Tell Me More (15 page)

I felt bad about my reservations; after all, he’d come to the rescue when I locked myself out last night, and we’d gotten to know each other some. That, too, was a subject I didn’t feel altogether comfortable with, thanks to the occasional flare of carnal interest between us.

Heck, I was the veteran of orgies and BDSM; why was I so bent out of shape by a little flirtation?

Bright sunlight shone in the car’s windows as we toiled up the highway that led to the high country. Patrick, beside me, fiddled with the radio before we lost the signal, not saying much. We both had mugs of coffee. We’d both managed to spill them over ourselves. Neither of us looked as though we’d stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalogue, although my down vest, bought at a yard sale and fine once I’d patched it, had once belonged to someone who had bought from that supplier. I wore my bike pants and silk underwear for warmth and the sweater with the hole in the elbow that Hugh had left. Patrick wore a truly horrible plaid woolen shirt with paint stains, cord pants and a pair of bright red gaiters.

“We won’t win any fashion awards,” he commented.

“It’s not as though we’re going to hang around a bar in Aspen after,” I replied. “We’re losing the radio signal. Want to play a CD?”

He rummaged through my collection. “Do you have anything except opera?”

“No.”

He shrugged and we listened to Verdi for the next hour. I tried not to grip the steering wheel in terror as trucks thundered by and I think Patrick noticed but tactfully refrained from commenting. When we turned off the highway he wrestled with the map.

“Okay. Your next left.”

“Left?” I peered dubiously at the road.

“Right.”
Roight.

“Right?”

“No, left. Here.”

We left the paved road and drove a couple of miles more to the parking lot for the trail, where we filled our pockets with trail mix and fastened our skis. We were the only people there, the trail, an old mining road, winding into the trees, pristine and untouched.

I launched myself onto the trail. Sometimes I liked to plod along, staring at the trees and looking for tracks of animals and birds in the snow. Today I wanted to move. I wanted the freedom of bounding through the snow, feeling the pull on my muscles and the sharp air on my skin. And I think there was part of me that wanted to impress Patrick, to show him I was strong and skilled.

Behind me, Patrick’s skis hissed on the trail I’d created, an easier run, but he kept up with me. “I’ll take over breaking the trail anytime you like,” he said, barely out of breath.

“I’m fine.” The trail dipped and turned and a blue jay, brilliant against the snow, flashed across my field of vision. I pushed my dark glasses up as the trail led into a shadowed area and then slowed to adjust them again as the sun dazzled my eyes.

I took the trail a little slower now, reminded that part of the pleasure of this sort of skiing (other than being able to wear your worst clothes) was to observe and enjoy the scenery, and sure enough, after a steep bit that required herringboning, the trees opened out to an open meadow. I was reminded of my picnic with Willis, only a few weeks ago, at a lower altitude, which made all the difference in temperature, when the sky was as sharp a blue as this. I slowed to a plod and saw snow-covered mountains on the horizon, their peaks wreathed in clouds, a stand of aspens, leaves gone, trunks etched against the snow.

“I’m duly impressed,” Patrick said, moving alongside me. “Damn, I forgot the camera.” He delved into a pocket and offered me some trail mix. “You’re very fit.”

“Fit enough for this.” I was pleased with my body and how it had recovered from the beating. “It’ll be fun coming down. How long have you skied? I can’t imagine there’s a whole lot of snow in Ireland.”

“Since last year. These were a Christmas present from Elise.” He gestured at his poles and skis and looked sad and I wished I hadn’t asked.

“You’re pretty good.”

“Thanks. And you?”

“Ever since I was a kid.” I took a gulp from my water bottle. “My mom taught me and then she and I and the Great Abe used to go on picnics in the snow.”

“Great Abe?”

“My stepdad. He’s called Abe and he looks sort of simian. Long arms, hairy back. He’s a nice guy.”

“What do they do?”

“Mom’s a potter and Abe runs an auto repair shop. Very Vermont. They moved there before I was born when land was still cheap. Mom’s sort of an old hippie. Now and again she’ll call and make a confession of how capitalism is corrupting her, now she sells her pots instead of trading them for goat cheese.”

He laughed. “You like them, I can tell.”

“Sure. I’m planning to visit them at Christmas.”

Patrick slathered some more sunscreen onto his face and we set off again, gliding over the snow. I let him lead, observing his ass through his baggy cord pants, and wondered if he’d watched mine. Our pace and the quiet gentle hiss of skis on snow was hypnotic.

“Nice trail,” he said after we negotiated some small hills and bends. “How did you find out about it?”

“Facebook. I’m on a cross-country-ski group.”

We made another stop for trail mix and water and sunscreen and now the shadows lengthened just a little and the air had a cool tinge. We agreed to return, mostly a downhill run, and on my first attempt to telemark around a bend I made a spectacular dive into a snowbank.

