Changes

by Judith Arnold

  ***

  This was crazy. She didn’t even know him—and she needed a shower.

  Something peculiar had happened to her Saturday night, when that song had spilled from the jukebox at the Faulk Street Tavern and she and this man—this total stranger—had engaged in a staring contest as intense as a round of steamy sex.

  That was a totally inappropriate thought. She gave her head a brisk shake and turned to view the ocean. The early morning sun hovered just inches above the horizon, painting a streak of splintered light across the waves.

  Crazy.

  Her whole life seemed crazy at the moment.

  Her decision to stay on in Brogan’s Point was definitely crazy. She and Peter were supposed to drive back to Boston yesterday, but she’d sent Peter off alone. “I need more time here at the Ocean Bluff Inn. I think it’s the right place for our wedding, but I want to be sure.”

  “I liked the mansion down in Newport better,” Peter had argued.

  “I hated that place.” Resembling nothing so much as a downsized version of the Palace of Versailles, it had been much too opulent for her tastes, all that Louis XIV furniture, the murals of fat cherubs prancing across the walls, the gilt moldings and frenetic floral patterns on the rugs. People—not least of all the bride and groom—would be rendered invisible, surrounded by such hectic décor. “Besides, I’d like to check out some of those antique dealers we passed on the drive up here,” she’d told Peter. “I might find some gems for Shomback-Sawyer.”

  “We can stop at a few of those places on the way home.” Peter had busied himself draping his shirts neatly on hangers inside his folding suitcase. He’d been so eager to leave, he’d started packing right after breakfast.

  She had been even more eager to stay, to visit the antique dealers, yes, and to absorb the atmosphere of the Ocean Bluff Inn. And also to figure out what had happened when she’d heard the David Bowie song emanating from that wondrous jukebox Saturday night.

  She hadn’t dared to mention the last reason to Peter, however. She’d been as enthralled by the tavern as he’d been appalled by it. Throughout their stroll back to the inn after they’d left the place, he’d muttered about its low-rent ambiance, its even lower-rent customers, and the fact that his beer had been too cold. Or maybe too warm. Or both. Whatever. Something had been drastically wrong with his drink, and he’d found the entire outing horrid.

  So she’d sent him on his way yesterday, after they’d argued and then lapsed into a frosty truce. He would eventually forgive her for staying on in Brogan’s Point. He’d stew and mope for a while, and then get over it. How long could he resent her for spending a few extra days in this quiet North Shore town and bringing in some new business for Shomback-Sawyer? If she transported some treasures back to the antiques dealership, she might even earn a bonus. Not that she or Peter needed the extra income, but money was the sort of thing that impressed him.

  After he had departed, she’d asked Claudia at the inn to line up a rental car for her and enjoyed another delicious tasting-menu meal in the inn’s Sunrise Room, an octagonal, glass-walled dining room facing east, overlooking the ocean. It would be a beautiful space for a wedding reception, and she’d assured herself that was why she’d wanted to dine there. But as she’d worked her way through mouthwatering bites of portobello caps stuffed with gruyere, butterflied shrimp, and asparagus spears wrapped in bacon, she hadn’t thought much about the wedding at all. She’d thought about whether she dared to return to the Faulk Street Tavern.

  She’d decided it would be best not to tempt fate, even though she had no idea what heading back to the tavern for another Irish coffee had to do with fate. Instead, she’d spent Sunday night in her spacious room at the inn, sprawled out on the king-size bed she no longer had to share with Peter. She’d watched television, read, and gone to sleep. In her dreams, a dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger had floated in and out of view, staring at her.

  Now, here he was, with his black , dark waves of hair and his penetrating brown eyes. Here he was, wearing faded jeans and a battered leather jacket which looked gloriously lived in, its surface laced with creases. He’d clasped her hands and hoisted her over the sea wall. He’d spoken to her. He’d asked her to have a cup of coffee with him.

  He’d whispered the refrain of the song the jukebox at the tavern had been playing when their gazes had met and fused.

  He extended his right hand to her. “Nick Fiore,” he said. Did introducing himself mean he was no longer a stranger?

  Whether or not it did, she couldn’t ignore the gesture. Shaking his hand, she said, “Diana Simms.”

  “So. Coffee?”

  She opened her mouth to say no. But what came out was, “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  He motioned with his head toward a street perpendicular to the road that bordered the sea wall—Atlantic Avenue, she believed it was called. “It’s just a short walk. I don’t know how tired you are from your run.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket, a move that kept him from taking her hand, if indeed that was something he’d considered doing. He had been forward enough to invite her for coffee before he even knew her name, after all. And he’d held both her hands for the few seconds it took to hoist her up off the beach and over the wall. Her own hands still felt the warmth of his, the strength of his grip.

