Sympathy for the Devil

by Christine Pope

  “Could you do me a favor?” I asked abruptly, a little amazed at my own audacity.

  “What?” His expression never changed.

  Maybe it was the wine hitting my bloodstream that gave me the courage to ask, “Could you just — just hold me for a minute?”

  He didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a few steps toward me, then reached out and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close to his chest. I’d known he was some inches taller than I, but it wasn’t until I stood there with the top of my head barely reaching his chin that I really noticed the difference in our heights.

  I could hear his heart beating as I laid my head against his chest, slow and strong and steady. His sweater felt almost indescribably soft against my cheek.

  Cashmere, I thought irrelevantly, then let myself relax into his embrace. It felt good. Maybe it was anti-feminist or reactionary or just plain old unevolved, but right then I thought there was nothing better than letting a man hold you, having him make you feel safe and protected. For a second I thought I felt something brush against the top of my head. Maybe he had touched his lips to my hair. I couldn’t be sure.

  All I did know was that I could have stood there forever, listening to the healthy, human heartbeat and feeling the warmth of his embrace. Did it even matter that he was the Devil?

  That was dangerous territory, though, and as much as I had needed the physical contact at that moment, I knew I should pull away, stop things before they could progress any further.

  I lifted my head from his chest and stepped back. My face felt flushed, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. “Thank you,” I said, hoping my voice sounded steady. His heart rate might have been slow and undisturbed, but mine was racing like a Ferrari let loose on an open highway.

  “Did that help?”

  His tone was so neutral I couldn’t tell whether he was genuinely concerned or being sarcastic. I decided to go with the former and replied, “I think so.”

  “I — enjoyed it.”

  I couldn’t help smiling then. “So did I.” Knowing part of me wanted much more than that embrace, but certain that doing anything else would be a huge mistake, I moved toward the door. “I didn’t see your car outside,” I began, and he smiled back.

  “Oh, I took the easy route.” The blue eyes laughed into mine, and he added, “Sleep well, Christa.”

  And then he was gone. No loud bang, no puff of smoke. Now you see him, now you don’t.

  “God,” I said weakly. Not that God had been of much help in any of this.

  The glasses still sat on the coffee table. Shaking a little, I gathered them up and took them into the kitchen, where I placed them on the counter next to the sink. I’d deal with them in the morning. For now I just wanted to go to sleep and put the day’s events behind me, if only for a little while.

  Maybe then I could ignore the dawning realization that Luke might be the Devil, but he was also the nicest guy I’d met in a long time.

  Chapter Seven

  When I checked my phone the next morning, I saw that I’d missed a text from Nina the night before. She suggested drinks around seven, and said I should call her when I had a chance.

  Drinks sounded good. Hell, if I’d had any champagne lying around, I would have been whipping up a mimosa for myself on the spot. Lacking bubbly, I settled for straight orange juice.

  The apartment felt empty in a way it never had before. Stupid, I knew, because I’d always lived there by myself. I wished Luke could have been there with me, squabbling over who got the Calendar section of the L.A. Times (reading the paper was a ritual I’d acquired from my parents and still hadn’t given up), and sharing the pot of extra-strong French roast I made up.

  God, I was being a moron. One hug, and suddenly I wanted him to move in with me and share the joys of domestic tranquility. Yeah, right. Besides, in the unlikely event that we actually did end up cohabiting, logic would suggest I’d be moving in with him, not vice versa.

  Not that logic had anything to do with any of this.

  The night before I’d finally resorted to my mother’s old standby of chamomile tea to get myself to sleep. I’d kept feeling his arms around me, remembering the warmth and strength of his body. I liked the slightly husky, rough edge to his voice, and his heavy dark hair, the kind of hair that made you want to run your fingers through it. I’d felt a pleasant tingle as I recalled that delicate touch on the top of my head. It had to have been his lips pressing ever so lightly against my hair. What else?

