by Robin Kaye
The tears just flowed, and she didn’t even notice them dripping on the page. When she tried to brush them away, the ink ran. She didn’t know what to do. If Rich looked, he would see it, but then if she took the notebook, he’d know she’d been there too, and he might stop writing her.
She cried through every note he wrote, one for every day they were apart, and by the time she got to the last entry, she was sobbing.
Becca closed the book, and then cried all over Tripod. God she was such a mess. She saw the clock and knew she had to get out of there pretty soon. Rich would be home, and the last thing she wanted to do was run into him now. It was hard enough leaving him when she was irate; now, all she knew was that she missed him so much, it scared her.
She put the cat down and wiped her face on her sleeve, left everything just where she found it, and took off out of the apartment, going the opposite direction from the one she knew Rich would be walking.
Rich turned the corner and saw a woman hurrying down the sidewalk ahead of him. She wore a hat, but the way she walked and dressed reminded him of Becca, but then he’d been having Becca-spottings everywhere he went. The other day at Starbucks, he’d even called out her name and grabbed a strange woman’s elbow. That’s when he decided he needed to get a little more of a life than the one he had. Spending every night writing notes to Becca, notes that she may never see, might not be the best use of his time.
Rich unlocked the door and pushed it open. He pulled off his jacket, took a deep breath, and swore he smelled Becca’s shampoo. “Fuck, that was her.” He hightailed it out of the apartment, down the front steps, and into the street, searching for her. He ran two blocks before he admitted he’d lost her.
He pulled off his cell phone and dialed her. “Becca, it’s Rich. Babe, please come back.” He turned a full circle looking up and down the cross street. “I’m waiting for you, Becca. Come home. If you won’t come back, at least give me a call. I miss the sound of your voice. I miss everything.”
Rich flipped his phone shut, walked back to the apartment, grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, and microwaved the leftover salmon he’d made the other night and didn’t eat. He hoped he’d have better luck tonight but decided that from now on, he probably shouldn’t cook anything he made with Becca here— which was his entire culinary repertoire. The last time he’d stopped at Vinny’s, he borrowed one of his cookbooks and brought it home with him. Maybe if he started cooking, he could get his mind off Becca and onto something useful.
He took his plate out of the microwave and cut off a piece of fish for Tripod, put it on a small plate, and brought them both over to the couch. He set Tripod’s plate on the coffee table, and when Tripod went to sit on Becca’s notebook, Rich pulled it out from under the little guy’s butt. Rich cut a piece of his fish and opened Becca’s notebook to find the ink had run. What the fuck? Shit, the pages were covered with tears. He’d made her cry again.
Chapter 19
RICH WENT INTO WORK THE NEXT MORNING DREADING the day. When he walked past Dean Stewart’s office, he was called in by the dean’s assistant. “Dean Stewart would like to see you, if you have a moment. Just go ahead in.”
“Thanks.” Rich knocked before sticking his head in. “You wanted to see me?”
Dean Stewart waved Rich in while he finished his telephone call. As soon as he hung up the phone, he smiled and rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got some interesting information I think might help you out.”
Rich unbuttoned his trench coat and sat down. “Okay.”
“Now, I hope I’m not making things worse, but I’ve found out that there’s been a deal brewing between Becca, Annabelle Flynn, and Ben Walsh to sell them a majority interest in the Ben Walsh Gallery.”
Rich’s first thought was, way to go, Becca. It would give her a place to show her work, which would have nothing to do with her family. The second thought wasn’t quite as positive. “You said this has been brewing for a while?”
“Yes, they’ve already finalized it. I would think it would take weeks, if not months, to put something like this together.”
“Months, huh?” Rich picked up his briefcase and stood. “I have something personal to take care of. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take the day off. I’ll call one of my doctoral candidates to cover my classes.”
Dean Stewart smiled. “I was hoping that was what you’d say.” Dean Stewart walked around his desk and slapped Rich on the shoulder. “Good luck, Rich. Take as much time as you need.”
Rich set everything up before leaving his office and headed home. Everything made sense now. Like what Aunt Rose said about Becca staying in the city in a man’s home. That man had to be Ben. She’d been living over the gallery the whole time they’d been apart, which meant that she had this deal brewing before they ever split up—not that she saw fit to mention it to him.
The entire time they’d been apart he’d been beating himself up, convinced that the breakup was all his fault. What a joke that was. Well, at least now he knew it was over. He was tired of living in limbo, hoping and praying she’d come to her senses.
As soon as he got home, he locked Tripod in the mud room and started packing Becca’s artwork into the back of his SUV and felt more loss with every piece he removed. The apartment looked empty, like a blank canvas—all the spark, the life that made it his home, dwindled with every trip he made to the car. He lovingly wrapped the statue Becca had made of Annabelle and left it in the crate he’d used to hide it. The only thing left was the first piece Becca had ever done—the one piece that exhibited everything that he loved about her. He sat on the bed, staring at the slightly crooked piece, and knew he should pack it with the rest of her things, but he couldn’t bear to part with it.
