Текст книги "Summer Rental"

Автор книги: Mary Kay Andrews

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

It was all true—all except for the high-dive part. But he didn’t know that.

“You’re scared of me though,” Ty said, looking her right in the eyes.

“Am not.”

“Prove it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How?”

“Like this,” he said, pulling her towards him and sliding his arms around her waist. His mouth was an inch from hers, her eyes half closed. “You’re afraid to kiss me,” he taunted, his lips barely grazing hers.

“Am not,” she said, her breath catching as she said it.

“Prove it.”

She sighed impatiently, wrapped her arms around his neck, tilted her face to his and kissed him softly. Her lips were full and warm with promise. Gently, he pulled her closer, gathering the soft fabric of her shorts into his hands. With his tongue, he teased her lips apart. She melted into his chest. For a moment. And then, without warning, she wriggled out of his arms.

“Told ya I wasn’t a wussy,” she said, and then Ellis Sullivan, flying cupcake boxers and all, was scampering up the walkway in the bright moonlight. He slowly followed, pausing to take a last look at the water, and when he got to the deck of his own place, he looked over at Ebbtide, just in time to see the next-to-last light in the house blink off.

18

Julia was nearly asleep when she heard her cell phone vibrating on the rickety wooden nightstand. She fumbled for it in the dark, and sighed when she saw the screen.

“Hey,” she said, sitting up in bed.

“Hey, baby,” Booker said softly. “You missing me?”

“Yeahhh,” she said slowly, smiling as she pictured him. He’d be sitting there in his favorite ratty gray high school gym shorts and a bleached-out T-shirt. His wiry gray-streaked hair would be standing on end, because he ran his fingers through it when he was bored, and the horn-rimmed glasses would have slid down on his nose. Most likely he’d be drinking his favorite late-night treat—Dr Pepper. “Come to think of it, I am.”

Julia Capelli had been a nineteen-year-old college dropout, bumming around Europe for a year, picking up modeling assignments wherever she could, when she met Booker Calloway in a grotty pub in Brighton.

He was a fashion photographer, and she’d been hired for a low-budget teenybopper catalog shoot. She’d been drinking with a couple of the other girls, and he’d stopped at their table to buy them all drinks and hit on Geenie, the busty redhead in their bunch. He was already thirty then, sexy as hell with his long, dark hair, gold-flecked hazel eyes, and ever-present Nikons slung bandolier-style across his chest. He was a confirmed expatriate who’d grown up in California and who swore he’d never go back.

Booker completely ignored Julia that night, but the next day, after the shoot, he’d pulled her aside to offer her some advice—“get yourself to a tanning bed, for Chrissake”—and to offer to take some better head shots for her book. They’d done a couple more shoots together, and after that, Booker was acting as her de facto agent, and then one day, she’d realized that they were essentially working—and living—together, full time.

It seemed to Julia that their couplehood had just gradually evolved. And why not? He was smart, successful, a thoughtful and kind lover, a levelheaded presence in the crazy world they both inhabited. Everybody loved Booker, even her mother, who’d been fully prepared to hate the totally inappropriate older man who’d seduced her daughter into staying in England instead of coming home to the States, college, her family, a normal life. Within five minutes of meeting him, Catherine Capelli was totally won over. The only thing her mother didn’t like about Booker was that her headstrong daughter steadfastly refused to marry him.

Booker never let her forget that one of the last things her mother told her before her death was that she should “marry that nice man, Sugar, before he gets away.”

“I could come down there Saturday morning,” he was saying now. “My meetings in DC are over Friday night. It’s not that long a drive, I could head back here Monday morning. What do you say?”

She sighed again. “Book, we’ve already been over this. This is a chick trip. No boys allowed. Anyway, it’s barely been a week. I need some time to sort things out. We have an agreement, remember?”

“You have an agreement,” he grumbled. “I didn’t have much choice in the matter, did I?”

She chuckled ruefully. “Not much. Now, can we talk about something else? How’s it going up there? Do you like the people you’re working with?”

“They’re all right, a pretty tight-knit bunch. I’d forgotten how bureaucratic a magazine can be. They’ve got policies and procedures for everything. And it’s gonna take a while to get up to speed with their software.”

“You can do it,” she reassured him. “And anyway, they’re making it worth your while, remember?”

“Damned straight they are. Hey, guess what? I think I found us a house today.”