  All in all, I exhibited all the classic symptoms of someone falling heavily in lust, and I told myself to stop being such an idiot. It had taken two cups of chamomile tea and an extended session of dumping my frenzied thoughts into my private blog before I felt capable of anything approaching sleep.

  Oh, God, I let him hold me tonight. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I just didn’t want to think. I wanted to feel safe, wanted to feel…I don’t know, cherished or something. And I did; that’s the crazy thing. All that crap with Dad and Traci and the baby just sort of…melted away, if only for a few minutes. I don’t pretend to understand what Luke’s thinking or what his motives are in pursuing me, but in those moments when he held me, I thought he did care.

  The Devil, caring about someone? Maybe that doesn’t make sense. I don’t know. I’m sure no expert on what even regular guys are thinking, and Luke is an order of magnitude beyond anyone else I’ve ever been with.

  But if all this is just some sort of act, just his way of maneuvering me for his own purposes, then someone should nominate him for an Oscar.

  Even after I’d gotten my feelings off my chest, I tossed and turned, waking up more than once during the night. I wished I could say that I dreamed of him, but I didn’t — I just remembered disjointed scenes that included my mother, my biology teacher from high school, and a large pink hedgehog discussing sexual versus asexual reproduction. When I woke up, I could sort of see where the inspiration for that one came from, but it still didn’t explain the hedgehog.

  The coffee should have helped me focus, but I couldn’t concentrate on the paper and its coverage of the latest shenanigans in Washington, and finally I laid the front-page section aside. I didn’t even really know why I kept getting the Sunday paper, except that it was a family tradition I’d sort of kept up long after I was out of the house. Half the time I didn’t even read it, but that particular morning I was looking for anything to keep me occupied. My seven o’clock drinks date with Nina seemed very far off.

  However, I still had my “chores” to do — laundry, housework, all the wonderful, exciting stuff that inevitably gets pushed back to the weekend so it feels as if you never really get a day off. I’d just finished washing the breakfast dishes (and the wine glasses Luke had left behind the night before), when my phone rang.

  “Shut up,” I told my pounding heart. Really, I was starting to wonder whether I should get my blood pressure checked.

  But it was Nina’s voice I heard, not Luke’s. “Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I thought that’s what your voicemail was about.”

  “Well, if you’d bothered to actually listen to it, you’d have known I told you to call me to let me know if seven was all right.”

  “Oh.” Was that really what she had said? Probably, but my brain seemed to be anywhere but here these days.

  “Are you all right? You sound a little weird.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. I wondered whether I should tell her about my impending little brother or sister and then realized she was going to find out sooner or later. Voice flat, I added, “Traci is pregnant.”

  A long pause on the other end of the line. Then Nina said, “Well, that’s it. I’m calling in the troops. I think Jennifer said she was getting back into town late last night, and those Nazis Micaela works for have to give her a day off every once in a while, or she can sue. I’m sure I read that somewhere.”

  “You don’t have to — ” I began weakly, b
ut I should have known Nina would bulldoze right over my protests.

  “When was the last time the four of us all got together, anyway?” she asked. “You need your friends with you.” She hesitated, then said, “Are you okay? Do you want me to come over now? Maybe we could go catch a movie or something.”

  I really did think about it for a minute. Maybe it would be better to get out for a few hours. But I had laundry in midstream and grocery shopping to do, and I didn’t want to sound like such a wimp that I couldn’t manage a few hours without my friends to prop me up.

  “That’s all right,” I said, forcing myself to sound upbeat but determined. “I’ve got a million things to do today. Just make sure one of you guys is ready to be the designated driver, because I’m planning on getting plowed tonight.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Nina replied. “Illegitimi non...whatever it is. But seriously? A baby? At their age?”

  “Traci was happy to point out to me that she’s only thirty-nine.”

  “Really?” Nina sounded surprised. “She looks older than that.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. So much for all the Botox and highlights. “See?” I asked. “I feel better already.”