Rich let Tripod out and gave him back the toy he’d found hidden in Becca’s bedside table along with several more notebooks. He took all the notebooks he’d found, along with the one he’d been using to write to her, and threw them in the crate. His place looked empty, kind of like the way he felt.
Becca was in the middle of shaping the nose on a face that looked suspiciously like Rich’s. There was a knock on the door. She wiped her hands off. “Come on in.”
She threw the towel down on the workbench, turned, and her breath caught. “Rich.”
God he looked good. He was in jeans and a Henley shirt with a fleece-lined hoodie over it. She didn’t notice the anger until she got to his face.
He put the crate down beside the wall. “I guess I was the last one to hear that you and Annabelle bought the place. I packed the rest of your things and brought them over. The piece you’ve kept under wraps is in there.” He motioned to the crate filled with a half dozen notebooks, her favorite notebook, the one he wrote his letters to her in, was thrown on top. Her stomach took a dip. “Where do you want the rest of it?”
“Rich—”
He held up his hands. “Look, Becca. I know this has been over for you for a long time.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe I was just lying to myself thinking we were ever really together. I know you have to hit me over the head with a two-by-four sometimes to get through my thick skull, but you buying the gallery did it.”
“I didn’t—”
He shook his head. “Let me finish. You made a big stink about me not telling you about my promotion when the whole time you were planning this without ever mentioning it to me? What did you do, talk my sister into keeping it quiet, too?”
She didn’t know what to say; she hadn’t thought about it at the time, but he was right. She didn’t mention it to him, and after she left, because she was so concerned with him finding her, not sure she’d be able to resist him, she had asked Annabelle not to mention it. “I’m sorry.”
He just nodded. “Yeah, me too.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at his boots. “Look, I’ll just move your stuff into the downstairs storeroom, and I’ll be outta your hair and your life. You can figure out what you want to do with it on your own.”
She wanted to grab him and not let him go, but when she stepped forward he turned away from her. “Good luck, Becca. Be happy.”
He turned and walked out, and instead of taking the elevator, he took the stairs. The echo of his footfalls rang out until the door finally clicked shut.
Becca reached for her notebook looking for the notes he’d written her. They were gone. Oh, God.
Becca sat on the couch, hugging herself, wanting to go stop Rich, but not knowing how. It had been so much easier to see him as the guilty party. She thought she’d cried all the tears she could possibly cry over the man, but when she remembered the look on his face, she realized how wrong she was.
Annabelle walked into the studio and slammed the door behind her. “What did you do to him?”
“I hurt him, and he finally gave up on me. I guess I got what I deserve. Oh, God, Annabelle. I lost him.”
“What? You’re just figuring this out now?”
“I don’t know. I was so mad at him, thinking he’d used me to get the position at the university, and then when he asked me to marry him—I guess I kind of freaked out. I didn’t realize that I’d been keeping things from him too. But if I had told him about buying the gallery—”
“He would have known you were rich, and you thought he was only in it for the money. Girlfriend, you really have to work on your self-esteem. Don’t you think anyone could just love you for you?”
“No one ever has before.”
“I have, you idiot. Even when you’re acting like an ass. Like now, for instance.”
Annabelle sat down beside her and gave her a sideways hug. “Okay, at least now you see you were both imbeciles. It happens. The question is what the hell are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do? He’s so angry, and he looked so, I don’t know, shut down.”
“Kinda like he did after he asked you to marry him?”
Becca sniffled and brushed the tears from her eyes, probably leaving streaks of mud. God, she was a mess. “Yeah.”
“Well, what did you do then?”
“I jumped on him and made him listen to me.”
Annabelle rubbed her back. “It worked once. Chances are it will work again. But before you leave, you may want to wash your face and put on prettier clothes, not to mention nicer shoes.” She looked down at the mud-splattered Crocs Becca wore. “I can’t believe you wear those things on purpose.”
Rich stopped on the way home and bought a bottle of Scotch. There was no way he was going to DiNicola’s and getting drunk; he’d rather be alone. When he turned the corner, he found Aunt Rose pressing the intercom and talking to him.
“Aunt Rose, I’m here.”
“You’re late.”
“No I’m not. What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you. You gonna invite me in?”
“Look, Aunt Rose, this really isn’t a good time.”
“You tink I don’t know? You got someting better to do than talk to me?”
Rich shook his head. He might as well get it over with. There would be no drinking until Aunt Rose left. “Fine, come in.”
“I brought you dinner and someting you need.”
All Rich needed right now was the bottle of Johnny Walker Black he carried in the crook of his arm wrapped in a brown paper sack. Still, he carried her shopping cart up the front steps of the brownstone and showed her into the apartment.
“Where’s all of Becca’s art?”
“It’s gone. I just dropped it off at the gallery. Becca, Annabelle, and Ben are partners now. The only thing she has left here is the cat, and she’ll take him as soon as she moves into her new apartment.”
“Ah, I see how it is.” She put her pocketbook down on the breakfast bar in the kitchen and rooted through it.
“Really? Then why are you here? Whatever Becca and I had is over, Aunt Rose. Becca never loved me enough to trust me. She thinks I was after her money.”
