“I've been collecting for years. One day I'll give them to my kids.” What she said reminded him again that this was not as simple as it looked, for him at least. Hearing her mention her children was like a roll of thunder in the background. He had never wanted to deal with a woman who had kids. But Sylvia was different. Everything about her was different from any woman he'd ever known. Maybe her kids were different too. And at least they weren't his. He had a psychotic terror of small children, or a phobia about them. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he knew it wasn't good.
“Where are they?” he asked, looking around nervously, as though expecting them to spring out of a closet and leap at him, like pet snakes, or a pair of pit bulls. She saw the look on his face and was once again amused.
“In Europe. Remember? Where they live. In Oxford and Florence. They won't be home till Christmas. You're safe. Although I wish they were here.”
“Did you have a nice trip with them?” he asked politely, as she went back to the kitchen and adjusted the setting on the dryer, and then came back to the living room.
“Very nice. How about you? How was the rest of the trip?” She sat down on the couch, and he sat in an enormous black leather chair, facing her. She looked beautiful in her bare feet and jeans, and he was happy to see her. Happier than he'd ever been in recent years. He had missed her, which seemed crazy even to him. He hardly knew her, but he had thought about her constantly during the last weeks of the trip.
“It was great,” he said, sitting in the leather chair in the towel, while she tried not to laugh, looking at him. He looked funny and vulnerable and sweet. “Actually,” he corrected himself, “it wasn't. It was good. But not as good as Portofino and Sardinia with you. I thought about you a lot after you left.”
“I thought about you too,” she admitted, and then smiled at him. “I'm glad you're back. I didn't expect you to call me so soon.”
“Neither did I. Or actually, yes I did. I wanted to call you as soon as I got back.”
“I'm glad you did. What kind of pizza do you want, by the way?”
“What do you like?”
“Anything. Pepperoni, pesto, meatball, plain.”
“All of the above,” he said, watching her. She looked at ease in her domain.
“I'll order the one with everything on it, just no anchovies. I hate anchovies,” she said, as she left the room.
“Me too.”
She went back to check on the dryer again then, came back with his jeans, and held them out to him.
“Put your pants on. I'll order the pizza. Thanks again for fixing my sink.”
“I didn't,” he reminded her, “I just turned off the water to stop the leak. You've got to get a plumber here on Tuesday.”
“I know.” She smiled at him, as he disappeared into the bathroom again, carrying his jeans. He came back and handed her the folded towel, and she looked surprised as she took it from him.
“What's wrong?”
“You didn't leave it crumpled up on the floor. What's wrong with you? I thought that's what all men do.” She was smiling at him, and he grinned. For a minute, she'd had him worried, she had looked so startled when he handed her the towel. The apartment was so impeccably neat, he couldn't figure out what else to do with the towel other than hand it back to her.
“Do you want me to go back and leave it on the floor?” he offered, and she shook her head, and then called in the order for the pizza. As soon as she did, she offered him a glass of wine. She had several bottles of excellent California wine in the refrigerator, and opened one for him. It was a Chardonnay, and when he tasted it, it was delicious.
They went back to the living room again then and sat down. This time she sat next to him on the couch, instead of across the glass coffee table from him. He had an overwhelming urge to reach out and pull her close to him, but he wasn't ready to do that yet, and neither was she. He could sense the palpable awkwardness between them. They scarcely knew each other, and hadn't seen each other now in several weeks. “You're not exactly typical for me either,” he commented, in response to her astonishment that he hadn't thrown her clean white towel on the floor. “If you were, you'd be having some kind of hysterical fit over the leak in your kitchen, or maybe even telling me it was my fault, or something your last boyfriend or ex-husband was doing to terrorize you, because he wants both of us dead. And any minute, he'll be coming up the fire escape with a gun.”
“I don't have a fire escape,” she said apologetically, laughing at what he said. She couldn't even begin to imagine the women he had been involved with before. And now neither could he.
“That simplifies things,” he said quietly, admiring her. “I love your apartment, Sylvia. It's beautiful and elegant and simple, just like you.” It wasn't pretentious, or showy, but everything in it had style and was of great quality.
“I like it too. I have a lot of treasures here that mean a lot to me.”
“I can see that,” he said, thinking that she was rapidly becoming a treasure that meant a lot to him. Now that he saw her again, he realized that he liked her even better than he had before. There was something very real and meaningful about seeing her where she lived. It was different than seeing her in restaurants, or on Charlie's boat. She had looked beautiful and appealing to him then, but now she seemed more real.
They talked about her gallery then, and the artists she represented, while they waited for the pizza to arrive.
“I'd love to see your work,” she said thoughtfully, and he nodded.
“I'd like you to see it too. It's not the kind of work you show.”
“Who's your gallery?” She was curious, he had never mentioned it to her, and he shrugged when he answered.
“I don't have one at the moment. I was really unhappy with my last dealer. I have to do something about finding someone else. I don't have enough for a show yet anyway, so I'm in no rush.”
