Since they’d been in New York full-time, there had been more opportunities. They’d gone on every one of what Ellen called “long-shot” auditions, cattle calls, for which they would not have made the drive down from Connecticut. But since they were in the city, they went.
“Not me?” Jamie asked, clearly disappointed. “Are you sure I can’t read for the part anyway?”
“You tell me,” Ellen said, lifting her eyebrow to look at her son. “Can you play a fifteen-year-old girl?”
Jamie pretended to consider it. He probably hadn’t showered yet this morning, and his light brown hair stood up straight, reminiscent of Bart Simpson’s. His round wire-rimmed glasses were crooked, as usual, perched atop his freckled nose. His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue-green, rimmed by lashes nearly twice as long as his older sister’s—didn’t it figure? He had just turned thirteen this past May, but he was small for his age and still auditioning for nine- and ten-year-old roles. Nine- and ten-year-old boys’ roles.
“I’m an actor,” he said with exaggerated gestures, “but even for me, a fifteen-year-old girl would be a stretch. Besides, I’m probably too short,” he added à la Groucho Marx, sliding back out of the room.
“Do you know where Lydia is?” Ellen called after him.
“Up in the ballroom, practicing her saxophone,” he called back.
Up in the ballroom. Jamie wasn’t kidding. Bob’s town house was like something out of an old movie starring Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant. The house—if you could call it a house and not a palace—was five stories high, with both an elevator and a sweeping marble staircase winding its way up to the top floors.
The ballroom—and it was indeed a huge, wooden-floored ballroom complete with glittering chandeliers and a stage large enough to hold a full orchestra—was three flights up from the guest bedrooms. It was on the top floor, with what at one time had been a magnificent view of the surrounding city. Nowadays the view wasn’t much to brag about, with the skyscrapers that had gone up blocking the river, but the ambiance and old charm still remained. Bob had taken care to have the entire house restored exactly as it had been in the early 1930s—with the exception of the extremely up-to-date security system he’d had installed. But the security system was nearly invisible. Stepping through the front doors was like going through a time warp.
And Bob was kind enough to share his beautiful home with Ellen and her kids for the summer.
Their summer of madness, she and Jamie and Lydia had called it back in Connecticut. They each had made a wish list of things they wanted to do while in the Big Apple for the summer. Jamie had wanted to visit the Museum of Natural History at least a dozen times and bum as many free tickets for as many Broadway shows as possible off of Bob, who was frequently sent comps. Lydia had wanted to shop for secondhand, ultrachic clothing in the Village, take jazz saxophone lessons with a real, live New York City jazz musician, and have at least one audition for a part in what she considered a real movie.
And Ellen…Ellen had wanted to leave her teaching job far, far behind, to check out the possibility of a career change, to investigate this acting thing that her kids had been doing so naturally for so long. She had wished for time to be totally selfish, to do things entirely for herself.
She’d gotten one hell of a jump on that part of it the night before, that was for darn sure.
Not only had she had an evening of totally hedonistic pleasure with a young, sexy, gorgeous man she barely knew, but she’d also allowed herself an after-midnight soak in her attached bathroom’s Jacuzzi and a good, long, thoroughly selfish cry.
The kids had been asleep when she’d first gotten home, thank God, and she had crept up to her room feeling remarkably blue. It was odd, considering she’d spent most of the evening laughing.
Ellen hadn’t been crying over Sam, that was for certain. For God’s sake, she didn’t know him well enough to cry over him. She’d told herself that enough times to be almost thoroughly convinced.
One thing she did know was that despite his dinner invitation and his attempt to get her phone number, she wasn’t going to see Sam Schaefer ever again. She’d known that from the very start. In fact, that was one of the reasons she’d actually allowed herself to become intimate with him.
She wasn’t ready for a real relationship right now, she told herself firmly. After Richard it was possible that she would never be ready again. But she’d known just from looking at Sam that he wasn’t a real relationship kind of guy. He was a Romeo. A Lothario. A real ladies’ man—in love with all women and no one woman.
Add to that part of the equation the fact that Ellen was nearly ten years his senior, and the solution was obvious—this was not a relationship that would work.
Not in a million years.
But together they’d had one incredible, passionate, perfect night.
Ellen gazed at the telephone. He wasn’t going to call. She straightened her shoulders. And even if he did call and even if—and this was a ridiculous and impossible thing to suppose—even if Sam wanted a relationship with Ellen that would last more than a few hot, steamy, incredible nights, she would be a fool and a half to become involved with him.
In the first place, he was too much like Richard. Handsome, charismatic, and probably just as incapable of fidelity. She’d been there. Done that.
In the second place, Ellen liked Sam too darn much. Unlike Richard, he had a solid sense of humor. He didn’t take himself or life too seriously. He was irreverent and funny and quick to laugh at her jokes. He didn’t humph and grump and say, “Be serious, Ellen,” the way Richard used to do.
And he had all that gorgeous blond hair and those exquisite muscles.
No, she’d gotten exactly what she’d expected from Sam Schaefer—a single night of incredible lovemaking. A solid night of hot sex.
