Postcards From Last Summer (38 page)

“I heard you talking about the party. I can't help you out with the whole planetary compatibility thing, but I could be your date.”

“What?” She rubbed the tears from her eyes and swung around to face him.

“I'll be your date for the Hamptons party. Haven't been out there in a while, and I think we're on hiatus that week.”

“No.” She knew he was joking, and it served her right for bringing her personal crises into the office. “Sorry. I'll figure this out. You just . . . go do whatever you were doing.”

“Elle . . .” His baritone voice rocked her as he sat on the edge of the desk, nearly touching the huge, chunky old monitor. “I want to do this for you.”

She shook her head, feeling tears well again at his generosity and pity. “No, you don't.”

“A night in the Hamptons? What's not to like?”

She wiped her cheeks with her hands and stared up at him, awed by the sweet gesture and all the while wondering if they would be able to stop arguing long enough to look like a couple, just for a weekend.

“W
hat made me think I could plan and pull off a party?” I was elbow deep in peanut butter cookie batter, as I'd promised Maisy I'd bake cookies for the party, then told Ma I'd do a double batch so there'd be enough to bring to the church picnic, since Father Healy was always reminding Ma how much he enjoyed the McCorkle secret recipe for chocolate chip cookies. “I hate parties. I'm a neurotic hostess. Why did I do this?”

“Because you wanted to bring together all the various worlds we dabble in,” Elle answered, “all the publishing people you work with, the crew from Darcy's film, Maisy's friends and their parents. You wanted to give Steve and Tara our nod of approval in a comforting way. You wanted to heap gobs of pressure on my head to find a suitable match so that I am not, yet again, dateless and pathetic as another summer draws to a close.”

“I'm doing all that?” Nodding, I dropped gobs of batter onto the baking sheet, then pressed each blob flat with a fork. “I'm a better person than I realized. I should get a medal or a Golden Globe or something. Besides . . .” I paused to shoo Elle's fingers from the bowl of batter. “You found a date, and he's freakin' gorgeous. You never told me Judd Siegel looked like Chris Noth.”

“Don't let him hear you say that.” Elle looked over her shoulder. “Believe me, Judd does not need any ego boosts. If his head gets any bigger he won't fit in that ridiculous little Miata.”

“I heard that,” a deep voice called from the hallway, and Judd appeared in the doorway, barechested and barefoot, dressed in black swim trunks. “And thanks about the Chris Noth thing, Lindsay. I worked with him on a Broadway show once, and people did mistake us for brothers.”

Elle clasped her hands to her ears. “Get over yourself and let us finish up here. People are going to start arriving in an hour. Why don't you go get ready?”

He held out his arms. “I am ready. It's a pool party, isn't it?”

“Yeah, but you don't have to play the pool boy.”

He came up to the counter and lifted a raw cookie from the baking sheet. “So I'll put on a shirt.”

“That's it, hands off!” Elle ordered.

“You were stealing cookie dough,” he said innocently.

“I live here. And . . . and . . .”

I bit my lip, enjoying the interesting chemistry between these two. I'd never seen Elle get so flustered around a guy before.

“Get a shirt,” Elle instructed him, “and then you can come help us get the bar set up.”

“Slavedriver,” he muttered. “I'm glad you're not my boss at work.”

Although he ducked out toward the pool, I still lowered my voice. “He really is a crack-up. Don't you like him?”

“Judd Siegel lives in another world—a place people like you and me do not inhabit. You can't imagine the high-powered studio execs, the multimillion dollar deals, and the celebs. He travels on the Concorde, and we're pedestrians. You can't mix two cultures like that. You can just stand outside and observe, that's it.”

“Oh.” I slid the last batch of cookies into the oven, wondering if Elle was overthinking this. “I just thought he was cute.”

 

Three hours into the party, I passed a plate of cookies, tarts, and eclairs among the guests on the poolside lanai, reminding everyone that coffee and tea and cordials were on the table.

“I really shouldn't, but I have such a weakness for sweets,” said Mouse, one of Darcy's costars from the movie. Mouse had driven out from Manhattan with her husband Kenny, a large, gregarious black man who owned two popular clubs in the city.

“Oh, go on, sugar,” Kenny told her. “Since you started shooting you've been wearing yourself down into a little slip of a thing.”

“I have, haven't I?” Mouse helped herself to a brownie and bit into one of my peanut butter cookies. “You have to e-mail me this recipe,” she told me. “And I gotta thank you for this lovely evening. With Noah working us to the bone, we needed a little R and R.”

“Did you hear that, Noah?” Alton said, waving at the director, who stood talking with Judd by the hedge. “Marielle's complaining again.”

“That's no complaint; it's the truth,” Marielle said.

“Mm-hmm.” Alton nudged his girlfriend. “You taking notes, honey? Keeping a tally? 'Cause when the director starts editing the film, I don't want to be the one on the cutting-room floor. Mouse is the voice of discontent. She's the one!”

“He wouldn't have to cut you if you weren't such a camera hog!” Mouse teased.

