
She ducked under his arm and moved out of his reach, shaking her head at him with a mock frown. “Mission of mercy,” she reminded him, hooking a thumb toward the bedroom. “I don’t kiss boys when I’m on duty.”
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “So. New subject.” He paused. “Your mum had ALS? I don’t know much about it. Is that the one they call Lou Gehrig’s disease?”
Simone nodded as she opened a box of chamomile tea, pulling out two bags and placing them in the mugs. “It stands for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. When you’re diagnosed with ALS, you’re facing progressive degeneration of the motor neurons in your brain and spinal cord. Eventually you’re completely paralyzed. There’s no cure, and it’s always fatal.”
A moment ago he wouldn’t have thought that anything could distract him from his burning need to kiss Simone, but that had done it.
“My God. That happened to your mother?”
“Yep.” There was a small table near the end of the counter with two vinyl-covered chairs drawn up to it, and she took one as he sat down at the other. “She was diagnosed when I was thirteen. She was dead three years later.”
He remembered something else. “Is that why your dyslexia went undiagnosed for so long? Because you were focused on your mother?”
She shrugged. “That might have been a part of it. I was also in a huge, overcrowded school system, and I definitely fell through the cracks. But it was my choice to put my attention on my mom, and I don’t regret it . . . even if it made high school a little rougher. High school’s pretty much guaranteed to be hellish no matter what, though. If it wasn’t dyslexia and my mom, it would have been something else.”
She smiled a little as she said that, and Zach studied her face across the table. He’d seen a few different sides of Simone in the short time he’d known her, from playful and sexy to stubborn and challenging. Tonight, onstage, he’d watched her channel Hermia’s many moods—loving and despairing, exhausted and joyous, furious and forgiving by turns.
Now he was seeing another part of Simone’s character: a kind of matter-of-fact competence. The sort of quality that would make her the obvious choice to take care of someone in need—a parent with ALS or a neighbor with Alzheimer’s.
“You said there’s nothing worse than watching someone you love be taken from you bit by bit. Is that what it was like with your mother?”
Simone leaned back and ran a hand through her short dark hair. “This isn’t a very cheerful conversation, Zach. Don’t you want to talk about something else? We could do flirty instead. You know, trade sexual fantasies or play ‘did you ever.’”
He rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward her. “I would love nothing more than to do that sometime. We can now if you really want to. But if you don’t mind talking about her, I’d rather hear more about your mum.”
Simone looked off into space for a minute, and her expression turned so sad that Zach’s heart gave a quick, painful beat against his ribs. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed her. He opened his mouth to suggest they change the subject, but at that moment she looked at him again and spoke.
“ALS is the other side of Alzheimer’s. You can see Henry’s still healthy physically, right? As healthy as an eighty-year-old man can be, anyway. It’s his mind that’s going, piece by piece . . . and Noah has to watch it happen. It was just the opposite with my mom. All the time her ALS was getting worse, her mind was as clear and sharp as ever. But her body betrayed her little by little. First her legs, then her arms, then her hands . . . that was a terrible time, when she couldn’t write anymore. Then her speech started to deteriorate . . .” Simone shook her head, remembering. “She was a public defender before her diagnosis. She always talked about giving a voice to people who had none, and now she was losing hers. There was technology out there to help but we couldn’t afford it. When her colleagues heard about that, they got together with some of her former clients and bought her this amazing computer with eye-tracking technology. It took forever, but she could type words by staring at letters on the screen. It was so much better than nothing, but can you imagine having to communicate like that . . . letter by letter?”
He couldn’t. “Your mother must have been an extraordinary person.”
“She was. She had so much grace and courage in the face of a disease that takes away every last shred of your dignity and autonomy. That was the hardest part, for her . . . having to give up her independence and rely so much on other people.” She smiled suddenly. “There was this special group of people in her life she called the BBC.”
“The British Broadcasting Corporation?”
She laughed. “No, the Bare Butt Club. The people she trusted enough to clean her up in the bathroom. After she lost motor function, she needed someone to wipe her butt for her, so . . . the BBC was born. Dad and me, and the home health aides, her parents and her two sisters, and a few close friends. She said it was the most humbling thing she’d ever had to do, but that she couldn’t think of a more wonderful group of people to be humbled in front of.”
“She was lucky to have extended family nearby. That must have been a help.”
“Her parents and sisters? They weren’t actually nearby. They lived in Florida. They visited as much as they could, of course.”
He frowned. “So the day-to-day burden was on you and your dad. How did you cope?”