  That warmth was enough to make her hesitate. This was crazy, crazy. She halted on the sidewalk as soon as they’d crossed Atlantic Avenue. “I should…shower,” she finally said. She wasn’t about to announce her concerns about her sanity to him.

  His mouth curved in a crooked smile, as if smiling was something he didn’t do that often. “You smell fine. You look fine, too.”

  “My hair’s a disaster.”

  His reluctant smile gave way to a low chuckle. “Riley’s isn’t the Ritz. Trust me—you’re better groomed than most of the people in there.” He lowered his eyes to her body, then back to her face. “Nobody’s even going to notice your hair. They’ll be blinded by your jacket.”

  She laughed, too. Yes, this was crazy—but since he’d gotten her to laugh with him, he’d earned the right to have a cup of coffee with her.

  They ambled up the street in silence, until he paused at a storefront and swung the glass door open. It emitted a tinny jingle as a bell perched above the hinge announced their arrival.

  The coffee shop was packed. At eight a.m. on a Monday morning, this was obviously the place Brogan’s Point’s wage-earners started their day. Men in heavy work clothes and thick-soled boots perched on the stools along the counter like sparrows on an electrical wire. The tables and booths held clusters of men, some in suits and others in denim or canvas work apparel, and women in skirts, pant suits and scrubs. Waitresses circulated with thick porcelain plates containing aromatic omelets and home fries, bowls of oatmeal and glass coffee decanters. Conversation blended with the clink of silverware against plates and the thumps of mugs against Formica tabletops.

  No empty tables, Diana noted with a mixture of disappointment and relief. Maybe they’d be forced to leave, and she could jog back to the inn and regain her mental stability.

  “In the back, Nick,” a waitress hollered to Nick as she scurried past with a couple of empty dishes. Diana took some small comfort in the understanding that he’d given her his real name, and that he was apparently a regular here. The crowd offered her a layer of protection, too. What could happen in a coffee shop with so many witnesses?

  Nick beckoned her to follow him past the packed tables toward the rear of the diner, where, sure enough, a booth stood empty. He gestured her toward one of the banquettes and slid in across the table from her, then tugged a couple napkins from the chrome dispenser at the wall end of the table and laid one in front of her. Beside the dispenser stood salt and pepper shakers and a cylindrical jar of sugar. That seemed so quaint. Even the more humble coffee shops Diana patronized in Boston usual
ly had bowls on every table containing packets of plain sugar, raw sugar, brown sugar, and a variety of no-calorie sweeteners.

  With its maroon leatherette banquettes and checkerboard-tile floor, Riley’s seemed frozen in another decade, another century. All that was missing from their booth was a table-side jukebox.

  Thank heavens for that. Diana dreaded to think what would happen if someone slipped in a quarter and David Bowie’s voice, crooning about changes, rose above the din of chattering customers and waitresses. The effect of his song emerging from a jukebox had been bizarre enough when the length of the Faulk Street Tavern had separated her from Nick. With him just the width of a table away from her, who knew what would happen if they heard that song again?

  Despite the crowd, a waitress materialized at their table almost immediately, carrying two laminated menus. “Back again?” she teased Nick. “You just can’t stay away, can you.”

  “It’s because I’m in love with you, Rita,” he teased back. “If only you’d marry me, we wouldn’t have to keep meeting like this.”

  She laughed and fanned the air with her hand, waving off his flirtation.

  “I’ll just have another coffee,” he told her, then nodded toward Diana. “She’d like a menu.”

  “No, thanks,” Diana said. “Just coffee for me, too.”

  “You should eat something,” he argued. “You just ran, what? Twenty miles?”

  “More like two.”

  “That’s worth a couple of slices of toast, at least. One slice per mile.”

  She shook her head. She had planned to eat breakfast at the inn. But who was to say that an expensive breakfast at the inn would taste better than a piece of toast at this greasy spoon? Given how wonderful the coffee smelled… “All right,” she conceded. “Just one slice, though.”

  “Whole wheat, rye, white, sourdough, seven-grain, English muffin,” the waitress recited. “You look like someone from the city, so don’t order a bagel. Ours are pretty lame. Can’t compete with a good Boston bagel.”

  Diana laughed. “I don’t want a lame bagel. Sourdough, I guess. Just one slice.”

  “The order comes with two.” The waitress pivoted and strode away.

  Diana glared at Nick. “You’ll have to eat one slice.”

  “Demanding, aren’t you.” But he was smiling. Not a crooked smile this time, but a warm, gentle smile that eased the harsh lines of his face and brightened his eyes.

  Was that why she was here with him right now? Because she’d known that somewhere inside him, that smile was waiting for her to set it free?