Patrick leaned on his skis and laughed. “You okay?”

“Fine.” I floundered in the snow and retrieved my hat. When I was back on the trail he leaned to smack snow from my back in a friendly, helpful sort of way, and I was relieved. Maybe exercise in the fresh air was the best way of dispelling unwholesome thoughts, just like the Boy Scouts taught, or used to teach.

So why was I watching his ass again?

I pushed forward, knees bent, and overtook him, building up a burst of speed, and loving the long effortless glide on the trail I’d broken earlier, poles tucked under my arms. Bliss, pure bliss.

Better than sex? At that moment, yes.

I arrived back at the car and waited for Patrick, who joined me a couple of minutes later, with a big, happy grin on his face. I’d never seen that before. I wondered if he’d been as happy skiing with Elise and I was glad his breakup hadn’t tainted his enjoyment of the snow and the day.

“Excellent,” he said as he unfastened his skis. “I’m going for a piss.” He bounded into the snow through the trees and returned a few minutes later, brushing snow off himself.

I leaned against the car, reluctant to leave, but noting how the gray-and-violet shadows lengthened. Something moved in the trees. A dog?

“Look.” I touched his arm.

A coyote emerged from the thick, stood and observed us for a moment, curious yet cautious. Then it retreated back into the trees.

“Wow,” Patrick said. “Thanks for that.”

“Thank
you.
I think you probably peed on his territory and he came out to complain.”

“
THE THING I LIKE ABOUT YOU,” I SAID AFTER
A forty-five-minute silence on the drive home, “is that I don’t have to talk to you.”

Patrick yawned. “I guess that was a compliment. Want to stop somewhere for dinner?”

“An observation, that’s all. And, no, but thanks for asking. I’ve got stuff in the Crock-Pot. If I remembered to turn it on. You’re welcome to have some, too.”

“Look, you drove and now you’re offering to feed me. Let me take you out to dinner another evening, so I don’t feel totally emasculated.”

“Okay.” I took the turn off the highway. “We could see if some other people want to come.”

He made a throat-clearing sound. “Uh. I was thinking, just you and me.”

“Like a date?” Just in time I stopped at a red light.

“Well, no. But…would you have a problem with that? If I was to ask you out on a date that was really a date?”

I turned the radio on while I considered my answer. “But you weren’t asking me out on a date.”

“I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it was a date. I plan to ask you if you want a website designed so I can write it off on my taxes.”

I agreed that sounded good, and within a few minutes we were home.

We dropped skis and outerwear in the hall. A fragrance in the air announced that I had remembered to turn on the Crock-Pot and that dinner would be ready soon. I left him lighting a fire and went into the kitchen where I checked the seasoning on the beef stew—needed more salt, but not bad—and ladled it out into two bowls. I cut up some French bread, slathered it with garlic and butter and shoved it under the broiler, my mouth watering.

I smiled when I arrived back in the living room with a tray of food and drinks. The fire had caught well and Patrick lay on the rug, fast asleep like a dog tired out from a run, his glasses folded neatly on the coffee table.

“Hey.” I poked him with my foot. “Wake up.”

He grunted and rolled over onto his back, revealing a quite unmistakable erection beneath his pants. He curled up fast, rolling to a sitting position, possibly becoming aware of his condition at the same time I did. “Sorry,” he mumbled, reaching for his glasses. “Wow, that smells good.”

I placed the tray on the coffee table. “Fork or spoon? It didn’t thicken much.”

“Spoon. I want to shovel it in.” He nodded in appreciation at the bottle of nonalcoholic beer I’d brought him and grabbed a piece of garlic bread. “And that’s a compliment. You’ve no idea how great this is. Home cooking that isn’t my own.”

“You like to cook?”

“Sometimes. But not just for myself. It gets boring or you end up eating the same stuff for days.”

“Yeah,” I said around an uncouth mouthful. “Hugh was a bit of a foodie. He knew about wine, too. He’d probably be real upset I used one of his precious bottles to cook with.”

“Hugh was your, uh, boyfriend?” He was being very tactful.

“Yeah. And sorry. Hugh and I should have been more careful that day.”

“Oh, I didn’t mind that much.” His eyeglasses glinted in a wicked sort of way. “I’ve been carried away with passion a few times myself.”

“So,” I said after a few more mouthfuls, “are you seeing anyone at the moment?”

“Shit, I’m not even divorced yet. Why? Are you interested? Reconsidering that date that isn’t really a date?”

My spoon clinked in its bowl. He’d gone straight to the issue we’d both circled around so carefully.

“No, I—”

“There’s a tingle between us,” he said. “Doesn’t mean we have to do anything about it, but it’s there. And it’s sort of awkward. Technically I’m still married, I’m your tenant and I’m flat broke, and I’m depressed quite a bit of the time. I’m not a great prospect. And you…?”

