by Gina Ardito
While I’d fumbled through my explanation, Sam had strolled past me, set the twelve-pack on my kitchen counter, and now stood by the French doors leading out back.
“The backyard,” he replied. “That’s where everybody’s going to be, right? How’s everything going? You need someone to do any heavy lifting? I’m betting you didn’t tell any of your guests that you hurt your knees yesterday. Admit it. You planned to do all the dirty work yourself, didn’t you?” He pulled on the latch and stepped outside.
I had no other option except to follow him.
“Wow,” Sam said, glancing around the backyard. “You’ve been busy.”
He didn’t know the half of it. I’d even weeded the garden, or what passed as a garden these days—three rose bushes and a spiky hedge. Dad had lost interest in landscaping after his diagnosis. The kneeling had nearly killed me, but Sam didn’t need to know that either.
“Who else is coming tonight?”
At last, he’d given me an opening to explain. “See, that’s the thing. Nia’s stuck at work and…” I stopped there. I couldn’t admit I hadn’t invited anyone else but him. He’d suspect some kind of setup.
“…and everybody else already had plans,” he finished for me.
I grabbed the verbal rope he’d tossed and clung with both hands. Sighing dramatically, I shrugged. “That’s what I get for waiting ‘til the last minute to plan a party.”
He nodded. “I’m guessing we won’t need the beer then.”
“Don’t worry. You can take it home with you.” I turned to go back into the kitchen. “Come on. I’m sorry you made the trip over here for nothing.”
“Whoa, wait a second.” He grabbed my hand and stopped me with one foot on the threshold. “Does this mean you’re not planning to feed me now?”
I sputtered. Was he kidding? “I already told you. No one’s coming.”
“I came. And it would be a shame to let that mako go to waste.” He shot his index finger, pistol-like, at the stainless barbecue on the patio. “I’m an excellent grill master. Why don’t you bring those steaks and the corn out here?”
No. This was all wrong. Nia was supposed to have dinner with Sam tonight. Not me. I had to make him leave, make him come back another time. “Maybe we can try again tomorrow.”
“I’ve already got plans for tomorrow. Remember? The fireworks show in the village? I’m on crowd control. Come on, Paige, I’m starving. We’ll create a feast that will make everybody sorry they missed tonight’s dinner.”
“But we can’t.” Oh, powerful argument there, sweetheart.
“Why not?” Sam trampled right over my defenses without moving a muscle. “You have a better offer? Besides, you and I are supposed to be trying a new beginning, right? Isn’t that why you invited me tonight?”
“Yes, but—”
He took a step toward me, and I automatically took a step back. One sooty eyebrow quirked in my direction. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me, Paige.”
“Me? Afraid?” Actually, I was terrified. Every time he came too close, my insides quivered and my brain flew off on vacation. But I forced an easy smile. “Ha.”
His grin infused me like a warm bath. “Prove it. Let’s have dinner out here on the patio. Just the two of us.”
Oh boy. I was in deep trouble.
Stop it, I told myself. Stop reading signals that aren’t there. Sam and I had enjoyed a pleasant enough afternoon together yesterday. So what could one dinner hurt? After all, in case he and Nia ever became an official “couple,” I should probably get used to having him around.
I pointed to the wine chilling in the ice bucket. “Are you any good with a corkscrew?”
“Skip the wine,” he told me with a wave of his hand. “And the beer. A party’s one thing. But for just the two of us, how about something non-alcoholic?”
“Sure. I’ve got iced tea, lemonade, or soda.”
“Soda’s perfect, provided it’s not diet. If that’s all you got, I’ll go with iced tea. You get the drinks and the food while I light the grill.”
Before I could argue, he opened the barbecue lid and fussed with the attached propane tank. One thing I’d learned in my thirty-four years: never attempt to come between a man and his need to “provide fire” to the female populace. Dad was the same way. I think it’s some kind of leftover caveman instinct. The way my luck ran these days, if I argued with Sam, he’d club me over the head and drag me to his lair by my blond locks.
