It's a Widow Thing (Never Too Late Book 3), page 21
“Your things are upstairs, darling,” Francesca said to Chris. I trailed behind after he made sure I knew to join them, the beautiful Amazon pair.
The second floor expanded into a loft-like space with white-curtained dressing rooms and a seating area outfitted with modern white leather sofas and chairs. A bottle on ice and a pair of champagne flutes sat at the ready, confirming my status as third wheel.
“Christopher, these are the pants I ordered and the others are just a few goodies I knew would look fabulous on you.” She lingered after he thanked her, before raising her chin and throwing back her shoulders. “I’ll leave you two alone.” She winked at me, a look that said she knew I was in over my head.
“Champagne?” Christopher asked, handing me the glass of pale gold bubbles. His warm fingers brushed my hand and I craved champagne like I never had before. He wore a light-hearted smile, which took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected any and I’d already had several. “I’ll try these on straight away. I know we’re on a tight schedule. Go back to your questions. I can do two things at once.”
I had no doubt about that.
He removed a few items from the rack while I settled in the chair closest to his dressing room and took the moment of relative privacy to compose myself. I patted my forehead with my fingers and took several deep breaths.
“Uh, so, back to what we were talking about earlier. Why was it important to make a personal record?” I asked, raising my voice even though there was only a fabric curtain separating us.
“Um, well…” He was quiet for a moment and I worried I’d touched a nerve already. He pulled back the curtain and strode out in unmistakably well-made black dress pants and his black leather shoes, untied. “What do you think?”
It took painful amounts of self-control to refrain from dropping my jaw to the floor or simply fainting. “Great. They look really, really great.” I stared. “Perfect length,” I added, so as not to dwell on how great they were or reveal what part of him I’d been ogling.
He checked out his butt in the mirror. “These don’t give me a square bottom, do they?” He wagged his hips and smiled at me again. “No, I think they’ll work bloody well.” He stepped back into the dressing room and zipped the curtain closed.
I considered re-phrasing my question, but he surprised me by returning to the topic.
“As you probably know, I’ve had some rough patches over the last few years. I really needed to clear my head, especially after my divorce. Writing music is my way of working through these things. I’m not the bloke who goes to a therapist.” He stopped and the quiet made me wonder what was happening behind the curtain. “I didn’t know that sorting through my personal issues would turn into a record. I didn’t plan it.”
“At what point did you realize that you had enough material to record?” The question was immediate and natural. It was such a relief to feel like I was getting into a groove. Although I loved to look at him, it was much easier when he was hidden from view, when his physical presence wasn’t pulling me in seven different directions.
“It happened quickly. Once I reached the point where I was writing good music and exploring things on a personal level, I couldn’t stop. It was complete catharsis. It was only a few weeks before I had eight or nine songs.”
He emerged from behind the curtain again and turned to face me in a marine blue dress-shirt with a texture like superfine embroidery. He hadn’t bothered with most of the buttons and I could see more than a conciliatory patch of his chest. The lightweight gray wool pants he was wearing looked as if they’d already been to the tailor—the fit couldn’t have been better.
“How many songs did you actually record?” I had to glance away after the first few words. Talking to him while looking at him was a talent I didn’t possess.
“Let me think.” He stared at the ceiling, flaunting his jaw and rubbing his neck while his irresistible smell washed over me. “I went into the studio with easily twenty songs. We recorded fifteen and I believe twelve will end up on the record.” He eased into the chair next to me and finished off the final drops in his glass, setting it on the table between us.
This was all a brand new kind of weird, talking to Christopher Penman while he tried on clothes. I was even getting comfortable with his appearance, but it was more difficult when he’d been out of sight for a minute and reappeared. Then he knocked the breath right out of me.
“So, if many of the songs were about dealing with your divorce, what were the other songs about?”
“The other side of it was dealing with what was my fault. That was more difficult, because it felt horrible to think about what a prat I’d been, but it was ultimately the most rewarding part.”
