by Susan Crosby
“This is just about sex, John,” she said finally. “We can’t have more than that.”
“I know.”
After they made love, she fell asleep. He studied his ceiling for hours, as if the answers to his problems might be written there.
All he saw was that it looked very much as if an Elliott woman would break his heart, after all.
In the morning, her head on a pillow next to John’s, Scarlet watched him sleep, his hair mussed, his beard shadowy. She’d slept until nine, not waking once. She couldn’t remember a night when she’d slept so well.
Her eyes stung. Anything in life she’d wanted badly enough, she’d gotten, had worked hard enough to get. But no matter what she did in this relationship, she couldn’t win.
Betray. Her grandfather’s word echoed in her mind.
She eased out of bed, donned John’s robe and headed to the kitchen. She hunted for coffee and filters, then fixed a whole pot, not knowing how much he drank in the morning, or if he drank it at all.
At the front door she looked out the peephole to make sure the coast was clear, then grabbed the Sunday Times from the hallway. She finished up the dishes from the night before and checked out his refrigerator for possible breakfast food, finding eggs, cheese and English muffins.
At about ten o’clock she heard water run in the bathroom. Curled up on the sofa, she was enjoying her second cup of coffee and the Times travel section. A few minutes later he emerged, unshaven but with his hair combed. He’d put on the T-shirt and boxers from the night before. She’d been afraid he would come out in khakis and a preppy sweater or something, dressed for the day.
He stopped in the doorway. A slow smile came over him. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”
“On my side, mostly.”
His smile widened.
“I slept really well,” she said, moving her legs so that he could sit beside her, facing her. “And you?”
She offered her mug. He took it, then leaned over and kissed her, deeper than a peck but not an invitation to more. He sipped from the mug, resting his hand on her thigh, rubbing it through the fabric.
“I slept great, thanks. So, what do you usually do on Sundays?”
“If I’m at The Tides I go to church with Gram and Granddad. If I’m in town, I’m pretty lazy. Read the paper. Go for a walk. Have a late breakfast somewhere. Do some sketching and sewing. How about you?” There was so much she had yet to discover about him. She knew his body. She knew his scent, his touch, his laugh. But nothing about his routines, his likes and dislikes. His passions.
“I don’t think any two Sundays are the same for me. I play racquetball sometimes, or golf, depending on the season. Visit my parents sometimes. Work at home or even in the office occasionally. Go for a drive. Would you like to go for a drive?”
She wished she could say yes. “Probably not a good idea, John.”
His hesitation was barely noticeable. “Right. Well, breakfast, then. I’m pretty sure I have the makings for omelets.”
“Do you cook?”
“A little. You?”
“Salads and eggs. And I reheat brilliantly.”
“Took a master course in that, did you?”
She recognized the conversation for what it was—avoidance. They were painted into a corner. Don’t get too close, learn too much, enjoy too thoroughly. Sex and inane conversation were apparently all they could have. They had to otherwise resist.
“Maybe I should shower,” she said. “Then we can fix breakfast together. Then I’ll go home.”
We can’t spend the whole day with each other. The words hung over them as if in neon lights.
“How about we shower together?” he asked, standing, holding out a hand.
Later, she argued against him driving her home. She could take a cab. He didn’t think she should be seen wearing what was obviously an evening dress at noon. On the drive to her house he held her hand. She didn’t pull away.
“Can we get together during the week?” he asked as they neared her house.
“Definitely. Let’s talk later and compare calendars. It’d have to be at your place,” she added. “Granddad seems to like being unpredictable these days. I never know when he’s coming to town.”
“Okay.”
They had shared a long goodbye kiss before leaving his apartment, yet she hungered for another.
“Did you expect it would be this complicated?” he asked when they pulled up around the corner from her house.
She nodded. “I’m pretty realistic about most things in life.”
“Are you having regrets, Scarlet?”
“None.” Yet.
“Can I ask a favor of you?”
Her heart fluttered a little.
“If I can arrange a private consultation with my tailor, would you come along and help me choose some new things for my wardrobe?”
“Will you promise not to argue about my choices?”
“No.”
She laughed. “Well, okay. That’s fair.”
“I’ll call you later.”
The long day loomed before her. She almost wished she’d taken the chance and gone on a drive with him. “Have a good day,” she said, then looked around, not seeing anyone she knew. She opened the door.
He just watched her, apparently as tongue-tied as she by the necessarily banal conversation, then he drove off. She walked around the corner. Someone was sitting on her doorstep. She could see fabric through the railings but that was all. Then the person stood, not looking in her direction, as if giving up.
“Aunt Finny.” Relieved it wasn’t…well, almost anyone else, she waited as Fin met her on the sidewalk.
“I wish I looked that good without makeup,” Fin said.
“Oh, right, like you’re some old crone. You’re only thirteen years older than me.”
“That’s a lot of years in prime-woman age. I hope you had a good night?”
Scarlet grinned. “I’m relaxed.”
“Ah. Lucky you.”
