by Sylvie Fox
They ate in the kitchen. The light from the range hood, the only illumination in the room, created an oddly romantic atmosphere. They relived much of the day, reigniting the joy they had felt at giving back. He told her that Dean Callas had described the experience as transforming for the Esperanza Nueva kids. They hadn’t realized that while they didn’t have it so great, at least they had parents and families around.
“How old is that couch I fell asleep on?”
“The Edwardian settee you mean?” Holly clarified. “It was handed down to my grandmother. From the early 1900s. Like most of the furniture here and in storage, my grandparents passed it down. It holds a lot of memories, some good, and some bad—but all important, I guess.”
“Tell me one of the good ones.”
Holly’s eyes became unfocused as she turned inward, reliving old memories. “Nana used to tell me how Gramps proposed to her on that settee. She was living in the outskirts of London during the war and met Gramps there while volunteering to help the Allied servicemen. They dated for a while, and when the Allies declared victory, he came to my great-grandparents’ house. I think the house had suffered in the bombing, but some of the living areas were spared.
“Anyway, Nana always tells how my Gramps, young and shy, and unapologetically American came into this really conservative British household and asked for her hand in marriage. She was sitting on that exact couch, as you call it, and he knelt down on one knee and asked her to marry him. When she came to America as a war bride, she felt very alone and disconnected from the place she grew up, so her parents shipped this over to help with her homesickness.”
After they companionably cleaned the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher, Holly felt the same familiar awkwardness that plagued her whenever Nick was getting too close. But she wanted to be with him, rules be damned. “Do you want to stay over tonight?” she asked in what she hope sounded offhand.
If she were looking at Nick instead of looking down, Holly would have seen the look of relief and a little bit of triumph in his eyes.
When they were nestled under the covers, Holly comfortably lying in his arms, he quietly whispered another question. “What’s the worst memory you have on that settee of yours?”
She sighed. “I think it was the time I realized that my parents weren’t coming back. When they first disappeared, I was young and didn’t quite understand what had happened. Little kids don’t understand death. Later, though, I was mad at my grandparents for some stupid reason that I don’t even remember. I told them I was packing my bags and going home. They explained it the same way they always had, but I got it that day that my parents were dead and never, ever coming back. I remember crying for a very long time, tracing the gold thread that wove its way through the cushions.”
Nick felt warm damp tears streak down his shoulder, and he pulled her tighter to him, sorry he had made her cry.
In the dim light of the room, he watched Holly’s eyes flutter closed, her breathing deepen. He had tried to express what he really wanted to say to her the last couple of days without saying it directly, instead by doing everything he could to make Holly’s life easier. When he was sure she was asleep, he lay back, shielding his eyes from the streetlight that lit up slivers of her bedroom, and spoke from his heart. “Holly, despite your rules, I’m falling in love with you.” Nick whispered, knowing he was the only one who heard. “You mean more to me than you know. I want to make beautiful memories for you, for us.”
For the first time in the two months they’d been “together,” they slept together without making love. He couldn’t remember when just sleeping with a woman had been so satisfying.
“I never stay in bed this late, especially two days in a row,” Holly said stretching, then yawning lazily.
“Hey, sleepyhead, don’t fret. I’m in no hurry. You’re the only person on my agenda today.”
“Do you… I mean, I could make you breakfast or something if you want before I get to my usual list of errands.”
“I love your cooking, but I’m not asking you to do that this morning. Is there anything you have to do that can’t wait?”
“No,” she said. Sure, she needed to tackle the shopping, cleaning, and other stuff that she hadn’t yet done that weekend, but suddenly seemed less interesting than what Nick had in mind. “Not really.”
“Then let me surprise you,” Nick said. “Why don’t you get dressed?”