  She was engaged to be married. She was in the preliminary planning stages for her wedding. She shouldn’t be thinking about Nick Fiore’s smile and his soul-melting brown eyes.

  But she couldn’t very well get up and leave. The man had done nothing wrong. He’d been a complete gentleman, he’d invited her to have coffee with him, and she’d accepted. Perhaps he’d forced the toast on her, but she could forgive him for that.

  It was herself she was having trouble forgiving—for having accepted his polite invitation and letting her mind stray in dangerous directions. She thought about how inviting his smile was, how mesmerizing his gaze. How his rough-hewn features came together into the sort of face a woman could study for a long time without ever getting bored.

  She thought about sweaty sex.

  She needed to make things clear, for her own sake if not for his. “Nick, I’m really not sure why I’m here,” she began—a statement as lame as the bagels in this café were alleged to be.

  “You’re here because of the song.”

  “The David Bowie song?”

  He nodded.

  Before she could question him further, the waitress returned, holding a tray laden with their order. The bread was sliced thick and toasted to a golden brown. It shared the plate with a huge slab of butter. The waitress distributed knives, teaspoons, and a lidded stainless-steel pitcher of milk. “You want any jam?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.” Diana glanced at Nick. He was going to have to eat one of the chunks of bread; he might want jam.

  “We’re good,” he said to the waitress. She gave him a sweet smile. She had to be at least a dozen years older than him, but the soft shine of her eyes told Diana she appreciated Nick in a way that transcended their friendly banter. Diana couldn’t blame her. He was definitely worthy of appreciation.

  Feeling her cheeks grow warm, she lowered her gaze to his hands. Those hands had hoisted her off the beach as if she’d weighed less than air. He had long fingers, sharp, bony knuckles, and an unfashionable watch on a leather strap buckled around his left wrist. No rings. Specifically, no wedding band.

  He nudged aside the travel mug he’d been carrying and wrapped his fingers around the bulky mug the waitress had brought him. Diana found herself wondering what those fingers would feel like brushing against her cheek or wandering through her hair.

  She was engaged, damn it. She had to stop thinking about him that way. This whole situation was nuts.

  But he’d ordered her toast, and she couldn’t very well not eat it.

  She dabbed the tip of her knife into the butter and spread a thin layer across the crisp surface of her bread. “That other slice is for you,” she told him. “Call me demanding if you want, but it’s too much for me to eat.”

  “You just ran a marathon. You need fuel.”

  “I ran from the Ocean Bluff Inn to the jetty. That is not a marathon.”

  “So, what do you think of the OB?”

  It took her a minute to realize he was referring to the Ocean Bluff Inn. She wondered if revealing where she was staying had been a wise idea. Now that he knew where to find her, he could track her down there. He could insinuate himself into her room, into that vast king-size bed with its smooth sheets and its fluffy duvet.

  Oh, for God’s sake. No more thoughts about sex. She absolutely forbade her brain to go there. “It’s lovely,” she said, referring to the inn.

  “And you’re from Boston?”

  He could have guessed that from her discussion of bagels with the waitress. Admitting it to Nick wasn’t revealing any secrets. “Yes.”

  “Just passing through town? Or are you planning to stay for a while?”

  “I’m planning—”a wedding, she ought to say, but didn’t “—to stay for at least a few more days. There are so many little antique dealers in the area. I want to explore.”

  “You’re into antiques?” His face was blank. She couldn’t tell if he was impressed or put off.

  His opinion shouldn’t matter. “It’s my job. I work for an antiques dealership in Boston. Shomback-Sawyer Antiques. While I was here, I figured I could check out some of the local dealers and see if I could find any treasures for our clients in town.”

  “While you were here,” he echoed, his tone casual, his hand reaching across the table to snag the second slice of toast.

  “Yes.”

  He was waiting for her to tell him why she was there. And she should tell him. He could probably figure it out, anyway. His gaze slanted toward her left hand, where her engagement ring glinted in the light from the fluorescent ceiling fixture.

  Yet she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words. He was still a stranger—maybe not a total stranger, since she knew his name, but a stranger nonetheless—and for some inexplicable reason, she couldn’t bring herself to say she was in Brogan’s Point because she thought the Ocean Bluff Inn would be a beautiful venue for her wedding. She couldn’t even bring herself to think about a wedding, about her engagement, about Peter. Merely gazing across the table at Nick Fiore created sensations inside her that she never felt when she was with Peter.

  It was a terribly disloyal thought. But her voice stuck in her throat, the words I’m planning my wedding refusing to emerge. She felt the way she had at the bar Saturday night—as if she were under a spell that robbed her of free will. Saturday night the spell had made her
stare at Nick across a room of drinking, dancing, carousing bar patrons. Today it silenced her when she ought to tell him she was engaged to be married a year from June.