“Come inside,” Scarlet said, heading to her private entrance. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking your advice. I went for a walk in the park. I’ve been calling you off and on to see if you wanted to have brunch with me.”
“Why didn’t you call my cell?”
“I did. It’s turned off.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Probably not turned off but a dead battery, Scarlet decided. “Well, I had a late breakfast, but I’ll be happy to keep you company. Did you see Granddad yesterday? He called me up to his office.”
“I got the same order, but I had a message sent to him that I’d already left.”
“I should’ve thought of that,” Scarlet said, unlocking her apartment door. “I’m trying to figure out who’s talking to him about me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said he’d been hearing good things about me. Called me creative and competent. How does he know that?”
Fin frowned. “I haven’t talked to him about you.”
“You think we have a mole? Someone who reports to him about the goings-on at Charisma?”
“Maybe.”
Scarlet started to press the message button on her answering machine, then decided against it. Later, maybe. In private. She’d learned her lesson there. “Who could it be? And why is it necessary? Granddad has access to all financial information. Since he’s only worried about fiscal profit to declare the winner of this contest, why would he need someone reporting behind the scenes?”
“A very good question.” Fin paced the living room.
“I’m going to change. Make yourself at home.” Scarlet hurried. She changed into jeans, a T-shirt and a leather jacket, then pulled her hair into a ponytail, added a little mascara and lipstick and was done. She could smell John’s soap on her skin, and her body ached comfortably. One area where the man had above average creativity—and flexibility—was in bed. The aftereffects lingered.
“Do you want to go to Une Nui
t?” Scarlet asked Fin as they left the house.
“I don’t want to go to any family-run operation.”
Scarlet smiled. “Hot dog and soda in the park?”
“Sure. Why not?”
A few hours later Scarlet dragged herself home. They’d listed every employee, trying to come up with the name of the snitch. She wished she hadn’t said anything to Fin, who didn’t need something else to obsess about.
Scarlet made a promise to herself that she would never let her job consume her life as Fin had—easy for Scarlet to say, she supposed, at this point. Maybe when things ended with John, she would dive into her work, too, and not come up for air for a long time.
She hit the message button as she passed by the answering machine, listened from her bedroom to a message from Summer saying she would call Scarlet’s cell, four hang-ups, then one from her grandfather.
“Your grandmother and I are coming to the city for the week. She thought I needed to warn you, for some reason.”
Scarlet could almost see him rolling his eyes.
“So, here’s your warning, missy. We’ll be arriving around four. Plan on dinner with us.”
Another command performance. Scarlet looked at her watch. Almost four. She needed to call John, let him know….
Why? How would it matter to him?
You just want to talk to him.
Right. And wrong. She had a legitimate reason. They needed to coordinate schedules and see when she could help him with his wardrobe. And she’d expected to spend the night with him at least once. Now they needed a new plan. She couldn’t stay away overnight with her grandparents there.
With that rationale in her head she picked up her phone. His number was still on the speed dial.
She hesitated. Why hadn’t Summer removed his number? Would a psychiatrist say she was keeping her options open in case things didn’t work out with Zeke? Even though she and Zeke were engaged, she’d been engaged before, to John, and that hadn’t worked. Maybe Summer was having a life crisis—
Scarlet shook her head. Summer was different with Zeke. Openly happy. Relaxed. Excited. All the things she hadn’t been with John, or even before John. Nothing was going to change there, even if Summer changed her mind. And John wouldn’t want her back, anyway. Would he? No. Of course not.
She dialed his number, got his machine, but didn’t leave a message. She didn’t know his cell number.
The intercom buzzed from downstairs. Her grandparents had arrived.
Time to put on a happy face.
Ten
A few days later John stood by while Scarlet pulled item after item from his closet to make room for his just-delivered new clothes and shoes—although he suspected her reason had more to do with removing the temptation of his ever wearing his old stuff again. His new tux and five suits wouldn’t be ready for a couple of weeks, but everything else they’d bought could be put away—shirts, ties, jeans, leather jacket, T-shirts, boots, shoes, other casual clothing.
His credit card statement now seemed in line with the national debt, but he had to admit he liked the new look, not flashy but up-to-date.
Not that he hadn’t argued with her, starting with her wanting him to use a friend she’d gone to design school with instead of the tailor he’d used all his life, his father’s tailor. Somehow—he still wasn’t exactly sure how—she’d convinced him to give her guy a try, then decisions were made all around him for a while before he asserted himself with veto privileges and started offering his own opinions. He was happy with the end result, particularly after he finished trying on clothes, when Scarlet locked the dressing room door and they made love, their need to be quiet somehow intensifying everything—scents, sights, the silken feel of her skin, the force of his orgasm.
Or maybe it was the four walls of mirrors that had done that, especially as she’d stripped for him, and he’d had a view of her everywhere he looked, and from every angle.
He went hard at the memory.
“When do you have to be back at work?” he asked her now, coming up behind her in the closet, his hands on her hips, keeping her rear snugly against him.
“Same as usual. One-thirty.”