Better to save my energy for a more meaningful disagreement in the future. Which could be any time between five minutes from now and a day or two from now. Trouble never stayed away for more than forty eight hours when it came to me and Sam in close proximity.
He and I had been adversaries for nearly thirty years now. Those days, however, were quickly coming to a close. We were on our way to a new beginning. A friendship. As bizarre an idea as it was, there was something almost comfortable in the way we talked these days. Almost. If only my heart and brain would cooperate.
So I went to fetch the fish and soft drinks—no argument. For the moment.
~~~~
Nia
Valera’s Pub in Water Mill lent me the anonymity I wouldn’t have anywhere in Snug Harbor. Back in the 1930s, the building had housed a dinner theater where live shows, rivaling Broadway’s best, were performed nightly. Valera’s paid homage to that illustrious history with framed black and white photos lining the walls, the original bar still serving drinks, and the curtained stage remaining in use for private parties or corporate events.
Although this was the Sunday night of a huge holiday weekend, we had no long line to fight. Few vacationers ate dinner at 5:30 pm so most of the tables sat unoccupied. With ten miles separating me from my hometown, I didn’t need a table in a dark corner when Aidan and I arrived, but we were escorted to a private spot in the back anyway.
Once we sat down, a perky blond waitress, wearing the traditional red and gold usher’s uniform and with “Chloe” on her red name tag, handed us leather-bound menus and asked to take our drink orders.
I opened my mouth to order a club soda with lime but Aidan stopped me with a gentle touch on my hand. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to choose a wine based on your dinner preference.”
I hesitated, my gaze fixed on his fingers resting on the back of my hand. Was this his way of taking control? How should I respond? I didn’t want to play mind games. Honestly, I’ve never been very good at them. But I had no idea if this “allow me to choose your wine” gimmick was for real or some kind of test.
“I’m sorry if that sounds high-handed,” he said as if I’d spoken my concerns aloud. “It isn’t meant to. I want you to enjoy your meal to the fullest tonight.” He shrugged. “The wine thing is an occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”
Chloe the Waitress’s enthusiastic sigh whistled between us. She sounded impressed, not annoyed. I made a quick decision to follow her lead. “By all means, but I’d like to start with just a club soda with lime,” I said to both of them.
When Chloe turned to Aidan, her entire demeanor switched from “server” to “predator.” She licked her lips, stood up straighter, and turned on the full wattage of her smile. She practically shoved her chest in his face as she leaned closer to him. “And for you, sir?”
For a second or two, I thought of Paige and Kevin the Cretin. I remember how hard I’d laughed when Paige told me about the waitress flirting with her date. Through an excess of giggles that made my stomach hurt, I’d told my sister that if Kevin had been my date, I would have tossed my ice water in his and the waitress’s faces, and then called a cab to take me home.
Now, however, sitting catty-corner to Aidan with a similar situation about to break, I sucked in a breath and waited to see how he’d react to our prowling waitress.
“That sounds good actually.” Despite Chloe’s best efforts, to his credit, he didn’t even glance at her, but kept his eyes completely locked on me. “I’ll have the sam
e.”
The blonde fluffed away, and I released my breath.
“Relax, Nia,” he murmured. “You look like you’re waiting for someone to sneak up behind you and stab you in the shoulder blades. Trust me. I don’t bite. Let’s just have a pleasant meal and get to know one another.”
I tried. Really, I did. I almost succeeded, too. Until I saw Mr. and Mrs. Bergen seated at a table directly across the room from us. With my shoulders hunched to my ears, I quickly whipped open my menu to hide behind. What if they saw me?