Alton sighed. “Just go on and hide behind those brownies. I know what you're doing.”

Everyone laughed, and I was glad that my friends from Island Books had fallen in quickly with Darcy's costars from the film. Jorge and his wife Rene, who usually left events after making an obligatory appearance, were still talking with Bancroft, Darcy, and Judd, having a heated discussion of books that had made successful and worthwhile films. Good indicators all around.

Except for Noah Storm, who did not seem to be having fun. His thick gold hair curled at his shoulders, his body a lean line in black T-shirt and jeans. Between the long hair and those squarish black Chanel glasses, he looked like an intellectual rock star, intense and dark but ready to explode to flashpoint on a moment's notice. I found the whole package intimidating, but I also felt a little sorry for him, standing there alone now that Judd had moved off to talk to some other guests.

I didn't want to scrape together lame conversation, but as host of the party it was my duty to deliver a good time, right? I had to give it a shot.

“Can I get you some coffee?” I offered Noah.

He held up a hand. “No, thanks. Caffeine.”

I nodded, feeling the conversation dead end.

“I have to tell you, I usually don't do parties,” he offered.

“Really?” Somehow, I wasn't surprised.

“Hate them. But this has been pleasant.” He took a deep breath. “Do you ever smell the potatoes?”

I squinted. Darcy had said he was intense, but she hadn't mentioned borderline psychotic. “Excuse me?”

“The potatoes from the farm down the road? I've read that the Hamptons used to be covered by them—potato farms. At night, you could smell the starch in the air.”

“My dad used to say that,” I said, recalling my father's old mythology that if you didn't wash behind your ears, Long Island potatoes would grow there. I felt a twinge of nostalgia at the memory as I saw my mother on the other side of the pool, picking up discarded beer bottles and plates. “You don't have to clean up, Ma,” I'd told her earlier. “You're a guest tonight.” “Oh, you know me,” Ma had said. “Got to keep busy.”

“You can't capture smells on film,” Noah said thoughtfully. “Sure, there's been Sniff-O-Rama, but really, in an organic way, it's an entire dimension that's missing for me in movies. When George Bailey rushes into his living room on Christmas Eve and you don't catch the smell of a fresh-cut pine tree. When Don Corleone peels the orange in
The Godfather
, the scent of citrus should cut through the air . . .” He took a deep breath. “It's a shame. Now if you could bottle the smell of the air tonight, sea salt and roses, barbecue and . . . and your perfume. That would be utopia.”

Could he really pick up the tiny dab of Madam Jolie I'd pressed on the pressure point at the base of my throat this evening? Now I understood what Darcy had meant when she'd said that Noah felt things more intensely than the rest of us.

I turned to him, and he smiled, which suddenly made the complicated Noah seem surprisingly simple.

“I know,” he admitted. “I need to chill.”

I laughed. “I don't know. The heavy, artistic approach seems to be working for your career.”

“Yeah, but it freaks people out,” he said.

I laughed again, but realized he wasn't smiling anymore. Someone cranked up the music and Tara, wearing a crown of flowers in her hair, led Steve and Milo and Darcy and Ban around the pool in a ridiculous chain dance. It was a lavishly wild move for Tara, but since she'd finished taking the bar she had vowed to cut loose and relax for a while. Noah and I watched, as if waiting for a parade to pass.

“You know, Darcy thinks the world of you,” Noah said. “That's why I'm here.”

“Well, thanks. I guess.”

“I meant that kindly. I respect your friendship, your family of friends.”

“Then thanks, and I meant that sincerely.”

“You want to dance,” he said, a statement. “Don't let me hold you back.”

“Dance with me,” I said, taking his arm, a surprisingly muscular forearm for a guy who appeared gaunt.

“I can't do that to you. A geek from West Virginia trying to move with a modicum of grace and rhythm . . . it's not a pretty sight.”

“Okay, you're off the hook. Until the next slow dance.”

“Lindsay, I don't dance.”

Just then the song ended and a slow ballad began. “What did I say? Perfect timing.” I stepped toward him, feeling a surprising brush of electricity as our bodies came close. Placing his hands on my lower back, I lifted my arms to his broad shoulders and looked past his glasses to hazel eyes that registered mild panic. “Don't sweat it,” I said encouragingly. “Just hold on to me and sway a little.”

“I'll hold on. With my luck, we'll sway right into the pool.”

Smiling, I held on tight and absorbed the surprising electricity connecting our bodies as we swayed under the lemony August moon.

T
he music of the party receded as Elle walked through the rose arbor to the far gate where a high stone wall lined a sandy lane. A decorative stone bench sat against the wall, and Elle kicked off her shoes, hitched herself up, and wiggled her butt onto the smooth stone surface, tucking her gauzy silk skirt under her legs.

