Raising Hope (25 page)

He bursts out laughing and says, “See? That’s funny. You’re funny.”

I try not to let him see how pleased I am, so I throw up my hands and act exasperated. “Okay, I’m funny,” I say. “So funny that you don’t care I’m eight years older than you.”

“God!” he says, grabbing my hand and squeezing. “Age is just a number! What’s eight years when two people feel a connection to each other?” He drops my hand and ducks his head, adding, “Actually, I don’t know that you feel a connection with me. I was being presumptuous.”

No!
I want to say.
I do feel it. I feel it for the first time in thirteen years. And why did you have to let go of my hand? I liked it; I liked my hand in yours.
“Well,” I finally say, “I . . . I enjoy being with you.”
Stop it, Sara Lynn,
I warn myself.
Just stop it.
“Look,” I say, putting on my reasonable lawyer’s voice, “let’s just enjoy dinner together and leave it at that. I’ve already told you I don’t want my life complicated.”

We stride along together for a moment, and he muses, “An uncomplicated life. Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

At dinner, we talk and talk and, unfortunately, drink and drink as well. I’m a lightweight to begin with, and I swear these wineglasses are larger than normal. I’ve had only a glass and a half, and my head feels light while my limbs feel luxuriantly heavy.

“So tell me more about safety cones,” I say jokingly, and then I laugh as if I’ve uttered the wittiest statement in the world. I think Sam’s comment about me being funny has gone to my head as much as the wine.

He puts his elbows on the table and leans across to me. “You really got a charge out of the whole safety cone thing, didn’t you?” he asks, pointing his fork at me and smiling.

“I’m sorry,” I say, still laughing. “It’s just . . . I’ve never known anyone who makes safety cones.”

“I don’t make safety cones,” he replies, bringing his eyebrows together in a mock scowl. “I make art, remember?”

I laugh a little more loudly than I mean to, and I cover my mouth. “Oops,” I whisper. “I forgot to modulate my voice.”

“Modulate your voice?”

I giggle. Giggle? Me? Under normal—that is, nonalcoholic—circumstances, I do not giggle. “Something my mother used to say.” I clear my throat and imitate my mother’s commanding tones. “A lady must mod-u-late her voice.”

Sam throws back his head and laughs, and I point my finger at him. “You’re not modulating your voice, either.”

He leans in toward me. “Yes, but I’m not a lady.”

I giggle again and say, “That’s true.” Then I wave my hands and say, “Listen, you know how you said I was funny? Funny ha-ha?”

“Yes, I remember,” he says, and his eyes are shining.

“Well,” I say, “I have something funny to tell you. The woman I interviewed for the magazine today . . . she was so perfect. She was so perfect that there weren’t any weeds in her garden, and here’s the funny part . . .” I’m laughing, and I force myself to stop and clear my throat before I continue. I lean over to look right at Sam. Oh, it’s so funny. “Each ice cube in the iced tea she served me had a perfect sprig of mint frozen in the middle of it!”

He’s looking at me a little puzzled, as if he’s waiting for the punch line, and I have the uncomfortable sensation that my little anecdote was amusing only to me. I take another sip of wine and keep talking so he doesn’t see how foolish I feel. “You know . . . I am not at all like that woman. Not at all.” Oh, my God. What on earth am I saying? My tongue is tripping along, and the usual censors in my mind aren’t working. I put down the glass of wine and push it away slightly. That’s enough of that.

“What do you mean?” asks Sam.

He’s looking confused, and I can tell I blew it again. I’m not witty or charming or anything except socially impaired. I feel my face going red, and I start to fuss with the teaspoon sitting unused by my plate. “Well . . .” I don’t look at him. “It’s just that some people might
imagine
me to be the kind of person who’d put mint in my ice cubes. You know, because I’m . . . well, I’m a little precise. A little practical. A little . . . unemotional.” I whisper the last word as if I’m confessing something shameful.

Sam puts his hand over mine. “You’re
not
unemotional,” he says, and I blink back the sudden tears that spring to my eyes. It’s just such a relief that someone sees this about me, that someone can see beyond the facade I throw up to the world. He leans toward me and says, “You’re beautiful, passionate, feeling, complicated.”

He’s taking it a little to the extreme, and I laugh, pulling my hand away from his. “Are you trying to seduce me?” I joke. Oh, God. Where are these statements that keep blurting out of my mouth coming from? I must never, ever drink again. Not a drop.

