He laughed. She reached for the room service menu.
•~•
"So, where did you go to school?"
"Major Illustrations in Manhattan. You?"
"My dad made me go to local art and business schools at the same time. I hardly had time to breathe. But it's to his credit—he supported me the whole way."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight," he said. "And how old are you?"
"I'll be twenty-five next month."
•~•
"Exes?"
"Ugh. Do we have to go into that subject today?" she asked. "Let's save it for tomorrow, when we're upright."
"Okay by me," said Michael.
•~•
"So, you said you were planning on moving soon?"
"Yeah. The lease is up on my apartment and I'm thinking of buying something in Stuart. It's a nice midway point between work and"—he dropped a kiss on her mouth—"you."
"New number. New address. New man?"
"Pretty much. I feel like a new man when I'm with you."
•~•
"I love pink stargazers and red roses," Priscilla said. "Those are my absolute favorite flowers."
"And what's your absolute favorite thing to eat?"
"Eggplant parmesan," she said without hesitation. "Covered with cheese. Gran made a killer eggplant parmesan." Cilla closed her eyes. "I can taste it right now. But even the thought of trying to make it myself, hurts."
Michael hugged her closer, resting his chin atop her head. "I'm sorry I never got to meet her. I really am."
"Do you have a favorite flower?" she asked.
He thought about it. "I guess I like roses. At least I like giving them."
"And your favorite thing to eat?"
"Well, it's hard to pick just one thing,” he said, “but I guess I'd just have to take a good old-fashioned, fully loaded pizza with me to a desert island."
"Ahh," Priscilla said, smiling. "She would've loved you."
•~•
"Tell me about the accident."
Michael sighed. "Well, there's not really that much to tell. That day, my mom picked up my little sister Claire from school as usual, and they were on their way home when a speed demon on his cell phone broadsided the car. It flipped over a gazillion times, and they said they were both dead on impact."
He paused for a moment and Priscilla kept quiet.
"I can't even describe the feeling when I found out," he said looking back. "It didn't seem real. Even after they hadn't come home for days and days and days." He paused. "And eating? Even water tasted bitter in my mouth for like a year after it happened. And my dad? Forget it—he changed completely. I don't think he's ever gotten over it. He became paranoid and controlling...and sometimes downright stifling. It was hard for me to establish boundaries with him. It still is. He put away every single picture of Mom and Claire that we had in the house, and to this day, I have a hard time seeing them."
"Did you two ever get any grief counseling?"
"No. Just my aunts and uncles and other relatives doing the best they could. But of course, life has never been the same." He snuggled deeper into the pillow. "You know, sometimes I'll wonder—for days at a time—who I would be if my mother was still alive, and Claire." Michael's eyes shined with rare tears, but he dried them quickly. "She’d be like twenty years old now."
Priscilla's arms tightened around him.
"I don't cry about it anymore." He sighed heavily. "I hardly even talk about it anymore."
Finding her voice, Priscilla said, "Well, I think this is the one thing you can give yourself permission to cry about for as long as you live," she said. "But I also think it would be a good thing for you to talk about them more, and not be afraid to see their photographs. You should be keeping their memories alive. And I think the same is true for your father—but who says he ever has to get over it? The man lost his wife and his little girl in one fell, unexpected swoop."
"Yeah," Michael replied, thinking about it. "But there's no wound that shouldn't ever heal, Cilla. Or you start losing limbs."
•~•
They had just ordered up lunch when Priscilla's phone chirped a text from her mother. "Ugh— here it comes," she said, picking it up.
After reading the text, she said, "God, I knew it!" and tossed the phone down on the bed.
"What is it?" asked Michael.
"I knew as soon as Doug was gone she'd start squeezing me for more money. I knew it."
Unsure of what to say, Michael kept quiet and waited for her to continue. He was surprised when she turned away covering her mouth, and then burst into tears.
•~•
Priscilla asked, "Is it awful of me to wish she wasn't a part of my life?"
"Well, I haven't heard her side of the story, but from what you've said?" Michael shook his head. "Absolutely not."
Room service arrived with their lunch: giant Italian Panini’s and side salads.
"She remarried a few years ago," Priscilla continued, "but the marriage is pretty dysfunctional. I have only vague memories and tons of photographs of my father." She grabbed a couple of sodas from the fridge in the kitchenette. "They'd never lived together. And I don't think he was ever really serious about her."
"And she took that out on you and Douglas? Even after your dad had died?"
