by Jan O'Hara
“You okay over there?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Her voice was satisfyingly hoarse. “I saw stars.” She lifted her head and regarded him anxiously. “Did you?”
“Yup. But only in a good way.” He’d taken a few minutes to squint at the ceiling, but he’d survived his first post-injury sex without any nasty side effects.
When he could move, he rolled over to grab the phone. “Want anything from room service?”
She shook her head.
When she slipped in to use the shower, he ordered champagne and strawberries, anyway. He was going to spoil her. From what he could tell, she’d only ever worked temporary jobs in the underground economy. There couldn’t have been many opportunities to be treated like a queen.
He said as much when she came out in a cloud of steam, belted in his bathrobe, and exclaimed over the room service tray.
Her eyes glistened suspiciously as she nibbled on a berry. “I spent a summer giving tours in a family winery.” She sipped from her fluted glass. “It was nice, but they didn’t have anything that tasted like this.”
He bet, considering he’d sprung for the best the Thurston could manage at short notice. But it was worth it, he decided, as he padded into the bathroom for a quick splash of his own. Anything for the woman he l—
Anything for Page.
When he emerged, she was naked and reclining on the bed, one arm behind her head. She had taken the rest of the condoms from the bedside table and laid them in a pattern, her naked body at the center.
“X marks the spot,” Page said.
He gave his best pirate impression as he went after her buried treasure.
* * *
✽
When they were finished, Oliver collapsed on his back.
Page remained on her belly, draped over a pillow. She pushed her hair behind her one exposed ear and suddenly erupted with laughter. “Nice touch with the condoms, by the way. I noticed.”
Oliver grinned at her. “You liked that? Wish it had been my idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were a gift from Paul Dubois. At least, he’s the most likely culprit.”
Oliver told her how he’d been shaving the other morning when he’d heard a knock. Though he’d answered the door, quick as a whistle, he’d found a full box of blue contraceptives with no one there to take credit.
Page stiffened.
“Don’t worry. I checked them for tampering, just in case. I won’t get you pregnant.” Oliver rolled over to stroke a finger up her spine and watched the goosebumps propagate along her flesh. “Speaking of responsibilities…in the elevator, you were joking about Mr. Lee, right?”
“Worried you, did I?” Her grin was evil and wide, then abruptly faded. She rolled onto her back. “What if we don’t get him organized in time? What if they turn him away at the border?”
Oliver allowed himself a triumphant smile. “You said we.”
Page’s cheeks filled with satisfying color. Possibly to hide them, she climbed aboard his back and pressed kisses to his neck. “Tell you what.” Her voice was silky and her hair tickled his shoulders. “You say oldsters for one whole day—aloud—and I’ll agree to come.”
“Oh, you’ll be coming all right,” he said, and set out to prove it.
As for whether she would be accompanying him to LA, that was non-negotiable. When you had the bases loaded and your best hitter on deck, you didn’t call for a time-out.
Chapter 22
In the morning, when Oliver emerged from his shower to dress, Page sat on the edge of his bed and watched, her mood oscillating between optimism and flat-out dread.
Don’t reach for them, don’t reach for them, she thought, then sighed when he picked his glasses up from the dresser and settled them on his nose.
Last night had been incredible. Easily the happiest of her life. He’d pleasured her with sex and laughter, affection and warmth. He’d bought her strawberries and champagne because he said she needed spoiling, nearly bringing her to tears. And that was before she saw the room service bill, and understood what he would do for her.
Because of him, her body was relaxed and limber and practically glowing with the feeling of good use. And for the first time in her life, she, the woman who never planned more than a week or two ahead, had begun to dream of forever.
Which made what she was about to do so difficult, yet so very necessary. If you weren’t willing to risk everything for a relationship, it wasn’t worth much.
“Oliver,” she began, “we need to talk.”
He’d been humming under his breath while he fastened an expensive-looking sports watch around his wrist. He looked over at her.
“Sounds ominous,” he said. But the corners of his lips curved upward and his tone was light, like he thought she wanted to discuss which fruit they’d eat at breakfast.
“It doesn’t have to be, but that’ll be up to you,” Page said quietly.
“Oh?” Now she had his attention. He turned and leaned against the dresser.
During Nan’s illness, there had been a period when Page’s grandmother had been able to move her lips but been unable to operate her voice. Of necessity, Page had become somewhat of an expert lip-reader, which was why she had inadvertently “heard” one word in Avis’s message to Oliver.
Glasses.
At the time, in the heat of her own emotion, it meant nothing. But a few minutes ago, when combing her hair, Page’s glance happened to settle on Oliver’s frames and she’d heard the word glasses again.
Without thinking, she’d picked them up and instantly understood. They were duds. Non-prescription lenses designed for fashion or safety. Oliver didn’t require glasses any more than Mrs. Horton needed her hearing aids. He used them as a means to feel safe, as a protective barrier against the world.
Page was willing to bet Avis had figured it out and advised him to get rid of them.