Holly quickly put herself together, trying to ignore Nick’s seeming comfort with her morning routine. Given the vagaries of Los Angeles weather, she layered her clothing. They could end up anywhere from the mountains to the beach, which were both blustery and cold this time of year. On the other hand, if Nick drove for an hour, they could be in the desert with its relentless sun. She donned a sleeveless turtleneck, a Fair Isle patterned wool and angora sweater, and took along a jacket for good measure. Despite the cool and foggy morning, Nick put the top down and they cruised along the Santa Monica freeway, which was for once mercifully free of traffic.
When they emerged from the freeway tunnel and transitioned onto the Pacific Coast Highway, Holly took in the awesome sight of the Pacific Ocean. No matter how long she lived in Los Angeles, she never tired of the sea. This late in the morning, they passed wet-suited surfers coming in from hitting the waves, walking their boards across the PCH, as locals called it, toward the beach restaurants for a late brunch.
It was fun being in beautiful, natural surroundings, the convertible following the contours of the land, the Santa Monica Mountains jutting up on the right; the coastline, jagged and rocky in some places, sandy in others, flanking their left. They passed the quaint center of the Pacific Palisades and came to the shores of Malibu.
Nick pulled off the highway on to a winding road that spiraled to the top of a hill. At the restaurant’s entrance, they left the Mercedes with a valet, and stepped on to the quaintest patio Holly had ever seen. The hostess greeted them warmly, and Nick mentioned their eleven o’clock reservation. He had made a reservation. Holly thought Nick flew by the seat of his pants. They’d never really had plans. He usually called only half an hour before they got together. When had he arranged all of this?
They were led to a patio table, which overlooked the Malibu cliffs. Star jasmine wove through the patio’s trellis frame, giving the patio a light but pleasant vanilla-like fragrance. Though it was a chilly morning, high above the water, the patio was flanked with outdoor gas heaters going at full blast, which made Holly feel downright cozy.
Conversation came surprisingly easily. Thankfully, they were back in the rhythm of old friends. Holly learned more about Nick’s documentaries. He was finishing up the editing on the film about the kids and Esperanza Nueva, and his partner Helena was preparing entries for the film festivals that would be juried early next year.
For just an instant, a twinge of jealousy twisted her gut. Nick spoke so fondly of Helena. But Holly quickly shook it off. It was only appropriate that Nick speak of his partner and friend with warmth. There wasn’t exactly an appropriate term of endearment for your three-times-a week booty call. Every last person had a place in Nick’s life, Helena, his other colleagues, his dad. Holly, his sex partner didn’t, and it was her own doing. It shouldn’t have rubbed her the wrong way, but it did.
Their waitress appeared, and Holly ordered a pot of English tea and the ricotta cheese and seasonal berry pancakes. Nick chose Eggs Benedict served on homemade corn tortillas. Her meal was absolutely delicious, but Holly still eyed Nick’s breakfast covetously, thinking maybe she should have ordered eggs instead. Finally, Nick paused about halfway through his plate.
“You want to switch breakfasts?”
Holly had been caught. “No. Okay… yes. Do you mind? It just looks so good.”
“No, I don’t mind,” he said shaking his head ruefully. “This way we both get to try different things.”
Holly was warmed by his generosity. Drew hadn’t believed in sharing. On more than one occasion, h
e’d batted her hand away when she’d tried to sneak a morsel from his plate. Eventually, the waitress came to clear their plates. Holly poured and savored the last of her sweet milky tea, while Nick finished his mineral water. She watched the strong column of his throat and his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. An answering achiness caused her to shift, cross her legs in response.
What was wrong with her? When did the simple act of watching this man drink water bring her to the knife-edge of desire? Nick placed his empty glass on the table and watched her watch him.
His smile, though, was enigmatic. Nick leaned forward, his hand grazing Holly’s cheek. He carefully tucked her hair behind her ears so her whole face was exposed to his view. “Holly, I need to say a few things.” Before she could shake her head in protest, he continued. “Just listen, please. I want you to think about what I’m saying, what I’m going to ask you, but I don’t want you to answer me today.” Nick’s eyes fastened on hers as he exhaled—as if he were gathering his strength, his resolve.