And her tears last night hadn’t been because she’d known she wouldn’t see him again. No, her tears had been from her sense of closure. Last night she’d finally put an end to her long, failed, farce of a marriage. She’d cried because she’d married Richard believing in forever, and she’d been betrayed by him most cruelly. She’d cried only because she’d been so very wrong.
Not because she wished she were ten years younger or Sam were ten years older. Not because she wished for something warm and loving and permanent with a stranger—something that would never be.
“Mom! Mom!” Lydia shrieked, bursting into the room. “I saw it! I saw it!”
Ellen knew instantly what her daughter was talking about. “The laundry detergent commercial! Oh my God! It’s on?”
“It’s hysterical!” Lydia danced around the room, stopping only to give her mother a hug. “You look so good! It was on one of the networks, on a national show. We are going to make so much money in residuals!”
Ellen laughed at her daughter’s excitement. Fifteen-year-old Lydia was at the age where she downplayed everything, preferring to act ultracool. It was nice to see her jazzed, to hear her speaking in heavy italics, and to get a hug, however brief. Hugs from her nearly grown-up children were becoming more and more infrequent these days.
“You’re just so excellent,” Lydia enthused. “I just know you’re going to get that soap opera job after the producers see this.”
“How about you?” Ellen interrupted. “You’re in the commercial too.”
Lydia shrugged that off. “I’ve done commercials before, it’s no big deal for me, but for you…I had no clue you could act.”
“Well, where do you think you got it from?” Ellen teased. “Certainly not your father.”
Lydia rolled his eyes. “Daddy? He could be outacted by a plate of cottage cheese.” She glanced at Ellen’s appointment book, checking the information about the audition call that had come in. “Jamie said I’ve got something else for Monday?”
“Don’t get excited—it’s not a movie. It’s a commercial.”
Lydia pointed to Ellen’s notes. “Does this say ‘raisin bran’?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Oh, blech,” Lydia said. “I hate raisin bran.” She smiled brightly, falsely. “But tomorrow I’ll act like I absolutely love it.”
“I hear you say that, and it frightens me. What exactly are you learning from these experiences?”
“Is that a rhetorical question, or do you really want me to answer that?” Lydia wondered.
The phone rang.
“I think it was rhetorical,” Ellen said, “but think up a good answer in case I ask it again.” She pushed the talk button on the phone. “Hello?”
“Got your phone number,” a husky voice said. “But then again, I am a detective, I’m supposed to be able to track people down.”
Ellen’s heart lodged securely in her throat. “Sam?”
She looked up and directly into Lydia’s curious dark brown eyes. “Sam?” her daughter mouthed silently, questioningly, unable to contain a smile. “Who’s Sam?”
“I know you didn’t want me to call you right away,” Sam said apologetically, “but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you and—”
“I’m sorry,” Ellen said. “Can you hold on for just a sec?” She covered the mouthpiece of the phone and moved toward the door, holding it open for Lydia. “May I please have some privacy?” she asked her daughter.
“Privacy,” Lydia repeated, taking her sweet time to leave the room. “For Sam. No problem. Say hi to Sam for me.”
Ellen closed the door. On second thought, she locked it. And then she moved far away, across to the other side of the room, in case Lydia had any ideas about eavesdropping.
“Sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t alone, and—”
“That’s okay,” he said in his too familiar, too sexy voice.
Ellen sat down on the window seat, closing her eyes at the sudden onslaught of extremely arousing memories. His hands, his mouth, his body…
“I was hoping you might’ve changed your mind about dinner tonight,” he added.
“Oh,” she said. “No.” She took a deep breath and lied. “I’m sorry, I’ve…I’ve got other plans and…”
“I’ve got tomorrow off,” he said. “Maybe we could meet in the morning. Go for a run in Central Park before it gets too hot.”
Ellen opened her eyes. “I didn’t tell you that I like to run.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said with a laugh. “You have a runner’s legs. You have gorgeous legs—did I tell you that last night?”
“No,” Ellen said weakly.
“Well, it’s true. So what do you say I come by and pick you and your legs up around eight tomorrow morning?”
“I’m sorry,” Ellen said again. “Sam, I just don’t think—”
“I know I’m not giving you any time or space or whatever else it is you need to deal with your divorce, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how perfectly we clicked last night, and, well, I really want to see you again.”
Ellen was silent. She was facing the biggest temptation of her life. Sam wanted more. It was a possibility she hadn’t seriously considered.
He wanted more, and she knew damn well that if she let this affair—if she could even call it that—go any further, she would be the one who would end up hurt. Because she knew exactly what would happen. She would see him tonight, tomorrow night, and for every night after that for a week or two. And then, just when she was starting to really care for him, just when she was starting to convince herself that the age difference wasn’t really that huge, he would stop calling. And she’d spend the rest of the summer feeling like emotional roadkill.
She swore, sharply, pungently. “Sam, don’t mess this up. Last night was perfect. If we add any more nights to it, it won’t be perfect anymore.”
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “Are you telling me you don’t want to see me again? Ever?”
“I think it would be better if we didn’t,” Ellen said. “See each other again. Yes. That’s what I’m telling you.” She closed her eyes again. Lord, she was doing this badly. But it was the right thing to do. She knew it was the right thing, the only thing—so why did she feel like crying?