She'd needed to get away from the party, needed some quiet time to figure out the questions weighing on her mind, and the old stone wall was her thinking spot, her place to come and meditate at night in range of the ocean's roar. As her feet dangled and the stars spread overhead, she wondered why Darcy seemed so strained lately. Was it the stress of doing the Storm film or was her “cover” relationship with Bancroft Hughes wearing thin? And she worried about Lindsay, working so hard on her manuscript. Didn't she feel the quiet desperation of being alone that rattled Elle? But Lindsay seemed so composed about it, so resigned, which made Elle wonder if there was something she was missing.

Then there was Tara. Would she be able to withstand her parents' disapproval of her relationship with Steve after she broke it to them?

And then, the big pickle: Judd Siegel.

A week ago he'd been simply a tyrannical boss; tonight everyone at the party thought he was her new boyfriend, and the problem with that was that it felt sort of good having him here, giving him a hard time about his superstar status, laughing with him, letting his hand touch her shoulder or gently press the curve of her back. The problem with having Judd as a temporary boyfriend was that it would hurt so much to let him go. She wanted to buy but the property was just a rental.

Noises stirred in the rose arbor, and she turned and saw him, his face a study of light and dark in the creamy moonlight, pale skin, dark hair and brows, and shadowed eyes. He climbed the bench behind her and flipped himself onto the wall with one smooth hop.

“Oh . . . it's you,” she said despondently and hoped he hadn't caught her thinking out loud.

“You know, sometimes I just wish you could put aside how much you hate me and . . . you know, give me a shot. I know I come off as a big grouch sometimes, but overall, I'm not such a bad guy.”

“I don't hate you.” Elle leaned forward and pitched herself into the sandy lane. “It's just that I can't buy into the Judd Siegel, big-shot producer package.”

He leaned forward and landed beside her. “You think I'm a big blowhard?”

“You're fucking brilliant, Judd, but you live in this other world, protected from daily annoyances by an extremely competent staff. Which I belong to. And you're up here”—she rose on the tips of her toes and reached up, waggling her fingers near the top of his head”—and I'm way down here, answering phones and wrangling the talent and putting out production fires. Not that I don't love my job, I do. But these two worlds, high and low, and there ain't no valley in between.”

“Now that's just unfair.” He pursed his lips, as if disappointed in her. “You'd discriminate against me because I'm a big-shot producer?”

“Not discrimination. I'm just steering clear of more power than I can balance.”

“Ya think?” He tapped his chin. “By the way, is it true that you're a secret millionaire?”

“What?” She blinked. “Who told you that?”

“I still possess a few of my interviewing skills from the D.A.'s office. You told me you and your friends were renting this place, but no . . . it belongs to you, Elle. You bought it with your inheritance, isn't that right?” He took a step back and gave a ceremonial bow, then dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the tops of her toes. “Salami, salami.” He shot a look up at her. “Apparently, it's me who doesn't deserve to kiss your toes.”

“Okay, now you're really pissing me off.”

“And why's that? Because I'm trying to break through a wall? Making you uncomfortable, am I?” He grabbed her hand and gave a tug, and she came down to her knees, facing him. “After all those bozos you went through on that freakin' Web site, why can't you see me as boyfriend material?”

Elle hated to be put on the spot, especially when the answer was a shallow: “You're too unpredictable and impossible to control.”

“Really? And you need the upper hand in a relationship? You need to be in charge?”

“That'd be great.” But when she thought about it, she knew it would be boring to boss an entire relationship. “Actually, it wouldn't. I need some challenge.”

He pointed to his chest. “I can be challenging.”

“Ain't that the truth. But I need to feel safe.” There, that was the heart of it. She thought of her parents, Genevieve and Jasper, of their perpetual movement around the globe, pulling up roots before any life could take hold. Elle would never know what had motivated their travels, but she would never forget that feeling of vulnerability each time she was dropped into a new home, registered in a new school. “That's my issue—what I never had growing up. I need to feel safe and loved. To know that I belong.”

Judd sat back on his heels. “That's a tough one. No guarantees in life. Anything can happen, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“True.” They'd all been reminded of that the day the Twin Towers had fallen, the day New Yorkers feared they would never feel safe again. “But in a relationship, I think there can be a certain degree of safety, of comfort.” She had that with her friends now, with Lindsay and Tara, Darcy and Milo.

“It's not something I think about. To me, comfort is a cold beer, a hot pizza, and a game with Boston College beating Penn State by a hefty margin.”

“Sounds like a guy thing. You've got a lot of that going on.”

“Yeah, but I could work on comfort.” He leaned forward, almost nose to nose with her. “I might be able to learn about safe. You could teach me.” His hands cupped her cheeks, forcing her to face him.

Admit it, just tell him you want him.
But she couldn't let him in too easily; she had trouble letting go of the hard-ass facade. “Something tells me you'd be a rotten student,” she said, knowing that she'd been trying to teach him all along, to civilize Judd Siegel in small ways . . . his beastly basement office, his shaggy hair . . . the mold on the ceiling. “You need a lot of work. But that doesn't stop a teacher from trying.”

Still holding her face, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a deep kiss. “I'll learn,” he whispered. “I'll even stay for detention.”