by Lori Foster
Rocco’s wildly successful column, Life in the Fast Lane, followed his misadventures with women, dating, and life as a single male in NYC. A Sex and the City for men if you will, although he had just as many female readers as men. Probably more.
“No one is interested in a reunion. I’m not writing Life in the Past Lane here.”
Daniel chuckled. “Good one.”
Rocco forced a smile. Maybe his editor was coming to his senses and realizing how silly his idea was. After all, People magazine had recently labeled Rocco “the reigning prince of the hip, fast-paced New York singles scene.”
Beals Point was not hip or fast-paced.
“Your readers will love it,” Daniel said.
Rocco’s smile faded.
“All those woman who still hold a torch for ole Rocco since his high school days. Hearts you broke. The ones who got away. This could be good stuff.” Daniel tapped the paper again, then headed back to his office, leaving no room for further debate.
“Good stuff,” Rocco muttered, staring down at the paper.
“THIS is so not good,” Rocco muttered as he pulled his car onto the two-lane road that led to Beals Point. He’d tried over the past few weeks to convince Daniel his idea was boring, pedestrian, outright awful, but his headstrong editor wouldn’t be dissuaded. So here he was, driving back to a place he’d sworn he’d never see again.
He supposed his readers would love this topic for a column, if his past had been anything like Daniel imagined. If the Rocco who’d lived in Beals Point had actually been just a younger version of the man he was now. But the Rocco Vincente, sitting in his new Mercedes, was a total invention. A creation made up to bury the Rocco of the past forever.
He turned again, this road winding through woods, trees rising up and over him like a living cage. Verdant, and utterly suffocating.
Dread and doubt squeezed his chest, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years, a sensation he thought long gone. But it was back just like it had been all those years ago. When he’d flrst ridden down this twisting road toward an uncertain future. To a place he’d never seen but was supposed to call home.
Then Beals Point rose up in front of him, appearing out of the trees like a picture in a pop-up book. Quaint little houses interspersed with huge old Victorians and classic capes appearing among the craggy hills of the Maine coast. Two church steeples, white against the green trees and blue skies. And beyond the town, the glittering waves of the Atlantic. A perfect little New England town.
Beautiful, really, he could see that now. Idyllic.
Except he’d found nothing idyllic there in his youth. His chest continued to constrict as he turned onto Main Street to drive to the bed-and-breakfast where he’d be spending two nights.
Just two nights, he reminded himself. Not two years, like last time.
He parked his car in the small lot beside the Victorian that had been a bed-and-breakfast even when he’d lived here. The building looked totally the same. Still cheery yellow with green shutters and white trim. Baskets of white petunias hung at even intervals around the huge wraparound porch.
Welcoming, homey. But he didn’t feel welcome or any sense of home. Trepidation still sat heavy in this chest. But he forced himself to get out of the car.
He squinted at the sprawling building with its gingerbread trim and cobblestone walk. He’d often walked by the inn and wondered who stayed in a place like that. Honeymooning couples? Vacationing families? Then he’d tried to imagine himself staying there. What that would be like. But even as a kid, he could only imagine himself staying there alone. He couldn’t see any family surrounding him. No loved ones.
He popped his trunk and pulled out his suitcase—a small carry-on. No need to pack much.
“Just two days,” he repeated to himself, walking up the steps to the front door.
He pushed open the front door and stepped into a foyer. In front of him was a large, curved staircase with a lovely, carved balustrade. The old wood was polished to a warm mellow sheen. He could smell a lemony scent in the air. To one side of the staircase was a short hallway that led to what appeared to be a dining room.
“Hello,” a voice called, startling him. “May I help you?”
Rocco turned to his left to see what must have once been a formal living room. Now the room served as a check-in area. A settee and a wingback chair were arranged in front of a marble fireplace. Beyond the sitting area was an ornate desk and behind that a woman rose to greet him.
