Prelude: Book One in The Interlude Duet

by Auden Dar

  “Oh, I thought you were lucky in having that handsome man’s name. I’m shopping for my daughter’s bat mitzvah. You and Andrew are coming, right?”

  “I … Yes, I believe so.” Andrew hasn’t mentioned anything about a bat mitzvah. Maybe he hasn’t had the heart to tell her we’re not attending. For one, he hates parties. Two, he hates buying gifts. Three, he’s mentioned on more than one occasion that Janice makes him uncomfortable.

  “Wow.” Janice points at the racerback dress I am holding. “Are you purchasing that?” Touching the dress, she doesn’t hesitate to look at the price tag and shakes her head. “Pricey. Andrew is not only handsome but generous.”

  Yes, Andrew is very handsome. Generous? Not. At. All.

  Slightly uncomfortable with this woman questioning my purchase, I glance at my father’s vintage watch. “Oh, I can’t believe the time. I’m running late.”

  “Oh, okay. I was hoping we could grab something to eat at Mariposa. We didn’t get a chance to chat after Andrew’s brilliant lecture. I wanted to know if he’s okay.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” I ask.

  “He seems to always be in a hurry every time I run into him,” she says, absolutely clueless that Andrew doesn’t encourage their work relationship.

  “He’s fine. He’s just busy with the extra classes. I … I really must be going to my next appointment.”

  She moves forward, her hands leaving her side as if she’s getting ready to give me a hug. Do not hug me. I step back. “Uh, good luck with finding the right outfit.”

  I only hug people I care about.

  I pay for my new dress. Hanging out with Janice would be like getting a root canal. Although she means well … actually no, she just wants to know more about my fiancé. Damn, I have to forgo getting the Jimmy Choo shoes that I had been thinking about for weeks. I have an old pair of nude Louboutins that will work with this.

  I can’t leave the store fast enough, concerned that I’ll run into someone else. Andrew has so many female colleagues and students infatuated with him. One of his endearing qualities is that he’s absolutely clueless about them.

  I drive west on Santa Monica Boulevard singing along to Bruno Mars’ “That’s What I Like” before asking Siri to call Roger. I love technology! Too bad she can’t drive this car for me.

  “Hey, handsome. Are you at Shutters right now?”

  “No, I’ve just left a meeting. I’m on my way back to the hotel. What’s up, sweetheart?”

  “Let’s meet up for happy hour. I’m leaving for San Fran tomorrow.”

  “San Fran? What? Without me?” I can hear him lighting a cigarette. He’s smoking again and that Southern accent of his is going to be stronger than ever.

  “It’s a last-minute thing. My Uncle Marcel is celebrating his birthday this weekend.”

  “Uncle Marcel? Sweetheart, you don’t have an uncle.” Yup, the Southern twang is back.

  “Long story. I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m on Wilshire right now and will be there in about twenty minutes.”

  “Since it’s almost four, let’s just meet at Coast. That way, you can be relaxed for your date night.”

  “No, that was last night,” I say with no enthusiasm.

  “Rock your world, did he?” His laughter is boisterous and then a dry, hacking cough begins.

  “Roger, please, you really need to stop smoking. That hack of yours is getting worse,” I scold before offering, “And about Andrew, not quite. But he did try.” I don’t want to continue the conversation about what did not happen last night, so I tell him that I’ll see him shortly. No one wants to hear about an unfulfilled orgasm that was quickly followed by an emotional disappointment.

  Eight

  Shutters on the Beach is one of my favorite hotels. It’s not ultramodern like the new Shore Hotel, or hip like the Viceroy, or glamorous like Casa del Mar. It has a laid-back beach house feel, and it’s only a few blocks from my home. In the event that I drink too many mojitos, gin and tonics, and bourbon, I can always stumble home safely.

  I introduced Roger to the hotel, and every time he’s in town, he stays there. On a drunken occasion, he admitted, “I know you’ve offered your guesthouse, but I don’t think your fiancé likes me.”

