“Did Ella say something to upset you and trigger your self-pity party?”
Startled, Olivia opened her eyes.
Maxwell stood beside the bed. The washcloth she’d moistened and left on the sink was in his hand. His expression was serious. “You know, since the day you saw me boil over in the elevator I thought it would be fun to see you lose it. You know, a tit for tat thing, but it wasn’t fun. I didn’t like seeing you so unlike yourself.”
“Unlike myself? You kiss me a few times and think you know me? You think you’ve figured out what makes me tick after just four weeks and a couple of kisses? You have no idea.”
He took a seat on the edge of the mattress, just beside her knees, and waved the washcloth in the air. “I know plenty. I know you resent the fact Ella changed your room because you wanted to have a bath in the tub Jason has in his bathroom. I know you put two teaspoons of sugar in your coffee, hate people who talk on their cell phones in public, and love peanut butter. The first car you ever had was a Porsche 914. Your brother Hector is sixty-nine and your sister is an opera singer. I know you wear some kind of lavender-based perfume and you probably planned this fantastic dream wedding for your best friend to make up for something you never had.”
Olivia wanted to choke. She had no idea how he’d worked it out. It was easy enough to explain away some stuff as things he probably overheard in conversations, or things she mentioned outright, but how he worked out her reasons for planning the wedding in five minutes when she had only reached the same conclusion in the dining room twenty minutes ago was staggering.
“Am I wrong?” he asked.
“Do you want to be right?”
“I just want to be your friend, Olivia.” He flopped beside her on the mattress with a sigh and put an arm across his eyes. Then he remembered he had the washcloth and used it instead. “Friends talk, so let me tell you a few things about me. Hi. I’m Emerson Maxwell, no middle initial and a last name for a first name. My younger sister is Penny and I like Mexican food. I was bullied in sixth grade because I was the smart kid in class. The ex in my life is married to a dentist, but you already know that. I drink skim milk, sleep in my underwear, and have three fillings. Curiously, I believe UFO’s could exist and my claustrophobia probably started when I was eight, just after I watched some Vincent Price movie where a woman woke up sealed inside a coffin. A bit of a late bloomer I lost my virginity at the age of twenty-two. The first car I ever had was a silver Chevy Chevette and that’s pretty hard to say fast.”
The bed shook as Olivia laughed. Emerson loved the sound and joined in.
“Twenty-two?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did that happen?”
“Contrary to what you see before you now, I was, shall we say, a bit of a pimple-faced geek.”
“At least your acne cleared up.”
“Cute.” Emerson toed off his shoes and they fell onto the rug with two dull clunks. “Who knew bowling could make you so tired?”
The bed bounced slightly as Olivia shifted her knees. “How long were you married?”
“Five years.”
“Were they good years?”
“I thought they were, but it probably boiled down to five months of goodness and fifty-five of getting it wrong.” Emerson half laughed and half sighed, remembering what a mess he had been after Karen called it quits. “I went through a bit of a second adolescence after that and sort of reinvented myself.”
“What’d you do, lose twenty pounds and get hair plugs?” She elbowed him lightly, like she had in Pete’s Jeep.
“I merged my little computer company with Pete’s animation house, moved back to Chicago from San Francisco, and started buying Armani.”
“How old were you then?”
The washcloth was getting warm and Emerson waved it about, refolded it and repositioned it over the bridge of his nose. “Twenty-seven.”
“Do you still love Karen?”
“No, but I care about her. Are you still in love with Karl?”
“Hell no,” she said and moved, the bed bouncing again. Emerson pulled the washcloth off his face to see she’d curled onto her left side, knees bent. She examined a strand of hair. “Oh, hell no.”
“You’re sure about that? Your divorce was final in December. That’s only a few months ago. Are you sure there isn’t some residue or lightweight carry-on baggage you may have missed?”
“Is that how it looks to you?”
“Not exactly. I think you had two such bad examples the rest of us seem like horrible warnings.”
“How did you know?” she asked softly.