She flopped back down onto her back. “Oh, Book. I don’t know. I told you…”

“Julia, just hear me out,” he said, his voice pleading. “You’ll love it. It’s in Alexandria. Right on the metro line. Built in 1918, what’s that style house you always talk about, the ones with all the built-in china cabinets and bookcases and stuff?”

“Craftsman?”

“Yeah, that’s it. The real estate agent said it’s the best example of Craftsman architecture in the whole neighborhood. It’s got a big, wide porch across the front, and these great windows that give the most amazing light. And hardwood floors. Three fireplaces. Living room, den, and master bedroom. Four bedrooms. Only two baths, but there’s this funny little trunk room just off the master that would make a great master bath. The kitchen needs a total redo, but the agent thinks we can get the house for way less than asking price, because the owner’s already taken a job in LA, and he’s desperate to unload the place. Hey, I took a bunch of shots with my cell phone. I’ll send ’em right now. Wait until you see this place, Julia.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. He was like a kid describing a new bike. And he hadn’t heard a damned thing she’d been telling him for the past six weeks.

“Oh, Book,” she said finally. “It sounds wonderful. Really. But I don’t need a house. I don’t need to live in DC. I don’t need to get married. I love you. I do. But I can’t do this.”

Silence. “I just … I mean, I guess I don’t get it. You say you love me. You know I love you. I thought the new job, moving back to the States, would be a good thing. I’ll have real security for the first time. No more crazy freelancing, running all over the globe, running down assignments. We can have our own house. A real home. No more shitty flats in London.”

“I love that shitty flat,” Julia put in, picturing it in her mind’s eye: the orange Arne Jacobsen Egg Chair she’d picked up at a car-boot sale in suburban London, the white leather Conran sofa she’d bought with her first earnings from a magazine job, the bits and bobs of silver and china picked up at the Bermondsey Market, all arranged against walls she’d painted and layered with pictures and photographs picked up at junk markets and antique stalls in every city she’d ever visited.

Now, faced with the possibility of giving up her home for the past ten years, she realized she’d been nesting without even realizing it.

“Ok, well, maybe we keep the flat for when you’re over there for modeling gigs.”

She cringed at the mention of her career. “Booker, denial is not just a river in Egypt. I’m not getting modeling gigs these days. Not the kind I used to get. I’m thirty-five. I’m not cover-girl material anymore, except for maybe Modern Maturity. Last month I did a catalog shoot for Lands’ End, for God’s sake. Next thing you know, I’ll be the spokesmodel for Depends.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Julia, that’s nuts. You forget how many years I was in the business. You’ve got more work than you can handle. Yeah, I realize it’s not Elle or Vogue, but you’re also not exactly ready for the glue factory just yet. You are still a sensational-looking girl, and you can have a career in modeling for as long as you want.”

“Maybe I don’t want a career in modeling anymore,” Julia said.

“All right,” Booker said wearily. “Do something else. Nobody said you had to model. I just thought that’s why you’ve been so mopey lately, because you hate the offers you’re getting.”

“That’s just it,” Julia said. “I don’t know how to do anything else. I quit college after one semester, remember?”

“And now’s your chance to go back to school, if that’s what you want,” Booker jumped in. “Or not. I don’t give a damn. I just want you with me. I want us to get married, have a kid—if I’ve still got any swimmers—and get old together. Is that so awful?”

“No,” Julia said. “Not awful. Sweet. You’re sweet, and I’m a mixed-up bitch.”

Now, she thought. Now was the time to tell him the truth. Maybe she couldn’t even have a baby. Telling the girls was such a relief. How had she walked around with this secret for so many years? What had she been afraid of?

She walked over to the bedroom window and looked idly out at the beach. There was a full moon, and now she could see a couple standing at the end of the boardwalk, on the little deck there. It was a man and a woman, and they were standing close, and now they were embracing. The girl pasted herself to the man’s chest, and the moment was so sensual, Julia almost turned away. Almost. A second later, the girl pulled away and began running back towards the house.

“Good Lord,” she breathed. “Ellis!”

“What?” Booker demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Julia chuckled. “I just saw our Ellis, outside in the moonlight, making out with a strange man.”

“I thought you said this was a chick thing. No guys allowed.”

“I did. They weren’t,” she said.

“Julia,” Booker’s voice was plaintive. “Have you heard a single word I’ve just said?”