  After being seated at a table with an unobstructed view of the beach, I glance at the happy hour menu. I am famished and order the tomato risotto croquettes with fresh mozzarella along with a mojito and know I am off to a great start. Tomorrow at this time I will be in San Fran. Although it’s only a short plane ride from LA, I haven’t returned to the city by the bay in years.

  A large brindle bulldog running along the beach catches my attention. Running crookedly, I can’t help but laugh hysterically at the sight before me. I hear a whistle and notice his master only a few feet away. The dog can barely run but is able to retrieve his master’s green Frisbee.

  Tired, the dog just simply stops and plops himself on the sand. A man rushes to his side. Instantly, the dog sits up as his master pets his head. There’s something admirable about men who love dogs. Unfortunately, the man I love is not a dog lover. He likes them well enough but doesn’t go out of his way to pet one. We’ve never had a dog, and every time I brought up the idea of getting one, Andrew always responded with ‘maybe.’ I learned a long time ago that his ‘maybe’ usually means, ‘no.’

  I continue to watch the guy and the bulldog while enjoying my mojito. Yum, this is delicious. It’s not until the guy removes his NY Mets baseball cap that I recognize him. He’s the same guy from the café yesterday−the same guy I had imagined having sex with last night during my passionless intimate session with Andrew. In slow motion, I watch him tug the bottom of his white t-shirt before taking it off. My jaw instantly drops to the ground. My fingers twitch. All I want to do is touch his shirtless chest. Oh. My. God. No, really. Oh. My. God. He’s absolutely heart-stoppingly gorgeous. My imagination sucked compared to seeing him in person. I take a deep breath and wonder if others around me are also ready to jump him. I turn around, and everyone around me seems to be involved in conversation.

  Wearing only a Mets baseball cap, black running shorts and sneakers, he looks absolutely delicious. Slightly tanned, he’s definitely spent some time in the sun since I last saw him. I squint my eyes to get a better view and wish I had a pair of binoculars. I want to see and touch every inch of him. Without hesitation, I change my seat to get a better view of this man. From where I sit, his chest looks smooth with a little bit of hair. He has well-defined abs. Why am I not surprised? I wonder what it would be like to lick them. He’s been out in the sun and might taste salty from a little sweat. Did I just think that? Of course, you did, you slut. Running his hands through his glorious head of hair, he sits down on the beach with his bulldog. It’s just the two of them watching the waves. What I wouldn’t give to be seated next to them. Enjoying the waves. Oh, and running my hands all over his shirtless body before licking it.

  “Hello?” I hear fingers snap. “Earth to Evangelina Darling James.” Again the fingers snap.

  I finally realize that my best friend is with me.

  “Why are you grinning like that?” Roger asks as he seats himself next to me.

  “What do you mean?” My eyes remain focused ahead.

  “Like Henry Cavill is stripping in front of you.”

  “Roger, I wouldn’t be grinning. I would be screaming at the top of my lungs. Anyway, it’s that bulldog over there,” I answer, pointing at the large canine.

  Roger’s eyes follow mine. “What bulldog? All I see is an insanely hot man’s back. I wonder if he looks as good in the front as he does from behind.” He glances at me and then gazes at the guy again. The man who commands our attention turns and stares directly at Shutters.

  Because Roger and I are seated on the covered deck, it is highly unlikely that the man we’re ogling can see us.

  “Wait, isn’t he the same guy we saw yesterday at the café?” Roger asks as his eyes begin to widen. “Lina,
are you stalking him? Just because he paid for our meal doesn’t mean he wants us watching him.”

  “Roger, pleeaaaase. Where does this shit come from?”

  “You’re right. I’m the one who would do the stalking. It’s just strange he’s here.”

  “I can’t pinpoint it. Something about him just reminds me of someone I used to know.”

  Could it possibly be him?

  “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to get through this happy hour without staring at him all night.” Roger puts his menu down and ponders for a second before continuing, “As I think about it, he resembles that Rutherford guy. I’m drooling, right?” Roger grabs a napkin, and I wonder if he will wipe the drool from his mouth.

