by Jill Barnett
“You must be what? A size eight, about a hundred and twenty-seven pounds.”
“How did you know that?”
“Lucky guess.”
“You can look at a woman and nail her weight and dress size? That was no lucky guess. You must have sisters.”
“One brother. Back in college the guys had running bets on girls’ size and weight. There was money involved, so I won a lot.”
Warning bells went off in her head. This was a man who could accurately guess a woman’s weight, a knowledge that told her one thing: he knew women too well for a man raised without sisters. Bill, the blind date, drove a black Carrera. This was Southern California, land of the automobile, where you were defined by what you drove, and everything about Bill had screamed player. Annalisa told herself Matt could be like Bill, who wanted an arm ornament, who cared more about what the woman he was with and the car he drove said about him. She didn’t think that kind of game was a substitute for love. Sadly, she shook her head. “You men are shallow beings.”
He just gave her a narrow-eyed look that promised he’d get even.
“I don’t want to talk about me or my weight or my dress size. I want to find you a date so you can stop looking at me with that hangdog, I’m-lonely, please-love-me look.”
He laughed then. “Is that how you see me? No wonder you won’t give me a chance.”
She reached out and gently turned his face toward the opposite end of the bar. “Look at that blonde on the last bar stool. See? She has chin-length hair and she’s wearing red.”
He studied her for a moment, then made a face. “Too skinny.”
“Good thing you don’t work in Hollywood. Okay then, someone different.” She scanned the bar, then leaned in closer. “The one with the brown wavy hair. Over there by the telephone.” She gave a nod in that direction. “She looks like Drew Barrymore.”
“That is Drew Barrymore.”
Annalisa studied the woman, then shrugged. “Well, go for it.”
He shook his head. “High maintenance.”
“I’ve always wanted to know what a man’s definition of high maintenance is.”
“Anyone who is on the news.”
“You’re awfully picky.”
“Why do I get the idea that you would like to have added ‘for a man’ to that last statement?”
“Unfair.” She held up her hand. “You didn’t hear me say that, did you?” He just looked at her, reading her too closely to the truth. She had trouble hiding her cynicism. “You’re putting words in my mouth to distract me.”
“I know what I like. I’m selective.”
“You’re a man. You can’t be that selective.”
“See? I was right. You have a chip on your shoulder.”
“That was a joke,” she lied. “Now stop trying to antagonize me.” His expression told her she hadn’t fooled him. “What about the brunette three stools down from her?”
“Now you’re changing the subject.”
“I’m trying to find you a woman. Pay attention, please. Look. She’s gorgeous, voluptuous. Men like that, right? And see her laugh?”
“I like redheads.”
“Do you expect me to believe you only date women with red hair?”
“My tastes in women changed recently.”
“I’m not going to go out with you, Matt.”
“I’ll wait.”
“God, you’re stubborn. You have to be crazy. This project will take almost two years.”
“I’m a patient man.”
“That’s an oxymoron.”
“Funny. See why I like you?”
“You’re nuts. That’s what you are.”
“Nuts about you.”
“You don’t stop, do you?”
“You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
Time to go. She stood and grabbed her purse.
“Thanks for the drink. It’s getting too loud now for me.” He set down his glass. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“That’s not necessary. Stay. Listen to the band. They’re good.” He reached behind her and took her sweater off the back of the bar stool, but didn’t give it to her. “I’ll walk with you. The parking lot is dark.”
“I know self-defense.”
“I’ve seen that tonight, Annalisa.”
“No, really.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “I’m a black belt.”
“Good. You can protect me, then.” He placed her sweater over her shoulders and paused for just a moment with his hands on her. It was a simple thing, an old-fashioned courtesy, but it felt intimate and sexy. He just touched her shoulders, then gave them a small squeeze. For a heartbeat she forgot how to breathe. Outside they stopped, and she turned to tell him good night.
“I’m over there.” He pointed west with his key remote.
Damn, so was she.
“Where are you?” He waited a beat, then asked, “What’s the matter? Did you forget where you parked? Hit the alarm button.”
“No. I’m over that way too.”
He easily guided her with his hand on her elbow. “Good, then you can’t run away from me or from any potential carjackers.”
She had to laugh. “Okay, I’ll walk you to your car and beat off any criminals you might attract.”
“Funny.”
“You poor, frail man, you. What are you, six inches taller than me?”
“I’m six two.”
“Eight inches. I’m five four.”
“I know,” he said with a self-assured grin.
They crossed the parking lot, neither of them talking anymore. She hit her key remote and the lights flashed on her car.
He started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
He raised his key remote, pressed it, and the lights went off on the white truck parked next to her.
“You are obsessed with me,” he said, still laughing.
Over a hundred parking places in the lot, and they were parked next to each other. The word “fate” flashed though her consciousness. She believed there were reasons for the things that happened in life. She believed in patterns. Her feelings were so strong. Every time she looked at him she felt something, which was why she tried to keep things light. She wasn’t ready for a relationship that might burn her. Matthew Banning would set her on fire. And she couldn’t date a man she worked with—a surefire way to destroy love.
