Текст книги "Thirty Nights"

Автор книги: Ani Keating

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“What kind of information?”

“Are you sleeping with Feign?” His voice is even and cold again.

Whoa! That’s abrupt and kind of offensive. But I guess he is entitled to suspect it given what he knows. “No, I am not.”

“Incidentally, are you with someone else?”

“No.”

He leans back on his chair. “Then, I’ll discuss the schedule with Feign and get back to you.”

I’m confused. “Why would you not hire Feign if I were with him or someone else?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want you distracted, Miss Snow. And I certainly don’t need to invite the ire of a jealous boyfriend. It wouldn’t end well for him.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I say, but for some reason, I get the feeling his words mean something else. Oh well. Feign will throw a wrench in the works anyway, so I don’t need to worry.

Mr. Hale sips his espresso. “Do you go back to England often?” he asks abruptly.

“No.” It’s technically true.

“What about your parents? Are they in England?”

I guess I knew this was coming. I go through my routine for such questions. Take a breath, recite to carbon. “My parents have passed away, Mr. Hale.” I don’t look at him because I don’t want to see what I know I will see. Pity. I dislike it from anyone but apparently, I really despise it from him.

“I’m very sorry.” His voice is the softest I’ve heard it yet. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand extend a little toward mine and then stop as if he thought better of it. “And I’m sorry I asked. I had no idea.”

“No need to apologize. There can be no fault when the intention is kind.” I risk a look at him. His face is tender, like he is seeing something painful. And not just painful, but maybe familiar.

“Do you have siblings?” he asks in that same gentle tone.

“No.” I always wanted one but Mum couldn’t have children after me. She always felt a pang for that.

“I’m an only child myself. I sympathize.”

This voluntary disclosure feels like an olive branch. I accept it with a smile. “I went through a stage when I would draw my brother and sister. My parents had to endure the stick figures at the dinner table for several months.”

“I should have given that a try. It might have made me less selfish.” He’s joking but his stormy eyes betray some regret. For some reason, I want to vanquish it.

“Most kind people think of themselves as selfish, I’ve noticed.”

He smiles but the dimple does not pucker in his cheek.

“What about your parents?” I ask.

“They’re vacationing in Thailand for the next month. My father, Robert, is an architect; my mother, Stella, an editor.” His voice turns guarded and distant. “Why did you leave England?” He puts the spotlight on me again.

“After my parents’ car accident, I needed a fresh start. I’d always thought the States were more immigrant friendly than Europe. So, here I am.” I leave out the long, torturous journey of the last four years, the Top Ramens, the dependence on others. It would be a real downer.

“This must have been very difficult for you,” he says softly.

“I’ve had my moments. It’s better now though. I miss them still, but I have done my best to keep parts of them alive. Like the nutritional supplement that my dad was so keen on. Most days, I just feel really lucky to have had such unconditional love even for a short while.”

“Well, from what I’ve seen, they would be really proud.”

“Thank you. I’d like to think so.” I have a feeling he is trying to catch my eye but I stir my now-cold hot chocolate. A phantom hole sinks in my chest. Not like I’m missing something I’ve lost, but something I’ll never have. I fidget with my watch, or rather my dad’s Seiko watch.

Mr. Hale looks at it, too, and his eyes soften. Suddenly, I am sure he knows.

“Yes, this was my dad’s. I know it’s masculine, but I can’t imagine wearing something else.” I look at Mr. Hale’s watch reflexively. An Audemars Piguet that probably cost as much as one year’s tuition at Reed. He moves his hand under the table, looking almost embarrassed.

“No need to hide your James Bond watch, Mr. Hale. Trust me, orphans don’t like making others uncomfortable. On the contrary, I’m happy for you.” I put as much honesty in my voice as possible. He obviously has some darkness he is hiding and despite it, or perhaps because of it, he has done quite well. He should be proud, not embarrassed.

“Your parents must be proud too,” I say.

His eyes zoom in and out of focus briefly, as if tectonic plates are shifting underneath. Then, they still.

“If I ever sell my supplement, I’ll send you a picture of my Audemars.” I crack a joke to bring him back from whatever thought is emptying his eyes this way. It works. He is back with a melancholic smile.

“Or maybe you’ll find yourself winning the lottery, Miss Snow.”

Suddenly, the “Miss Snow” sounds jarring. “You can call me Elisa, Mr. Hale. Or Isa.”

“Elisa.” He nods.

My body thrums at the sound of my name from his lips. He does not make the same invitation to me. That’s good. For some reason, Aiden would be too much for me. Like the moment I say it out loud, I will be tied to him in a tangible way. But after witnessing his dimple-and-scar contradictions, his intelligence and now his tenderness, I have a feeling that if I allow myself to get close to Aiden Hale, it would be a hold for life. Suddenly, I want to leave.