Page didn’t care about Oliver’s glasses. He looked handsome in them, and smart. With all he had been through, if they made it easier for him to function, what was the harm? But if Oliver wasn’t willing to make such a superficial change, what were the chances he would willingly discard more crucial defenses?
They were about to find out.
She told him about her weird adventure in Mrs. A’s room, including the disappearing thief, the selective electronic glitches, and her resulting conversation with Bart.
Oliver listened, his expression moving from puzzlement to skepticism to dawning anger. Behind his glasses, his eyes grew wild.
But at least this time he remained in the room to fight with her, she told herself. Surely that was an improvement from the time in the thrift store.
“And you’re just getting around to telling me this…tale now?” he demanded.
What could she say to that? True, she had essentially gone from Mrs. Arbuckle’s room to the bus, and almost immediately been confronted with Avis’s health problems. But there had been opportunities to come clean. Page simply hadn’t used them.
“You’re right,” she said, plucking at a frayed thread on the bedspread while she kept her eyes on his face. “It was cowardice on my part. I’m rusty at relationships, but I should have said something before we slept together.”
“Ya think?” He paced to the door and back to her. “The timing is one issue. I have a bigger problem with the meddling and dishonesty.”
Meddling. So he didn’t believe her reasons for talking to Bart, then. This was exactly what she had feared.
Page closed her eyes. “Oliver—”
“No. It’s your turn to listen. I don’t care if you’ve read about the accident, or watched replays—”
“I haven’t.” She’d resisted precisely because she wanted to hear it from him.
“—you don’t understand the situation.”
She rose and held out a hand to him.
He took no notice of it.
“So explain it to me,” she said.
�
�Why? So you can ignore my feelings all over again?”
She took a deep breath and prayed for calm. “Look, I know it sounds hokey. If our positions were reversed, I’d be skeptical, too. But I swear I’m telling you the truth about the phone call.”
“I’m going to be explicit. I won’t talk to Bart. Not now, not ever, and certainly not on your timeline.” Oliver rubbed his left temple, and when he caught her looking, dropped his hand. “You had eight years to get over your grandmother. Eight years. Until five days ago, you couldn’t be in the room with someone wearing Second Debut. I might be slow, but I could take another six years to get over what Bart did, and I’d still have you beat.”
It was painful he’d throw that in her face. “True,” she said in a voice that was hatefully shaky. “But maybe if I had someone who cared for me—if I had someone to love—I would have come out of it faster.”
“Or maybe not. The point is, it was your choice. Your timing. I deserve mine.”
She took a shuddering breath and sank on the bed. “You’re right.” He was right. “What now? Where do we go from here?”
He threw up his hands. “The hell if I know.” He stalked to the door.
“Oliver,” she called after him. “Does this mean you don’t want me coming to LA?”
“I don’t know means I don’t know. I need time to think.” He left without a backward glance.
As the electronic lock whirred into action, shutting him out, Page stared at the carpet.
He hadn’t run. She hadn’t run. On paper that sounded great. Why did it feel like anything but an improvement?
Chapter 23
Page did her best to hold on to the hope that Oliver would come around, and a few things were surprisingly helpful.
She had plenty to do, what with ensuring everyone was prepared for the next day’s departure. Everyone except Mr. Lee, that was, because he continued to avoid interception.
She spent the morning double-checking that the oldsters’ computer profiles were complete and their medical insurance had come through. She confirmed they had enough medication to last for the trip’s duration and a few days beyond, in case of further difficulty.
At noon, she took Mavis’s call. Avis was out of surgery and doing well, all things considered. When she was stable, they’d be transferring her to a hospice in Edmonton.
Mavis extracted a promise from Page that she would come for a visit in a few weeks.
Page didn’t bother to mention she might be available sooner, but it helped to know she didn’t have to lose Mavis and Avis on top of Oliver.
By unspoken agreement, she and Oliver split the chores in a way that meant they didn’t have to work together. Though there was no public quarreling, the oldsters seemed to sense the spirit of conflict in the air and were particularly solicitous. Page was the recipient of more back-patting than usual, and Oliver was getting his share of ribbing and little kindnesses.
It soothed her to see him getting those demonstrations of affection.
Most of all, though, what helped was that she loved him—yes, she could admit that to herself now, as she would to him, as soon as Oliver was ready to listen.
She loved him and she trusted her heart.
In the past, she’d always been someone who loved deeply, and loved people who were worthy of that devotion. Why should Oliver be any different?
He was a good man, fundamentally fair. The last time they’d fought, it had taken him a while to come around, but then he’d done all he could to get her back, even going so far as to recruit the oldsters and play dirty. If Page respected his need for space and time, perhaps the same would be true on this occasion.
It might even have happened, too, except for one small event which, in retrospect, she should have foreseen, not that foresight would have granted her any power to change the outcome.
Around five o’clock, as the seniors were gathering for dinner and the serving staff was bustling in with hot chafing trays and baskets of fresh rolls, Page sat on the couch beside Mrs. Horton.
Page’s lack of sleep was catching up with her, and she wanted to put her feet up for five minutes. She had been pulled into a game of cat’s cradle with Mrs. Arbuckle, who had popped in for a social visit.