“We had home health aides to help, and friends, like I said . . . but yes, there was a lot to do. Making modifications to the house and getting equipment—walkers and wheelchairs and stair lifts. Fighting with insurance companies, figuring out finances and health care proxies, managing medicines and doctor visits . . .” She shook her head. “It was all my dad could do to manage the emotional stuff, so I took on as much of the practical side as I could. That left him free just to spend time with my mom, which is what she really needed. He spent every second he could with her. Talking to her, reading to her, staying with her while she used the eye-controlled computer. I tried to take care of everything else, even though I know I fell short a lot. There was always more to do.”
Was she kidding? “That’s a huge responsibility for a teenage girl.”
Simone shrugged.
“Well, sure. But when you’re faced with a huge responsibility, you’ve got only two choices, right? Either accept it or throw your hands in the air and decid
e it’s too much for you. My mother was going to have ALS no matter what I decided, so I opted for the former.”
He was quiet for a minute. “Your mother was extraordinary, Simone—but so are you. I don’t know how you found the strength to deal with all that at such a young age. To lose your mother like that . . . and for your father to lose his wife . . .” He shook his head. “Watching your dad with your mum, and seeing Noah with Henry . . . you’ve seen a side of love most people never do. To witness that level of devotion . . . I hope you never settle for less than that yourself.”
The kettle began to sing, and Simone rose to pour out their tea. “Yes and no. I mean yes, of course I admire my dad and Noah, and I think my mom and Henry were very lucky in their choice of spouse. But I don’t want that for myself.”
He stared at her in surprise as she carried their steaming mugs to the table.
“You don’t? Why not? I should think anyone would want that kind of love.”
“Not me,” Simone said, and she sounded very certain. “I decided when I was fourteen years old that I don’t ever want my husband or child to wipe my butt. I’m glad that I could do it for my mom, but I don’t want anyone I’m intimate with to see me that way. Only strangers will be allowed to see me at my worst. I’m all for lifelong singlehood and finishing out my days in a nursing home.”
The delicate aroma of chamomile wafted up from his cup, and he took a sip. “So you’re not looking for a soul mate, then? Someone who would watch over you the way your dad watched over your mum?”
“Absolutely not. Being with a soul mate means wipe-my-ass intimacy, and that’s not something I want to sign up for. It’s just too damn painful. I mean, it was wonderful of my dad to take care of my mom, and it’s wonderful of Noah to take care of Henry, but it’s horrible, too. I don’t want that kind of pain in my life—and I don’t want to inflict that kind of pain on someone else. I’m not looking to be that vulnerable, or put someone else in the position of watching me slowly deteriorate until I’m trapped in the cage of my mind or body, unable to remember the people I love . . . or to communicate with them.” She shook her head. “And what about the other side of it? Everyone thinks my dad and Noah are wonderful, and they are. But what about being the person who’s the cause of all that wonderfulness?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
He watched her search for the words to explain what she meant. “I just don’t want to put someone in the position of having to be that wonderful, is all. It’s a lot of pressure, and not everyone can handle it. And if you can’t, then you’re the terrible person who abandoned your spouse with ALS or Alzheimer’s or whatever. But you’re not necessarily a terrible person if you can’t handle that. You’re just weak. I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t want to put someone in a position where they have to be that strong just to love me.”
“Love doesn’t always require that kind of strength, though. Not everyone gets ALS or Alzheimer’s.”
“I know that . . . but everyone gets something. Cancer, or a midlife crisis, or something. Most marriages end in divorce, right? And the ones that don’t . . . well, I know from experience that they can end a lot worse. I think it’s brave and beautiful when people take that risk to be together. Honestly, I do. I admire anyone who’s got the courage to love. It’s just not the kind of courage I have . . . and it’s not the kind of courage I want to test in someone else.”
“In case they fail?”
“Yes. I don’t need a front-row seat to the drama of human frailty, that’s all. So I’m opting for the impersonal attention of a nursing home after a lifetime of friendships, work I love, great sex, and the single life.” She paused. “Okay, Zach, what’s with the look? You seem positively flummoxed.”
Her word choice made him smile. “I guess I am. Please pardon the gender stereotyping, but I thought all women dreamed of finding love. Of getting married and living happily ever after.”
She grinned at him. “I told you my position on happily-ever-after the night of Jessica’s wedding. And you don’t need to be married to have a good life. In fact, I would argue that your chances for a good life are better if you’re not married.”
“What about true love? Finding your soul mate?”
“You really are a romantic, aren’t you? Do you think you’ll ever find your soul mate?”
He thought of Isabelle, and when Simone’s eyebrows rose, he guessed his expression had changed.
“Ah,” she said. “You’ve already found her.”
“No comment.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. That was your mysterious phone call the night of the rehearsal dinner, wasn’t it?”
How the hell had she guessed that?
“No comment.”