He opened her car door for her. She got in, put the key in the ignition, but he didn’t close the door, and leaned on it instead. With her hand on the steering wheel, her other hand on the key, ready to make a clean getaway, she paused for a heartbeat, then made the mistake of looking up at him.
He said her name softly. “I meant what I said before. We’re alike, you and me. We go after what we want.”
“I can’t do this, Matt.”
“Yes, you can.”
She started to say something else completely futile. He held up his hand and stopped her. “I want you. But I’m willing to wait until you’re ready.”
The moment he said it, she melted. He was wearing her down. Matt was wealthy, smart, successful, and too good-looking. If she were him, she would play the heck out of life. Maybe that’s what he’s doing, she thought. Maybe this is his line, his method, this flattering, single-minded pursuit. She let that thought digest, scared and confused. Self-preservation told her she couldn’t start anything with this man she sensed could really break her heart.
“Good night.” He stepped back away from the car.
“Good night, Matthew.” She pulled the door closed.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and she watched him get in his truck. Not a Porsche. Not a Viper. Not a Ferrari. Not a player’s car. It was shiny. It was spotless. And it was a white Chevy truck.
Jud walked into the offices of King Professional Design more determined than confident. Laurel’s daughter sat on the front desk, the phone against her ear as she scribbled on a notepad. She glanced up at him, smiled exactly l
ike her mother, and raised one finger to signal she’d be a minute.
Along the walls were suede sofas flanked by glass tables. Soft light spilled from the ceiling and wall fixtures, and light from a corner window lit a section of the room, which was painted a warm sand color, a soft backdrop for black-framed, white-matted photographs. Next to the industry awards, plaques for outstanding workmanship, and local business commendations hung finished shots of King Design projects: slick stainless steel kitchens with walls of steel cabinets, heavy-duty refrigeration coolers, and multiple cooking and preparation stations. Some of the photographs focused on the chef in the forefront of his streamlined, sleek work space. Written in script on the matting was the name of the restaurant, the chef, and the date.
A matted collage made of a glossy magazine spread hung nearby, from an industry journal called Professional Cooking Now, and it focused on an interview with Laurel. He’d always thought of her as a girl of solitude. Something about growing up without a father left her adrift and formed in her a deeply emotional concoction of doubt and agony. In the photo he studied now she appeared open, confident, proud; the lens had captured her in a genuine moment. It was a strange kind of exposure, because the Laurel he remembered exposed so little of herself.
“Mr. Banning.” Annalisa walked toward him. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”
“Jud. ‘Mr. Banning’ makes me feel old.” Old enough to be her father.
“You certainly aren’t old.” There was heavy pause while she stood there a little awkwardly, watching him with a questioning look. “Did we miss an appointment of some kind?”
“No. No.” He waved a hand and the lie came so easily. “I’m meeting your mother for lunch today.”
“Really? She didn’t say a word to me. Our assistant is out on vacation and the place falls apart when she’s gone, especially Mom’s schedule. She’s in her office. It’s this way.” Annalisa walked down a short hallway past another office, a planning room with a drafting table, bookcases of catalogs and heavy binders, and a small coffee room with a compact kitchen area. She knocked and opened the door. “Mom?”
Laurel stood at her desk, the bright light from the window around her silhouette. “What, sweetie? I—” Her eyes went to him for an empty few seconds, before her mouth clamped shut.
For an instant he felt panic in his heart, and it took him by surprise. He had forgotten how, whenever he saw her, he felt something strong and indefinable.
“Jud’s here for your lunch appointment.” Annalisa turned to him. “It was good to see you again. Bye, Mom.”
Laurel crossed her arms, her stance and expression mulish. “Just what lunch would that be?”
More telling than words were all his roses in a vase on her desk. He touched one and said, “You never called, so I came in person. Thanks for the cactus.”
“This is ridiculous.” She sat down in her chair, then started to say something, but her gaze went past him to where Annalisa walked across the hall, waved at her mother, and disappeared in the other office. A second or two later, he heard the copy machine. Frustration was all over Laurel’s face when she leaned toward him and whispered, “Why are you doing this?”
“What?”
Annalisa poked her head inside. “I’m off to the job site. Enjoy your lunch.”
He waited until he heard the front door close. “I want to take you to lunch. We have an unresolved past. Now we’re doing business together. We should bury the hatchet.”
“Why do I have the feeling you’re going to bury it in me?”
He held up his hands. “Truce.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“That should be my line.”
Her face fell and she looked as if he had slapped her. It was a sad thing, the way a man’s ego could balloon over time. He had a bad case of wounded pride, which had just boiled to the surface. Rather than apologizing, he said calmly, “Let’s talk over a sandwich.”
“Talk about what?”
“Your business. Your daughter. Your life since 1970.”
“You’re not going to go away, are you?”
“No.”
She studied him, her expression taut while she tapped her fingers against the desktop, either angry or nervous. But within seconds he could see her come to a decision. “Okay. Let’s go.” She grabbed her purse.