“I’d better go. I have a lot of information to download on poor Eric.”

He stands with me. “I’ll walk you to the lab, Elisa.”

He leaves a bill on the table and steps aside to let me lead the way. I walk into the misty morning, feeling new inside out. Even my own name.

Chapter Eleven

House of Sun

By the afternoon, the mist has changed into a full-blown downpour. I huddle in my rain jacket as I ride Bus Six to the Solises, trying not to think about Mr. Hale or my ridiculous reaction to him. When I lose the battle, I recite the periodic table until the bus drops me off at the Solises’ napkin-sized clapboard home in Immigrantville on North Williams Avenue.

Javier keeps Casa Solis painted crispy white. Pots of daffodils line the windows with Maria’s lace curtains. The mailbox has no name, just numbers. The Solises’ American dream in the flesh. And mine. I know every nook and cranny. The nutmeg in Maria’s kitchen, the lemon-scented dish soap, the couch that doubles as Javier’s bed because his room serves as a studio.

I sprint to the door, knock once and go in. “It’s me,” I call.

Javier’s little sisters run from the living room and turn into a pretzel around my waist. Javier strolls behind them, with a pencil behind his ear. They’re doing homework. Maria is at work even though it’s Saturday. In the kitchen corner is Antonio’s wheelchair—he must be resting. Since his construction accident last November, he is weak despite physical therapy every Thursday.

“Here you go—new paints,” I say, tossing a Ziploc bag full of pigment jars to Javier. One of the benefits of being a chemist? You can make things like your own shampoo, your roommate’s hand moisturizer or your de facto brother’s acrylic paints in a lab.

He catches it. “Thanks! Denton’s still okay with this?”

“Are you mad? He thinks I should patent the formula.”

He nods and sets the pigments on the counter. I start cleaning the kitchen while the girls give me a detailed account of their day.

“Still no hot water?” I ask Javier as Isabel tells me about her biology test.

“Need three more paintings for a new heater.” He shrugs, helping Isadora practice her ballet pirouette.

By the time I’ve wiped the counters with ethanol, Bel and Dora go back to their homework on the dinner table, and Daniela starts drawing in her coloring book, while four-year-old Anamelia starts banging on her toy drums.

I catch Javier’s eye and cock my head toward his bedroom. He needs to know about Mr. Hale’s project. He follows me with knitted eyebrows.

The more I talk—quietly, so the girls can’t hear—the more his eyes dilate in fear. By the time I finish, his sienna skin is pale.

“What did you say?” he whispers. His hands are shaking. I can’t stand the sight of him terrified. I walk over to him and take his hand.

“I know it’s scary, Javier, but think about it. There’s no way Feign will go for it. Hale wants this done in his house and if Feign agreed, he’d practically admit his fraud. Shh, calm down.” I rub my hand across his back. His breathing has picked up, shallow and fast, like a wounded deer’s.

“But, Isa, the girls! What if Feign freaks and fires me? Or I get caught? They’ll be wards of the state with a paralyzed dad and a housekeeper mom.” His whispers tremble. I squeeze his hand.

“Listen to me. Please! Feign will come up with some excuse about the location and, at most, we’ll end up in the gallery as always. And in the end, I’ll give you all the money. I’m done here but you can go on. Maybe put it toward a college fund?”

Javier drops my hands. “A college fund for what?” he spits out. “You of all people should know better.” He shakes his head and stomps to the other side of the room.

“Why did you agree at all, Isa? Why even take this risk?”

“I’m so sorry, I was afraid he’d dig deeper and I was—” I stop immediately because he shoots me a look of pure fury. His ebony eyes are so deep I have a vision of falling. His nostrils flare. I have never seen this look on Javier before. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Isa. You didn’t do this for me.”

“What? What do you mean?” My eyes start to prickle. Javier has never been mad at me before. Not once in four years. He stalks toward me and lowers his mouth to my ear.

“You like the American billionaire fantasizing about you, don’t you? You like the idea of his eyes looking on you even after you’re gone.”

I start to shake my head but stop. He has spoken the truth although it has nothing to do with Hale’s money. It has everything to do with Hale himself.

“As I thought,” Javier says.

“Javier, no. I didn’t do this for his money or because he is American. I guess I—”

He puts one paint-stained finger on my lips. “Don’t finish that sentence. I think I know. But this isn’t the time to get more attached, Isa. If we have thirty-two days left as a family, we shouldn’t waste them with strangers. There are lots of those, sweetheart, but you only have one family here.” His voice loses the anger and becomes soft.

Tears roll down my cheeks. He wipes them away with his index finger and pulls me into his arms. The homey smell of paint and peppermint surrounds me. He presses his lips on the center of my forehead where my dad used to kiss me. Silent sobs crash against my rib cage so violently that I can’t make a sound.