She was staring down at Ellis, who was walking towards the house at a fast clip. She was in her pajamas, for God’s sake. And even from where Julia stood, with the moonlight making things absurdly bright, she could see the bemused smile on Ellis’s face. Well good for Ellis. But who on earth was the man? He stood for a long while on the deck, staring at the house. Julia hadn’t turned the light on in her room, so she was sure he couldn’t see her, but just in case, she took a few steps away from the window.

“I hear you, Booker,” she said sofly. “But I can’t talk about this any more. Love you. G’night.”

He was still sputtering when she disconnected. Julia heard the downstairs screen door open and close, and then the sound of the front door closing. Ellis’s bare feet trod lightly on the stairs.

Julia stayed at the window, peering out. Finally, the man walked slowly up the boardwalk towards the house. Julia held her breath. Delicious! Was he going to follow Ellis into the house, sneak into her bedroom for a secret tryst? Wait. He was heading towards the garage. What? When he stood for a moment under the garage light she saw his face clearly. It was the garage guy, Ty Bazemore. Ellis and Ty! What a lovely, unexpected development, Julia thought.

*   *   *

Maryn awoke with a start, and sat straight up in bed. For a moment, she struggled to remember where she was. The air in the room was hot and stagnant. Her sweat-soaked nightgown clung to her body. Then she heard the crunch of tires on the crushed shell driveway outside, and with a jolt, she knew exactly where she was.

She glanced at the cheap clock radio on the nightstand. It was 2 A.M. A car was rolling slowly down the driveway. Bile rose in her throat, and for a moment, she felt paralyzed. Then she got up, knelt down, clawing at the thin mattress, until her fingers closed over the pistol she’d hidden there. She ran to the window opposite her bed and peeked out between the faded cotton curtains. She exhaled slowly. It was the red Bronco, the one driven by the man who rented the garage apartment.

Maryn watched as he pulled into the garage. A moment later he walked out of the garage, illuminated by the motion-activated light at the edge of the porch. He was dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt, and wore a green baseball cap with the bill pointed backwards. His name was Ty, Dorie had said, and he was a day trader. He looked tired as he slowly climbed the wooden staircase on the exterior of the garage.

She stayed at the window, watching, until she saw the lights switch on in the garage apartment. She could see him through the uncurtained windows, walking around. He went to a table near the window and looked out. She backed away from her own window, not wanting to be seen. She looked down at the .32 still clenched in her right hand.

It was Don’s pistol. He’d given it to her not long after they first started dating and she was living in that rat-hole apartment on Pinelawn. Her car had been broken into and her cell phone stolen, and he was insistent that the neighborhood wasn’t safe. Which it wasn’t.

The next night when he came over, he had a brown paper bag which he carefully set down on her kitchen table.

She gasped when he pulled the gun from the bag. She’d never been around guns. Her father never owned one.

“Don’t be afraid, baby,” Don had said gently. He showed her how to load it and unload it. Then they’d driven out to the country. He set a row of beer cans on a tree stump, and he showed her how to aim and fire.

“Don’t I need a permit for this?” she asked, after he was satisfied that she knew how to use the thing.

“Nah,” he’d said. “I’ve got a permit, and anyway, if you ever have to use the damned thing, you’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

She’d thought it was sweet, that he wanted to protect her.

When he insisted that she move out of the apartment and into the condo in a complex he owned closer to town, it was so she’d be living someplace nicer. The rent was twice what she could afford on her salary at the insurance company, but since Don owned the condo and had no intention of letting her pay rent, that wasn’t a problem. It hadn’t dawned on her that it was more convenient for Don, her living there. He came by most nights, bringing takeout Chinese or a steak that they’d grill on the little enclosed patio off her living room.

They’d met at the office. Don had grown up with the Prescotts, and now he was the firm’s accountant. She never would have met him at all, except that one day, two years ago, Marie, Robby Prescott’s administrative assistant, had jury duty, and Maryn was drafted to answer the boss’s phone. As luck would have it, that was the day Don Shackleford showed up to take Robby Prescott to lunch.

It was a chilly fall morning, and he wore an expensive-looking cashmere coat over his suit. She was on the phone when he entered the office, and he stood impatiently at her desk, tapping his fingers on the papers in Marie’s in-box, glancing at his watch, which had annoyed her. Was he tapping to let her know what a big, important man he was? Too important to be kept waiting? So she let him wait, pretending to be listening long after her call had actually ended, just so he knew she was busy too.

“Yes?” she’d said coolly, looking up as though she were seeing him for the first time.

“I’m here for Robby,” he said impatiently. “Where’s the other girl?”

“Marie? She has jury duty.”