  “Rutherford?” And I notice that he is, indeed, wiping his mouth. “Oh, Roger, what am I going to do with you?”

  “Oh, yeah, you live under a fucking rock. JC Rutherford, the ultra-private venture capitalist. He was in the news today. I think he testified before the grand jury a few weeks ago about insider trading. Dear Lord. Help me.” His Southern accent becomes more pronounced when he is smoking and/or is extremely excited. Right now, he’s very excited, fanning himself with the happy hour menu.

  The insanely hot stranger rises and throws the green Frisbee, prompting his bulldog to get up and retrieve it. However, the bulldog remains planted in the same-seated position on the beach.

  “Hello!” I snap my fingers. “I thought you came here to see me. Please stop drooling over him.”

  “You can drool too. It’s not like you’re married. You’re only engaged. Perpetually engaged, my dear.”

  “I know it’s been a long engagement. Sometimes I don’t think my fiancé wants to get married anymore.”

  “Sweetheart, when an engagement is as long as yours, some couples no longer want to marry. The question is, do you still want to become Mrs. Nielsen? You two have been together for so long. Maybe working in New York will help you. By the way, we’ve known each other for years, and you’ve never mentioned an uncle before.”

  I take a big gulp of my second mojito. “He’s actually not a blood relative. Uncle Marcel was my father’s best friend. After my father passed away, he became one of my guardians.”

  “How come you’ve never mentioned him before? We’ve known each other for more than a decade.”

  I take a deep breath. “Roger, it’s a past only my grandparents and Andrew are aware of. A past that up, until a few hours ago, I tried to forget. I’m still trying to process it all.”

  Roger reaches forward and takes my hand, “Sweetheart, when you mentioned going to a party, I thought it was a good thing. But now, I don’t quite understand why you look despondent. Do you want to discuss it?”

  I stare at our entwined hands, and after all these years, I finally want to discuss the family that was once so dear to me. Peeking up, Roger is quiet and patient, allowing me to finally open up.

  “My father’s closest friends were the golden couple of New York society. Marcel was an investment banker for Goldman Sachs, and Elisa was an English heiress. He was tall, dark, and handsome. You would have totally crushed on him. Reminiscent of Cary Grant, Marcel had thick jet black hair, deep blue eyes, and stood at a little over six feet tall. Even with his movie star looks and blue blood British pedigree, he was always so warm and funny to be around. And beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe his wife. Elisa had shoulder-length dark brown hair and always wore it in a perfect chignon. She had gray-blue eyes surrounded by long, thick eyelashes and her signature black eyeliner. Stylish and chic, she had often been compared to Jackie Onassis. To this day, the scent of Jean Patou always reminds me of her.

  “I was ten years old when Marcel and his family moved from London to New York. With no family around, my father and I spent most of our time with them. Their daughter, Caroline was only two years older than I was. She was beautiful and carefree like her mother.” I smile. “Caroline was the closest thing I had to a sister.”

  Roger hasn’t let go of my hand.

  I bite my lower lip before continuing. “Their son, Julian, was only two and a half years younger than I was. He and I were very close. After my father died, I became their surrogate middle child. I lived with them until my maternal grandparents were able to move to New York permanently. I think I’ve mentioned to you before that my father was Russian by birth.”

  Roger nods.

  I survey the terrace for no reason other than to pause. “He had been adopted by an English couple when he was seven. Unfortunately, they passed away before I was born. Father’s will indicated that I remain in New York. Half of my time was spent with Marcel’s family and the other half with my grandparents. Although I didn’t officially live there, I may as well have written 740 Park Avenue as my home address. After his wife’s death, Marcel left the country with his son.”

  Roger takes a sip of his cocktail before asking, “How did his wife die?”

  One of the servers unknowingly halts our private conversation. She places several small dishes on our table. Her interruption is a welcome reprieve. It’s been fourteen years since Elisa’s death, yet the tragic circumstances behind it are still difficult to discuss.

  I take a sip of my own mojito before revealing, “Elisa and her brother in-law, William, were both found dead at her country house in Westport, Connecticut.”

  Nine

  Roger’s mouth hangs open.

