“Plenty of pharmaceutical companies would go out of business if everybody could digest like Rich Vicker.” Mary Jean laughed. “And speaking of digestion, I hope you’ll stay for dinner, Wade. I know how much you like pot roast.”
“I like anything you cook,” Wade said sincerely. “But I can’t stay. I—er—have plans tonight.” He started out of the kitchen.
“I hope your plans don’t include going to the Library. And I don’t mean the one that lends books, I’m talking about the one that serves food. Out on Route 70.” Bob Sheely’s voice stopped him cold.
Wade slowly turned around. “What—makes you think that?” he asked thickly.
“Stay here and have dinner with us, Wade,” Mary Jean urged. “And then spend the evening. We don’t get to see enough of you these days. We miss having you around.”
“Dana always gets home early when she goes out with Rich.” Bob was watching Wade closely. “You’ll be here when she arrives and you can talk to her then. Take her out for a nice drive. Believe me, there’s nothing to be gained by following her to the Library. Think about it, son. What would you do once you got there? Pretend the whole thing was a coincidence and get yourself a table? I mean, you could hardly pull up a chair and join Dana and Vicker, could you?”
“I don’t know!” Wade threw up his hands in an admission of abject defeat. “Could I?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve always told my kids,” Mary Jean Sheely said warmly. “Desperation is never attractive. And neither is a public display of jealousy.”
“I feel like an idiot!” Wade groaned. “About as savvy with the opposite sex as Anthony or Brendan.”
“You’ve never been in love before,” Mary Jean consoled him. “Of course you’re a little off-balance. If it helps at all, so is Dana.”
His pride in tatters, Wade wanted to abandon it altogether and ask what she meant. That Dana was in love with him, too? Had she told her mother so? Or was Mary Jean simply being kind to shield his feelings?
But a contingent of young Sheelys, along with Matt carrying little Brady Cormack piled into the kitchen, all talking at once.
Wade told them he was staying for dinner and Sarah set a place for him at the table.
17
“Interesting decor,” Dana remarked to Rich Vicker as she gazed around the interior of the Library.
The restaurant did bear a resemblance to a library. Tall shelves lined the walls, filled with books of all sizes and conditions, from ancient paperbacks costing a dime way back when to faux-leather hardbound classics. Wisely, the linen cloth-covered tables, each with a tapered candle glowing in the center, were a far cry from the bare, functional reading tables found in authentic libraries.
The lack of windows, caused by all those bookshelves stacked against every wall, gave the place an insulated-from-the-outside atmosphere. Which was necessary. A view of busy Route 70 with its continual stream of cars and trucks wouldn’t have provided the ambience this ambitious new restaurant was striving to achieve.
As usual, Rich was thoroughly involved in studying the choices featured on the menu. It looked like a giant library card and was divided into categories with items numbered in faithful imitation of the Dewey Decimal System. Dana found it all too much of a sham and immediately chided herself for not being whimsical enough to appreciate it.
It had been that kind of a day today; she’d found herself irked by almost everything, no matter how inconsequential. She knew she needed a major attitude adjustment and tried to turn to the power of positive thinking.
For instance, the menu listed chicken with one of its decimaled numbers. She ought to be grateful for the solid American fare offered among the rich French cuisine. Grilled lemon chicken would not require her to raid her father’s stockpile of anti-indigestion aids tonight, and surely the mashed potatoes and coconut cake could do her no harm.
Her mood improved a little, but not much.
A narrow, winding circular staircase at the far end of the restaurant led to the second floor. Rich said some friends told him there were private booths up there, with thick curtains that could be closed for extra privacy. That struck Rich as excessively claustrophobic, surely an impediment to enjoying a good meal.
Dana dismissed the food angle and imagined what else could be done in such titillating privacy. Heat burned through her body. She probably would’ve shared Rich’s bemusement herself, if she hadn’t been so thoroughly corrupted by Wade Saxon over the weekend.