“Holly, I love your hair, your smile, your spirit,” he began. “I know you’re not looking for a relationship with me at this stage in your life. But I enjoy having a good time with you, and I want more. I want to be fully committed to you.” Nick paused and shook his head. “I don’t want to beat around the bush here. I love you, Holly. I’ve wanted to say that every time I see you, every time we make love, but I’ve been trying to honor your wishes. I’m not just here for the short term. I want to marry you, someday.”
Holly’s stomach bottomed out. To save the last bit of sanity she had left, she tried to completely ignore what he’d just said. She started to interrupt him, to stop him from saying anything further, but before she could utter a word, he placed a finger to her lips. She immediately felt that same thrill of desire she now associated with Nick, but there was another feeling there as well, lurking under the surface—a feeling she wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge or return.
“Nick, I’m not ready for this. This is why I wanted certain rules. We should not be having this conversation,” Holly said, pleading with her eyes for more space, more time to figure out what was going on between them before putting a name to it.
“I don’t need you to answer me now. Just think about what I said. I know there could be an ‘us’ if you’ll just let it happen.” His fingers cupped her head tilting her face toward his. “Helena and I are going to New York this week to meet with some cable network folks for a new documentary we’re trying to get funding for. Think about what I said while I’m gone. If it’s easier for you, I won’t call you—that way you can decide whether you want there to be an ‘us’ with no pressure from me.”
Nick hoped his face didn’t reveal his longing for her to say yes to him, to them. This was the first time in his life that he really wanted something—someone—but was almost powerless to make it happen. He nearly ached with his need to possess her.
He leaned back, working at making his face neutral, and the mood changed. After flagging down their waitress, he settled the bill. When he turned back to her, he made sure his face was light, as if erasing the previous conversation. “No more heavy talk. I promised you a fun, frolicking day, so let’s get to it.”
The day had warmed considerably as they drove south on the PCH. Holly didn’t need her jacket but was happy to have the sweater to keep the wind from raising goose bumps on her arms. At first, Holly didn’t recognize the turn-off they made into Santa Monica. They parked behind a series of interconnected buildings that looked like an old train depot.
“Are we at Bergamot Station?” she asked, suddenly recalling articles she’d read about the area’s renaissance. The reclaimed train depot housed the Santa Monica Museum of Art and a few other galleries of local artists. “I’ve always wanted to come here.”
Nick nodded. “You mentioned it a few years ago during a dinner at your house. I think you’ll like the current exhibition.”
She gasped then coughed to hide her reaction. He remembered that? Nick had remembered that little detail from small talk at a party? She pulled her trembling fist from where it covered her mouth and laid it against her stomach, hoping for calm. His feelings might be real. How could she have failed to see that this ‘relationship’ or whatever it was—meant that much to Nick? And he was right, she loved the museum. The exhibition was a selection of paintings by lesser known English and American artists from the early twentieth century. It was the kind of art her grandparents had collected and passed down to her.
For more than an hour, as she wandered among the artists’ works, Holly tried to work out what would happen next with Nick. Determined to put the hard questions off for a time, she wandered among the art. Some of it was achingly familiar, others canvases were new, but similar in style to the paintings that had surrounded her when she was growing up. Nick asked a few questions about the artists and the paintings but was generally quiet, respectful of her contemplation.
After leaving the exhibit, they wandered among the many galleries sharing the space at the station. At one point, Holly considered buying a painting but decided against the indulgence. Her apartment barely had enough space for her grandmother’s things, much less additional furniture or art.
Nick’s exuberance was infectious. He was having a good time and by extension so was Holly. When they had toured a number of galleries and had their fill of art, Holly couldn’t wait to see what Nick had planned for the rest of the day.
“So what’s next?” she asked, expectantly.
Nick smiled mischievously. “Holly, and I say this only in the kindest way, I think we need to loosen you up. Age is a state of mind. You’re still young. So I thought we’d do something you’d never do on your own.”