  I close my eyes, remembering the woman who made me feel loved. The woman who helped raise me as if I were her own. The woman I miss daily.

  Obviously still in shock, he releases my hand and takes a gulp of his cocktail before reaching for my drink. I have no doubt he’ll be quite intoxicated before we part.

  “Did they ever catch the perpetrator?” Roger slides his hand into his pocket for a cigarette.

  I reprimand him. “You can’t smoke here. And no, no one was ever arrested.”

  A few minutes of silence hangs over us.

  “Sweetheart, I’m … I’m so sorry. How about Caroline?”

  “She passed away a year after her mother’s death.” I don’t have the strength to reveal Caroline’s drug overdose.

  Roger studies my face and realizes I’ve divulged more than I had planned. He doesn’t ask more of me.

  “It’s been years, and it’s still painful.” I place the palm of my right hand to my chest.

  Roger reaches for my left hand, lightly squeezing it. “Thank you for sharing your past. Now I understand why you’ve been guarded all these years. And I’m not saying that in a bad way. You can always talk to me. You’ve always been there for me, and I want you to know how much I love you.”

  “I love you too, and I don’t mean to be so guarded. Now you know everything about me.” I sigh. “After all these years, I’ll be seeing Julian and his father … I’m nervous. Julian was about thirteen when I last saw him. I just can’t believe that I’ll be with them tomorrow. I haven’t even told my Nana. I don’t know if she would approve.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?” Roger asks as he continues to appreciate the magnificent view before us.

  “My grandparents were upset at how Julian didn’t keep in touch. Marcel and I have communicated over the years even though it was never the same. It was tough. It’s still tough talking about it. I haven’t even said the ‘Caine’ name in years.”

  “Caine?”

  I nod. “Yes, Caine.”

  “As in, Marcel Caine? The hedge fund guy?”

  “Yes, that’s Uncle Marcel.”

  Roger pauses. “I’m … I’m surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re one of the richest and most private families. I knew that you, yourself came from money, but the Caines … that’s just crazy money.”

  “I just never thought of them that way. They were my family for a while.” I hesitate a moment before continuing. “I’ve missed them for so long. It feels like a new beginning, though.”

  Roger offers a warm smile before ra
ising his glass. “To new beginnings, Lina.”

  I raise mine along with his and grin. And although what I revealed a few minutes ago was a painful part of my past, I feel cathartic. A sense of relief washes over me, and I’m able to enjoy this moment with him.

  My best friend and I continue to admire the beautiful man and his adorable bulldog as they watch the sunset. From where I am seated, I can see his back muscles, and I swear, I don’t know who would jump at the chance to rub it first. Me or Roger? The bulldog and his gorgeous master finally leave after a good hour and we’re now bored because the view is no longer attractive although we’re staring directly at the Pacific Ocean. We spend the next few hours drinking and talking about his favorite subject−himself.

  Roger Bartley and I first became friends while we were in college.

  At the time, he was a senior at the Naval Academy who had been dating my roommate, Beth. With a blond buzz cut, dark blue eyes, and towering height of six-foot-five, he could easily have been mistaken as Chris Hemsworth’s doppelganger. Even with a crew cut, he had been nicknamed ‘Thor.’ Most of the girls in my dorm panted every time he came by to see Beth. Middies, as they were called, were hot commodities in the D.C. area. Okay, men in uniforms are hot. As the first few months of school went by, Roger and I spent more and more time together. During the weekends, we would sometimes take the metro to the city and head to the free museums. Sometimes, we’d grab a meal in Adams Morgan or Dupont Circle and just enjoy our time together. Beth wasn’t always happy that I was around, but Roger, without fail, always asked me to join them.

  A few months later, Roger broke up with Beth, proudly came out of the closet after leaving the Naval Academy, and moved into my loft. Sadly, his family disowned him and he hasn’t seen or spoken to them in years.

  I focus my attention on my best friend, enjoying his animated hand gestures while he discusses his upcoming date. He looks hopeful. We’ve been through so much together, and I am grateful to be here with him.