Her own innate honesty wouldn’t let her get away with that pretext, not even to herself. Especially not to herself. She hadn’t been corrupted by Wade, she’d been sexually awakened by him. And she’d wanted it, needed it. She wanted and needed him; she was deeply in love with him, not that she dared let him know it. Not even after last night, when he’d taken her to his bed and made love to her passionately, thrillingly for hours.
While Rich read the list of entrées aloud, Dana allowed the memory of last night, which she’d successfully suppressed all day, to surface. Prickles of excitement rose on her skin. She remembered what had followed their wildly urgent union, more lovemaking but of a different nature. Tender and exquisite loving that made her feel cherished and adored, the way she cherished and adored Wade.
She’d felt so close to him, at one with him. In addition to being her lover, he was her soul mate, the man she had been waiting for her entire life. Which was funny because she’d known Wade most of her life but hadn’t recognized his true place in it.
Dana knew he still didn’t recognize it. Nor would he want to. She’d been his Mend and surrogate sister long enough to know his opinion of women who mistook great sex for love.
It wasn’t very high.
Wade was appalled when a woman mistook the physical intimacy of sex for the bonds of true love. A “sexual acquaintance”—his term—did not constitute a lasting relationship. His dictum.
How many times had she heard him lament about those foolish women who tried to make no-strings-attached acts of pleasure into something more? Something lasting. Too many times to count, Dana reminded herself.
And this morning, when she woke up feeling wonderful—replete and glowing and madly in love—when she’d almost called Wade because she didn’t think she could wait another second to hear the sound of his voice, she suddenly remembered that pathetic group of women who had probably awakened feeling much like she did after a magical evening making love with Wade Saxon.
And she heard his voice, but it was inside her head, venting his morning-after irritation with his former lovers. She remembered how she pitied them—while also thinking how foolish they’d been.
Well, not her. Not ever. She’d play it the way she knew Wade wanted it played. No demands, no expectations. Certainly no emotional ties or references to last night. No emotions at all.
So she’d been cool when he had called the office this morning. Quint had predicted Wade would try to enlist her aid in setting up a meeting, so she knew from the moment she picked up the phone not to be excited by the sound of his voice. That his call was strictly for professional purposes.
After Quint instructed Helen not to put through any more calls from Saxon Associates, Dana didn’t bother to ask if Wade had tried to reach her again. And when Rich had invited her to dinner at the Library, she’d accepted at once, not even letting herself pretend that Wade might want to see her tonight.
Rich was discussing what particular dishes his friends had sampled when they’d been here last week, and Dana tried to appear interested. But her eyes kept drifting to the other diners at the tables around them, to the books on the shelves. She was close enough to read the titles and some sounded intriguing.
There was a whole series of very old books about twins. The Cave Twins, The Spartan Twins, The Puritans Twins, among others. Dana wished she could leaf through them. She’d never read much about cave people or Sparta or Puritans, and all three topics seemed far more interesting than her date.
Which wasn’t
fair to poor Rich, and Dana knew it. She tuned back into his conversation until, inevitably, her attention strayed again. This time to the circular staircase.
The steps were so narrow, most people going up moved slowly and gingerly. Dana noticed that only couples were ascending that staircase; groups of three or more were all seated downstairs. They were here for the food while those upstairs couples—were here for more.
Dana imagined them sliding into the private booths and yanking the privacy curtains closed. If she went up there with Wade …
The moment her imagination turned in that fateful direction, Dana abruptly shut it down. And refocused her full attention on her escort.
“I suppose I’ve never seen vegetarianism in quite that light, Rich.” She attempted to respond to one of his comments on vegetarians, of whom he vehemently disapproved. “If animals weren’t supposed to be eaten, God wouldn’t have made them out of meat? It’s certainly something to ponder.”
She couldn’t wait to share that particular insight with her dad. Dana hid a smile.
A well-dressed, good-looking couple crossed the restaurant to the base of the stairway. Dana’s jaw dropped as she recognized at the pair, who were already beginning to climb upward.
