The Redhead Revealed (2) (8 page)

“A Yank? Seriously, where do you come up with this stuff? Mary Poppins again?”

“No, this time European Vacation. But seriously, Jack. What if your dad doesn’t like me?”

“European Vacation,” he snorted, then looked back at the group of kids playing. “My dad loves any girl who can cook. He always said that was one of the reasons he fell in love with my mum—her cooking. She used to make this shepherd’s pie. Oh, it was the best, she would—” he started, then stopped, looking sad all of a sudden. I took his hands again and wrapped him more firmly around my waist.

“You were sixteen, right? Sixteen when she passed away?” I asked quietly. He nodded.

“I bet she’d be proud of you right now. Look at everything you’ve accomplished at such a young age!” I said, scratching his scalp the way I knew he liked. He leaned into my hand, but was still quiet. We soaked up the fresh air and the sounds of the city.

“Grace, how come you never talk about your parents?” he asked, breaking me out of my spell.

“My what? My parents?”

“Yes, you never mention them. Come to think of it, I don’t think you’ve ever said a word about them. Where are they?” he asked, still leaning into my hand, which had stilled.

“My mom died when I was a freshman in college—boating accident. It happened fast. I didn’t even make it home from school before she was gone. She was only forty-one,” I answered, closing my eyes and remembering how she used to make me scrambled eggs and toast every morning, without fail. All these years and her breakfasts were still the first thing that came to mind when I thought about her. That and her perfume.

“Grace, I’m so sorry,” he said, clutching me closer.

“I’m sorry too—for you. What a pair we are.” I laughed hollowly.

“And your dad? How did he take it?”

“You’d have to ask him, if you can find him. I haven’t spoken to him since I was in third grade. He left my mom and me high and dry. Never looked back—no letters, no phone calls, nothing,” I said, my voice empty. My skin prickled a bit. I never talked about this stuff. It made me uncomfortable, and I didn’t do uncomfortable.

“He just left?”

“Yes, he just left. Can we talk about something else? My dad was a deadbeat. No need to discuss,” I said, just as the soccer ball came our way again. This time I rose and kicked it back, my foot connecting angrily and sailing it over the lot of them. A few of them cheered my kicking ability, and I curtsied. I sat down next to him on the bench again, and we continued to watch.

“Cute kids,” he said, watching them play.

“Yes, cute,” I replied, watching them as well.

“Do you want kids, Grace?” he asked, turning to look at me.

“What, right now? Today?” I teased, standing up and depositing myself on his lap. He made room for me, tucking me in with his arms around me and his chin on my shoulder.

“Obviously not today, Crazy. Although later on today I’ll be glad to demonstrate how babies are made.” He laughed, cuddling me to him. “But really, do you want kids someday?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, I think if I wanted them, I’d have thought more seriously about it by now,” I said. “What about you? I mean, not now, but do you want kids someday?” I asked, shuffling around a bit so I was looking down at him.

“Hmm, I don’t think so either. I don’t particularly care for children—at least not in the sense that I want any of my own,” he said, kissing my fingertips, each one in turn, lavishing attention on my pinkies in particular.

“You might change your mind as you get older,” I said.

“Don’t you think you might change your mind?” he asked, still kissing my fingers.

“Eh, I don’t have all the years in front of me like you do. My choices are a little more finite. Maybe I will, but I doubt it,” I answered, sighing happily as he placed a kiss on my palm. I laughed a little, and he looked at me curiously.

“What’s funny, love?”

“It’s funny that you’re dating a woman in her thirties, and you managed to find the one who doesn’t seem to have a biological clock—at least not one that’s ticking,” I said, planting a kiss on top of his head and pulling him to his feet.

We began to walk back toward the Plaza to catch a cab.

“You really don’t want kids, Grace? I mean, you seem like you’d make a great mom…” He trailed off.

“Yeah, I think I would too. But that doesn’t mean I should have kids—does that make sense? There are plenty of women who have kids and do great with them, but that maybe didn’t really in their true heart of hearts want them. Not every woman is made to have a family. My friends feel like my family, and now there’s this Brit who I’m taking care of. He does take up a lot of my time.” I laughed, straightening his shirt and zipping his jacket up further against the cold.