The pizza arrived then, and Sylvia paid for it, although Gray offered to. She told him it was his fee for stopping her leak. They sat at her kitchen table, and ate the pizza as they chatted comfortably. She shared the wine with him, turned down the lights, lit candles, and served the pizza on good-looking Italian plates. Everything she did or touched or owned had a sense of elegance and style. Just as she did, in her simple ponytail, bare feet, and jeans. She was wearing the same stack of turquoise bracelets he had noticed her wearing in Italy.
They sat there for a long time, talking about nothing in particular. They just enjoyed being together, and she was glad he had come over to help her with the leak. It was ten o'clock when he finally admitted that the jet lag was getting to him. That with the wine was putting him to sleep. He got up from the table regretfully, helped her put the dishes in the dishwasher, although she insisted she could do it herself after he left. He liked helping her, and he could see it wasn't familiar to her. She was used to doing things herself, just as he had been all his life. But it was nicer doing things together, and he was sorry to leave. He liked being with her, and when he turned to her before he left, she was looking up at him.
“Thanks for coming by, and helping me, Gray. I appreciate it. I'd be swimming around my kitchen by now if you hadn't turned the water off for me.”
“You'd have figured it out. It was a great excuse to see you,” he said honestly. “Thanks for the pizza, and the good company.” He reached out and hugged her then, and kissed her on both cheeks, and then he stopped and looked at her, and held her there, wondering if it was too soon. There was a question in his eyes, and she answered it for him. She reached up to him and pulled him closer to her, and as she did, their lips met, and it was hard to tell if he had kissed her, or she had kissed him. It no longer mattered, they were holding tightly to each other, with all the longing they had felt for each other in the past few weeks, and the emptiness they had lived with for months and years before that. It was an endless, breath-consuming, life-giving kiss. And when he held her afterward, she leaned her face against his.
> “Wow!” she whispered. “I wasn't expecting to do that.…I thought you just came over to fix my sink.”
“I did,” he whispered back. “I wanted to do this in Italy, but I thought it was too soon.” She nodded, knowing it probably would have been. She wanted to go to bed with him, but she knew it was much, much too soon, according to all the rules. They had barely known each other for a month, and hadn't seen each other in weeks. One day at a time, she told herself. She was still savoring their first kiss. And just as she thought about it, he kissed her again. This one was more passionate, and she couldn't help wondering how many times he had done this with other women, how many affairs he'd had, how many crazy women had come into his life, wanting him to rescue them, how many times it had ended, and how many times he had started over again with someone else. He had had a lifetime of meaningless relationships, like a merry-go-round of women, and in her whole life, she had loved only two men. And now him. She didn't love him yet. But she thought she could one day. There was something about him that made her want him to stay and stay and stay, and never leave. Like the man who came to dinner, and never left, and just moved in.
“I'd better go,” he said in a gentle sexy voice that aroused her just listening to him. She nodded, thinking she should agree, but she didn't. She opened the door for him, and he hesitated.
“If I turn the water on tomorrow,” she whispered, “will you come back to turn it off again?” She looked at him innocently, her hair slightly tousled, her eyes full of dreams, and he chuckled at her.
“I could turn it on right now, and give us an excuse for me to stay,” he whispered hopefully.
“I don't need an excuse, but I don't think we should,” she said demurely.
“Why's that?” He was playing with her neck, and running his lips across her face tantalizingly. She ran her hands through his hair, and pulled him close to her.
“I think there's a rule book somewhere about situations like this. I think it says you're not supposed to sleep with each other on the first date, after eating pizza and fixing a sink.”
“Damn, if I'd known that, I wouldn't have fixed the sink or eaten the pizza.” He smiled at her and kept kissing her. He wanted her more than he ever had any woman he could remember. And he could see she wanted him just as badly, but still felt she shouldn't. She was savoring the moment and thoroughly enjoying him.
“See you tomorrow?” she said softly. It was nearly a tease, but not quite, and he was surprised to find he liked it, waiting for her, and the right moment, whenever that was. For him, it would have been right then, or whenever she wanted. He was willing to wait, if Sylvia preferred it. She was worth waiting for. He had waited fifty years for her.
“Your place or mine?” he whispered. “I'd love you to come to mine, but it's a mess. I've been gone for a month and no one's cleaned it. Maybe this weekend. Why don't I come back here tomorrow and see how your sink is doing?” The gallery was closed for the Labor Day holiday, and she was planning to work at home. She had nothing else to do the next day.
“I'll be here all day. Come whenever you want. I'll cook you dinner.”
“I'll cook. I'll call you in the morning.” He kissed her again, then left, and she stood silently, looking at the door after she'd closed it. He was a remarkable man, and it was a magical moment. She walked into her bedroom, as though seeing it for the first time, and wondered how it would look with him in it.
And as he walked out into the street and hailed a cab, he felt as though everything in his life had changed in a single evening.
6
GRAY CALLED SYLVIA AT TEN O'CLOCK THE NEXT MORN-ing. His whole apartment looked a mess, and he hadn't even bothered to unpack his suitcase. He had fallen into bed the night before, thinking of her, and the moment he woke up, he called her. She had been working on some papers, and smiled when she heard him.
They asked each other how they'd slept. She had been awake half the night, thinking about him, and he had slept like a baby.