She was too startled to keep silent. “Isn’t that Eve Saxon and Chief Spagna?” she interrupted Rich in the middle of his detailed comparisons of bouillabaisse he had enjoyed. Since God made fish out of fish, they, too, were meant to be consumed, and why not in a savory stew?
Rich glanced at the stairway where the attractive brunette was mounting the skinny stairs. Her tough-looking, muscular companion was behind her, his hand proprietarily placed low on the small of her back. His fingers were long and extended to her bottom, which he was subtly caressing.
Dana and Rich exchanged wide-eyed glances.
“He was actually—actually—” Rich gulped.
“Feeling her up,” Dana supplied, too amazed to be embarrassed.
Rich blushed. “The police chief! Imagine! And her, a lawyer, letting him do it! At their age, too! It’s not as if they’re wild teenagers.”
As if wild teenagers were the only ones hormonal enough to indulge in sexual touches. Dana quivered. She knew better. But it was the unlikely pairing of Eve Saxon, Lakeview aristocracy, with the police chief—originally from one of Newark’s old ethnic neighborhoods and not far removed from a career with that city’s homicide division—that truly boggled her mind. A couple like that wouldn’t have much in common.
Then again, the two certainly seemed—well, familiar—with each other. Obviously, they’d found some common ground. She remembered Quint puzzling over the phone call the chief had made this morning on behalf of Eve Saxon. Well, that mystery was solved.
Wait till she told Wade! He’d be as astonished as she was. Dana wondered when she could tell him, when she would see him again. Or if she would see him. Maybe he was lying low, dreading their next encounter, fearing that she would profess her undying love for him.
Dana smiled sardonically. He had no worries on that score. She fully intended to out-Saxon Wade himself when it came to a no-strings-attached attitude. And, perhaps, she wouldn’t divulge his aunt’s surprising liaison, after all. She’d save that news for her boss, who would undoubtedly find a way to make good use of the information.
“So then Gerald told me he’d signed me up for tap-dancing and aerobics classes,” Laurel muttered sullenly. “Like that’s supposed to make everything all right.”
“You wanted to take tap dancing and aerobics,” Rachel reminded her sister.
Laurel had appeared at her door an hour before Quint was due to arrive for their dinner date but after the afternoon’s office scene, Rachel knew he wasn’t going to show up. Why would he? He’d won it all, the Saxons had insulted him, and Sloane’s sexy parking lot antics promised him a far more enjoyable evening than he could expect to spend with Rachel the Saxon Shrew.
So when Laural barged inside and withdrew two cartons of ice cream from her grocery bag—Cherry Garcia for Laurel, vanilla for Rachel—Rachel welcomed her. After all, there was a chance that Laurel was bringing good news—she’d resolved her anger about her marriage—and the ice cream was a celebratory treat. A minute into the visit, Rachel tossed out that delusionary hope. Laurel was as hostile to her husband as ever, and the ice cream was her idea of either rebellion or consolation, possibly both.
Now the two sisters were sitting in Rachel’s living room, each with her own pint of ice cream, eating out of the cartons with spoons. It was the sort of thing they’d never done as children, but Laurel had insisted, rummaging through the kitchen utensil drawers and shoving a carton and a spoon into Rachel’s hands.
“I used to want to, but now it’s too little, too late!” Laurel said dramatically. “Gerald’s trying to make up for stealing my youth but—”
“Stealing your … Laurel, where did that come from?” Rachel cut in sharply. “It sounds like a—an outtake from a soap opera bloopers reel. And while we’re on the subject of youth, let’s be real. You wanted to be with Gerald, you insisted on it!”
“Mom couldn’t wait for me to get married,” Laurel retorted. “She’d given up on you, and she was desperate to plan a great big wedding and to have a grandchild.”
“You’re saying you married Gerald and had Snowy to please Mom?” Rachel was incredulous. And horrified. And furious.
“Yes!” Laurel said defiantly. “And I’m tired of living my life pleasing others! It’s time to finally please myself!”
“The most incongruous part of this revisionist history of yours is that I can’t remember a single time when you didn’t do exactly what you wanted to do, Laurel.”