Mrs. Bergen and my mother used to be good friends, regulars at PTA and Tupperware parties. When my mother left town, the Bergens stopped socializing with the Wainwrights. In our senior year in high school, though, their son, Glen, asked Paige to the prom. I’d been so happy for her. Poor Paige hadn’t exactly been the queen of popularity in high school. Glen, on the other hand, moved in all the right social circles. Two weeks before the big night, Glen started shooting off his mouth in the gym locker room, announcing to all who’d listen that he’d only asked Paige to be his date because his mother had said “the Wainwright girls were, no doubt, as loose as their mother.” Too bad for Glen, Sam Dillon was in the locker room that afternoon. He beat the snot out of Glen, earning himself three days of in-school suspension and revocation of his prom tickets. Glen immediately cancelled his date with Paige, and I wouldn’t go without her. On prom night, Dad took the two of us out to dinner and the movies so we didn’t have to witness our classmates in their formal wear and limos.
Sixteen years later, my cheeks heated with that familiar flush of shame as I watched Mrs. Bergen lift her wineglass and sip the ruby liquid. When she swallowed, she tilted her head up, and in my direction.
I dove even deeper into the menu. “What looks good tonight?”
“Nia?” Aidan’s fingers curled around the top of my menu, lowering it slightly until our eyes met. “Are you all right?”
“There’s someone over there I don’t want to see,” I said through clenched teeth, then immediately wished I could bite the words back. Oh, God, why had I told him the truth? Now he’d think I was some kind of psycho.
With a deep frown etching his features, he turned to scan the restaurant. “Your boyfriend? Or your husband, maybe?”
“No,” I said quickly. “God, no. Just a snooty old couple I don’t like.”
“Do you want to leave?” He started to rise. “We can go somewhere else if you prefer.”
“No!” I grabbed his wrist. “Sit, please. I don’t want to draw attention to us.”
“Okay, then, how about this?” He slid his chair away from mine until his broad shoulders completely blocked my view of the Bergens. And vice-versa. “Does that work?”
It did, but this whole scene was ridiculous. I’d lost my appetite and my good mood. Worse, he probably thought I’d lost my mind. Shaking my head, I dropped the menu on the table. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to stay here with me if you don’t want to. I can wait ‘til they leave, then slip away.”
He slapped a palm on his closed menu. “Are you kidding? You think I’d leave you here because you ran into someone who made you uncomfortable? After all the obstacles I cleared to get you to agree to have dinner with me? Lady, you’re worth a little inconvenience. You’re worth a lot of inconvenience. Who are those people anyway?”
“No one important.”
His lips tightened, and for a fraction of a second, I saw a slow tic appear in his cheek, but it disappeared beneath his placid expression when I blinked. “Uh-huh. I get it. None of my business. Just tell me they aren’t your husband’s parents, and I’ll drop it.”
On a deep exhale of relief, I smiled. “Nope.”
“So we’re good?”
I nodded.
“Excellent. Then pick up your menu for real this time, tell me what you want for dinner, and I’ll choose a wine to perfectly complement your entrée.”
“What if I want a hotdog?” I teased.
“Especially if you want a hotdog. The wrong wine could completely ruin such a fabulous dinner choice.”
“Lucky for me, then, I have you here to avert disaster.”
His fingers traced the back of my hand, a gentle caress that whispered of tenderness. “Lucky for me you’ve decided to stay.”
I wasn’t so sure he’d continue to voice that opinion all night. “We’ll see.”
Chapter 14
Nia
Despite the dubious start to our evening, Aidan’s charm soon won me over. I’d chosen a duck breast with sweet cherry glaze for dinner, and he’d recommended a Cotes du Rhone wine, a delicious combination that kept my taste buds tingling. Conversation flowed between us easily, perhaps because we stuck to neutral subjects: movies, books, beach conditions, and the traffic that snarled Snug Harbor’s roads all summer. The fact the Bergens left without ever noticing me also went a long way toward putting me at ease.
By the time Chloe the waitress set dessert menus in front of us, the delicious food, the single glass of wine, and my dinner companion’s easygoing style had broken through my defensive walls. I was flexible, flirtatious, fluid.
“I’ll have the brownie a la mode,” I told Chloe, passing back the menu. Yeah, I was that relaxed. Tomorrow, I’d have a chocolate hangover and rue the damage to my waistline, but tonight I planned to indulge my hedonistic side.
“How about coffee?” Aidan asked.
