“Did you know they were seeing each other?” she demanded.
“No.” He moved out of her striking range. “I, uh . . . I didn’t know it was Marie who was coming. And I didn’t know you’d be bringing her. I can drive them back, if you want.”
Natalie settled back down. “No, that’s okay.” Maybe this wasn’t some kind of manipulation. “You’re still on your date, aren’t you? I can drive them back.”
“I think I am.” He frowned at his drink. “I’m not sure.”
His neck was ruddy again. She took pity on him and gentled her voice. “How did things go?” she asked.
“I think okay.”
“Did she invite you over?”
“Yes.”
“Then things went well.” She tried to put some enthusiasm in her voice. “Sounds good. You should go. I’ll wait here.”
“I’ll just finish my drink.”
The four-piece band struck up a new number in the corner. Natalie and Elliott both glanced their way.
“The Colonel ordered me a perfect martini,” he said. “Want to try it?”
“What makes it perfect?” She took it from him.
“Dry. Only a little vermouth, swirled around the shaker, then poured out. Only olives as garnish.” He watched her carefully.
She tasted it and coughed a little. Strong gin. But not bad. Actually, it was quite good. She took another small sip and then met Elliott’s eyes over the rim.
“What are you staring at? Is my makeup running or something?” She took a small swipe around the corner of her mouth. This lipstick was a little much.
“No, I’m just thinking about something the Colonel said. You look . . . you look great,” he said.
She had a hard time believing that, with such a harrowing ride up the hill in the golf cart with the fog rolling in and frizzing her hair and misting all her makeup off. She kept rubbing beneath her eyes. “Thank you,” she said anyway, because Elliott was still staring. Was her mascara running? She took one more swipe beneath her other eye.
“So, tell me how you think things are going with Becky, generally,” she said. “You spent the whole evening with her. Do you feel like you want to spend more time with her? I think you two might make a good couple.”
“You do?” He stared at the quartet.
“You don’t look very enthused.”
“It’s the last blind date, at least.”
“Tell me what this whole thing is with the string of dates. Why is your sister setting you up anyway?”
The bartender brought her a glass of water, and she was grateful to have something to do with her hands.
“She worries about me,” Elliott said. “She just wants me to be set up with someone before she moves to Italy with Jim, so she’ll feel like I’m happy. Or taken care of. Or something.”
“Do you want those things?”
“Everyone wants to be happy, I suppose. But I don’t think that’s going to be my source. Even though Nell found happiness with Jim, I don’t think that’s going to be true for me.”
“What? True love?” Natalie couldn’t help the little bit of sarcasm that slipped into her voice.
He took a swig of his drink. “That sounded pretty cynical.”
“Yeah, I guess I agree with you on this one. People who are in love think it’s the right thing for everyone. My sister Olivia is like that. She wants me to have what she has. But they don’t see that some of us are fine on our own.”
“Right.” He moved the olive around his martini.
“I can handle life on my own. I don’t need a man to define me or make me whole.” Her lines sounded a little clichéd even to her own ears, but it still felt good to say them out loud.
“Your mancation is proving that.”
“Exactly. Yes. I can certainly handle a mancation for three weeks.”
They both nodded into their drinks, lost in thought, perhaps, about how strong they were. Or maybe about how independently they could live. Or maybe how vehemently they were arguing their clichéd positions.
But Natalie reiterated to herself that she was strong, and she could definitely last for three weeks. She had to prove this to Paige. She had to prove it to herself.
“My sister thinks I’m some kind of commitment-phobe,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you?”
She snorted. “Of course not. I’m just discerning.”
He nodded, and they listened to the cello ooze out a wistful solo.
He looked back at her. His expression was open, curious, nonjudgmental, compassionate. He blinked a few times and gave her just enough space that she could admit anything she wanted, or not say anything at all. She had the sense she could be whoever she wanted to be, and say whatever she wanted to say, and he’d continue to look at her in that same accepting way.
“Paige might be a little right,” she finally admitted.
He took a drink and gave her another brief nod that let her know he was listening if she wanted to go on.
She took a deep breath. She did.
“I have trouble committing to jobs. Apartments. Men. I almost couldn’t commit to this island. The idea of being so stuck somewhere . . . It just freaks me out.”
“What exactly are you afraid of?”
“Making the wrong decision. And being stuck with it.”
“I get that. In science, that could be a big fear, too, but we learn to take calculated risks. It’s the law of probability.”
“Mmm. And what’s the probability I’m not going to understand the law of probability?”
He smiled. “Zero. But what’s the probability I’m going to bore you to tears with this conversation?”
“Zero. Shoot.”
He took another gulp and shrugged. “We assess a situation, and if we’re seventy-five percent sure of a positive outcome, we take a chance.”
Natalie gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you saying that I should pick apartments and men this way?”
“I’m not saying anything of the sort. I’m just telling you how we avoid getting stuck in the fear of committing to something that could be important, or good.”