“How's your sink holding up?”
“It's fine.” She smiled.
“Maybe I'd better come over and check on it.” She laughed at him, and they chatted for a few minutes. He said he had some things to do at home after his trip, but offered to bring her lunch around twelve-thirty.
“I thought we were doing dinner,” she said, sounding surprised, although she had told him she'd be home all day, which was a tacit invitation, and she'd meant it.
“I don't think I can wait that long,” he said honestly. “I waited fifty years for you to come along. Another nine hours might kill me. Are you free for lunch?” he asked nervously, and she smiled. She was free for anything he wanted. She had decided the night before when he kissed her that she was ready to let him into her world, and share her life with him. She didn't know why it felt right to her, but everything about him did. She wanted to be with him.
“I'm free anytime you want to come over.”
“Can I bring anything? Quiche? Cheese? Wine?”
“I've got some stuff here. You don't need to bring anything.” There were so many things she wanted to do with him, walk through Central Park, wander around the Village, go to a movie, lie in bed and watch TV, go out to dinner, stay home and cook for him, see his work, show him her gallery, or just lie in bed and hold him. She hardly knew him, and yet at the same time, she felt as though she had always known him.
In his studio, Gray opened his mail, checked his bills, and haphazardly took his clothes out of his suitcase. He left most of them lying on the floor, and took out what he wanted. He showered, shaved, dressed, quickly wrote some checks, ran out the door, mailed them, and went to the only florist he found open. He bought her two dozen roses, hailed a cab, and gave the driver her address in SoHo. At noon, he rang the bell, and was standing in her doorway. The plumber had just left, and her eyes widened instantly when she saw the roses.
“Oh my God, they're beautiful.… Gray, you shouldn't.” And she meant it, she knew he was a starving artist, and she was bowled over by the tenderness and generosity of the gesture. He was a true romantic. After a lifetime of narcissists, she had finally found a man whom she not only cared about, but to whom she mattered.
“If I could afford to, I'd send you roses every day. This may be the last of it for a while,” he said regretfully. He still had to pay his rent and his phone bill, and the ticket to France had been fearfully expensive. He wouldn't let Charlie pay for it. He thought the least he could do was pay his own way to get there. He had hoped to hop a ride on Adam's plane, but Adam had flown straight to Europe from Las Vegas on the way over, and to London with his kids after. “I wanted to get you roses today, because today is special.”
“And why is that?” she asked, still holding the roses in her arms and looking up at him with eyes that seemed enormous. She was excited, and at the same time a little frightened.
“Because today is the beginning.… This is where we begin… where it all starts. After today, neither of us will ever be quite the same again.” He looked at her then, took the roses from her, and set the enormous bundle down on a nearby table. And then he took her in his arms, kissed her, and held her. He could feel her trembling, and then he looked down at her. “I want you to be happy,” he said gently. “I want this to be a good thing for both of us.” In time, he wanted to make it up to her for the pain and disappointments she'd suffered. He wanted to make up for the absurdity and affronts in his own life. This was their chance to do it right, and make a difference to each other.
She went to put the roses in a vase, and set them down in the living room on a table.
“Are you hungry?” she called out to him, as she walked back into the kitchen. He followed her and stood in the doorway, smiling at her. She was beautiful. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, and without saying a word, he walked over to her and began unbuttoning her shirt. She just stood there, motionless, and watched him. He slipped the shirt gently off her shoulders, and dropped it on a chair, and then a
dmired her like a work of art, or something he had just painted. She was perfect. Her skin showed no signs of age, and her body was young and tight and athletic. No one had seen it in a long time. There had been no man to mirror who she was or what she felt, and care about what she needed or wanted. She felt as though she'd been alone for a thousand years, and now finally he had come to join her. It was like sharing a journey with him. Their destination was unknown, but they were fellow travelers setting out together.
He took her by the hand then, and led her quietly to her bedroom. They lay down on the bed together, and gently took each other's clothes off. She lay naked next to him, and he kissed her, as her hands began discovering him, and then her lips, and he slowly began exploring her. What he did was tantalizing, and the long, slow unraveling of his hunger for her would have been excruciating, if it hadn't been so exactly what she wanted. It was as though he had always known her. He knew exactly where to be and what to do and how to get there, and she did the same for him. It was like a dance they had always known how to do together, their rhythms perfectly matched, their bodies fitting together like two halves of one whole. Time seemed to stand still, until everything began to move quickly, and then finally, they both exploded into the stratosphere together, and she lay in his arms, silently, kissing him and smiling.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she lay in his arms and he pulled her closer. Their bodies were still woven together, and he smiled at her.
“I've been waiting for you forever,” he whispered back. “I didn't know where you were … but I always knew you were out there somewhere.” She hadn't been as wise as he, she had lost hope years before, of ever finding him. She had been certain that she had been condemned to be alone for the rest of time. He was a gift she had long since stopped expecting, and no longer even knew she wanted. And now he was here, in her life, in her head, in her heart, in her bed, and in every nook and cranny of her body. Gray had become a part of her forever.
Toxic Bachelors Page 9