“I’ve been divorced, bitter, and cynical too. It passes if you let it.”
“I’m not bitter and cynical.”
“You’re not?” Emerson couldn’t help himself. He smiled.
“No. I really do believe in happily ever after, but you were right. I’ve been trying to reinvent myself too. I did all this for Ella to make up for my justice of the peace mistake with Adam—he was my first husband—and the council office in Nice with Karl. How did you know? I only figured that out tonight. How did you know that?”
“I just guessed.”
“That’s a good carnival trick. I never…realized…I didn’t have what you would call real weddings. I guess subconsciously I thought I missed out on it all and it just hit me all at once. This isn’t my wedding.” She rolled onto her back and pulled the strand of hair over her top lip like a floppy moustache. “Oh, how I hate that swooning, sobbing female in distress sort of thing. I hate it.”
“You put up with Ella’s tears.”
Her fingers combed the hair back from her face and she half smiled. “Ella’s not normally like that. This is a really emotional thing for her and sometimes the little stuff catches her out. I remind her little things don’t really matter. It doesn’t matter if the flowers aren’t exactly the right shade of pink, or if a bottle of champagne is flat or if the cake looks like a frosting-covered transvestite Barbie. That’s unimportant compared to what the day truly means.” Olivia took a deep breath. “But, now it’s exactly the little things in my life I can’t seem to swallow.”
“You mean like Karl showing up?”
“Yes.”
“Or changing rooms at the last minute?”
“Yes.”
“Or sharing a bathroom?”
“Or you being here.”
“My being here?” Emerson sat up. “You mean my being at my cousin’s wedding?”
She half smirked.
“Oh. Sorry. Sorry. I’m a little slow on the uptake.” He stretched sideways, leaning with his elbow in the mattress, and laid the washcloth on her forehead. Before he drew back, fingertips brushed against his chest, her buffed, gleaming nails tickling as she moved to adjust the damp cloth.
Everything in the room, the feel of the bed beneath his arm, the gently billowing curtain at the open French door, the pale color of the outdoor balcony light painting the jasper walls with a pinkish hue, fell away because her gaze fused with his. He was pleasantly drowning in the deep warmth of her honey brown eyes.
The diffused light from the bathroom and balcony bathed a man and his hairy chest in a soft glow and the illumination was a brilliant halo of hilarious temptation. Olivia wondered how it would feel to have his weight press her into the mattress, wondered if the hair on his chest would tickle. Confused and frustrated by natural human desire, she closed her eyes, heard him inhale slowly, and she tried to decide if it would be worse to be a liar or hypocrite.
“Okay, my friend…” Emerson said. The words came out so quietly and sounded more like a statement of fact than question and maybe that was how he meant it. Maybe he said it like that to remind himself that was what he said he wanted: friendship. “You enjoy that cucumber gel.”
He sat up straight, ran a hand through his hair and started to move off the bed.
Olivia caught his arm before he stood. “I’m over my ex-husband.”
; “Okay.”
“Don’t think I still love him.”
“I don’t.”
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
She released his arm and her mouth flattened. “Do you really believe in UFO’s?”
Emerson flopped onto the mattress again, laughing. “All right. Okay. Yes. Three-breasted little silver women from some other galaxy could exist. In theory. I mean it’s pretty arrogant of us to think we’re the only creatures or life form in the universe, as vast as it is. Isn’t it?”
“Three-breasted little silver women, huh? How much Star Trek did you watch growing up?”
“The alien chicks in the original series were green and built like Venus and only ever had the standard two boob rack.”
“They also had itty-bitty mini-dresses and funky hairstyles.”
“And all the expendable characters wore red shirts. They still do.”
“I always loved Kirk’s pointy sideburns,” Olivia yawned and pulled the washcloth from her forehead, “but I have to say I had a thing for bald Captain Picard on the second series.”
Emerson shifted onto his side, pulling up his legs and leaning on one elbow to smirk at her. “By the way you bagged the monster movie last night I never would have picked you for a science fiction fan.”