I nodded, feeling better about my decision to focus on his record at the beginning. It was leading to the other topics and I felt sure it had helped me earn his confidence. The answers seemed to be coming easily now.
“Aside from lyrics, was there anything about the process of writing that contributed to the personal nature of the record?”
He scratched his head. “I had a lot of ‘aha’ moments. They weren’t always thoughts that went into lyrics, but they were part of my state of mind. You can say it any way you want, but the record is the documentary of my mid-life crisis, in feeling and in substance.” He stood and headed back into the dressing room. “This is the last one. Thanks for being such a good sport.”
“Of course,” I called. “Thanks for the private fashion show,” I mumbled under my breath, disbelieving the words.
Mr. Perfect exited his dressing room, remarkable in his own black t-shirt and a mind-blowing pair of jeans. He peered down at me and swept his floppy hair from his forehead. The only thing that could’ve kept me from holding an impolite stare was his question about the pants, “What about these?”
I sat, dumbfounded. If it was all a distraction technique, it was working.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’m starving. I know a great place.”
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EXCERPT: SECRETS OF A (SOMEWHAT) SUNNY GIRL
The only thing that can save Katherine is the one thing she’s never trusted—love.
Chapter One
My sister Amy and I had more than twenty ex-boyfriends between us, a zillion stories about awkward first dates, and miraculously enough, only one declined proposal. Nobody was under the impression the Fuller sisters were saving themselves for marriage. Not even close. But I'd sort of thought we might be saving ourselves from it.
“Engaged? To be married?” I practically had to shout over the noontime rush at Big Time Diner in midtown—waitresses barking at bus boys, dishes clattering, customers yammering.
Amy worked her way out of her charcoal gray suit jacket, draping it neatly over her purse on the seat next to her. “What other kind of engaged is there?” She loved to answer a question with a question. If it was possible to be a born litigation attorney, that was my sister.
“I know. I know. I'm just…” I couldn't say more without my stomach lurching, which made me second-guess my lunch order. Matzoh ball soup might kill me. Or, in the absence of wine, maybe chicken broth could help wash down the news. The secret club I'd thought my sister and I had chartered was a sham. How long had she been planning her escape?
“I’m glad it's not just me. I'm speechless too.” Amy fluttered her fingers, beaming at her diamond and platinum prize like she'd given birth to it. She tucked her neat, blonde bob behind one ear. I'd always envied her high cheekbones, but today they were straight out of a Technicolor film, blushed with every gorgeous shade of a ripe Georgia peach. She got the cheekbones, and the blush, from Mom.
“Speechless. Yes. That's the perfect word.”
Patty, the waitress with the spiky persimmon-orange hair, slid white diner plates ringed in cobalt blue onto our table, putting my forthcoming paper-thin spiel about love and good news on pause, thank God.
“I still can't believe it. It's exciting, right?” Amy's voice reached a pitch like air squeaking out of a pinhole in a balloon. She picked up half of her turkey on rye with one hand, leaving the other hand—the bejeweled one—on display in the center of the table. It was no small feat. Big Time served some of the fattest sandwiches in Manhattan.
“It is.” I nodded, as if that might make my lackluster performance more convincing. I sucked flat diet soda through a straw, stalling again. If only I'd had time to prepare some remarks. If only she'd given me some sign that she and Luke were this serious. I'd assumed she was sleeping at his place most nights because the sex was halfway decent. “I’m just…”
“You're just what, Katherine?” She was losing her patience for my lack of gushing, even while her ocean-blue eyes flickered with optimism as she gazed at the behemoth rock on her ring finger. Diamonds were beyond crazy if you thought about it—a nugget of dirty black carbon subjected to unbearable pressure and unthinkable temperatures until it had no choice but to turn into something sparkly and precious. A sunny person might call it a beautiful metaphor—even the ugliest thing could get better.
