My One and Only (22 page)

“Hey,” Nick said, nudging my arm with something. It was a little package. Gift-wrapped. “Happy birthday.”

I sucked in a quick breath. He was right. I guess I’d sort of forgotten the date, being on the road, not constantly on the computer. And of course, it wasn’t my favorite day of the year, given my history and all. Funny that neither my father nor BeverLee had mentioned it. Well. Other things on their minds.

“Open it,” Nick said.

It was a pendant, a polished stone, gray and lovely, framed with silver twists. It was somber but lovely, one of a kind. “Thank you,” I said.

“The stone’s from the river here,” he said. “A souvenir.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Want me to put it on?” he asked, then, at my nod, knelt behind me. Nick’s hands were quick and gentle, barely brushing my skin. “Happy birthday,” Nick repeated, and for a second, it seemed as if he might kiss me. But he didn’t.

“Thanks,” I whispered, not quite able to look him in the eye.

But my heart was sweetly sore, because September 14 wasn’t just my birthday or the day my mother had left me…it was also the day I’d met Nick.

“So what do you want to do tonight?” Nick asked after a few minutes.

“Let’s go to the movies,” I said, and that’s just what we did. First we checked into a chain hotel. Two rooms, of course. I left Coco in mine with Animal Planet on and strict instructions to limit her room service to three desserts and three only, then met Nick in the lobby. We walked down the street to the theater. Two horror flicks, three romances, one cop movie. “
Nightmare on Elm Street
, or
Saw
?” Nick asked.

“Oh,
Nightmare
, definitely,” I said.

“So romantic,” Nick murmured. Without asking me if I wanted any, he bought me a vat of popcorn and a root beer. We found seats and did what we’d done in the olden days—proceeded to talk incessantly throughout the film’s murders.

“Ten bucks says the virgin dies before the slut,” I said, taking a sip of my soda.

“You’re on. Oh, hey, don’t go in the shower, for God’s sake,” Nick advised the scantily dressed college student on the screen as she tiptoed into the bathroom. He stuffed a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. “Well, okay, there you go,” he added as she was slashed to death by Freddy’s fingernails. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Your poor parents.”

“Do you mind?” asked a kid in front of us.

“Listen, son,” Nick said. “I’ll save you some suspense. Everyone dies.”

“Ass,” the kid muttered, getting up and moving ten or so rows away. We ignored him.

“Nick,” I murmured, “should I ever head into the cellar armed only with a ladle after the police have just warned me that a psychotic killer is on the loose, please slap me.”

“Shut
up!
” someone else hissed.

“Will do, Harpy, will do. Oh! Yuck! Okay, I didn’t see that one coming. Can you actually do that with a corkscrew?”

The hisser moved.

God, it was fun! The popcorn was fresh, the root beer wasn’t watered down, and sitting there in the theater, giggling inappropriately as teen after teen was hacked, the thought came to me that if only Nick and I had done things like this when we were married—picnics and movies and harvest dances—we might never have gotten divorced.

If only.

When the movie was over, we returned to the humble hotel. Nick walked down the hall with me, murmuring something about seeing me safely to my door. Uh-huh. I slid the card into the slot and opened the door. Checked to make sure Coco was okay—she was sleeping on her back in the middle of the bed—then turned to my ex.

“Thanks for a great date,” I said, my knees suddenly buzzing.

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday,” he murmured. His eyes dropped to my mouth. I swallowed.

Sleeping with him is definitely ill-advised,
said the lawyer part of my brain. Unfortunately, the blood flow had redirected to my girl parts, which gave a hot and sudden throb. Nick looked at me, his eyes as dark as an abyss into which I would cheerfully throw myself. The lawyer part of me gave a distant, outraged squeak.

His lashes…they were so pretty, thick and unexpected, and when he smiled, which he was doing now, the loveliest lines spread from his eyes, and those eyes, so often tragic and gypsy-sad, were happy now.

A week ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of sleeping with Nick. Now though…now…okay, the brain was definitely struggling for survival as the girl parts continued to croon…Nick and me, naked and in bed…that seemed like a
wicked
good idea.

The lawyer part committed hari-kiri.

Nick reached out and touched my cheek. “Good night, Harper. See you in the morning.”

“Yes! Okay! Right. You too, Nick. See you, I mean. In the morning.”

He glanced back at me as he walked down the hall to his own room, a half smile on his face, and if he’d been two steps closer, I would’ve grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him into my room, common sense and history be damned.

Okay, why did he leave? Huh? Hmm? Huh? Men. I mean, really! Men! Who knew what went on in their tiny brains? Had he just saved me from myself, or completely insulted me? Hmm? Should I be grateful or furious? I yanked on my pajamas, washed my face, brushed my teeth and got into bed, frustrated…and yes, maybe a little relieved.