“See? There’s something about me you didn’t know. I love monster movies and all that Star Trek and Star Wars crap.”
“Okay, so Captain Picard or Han Solo?”
“Picard. Always Picard. How about you? Princess Leia or Agent Scully?”
“Tough call. The X-Files are no more.”
“Were you ever into Lara Croft from Tomb Raider?”
“Oh please. Give me the standard, true-to-life proportions of Agent Scully and Zoë from Firefly any day. I may make cartoons, but I always go for realism. Especially when it comes to boobs.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Are you going to go back downstairs?”
Olivia made a face. “Do I have to? Can’t I stay here in this little galaxy of cucumber eye gel and stare at the ceiling?” She got to her knees and moved into the middle of the bed.
“You’re worn out, aren’t you? Ella’s worn you down with all her directives.”
“No. I just want a reprieve from the drunken bridesmaids for a little while. I want to lie here and just…I don’t know, meditate or something.” She toppled backward into the pillows and let out a frustrated little moan.
Emerson took the washcloth from her hand, folded it again and placed it over her eyes. “How about you tell me how you got interested in auto racing.” He settled beside her, stretching out his legs and stuffing his hands beneath a fat pillow. “Did your brother soup up cars or something?”
Olivia smiled. “No. I read a novel when I was fourteen and it stuck in my head. It was about this racecar driver pretending to be an alcoholic so he could solve the mystery of who killed his brother. There was a girl in the story, but I didn’t identify with her because I saw myself as the hero, Johnny Harlow, not the girl who wanted to kiss Johnny Harlow. The girl in the story was like Trixie in the old Speed Racer cartoon. All she ever did was stand there and gasp when Speed got in trouble. I hated that. I hated it so much I learned how to rebuild a transmission. I was a teenager. People told me I was supposed to be interested in marrying Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran and reading romance novels. Romance to me was Steve McQueen at Le Mans and Paul Newman in the Daytona 500.”
“What was the book?”
“The Way to Dusty Death, by Alistair McLean. You probably know him from Where Eagles Dare.”
Emerson was watching her in the pastel light of the open bathroom. She’d never stopped smiling while she told him the details and it relaxed her. It loosened him up too. “I love Where Eagles Dare. Clint Eastwood blows up a Nazi castle. Very cool.”
“Too bad you didn’t see that movie before the Vincent Price one with the woman in the coffin. Maybe then you’d be afraid of Nazis instead of enclosed spaces.”
“Interesting theory.”
“It’s about as plausible as three-breasted silver women from another galaxy.”
A cricket orchestra began to play outside as night edged forward and they went on talking. Emerson told her about the summer he spent working on his uncle’s Missouri farm, how he’d went there a pudgy fifteen-year-old kid, but left a muscled young man with a five o’clock shadow. He talked about when he discovered his marriage was over and admitted he enjoyed sugary kids’ cereal more than the so-called healthy adult ones.
She said she missed her parents and described the way her brother had slipped into the role of disapproving father just hours after their dad died. She mentioned her first skiing experience in Austria left her with a concussion. When the discussion turned to music, they discovered they both liked listening to Jakob Dylan and The Wallflowers.
“Jakob,” Olivia yawned, “has a fine voice, whereas his dad Bob should stick to songwriting.”
“Oh come on, what would Like a Rolling Stone be like if someone else sang it?”
“Better.”
He chuckled. “This is nice, isn’t it?”
“What’s nice?”
He turned and leaned on one elbow, wrinkling his nose. “Have to be obstinate, don’t you? You can’t admit it’s nice to hang out with a friend.”
“Your question could have been more direct, but, yeah. This is nice. It makes me want to order a pizza.”
“You want to order pizza? I had it for dinner, but okay. No anchovies or mushrooms, though.”
“No, Maxwell, this just makes me think of pizza and,” Olivia sat up, “sleepovers with my girlfriends.”
“Is this where we wax our bikini lines and paint our nails?”