Rocco had a vague impression he should know the woman, although he couldn’t place her. Red hair, the color of polished copper. Pale skin and pale blue eyes. She was not conventionally beautiful but very striking.
A warm smile curved her pink lips. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said, walking toward her, offering a smile back, despite his dismay at being here. “I’m checking in for the weekend. I reserved tonight and tomorrow night.”
The woman looked down at a log book—no computers for this establishment.
“Well, let’s take a look. Are you here for the reunion?” She looked up, her pale eyes scanning over him.
Again he felt that twinge of recognition, but the thought was squeezed aside by the tightness in his chest. “Um, yes.”
She smiled again. “Your name?”
“Rocco Vincente.”
The woman straightened, tilting her head slightly as she regarded him closely for a moment. “I thought that was you.”
Rocco frowned, not sure what to say. He still couldn’t place this woman.
“I’m Franny Arsenault.”
Rocco studied her for a moment, but still drew a blank. Finally he shook his head, giving her a pained look.
“I’m sorry—” he started, but she stopped him with laugh, no offense in the happy sound.
“Well, I was Franny Mullens. I graduated with you. We had a few classes together. A couple English classes. Algebra, I think. Maybe chemistry.”
Rocco studied her, now realizing why she seemed vaguely familiar. Franny—her hair had been redder. And she’d been kind of quiet. Not so—attractive.
Sure, he remembered her.
She was also the one he was supposed to talk to about the reunion. She’d organized the whole event—or debacle as he’d come to think of it. Talk about fortuitous.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it.
“Great to see you,” she said, and once more he was struck by how sweet and welcoming she appeared. Her smile seemed to envelope him with warmth. But instead of being comforted, he found her friendliness . . . unnerving.
It took him a moment to find his voice, but when he did he managed to stick to his reason for being here. “I actually wanted to talk with you about an interview. You see I’m a—”
She laughed again. “Oh, I know what you are. A writer and the class’s star celebrity,” she said, then blushed, her cheeks turning a faint, pretty shade of pink.
Ah yes, so that was what was bringing about her sweet reaction. She realized he’d made it big. She was interested in the Rocco Vincente he was now. If he’d returned some average Joe Schmoe, her reaction wouldn’t have been nearly so warm. He’d bet on that.
He offered her a smile again. The practiced urbane smile he offered all the ladies who wanted something from him. Usually a date that might result in a column about them. Five minutes of fame, everyone was looking for it.
“Yes. Well, I was hoping to get an interview with you.” That should please her. “You know about the reunion—since you organized it,” he said, his tone more businesslike. A little cool.
Her warm smile faded, and she busied herself with getting him checked in.
“Sure,” she said after she wrote something down in her ledger. “How about later this afternoon? I have a girl who comes in to help at three. I could meet you after that.”
“Three is good,” he said, wondering why he felt a little sad about the sudden aloofness in her demeanor. Wasn’t it b
etter to make it clear he wasn’t interested?
“Fine,” she said with just a quick, almost indifferent curve of her lips, nothing like her first smiles. “I’ll meet you at Freddy’s.”
Rocco frowned, briefly drawing a blank again before recalling the name. “That’s the diner, right?”
She nodded, holding out a key to him. A real key, no key cards here.
“Three it is,” he said, accepting it. His fingers brushed hers as he took the silver key, and the brief touch sizzled through him like unbridled electricity.
Suddenly Rocco suspected he understood much what Benjamin Franklin had felt the infamous night he’d flown his kite in a lightning storm. There was a key involved in that event, too, wasn’t there?
“Second floor, third door on your right.”
Rocco blinked, stunned both by his awareness of her and her dismissal. Did she not feel the spark? Her cool expression certainly didn’t reveal that she felt anything.
“See you later,” he mumbled, picking up his suitcase and heading back toward the foyer and staircase.
What had just happened? He wasn’t sure. And again, he wondered how the hell he ended up back here.