Natalie stared at her martini stem and traced the condensation. That actually made sense. All her life she’d been afraid of making wrong decisions or committing to wrong things, but lately—with nothing of her own to speak of now—she’d started to wonder if she’d let some good things slip away.
“What’s the hardest thing you ever had to commit to?” she asked. “You don’t seem to have any trouble.”
“Not when it comes to things I believe in.”
“Your work?”
“My work, yes. Family—or who’s left anyway. My studies.”
She nodded. “But no women?”
“Not yet.”
“Not even short-term? I mean, everyone wants to have sex.”
Elliott’s neck went red. “I, uh . . . yeah. I don’t know. You want to make sure you both want the same thing.”
“Like long-term or short-term?”
“Right.”
“Are you looking for long-term?”
He shrugged and stared at his drink for a long time. “Maybe I am. I don’t know.”
The bartender came over and slid another martini across the bar to her. An olive bobbed at the edge on a bright-pink swizzle stick. “From the gentleman over there.” He motioned toward the Colonel. Then he slid a cocktail napkin to Elliott. “And for you.” Natalie glimpsed handwriting scrawled across the middle of the napkin.
She looked back at the Colonel, who was engrossed in what Marie was saying, but he glanced over and—when she toasted her glass toward him—grinned before riveting his gaze back to Marie.
Natalie took a sip. “That was kind of him. What’s that he gave you?”
E
lliott was smiling. “A message.”
“What does it say?”
“Time is of the essence.”
“Why did he send you that?”
“I think he’s trying to tell me something.” Elliott folded it in two and shoved it into his pocket. “But I have to talk to someone else first.”
“What?” Natalie leaned closer.
“Nothing. So, you don’t think you want to fall in love? Have you ever been in love?”
Natalie reeled a little. “No. I mean . . . no. Definitely not. I’ve never been in love. Not even close.”
“More reason for the mancation?”
She decided not to answer that part and instead took another sip.
“Tell me about your parents,” he finally said.
“My parents?”
“Yes. I’m not very good at small talk, so I’m just jumping to the parts I really want to know. Your parents—are they still in your life? Do they live nearby?”
“Um, well, okay—my dad—he’s been out of my life for a long time. He left my mom when I was two. And my mom—she lives in Los Angeles. She runs an event-planning company for celebrities.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah. This is after she ran a modeling agency. She’s very successful.”
“You sound upset about that.”
“She’s pushy. She wants us girls to be successful, too. And I didn’t want to be a model, so now she’s pushing me into the event planning.”
“You didn’t want to be a model?”
“I tried it when I was young, but I found it horribly uncomfortable.”
“You’re very pretty.” He threw her a quick smile and then stared back into his drink.
The compliment sent a little heat into her own cheeks. She’d been wolf-whistled at, gawked at, grabbed at, and stared down since she was thirteen, but somehow this shy man, who looked away and turned a deep shade of red when he said “You’re very pretty,” had delivered the compliment that did her in. Maybe it was because it was clearly uncomfortable for him and yet he said it anyway—a true gift meant for her.
“Thank you,” she finally said.
He didn’t look up, and she used the opportunity to stare more. She’d grown to love the way his hair fell into his eyes—it looked distracted and messy at the same time, which she found appealing for some reason. Like he was so lost in thought he couldn’t be bothered to notice his hair had fallen in his eyes. She also loved his forearms, and she could appreciate them now because he had his dress sleeves rolled up. She loved the way they looked muscled and roped, leading to hands that were strong and gentle at the same time. Natalie remembered the way those fingers had worked that point at the back of her knee, and she felt a residual flush.
She cleared her throat and tried to find her place in the conversation again. “Ultimately, I got out of modeling when I was thirteen. I didn’t like people looking at me, scrutinizing every feature.”
He finally looked back at her. “They scrutinized at thirteen?”
“Oh, yeah. Your waist is too long. Your nose is too short. Your arms don’t hang right, or don’t touch your thigh in exactly the right place. It was excruciating. And the men . . .” She shook her head.
“At thirteen?” he asked tightly.
She waved off the question. This was too personal. She didn’t mean to drag him back into this topic and certainly didn’t want to discuss aggressive men with him. “What about you? Tell me about your parents.”
He hesitated as if he didn’t quite want to leave the last statement alone, but he finally shifted on his bar stool and took another gulp of his martini. “My parents are dead, actually. I lost them when I was a kid. Home invasion and murder. Only my sister and I survived.”
Her heart caught in her throat. “Oh, Elliott! I’m so sorry.”
Images of a tiny little Elliott and a young sister and their murdered parents floated in front of her and brought tears to her eyes. “How old were you?”
“Seven.”
A small gasp escaped her throat. “That’s how old Lily is.”
“Is she? Lily is seven?”
“Yes.”