Rachel stood up. The few bites she’d taken of the unwanted ice cream had given her teeth a bone-jarring chill, but that was nothing compared to the emotional chill Laurel’s words sent to her heart.
“You must have me confused with you, Rachel!” Laurel jumped to her feet, too, her eyes glittering. “You live here in your very own apartment fixed up just the way you want, you have a great job and a cool car while I spend every minute of my life doing what Gerald wants, what Snowy wants, what Mom wants! And when I come to you for help, all you do is yell at me.” Laurel heaved a noisy sob.
Her tears followed. Rachel watched for a few moments. She’d always been a little in awe of Laurel’s crying prowess. Her younger sister’s tears didn’t trickle singly down her cheeks, they teemed, flowing as thick and fast as a waterfall.
But it was a performance she’d seen too many times before. Rachel sighed. “Laurel, what do you want me to do? What do you want me to say to you?”
Laurel’s tears stopped. Instantly. She could turn them on and off like a faucet, Aunt Eve and Wade often scorned, which would compel Rachel to defend her sister.
“Well, I want to—” Laurel began but was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. “Who’s that? It better not be Gerald trying to hunt me down!” Rather eagerly, she stomped to the door and threw it open.
Quint Cormack stood there, dressed in his well-cut courtroom blue suit and holding a long white box that had to contain long-stemmed roses and a gold-embossed box of designer chocolates.
His eyes swept over Laurel. “Let me guess. You’re Rachel’s little sister. Snowy’s mom.”
“I’m Laurel! I’m sick of being defined through other people. Rachel’s sister, Snowy’s mother, Gerald’s wife. My mom’s daughter. I’m myself, I’m Laurel. And who are you? What are you doing here?” Laurel demanded resentfully, ignoring the obvious clues, the flowers and candy, his clean-shaven face and expensive suit.
Her legs wobbly, Rachel joined the two of them at the door. Though she hated herself for it, her heart was pounding and every nerve of her body felt as if she’d been struck with bolts of sensual lightning.
Quint’s eyes met Rachel’s. “I can see that you haven’t told Little Sister about our date.”
“You didn’t mention you had a date tonight, Rachel,” L
aurel seconded, her tone accusing.
“Did you give her a chance to?” Quint countered. “My guess is that you haven’t stopped talking about yourself long enough for Rachel to get in a word about herself or her plans. Which is par for the course, I’m sure.”
Laurel gasped. “Rachel, who is this person?”
“Laurel, meet Quinton Cormack,” Rachel said edgily, retreating farther into the room.
Quint followed, brushing by Laurel to enter the apartment. Laurel gaped at him, her expression mingled with horror and guilty fascination, as if he’d just revealed himself to be the Devil Incarnate and she couldn’t look away.
Quint’s eyes flicked over Rachel, taking in her loose-fitting khaki shorts and sleeveless chambray blouse. “When I said a restaurant that didn’t offer toys or crayons, you must have thought I meant Taco Bell,” he said lightly. He glanced at his watch. “Hurry up and change, Rachel. We have reservations at Wainwright’s half an hour from now.”
He named one of the newest—and most—expensive restaurants in Philadelphia, located in a hotel in the center of the city.
“Rachel, you’re dating Quinton Cormack?” Laurel’s head swung from one to the other.
“No,” said Rachel, at the same time Quint said, “Of course.”
“Well, which is it? Yes or no?” Laurel retrieved her pint of ice cream and began to shovel heaping spoonfuls of it into her mouth.
Rachel stood, tense and still. She truly hadn’t expected Quint to keep their date tonight, not after the contentious meeting in the office this afternoon. Not after watching him with Sloane Tilden Lloyd in the parking lot.
Righteous anger and indignation—stoked by her long talks with Wade this afternoon blasting the Cormacks, the Tildens, politicians, sports figures who left their loyal fans to pursue megamillions in other cities, and any other group they could think to slam—had kept her from concentrating on Quint’s perfidy. Or on how awful she was going to feel when she finally acknowledged his absence from her life.
When Lightning Strikes Twice Page 32