And so when a towheaded, handsome stranger in his late twenties arrived at the ballroom door, dressed in a stylish and distinctive orange parka, she only needed to raise her eyes from her yarn-entwined hands to catch sight of him.
In that instant she understood why Oliver’s phone had gone unusually quiet in the last few days. After all, why call to connect when you were planning a personal appearance?
“Bart,” she said involuntarily, at the exact moment the man caught sight of her.
A crooked, lady-killer smile overtook the man’s mouth. He started toward her, managing a convincing swagger despite the bulkiness of his winter get-up.
A few feet away, the man responsible for her insomnia was taking a rest in his own particular manner.
He was playing rummy with Paul Dubois and Mr. Bell, trying not to look at Page, failing badly in the attempt. Because it had suddenly occurred to him that he was done, gone, finito. In love. If he didn’t fix this with Page, he’d be losing his heart this time, instead of his vision and brain cells.
He had just admitted this to himself when some disturbance in the air, some sense of disruption in the universe, caused him to glance up.
In that instant, he took in the sight of his girl and his former best friend as they lit up with recognition of one another.
Into his vision, a rosy mist descended in the area not already occupied by dark spots and floaters.
He pushed back from the table with enough force to startle Mrs. Friedel, who dropped her cane.
Fortunately, there weren’t any seniors behind him, because that could have been disastrous. But the cane landed in the path of a gawky, overloaded server carrying a bowl of pomegranate-ginger punch. When the server stumbled, the bowl tipped forward, pouring a gallon of sticky liquid down the back of Mrs. Patel’s sari.
She shrieked—understandable since, under Chef Guy’s instructions, the punch had been chilled to a pleasing four degrees above freezing.
Various servers rushed forward with napkins and towels and, in an inspired moment, a tablecloth Mr. Bell jerked from under the dinner place settings.
In the resulting confusion, no one observed Oliver as he slipped out the ballroom door. He made it up to his room first, and then out the hotel’s rear exit before anyone noticed his absence.
Chapter 24
In his adult life, Oliver couldn’t remember a time when he’d had a more urgent need to move and be alone. Unfortunately, in his haste to leave the Thurston, he’d forgotten his hat. And somewhere between the loading dock and the walking paths, he’d managed to drop a glove. Tonight, despite the relatively warm ambient temperature, a stiff wind was kicking up and finding its way into his hood, and the space around his ears.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered to himself. That’s what came from being raised in a climate where you calibrated activity around water and sunblock, not wind chill.
His options were limited. He could return to the Thurston. But someone was bound to track him down there, and he’d prefer to stay out of prison.
He could press on to Teague’s store, buy more equipment. But it was far enough away he’d be risking the very flesh he wanted to protect. Besides, that would put him back in the company of humans.
Then a signpost loomed on the trail, reminding him of a third choice—temporary shelter in the gazebo he’d glimpsed the night before.
The moon was out and the stars brilliant, the path well-groomed. At a wooden bridge that arched over the creek, and that was lit with fairy lights, he felt the tiniest dent in the foulness of his mood.
A few minutes later, after following a crooked path, he ducked under a snow-laden arbor and set eyes on a sandstone structure. The gazebo was larger than he’d expected, and glassed-in for the
season. It was also deserted.
He stamped his feet to clear them of snow and entered, grateful for a reprieve from the wind, which was becoming downright knife-like.
His phone had a flashlight app, but aside from one wall, which held a giant fieldstone fireplace, the miles of glass allowed enough light to penetrate the gazebo’s interior. After allowing his eyes to adjust, he could see fine.
Benches were arranged in semicircular rows around the fireplace, where an arrangement of kindling awaited the strike of a match. A giant stack of wood stood to the right of the hearth—enough to burn for days. As he strode towards the fireplace, he could see some kind of ribbon decorations along the end of the pews. Was the Thurston preparing for a winter wedding?
An image swam into his mind of Page in a white dress with blue streaks, the benches stuffed with smiling retirees.
Then a noise interrupted his reverie and he turned to see Bart framed in the gazebo’s door.
Oliver should have known. The man had more staying power than a deer tick.
It had been a year since they had seen one another in person. Bart looked hale, fit, hearty, confident. Everything Oliver used to be and everything Oliver had taken for granted.
The familiar swamp of emotions rose, sharp and hot: hatred, envy, affection, love. This was his oldest friend and his former teammate. This was also the man who’d taken away Oliver’s future, and who was trying to muscle in on his present by colluding with Page.
Bart held up Oliver’s lost glove. “I think this would be yours. It’s not like you to have the dropsies. You tryin’ to help me track you down?” When Oliver didn’t move, Bart shrugged and tossed the glove onto one of the benches.
Oliver managed to unlock his jaw. “You shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be talking.” So why are you standing here, dummy? Leave. Despite the thought, Oliver couldn’t make his boots move.
“My lawyer would agree with you,” Bart said, coming further into the gazebo. “Something about ‘handing the plaintiff his case on a platter’.”