  “Hang in there, kid. Reinforcements are coming.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and we made our good-byes and hung up.

  I just wished I didn’t feel so guilty that the chief source of my unease wasn’t the upcoming addition to my family, but the man who had stood in my living room and held me only twelve hours before.

  As promised, Nina managed to gather up both Jennifer and Micaela and bring them along. I’d put on my new embroidered wine tweed jacket with the velvet panels, my favorite pair of dark jeans, and some dark brown kitten-heeled boots and thought I was looking pretty good — at least until I opened the door and took a look at Nina. She had on a slinky jersey top in a dark green that somehow caused her eyes to glow like a cat’s, and the jeans she wore made her legs look as if they went on forever.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I thought. Her legs do go on forever.

  Jennifer was put together as usual, in a pale blue cashmere twin set and gray slacks. She looked like the proper offspring of a lady who lunched, which was exactly what she was. Jennifer came from Pasadena and was a former Rose Court princess. Not queen, but still, princess isn’t too shabby. Besides, she’d achieved what the rest of us (well, with the exception of Nina) were still just dreaming about; she’d gotten engaged this past fall, and her wedding was slated for the end of May. Her fiancé was a surgical resident at Huntington Memorial hospital, she had gotten a great job with a local P.R. firm, and she had her life pretty much together.

  In direct contrast, Micaela appeared to have just slouched off the set of the latest film she’d been working on — and considering her schedule, that might have been the simple truth. Her dark hair was put up messily in a clip, and she wore a weather-beaten suede jacket over what looked like a man’s white T-shirt. Not exactly the greatest attire for martini sipping at Lola’s, but on a Sunday night we had a better chance of slipping in under the radar.

  “Happy birthday!” Jennifer said, handing me a floral gift bag with some opalescent ribbons hanging from it.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to — ” I began, and Micaela broke in,

  “I’m glad you said that, because I’ve had no time to go shopping lately. But — at great personal sacrifice — I’ve offered to be the designated driver.”

  I laughed. “Sounds good to me!”

  Jennifer’s present turned out to be a beautiful spice-scented candle and a carved marble pedestal for it to rest on. Both were in warm, earthy colors that would go perfectly in my living room. Trust Jennifer to pick out exactly the right thing.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said, and went to give the candle and its holder a place of honor on the mantel.

  “My present,” Nina announced, “is that all your drinks are on me. But not you freeloaders,” she added, shooting a mock-severe glare in Jennifer’s and Micaela’s direction.

  “I would’ve been a cheap date anyway,” Micaela said, “considering I’m going to have to lay off after one drink. But whatever. Shall we?”

  I gathered up my purse and then locked the apartment, and we all went downstairs and piled into Micaela’s Honda CR-V. We headed over to Fairfax and then turned left, making our way up into West Hollywood. The streets around us were still fairly crowded, but nothing like they would have been if we’d attempted this outing on a Friday or Saturday night.

  Since Nina was the tallest, she got to ride shotgun, and from her perch in the front seat she kept pestering Micaela for details on her current movie shoot. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You can tell us something. It’s not like we’re going to leak information to the National Enquirer or something.”

  “Nope,” said Micaela, lifting one hand to casually flip off a Porsche who had darted in front of us and then slammed on its brakes.

  “Oh, please,” Nina retorted. “I know it can’t be another Harry Potter movie, and we’re in L.A. and not New Zealand or something, so it’s not the next Avatar. What else could be so top secret?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

  Jennifer and I both laughed, and Nina looked over her shoulder and gave us a quick green-eyed glare.

  “No comments from the peanut gallery,” she snapped.

  “All right,” Micaela said, just as she slowed to a stop so she could make a left into the parking lot. Someone behind us honked, and she muttered “asshole” before adding, “Channing Tatum’s in it.”

  Even Jennifer made an excited little squeak at that.

  Nina demanded, “Really? You’re not messing with me?”