"Yep. She sure did. She could never control her anger and frustration about any issue, and she had zero patience for dealing with children. The dumbest things would set her off and she'd fly into a rage, picking up whatever was nearby and hurling it at our heads. And she would spout the most vile and hurtful things to a kid's heart. Doug and I never knew where the dust would settle by the end of her tirades. We'd run from her and hide, but she'd always find us." Cilla set the drinks down and joined him at the table. "It was awful."
"Well, does she have any good qualities?" Michael asked. "It's a pretty bleak portrait—I never like thinking that anyone's all bad."
"Well. She keeps a clean house. She's got good hygiene. She'll drop spare change in a homeless person's jar." She took the lid off her Panini. "So, no. I guess she's not all bad."
They looked at each other, then burst out laughing.
•~•
They entered the evening with a candlelight dinner of filet mignon, a fine bottle of Pinot noir, and a thoughtful conversation about their passions.
"I'm most inspired by my work, too," said Michael, his eyes glowing. "I love what we've done with Frosted Designs. Designing is one of the best things I've picked up from my dad that I know is invaluable."
"And it's what caused us to meet—your company working for ours."
"Yeah, that's right," he said, loving the way she looked in the candlelight. "It kinda gives new meaning to following your passion."
"And to the importance of listening to your father," she laughed.
"Good point. Because otherwise I wouldn't have been there."
"Well, I'm certainly glad you came."
"Not as glad as I am," Michael said, meaning it so much it was palpable.
After dinner, they had white chocolate cheesecake on the terrace. There was a nice ocean breeze as dusk enveloped the island.
"So," he said, holding her gaze. "I'm glad you didn't decide to 'play it cool.'"
Priscilla smiled. "Me too."
• CHAPTER TWENTY •
Her pot roast was ruined. She had left it in the oven and forgot all about it until the smell of burning meat began to waft through the air. "Great," said Amber, staring down at the charred loaf. "I'm officially losing it."
Reaching for the phone, she ordered a pizza.
She was now being utterly tormented day and night—plagued by the thought of Michael making love to Priscilla Bauer. She couldn't seem to stop thinking about them having sex with each other—when they were doing it, where they were doing it, how they were doing it.
It was brutal.
Depression was clawing at her, but she refused to let it in.
She would not slink off and lick these wounds as if it were even an option—she knew they'd never heal anyway.
Having crunched all afternoon to meet her deadlines, she had finally finished her work for the day. These days there just didn't seem to be enough time for anything other than thinking about and texting Michael. Her last message had been about an hour ago, so as she was getting rid of the pot roast, she realized it was time to touch base again.
Picking up her phone, she sent a text telling him all about how she'd burnt the roast. But Amber was shocked when she received the response:
Number is invalid. Please re-send using a valid 10-digit mobile number or valid short code.
What the...? She stared down at the screen. What?
She tried again, this time just typing: 'Hello?' But the same message came back.
Her heart sank. Oh, my holy God—he's disconnected his number.
At first she just sat there on the sofa, staring at the phone. The possibility had never even entered her mind.
He really wants to cut me off, she thought, truly shaken by the reality of it.
That son of a bitch!
With her face in an angry grimace, Amber quickly found his father's name in her address book and dialed. And with every single ring she willed Larry Frost to pick up.
He can't do this to me, she thought, pacing the living room. He cannot be doing this to me!
"Hello?"
"Mr. Frost, it's Amber," she said politely. "Did Michael get a new cell phone number, by any chance?"
"Uh, no, not to my knowledge, Amber. Why?"
"Well, are you sure? Because I just got this error message when I texted him, saying the number's invalid."
"Well, if he's changed his number, he hasn't told me anything about it." There was a pause. "Amber, I'm in the middle of something right now so I'll have to call you back."
No, goddamn it! she thought in a panic. You need to fucking help me get his new number!
She called Jason next—even though that fat bastard hadn't returned a single one of her calls or texts since any of this shit had started happening. Getting his voicemail once again, she left a message. "Jason, it's Amber. Please call me when you get this, it's important, okay? Thanks."
"I cannot believe he actually changed the number!" she fumed through clenched teeth. "He's had that damn number since high school!"
Oh, Michael! she thought, looking up at the ceiling. Why the hell are you doing this to me? To us?
And for the life of her, she couldn't figure out what the hell she'd ever done except love him?
Just then, the doorbell chimed.
My pizza.
Getting up, she reached for her wallet and dragged herself to the front door.