It just might take a few billion years.
“I’m wondering…” I innocently slurped my soup. Don't say it. “Did you know you were going to go back on our pact? Like all along?” You are such a miserable excuse for a sister.
She jerked her hand back. “The pact? Are you serious right now? You're supposed to be happy for me.”
“I am happy for you.” It came out as a plea to the universe. Please let me be happy. Is that too much to ask? “I’m ecstatic.” I was going to have to lie until I could get on board with happy. I couldn't tell her how terrified I was. It pained me to think about her getting hurt and if anyone was going to hurt her, it was some dude she'd known for less than a year. Plus, Luke was a little too perfect—clearly spent a lot of time at the gym, had at least a dozen pet names for her, and was always celebrating tiny milestones. Oh, honey. Guess what? This will be the tenth time we've gone out for Chinese food. He had to be hiding something.
Then there was the not-small fact that our family tree had divorces hanging from every branch. The Fullers did not do well with the sanctity of marriage, and that led to divorce, which then led to heartbreak, for everybody, even the bystanders. If Amy's heart got broken, who would pick up the pieces? Me. And I was terrible at picking up pieces. I could never figure out how to glue them back together.
“That was almost nine years ago.” Amy lowered her chin, forcing me to look at her. “It was your idea, and you were drunk when you said it. Remember? Cinco de Mayo?”
“Hey. We had fun that night.”
“And you had five Margaritas.”
“You weren't far behind me.”
“Exactly why this is a stupid conversation. I only said yes to the idea that we should never get married and stay roommates forever, so you'd shut up and get in your own bed.”
It all came back to me. My head hurt just thinking about the hangover that came on May 6th that year. I didn't end up feeling right until June. “God. I got in your bed that night didn't I? I'm sorry. I should never drink tequila. Ever.”
“Exactly.” She punctuated her statement by pointing at me with a french fry.
“You know, I kept the pact when Jason proposed.”
“And you have very big balls to turn down a guy in front of his whole family.”
Jason was the one declined proposal. He'd invited me to dinner at his parents' house in Brooklyn, a lovely old Brownstone so picturesque it was like something out of a romantic comedy. His family was Italian and vocal, nothing like mine, Scandinavian and choking on every slightly impolite thing. I hadn't even taken off my coat before his mom put him on the spot. Look at her. She's beautiful, with the blonde hair and the blue eyes. She looks like a milkmaid. You'll make such pretty babies.
It didn't stop during dinner. Your brother is already married and he's younger. He's going to have children before you. It's not right. You should marry Katherine. She's a keeper. I can tell. After the Tiramisu was proudly presented for dessert, her mother's mother's recipe, she'd dragged Jason into the other room. I'd sat at the table with his dad and younger sister while we heard every word and could only exchange tortured smiles. I'd twisted the cloth napkin in my lap so tightly that I was embarrassed to give it back.
Ma, we're not ready to get married.
Just give her your grandmother's ring. You'll lose her if you don't.
My brain sputtered. A ring? Oh, shit.
What if she says no?
She won't say no.
The next thing I knew, Jason skulked into the dining room, followed by his grinning mother. He sank down to one knee and delivered the most dispassionate proposal a man had ever given. Katherine, will you marry me?
His mother gasped.
I wanted to cry.
And then I'd said what I had to. No. I'm sorry.
I was almost proud when I told Amy what happened. You’d have thought I'd fought off the evil empire, even if I'd crushed a guy's pride in the process. The truth was that Jason and I were not in love, and that was an inescapable point. I came from a long line of people who had not taken that seriously. I was certain I was never meant for marriage anyway—too screwed up, too much nightmarish baggage, some of which my sister carried around as well. I'd only been within spitting distance of love once, with an Irish hottie my sister knew very little about. That guy, the sexy heartbreaker, had been too much to hold onto.