“I’m involved with someone,” I said after a pause. “At least, I thought I was. Now, I’m not sure. There are unresolved issues.”

“Hugh?”

“No, not Hugh.”

“Ah.” He scooped the last of his stew out of the bowl. “I think you have a rather complicated love life.”

“And that puts you off?”

“No. You’ll sort it out. I’ll sort out my situation. I can sell the house at the end of the academic year, or maybe sooner if Elise buys me out, and I’ll stop being depressed. I’m a naturally cheerful bloke, or I used to be. But there’s one thing I don’t do, and that’s rescue damsels in distress. Not anymore. So you let me know when you’re sorted out, and we’ll talk about it some more.”

I laughed. “You’re very sure of yourself. Of me, too, I guess. So what happened with Elise?” I added hastily, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Would you like some more stew?”

I fetched us both second helpings and Patrick stared at the fire for a time. “Elise,” he said. “We fell out of love. I don’t know why. Why should you expect to know why you look at someone one day and they’re just a person, someone you know well, and you maybe even quite like, but there’s nothing left? I don’t know. I guess I was going through my knight-on-a-white-charger stage and she was letting her long blond hair down from the tower. And then I found out she was disappointed I didn’t become a big-shot lawyer, and she wasn’t some sort of mythical princess—just a fairly ordinary woman. She liked me in Ireland but I didn’t export too well.”

“You’re still sad.” I touched his hand.

“Oh, I will be for some time.” He sounded quite cheerful as he wiped his bowl with a hunk of garlic bread. “Now, about this tingle.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t think you’re convinced. It’s a good thing we’ve both had garlic.” He put his bowl and utensils down with a purposeful air and shifted toward me.

“What are you doing, Patrick?” I tried, without much success, to sound offended.

“Kissing you. Or I will be, shortly.”

“I don’t think—”

“In the spirit of scientific enquiry.” And he was kissing me, and it was sweet and garlicky, his mouth closed, with a very gentle pressure that built. And built a little more, so that when his lower lip nudged between mine, despite my reservations I opened to him. Only a little, though. Only enough for my tongue to flick against his lower lip before I withdrew, shaking my head.

“Well?” He had that wicked look again, but it was deep in his eyes, nothing to do with his glasses.

“The experiment is over.” I stood and gathered our bowls.

“Ah, now you can’t tell me you weren’t swept away with passion. That I’m not a great kisser.” He stood, too, and took the bowls from me. “I’ll do the dishes. It’s a second best to kissing you, but at least I can prove I’m not overwhelmingly macho.”

And the moment was over. I watched as he left the room and touched my fingertips to my lips, where his had been seconds before.

“Patrick? You’re right. I have a complicated love life.”

He looked back over his shoulder. “I know.”

I followed him into the kitchen, tempted to tell him the entire truth, and decided against it. Hadn’t he said he was no longer in the habit of rescuing women?

Besides, I was pretty sure I didn’t need to be rescued.

The next day Kimberly and I went out to lunch, where she regaled me with an account of her most recent date, someone she’d met online.

“I shoulda known better. The dreads should have been a clue,” she said. “Nothing sadder than a white, fortysomething guy with dreads. He wore leather pants, too, and I swear he had an armadillo down his pants. Wanted to talk about root canals all night.”

“He went out on a date after a root canal?”

“No. He’s a dentist. A new breed of dentists, rides a Harley and is into extreme winter sports, and, oh, yeah, he’s a Buddhist.”

“And did you tell him of your aversion to snow?”

“You bet.” She dug into her salad. “And before you ask, I didn’t investigate the armadillo. You seeing anyone yet? How’s my buddy Patrick?”

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you just asked two totally unrelated questions. Please don’t bring the dreadlocked dentist over at Thanksgiving. But bring your cranberry relish.” I pushed my plate toward her. “Help yourself. Why don’t you just order a side of fries and be done with it?”

“Because stolen fries are so much better.” She gazed at our waiter. “I bet I could get you his phone number.”

“What for?” I blinked innocently at her. The waiter, noting our interest, headed toward our table.

“We’ll take a look at the dessert menu, honey,” Kimberly said. “Mmm. Sweet buns,” she added as he walked away.

“They’re probably not on the menu. So if it wasn’t the winter-sport dentist, who was staying over the other night?”

“Just this guy.”

“And? Will you be bringing him at Thanksgiving? Is it anyone I know?”

She held up crossed fingers. “Maybe I’ll bring him for Thanksgiving and it is someone you know, but I’m not saying. He’s great, even though he’s a bit older than I am, but I’m not gonna talk about it, ’cause it’ll jinx it. So, about Patrick.”

