“Oh, that would be charming,” Sandra said, giving Ryan no choice. A true officer and a gentleman, he tucked one arm behind her and gestured toward the dance floor with his right hand.
Phew! I picked up a cocktail napkin and pressed it to my brow. Where the hell was my real boyfriend?
A hand touched my arm. Mom. She was smiling, but a rueful expression darkened her eyes. “Honey, are you okay?”
I wanted to tell her that at the moment I felt like a displaced character in The Crying Game, but I didn’t think Mom had seen the flick. “I’m just having a merry little Christmas,” I said. “Or, at least, I’m trying.”
Mom tilted her head sympathetically. “Leo told me that you know and you’re upset.” I had to give Mom credit, she sure knew how to cut through the crap. “I’m so sorry, honey. Would you like to meet Clay?”
“I . . .” My mouth opened and closed like a bubbling fish. No! my mind shrieked. “Yes,” I answered.
Mom linked her arm through mine and guided me toward the door. “He’s out in the garden, and he was hoping to meet you. He’s heard so much about you.”
I’m going to hate him, I thought as we stepped into the night air. The chill ran through my body, icing over my disposition. I wasn’t going to like this sleazoid, this home-wrecker, this intruder.
We stepped under the rose trellis to the old-fashioned bench. Wolf sat there, talking to a man leaning against the stucco wall. Silver hair, dark sports jacket, head lowered, intent on Wolf’s words.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Mom said, “but I know you wanted to meet Madison.”
Clay straightened, swinging his attention toward us.
“This is Clay Webster,” Mom said. “He’s a psychologist for the Board of Ed. We met while I was working on the literacy program in one of the local schools.”
Clay shook my hand, staring directly into my eyes. On some people, that level of intensity could be unnerving, but coming from Clay it felt like warm, genuine interest.
“A school psychologist,” I said. “So you’re one of the guys who tries to figure out why good kids go bad?”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite so comprehensive,” he said. “Mostly we try to keep students on track so that they don’t drop out of school, and we need to make sure they’re getting all the support the city is obliged to offer.”
Wolf asked him about the city’s dropout rate, and the conversation went on from there. Clay mentioned the problems school-aged children faced, adding that he had a son in fourth grade whom he didn’t envy. It struck me that this was a man who cared about kids, a man who probably worked hard as a child advocate. After I had gotten the grilling from Dad’s friends, Clay Webster was not at all what I expected. While most of the men his age were closed down to input, Clay’s quiet presence said that he was open, ready to listen, willing to wait for an answer.
Okay, I didn’t hate him, though I wasn’t sure that would make the situation any easier.
Clay was talking about the literacy program Mom was involved in when Leo came over and nudged me. “Your boyfriend is here.”
“Please, tell me you’re not talking about Ryan.”
Leo wrinkled his nose. “Greg is upstairs supervising the main courses. The chicken smells divine. And Greg asked for you.” He turned to Wolf and Clay. “Anyone hungry? They’re setting out the main courses now.”
“Sounds great,” Clay said.
With that, the three men moved toward the door. Following them, I had to wonder at the absurdity of it all. My two best gay friends were going upstairs to dine with my mother’s secret lover, while my old high school boyfriend was downstairs dancing with the school librarian. It sounded like a British spoof.
Upstairs, my heart did a little flip when I caught sight of Greg looking GQ gorgeous in his classic tuxedo. The jacket accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and from his spot at the dining room entrance he seemed to rule the buffet table like an ancient emperor.
Although I didn’t want to undermine his professionalism by kissing him in public, I couldn’t help but scurry over to him.
“Hey, you,” I said, smiling up at him.
The look he gave me just about melted my panties. There was nothing quite so wonderful as being the center of Greg’s universe. “Merry Christmas, Madison.”
Warmed by his presence, I glanced over the buffet queue and smiled. Why was I beating myself up over the tiny events of the evening? Greg was here, and I was going to spend the rest of the evening with him. My honey. My guy. One of San Francisco’s most desirable bachelors.