  Then again, he probably couldn’t care less that she was engaged. If she told him, he’d congratulate her, wish her well, maybe joke that he’d bill Peter for the cost of her coffee and toast. Surely he hadn’t bought her breakfast because he was interested in her. Just because her hands still tingled when she recalled the strength of his fingers gripping her, pulling her up over the retaining wall at the beach, didn’t mean that brief contact had affected him in any way.

  Nothing was going on here. Nothing but two people sharing a cup of coffee and an order of toast. Nothing but two strangers who, last Saturday night, had glanced at each other when a silly old David Bowie song played in a beautiful antique jukebox.

  “Do you work?” she asked, glad her voice finally seemed to be functional again.

  Her voice, perhaps, but not her brain. Nick frowned as if she’d spoken in Swahili. She realized her question, emerging from a prolonged silence, was a complete non sequitur, lacking any sort of context.

  “I mean,” she explained, feeling her cheeks grow warm again, “do you have to be at work? Am I keeping you from your job?”

  He smiled. “If I show up at my office at ten instead of nine, no big deal.”

  “Your office?” She did her best to filter any hint of judgment from her tone, but Nick certainly wasn’t dressed like someone who worked in an office.

  “That’s a room where I sit at a desk and look important.” He laughed. She loved when he joked. His laughter smoothed his edges just enough to make him irresistibly handsome. “I coordinate programs for at-risk kids,” he continued. “I spend half my life raising money and the other half dealing with the police, the state’s Department of Youth Services, the schools and the kids themselves. My office is in the community center. I think it used to be a utility closet before someone crammed a desk in there and told me to set up shop. But I don’t spend much time at my desk, so…” He concluded with a shrug.

  “Wow.” His career sounded much more important than selling antiques to wealthy Bostonites. “You’re—what? A social worker?”

  “Something like that,” he said vaguely.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  Another quick, self-deprecating laugh.

  “No, really.” She wanted to lean across the table, give his shoulders a shake, and tell him not to downplay the value of what he did. Actually, she just wanted to lean across the table and grab his shoulders. She deliberately leaned back, pressing into the banquette’s stiff upholstery. “I trade in dusty old stuff rich people want to decorate their houses with. You save lives.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, not quite convincingly. His modesty was sweet, but Diana would bet a whole lot of pricy antiques that he did save lives.

  She munched on her toast, buying time as she sorted her thoughts. She hadn’t been wholly honest with Nick Fiore, and she wasn’t sure she could be. But she couldn’t keep avoiding the truth that sat between them, invisible but as real as the mugs of coffee steaming on the table, the stainless-steel pitcher of milk, the glass cylinder of sugar. She dared to lift her gaze to him and found him watching her, his smile gone, his expression quizzical. Was he as bewildered as she felt? As churning with questions?

  “Did…did something happen Saturday night when the jukebox played that song?” she asked.

  That he didn’t ask her what the hell she was talking about indicated that he also believed something had happened. “I don’t know,” he finally said.

  “Something did happen.”

  He sighed and studied his coffee. The steam rose in a lazy curl of vapor. “Yeah,” he said, then raised the mug and took a sip.

  “What? What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed again, his eyes not meeting hers. She followed their angle and realized he was staring at her diamond ring. “You’re right. I really should get to my office. All those lives waiting to be saved,” he added, his smile fleeting and sardonic. One final swig of coffee drained his mug, and he shifted in his seat to pull his wallet from his hip pocket.

  Minutes later, after Nick had paid the bill and traded a bit more flirtatious banter with the waitress, Diana found herself outside Riley’s, blinking in the glaring morning light. During their time indoors the sun had risen fully and the air, while still blustery, had warmed a few degrees. “Do you need a lift back to the inn?” he asked.

  She would love a lift back to the inn. She would love a little more time in Nick Fiore’s company, trying to fathom what the song they’d heard at the tavern Saturday night had done to them, what it meant, why she felt so disoriented, and why her raising the subject had caused him to stand abruptly and announce that he had to get to work. She would love to grab his shoulders—not to shake them but to pull him toward her, to feel the warmth of his body against hers. She would love to figure out why, after he’d clearly guessed that she was engaged—his obvious scrutiny of her ring implied as much—she couldn’t speak the words, couldn’t tell him the truth, couldn’t admit that she wanted something she couldn’t have, something she shouldn’t want.

  “I need to run,” she said, meaning it literally. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Before he could stop her—as if he’d even want to—she spun and jogged down the sidewalk, back toward Atlantic Avenue and the retaining wall and the beach. Back to the inn. Back to safety.