Suffice it to say I didn’t get a lot of sleep. Tangled thoughts battered me like a debate team on steroids.

Nick and I lived in different states.

So? Try the long-distance thing.

We have completely separate lives.

They don’t have to be separate.

We already tried this, and it was an epic failure.

You’ve changed.

Please. People don’t change.

He still wants you.

He just walked away from me.

Don’t be coy.

We’ll never get over our past.

Hmm. That might be true.

The past certainly haunts me.

Yes. Okay, you win.

With a sigh, I kicked back the covers, got out of bed and clicked on a light, earning some very tragic and confused blinking from my dog. Great. It was 3 a.m., not an hour when sound decisions are often made.

Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I sat down in front of the mirror and took a good hard look.

I knew—intellectually, anyway—that I was pretty. Beautiful, even. My hair was envied by most of the population on earth. Eyes were green and clear. Bone structure quite strong yet still feminine.

It’s just that it was my mother’s face, too.

I didn’t simply take after her…I was practically a clone. My father was tall, thin, dark and handsome. I was tall, red-haired and fair. Every day for the past twenty-one years…every
day
…I’d had to look in the mirror and see the face of the woman who walked out on me. I hadn’t heard her voice in more than two decades. In all that time, she had only managed to send four postcards with a combined total of twelve sentences.

And as of today, I was the same age she was the last time I’d last seen her.

That was quite a thought. Quite a thought indeed.

The envelope was still in my computer carrier. Slowly, I got up and withdrew it, sat back down and, with another glance at my reflection, opened it up.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

N
ICK WAS ALREADY
drinking coffee and staring out the window of the little hotel restaurant when I came in from walking Coco the next morning. My dog jumped up on the seat next to him and stole a slice of bacon, and I ruffled his hair before sitting down.

“Hey,” he said, looking a little confused at the gesture of affection.

“Hey yourself,” I answered. “Sleep okay?”

“Not really,” he said. “I lay awake for hours, horny as a teenage boy.”

“Duly noted,” I said. “So. Are you bound and determined to get to Minneapolis today, Nick?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Feel like a little detour?”

He must’ve sensed something was up, because he gave me a long, speculative look, as if reading my soul. (Wow. Corny. Sorry.) “Where would you like to go?”

“Aberdeen, South Dakota. Maybe three, four hours from here. If I drive, that is.”

“And what’s in Aberdeen?”

“You mean in addition to the Sitting Bull monument?” I asked, having spent some time on Google a few hours ago. I took a sip of his coffee, which he noted with a wry look.

“Yes. In addition to that.”

“My mother.”

Saying those two words out loud…it took something out of me, because suddenly, I couldn’t keep up the cute banter and my hands were shaking, Nick’s coffee sloshing over the rim. He took the cup from me and held both my hands in his, held them tight.

When he did speak, it was brief. “Ready when you are.”

M
Y THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY
had fallen on a Saturday, but my parents and I headed to Boston on Friday. On a plane, oh, yes. The ferry only went to Woods Hole, whereupon we’d have to take a bus or drive our aging Toyota, which just didn’t fit the glamorous night my mother had planned.

She and I had spent weeks researching the very best restaurants in the city, comparing views, decor, street desirability, menus and wine lists…not that I’d be drinking of course, but just to assess the
class
of the place. Class was a very important noun to my mother. And so we’d come up with Les Étoiles. “Perfect,” she pronounced. “Harper, this is definitely our kind of place. Now we just have to clean up your father, and we’ll be all set.”

She let me stay home from school that day, and I was thrilled. My mother was my absolute favorite person and always had been. She was much younger than most mothers of kids my age; in some cases, almost a generation younger. And she was so beautiful! She’d been a model, of course, and never lost her love of looking fantastic. Still a size four, that glorious hair, those green eyes. My mother looked ten years younger than thirty-four and she knew it. She was a wonderful flirt, and all the fathers loved her, of course, discreetly checking out her ass or her boobs, which she showcased in low-cut tops and tight jeans or miniskirts. She had flair, she had style, and she was
fun.
I was so proud to be hers, it was impossible to voice. The only real difference between us was that I was a really good student, and she hadn’t been. Otherwise, we were practically twins.

When my schoolmates voiced their hatred, disgust, despair over their mothers, I listened in disbelief and horror. Seriously? They weren’t allowed to see
Pretty Woman
? Why? So what if the main character was a ho? They still had bedtimes? Heck, my mother let me stay up as late as I wanted, and we’d watch TV and eat junk food and do each other’s nails. Their mothers didn’t let them wear makeup? Huh. Imagine that.