Santa had been generous to me this year, and here I’d been moping about a few family dysfunctions. Lifting a glass of champagne to my lips, I saw the holly-strewn path to glory with sudden clarity. This was going to be the best Christmas of my life.
8
After the main course was served, Greg was free to step away from his role as the chief of catering police and join the party a little more. He didn’t want to dance, but he enjoyed taking me on a culinary tour of some of the side dishes he’d prepared for us. On one end of the kitchen table, he set out two dishes dotted with foods, including sweet, light, shrimp dumplings; tiny new potatoes stuffed with caviar and sour cream; sauteed scallops in baskets of crisp-fried spinach; lobster ravioli; candied carrots with walnuts; and delicate asparagus turnovers.
“This sure beats the deviled eggs and honey-baked ham Mom served last year,” I teased.
Greg’s eyes opened wide in horror until he realized I was joking. “You nearly stopped my heart.”
I savored a shrimp dumpling, then smiled. “Although past menus weren’t quite so mundane, they never came close to the fabulous eats you prepared.”
“Thanks.” He flipped his chair around, then straddled it to face me. “I love to see you eat . . . enjoying the fruits of my labor.”
A little glob of sour cream squirted onto my knuckles, and Greg took my hand and sucked it off. The sensual gesture reminded me of the many times and ways we’d managed to make love in this house over the past week or so. I’d become very comfortable with the way Greg’s body fit into mine . . . not so comfortable telling him I didn’t want to go there, which was really my plan for tonight. Maybe it was crazy, but I wanted to remember our first Christmas as a time when we enjoyed each other’s company. The thing was, I was planning a happily-ever-after with Greg, and I didn’t want the foundation to be built on sex.
“And that’s my speciality,” I teased. “Madison knuckles topped with a dollop of sour cream.”
“Mmm.” He turned my hand and kissed the pulse point of my inner wrist. “Very delicious. I’d like to taste more of Madison.”
I frowned. “Right. A little poke in the pantry, and then you head off to the Collinses, leaving me here to face Santa alone.”
“No,” he said flatly. “It doesn’t have to be that way. Do you think it’s all about sex with me?”
“No,” I defended, “but you’ve got to admit, we haven’t done a whole lot of other extracurricular activities. We’ve never caught a movie together, or gone out for drinks or dinner.”
Greg squeezed my hand. “That’s because this is my busy season, with parties every day, sometimes two. You know that, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said, though I was glad to hear him imply that I was more than a fuck buddy.
“Okay, why don’t we do something special tonight?” he said.
Some special time together on Christmas night? I wanted to kick off my Jimmy Choos and do a happy dance on the kitchen table, but I let Greg explain.
“If you’ll come to the Collins party and help me finish up there, I’ll take you for a little midnight cruise. My parents have a boat in the Marina District, and I’ve made a tradition of taking it out on Christmas Eve. It’d be just the two of us.”
“You want to go out on the water on Christmas Eve.” I spoke as if I were weighing the statement carefully. In truth, I was trying to read between the lines and figure out his true
motive for getting me out in the bay alone on his family boat. The fact that it was the family boat—and that by boarding I would be stepping off the pier onto Kasami family property—was not wasted on me. I so wanted to be in! “I’m warning you, I don’t sail.”
“We’ll just be motoring tonight, but it’s going to be gorgeous out there. There was a new moon last night,” Greg said. “That means no moonlight, and when you get away from the shore there’s less light pollution. The sky just opens wide . . . way wide. You’ll see.”
Honestly, it wasn’t my idea of a cozy outing, but it was so Greg. Meditating in the woods, sailing in winter . . . If I was going to be drawn to a guy with a Zen spirit, I would have to be careful not to clip his wings.
At the Collins’s party, I helped Greg by passing trays of tiny dessert pastries and cordials—everything from Cherry Herring to fifty-year-old brandy. Judging from the way the guests laughed so loudly and teetered as they walked, I didn’t think they needed a whole lot more alcohol to keep the party hardy, but Greg told me that Mrs. Collins had insisted on a floating Viennese hour—whatever the hell that meant.