“Yes, I am,” he says seriously.

I must look horrified, because he laughs and says, “Kidding. Well, half kidding, anyway.” His voice turns serious again when he says, “But I meant what I said about you. You’re
not
unemotional.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft.

“Don’t thank me,” he says, raising his glass as if he’s toasting me. “I only speak the truth.”

After dinner, it’s cooled down some. The streetlamps glow softly over the brick sidewalks on which we walk, and the evening air is noticeably lighter than the stickiness of this afternoon. It’s uncomfortably hot, though, especially after the cool restaurant.

I wave my hand in front of my face. “Whew! It’s still so humid,” I complain.

“That’s New England for you,” Sam says. “In six months we’ll be complaining about the cold.”

“I’d love to go for a swim right now,” I tell him. “There’s a pool on the rooftop of my hotel, but it closes at eight. Maybe tomorrow morning, before I check out.”

“You want to walk down by the harbor? It’ll be cooler there.”

“Sure,” I say. “Inspired idea.”

“Cab or walk?”

“Hmm?” I ask.

“Do you want to take a cab or walk it from here?”

“Oh, walk,” I say. “It’s not
that
far.”

“My kind of girl,” Sam says, and I feel warm inside to hear him say that. It’s just natural, I suppose, to want to be
somebody’s
kind of girl.

It is cooler by the harbor, and it’s romantic, too. I’m a little surprised and, yes, I’ll be honest, disappointed that Sam hasn’t tried to kiss me. Then he stops and turns to face me, and I catch my breath, my heart fluttering like a schoolgirl’s. This is it. This is it.

“Hey,” he says, “I’ve been wondering: How did it happen that you’re raising Hope?”

Okay. This isn’t it. It’s something else altogether. “You really want to know?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“Well . . .” I take a deep breath and tell him the truth, the words I’ve never said out loud. “She’s my ex-lover’s child. His and his wife’s child, that is. His wife died and he took off—reliability wasn’t one of Bobby’s strong suits—and he left Hope to me. To me and his sister. It’s been twelve years now, and I’ve never heard from him.”

“So he’s not in the CIA?” I look up and see Sam’s eyes gleaming.

“What?!” Then I groan. “Oh God, did Hope tell you that?”

He nods, and I say tartly, “No. Bobby’s most definitely not in the CIA. I can just about guarantee that.” I laugh then, a short bark, and say, “Although he is a man of mystery, just taking off and leaving me to raise Hope. To this day, I have no idea why he left his daughter to me.”

“I do,” Sam answers. He holds my shoulders and looks down at me, his eyes soft. “You love Hope, Sara Lynn. I saw it that first day you brought her to her lesson. He must have known you’d love her. He must have seen what I see in you—a goodness. A decency.” He smiles. “And lots of emotion, too. He must have known he could trust you with Hope.”

“Thank you,” I say briskly, and I turn away because I don’t want to be kissed right now, not with Hope standing between us, reminding me I’m hers and not his.

It’s almost midnight by the time a cab drops us back at my hotel. We capitulated and took a taxi, but only because of the late hour, not because we weren’t hardy enough to walk.

Sam walks me up the stone steps of the hotel and motions to the bar just in the doorway. “Nightcap?” he suggests.

“No!” I laugh. “I had quite enough to drink tonight, thank you very much.”

“See, that’s your practical side coming out.” His eyes twinkle as he leans in to me. “Your
unemotional
side.”

I’m used to his teasing by now, and I laugh, hitting his arm gently.

He grabs my hand and whirls me in toward him, kissing me searchingly, like he’s drinking me in. It’s been thirteen years since a man has kissed me, and I’m moving closer and closer to him, not wanting it to end.

“Want to go swimming?” he murmurs into my hair when the kiss is over and we come up for air.

“We can’t,” I say automatically. “Remember? I told you the hotel pool closed at eight.”

“So what?” he whispers, and that’s when an image comes into my mind of me taking caution, crinkling it into a ball, and waving good-bye to it as I throw it to the wind.

I pause for a second, and then I whisper back, “Yes. I would like to go swimming.”

He kisses me again, a quick kiss this time, a promise of what’s ahead. He pulls away from me then and offers me his arm. “To the roof, Miss Hoffman?” he asks with mock dignity.

I place my hand on his arm and stand up straight. “To the roof.”

