“Didn’t you break up with Joey Piccolo because he separated all the food on his plate and ate each item one at a time?” Paige asked.
Natalie couldn’t help but giggle. Her normal reaction might have been to bristle. Her sisters’ teasing could easily be taken as another poke at her. But the wine had loosened her up, the strokes of the hairbrush felt lovely, and she had to admit those had probably been her exact words. The absurdity of her constant breakup decisions all bubbled to the surface.
Her giggles caught on with Olivia and then with Paige. Next thing they knew, they were all laughing into the pillow cushions for no reason at all.
It felt so good to laugh for so long—to let her abdominal muscles tighten, to let her cheeks hurt, to just look at her sisters and send one another into another collapsing fit of laughter. It was just like when they were girls, relaxing into the moment where you could be silly with the people who loved you most.
“So who’s next in Natalie’s Dating Carousel?” Paige finally asked, wiping tears from her eyes.
“No one. I’m taking a break. That’s the mancation.”
“No one? I can’t imagine you without a guy, Natalie. Despite your fear of commitment.”
“Fear of commitment?” Natalie leaned out of the hairbrush’s reach to turn and look at Paige. “What are you talking about? I’m always with a guy. I’m not afraid to commit.”
“Oh, please. Just because you’re always with a guy doesn’t mean you know how to commit.” Paige turned her shoulders back so she could continue brushing. “Commitment is something deeper. You go through guys like eyelash extensions.”
“I don’t wear eyelash extensions.”
“Even worse then.”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “I’m not afraid. I’m just not ready to settle down.”
“I respect that—I’m definitely not either,” Paige said. “But for me, it’s a choice. For you, I think it’s fear.”
“I’m not afraid of commitment.”
“Natalie, you break up with guys because they wear tightie-whities instead of boxers or because they floss their teeth after every meal or because of the way they use ‘literally’ in every sentence.”
“What about Ted with the restraining order, or Milo with the wife?” Natalie threw in.
“You do have some legitimate breakups. My point is, you don’t differentiate. You look for reasons to break up, whether they’re legitimate or not.”
“Maybe I’ve just met terrible guys.”
“Or maybe you know they’re terrible, or unavailable, and that’s why you date them,” Paige said. “So you can have your fun, but you know there’s an out for you in about a month, when you can break up and say things like ‘He didn’t have a job’ or ‘He had too many tattoos’ and no one will fault you.”
The truth of that philosophy floated before Natalie’s eyes for a second, drifting back and forth, back and forth, like a feather that Natalie wanted to watch until it fell at her feet.
The brush went softly through Natalie’s hair three or four times in silence.
“Well, my mancation is to step away from it all,” she said. “I just want to get to know myself a little better, figure out what I really want.” It sounded silly when she said it out loud, but she squared her shoulders to bolster her resolve.
“You won’t last a week,” Paige said.
“Paige!” Olivia lifted her head from the couch.
“Sorry, I think it’s true,” Paige said. “But I’d love to be proven wrong.”
“I’ll prove you wrong.”
“How long is this mancation supposed to last?”
“Three months.”
Paige burst out laughing.
Natalie could feel all her defenses coming up around her again. The soft euphoria of their senseless laughter earlier was now falling away, replaced, unfortunately, with the sharp edges of jealousy and irritation. She’d always been close to Paige, since they were barely a year apart, but they’d also always fought like cats.
Olivia met Natalie’s eyes and shook her head. “Don’t let her get to you. I think it’s a smart idea, and you’ll do great.”
“I’ll bet you three hundred dollars you won’t last three weeks,” Paige said.
“I’ll last three weeks!”
“Three hundred and fifty.” Paige held out her hand. “I need some new clothes.”
Natalie shook Paige’s hand without thinking. It was what they did. They’d been betting each other since junior high, sometimes Paige winning and sometimes Natalie. But as soon as she shook on this one, she had a brief panic. Could she last three weeks? She certainly didn’t have an extra $350. But she could, right? She was on an island, for goodness’ sake, with a shortage of twentysomethings. What could be the problem?
“I’m going to take a walk,” she suddenly announced. She stood and started looking for her hoodie. She needed to take a few gulps of fresh air and clear her head before letting her hurt feelings come between her and Paige.
“What?” Paige said.
“A walk. Down by the beach.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, a little nighttime stroll.”
“Not now, Natalie. That’s crazy. It’s dark.”
“I can see.”
“Are you angry? About what I said? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. We don’t have to bet if you don’t want—”
“No. That’s silly. I just want to take a walk.” Natalie tugged on her velvet hoodie jacket and adjusted her favorite brimmed beanie on her head. “I’m fine. I’ll be back in an hour. I don’t get to take walks alone in LA, so I’m taking advantage of it while I’m here on safe Lavender Island.”
Paige looked at Olivia warily, but Olivia finally nodded. “We’ll have your wine waiting for you here. Be safe.” Olivia waved over her head.
Natalie nodded and zipped up the hoodie.
Elliott watched Alice saunter out the sliding door with her wineglass in her hand and followed with a certain degree of nervousness.