“Look, Katherine. I'm not you. I can't spend every waking minute being pessimistic. I get enough of that at work. Please don't fault me for finding a guy and falling in love.”
My shoulders dropped. “You're right. You're absolutely right. I want what you want. I've spent my whole life wanting you to be happy.” That much was true. That part I didn't have to fake. I'd woken up every morning for the last thirty-two years hoping she'd have a good day, even before she'd been born. It was this thing in the very center of my brain, a drive planted at my conception. Had that ambition come from Mom? Was it God's way of keeping my sister safe? He had to have known our mom wasn't going to be around to do it herself.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Now can we please order some pie? We're supposed to be celebrating, but I can't be late getting back to work.” I flagged Patty, who nodded at me as she poured a silver-haired gentleman a cup of coffee and swiped a stack of empty plastic creamer cups from his table. “When are you going to tell Dad?”
“I’ll call him tonight. He'll just start stressing about when the wedding is going to be and who's going to pay for it and where he should go for a tux. He'll probably book his train ticket as soon as we get off the phone.”
Dad was always planning. He never wanted to be caught off guard. I could relate—Amy inherited supermodel cheekbones and I got a hatred of surprises. “Don't give him a hard time about any of it, okay? I'm sure it'll be emotional for him. You're getting married. It'll probably bring up stuff. You know. About Mom.”
“Yeah. I need to psych myself up for that.”
“Ladies?” Patty asked. “More ketchup?”
I grasped Amy's hand and held it up for Patty to see. “Look at what happened. My little sister. Engaged.” There it was—my happiness. I guess I could muster it if I focused my attention outward. Note to self: stop thinking so much.
The sweetest off-balance smile you'd ever seen broke across Patty's face. She knocked my sister on the shoulder with her knuckle. “Look at you. Getting married. Is it the banker? The one with the tight tush?”
Crimson flushed Amy's face. “Yes. Luke. He asked last night. It was our eight-month anniversary.”
“Which is why we're celebrating with pie.” I was determined to hold on to this flash of happiness. I wanted to love it, give it a name, and keep it in my purse for later. “What do you want, Ames? Chocolate cream? Banana?” I looked up at Patty. “You know me. I'll have coconut.”
Amy dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin. “I don't know. I'm going to have to start thinking about fitting into a dress. Maybe french fries and a sandwich the size of my head is enough indulgence for one day.”
Patty rolled her eyes. She didn't have much patience for healthy pursuits in her place of employment.
“She'll have the chocolate,” I said.
“Got it. On the house. It's a big day.” Patty sidled off.
“Hey, if you're worried about the apartment, don't." Amy pushed her plate aside. "Luke and I already talked about it and we'll pay my half of the rent through the end of the lease.”
It hurt to know they'd already talked about my place in their new life, and that I would apparently be playing the role of difficult older sister. I needed to get used to no longer being consulted about things that involved me.
“You guys don't have to do that. I make good money.” Better than good, actually. My position at the North American Color Institute paid great, thanks to a genetic gift that made me really good at my job—a one-in-a-billion anomaly called tetrachromacy. Most people saw a red rose as two or three shades of that color. But when I looked at that same rose, I saw two or three hundred colors. If I looked at something in the sunlight, the difference between hues was even more pronounced.
“It was Luke's idea, actually.”
“You guys should save your money. Go on an amazing honeymoon. I'll get a roommate if I need one.”
“I know you. You won't get a roommate. We're paying my half of the rent. End of discussion.”
It was sort of adorable when she ended an argument with an assertion, like dad used to when he was tired and grumpy and just wanted us to shut up so he could watch TV. Most of the time, Amy never wanted a disagreement to end. When we were little, Amy turned everything into a negotiation, some of which went on forever. Most of them had revolved around who got to be Barbie and who had to be Skipper, or who got to lick the beaters when we made brownies, but there had been big things we'd had to agree on, too. Like whether we should tell Dad that we were pretty sure Mom was cheating on him.