When the sobs turn to tears, I perch on his painting stool, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

“Did you decide what you’re going to do?” Javier says, folding cross-legged on the floor.

It takes me a moment to remember what he is asking. “Oh, yeah. I can’t face it, Javier. I can’t walk on that stage, with all those parents around.”

“Maria and I would be there.”

“No, you both need to work. I’m not messing up your lives too.”

His eyebrows furrow until they become a paintbrush. “All right, we’ll just throw you a little party here next Sunday.”

I start to protest but my phone rings in my pocket. Reagan.

The moment I answer, she squeals. After several falsettos, I surmise that she has a job offer as a research assistant at Oregon Health & Science University, testing models for behavioral therapy. Finally! Something right for one of us.

“So, we’re going to Andina for drinks. Dad’s treat,” Reagan announces with finality. “Bring Javier too. It’s the last thing Dad’s paying for. And we can all use a drink. Or six.”

* * * * *

Andina—Portland’s crème de la crème Peruvian restaurant—has a din loud enough for conversation to blend in with the crowd, but not so loud that we develop laryngitis from screaming. Reagan has saved us a spot in the downstairs lobby. We order sangria, mojitos and ceviche. One mojito in, Reagan peers at me with narrowed eyes. I gulp my sangria. Every time she has that look, it involves an idea like bungee jumping.

“Isa, I’ve been thinking,” she starts with an ominous tone. “Why don’t you just stay illegally? It’s better than an empty home. You’d give up science but…” She trails off with a shrug.

Truth be told, I’ve thought about it. Maria could find me a cleaning job at the hotel. But my science dream would die.

“I’m thinking about it,” I mumble and down the rest of my sangria, filling up the goblet again.

A sultry tango tune starts—“Sentimientos”—and Javier leans in. “Let’s dance. Before you get completely plastered.”

Javier has something that most American men don’t—rhythm. He can dance, and he’s good at it. I never understood the aversion American boys have to dancing. I love Argentine tango.

After four years of doing this, we dance close-embrace. Javier’s T-shirt is level with my eyes, and I notice some small paint stains. On him, they look distinguished, not dirty. After two more songs, we head back to the table—Javier walking, me waddling.

“Javier, you need to teach me how to tango,” Reagan demands as soon as we sit down. She looks blurry around the edges. “Isa is a horrible teacher. I end up leading her.”

Javier laughs, and they’re off planning while I tackle a mojito. I chug it, almost inhaling the crushed ice at the bottom.

A clearing of the throat distracts me from my assault on ice. Bloody hell, I know that sound. I blink through the haze and there he is in all his glory. My Mr. Hale. Tall, absurdly beautiful and pinning me with his sapphire gaze. I think my mouth is closed but I could be wrong.

“Elisa.” He nods—a quizzical note in his voice.

“Hello, Mr. Hale.” Ugh! My words sounded like a garbled sigh, whether from the sight of him or the drinks I’ve quaffed, I don’t know.

“What are you doing out in this weather?” He speaks slowly, as though he is addressing someone who is mentally challenged.

“Technically, we’re not out,” I argue and laugh. That last mojito suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea. “Oops! Sorry, you meant not at home. Well, we came here to get drunk. Ethanol-induced neurotransmitter excitation.”

“I see.” His voice becomes clipped, and his eyes sweep over Reagan and Javier. A flash of anger strikes in their depths as though he holds the two of them responsible for this poor decision—or for the rainstorm. Some still-sober neurons remember table manners, and I introduce them. Reagan is regaled with a formal nice-to-meet-you, but Javier only gets a curt nod.

“How are you getting home?” Hale asks, strangely looking at Javier.

“I’m driving.” Reagan raises her hand. “I’ve only had one mojito and my car is right outside.”

Hale looks like he does not like that plan at all. A deafening clap of thunder chooses this moment to boom. Hale’s jaw clenches, and his right hand curls into a tight fist.

“Sir, the Tokyo clan has arrived,” a familiar deep voice says quietly. Only now, I notice Shaq’s twin a few feet to the right of Hale. Despite his formidable size, he has the kindest brown eyes I have seen on a stranger. “They’re waiting in your private room.”

“Thank you, Benson,” Hale answers, fixing his eyes on me. They lighten as always, and his fist relaxes. “Are you all right?” he asks in a husky voice, as though we are all alone.

Perhaps it’s that tone or his probing intense eyes but his question cuts through the alcohol daze and in this moment, I want to be. I want to be a normal American girl, with parents, a blue passport and a bubbly giggle who can answer his question with a true yes.

“There are about seventeen answers to that question in a dichotomous key, Mr. Hale,” I answer, forcing a smile.

He holds my gaze for a moment, and I stare back. How did all my euphoria disappear so completely? Suddenly, I don’t want him to see this part of me.