My
mother wasn’t like that. She was miles cooler than those other, frumpy, aging women with short bobs held back by pink plaid hairbands or, even worse, those “I give up” types who carried fifty extra pounds, had gray roots and wore baggy, sagging jeans and voluminous sweatshirts. Yawn. No,
Linda
—I’d been calling her that since I was nine—Linda was special. She taught me how to dress, was always coming home with classy little outfits…no Madonna-style fishnets for me, uh-uh. Linda and I had
class
. Though we were far from rich, we
looked
rich, and being mistaken for summer people was a special point of pride for my mother. She coached me on how to diss boys and then make them like me, how to flirt, how to be popular and powerful with both genders. And God knew, she taught me how to make the most of my good looks because, “let’s face it, Harper. We’re knockouts.” As other girls my age sulked through adolescence, I stood out. Prettier. More confident. Better dressed. More fun. All because of my mother, who taught me everything she knew.

And so, the night before my thirteenth birthday, I came downstairs in my strapless blue minidress and three-inch pumps, smoky eyes and just a touch of clear gloss to my lips. My hair was Grecian tonight, loose curls piled on my head to better show my long, graceful neck. My father choked on the beer he was sipping.

“Linda!” he barked, turning away from me. “She’s thirteen, for God’s sake!”

My mother came out of the bedroom. “And she’s gorgeous! Look at you, Harper! Oh, my God! We look like sisters!” It was true. She wore a silver dress with pearl jewelry, killer pumps encrusted with faux pearls. Her makeup focused on her red, red lips—so daring, so Hollywood.

“It’s a little…sophisticated, don’t you think, Lin?” my father tried again. “She looks…twenty.”

“Did you hear that? Your father thinks you look twenty! And you do! You should order a martini tonight, just to see what the waiter says,” Mom said, adjusting my necklace. “Linda!”

“Jimmy, I wouldn’t let her drink one,” my mother sighed, rolling her own beautifully made-up eyes. “Maybe just a tiny sip,” she added in a low voice, winking at me. I grinned in happy conspiracy against dopey old Dad. Sweet but…you know. So provincial.

Dad was quiet all the way to the airport and during the short flight to Boston. Linda and I ignored him, cooing and clutching hands as our cab neared the restaurant. “Okay, we’re here. Be cool, and Jimmy, try not to act like a bumpkin.” Linda and I giggled, united as always against my dad, though I did give him a pat on the cheek.

Looking back on that night, I would see things differently. My father, a general contractor, made a decent living out on the island, but we weren’t wealthy by any stretch. Spending all that money—the designer dresses bought at full price (“We deserve it,” Linda had said), the shoes, the jewelry, the mani-pedis at the uberluxe day spa, the cab to and from the airport, the flight, and my God, the meal…it probably cost him more than a month’s pay. Quite possibly more than two months’ pay.

But on that night, it was all about Linda and me. We acted blasé as we got out of the taxi, though secretly both of us were darting looks to take it all in…the sleek decor, the legion of restaurant staff—the captain, the waiters, the busboys, the sommelier—the soft clink of crystal and murmur of voices. And yes, heads turned as our party of three was led through the restaurant to the best table in the place, up on the second level, overlooking the rest of the diners. We were a gorgeous family, it couldn’t be denied.

“Too bad we couldn’t afford New York,” Linda said as we sat down. “Better yet, L.A. Harper, you’d be a star right this minute if we lived in L.A.” She shook out her napkin with authority. After all, she’d grown up in California. She knew about these things.

We ordered drinks…tonic and lime for me, which tasted weird but which my mother had told me would look way cooler than a Shirley Temple or ginger ale. Dad had a Sam Adams, causing Linda to sigh patiently before ordering a grapefruit martini, dry, for herself.

Then Dad looked at the menu and tried not to blanch, but holy crap, the prices! Forty-five dollars for a piece of fish? Seriously? Fifteen dollars for a salad?

“Order whatever you want, Harper,” Linda said, gazing blandly at the menu. “It’s your special night. Mine too, since I did all the work.” She gave me a wink and proceeded to order a lobster and avocado appetizer, a caesar salad and filet mignon. She always could eat. Never needed to diet.

Dinner was…well, it was fine. The truth was, my feet hurt in my new shoes, and I was kind of cold in my strapless gown. Food-wise, I’d have secretly preferred Sharky’s Super Nachos back on the island. But I pretended it was the best meal of my life as my mother regaled Dad and me with stories of her life in California, making us laugh, charming us with her tinkling laugh, even flirting with my father, laying her hand on his arm and talking in her animated, talk-show host way.

And that part…that part was wonderful.