Holly quelled her slight trepidation. His enthusiasm was infectious. “Okay, I’m game.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Once in Nick’s convertible, they made the short drive west on Pico Boulevard to one of the public parking lots on the beach. They walked on The Strand, the small pedestrian walkway that followed the contours of the Pacific’s coastline. To the right of them cyclists, runners, and in-line skaters enjoyed the sun and sand. Nick clasped her hand as they walked, and for once Holly didn’t pull away. It felt good. She was going to let herself feel good with Nick. She couldn’t promise that she’d agree to the relationship he asked for, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy him like he was a real boyfriend, instead of just her boy-toy lover.
While they walked along the beach, she looked back and forth at the street vendors' wares . Some were selling art, others jewelry, still others appeared to be selling nothing more than a hope for world peace. There were also the ubiquitous, hugely built guys working out at Muscle Beach. The throng of people wove a tapestry that was uniquely Venice Beach. When Nick led Holly to a woman displaying beautifully intricate tattoo designs, Holly looked at Nick hesitantly. “Nick, I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this.”
Nick laughed out loud at her quip. “Don’t worry, they’re not permanent. They’re henna tattoos. No beer necessary.”
The young Indian woman who ran the stand sized them up as likely buyers.
“Hi, I’m Mala,” she said grasping their hands in both of hers. “Are you thinking of getting some henna art?”
Holly shook her head while Nick nodded. Mala laughed. “Don’t worry, they wash off in three to four weeks. I think something like this,” she said gesturing to a few intricate designs, “would look beautiful on your skin.” Mala looked slyly at Nick. “Plus, I think your boyfriend would really like it.” Holly started to correct her but changed her mind when she saw the happy look on Nick’s face.
She was going to do it. Why the heck not? Even Sophie had a tattoo, though hers was permanent. Holly had always secretly admired the young girls who tattooed the small of their backs and wore low rise jeans to show them off.
Though Holly knew she wasn’t the kind to permanently alter her body, she was intrigued by the idea of having a sexy temporar
y tattoo that only she and Nick knew about. After looking at the designs the artist displayed, Holly decided to have a labyrinthine flower design applied to the small of her back. After changing out of her jeans behind a makeshift screen, Holly laid face down on the massage chair and let the tattoo artist do her work. Since Mala said it would take about fifteen minutes, Nick volunteered to get them some water. Mala kept up a patter the entire time she deftly flicked the tiny natural bristle brush along Holly’s back.
“Your boyfriend’s real cute. He seems nice, too.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just… ” Holly trailed off, uncertain how to finish her thought.
“If he isn’t your boyfriend, you should snap him up before someone else does. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be alone for long.”
When Mala was done, Holly changed back into her street clothes and opened her purse to pay.
Mala motioned for her to put away her wallet. “Your ‘non-boyfriend’ already paid and gave me a nice tip. Just follow the directions on this sheet, and be sure to keep that hunky guy warm at night.” Mala winked as she handed Holly instructions on maintaining her temporary tattoo. Nick chose that moment to join them. The women broke into simultaneous laughter.
“It’s nothing,” Holly said, opening the plastic bottle and taking a swig of the cold water Nick had brought. “Onward to the next adventure.”
“Now the fun begins,” Nick said. “Let’s stop at the grocery store, then go home.”
When they pulled up to Ralph’s, further east on Pico Boulevard, Holly’s curiosity got the best of her. “What are we getting?”
“You’ll see. C’mon.” Nick grabbed her hand and they trotted to the automatic doors. He grabbed a basket and headed toward the back of the store. “I tell you what. You pick a beer for us to drink, and I’ll get the food.” Holly wandered over to the refrigerator aisle and considered the hundreds of beers on offer. She remembered having some good Belgian beers some years before in Europe, and she picked up a six-pack of sour cherry infused lambic she found on the shelves. Nick was already in line when she reached him. His basket was full of chips, fresh tomatoes, avocados, Mexican chilies, as well as refried beans, ground meat, and a couple of different cheeses.