So I found myself in Greg’s van, wearing his leather jacket over my gown and sipping sake from a Thermos.
By the time we got to the Marina District I was floating along on a gentle sake cloud. Not that I was wasted or anything, but the warmth of the wine suffused my body like a gentle blush, from my toes right on up to the top of my brows. I was laughing—about nothing, really—as Greg took my hand and led me down the path toward the docks. My Jimmy Choos didn’t quite like the gravel walkway, but they clicked along sweetly once we reached the weathered wooden platforms.
“It’s a gorgeous night,” Greg said, adjusting some ropes. “Perfect for stargazing.”
“Well, this will prove that it’s not all about sex,” I said. “Because there’s no way we’ll be able to get naked in this wind.”
“I told you it’s not all about sex,” he said. “Besides, there’s always the cabin.”
I stamped my foot on the deck in a mock temper tantrum, but Greg didn’t seem to notice as he worked the boat closer to the dock, then reached over to help me on. I sort of hopped into the air, and Greg caught me, making me feel like a Broadway dancer jumping into her partner’s arms. That made me laugh again, and I couldn’t stop giggling as Greg rolled up a blue tarp and moved about, getting the boat ready to motor out.
I sat on a bench, wondering why I felt so giddy. Maybe it was the sake. Maybe it was all the trappings of the occasion, with San Francisco swathed in twinkling Christmas lights and my good friends falling in love. Even my parents seemed to connect on some level tonight.
And Greg. Despite his tendency to put me off he’d managed to find a few minutes to be alone with me on Christmas Eve. Was this going to be it—the magical interlude in which we made the big decision and began to chart our lives together?
I don’t know why the prospect of so much happiness put me in a hysterical frenzy, but I just couldn’t contain myself.
“Okay, Giggles. Why don’t you give me a hand here, and we’ll be off.”
I followed Greg’s instructions, listening as he told me some of the rules of sailing, that we wouldn’t be using the sails tonight, that we had to stay right of the red markers, keep out of the shipping channel, etc. More information than I could really process, but I let it billow around me like the wind that lifted the chiffon overskirt of my gown.
“Are we crazy for being out here tonight?” I asked.
His eyes glimmered as he shot me a look. “Are you cold?”
I shoved my hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and shook my head.
“Then this makes perfect sense.” Greg stood at the wheel, steering with one hand as if it were second nature to him.
As we cruised out and I got a hit of engine fumes and salt water, it reminded me of how I used to get seasick. It had been so long since I’d been on a boat, but now the gentle motion didn’t bother me at all. As he guided the boat to a cove and dropped anchor, I stared out at the dark water, leaning on the fiberglass surface of the boat. The notion of the bay at night had seemed romantic, but in truth it was dark and vacant—an expansive void. Why was Greg drawn to these bleak, distant places?
“Why the hell would you want to come out here?” I said aloud.
“Wow, you really are a party pooper,” he said from the cabin.
“It’s just cold as hell out here, and pitch black, too. Get your hot bod out here and warm me up.”
He emerged with a tray of goodies that fit right onto the little shelf on the bench. Dried cranberries and dusted almonds and a small wedge of brie.
“Impressive,” I said, “but I’m a little dry.”
He beamed, ducked back into the cabin and returned with a bottle of champagne. “I thought we could salvage some of the night for ourselves.”
“That is so sweet.” I popped a cranberry into my mouth and kissed him on the lips. Had he listened when I’d asked about celebrating the holidays together? Yes, he must have.
Greg kissed me back, then drew a line along my jawbone with one finger. “Did you notice the stars?” he whispered. “They’re amazing from out here.”
I glanced up at the sky, a white-on-black scattering of varied diamonds. “It is beautiful. I imagine you’ve got all the constellations charted.”
“I can pick out a few,” he said. “You always start with the North Star. And I’m sure if you paid attention in Girl Scouts, you could find the Big Dipper.”