My parents had a rocky marriage. I knew that. Linda spent too much, didn’t do a lot around the house, and Dad was often frustrated. Sometimes, late at night, I heard them arguing, Dad’s voice loud, Linda’s defiant. But Linda wasn’t like other mothers, or other wives, and surely he could see that. She was special, more fun, more lively, more envied. Dad’s appreciation for her was far less than mine, but on this night, we were really happy. We were having a ball. Even in this beautiful city, even at this very fine restaurant, we were clearly the people to be.

We ordered dessert (no candle on my cheesecake, it would be so gauche) and were winding down when a man approached us.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I take a minute of your time?” he asked. He had graying blond hair, a wicked expensive-looking suit, and he took my mother’s hand the way Lancelot took Guinevere’s.

He introduced himself, sat between my parents in the unoccupied chair at our table. His name was Marcus something, and he was from New York. He worked for Elite Modeling Agency.

At the name of the agency, my mother’s eyes got the slightest bit wider. Her perfect lips parted, and her eyes darted to my dad, who already looked thunderous.

“Of course we’ve heard of Elite, Marcus,” Linda said, tilting her head a bit. “Who hasn’t?”

The man smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. James, your daughter is a very lovely young woman,” he said, turning to me. “How old are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m thirteen. Well, tomorrow, I will be. It’s my birthday,” I said.

“You’ll be thirteen tomorrow?” he said.

“That’s right,” I answered. I could tell it was a good answer, because he gave an approving nod.

“How tall are you, Harper?”

“Five seven and a half. Still growing, I think.” I smiled, and he smiled back.

“I don’t think I want my daughter modeling,” my father said, his familiar frown lowering.

My mouth opened, and I glanced at my mother for solidarity. Surely, we weren’t going to let a chance like this pass us by, were we? Hadn’t my own mother taught me her runway walk? Modeling…for
Elite
? This would be a dream come true! My friends at school would die! Linda and I would travel all over the world, and I’d—

“Well, before you make a decision, consider this. Some of our younger models have put themselves through college, just working part-time,” Marcus said smoothly. “Of course we’d like some pictures taken. At our cost. We’d fly you all down to the city for a day or two, take you out for dinner, get you some tickets to a show and see what the pictures say.”

Despite the fact that I was pretending to be terribly sophisticated, I jumped a little in my seat. Was he kidding me? Come on! This was the best birthday ever!

“I can see you’re having a special dinner, and I don’t want to take any more of your time,” Marcus said. “But this is my job, and I have an eye for these things.” He gave me a little wink. “I’m in town with Christy Turlington. Do you know who that is?” Of
course
I knew who Christy Turlington was! The Calvin Klein model? We must’ve had at least ten magazines back home that were
littered
with pictures of Christy Turlington!

“I think you could have a very bright future, Harper. Here’s my card. Please call my secretary whenever you’re ready.” He handed me the card, and it was the real deal, embossed, expensive. He shook my parents’ hands as well as mine, then left, smiling and pleasant. A minute later, a waiter came over with a round of drinks and broke the stunned silence that had fallen over our table.

“Courtesy of the gentleman who just left,” he said.

“Thanks,” Dad muttered.

“Can you believe it?” I squeaked.

“I can’t,” my mother answered, and it was only then that I noticed her face was white underneath her perfectly applied blush.

“Can I?” I asked. “Can I call him, Mom?”

“Harper! Show a little
class
,” my mother hissed. She took her drink and drained it. “We’ll discuss this later.”

We never did discuss it later.

For a long time, I thought it was because I called her “Mom,” not Linda. Or maybe it was because the guy had interrupted our dinner, and we’d been having such a nice time.

It took me years to realize that my mother thought he’d come over to talk to her.

The evening was over, the mood gone. Our trip back to Logan was quiet, and oddly enough, it was Dad who tried to fill the silence. When we got home, I got into my pajamas, washed off the makeup that had been applied with such care and went to bed, hoping that my mother would be in a better mood tomorrow, and that I could call Marcus’s secretary. But even then, the thought of going to the city was tainted.

The next day, I found a note on my pillow from my dad, saying happy birthday, he was finishing up a house in Oak Bluffs and he’d see me later. I went into my mother’s room to say good morning.

She was packing.

“I’m taking a little trip,” she said blithely. “Gotta have a little
me
time, if you know what I mean. Last night was fun, wasn’t it?”

Once—only once—my mother had gone away without me. To California to visit her family, leaving Dad and me alone for a week. She came back three days early and said only that her family was made up of idiots and she was right to get the hell out when she did. So a trip…“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Not really sure yet,” she answered, not looking at me. “But you know how it is, Harper. I wasn’t really meant for small-town life. Time to stretch a little, get away from your father and this
provincial
little island.”