“Oh,” he said. His voice sounded so small. “I see. I’m sorry, I…guess I misunderstood.”
“I’m sorry too,” Ellen whispered. She was. She was very, very sorry.
He cleared his throat. “If you, uh…if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
He hung up without saying good-bye, and for the second time in less than twelve hours, Ellen, who prided herself on her strength, who rarely ever cried, dissolved into tears.
T.S. gazed sympathetically at Sam over the rim of his coffee mug. “Okay,” he said. “Answer this for me. Would you be as attracted to her if she hadn’t rejected you?”
Sam had been staring sightlessly up at the television set playing silently in the corner of the little coffee shop, but now he looked over at his friend, outraged. “Yes,” he said indignantly. “Jeez, what kind of a shallow, opportunistic bastard do you take me for?”
“The kind of shallow, opportunistic bastard who’s never really felt the sting of rejection before,” T.S. answered, not entirely unkindly.
“If you tell me I should take this as a learning experience, grow from it, and move on, I’m going to have to kill you,” Sam said dangerously.
T.S. just laughed.
“God, I’m miserable.” Sam pushed his cooling coffee away from him in disgust. “And you think it’s funny.”
“I’m dying to meet this woman,” T.S. admitted, his light brown eyes amused behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m having lunch with Bob after he gets back into town next week—Oh, I gave him a call and explained about the confusion at the airport. I had this fear that he was going to say ‘You lied to me! I won’t let you write my biography!’ But he didn’t. He thought it was funny that everyone thought you were me. He’s going to think it’s even funnier when he meets me—you and I are not exactly twins, white boy.” He paused. “Ellen didn’t think you were me when you…?”
“No! No way. I told her who I really was right away.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. So the book deal’s final?”
“Contract’s signed,” T.S. told him. “There was even a write-up about it in the Times. Everyone’s speculating that I’m going to go on Bob’s show to promote the book.”
“Are you?” Sam asked.
“Are you kidding?” T.S. snorted. He gestured around them at the little coffee shop as he lowered his voice. “Do you think I could sit here and have coffee with you if people knew I was T. S. Harrison?” He shook his head. “I love the fact that sixty million people have read my books, but I want to be able to walk my kids to school, thank you very much.”
“Oh God,” Sam breathed, staring transfixed at the TV screen. “There she is. Dammit, her commercial is on everywhere I go.”
T.S. twisted in his seat to get a look at the TV.
On the small screen there was a close-up of Ellen, gazing into the camera and talking, her lips quirking upward into an almost smile. And then she did smile—right into the camera. Right into Sam’s eyes, as if she were looking directly at him.
“She’s an actress?” T.S. was confused. “Wait a minute, I thought you said she was a college professor.”
“She’s both,” Sam told him, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. Ellen held a bottle of laundry detergent and laughed with a young girl. It was uncanny—the girl they’d found to play her daughter looked almost exactly like her, with the exception of slightly darker hair.
“She’s…not what I expected,” T.S. said. “Somehow, from the way you were talking, I expected, I don’t know, some total babe.”
“She is a total babe—although, God, don’t use that word around her. She’s incredible, Toby,” Sam told his friend as the commercial ended and he could once again drag his gaze away from the TV. “She makes me laugh. She’s funny and sexy and…” He buried his he
ad in his hands. “And she doesn’t want to see me again.”
T.S. shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, man.”
“I should feel relieved.” Sam lifted his head and gripped the edge of the table. “I should be grateful—it was one really incredible night. I keep telling myself that she’s doing me a huge favor by ending this thing before it even starts. And if it had been anybody else, I would’ve been the one talking from her side of the table. I’m the one who usually wants out of a relationship before it gets too heavy. How many times have I said those exact words she said to me?”
“By my estimation, four or five million?”
“Very funny.”
“So now you know what it feels like to be dumped after one night,” T.S. pointed out. “Welcome to the human race.”
“It sucks.”
“No kidding.”
“I keep trying to figure out what I did wrong,” Sam said. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. We connected constantly, all night long. I mean, I know when it’s working. You know me, Tobe, I’m good with women. I know when there’s a certain magic there, and it was there, I’m telling you. So why would she run away from that?”
T.S. knew enough not to answer. He knew enough just to listen.
“I keep coming back to the same little piece of our conversation,” Sam continued. “She asked if I had gone to NYU with you, and I told her I hadn’t gone to college. I keep thinking maybe she thinks I’m not good enough for her—I’m not smart enough, not well educated enough.”
“Oh, man, you don’t really think that, do you?”
“I don’t know what to think. You know, she teaches at Yale. She’s got all these degrees dangling off her name. Doctor. She has a Ph.D. And me, I barely even finished high school.”
T.S. sighed. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t agreed to meet Bob’s aunt at the airport before I checked my calendar…”
They sat for a moment in silence, then Sam spoke. “No,” he said quietly. “I would rather have met her than not.”
“What are you going to do?”
Sam smiled grimly. “I’m going to figure out a way to see her again.”
Ladies' Man Page 7