“I was a terrible Girl Scout,” I said. “And in college, we were supposed to take this class at Hayden Planetarium, but I couldn’t be bothered, so I just took it pass-fail and used somebody else’s notes.”
“Not a stargazer. So I guess I won’t be astounding you with my astronomical expertise.”
“Can’t we just talk?” I said, trying to guide him to the important question.
He turned to me and slid a hand inside the leather jacket. “So you want to talk, do you?” His fingers found the bodice of my dress, dipping inside to tease one nipple. I sucked in a breath as he pushed the bodice down to cup my breast.
As always, his touch evoked a sexual thrill, but tonight I didn’t want sex to get in the way . . . not when our future was about to be launched.
“Look, Greg—” I pulled away and adjusted my bra. “I really don’t want to make love tonight.”
“Really.” He tipped his head back. “And you’re not into astronomy, so I’m not going to bore you with all that. Okay, then, what are you up for?”
“Talk. Can’t we just talk?”
“About what?”
His tone was so genuine, but the question hung there awkwardly.
I wanted to smack my forehead, realizing I’d totally miscalculated this evening. Disappointment seeped through me, chasing away the last of the warmth evoked by the sake. There was no surprise engagement ring hidden in the bowl of dried cranberries. “About us. Our future.”
It was Greg’s turn to be disappointed. “And what might that be?” he asked crisply.
“Well . . . together, I think. I mean, wouldn’t that be good?” I didn’t mean to sound whiny and pleading. Maybe I just felt that way when faced with Greg’s lack of relationship savvy.
Remember, he’s really not good at making an emotional connection, I told myself. I needed to be the assertive one. I needed to take him by the hand.
“We’re together now, right?” He shifted away from me. “You know, this is just so typical. What the hell else do you want from me?”
“I’d like to know that we’ll be together again tomorrow,” I said.
“It’s possible,” he said.
“And the day after that . . . and after that.”
“You’re the one who’s leaving. You’re flying back to New York in January.”
“But I don’t have to.” Not if we have some sort of commitment, I thought.
Of course, I wouldn’t dare say the “C” word—no
t even to a man who loved me. I was crazy about Greg, but I wasn’t stupid.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said in a pissy voice.
“It means that, that I don’t have to go back, Greg. Not if there’s a reason to stay.” I hated having to spell this out, but someone had to do it. “Dammit, would you just give me a reason not to go back to New York?”
“And what would that be?” he flipped back at me. “Because, much as I like you, I barely know you, Madison. And you don’t know me. You barely know anything about me.”
“But that’s changing,” I insisted. “We’re getting closer by the minute.”
He swung around and scowled at me. “Now you’re scaring me.”
That was when I realized I must have been giving off the scent of happily-ever-after, a musk that obviously offended Greg. He sat up straight and folded his arms. Although I wasn’t multilingual, I could read “Fuck off!” in the international code of body language.
“Greg, where do you see us going?” I asked, desperately trying to give voice to the question that hung in the air between us.
“Back to the marina,” he said, his eyes silver with fury.
And before I could argue, he was preparing the boat to move. As he started the engine I turned back toward the water and clutched the seat cushion in a near fetal position, trying to ignore the voice ringing in my head. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love me.
How could that be true? All the right signals had been there, hadn’t they?
The boat rocked and bounced as Greg piloted toward home. Despite the cold night, my palms sweated and my face felt warm. As I dug my fingers into the seat cushion I realized we were moving at the whim of the currents and waves in the dark bay. It tossed us along its glassy black surface, jogging and bobbing, a tiny fleck in the huge black abyss. I sucked in a breath, trying to go with the motion—the rocking motion of the bay, the eddying swirls from the Pacific, the subtle, steady spinning of the planet.
Leaning into the boat, I could feel the Earth spinning, tilting on its axis, moving through space in its path around the sun. Beyond that, I imagined our solar system thrumming within the gigantic arena of space, a huge, buzzing diorama within a larger theater. No one could stop the inevitable motion. No one. It was foolish to even consider the notion.
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 10