What the heck. Why not? I nodded. “Regular please,” I said to Chloe.
“What can I say?” Aidan grinned, once again keeping his focus on me as he handed the menu to our waitress. “The lady has exceptional taste. I’ll have the same on both.”
Clearly, Chloe was not happy at how my date continued to ignore her not-so-subtle interest. She practically stormed away from our table, her heels thumping over the hardwood floor with more violence than a rabid rhino.
When we were alone again, he cupped my hand in his. “So, tell me about glassblowing.”
I didn’t try to pull away, the sensation too pleasant to withdraw. “What exactly do you want to know?”
“How did you get involved in something so unusual?”
“School trip. I was nine. It was a pretty bad time in my life. We went to this historical village. You know the type? Where the employees all dress in period costumes and show the tourists how colonials used to churn butter and shoe horses and stuff?” At his nod, I continued, “Well, this particular village had a glassblower. He told us how the craft hasn’t changed that much over the centuries and explained its significance to history. Then, while we watched every step, he created the most beautiful bowl I’d ever seen. Thin and fragile-looking with a wide curved lip. The whole thing was decorated with swirls of purple and blue…God, to this day I can still remember every detail of that bowl.”
I dared a glance at him, expecting to see some odd expression aimed at me for waxing poetic about a bowl from twenty-five years ago, but he never blinked, never looked away. His obvious interest spurred me on.
“I was hooked. Of course, since I was only nine, I was far too young to actually work as a glassblower. The heat, the tools involved, it’s too dangerous for any child. But I constantly talked about learning the trade and someday having my own hot spot—to anyone who’d listen. The following year for Christmas, I got my first glassblowing kit.”
“A kit?” His eyes widened in surprise. “They actually sell glassmaking kits for kids?”
Wincing, I sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes and no. This thing must have been from the 1950s. I don’t know where my dad found it—a garage sale, maybe—and compared to the real thing, it was pretty lame, but still extremely dangerous for a child.”
“Your mother must have had a fit when she saw it.”
I shrugged. “She was already gone by then, which is probably why Dad bought me the kit. I told you it was a bad time for me.”
A deep flush stained his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago, and I’m not t
he least bit sensitive about my mom’s loss anymore.” Now I had to change the subject before my nose grew like Pinocchio’s. “I don’t suppose your dad bought you a winemaking kit for Christmas when you were a kid, huh?”
“Hardly.” His lips twisted for a moment, then eased into placidity. “I bet your father’s pretty proud of all you’ve accomplished since you started with that lame but dangerous kit at Christmas.”
“He was. Dad passed away six months ago.”
He slapped a palm to his forehead. “Cripes. I’m sorry. Again. I just keep sticking my foot in my mouth tonight.”
With gentle pressure, I squeezed his fingers. “It’s okay. Really. Why should you know so much about my private life? Unlike you, I’m not Googled that often.”
My joke brought the smile back to his face.
“Now, obviously,” I said, “I know about your parents. You’ve got quite a pedigree. Dad’s the vineyard king of Long Island, and didn’t your mother marry some Italian duke or something?”
“A count, actually.” He lifted his glass of club soda, grinned at me over the rim. “The Conte de Petroni.”
“Would I be showing my ignorance if I asked what the difference was between a duke and a count?”
“As far as you and I are concerned, very little. To my mother and the Conte de Petroni, all the difference in the world. Dukes are usually closer relations to the royal family. Counts are a bit lower on the nobility hierarchy.”
“It’s still impressive,” I replied. “Do they live in a palace?”
He laughed. “They live in his ‘ancestral home.’ I have no idea what it looks like, so don’t ask.”
“You’ve never been there?”
“Nope. Their wedding took place in Manhattan before the lovebirds flew off to the conte’s estate in Italy. Since then, I’ve barely seen my mother. We talk on the phone, but—”
“Excuse me.” Chloe reached between us with two coffee cups. She managed to dither with the china server that held the assortment of sugar packets, effectively becoming a wall between us and cutting off our conversation.