by Nora Roberts
And Naomi stared, with wonder and delight, at the living room wall of books. “Wow, the rumors of book lover are true. That’s quite a collection.”
“Part of it.”
“Part? You’re a serious man, Xander.”
“About books, anyway.”
She glanced around. “Very efficient space, and that is one of the best uses of a wall I’ve ever seen. Color, texture, dimension.”
“Not to mention words.”
He walked over, offered her a glass of wine, took the bottle from her.
“Yeah, words. I like to read as much as the next guy—unless you’re the next guy.”
“That’s the plan.”
She laughed, waving him off as she walked up and down the wall. “But this is art. You’re smart enough to know your furniture is absolute crap. You don’t care about that. You’ve arranged your space for efficiency and highlighted a passion. And by highlighting it, created art. I want pictures of this.”
“Sure, go ahead. I don’t care.”
“Not now, not with my phone. I mean serious pictures. I want to come back with my camera. And with big daddy Hasselblad.”
“Whose daddy is he?”
She laughed, but continued to study the wall of books. “Film camera. Medium format. I could do a nice panorama, too, and—”
“Bring your camera when you want. But why don’t we sit outside and have this wine?”
“You’re having wine?”
“It’s not so bad now and again. You smell great.”
He cupped her chin, but not like Kevin had, and took her mouth.
No, she thought, no, not like Kevin. Not in the least.
“Bath salts—it was medicinal.”
“Yeah, I heard. Small-dog fear.”
“What?”
He took her hand, tugged her into the bedroom, felt her resist. “I’ve got a deck through the door in here.”
And more books, she noted. A big-screen TV, crap furniture, and more books.
He opened the door to the small square of deck with a half-rusted table and a couple of folding chairs. “I can get you a pillow to sit on.”
“You talked to Kevin.”
“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, which I’d planned to do anyway.”
“I’m fine.” She sat, carefully. “Mostly. But to the issue: There’s no such thing as small-dog fear.”
“Microcynophobia.”
On a laugh, she sampled the wine. “You’re making that up.”
“Cynophobia’s fear of dogs—add the micro. You can look it up.”
Though she had her doubts, considering his collection of books, she didn’t argue the term. “Why would he—and he’s eighty-five pounds now, a lot of it muscle, I can attest—have microcynophobia?”
“Can’t say. Maybe he was traumatized at an early age by a Chihuahua.”
He reached behind her head, gently tested. “Ow.”
“That’s what I said once I got my breath back. My ass hit harder than my head.”
“Want me to check it out for you?”
“I’ve taken care of that, thanks.” She studied his view. “You can sit here and watch the ball game.”
“And do, if I’m too lazy to walk over.”
“Little League?”
“T-ball, Little League, Pony League, and some sponsored adult leagues. Keaton’s sponsored the Whales—currently battling their way out of the basement.”
“Do you play?”
“Not much anymore. Not a lot of time for it. You?”
“No, I never did.”
“What kind of feminist are you?”
“The non-sport-playing type. My brother played for a while, but basketball was his deal.”
“Is that right?”
“He played for Harvard.”
“Huh. Crimson. What position?”
“Point guard. I noticed you have a blacktop court and hoop out back.”
“Shooting hoops clears the brain. Used to play, back in high school. Mostly pickup games now.”
“What position?”
“Same as your brother. We’ll have to go one-on-one if he ever gets out here.”
“He will.” She’d have her family here, she thought, including her grandparents so they could see what they’d helped her have. Maybe by the fall, she’d have her family out.
“Are you any good, because, I can attest, he is.”
“I hold my own.”
She suspected he did, in many ways.
And he was right about the sunlight through the trees as it dropped toward the horizon.
“It seems like a good spot for a garage. Quick and easy access to the road, close to town, and a quick zip to 101. Is that why you picked it?”
“The place was here already. It used to be Hobart’s. He was looking to sell—getting up in age, and his wife took sick. We came to an agreement, and they moved to Walla Walla. Their daughter lives there.”
“Was it having your own business, or mechanics?”