  “Nope.” There was a minuscule break in traffic, and Micaela took advantage of the opening to shoot her mini SUV across Fairfax and into the parking lot, nearly knocking down a startled-looking valet in the process.

  “And is he that gorgeous in person?” Nina asked.

  Micaela put the vehicle in park and then gave all of us a wicked grin. “Better.”

  Nina and Jennifer both sighed, and I wondered how long Nina’s “bi” phase was going to last. I hoped she didn’t do this sort of hetero mooning around Gina. For myself, well, I had to agree that Mr. Tatum was pretty hot, but since I’d been on the receiving end of attention from someone equally hot over the past few days, I didn’t feel quite so transported. I wondered what Nina et al. would think of Luke. I was sure Jennifer would pretend that she’d made a much better catch, but although Phil, her resident, was a nice guy and really brilliant, he wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. Nina would probably give me an encouraging “You go, girl,” and no doubt Micaela would hand Luke her card and tell him he had an interesting look and that he should think about getting some head shots to casting agents. I loved Micaela, but sometimes she could be awfully single-minded.

  I was glad that we’d waited until Sunday night to come here, though; Lola’s certainly wasn’t empty, but at least it wasn’t a total mob scene. We snagged a cozy table in one of the side rooms where they had live music on Friday and Saturday evenings. I could see the empty place where a band might set up, but no one was playing tonight. The only music was some low-key jazz coming out of discreet speakers placed around the room.

  I decided to start with an apple martini, since Lola’s claimed to have originated the drink. After that I could branch out to something a little more exotic. The waiter took our order — a Cosmo for Jennifer, another appletini for Micaela, and a dirty martini with two onions for Nina — and we all settled back into our seats. We also got a couple of appetizers because, as Nina pointed out, even if I didn’t want to eat a full meal, I shouldn’t be drinking on a completely empty stomach.

  “So really?” Micaela asked, after our drinks arrived and we’d all taken our first sips. “A baby?”

  “Yep,” I said, savoring the sweet-sour taste of my drink and thinking that what it reminded me of the most was a highly a
lcoholic green apple Jolly Rancher. “Due at the end of June, I guess.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “It seems a little irresponsible to me. I mean, how old is your dad going to be when this kid graduates from high school?”

  “Seventy-five.”

  “That’s just wrong,” Micaela remarked. She twirled the plastic stir stick in her martini, probably to occupy herself so she wouldn’t drink it too quickly.

  Wrong. That was a good word for it. The whole situation had begun to take on an air of unreality, as if it were happening to someone else. Maybe it would start to seem a little more real once I had an actual infant to deal with. I was just thankful that I lived far enough away that they couldn’t really call on me for babysitting duties. Not that Traci would probably even trust me with her precious little bundle of joy. No, I was certain they’d get a nanny or au pair or something. I hope she’s really pretty, I thought viciously. Then Dad can run off with her next.

  While that revenge fantasy might have been appealing, I doubted it would ever happen. For one thing, I was fairly certain Traci would do everything in her power to make sure that whoever they did hire to help with the baby was unattractive. Newport Beach probably abounded with horror stories of that type, and while I didn’t think much of Traci’s mental abilities on an intellectual level, I had to admit she could be cunning enough when the situation required it.

  “Does your mom know?” Nina asked.

  I lifted my shoulders before swallowing the rest of my appletini. “By now? Probably. I mean, Lisa probably called her.” Of course, I didn’t know that for sure, but Lisa tended to take her position as the oldest child seriously. Any time something needed handling, she was the one to do it.

  Nina skewered one of her cocktail onions with the plastic stick and stuck it in her mouth while I tried not to shudder. I still couldn’t see how she stood those things. “But you haven’t heard anything?” she said.

  “No.” Which, on the face of it, was a little odd. Usually my mother would have called me to see how I was handling news of such magnitude. Her silence seemed to signal one of two things: either she was so upset that she didn’t want to talk to anyone, or for some reason Lisa hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to tell her. Neither explanation was at all reassuring.