“She seems so small.” He frowned into his drink. “I always thought I was old enough to have figured something out, or acted more bravely, but now that I see a seven-year-old from an adult’s perspective . . . I mean, I’d never expect that of Lily.”
“Of course not. I’m sure you were very brave. What could a seven-year-old do except survive that kind of horrible situation?”
He seemed to think that over for a second, frowning at the bar top. “I didn’t mean to bring the conversation down. I hardly ever talk about it. And here I just told it to you and the Colonel within a twenty-minute time span. Let’s move on.”
“So who raised you?”
He sighed. “No convincing you to move on?”
“I’m not easily convinced.”
He let slip a smile that had a slight sense of admiration around the edges.
“My granddad, mostly,” he said. “My grandmother, too, when she was alive, but that was for only a short time. We stayed with them a lot, and when they had failing health, we’d go to other relatives. I spent time in lots of areas of the country—Illinois, Wisconsin, two months in Minnesota.”
“This is the grandfather with all the hats and the acorns in his yard?”
“That’s the one.”
“You were very close to him.” She said this as more of a statement than a question, but Elliott nodded again.
“Especially after losing your parents.” Tears burned the backs of her eyes at the image of a lost little Elliott, moving from state to state, from relative to relative. “I’m so very sorry, Elliott.”
He glanced up but didn’t respond to that.
“So, Nell, yeah, I think it’s why she feels the need to take care of me,” he finally said. “Baseless now, but she stays in that role.”
“And that’s why she’s trying to find you the perfect mate?”
“I guess.”
“That’s sweet, actually.”
“Unnecessary, though.”
A swell of empathy expanded in Natalie’s chest—that was certainly something she could relate to, having older sisters feel as though you couldn’t take care of yourself. But seeing it now, from Elliott’s sister’s perspective, she could see that it probably stemmed from concern and protectiveness. Maybe her sisters were simply reacting the same way? They were the older sibs, the ones “put in charge,” and they didn’t know how to relinquish their roles any more than Natalie and Elliott knew how to get out from under theirs.
She drew in a deep breath, ready to ask him more, but just then, over Elliott’s shoulder, she saw Marie approaching.
Elliott turned to follow Natalie’s gaze. “How are things going, Marie?” he asked.
“Fine,” Marie said. “I came over to tell you kids that you can leave now.”
Natalie frowned. “Leave? Now? How will you get back?”
“We’re staying.”
“Staying, yes, of course. But staying for how long? Will you need a ride—” Natalie caught Marie’s glance upward at the hotel rooms. “Oh! Staying. Yes. Gotcha.” Natalie reached for her purse. Well, good for Marie. Staying over with the Colonel!
“All righty then,” she said, leaping off her bar stool.
“But could you two take one cart back together and leave one for us? He can drive us back in the morning.”
“Yes, of course,” Elliott said. “I’ll leave the Colonel’s here.”
“Thanks, dears,” Marie said, shuffling back to the table.
Elliott looked back at Natalie with raised eyebrows. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Me neither.”
He took the last swig of his drink. “Can I catch a ride
back down with you then?”
“Of course.”
Outside, the crickets trilled their spring-evening chirp as Natalie started up the golf cart and began slowly making her way down the bumpy dirt mountain road. Maybe she could talk to him a little more about sisters. It was nice to have someone to talk to who might really understand, who knew how hard it was to prove you were capable of taking care of yourself.
She leaned farther forward, though, to peer through the fog and make sure she knew where she was going. It was scary to be heading down at such a severe pitch in the dark and mist. She tried to ignore the fact that Elliott was clinging to the side rails and sucking in his breath every time she turned a corner.
“Do you want me to drive?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
A stroke of heat went over her ears at that. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t drive. She considered herself a good driver, actually. Most of these golf carts went only twenty miles an hour, but she was good on the brakes and turns.
She picked up a little speed, just to show him how good she was, but the hill was steep and the fog was thick, and the cart began careening. It whirled around the next corner, but the turn was too sharp, the road too slick, the cart too top-heavy, and a rock caught one of the tires. As they flew around the next bend, her headlights cut through the mist to catch the enormous head of a bison, which stood like a monument in the middle of the road. Natalie slammed on the brakes, swung the wheel sharply to the left, and fought as the cart spun top-heavily to the side, then slid toward the edge of a cliff.
Her head lurched forward, and her heart came into her throat, as they skidded to a sickening stop.
A terrible silence surrounded her as she peered up through the swirling dirt.
“Elliott?”
CHAPTER 17
Silence filled the night air as Natalie peered through the dust and faced the overhang of a hillside.
“Don’t move,” Elliott finally whispered.
Their headlights illuminated nothingness below them—thin night air, with clouds of dust mingling with the fog and swirling in both beams. A gust of wind came up the canyon, whistling through the hills, and the cart wobbled slightly forward. Natalie stifled a scream.
The Kiss on Castle Road (A Lavender Island Novel) Page 18