“Try again, Mr. Hammond. You got the inside scoop on my inner psyche. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about her.”
Damn. For some reason, the last thing he wanted to do was talk to Simone about Isabelle.
“I . . .”
“Jonathan? I thought you were in Paris. What are you doing here?”
It was Henry, standing in the bedroom doorway clad only in boxer shorts. He was staring at Zach with a confused expression on his face.
Simone rose swiftly to her feet and crossed the room, taking his arm gently. “This is Zach, dearest. Not Jonathan. Let’s get you back to—”
“No.” Henry shook off her hand and strode across the room toward the front door. “I lost my blanket. The one Betty made for me. I know just where to find it, though. I left it in Radio City Music Hall. I was sitting in the ninth row . . .”
Simone hurried to stop him before he could open the door. Zach was on his feet as well, ready to help.
“I know where your blanket is, darling. If you mean the green-and-purple one? You left it in my apartment when you and Noah came over the other day. I’ll go get it.”
Henry clutched at Simone’s arm. “You can’t leave me here with Jonathan. Please, Leslie, don’t go.”
Simone patted Henry’s shoulder. “Zach, would you mind going to my apartment for the blanket? It’s crocheted in green and purple and it’s on the back of my couch. You can’t miss it.”
“Of course,” Zach said immediately, crossing the room to take the key she held out for him. “I’ll be right back.”
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Simone said to Henry, her voice calm and soothing.
“All right,” he said, sounding bewildered. “Why am I in my underwear? I thought I was wearing my blue serge suit.”
“That’s definitely not a blue serge suit,” Simone said, leading her charge back toward the bedroom. “We can look for that tomorrow morning. In the meantime, though, maybe we can find you some blue pajamas.”
CHAPTER TEN
Zach left the door open so he could hear if Simone called out for help, although Henry seemed calm at the moment. Once he unlocked Simone’s door, he left that ajar as well.
He found a light switch on the wall and flipped it on. Then, his errand momentarily forgotten, he stared around him in astonishment.
The walls were covered with artwork—sketches, watercolors, oil paintings. A few were prints or reproductions, but most were original and in a style he recognized, even though the only work of Simone’s he’d seen was her set design for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
There were figures and landscapes and abstract pieces, all of them so compelling it was hard to decide where to look first. After a moment, though, his eye was drawn to a large oil painting on the wall across from him.
There was a tall, stylized tree on a mountainside, its branches stretching out and up against a deep blue sky. And hovering over it, about to land on the very top branch, was an enormous red dragon.
The tree couldn’t possibly support the weight of the dragon about to land on it. And yet there was a sinuous, delicate grace about the creature that made you t
hink, somehow, that he could manage it . . . that he would perch impossibly on the top bough like an angel on the head of a pin.
Zach began to walk toward the painting, slowly, staring into the jeweled eyes of the dragon. There was wildness there but intelligence, too. It seemed both animal and human. Sad and joyful at the same time, and—
“Couldn’t you find it after all? I thought I—”
Simone stopped speaking, and he turned to look at her.
“Oh,” she said ruefully, leaning against the doorframe. “You got distracted by my daubs. Sorry. I should have warned you.”
For at least the tenth time since he’d met her, he stared at Simone as though he were seeing her for the first time.
“Your daubs? Are you joking? These are bloody brilliant. Do you ever show your work at galleries?”
She looked taken aback. “At galleries? No, no, no. This is just a hobby. And I sent you in here on a mission, remember?” She went over to the couch and grabbed Henry’s crocheted throw from the back. “Let’s get you out of here before you make more crazy talk.”
He turned back to the painting. “How is Henry?”
“He’s fine now. Once I bring him the blanket I think he’ll fall back asleep.”
“Then do you mind if I stay here for a few minutes? I’d like to look at some of your other work.”
Simone sighed. “Fine, whatever. But no poking around. You’re only allowed to look at what’s on the wall.”
“Deal. Leave the doors open, will you? That way you can give a yell if you need me.”
He spent the next several minutes wandering slowly around Simone’s flat. Unlike the place next door, this was a studio rather than a one-bedroom. There was a loft bed in the far corner with a computer desk beneath it, and a kitchenette in the opposite corner like Noah and Henry’s. The space, though small, was as neat and clean as the living area next door, in spite of being crowded with knickknacks and photographs and artwork.
One piece especially intrigued him. On a small table near the window, she’d set up several panels of cut glass, stained different colors and overlapping to create a wash of jewel tones. The result was beautiful and familiar, and he realized after a moment it was the same effect she’d achieved with the layers of silk in her Midsummer Night’s Dream set. He imagined her here, experimenting with the layers of glass as she thought about the set, using light and color to create beauty.
Nothing Like Love Page 10