“Hmm…tell me more about this Brit,” he said, wrapping his arm around my waist as we walked.

“He’s quite handsome and very sweet. A little on the gay side, but then again, he is British,” I continued.

“Of course, of course,” he agreed.

“And I love him—quite a lot, actually,” I finished, leaning my head against his arm as we walked.

“Hmm…I see. He sounds fantastic, obviously. Does he love you as well?”

“He says he does, and I mean, really, how could he not?” I giggled, doing a little pirouette on the path in front of us.

He stopped to watch me, then caught my hand and pulled me back to him. “How could he not?” he confirmed, and kissed me.

We smooched for a moment, sweetly and softly, and then went to grab our cab. Neither of us heard the clicking of the camera.

The Redhead Revealed

Chapter 6

The rest of the weekend flew by, and it was Monday night before I knew it.

We’d spent the rest of Saturday afternoon in his hotel, passing more time in that blessed shower. You’d think we were part fish the way we splashed around. Saturday night we went to see a show. I had been saving Wicked to see with him. I knew he wasn’t so fond of musicals, but I thought this one would hold his interest.

True to form, I cried like a baby, and he seemed surprised at how affected I was. He enjoyed it, although he didn’t sob like I did when Elphaba sang “Defying Gravity.” Really no one did. It seemed I would continue to make an ass of myself whenever live theater was concerned. I enjoyed this show so much I actually forgot Jack was there, and I was surprised to find him next to me at the end when we all filed back into the lobby.

“You were lost in your own little world, Gracie. I watched you as much as I watched the show,” he said, holding my hand and helping me throw away all the crumpled tissues I’d shoved in my pockets and purse during the show.

Sunday morning was chilly and wonderful. We spent the day at MOMA and went to Mott Street in Little Italy for dinner. We sat family style with other diners at a lovely old restaurant, passing plates and plates of food and carafes of cheap red wine.

And we spent every night rediscovering each other’s bodies again and again. We did spend one night in my apartment, but we preferred to spend the others at his hotel, languishing in the giant bed and taking advantage of the room service the film company was paying for.

Monday we had plans to sightsee, but we just couldn’t seem to make it out of bed. We tried several times, but in the end gave up and gave in to our insatiable need. We ordered room service for all three meals that day—perish the thought. We didn’t even leave the room to have housekeeping come in, although Jack did sneak out into the hallway (wrapped only in a sheet, mind you) to steal some chocolates off the maid’s cart as she was making up the room across the hall.

Late Monday night, we did something we’d never done before.

Heavens no, not that…

We took a bath together.

We filled the giant tub with bubbles, turned on the jets, and had a little bath time. Jack sat with his back against the marble, and I tucked contentedly between his legs, lying back against his chest. He ran the sea-wool sponge up and down my arms and squeezed the water and bubbles over my chest. Something about seeing my boobies covered in soap, he said, made him all kinds of happy.

I could feel how happy he was.

I snuggled against him, the water lapping gently at my warm body, not needing anything else in the world. I’d even planned ahead and ordered an ice cream sundae, which was now perched precariously on the side of the tub. I was being kind and letting him share my lovely sundae. Since I so rarely indulged like this (although I was kind of on a roll this weekend…), I tended to guard my goodies like a mama bear with her cubs. Except I was protecting something even more valuable—ice cream. I maneuvered the spoon up behind me and toward his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said through a mouthful of ice cream and chocolate sauce.

“I thought I ordered nuts on this. Where are the nuts?” I exclaimed, digging through the concoction.

“You’re looking for nuts, Miss?” he asked, trying to dip my hand below the water.

I laughed and shrugged him off. “Not until we finish this lovely dessert. Then I’ll be happy to attend to your personal nuts.” I giggled, spooning sauce and finally finding the hidden nuts. I forced another bite on him, then settled back against his chest once more, scooping up my own bite.

“Gracie, I don’t know how you’re not the size of a bus, the way you eat. I love it! Too many girls just eat lettuce and drink bottled water. It’s nice to be with a real woman.” He laughed, smoothing his hands along my skin under the water, along my stomach and hips, beginning to work his way toward my thighs, and specifically what was between my thighs.