She stretched sideways, leaning across to switch on the brass lamp beside the bed and filled the room with new shadows. “The entire male population knows absolutely nothing about what really happens at slumber parties, do they?”
“That’s why I need friends like you to enlighten me.”
“I wish someone would have enlightened Bob and sent him a voice coach.”
“He has a singular, unique voice and that’s what sets him apart—”
“From people who can actually sing? Have you ever listened to him sing Mr. Tambourine Man?”
Emerson closed his eyes, slipped his arms behind his head and laughed at her nasal Dylan impersonation. “Oh, you’re right. When someone like you sings it it’s so much better.”
Olivia gazed at the little smirk on Maxwell’s mouth. It made him look mischievous, kind, and comfortable all at the same time. The fringe of his eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks. There was a tiny crater at the edge of his eyebrow left behind by his teenage acne, and he was close enough that, even in the soft, shaded light she saw the five o’clock shadow darkening his chin.
He had asked that she get to know him and she was surprised how much fun it was to do just that. They could lie here together quietly and enjoy the easy comfort. In due course she would send him off to his own room, but not quite yet. Not quite yet. She led her eyelids drop.
Emerson let his head loll to the side. He opened his eyes and watched soft muslin curtains billow in the open French doors. He didn’t want to move. He lay beside Olivia, casually, as if this happened every day, but in the last hour anytime he looked at her directly, or if their eyes met for more than just a moment, a riptide yanked hard and the air was suddenly sucked from his lungs. Fumbling around for some kind of flotsam to cling to, he groped the outrageous, buoyant fact he’d developed some rather intense feelings for a woman he’d known for just a month. To confirm this, he shifted to his hip to look at her.
She was on her side. His thumb brushed over the smoothness of her bare shoulder. All facts were validated when she made a small sleepy sound, opened her eyes, and looked at him. “Hi,” Emerson said, offering her a gentle smile, feeling anything but gentle.
Olivia swallowed, sat up, and licked her lips. All that talk of friendship had been nothin
g. The intent behind his eyes was evident. He’d probably planned this all along, had hoped she’d let down her guard. Yet, despite how well he’d engineered the last two hours, she found she couldn’t look him in the eye because she was Olivia Regen: world’s biggest liar.
Impractical ideas welled up in her mind and she tried to stifle them, tried to steer her thoughts around the hazards, but the ideas accelerated, flashing past the yellow caution flag her sensible side was waving. Her brakes were failing miserably, she couldn’t downshift into a lower gear, and she knew the only way to stop this now was to run head-on into the crash barrier. “You’re still here?”
He climbed off the bed. “Goodnight Olivia,” he said a little gruffly.
She watched him shut the bathroom door and waited for her heart to stop racing.
Chapter 18
Very early the next morning, Olivia brushed her teeth and climbed back into bed. She watched the pink- and orange-hued dawn break through the open French doors. It was barely past five. In a little more than twelve hours Ella would marry Craig. Their life together would begin and Olivia would walk away from the day feeling a hollowness she hadn’t realized was there.
Life was full of failures and disappointments and long ago she had accepted the fact some people weren’t meant to be married. There was no reason to talk herself into believing she was happy on her own. She was happy on her own. Life was easier single. There was no one she had to consult about decisions, no one else’s mood she had to tolerate. She could live without compromise, come and go as she pleased, and every failure was completely her own without anyone else adding to the disappointment.
What bothered her was this emptiness she felt now stemmed from the past. No matter how well she’d disconnected from that personal history, she hadn’t seen the sticky webs from her past still linked with enough tension to yank her backward.
History was history, alterations were not possible, and living in the past was fruitless. She knew that. It was why she never gave in to the negative thoughts and emotions associated with being abandoned by two husbands, and why she believed she’d never let those experiences direct her life. She was in full control. She chose the route she wanted to take on this journey, and for some reason Emerson Maxwell kept popping up in the middle of her road like an orange cone sitting at the edge of a pothole that needed filling.
Driving in Neutral Page 19