Franny watched Rocco leave the room, then collapsed into her desk chair.
Rocco Vincente.
How many times had she thought about him since high school? How many times had she thought about him during high school for that matter? Hundreds—heck, maybe millions.
She’d had a huge crush on him from the first time she’d ever seen him, sitting on the school steps and smoking a cigarette even though they weren’t allowed to smoke on school grounds.
He’d been the quintessential bad boy—all dark, disheveled good looks with brooding, mysterious eyes and a cool attitude. But she’d seen beyond his indifferent mask. She’d realized he was hiding his pain—she understood, because she hid her own. Not behind sullen ennui but by trying to stay quiet, unnoticed. Invisible.
But anyone who’d been paying any attention would have seen he was hiding pain. All they’d had to do was listen to the things he wrote.
So she wasn’t surprised in the least that Rocco Vincente had become a writer. She was, however, surprised at the kind of man he’d seem to become. She’d followed his career, read all his columns and his books. And while his subject matter, the adventures of a slick single guy in the city, had surprised her, she had still caught glimpses of the talented, insightful boy she’d once known. And she was sure Rocco was still the amazing, fascinating person she’d once silently admired across many a classroom.
But now, she wasn’t sure.
Disappointment fell heavy in her belly, as if her heart had turned to lead and sunk into the pit of her stomach.
The polished, impeccably groomed man who’d walked into her B&B wasn’t at all what she’d imagined he’d be like. Everything about him seemed contrived. Insincere.
Whereas that boy from years ago, he’d been real, raw, and alive in a way she’d appreciated and envied.
Now, well, now she wondered if she’d just imagined who he’d been. Of course, she couldn’t claim she imagined her reaction to the fleeting touch of his fingers against hers. She’d felt that touch throughout her entire body. Oh yeah, that had been very real, very raw, and she definitely felt alive. Some parts of her a little more than others.
She groaned. Leave it to her to still long for her high school crush, even when she wasn’t really sure she actually liked the man he’d become.
ROCCO dropped his suitcase on the floor and looked around the room. The place was just as he’d imagined when he’d walked past as a kid. Cozy, quaint, homey.
What appeared to be a handmade quilt covered the four-poster bed. A wingback chair and small end table sat near the window. Real watercolor paintings of seascapes—not cheap reproductions—decorated the walls. Lace curtains that looked like they could have been hung by someone’s mother covered the windows.
He wandered over to the window, pulling back the lace, noticing the same clean, lemony scent filled this room like it had in the foyer. He looked out to see green lawn, a beautifully kept garden of wildflowers and what appeared to be herbs, and beyond that the ocean.
Most of his New Yorker friends would pay big bucks for a weekend away with a view like this. But he still couldn’t enjoy it. Being here was too hard. Too . . . much.
Damn, look at his reaction to Franny. That wasn’t normal. His weird, intense awareness of her had to have been triggered by all the emotions of coming back here. And hadn’t he spent years trying to leave the past behind him? He didn’t need this.
His gaze returned to the garden. Suddenly an image of Franny, working in the flower beds appeared in his mind. Her coppery hair shimmering, lovely against the green of the herbs, the red of the poppies, and the oranges of the marigolds. Her image turned to him, to show him a particularly beautiful blossom. That sweet smile on her lips. Her eyes filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite read—something warm and inviting. Something he’d longed for his whole life.
He let the curtain drop, turning away from the window. Okay, clearly he was losing it. Being here was messing with his head. Thoughts and images like that were far too poetic, too romantic for Rocco Vincente. He was practical, snarky, viewing the world as a humorous, yet mostly dysfunctional, place.
He didn’t believe in, much less long for, some kind of pretty, pastoral little world with sentiments as pedestrian as home and hearth and simple pleasures. He’d long ago realized the only place to find happiness was in achieving success and obtaining things. He surrounded himself with tangible proof of his ability to survive. A swank loft apartment, an expensive car, designer clothes, five-star restaurants, and beautiful women.