It was the third time this week they’d met at his apartment at noon, and it was only Thursday. They’d also had two meetings at her office about product placements, plus that evening at the tailor’s before she had to go home to have dinner with her grandparents. She had to attend the symphony with them tonight, then they were returning to The Tides tomorrow, just in time for the weekend.
Tick tock. His time with Scarlet was slipping away.
They didn’t talk about the inevitable end anymore, apparently deciding separately not to bring it up. Sometime soon they would have to, though. Only twelve days until Summer’s return.
He’d had lunch delivered before he and Scarlet arrived—corned-beef sandwiches and coleslaw. They sat at his kitchen counter to eat.
Scarlet held a dill pickle aloft. “Make sure you bag your old clothes and leave them with your doorman tomorrow. They’ll be picked up around ten o’clock.”
He was grateful he didn’t have his new suits yet so he didn’t have to donate his old ones. They were good suits, with life left.
“And when your new suits are ready, you’ll give your old ones away,” she added, using her pickle as a pointer.
“Who appointed you queen of my closet?”
She grinned. “Trust me. Once you’ve worn the new suits and gotten a hundred compliments in five days, you won’t miss the old ones a bit.”
“If you say so.” He had no intention of getting rid of them, but she didn’t have to know that. He was taking back a few of the things she’d tossed onto his closet floor today, too.
“Do you have plans for the weekend?” he asked. They rarely planned ahead, usually not even a day, as if they were afraid to. Afraid that they would plan then something would prevent it, which would be worse than not making plans at all.
“I have to make an appearance at JoJo Dawson’s party Friday night,” she said, “which starts at eight. How about you?”
“I have to be seen at Shari Alexander’s opening at the Liz Barnard Gallery.”
She frowned. “I didn’t get an invitation to that.”
“Maybe because at the last opening, you stole Liz’s boyfriend.”
She met his gaze directly then studied her sandwich for a few seconds as she held it near her face. “I didn’t know he was hers. He sure didn’t act like he belonged to anyone. Not to mention he’s twenty years younger than she is. Anyway, I wasn’t doing anything but flirting a little, after he made moves on me. Besides, he was too fussy.”
“Fussy?”
“And full of himself.”
He wasn’t sure what she meant, except they weren’t compliments. “I take it I’m not fussy.”
She almost snorted. “Hardly.”
He wanted her to explain what she meant, but left it alone. They only had a few minutes left before they had to return to their offices. “Want to get together after our respective appearances tomorrow night?”
“Sure.” She picked up their plates and carried them to the sink.
He stuck his hand in his pocket, toying with the item he’d dropped in there earlier. After a few seconds, he pulled it out and passed it to her. “In case you’re done before I am tomorrow night.”
She stared at the gleaming object while she dried her hands, which seemed to take an extraordinarily long time. Then she folded the towel precisely into thirds and hung it on the oven door handle.
“It’s a key, Scarlet, not a branding iron.”
She took it from him without comment as she edged around him, heading toward the living room. He would love to know what was going on in that head of hers.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said as she opened the front door. He wanted her to come back and kiss him goodbye. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, waiting.
She stopped at the door. Her expression
seemed to say she wanted to give back the key. A key was symbolic of a relationship deepening in trust and intent, a sign there was a future. It wasn’t true here, which obviously confused her, and apparently upset her.
“It’s just a key,” he repeated to her. “I’m trying to make things more convenient for both of us.”
“You keep on thinking that, John, if it makes it easier for you,” she said, then she left, closing the door quietly.
So, he really didn’t have a clue about how her mind worked. She hadn’t been focusing on the same issue at all.
But she was wrong about one thing.
Nothing was making this relationship easier. Absolutely nothing.
Although Scarlet had been taken—dragged—to the symphony and the opera since childhood, she’d never developed an ear for it, nor could she easily distinguish one composer from another. Except for Wagner, that is, especially his Tristan und Isolde. Selections from it were on the program tonight.
Still, she would’ve rather been at a jazz festival or enjoying the pounding beat of a rock concert.
Just before the lights went down she spotted her aunt Finny sitting a few rows ahead with Georges Caron, a French designer old enough to be her father. From their vantage point her real father and mother had a perfect view of their emotionally estranged daughter. Scarlet didn’t catch her grandfather looking, but Gram’s gaze returned again and again. Scarlet wondered if Fin would ever forgive her parents for forcing her to give up her baby long ago. She’d rarely spoken to them through the years, Charisma having become her baby.
On the other hand, Scarlet was glad to see Fin out and about, a rarity for her. Undoubtedly it was a work night for her, an attempt to woo Georges Caron into giving Charisma exclusive coverage of his next collection or something. At least it got her out of the office.
Woo. The word stuck in Scarlet’s head, along with the other dilemmas crammed in there like a Pandora’s box. John had given her a key to his apartment. He was falling for her, beyond sex, beyond their stated intent at the beginning of their relationship. She knew she had to give him up at the end of the month, because of Summer and family image and other things that separately didn’t matter a whole lot, but together made it impossible for them to be together.