They’d had a nice dinner, which Nell had helped him order in so he could work until the date started. But now—as far as he was concerned—the date should be over.
He and Alice had talked. He’d worn his contacts again. He’d tried to stay focused. He liked her lips, though he was unsure about all the pink gloss she had on because it sometimes looked silver, like some kind of alchemy metal. She talked about geometry. She had five brothers. He thought she might have said she was from Ohio, but he’d already forgotten a few details like that. She may or may not have had a cat . . .
He felt as if he’d processed a lot of information on this date, and they’d had their dessert, and now . . . Well, now his eyes were itching and he was sort of done here. He hadn’t planned on having sex on any of these back-to-back dates—these were just the “meets.” He got that. So what was left?
And why was she wandering out to the patio?
Maybe he was supposed to follow her with the rest of the wine. Is that what Nell had meant about “Try to be romantic”? But that might extend this date into oblivion, wouldn’t it? A sheen of sweat formed across his forehead as he splashed another few sips into his glass and followed her like a prisoner toward the gallows.
Maybe she wanted him to kiss her? She’d been looking at his lips all night, and now she was walking outside and staring at the ocean and stars over the patio railing with a weird, dreamy look on her face. He tried to remember the last time he’d made out with someone, like teenagers, when there was no endgame of sex expected. He tried to remember the moves. He’d been such a geeky kid in high school; he hadn’t had a lot of experience back then. Plus, he worried she was getting a little drunk. And he didn’t see things going anywhere with her anyway, despite how nice she was. And he needed to get back to his work. Mr. Warbler’s seizure today and Jim’s u
ncertain glances weren’t slipping from his memory, despite the good wine and the pout of shiny, silvery lips.
Another gulp of wine felt like fire going down his throat. He tried to focus on the moonlight, focus on the sound of the waves, think of what to say . . .
“Your view is delirious,” she said.
He smiled, but wondered at her use of delirious. Wouldn’t she be delirious? At the view, right? He didn’t want to be responsible for getting her drunk. The bottle hung heavily in his fist.
She held out her half-empty glass.
“Maybe we should quit now,” he ventured.
She gave him a little pout and flung her hair over her shoulder while she peered over the patio railing.
“Let’s go down,” she said.
Before he could put everything together, she’d slid around the patio railing and was scampering down the ice plants, her almost-empty glass raised slightly over her head.
“Wait, no. Alice. No.” He set the bottle and his glass down on a nearby patio table and followed—it was so easy to get tangled and slip down that hillside. And damn, she was crushing the flower bulbs. “Alice, wait,” he called, gripping the vines to lower himself as fast as she was.
But she’d taken off.
He continued to carefully scale the sandy decline, the bulbous vines of the plant leaving a sticky sheen across his dress shoes, but she’d really taken off. And now she was . . . taking off her clothes?
He landed with a thud in the night-damp sand next to her sweater. Next to that lay one high heel, and next to that . . . He was afraid to look up.
When he finally did, she was skipping through the dark, barefoot, toward the sound of the crashing waves, her wineglass silhouetted in the air against the moon.
“Do you ever skinny-dip here, Elliott? It’s like your own private beach!” she yelled, right before she disappeared behind the lower dune.
Damn.
This was probably not what Nell had in mind.
And this was definitely not a private beach.
He followed anyway. Of course. (He was a man, after all, and there was possibly a naked woman on the other side of that dune.) But all he could think of was that something was going to go terribly, horribly wrong here. His shoes filled with sand on his way down.
The familiar scent of the ocean hit him full in the face and grounded him, giving him a chance to think. At the water’s edge, Alice watched the cold water rush around her ankles, squealing with cold or fear or delight—he couldn’t quite tell—and holding her wineglass high enough to avoid sea spray. The ocean air was damp and salty. Before he could get his contacts to fully focus, her dress dropped into the ocean sand, and she stepped out of it, standing there in only her underwear. No bra. Sexy black-lace underwear. But no bra.
Elliott gulped. “Alice?”
“Join me!”
He stepped carefully toward her, having no intention of joining her in skinny-dipping but fully prepared to whip off his shoes if he needed to go in and save her.
She kept wading in.
“Alice, wait.”
His heart rate picked up. His shoes came off in a whoosh, and he sent them sailing behind him. His socks followed. He rescued her dress from being rushed back out in the sea foam. What if she fell? What if the ocean swept her away? He didn’t know her well enough to know if this was normal behavior for her.
He rolled up the pant legs of his dress slacks and hesitated. Should he follow her in and save her? Did she need saving? Did she just want to play? She was wading in steadily and was already in to her waist. Tentatively, he took another step toward her. The water was freezing.
She lowered herself into the next wave with a loud whoop at the cold, her wineglass over her head, then turned, suddenly, and splashed water at him. She laughed and began trudging back up the wet sand, extending her glass for him to hold. Her body glistened in the moonlight.
He tried not to look too much—suddenly she seemed too drunk and vulnerable for words—but he had a hard time getting around the fact that a very pretty woman was walking, dripping, toward him, almost naked.
“Elliott, please join me.”
She handed him the glass, which he took, dumbly. Then, before he could think, she threw herself into his arms, dripping ocean water down the front of his pants.