“Oh Richie, it’s not you she don’t trust, it’s her. She don’t tink she’s worth loving for anyting but her money. But don’t worry. That won’t last long. Here.” She handed him a small, worn black velvet jeweler’s box. “This I give to you. You’ll need it and a nice dinner.”
“What is it?” Rich opened the box expecting a cross or a St. Christopher’s medal; instead, he found a honking diamond engagement ring. “Wow. What are you giving me this for? I just told you. Becca and I are through.”
Aunt Rose shrugged. “You never know. Me, I know what I know, and I know you need this. Remember what I told you. You want to marry the girl, you ask nice, and you give her a ring. Capisce?”
“Capisce.” What was the point in arguing? Aunt Rose obviously got her wires crossed.
“This ring was always meant for you. I just thought I’d be dead before you needed it.” She crossed herself. “For once I was wrong.” She took the packages into the kitchen. “I’ll put your dinner in the oven to heat. I set’a the timer so you don’t forget.”
“Okay.”
“Take’a the flowers and put them on the table, eh? I brought you my good candlesticks too, so you can be romantic.”
Rich did as he was told and was thrilled when she kissed him good-bye at the door. He was finally alone. He opened his bottle of Scotch, downed a full glass, and went to take a shower in the hope of drowning something, his sorrow, himself—anything would be an improvement over the way he felt right then.
Becca couldn’t believe the getup Annabelle made her change into. You’d think she was going to a costume party dressed as a high-class call girl, not to beg for a second (or was it a third?) chance at love. She pulled down the short, short skirt that had every man on the subway eyeing her. It was almost as bad as the über-uncomfortable, thigh-high, fuck-me boots Annabelle foisted on her. By the time she arrived at Rich’s apartment, she had blisters on top of her blisters and cursed herself for not getting her car out of the damn garage and driving. Shit. What if this didn’t work out? What was she going to do? Get a ride back from Rich? Fuck. It had to work. She certainly wasn’t going to be happy taking public transportation back to the city.
When she entered the apartment, she found an empty glass on the table, Rich’s hoodie thrown on the couch, his humongous work boots kicked off under the coffee table, and the shower running. She peeked into the bedroom and found a trail of his clothes. His jeans, boxer briefs, his shirt littered the floor, and the door to the bathroom was ajar. One little push and the door drifted open. Tripod crouched next to the tub, jumped up, hitting the closed shower curtain, and bounced back down, only to repeat the action. Judging by the amount of steam rolling out of the bathroom and Tripod’s obvious impatience, Rich had been in there awhile.
“Jesus Christ, Tripod. Keep your pants on. I’m getting out. Don’t you dare try to bite me because I’m in no mood to deal with you today, buddy.”
The shower curtain zipped open, and one very hairy leg stepped out, followed by an equally hairy, and beautifully naked, Rich.
Becca stared. “Hi.”
For a second, she wondered if he was going to slam the door in her face. Instead, he turned around and looked for his towel.
He walked past her. “What do you want, Becca?”
“Your towel is hanging on the bed.”
“You came all this way to point that out to me?”
She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”
Rich grabbed his towel, taking the time to dry off his hair and his chest and his back before wrapping it around his waist. “What? You might want to check your list so you don’t forget any pertinent points. We wouldn’t want you to have to come back and finish me off later.”
“I didn’t make a list. I didn’t even think about it. I just came over.”
“Dressed like that?”
“Annabelle made me change.”
Rich nodded, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared.
“The thing is…”
Rich stood there, not movin
g a muscle. He was no help at all.
“What’s the thing, Bec? I’m aging here.”
“So, you’re going to be belligerent? I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
Rich sat on the bed. “Hey, you’re the one who just strolled in here. Uninvited, I might add. Say what you came to say and leave. I’m done.”
“Fine.” She pushed him back down on the bed and straddled him. As Annabelle said, it worked before. She just wished he wasn’t wearing the damn towel. “There, that’s better.” Rich moved his hands to her waist to pick her up and throw her off him, so she hooked her heels under his legs.
“Ouch, watch the spikes, babe.”
“If you don’t want me to have to hurt you, you’ll let me finish.”
“I don’t see how you could possibly hurt me any more than you already have.” Rich blew out a breath, grimaced, and stayed still.
He was really making her work for it, and she had to admit, she probably deserved it. “Would you stop looking at me like that?”
“Like what? Like a crazy woman who just broke my heart, stomped all over it in four-inch heels, and came back to make sure the job was done?”
She lay down on him so they were nose-to-nose. God she’d forgotten how wonderful he felt. “I came back to tell you I love you, and to say I’m sorry, and to ask you…”
“What?”
“Can we just go back to where we were?”
“Where we were an hour and a half ago, or a month ago, before you walked out of my life?”
“How about back to the night you came home from the basketball game?”
She pushed herself back up so she sat on him; it was better to be able to look him in the eye. Rich blew out another frustrated breath, but he didn’t say no, so she figured she’d go for it. “You came home right after I figured out I was in love with you. I love you, you know. I’ve tried to not love you, but I can’t.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel so much better.”
“I should have told you about Ben and Annabelle offering me a partnership, but then you asked me to marry you, and I’m sorry, it completely freaked me out. The thing with the gallery just slipped my mind.”