I stopped cold, the spoon clenched between my teeth. “Wait, what?” I asked, my breath stuck in my throat.

“You heard me. It’s amazing that as much as you eat you’re not a little butterball—not that you couldn’t stand to gain a little weight. I bet your tits would be even more fabulous…” He trailed off, chuckling and kissing the back of my neck.

He must have felt how tense I was, because he stopped. “Grace? What is it?” he asked, trying to turn me around.

I removed the spoon from my mouth and set the ice cream down. I faced him. “I look the way I do because I work my ass off. Why do you think I’m constantly going for a run, or going to the gym, or running off to another yoga class? You think it’s easy to look like this? I have to stay ahead of everything I eat. Don’t think for a second that I won’t be at the gym as soon as you head back to L.A.,” I said, my voice getting low again. I pulled myself out of the tub and shrugged into a robe, still dripping wet underneath, bubbles everywhere.

“Where are you going? What the hell just happened?” he asked, his eyes wide at my current state of crazy.

I went into the other room and grabbed my wallet. I came back into the bathroom, where he was still sitting in the tub, looking dazed. I took a picture out and handed it to him. I watched as his eyes grew wide. He looked up at me, then back to the picture, then at me again. His eyes grew thoughtful, then sad.

“Grace,” he said quietly, handing me back the picture.

I took it from him, wiping the bubbles off the edges before allowing myself to look at it. It was a picture of me from two years ago. Once I’d started making plans to lose weight, my trainer had taken a picture of me: one I was to keep with me in case I ever needed additional inspiration. It was me at my heaviest, and while you could tell it was me, there was a sadness in this picture that always made me refocus when I wanted to skip that early yoga class or get overly indulgent with my desserts. I never wanted to go back to that girl again, but there were days I felt she’d never left.

I don’t want to go back to that girl either. She was hell on the social life.

What social life?

Exactly.

“So you see, the butterball comments hit a little close to home with me,” I said, taking another look at the picture, then shoving it back in my wallet. I went to put it back in the other room, and when I returned to the bathroom, he was wrapping a towel around his waist.

He saw me come in and sighed heavily. “Grace, this weekend seems to be nothing but miscommunications for both of us. I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. How was I supposed to know you had a…um…well…a…” he stammered, searching for the right words.

“A weight problem? A giant ass? Big ol’ fatty thighs? You’re right. You didn’t know. Now you do. Will I always look like this? I hope so—at least for another few years until gravity really starts to take hold and I have to start getting Botox and everything else women have to get nowadays to stay young and beautiful,” I said, feeling myself tense.

“Botox, right. You will never need Botox.”

“Ha! You want me all frowny and haggard looking? And what are you going to do when my precious boobs start to droop, huh? When you have rock-in-the-sock to hold on to every night—how sexy will that be?”

“Rock-in-the-what? Crazy, you are crazy,” he soothed, crossing to me and pulling on my robe ties when I tried to walk away.

“Oh, please. You really think Demi keeps Ashton with her charm? No, she keeps herself looking as young as possible for that guy, and I guarantee you she kills herself at the gym to do it,” I muttered, letting him pull me to him.

“Did you ever stop to think maybe he’s with her because he loves her? Because for whatever reason, those two met and fell in love, even though it doesn’t make any sense?” he asked, brushing the hair that had fallen out of my clip back from my face.

I looked at him for a moment, then hugged him fiercely. “Why the hell do you love me so much? Seriously, I am fucked up and nuts,” I said into his chest, still wet from the bath. I could feel him chuckling.

“You think I don’t know you’re nuts? I’ve known that all along. Don’t fool yourself. And like I’ve been telling you, I like nuts girls,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

“Well, you sure can pick ‘em if that’s what you’re in to.” I chuckled. I couldn’t believe we’d almost had another argument over something so silly.

Except it wasn’t silly. It was part of my past, and it was something I thought about daily: when I tried to skip a run, when I thought about having an extra late-night snack. I was always potentially a bag of Chex Mix away from a full-on food free-for-all, and even though Jack helped by munching the dreaded Melba toasts, my need for careful control was always with me. I could never let down my guard, or I’d go back to exactly who I was before. And in this industry, that was as good as suicide.