“Dr. Sherman?” he heard from behind him.
His brain couldn’t quite wrap around everything that happened in the next split second, but somehow he grabbed the naked back of the very-drunk Alice, dropped the wineglass, turned toward the voice, and caught sight of Natalie Grant standing on the shoreline, gawking at him with her mouth slightly open as if he were some kind of serial killer.
Alice slid to his feet.
CHAPTER 5
“Is she okay?” Natalie asked.
She stepped closer and watched the half-naked woman slide sloppily along Dr. Sherman’s legs.
Dr. Sherman sure didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would harm a woman—he wasn’t even the kind of guy who harmed ice-plant bulbs—but you never knew. As a fellow woman, Natalie wasn’t the type to turn away when someone was naked, alone with a man, and so drunk she could hardly stand up on her own. And this was definitely a different woman from the one last night. What was going on here?
“Yes, we’re fine.” Dr. Sherman pulled Alice up toward him. “Right, Alice?”
Alice’s legs seemed to grow sturdier beneath her, and she leaned into him. She had black-lace underwear on—cut to her thigh—and no bra. Dr. Sherman was holding her as if she were a bomb about to detonate, carefully placing his hands in strategic places.
“Yes, thank you, Elliott,” she slurred, low, into his collarbone. Her hand went into his hair in a half hug, half dry-hump against his chinos.
Natalie adjusted her hat and tried to avert her eyes.
Alice giggled and turned toward Natalie as if her ligaments were made of rubber bands. “We’re skinny-dipping!” she said. “I can’t get this cutie to loosen up, though.” She made a clumsy dive to unbutton his pants.
Dr. Sherman caught Alice’s hand as best he could. “We’re uh . . . heading back.”
Natalie noticed Dr. Sherman’s shoes and socks in the sand, and heat raced through her cheeks as she tried to imagine all that might have gone on here. Skinny-dipping? Dr. Sherman?
The cold night wind whipped up from the ocean. Natalie tugged her hoodie tighter around her middle and told herself to walk home now. But wow, Alice must be freezing.
“Wait!” she called.
She yanked her jacket off and held it toward them.
“Thank you.” Relief crossed Dr. Sherman’s face.
He began dressing Alice, murmuring things into her ear while the waves crashed loudly behind them. Alice fought him for a minute, seeming upset that she couldn’t press her naked breasts into his thin shirt anymore, but eventually she gave in and poked her arms through the sleeves.
Natalie forced her attention toward the surf, and a brightly colored floral item caught her eye in the moonlit sea foam. Alice’s dress.
She jogged toward the ocean to snatch it up, then bent and caught Dr. Sherman’s shoe, then the upside-down wineglass, then a sock he didn’t seem to realize had fallen.
“That’s not necessary!” he yelled down to her as he finally got Alice zipped up. He turned and guided Alice back up toward his house.
Natalie grabbed the rest of their clothing and followed anyway. She tried to stay a reasonable distance behind them to give them privacy, but she just wanted to make sure Alice was okay.
At least she thought that was why she was following them.
Near his hill, Natalie spotted what must be Alice’s high heels and cardigan in the sand—where their escapade must have begun—and snatched them up, too, trying to ignore the heat flushing her face. She followed them both to a staircase that
wove up through a vast hillside of the island’s sea lavender—the tiny stalks always reminded her of purple coral reef reaching toward the sky.
“We can take it from here,” he said from the first stair. “I’m just going to get her into something warm and take her home.”
“You don’t have to explain to me.”
“It seems I do.”
She ignored the reprimand and followed them up. Once inside Dr. Sherman’s kitchen, he ushered them past countertops filled with take-out bags and boxes, then moved Alice through the dining room. The rooms had the imprint of Dr. Johnson on them—old-fashioned sconces, heavy oak furniture, a china cabinet filled with dishes and stemware. Only in a couple of places did young Dr. Sherman shine through—a pair of earbuds on the kitchen counter, a set of keys on a college lanyard near the door, a few T-shirts haphazardly folded and set near the hallway, stacks of papers that had formulas written all over them on the entryway table.
The dining table was still set with what must have been the date dinner—plates scattered across one corner, candles recently blown out. The food was dished out onto what must be Dr. Johnson’s old china, which warmed Natalie for some reason. Dr. Sherman seemed to try so hard.
In the enormous living room, he lowered Alice into a velvet chair, then dropped to his knee in front of the fireplace, quickly kindling it.
“How long have you lived here?” Natalie asked, glancing at the gold-leafed lamps that sat on either side of the tufted sofa.
“Three months.”
Alice’s legs came off the edge of the velvet chair in a sloppy V and sprawled across the oriental rug.
“Are these Dr. Johnson’s things?” she couldn’t help but ask.
Dr. Sherman got the fire lit and turned to see what she was referring to. “Yes. I’m renting. Did you know him?”
“I spent lots of summers here on the island. He was my grandmother’s vet.”
Alice was all but passed out now, and Natalie reached over to cover her underwear with the front of the hoodie.
The Kiss on Castle Road (A Lavender Island Novel) Page 5