“It was both. Is. I like cars. If I wanted a car—and I did—I had to learn how to keep it running. I liked learning how to keep things running. I didn’t mind working for Hobart—he was fair. But I like working for myself better. You must feel the same.”
True enough, she thought—but she preferred being by herself as much as working for herself.
Still . . .
“I worked as a photographer’s assistant for about fourteen months after college. I thought of it like an apprenticeship. He was not fair, by any measure. Arrogant, downright mean, demanding, and prone to toddler-scale tantrums. He was, and is, also brilliant.”
“Sometimes the brilliant think they’re entitled to tantrums.”
“Unfortunately true, but I was raised by a chef—a brilliant one—and brains and talent weren’t considered excuses for arrogance, for pettiness, but gifts.”
“No throwing spatulas or frying pans?”
The idea made her smile. “Not in Harry’s kitchen—home or restaurant. In any case, I’d planned on two years with Julian—the photographer—but fourteen months was all I could take. One of the happiest days of my life was punching him in the face and walking off the shoot.”
He glanced at her hand—slender, fine-boned. “That’s an interesting way to give your two weeks’ notice.”
“Two weeks’ notice, my ass.”
She shifted toward him—he wondered if she knew she rubbed her foot on Tag’s back, keeping the dog in quiet bliss. “Major shoot. Advertising—shampoo.”
“Shampoo is a major shoot?”
“Let me tell you, friend, there’s big money in ad photography. The model has a yard of glorious flame-red hair—she’s a joy to shoot. This guy, he’s a perfectionist, and I’ve got no problem with that. He’s also a vicious little dick. I’m used to the verbal abuse, at this point. The blame-casting, the castigating, even the throwing of objects. All of which were present during this particular shoot. He actually had the makeup artist in tears at one point. Then he claimed I handed him the camera with the wrong lens, I’d had enough, and pointed out I’d given him what he’d asked for. He slapped me.”
Amusement faded. “He hit you?”
“Slapped me like a little girl. So I punched him, just the way Seth—my uncle—taught me. Nothing in my life had ever felt that good. I think I actually said that while he’s screaming—again like a little girl—and the other assistants are scrambling around. The model walked over, gave me a high five. He’s holding his bloody nose.”
“Did you break it?”
“If you’re actually going to punch somebody in the face, it’s stupid to pull it.”
“That’s my philosophy.”
“I broke his nose, and he’s screaming about having me arrested for assault. I told him to call the cops, go right ahead, because I had a studio full of witnesses who’d seen him assault me first. When I walked out I promised myself I’d never work for a vicious little dick again.”
“Anot
her excellent philosophy.”
Had he thought her interesting? No, not interesting, he corrected. Fascinating.
“So you broke a guy’s nose, then started your own business.”
“Sort of. Seth and Harry were friends with the owner of a gallery in SoHo, and they convinced him to take a couple of my pieces. They’d have supported me—in every way—while I tried to make a living in art photography. But I knew I could hold my own doing stock photography, getting some work doing book covers, album covers. Food shoots—I already did them for the restaurant. And clip art—it can be fun and creative, and it can generate income. I needed to get beyond New York, so I took the leap. Car, camera, computer.”
She stopped, frowned down at her wine. “That was a lot.”
“A microcosm,” he countered, pleased she’d forgotten her reserve, distrust, whatever it was, long enough to tell the story. “It tells me you’ve got guts and spine, but I already knew that. You do album covers?”
“I have. Nobody major. Unless you’ve heard of Rocket Science.”
“Retro-funk.”
“You surprise me.”
“I haven’t even started. The band’s working on another CD.”
“Another?”
“We did one a couple years ago. Mostly for tourists, or when we do a wedding, that kind of thing. How about it?”
“You’re looking for a photographer?”
“Jenny’s cousin’s friend did the last one. It wasn’t bad. I figure you’d do better.”
“Maybe. Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll see. How long have you been playing?”
“With the band or at all?”
“Both.”
“With these guys, about four years. Altogether, since I was around twelve. Kevin and I started a band—Lelo on bass, just like now.”