“Good night, Mr. Hale,” I tell him, my tone more abrupt than I intended.

His jaw ticks once and he turns his sniper eyes on Javier and Reagan. He glares at them with what can only be described as dragon wrath.

“Good evening to you all.” He nods formally and makes to leave, but then pauses.

“Be safe,” he says to me, with those same intense eyes. Benson steps to the side moments before Hale turns like he already anticipated the movement. I stare at Hale’s broad shoulders and narrow hips as he climbs the stairs to the private dining rooms. Then I chug Javier’s mojito and Reagan’s leftover sangria and start chewing on ice.

Chapter Twelve

The First Goodbye

I wake up Sunday morning, feeling like Johnny Cash, with no way to hold my head up that doesn’t hurt. According to Reagan and Johnny, a beer for breakfast helps. Who am I to question them? I go to the fridge to get one of Reagan’s loyal Coronas. I sip it from the bottle at our kitchen table, mortified when I think about last night. Who knows what Mr. Hale thinks of me now? I have no doubt I disappointed him, slurring, barely vertical and with more moods than Sybil.

The real question is, why do I care so much? I have no business having such strong reactions to a man I barely know, in a land where I barely exist. I need to do something about this. Maybe break my femur so that the painting never happens. Femurs take thirty days to heal, for sure.

Reagan comes to the kitchen in her workout clothes—Union Jack shorts, a pink sweatshirt and sneakers, which she insists on calling jumper and trainers. “Hey, lushie. How are you feeling?” She laughs. The sound makes my head throb.

“Very sorry.”

She sits opposite me at the kitchen table with a mischievous look. “Your cell rang four times last night, so I picked up,” she says in a singsong voice.

“Oh God, was it Eric?” If he has ruined another protein batch, I will castrate him.

“Nope.” She takes a deep breath for dramatic effect. “Aiden Hale.”

A long moment of silence follows this announcement in my head. Slowly, I muster all my strength to form an articulate response.

“Huh?”

Reagan laughs again. “Yep. Five minutes after you passed out. He wanted to see if we made it home all right. He said your phone and address were in your presentation materials.”

My pulse starts a jagged rhythm. “Did he say anything else?”

“No. Just thank you and hung up.”

I can’t understand the dejection that grips me. What was I hoping he would say to Reagan? I am completely mental.

“Isa, I think he likes you. Granted, he has weird ways of showing it, but why would he give a damn otherwise?” Reagan says with certainty.

Every hungover brain cell wants to believe it. Except, there is one small problem. Reality. And I didn’t have a chance to tell Reagan yesterday about my new modeling job. The more I tell her, the more her eyebrows disappear into her red curls.

“Well, that may explain why he called to check if you made it safe and scratch-free, but it doesn’t explain why he was so pissed. It seemed out of proportion for whatever it was.”

“I don’t know. He’s a rather intense bloke. Every reaction seems magnified in his case but I have no idea why.” Take when he enters a place. We all look around, but he is hypervigilant. Personal space: we all need it, but not with his radius. Privacy: he seems to raise it to isolation.

“I wonder if he’s that intense with all the good things too.” Reagan snickers and wiggles her eyebrows.

I remember the heat of his gaze at Paradox and suppress a shiver. I’m not ready to tell Reagan about that. In fact, I shouldn’t be thinking about it at all. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. What can I do with thirty-one days?”

“I can think of plenty of things to do with a man like Hale for thirty-one days.” Reagan giggles again.

I press the cold Corona bottle to my cheek.

“Thinking about your period works too.” Reagan winks. “Or you can practice your speech with me.”

“My speech? What speech?”

Reagan’s mouth pops open. “Isa, when was the last time you checked your email?”

“Before my stereochem final. Why?”

She gasps. “Holy shit, you don’t know. You’re valedictorian. Number one in our class. I think it’s customary that you speak at graduation.”

I’m surprised by how unconcerned I am with this information. Yes, I have strong grades, but I have no intention of giving a speech in front of proud parents when mine are… Someone else should do it, with parents there who will glow and remember.

“I better check my email, then. I’ll figure something out.”

Reagan eyes me suspiciously. I put on what I hope to be a solid, albeit hungover, poker face. She pats my hand and pushes away from the table.

“Best of British luck, then. Pip-pip.” She laughs and heads out for a run.

I stumble to T. rex and open my inbox. Sure enough, there is the valedictorian announcement from President Campbell. I write back.

Dear President Campbell,

Thank you for the honor accorded to me by Reed College. Unfortunately, I will be unable to speak at graduation. If it is a requirement that I do so in order to obtain my accolade, I hereby relinquish it.

Sincerely,

Elisa Snow

I shut down my computer and grab my ancient camera. My mission today is simple: take as many pictures of my life here as possible.