Outside, the bright sunlight bounced off the building’s metal pillars and mirrored glass and caught the pale gold highlights of her hair. “I like you blond,” he said, and she stopped to touch her hair as she had before. She wore it in a length between her shoulders and chin, and the ends curled softly under, framing and amplifying the loveliness of her face like parentheses.
“Change is good,” she said briskly. “Letting go is even better.”
That was how the conversation went on the drive to the restaurant. She said little, gave him one-or two-word answers heavy with innuendo, and he thought he might never get through to the Laurel in the photograph.
After a few tense minutes, she sagged back against the seat. She didn’t wear the same deer-in-the-headlights look from the cocktail party and the office. “This isn’t much of a truce, is it?”
“No. I know I forced you to do this,” he said. “Believe it or not, I didn’t plan it. Annalisa asked me why I was there.”
“Why were you there?”
“I wanted to see you, then the opportunity for lunch presented itself.”
“So you lied.”
“You don’t get what you want in this world by letting opportunity slip by.”
“You know, you are the second person I’ve heard that from. Do I look that passive?”
“I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me.” He pulled up to the restaurant and her mood switched and she was laughing.
“Do you come here often?” she asked.
He rested his arms on the steering wheel and said, “You don’t like this restaurant.”
“It’s great. Can’t let opportunity slip by,” she said brightly. “Let’s go.” Then she was out of the car.
He caught up with her inside. “What’s so damned funny?”
“Laurel!” The maitre d’ enveloped her in a bear hug, and suddenly they were talking a mile a minute about his daughter and hers, last month’s menu, the fresh flowers, lobsters, while Jud stood there feeling foolish and completely useless.
The host caught his eye. “Mr. Banning. I didn’t see you.”
“We’re together, Thomas,” Laurel spoke first.
“Then I have the best table for the two of you.” Thomas took them to the same intimate spot where Kelly had walked out on him. Through the polished windows the great wide Pacific spread out before them, sunlight catching across its blue corrugated surface. The skies were even bluer, the kind of day that could lull you into thinking falling in love was easy.
Within seconds, waiters and busmen buzzed like hovercraft around their table. Their ice water was poured instantly, napkins were placed in their laps, and the first few minutes were made up of small talk between Laurel and almost every employee there.
When the last one left, he said, “Okay. I got the joke. This is one of your design projects.”
“Never been here in my life,” she said with a straight face.
“Why do I think the chef is going to come out here and take your order?” He glanced at the menu, then it hit him, one of those moments when you feel like a real stupid ass. “This is a Beric King restaurant, as in King Professional Design.”
“He’s my ex.”
Jud wasn’t exactly prepared for how that news hit him. He had met the man, had eaten his exquisite, unparalleled cuisine at entertainment balls, and often favored his local restaurants, where like here, they knew him by name. But imagining Laurel married to the enigmatic Beric King struck him hard. After so many years he had forgotten what the hot flare of jealousy could feel like, although common sense told him that feeling anything was plain stupid. So he ordered a single-malt scotch
to her Viognier. “You know Matthew just signed him as the chef for the Camino Cliff restaurants.”
“I know,” she said. “Boy, do I know.”
Her tone said more than anything about the state of her relationship with her ex-husband. He knew then that she had divorced Beric King, not the other way around. Some part of him hoped her ex was a lousy husband and Laurel wasn’t one of those people who always left. He wasn’t sorry he ordered the scotch. He wasn’t one to sort out his feelings on the cuff.
“Beric’s been waving the contract in our faces. He never does anything halfway. He’ll create havoc in the planning, want to run the whole project, will tell you everything you are doing wrong, and change his mind over and over again.” She raised her wineglass in a mock toast and took a drink. “Welcome to my nightmare.”
“Matt’s running the project, so he’ll be the one to deal with Beric. But—” Jud shook his head, laughed slightly, because what else could you do when coincidence made the world suddenly so much smaller and you found yourself caught in the ever-shrinking consequences?—“I’m the one who suggested him.”
“You might want to take my knife away before you admit to something like that.”
He set down his menu and braced his elbows on the table, looking her square in the eye. “Tell you what. I’m going to let you order for me instead. It’s your chance to get even.”
“Damn you, Jud. You know I can’t use food as a weapon. My culinary pride won’t let me order anything but the best. Stop grinning, you bastard,” she said sweetly, “or I might order you calf’s brains. They are quite a delicacy. And God knows a serving of brains would never hurt a man.”
“Ouch,” he said, taking a drink. “You don’t need knives, Jailbait. Your words are sharp enough.”
She leaned forward and whispered, “You should probably stop calling me that.”
He shrugged. “We had a past. You can’t hide from that fact. It won’t disappear just because it makes you uncomfortable.” He set down his drink and asked, “Why is that?”
It took a long time for her to answer. “The truth is I’m not sure what you want from me.”
“Neither am I,” he lied again, and the waiter came over, listening while Laurel began the order. Jud took a moment and thought about why he was here. Their intimate connection had never faded for him, and he was loath to admit he carried her memory with him—exquisite and painful, confused. Sometimes over the years a thought of her would spread darkness over a great moment. An eerie sense of unfinished business had followed him all the days of his life since.