Obviously surprised, she lowered her wineglass. “Kevin?”
“Do not ask him to play his Pearl Jam tribute. Trust me.”
“Does he play the guitar?”
“You can’t really call it playing.”
“That’s mean,” she said with a laugh.
“It’s truth. Let’s eat.” He took her hand again, this time tugging her inside. “We did some local gigs—school dances, parties. After high school, we lost our drummer to the Marines, Kevin did the college thing, Lelo stayed stoned.”
“And you?”
He pulled the takeout from the oven, where he’d kept it warm. “I hit trade school, worked here, picked up some gigs. Some with Lelo when he realized he wasn’t going to get the girls, and couldn’t play worth crap when he was stoned.”
She thought of the wall of books, looked over at it again. “No college for you?”
“Hated school. Trade school, that was different. But regular school. They tell you what to learn, what to read, so I opted out, learned from Hobart, learned from trade school, took some business classes.”
“Business classes.”
“If you’re going to have your own, you have to know how to run a business.”
He divided the salad from the take-out box in the fridge into two bowls, transferred the eggplant parm to plates, and added the breadsticks the pizzeria was locally famous for.
“This actually looks great.” She sat, and smiled when Xander pulled a rawhide bone out of a cupboard. “Smart.”
“It’ll keep him busy. What was your first picture? You had to have a first.”
“We had a long weekend in the Hamptons—friends of my uncles. I’d never seen the ocean, and oh God, it was so amazing. Just amazing. Seth let me use his little point-and-shoot Canon, and I took rolls and rolls of film. And that was that. What was the first song you learned to play? You had to have a first.”
“It’s embarrassing. ‘I’m a Believer.’ The Monkees,” he added.
“Oh, sure. Really? It’s catchy, but doesn’t seem your style.”
“I liked the riff, you know . . .” He diddled it out. “I wanted to figure out how to play it. Kevin’s mom used to play old records all the time, and that one kept circling around. His dad had an old acoustic guitar, and I worked on it until I could more or less play it. Saved up, bought a secondhand Gibson.”
“The one in the bedroom?”
“Yeah. I keep it handy. I figured out, by the time I was fifteen, that if you had a guitar and could even pretend to play it, you got the girls. How’s the parm?”
“You were right. It’s really good. So you got the girls, being as you can more than pretend to play, but none of them stuck?”
“Jenny might have.”
“Jenny?” She set down her fork. “Jenny-Jenny?”
“Jenny Walker back then, and I saw her first. New girl in school, just moved up from Olympia, and pretty as a butterscotch sundae. I asked her out before Kevin. Kissed her first, too.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s Keaton/Banner history. I was about half in love with her, but he was all the way in love with her.”
“And there’s bros before hos.”
Grinning, he picked up a breadstick. “You said it, I didn’t. I ended up playing Cyrano to his Christian, finally got his guts up to ask her out. And that, as we’ve said, is that. I’m still half in love with her.”
“Me, too. And the package along with it. They’re like central casting called for a great-looking, all-American family, dog included. If you’re waiting for another Jenny, you’re going to be out of luck. I’m pretty sure she’s one of a kind.”
“I’ve got my eye on a tall, complicated blonde.”
She knew it, wished hearing it didn’t set off those flutters low in the belly. “It’s not smart to aim for the complicated.”
“Simple’s usually surface anyway, and wears off. Then the complications are annoying instead of interesting. You’ve got my interest, Naomi.”
“I’m aware.” She watched him as she ate. “Nine times out of ten I’d rather be alone than with anyone.”
“You’re here now.”
“I’m twenty-nine, and I’ve managed to evade, avoid, and slip around any sort of serious relationship.”
“Me, too. Except I’ve got three years on you.”
“Since I left New York six years ago, I haven’t stayed in any one place over three months.”
“You’ve got me there. I’ve lived here all my life. But I have to repeat myself, you’re here now.”
“And right now, this feels like my place. Things start up with you, screw up with you, it affects that.”