When we get up there, the roof deck is pitch-dark, and I trip over a lounge chair. “Ow!” I say, grabbing my hurt foot.

“Are you okay?” Sam’s voice asks.

“Yes, let me just . . . can I grab on to you?”

“Um, yeah!” He laughs. “Please do.”

I reach out for him and he pulls me in, kissing me again. “I can’t see a darn thing,” I say between kisses.

“Me neither,” he replies, caressing my back.

“So it’s the blind leading the blind, is that it?”

“Pretty much.” He sounds utterly unconcerned. I can’t say I’m overly worried myself, not when I’m in Sam’s arms like this.

“Now listen,” he says, and I can tell from the sound of his voice that he’s teasing me again. “Never let it be said I’m not a perfect gentleman. You said you’d like a swim and I, well, I aim to please.”

My mouth twists up as I wait for him to continue. This is going to be good.

“It’s pretty dark here, and as you yourself said, neither of us can see a thing.”

He pauses, and I say, “Yes?”

“So, being a perfect gentleman, I’m wondering if I should help you off with that dress. You know, just so you’ll be able to take a swim, like you wanted. And since I can’t
see
anything, it wouldn’t be completely improper.”

I’m laughing and shaking my head. “Sure,” I say, throwing up my hands. “Since you can’t
see
anything, I guess that would be all right.”

My legs go weak when I feel his hand on my zipper and hear the sound of him unzipping the back of my dress. I step out of my shoes as my dress slides to the floor, and he unhooks my bra and lightly touches my breasts. “Oh God,” he says, his voice a low moan.

I’m breathing faster now and manage to gasp out, “Since, um, I can’t
see
anything, either, would you like a little help with your clothes? Reciprocity and all that.”

“Reciprocity, huh?” he says. He kisses me hard. “Yeah. I think reciprocity is a very good thing.”

My hands tremble as I reach out to unbutton his shirt and slide it off him. He pulls my body to his, and he’s so warm and good-smelling that I cling to him, kissing his chest again and again and running my hands up and down his smooth, bare back. I can feel his maleness pressing against me, and I want more of him. I want. Two words I haven’t allowed myself to feel in some time. I want. I want. I want.

I undo his belt, and he swallows hard as I unzip his pants. Then I pull down his underwear, quickly, in one movement. I want. I want. I want. As I reach for what I want, he tries to step out of his pants and falls backward, pulling me with him. We tumble over lounge chairs and finally hit the cement, me on top of him. Neither of us says anything for a moment.

“Shit,” Sam finally says.

I’m utterly horrified at the entire situation, but then—I can’t help it—I laugh and laugh and laugh. This is the absolute antithesis of a mint-ice-cube love scene. This would never be happening to Irene Luger.

Sam’s laughter joins my own. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “More than fine. How about you?”

“I’ll live.” He kisses the top of my head. “You want to get in the pool, now that I’ve totally spoiled the mood?”

“You haven’t spoiled anything. But, yes, I think taking a swim would be lovely just now.”

I can feel him struggling to get his pants off, and I say, “Here, let me.” I feel around for his legs, his feet. “It’s your shoes!” I tell him. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to take your shoes off so your pants won’t get stuck?” I pull them off, then slide off his pants and boxers.

“Thanks,” he says. He moves in to kiss me but hits my eye instead of my lips. I giggle as he moves his lips down to my mouth and cups his hands around my rear end. “You’re not naked yet, Miss Hoffman,” he chides.

“That’s because my date hasn’t gotten around to taking my underwear off.”

“The guy must be a real idiot,” he says, sliding his hands over my hips and slipping down my panties.

“Well, he may be,” I say, catching my breath. “The jury’s still out on that question.”

He chuckles as he stands up, pulling me up with him. “You’re going in the pool for that one,” he says. We cling to each other as we try to make our way over to the water. Finally, we reach the edge of the pool and he says, “Ready?”

I know what he’s asking, and it’s not just about jumping in the water. I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Ready,” I tell him, and he holds my hand as we step off the edge.

Chapter 17

R
uth’s been barfing her guts out for days now. Barfing. Isn’t that a great word? It sounds just like what it is. Barfing. To barf. Barf-o-rama. I’m not allowed to say it, because Sara Lynn thinks it’s crude. Ruth goes along with her because she says she doesn’t want me growing up like she did, all rough around the edges. But they don’t know what I’m thinking, do they? And what I’m thinking is that Ruth’s barfing like crazy.