“And you work here too? What’s your name?”

“Maryn,” she said. “I work in claims processing.” She said it with the faintest hint of a smile. “I’ll let Mr. Prescott know you’re here.” She got up from her desk, stuck her head in the boss’s office, and quietly let him know he had a visitor. Prescott was on the phone, but mouthed he’d be out when he was done.

When she got back to her desk, Don had seated himself on a leather wing chair opposite her desk. “He’s on a call, but he’ll be out as soon as he can,” she told the visitor. She went back to her computer, to the file she’d been working on, but she felt his eyes on her. He was checking her out, which was fine, because she was checking him out too.

And she liked what she saw. Don Shackleford was in his early forties, with thick white-blond hair, a deep tan, ice blue eyes above pronounced cheekbones, and a wide mouth and perfect teeth. He wasn’t particularly tall, maybe five-eight, and he had a thick neck and athletic build. She noticed right off that he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

Maryn wasn’t surprised when Don was back the next week. This time, he hunted her down at her own desk, on some pretext that they both knew was absurd. He asked her to lunch, and she refused, saying she had plans. What about next week, he’d persisted.

“Next week when?” Maryn had asked, not caring.

“Any day next week,” he’d said. “Or the week after that. Come on. You know you’re going to go to lunch with me. Why not make it sooner than later?”

“Next Friday,” Maryn told him. “But I only get an hour. Come by for me at one.”

That next Friday, she’d worn her best outfit, a Marc Jacobs pantsuit she’d bought—the tags still on it—at an upscale consignment shop in Philly. The red jacket fit her like a glove, and she’d worn high-heeled black boots that made her only two inches shorter than him.

“You look good,” Don said, holding the door of his silver Carrera. They’d gone to the Valley Brook Country Club for lunch, and they’d dined in the men’s grill, where all the men sitting around in golf clothes greeted Don like they’d known him for years. He saw their questioning glances at Maryn, but he didn’t bother to introduce her. “Horny old bastards,” he said with a laugh.

He’d taken her to lunch again the next Friday, but the Friday after that, he’d driven directly to the condo, with no explanation. “Whose place is this?” she’d asked, once they were inside, and he was unzipping her skirt.

“Mine,” he’d said, his mouth on hers. There were no more questions. He knew she only had an hour for lunch.

It hadn’t taken Maryn by surprise, really. She was surprised he’d waited this long. Don Shackleford was a man who was used to taking what he wanted, and she’d known, the first time she met him, that he wanted her.

If she were honest with herself, Maryn would admit she’d been attracted to Don because of his single-minded pursuit of her. It was absurdly flattering to be so desired, so adored. Nobody had ever wanted to take care of her the way Don did. It didn’t occur to her until many months later that he didn’t want to just take care of her. He wanted to possess her.

Two months after their first date, she was living in Don’s condo. Adam, not surprisingly, made it clear that he didn’t approve of Don.

“He’s using you,” Adam would say when she’d come back after lunch, her hair still damp from her hurried shower.

“How do you know I’m not using him right back?” Maryn had asked. She didn’t care who knew she was sleeping with Don. She was doing her job, wasn’t she? So it was nobody’s business.

Adam was Maryn’s age. He’d gone to work at R.G. Prescott Insurers two years earlier, right out of the local community college. There were five other women in their office, but with the exception of that bitch Tara Powers, they were older, married, and clearly none of them, especially Tara, liked or approved of Maryn—or Adam, for that matter.

So it was Adam and Maryn, just hanging out as friends, although Adam clearly wanted more from her than that. She always insisted on paying her own way when she was with Adam. She saw lots of guys, but there was nobody special. Not until Don came along.

“He’s way too old for you,” Adam said. “I mean, come on, Maryn, what is he, forty?”

“He’s forty-two,” Maryn said. “Anyway, my mother always said I’m an old soul. I’ve always dated older guys. You’re just jealous of Don, that’s all.”

“You’re only sleeping with him because he’s rich,” Adam said accusingly.

“And he’s amazing in bed,” Maryn said, taunting him. When Adam’s face flushed, she regretted what she’d said, knowing she’d hurt his feelings.

“I don’t like him,” Adam had said finally.

And Don didn’t like Adam, either. He made that very clear when Maryn had suggested, once or twice, that Adam join them for drinks after work. “That loser?” he’d sneered. Eventually, she’d quit asking.

She got a twinge in her stomach thinking of Adam. She needed to talk to him so badly.