And later that night, Amber finally reached her breaking point. She had endured enough on her own—clearly this plan wasn't going to work.
Breaking down, she called Elaine and told her the whole story. "So now, I definitely need your help," she sobbed into the phone, vacillating between heartbreak and outrage. "Because we have to find him, Elaine. Disconnecting his phone number? That’s just plain cruel! He’s taking this shit way too far, so now we're just gonna have to teach him a fucking lesson."
• CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE •
"Michael. What the fuck, son? Look, treat me like a man who's your father. Return this call and tell me what the hell you're doing because you can't avoid me forever." A pause. "I am not Amber."
Deleting the message, Michael gently tapped the hotel's phone against his chin. He still didn't feel like explaining anything to his father but he was beginning to feel guilty. He hadn't gone into the office in over two weeks, which meant his dad was left to meet clients alone and Michael knew Larry didn’t like that, as he took great pride in having his son alongside him, and for the time being, that was on pause.
But Michael's life was in flux and he needed the space. Surely his dad could be reasonable enough to understand that?
Then why don't you just tell him that, you idiot? Give him a chance to be reasonable enough.
Of course, he hadn't told Priscilla anything about avoiding his father, for obvious reasons. He didn’t want to lie to her any more than he already had. His relationship with Amber was over—that was a fact—and the only one that mattered as far as he was concerned. Priscilla never needed to know anything else.
Thank God the texts have finally stopped, he thought. They'd gotten pretty ridiculous, almost like Amber's personal version of Groundhog Day.
Shaking off thoughts of Amber, Michael continued on his way to meet the realtor, hoping to find something that suited him fairly quickly. The sooner he closed on a new house, the safer he'd feel about his relationship with Priscilla. As it was, she had no idea he was currently living at the Renaissance Hotel—and with any luck, she wouldn't have to.
•~•
When he got back to his room that evening, he sent a brief but sincere e-mail to his father, asking him for a little space. "I promise I'll be in touch soon, Dad," Michael wrote. "And please stop worrying about Bauer Enterprises. Again, I would never do anything to jeopardize the account."
He felt downright drained when he hit send. Even a one-sided communication with his father had that effect on him. How come? Damned if he understood it.
Throwing himself across the bed, he flipped on the flat screen and tuned in to the History Channel. He hadn't really liked either of the houses he'd seen earlier, so he was due to meet up with the realtor again over the weekend when there would be more time to see a few others.
Feeling the way he did about her, Michael was tempted to invite Priscilla to see the houses with him, but it seemed a bit presumptuous at this stage in their relationship and he didn't want to risk making her uncomfortable.
They had plans to spend the next evening together and Michael drifted off to sleep thinking about it, feeling almost too excited. Like a teenager again. He could hardly wait.
• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •
"Remember, Douglas's interview with Ginger Wallford airs tonight, Cilla,” Charlotte said. “And you know I think it was a mistake not to do it with him."
Who asked you? Priscilla thought.
"Cilla, are you still there? Hello?"
"I'm still here, Mom."
As usual, there was an awkward pause before her mother got around to the real reason she had called. "So, did you get my text about the water heater crapping out on us? We could really use the help, Priscilla. It's around a thousand dollars for one of those hybrid ones and it's worth it. We'd put it on a credit card but, of course, we're maxed out."
"What about the money Doug gave you before he left?"
Silence. "What money?"
"C'mon, Mom. I know Doug just gave you twenty thousand."
Charlotte exhaled. "Look, don't give me a hard time. I'm investing that money, all right? I don't want to touch it."
Priscilla rolled her eyes. "Frank doesn't know about it, does he?"
Silence.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't think it'll kill you to use a thousand of it for a new water heater. You can just tell Frank that Doug bought it."
"So you really think that should be it? You two inherit millions and I have to scrub for a thousand measly dollars? Does that even sound fair?"
Priscilla sighed. "Mom, I have to go. I'm hanging up now."
"Priscill—"
Ending the conversation, she put the final touches on the storyboard she'd been working on when the call had come in, and after checking on Chewy, she headed back to her bedroom and got into the shower.
Michael was coming over for dinner and they planned to watch the Newslight episode together before going for a late night swim.
Thinking about their new relationship made Priscilla's entire body hum with life. She knew she was falling in love, and it felt great. She smiled as the warm water hit her skin, looking forward to ending the day on a happier note with Michael. Her mother's greedy shove was already a distant memory.
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Raindrops on Roses: Book One of the Favorite Things Trilogy Page 11