I thought furiously as to who the mystery man could be and gave up. Kimberly knew a lot of men. “Patrick is fine. I took him cross-country skiing yesterday. And it was just one of those things, I was getting my stuff together and we got talking and I invited him. And, yeah, I’ve invited him for Thanksgiving, too—I mean, he’s right there in my house and I invite lots of people.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s my tenant. I was being friendly. So, no, I haven’t explored the joys of the Irish foreskin— Oh, thanks.” The waiter, giving me a curious look, laid dessert menus on the table.

We discussed the dessert menu with great seriousness. I ordered us coffee and a carrot cake with two forks, knowing she’d eat at least half of it.

“Kimberly, do you think I’m stupid?”

“What? You? No way.” She flashed a brilliant smile at the waiter as he placed the carrot cake in the center of the table. “You’re a bit geeky. You don’t go out clubbing or anything. You really like classical music, but you’re not stupid.”

“The thing is…” I turned the plate so she could gorge on the frosting. “Hugh was unfaithful to me. He deceived me. And then there was this other guy who did the same thing.”

“Willis?” She stared at me, a blob of frosting on her lip. “You only had a couple of dates.”

“No, not Willis.” I hesitated, reluctant to tell her the whole story, or as much as I knew of it myself. “There was someone else. And no, it wasn’t Jason. Someone I’d known for about six months and I liked. I thought I knew him, that there was honesty there.”

“You mean while you and Hugh were living together?”

“Starting around the time things got weird with Hugh. You know, the bizarre breakup stuff, when he’d go out on an errand that would take four hours instead of ten minutes, and the late-night meetings and so on.”

“You never told me you’d met someone else!”

“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t really know what the relationship was. It was platonic. Mostly. But my point is, what does that say about me? That two guys in a row betray me?”

“You choose the wrong guys. I’ve been telling you that forever.” She scooped up another forkful of cake. “So, who was this mystery guy?”

“Just that. A mystery guy.”

My cell rang. I glanced at the name and number and silenced it. Another call from Harry at the Association. I decided I’d oblige Kimberly with some dirt. “I had an erection sighting last night.”

“Patrick’s?” Kimberly grinned. “Sometimes the skinny short guys are so well-hung it’s like dreamin’ and goin’ to heaven. How did you manage that?”

“He fell asleep in front of the fire after we came back from skiing.”

“Sounds like an old hound dog. Did he slobber all over you?”

“No.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she chanted.

“Okay. We kissed. It was an experiment. Will you quit with the middle-school stuff?”

“And?”

“And it was nice. Sexy. But he’s my tenant.”

“He won’t be your tenant forever. Elise has the house on the market, and guess who— Oh, my God, look. No, don’t
look.
Be subtle.”

But I didn’t need to look. A familiar gust of aftershave announced the arrival of Willis Scott III, whom I’d last seen butt-naked fucking a woman he wouldn’t or shouldn’t fall in love with. God knew what I’d been doing last time he’d seen me.

“Ladies! Kimberly.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “As gorgeous as ever. Hi, Jo, how are you?” He picked up a napkin and, to my mortification, wiped a smear of something off my face. I hoped it was frosting. I felt as though I were five years old. “Better give Harry a call,” he said quietly. He straightened and motioned to the woman he’d come in with. “Do you know Elise Delaney?”

Elise was astonishingly gorgeous, tiny and slender, with a shiny fall of blond hair and huge blue eyes. Her hand felt like a small, fragile thing in mine, and her lips (soft, pink) quivered as though she were going to cry, instead of murmuring a greeting.

Willis laid a protective arm around her shoulders as though shielding her from the hazards of walking across a restaurant—all that china, those sharp knives, the hot substances—and to a table where our waiter and a couple of others dashed over to protect her from the brutality of the dining-out experience.

“Ain’t she something,” Kimberly said. “Walks through a crowd of waving erect dicks every time she enters a room and has no idea she’s doing it. Or does she?” She turned to look for our waiter and frowned as she saw him fawning at Elise and Willis’s table. Elise’s charms obviously offered more than my snippets of obscene conversation.

Elise rose, breaking free from the cluster of devoted waiters, and sauntered across the restaurant to the ladies’ room.

I laid my credit card on the table, forestalling any claims Kimberly might make on paying. “Can you give him this when he comes back? I’m going to pee.”

I doubted Elise was about to do anything so grossly human as pee, and sure enough, she stood in front of the mirror, running a brush through her amazing hair.

“Hi. Look, this could be awkward. Patrick is living above my garage.”

“I know,” she breathed.

“Oh. Okay, then. The other thing is, have you known Willis long?”

She blinked, beautifully. “He’s my Realtor.”

“Okay.” I sounded really stupid. “Have you met any of his friends? Because if he mentions the Rocky Mountain Investment Association, be very careful.”