His life made him feel good, in control, important. They made up for a childhood where he’d been none of those things.
He flopped down on the bed, deciding maybe taking a nap until his meeting with Franny was the best way to deal with his strange thoughts.
He rolled on his side, the scent of lavender from the sheets mingling with the clean lemony scent of the floors and furniture. A relaxing mix. Some of the tension in his muscles slipped away.
He bet Franny’s scent was just like this. Clean and flowery and calming. There was something about her that was so serene, so enticing. So different from what he usually encountered in his life.
But that touch . . .
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Nothing had been calming about her skin against his. But that had still been so enticing. Very, very enticing. In fact, lying here in a bed she’d made, he couldn’t help but imagine her there beside him.
Under him. His body deep inside hers. Those pale eyes of hers gazing up at him, filled with tenderness, her smile sweet, her moans sweeter as he made love to her.
He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
Okay, a nap wasn’t going to do it, either. Not with the crazy images playing through his brain. He stood, not sure what to do.
Maybe a walk. Maybe some fresh, sea air would clear his head. He doubted it, but lying around fantasizing about a woman who was so not his type wasn’t good for his mental health, either.
He grabbed the key and left the room. As he descended the stairs, he heard Franny speaking with someone. Another guest signing in. Her voice reached him like cheery sunshine, heating his skin.
Oh yeah, losing it.
He didn’t even look toward them as he passed the living room/ check-in, partially afraid the newest guest was another old classmate, and he wasn’t in the mood for more small talk. But more afraid to see Franny. He couldn’t talk to her yet. Not with his thoughts about her going to all kinds of weird places.
He doubled his steps, practically running until he was out to the sidewalk, hoping no one noticed his hasty escape.
“Was that Rocco Vincente?”
Franny’s attention snapped back to her newest guests, Jackie Hutchinson and her husband, Bob.
“Yes,�
� Franny said, gathering her scattered thoughts. “Yes, he got in earlier today.”
Jackie widened her eyes, surprised. “I didn’t know he was coming. He’s quite a success, you know.”
Franny nodded, focusing on getting the couple signed in. “Yes, I’d heard that.”
Jackie turned to her husband. “No one would have believed that guy would make it big. He was a real bad kid. Lived at the boys’ home—that place I pointed out to you on Franklin Ave.—all the troubled boys lived there. I don’t think anyone in our class ever thought he’d be the big success story.”
Before Franny could catch herself, she looked up at Jackie. “I did.”
Jackie raised an eyebrow, again surprised or maybe intrigued. “Really? Well, you had more faith than I did, that’s for sure.”
Franny managed a slight smile and then flnished checking them in. Once they were gone, Franny walked to the front door. She stepped out onto the porch and looked around. Rocco wasn’t anywhere in sight.
A wave of panic, actual panic, swept over her, stealing her breath like a drowning wave of icy seawater washing over her head. Then she pulled in a slow breath, telling herself to calm down. He wasn’t gone. He hadn’t taken his suitcase. She walked to the end of the porch and checked the parking lot. She’d be willing to bet the Mercedes was his.
He’d gone for a walk or something. She’d still meet him at three. And if she could actually get up the courage, she would tell him what she thought of the boy she remembered from high school.
Maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he really had grown into the sarcastic, somewhat shallow man she mostly saw in his columns. But then again, maybe she was right, and there was still some of the boy she remembered inside him. She was sure she saw hints of him amid the glib, urbane, often cynical insights.
She hugged her arms around her. Could she be that brave?
ROCCO roamed the streets, surprised at how much he remembered about the town. The general store where he’d gotten busted for stealing cigarettes. What was the name of the owner back then? He’d been ancient, or at least Rocco had thought so at the time. The old guy had been furious but hadn’t turned him in. Rocco wondered if he still ran the place.
