She moved onto the blanket, deciding this was just a division of labor. A courtesy he might extend to anyone. And sometimes a sandwich was only a sandwich.
She leaned back on her hands and tipped face up to the sun, trying to find a way to put Mr. Robinson’s decor into words. “You’ve heard the term Bachelor Pad.” Reid groaned and she nodded. “Exactly. Now imagine it on a budget. Electric fireplace, synthetic fur walls –”
“And mirrors on the ceiling.” He laughed. “I have to admit, I’m curious about those.”
“I was, too, so I laid down on the bed once. Right before an open house, just to see what they were like.”
“And?”
Vicky felt herself smile. “It was strange. I couldn’t stop myself from making faces.”
“You always were kinky.”
She laughed. “You wish,” she said, realizing how much she’d missed this, the easy back and forth of confession with her best friend.
“Well you should forget about the tiles for a moment, because luncheon is served.”
Vicky opened her eyes. Linen napkins, china plates and real wineglasses sat on a tray in the middle of the blanket, surrounded by fruit, poppy seed cake and a bottle of her father’s wine. Sweet and utterly inappropriate romantic notions from a mother with too much time on her hands.
Reid knelt in front of her, a smile on his face and a napkin draped over one arm. “I am Fabulous Pierre, your waiter for this afternoon.”
A flick of the wrist, a twitch of the lips, and she could see him—the waiter they’d met in a Montreal bistro the summer she’d been carrying Kira.
He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water and offered it to her. “A very good year, yes?”
“No,” she said, and pushed the cap away, refusing to fall for this, for him, for Fabulous Pierre. But she couldn’t help leaning closer when he cut one of the sandwiches into fingers and arranged it on a plate. When had he learned about presentation?
“Today only, Pierre is pleased to offer you un grand surprise.”
Vicky laughed. “It’s a hero sandwich.”
“Are you certain that is all?”
“Fine, what’s the surprise?”
Reaching into the basket, he withdrew a small, square box. Nothing special, just plain white and vaguely reminiscent of Albert’s current resting place. “What is that?” she asked.
“If I tell you it won’t be a surprise.” He lifted one corner of the lid. “Now close your eyes.”
“I don’t think so.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “I promise you will like it.”
She had to smile “I better,” she said and closed her eyes. Felt him cup a hand beneath her chin and hold something to her lips. “Tell me what it is,” she said.
“Just taste,” he whispered, and before she knew it, she was taking the morsel into her mouth. Savoring the textures, the tastes and the memory of a chocolatier in Boston.
Her eyes popped opened. “Turtle truffles!” she said. “Where did you find them?”
“I have my sources.” He lowered his gaze to her mouth. “You like it?”
“Who wouldn’t,” she said, feeling her blood warm, her skin prickle, her body responding as it always had to this man who had seemed so right, but turned out to be so very wrong.
Rita would probably tell her that eating the truffle was wrong, that she was only complicating things, confusing the issues. Better to push the box aside and move away from him. Keep her mind on the time, her focus on the trip. But he brought another one to her lips and she let him feed her one more time. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Because I’m hoping you’ll find me irresistible and we’ll make love right here in the middle of nowhere?”
She shoved him back with a laugh, relieved and disappointed at the same time. “You always did dream in color.”
He cut a section from an apple and offered it to her. “Then I shouldn’t take my clothes off just yet?”
“It’s still a little chilly.” She took the fruit and tried to stop the image of Reid without clothes from growing any clearer in her mind. “Why don’t you tell me about Uncle Albert’s instructions instead?”
He sat down and pulled a page from the envelope. “We start by holding the box up over our heads and addressing each of the four winds in turn, imploring them to carry Albert with them. Apparently he took this from an ancient Incan ritual.”
Vicky took a sip from the bottle of water. “Sounds reasonable.”
“Until you read the words we’re supposed to say.”
“How bad is it?”
He sat up straighter, cleared his throat. “Oh great winds of the north, carry Uncle Albert forth. Gentle breezes of the south, please don’t get him in my mouth.’”
She lost the next mouthful of water.
“Want to hear about the zephyrs of the west?” he asked while she dabbed her shirt with a napkin.
Vicky shook her head. “He’s having us on. I know it.” She held out a hand. “Let me see that.”
He grabbed one of the sandwiches while she read, taking two bites at a time and reaching for another. Devouring them the way he did everything in life. Albert and Reid were like peas in a pod. Never sampling, never testing, just jumping in with both feet.
“He certainly knew what he wanted,” she said, setting a plate on the page so it wouldn’t blow away. “But I can’t help wondering when he wrote it. And why.”
“No idea. I spoke to him last month and he said everything was fine.”
He stretched out next to her, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body through her jeans.
“I don’t know why,” he said, “but I have the strangest feeling that he’s somewhere watching us. Seeing if we’ll really do it. Then he’ll leap out, laughing and taking pictures and lording it over us for the rest of our lives.” He closed his eyes and put his arms behind his head. “I really miss him.”
“Me, too.”
They fell silent and Vicky lay down beside him, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face, the growing heaviness in her limbs. Thinking about Seaport, the silver key and a life they had known nothing about.
She propped herself up on an elbow and studied Reid. His arms were still folded behind his head, his breathing steady and even, but she wasn’t fooled. She recognized the set to his jaw, the tiny line between his brows. For all that he laughed and joked, Reid was hurting. Albert had been like a father to him, filling in the blanks on what it meant to be a man for a little boy whose real father had died far too young, leaving behind a son who hardly knew him. And she hoped that Willy Randolf-Jones was still in Seaport so Reid could get the answers he deserved.
She started to roll onto her back when he sighed, a sound of such longing and loneliness that she reached out without thinking. Brushed her fingertips across his brow, his lips, as she had a thousand times before. He opened his eyes and her fingers curled back as though burned. She started to rise. “We should be going.”
He captured her wrist. “Soon,” he said, and deep inside her something stirred.
That familiar tug, faint at first, but building steadily as he drew her back down and cupped her face in his hands. Hands that were strong and sure and knew her all too well.
“Vicky,” he whispered, and she touched a finger to his lips, silencing them both.
She watched his eyes darken and shivered as he moved closer, not sure what she was playing at, or even what she expected, knowing only that she wanted to feel his lips on hers again, wanted to taste what she saw in his eyes one more time.
What harm could there be in a kiss?
She laid a hand on his chest and Reid bent to her, his heart racing as he touched his lips to hers, lightly, tenderly, demanding nothing she wasn’t ready to give. Knowing he could ruin it all if he rushed her, pushed her. Hearing himself moan when she opened her mouth and let him inside.
He moved his fingers into her hair, changing the angle and deepeni
ng the kiss, hungry for the taste he had missed for so long. Suddenly her velvet tongue was in his mouth, stroking, teasing. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close and holding him fast the way she used to, before life with all of its complications got in the way.
He touched his lips to her cheek, her chin, the tender spot at the base of her throat. Loving the way she clung to him, molding to him easily and naturally, as though they had never been apart. It was only the sound of a car engine starting that made him lift his head.
Vicky’s eyes drifted open. “What is it?”
Reid looked down at her half-closed eyes, her moist, swollen lips, and didn’t care who was joining them. “Just a car,” he whispered, nudging her hair aside so he could kiss the side of her neck. “Pay no attention.”
“Sounds just like the MG,” she murmured.
Reid’s head jerked up. “It does, doesn’t it?”
Vicky froze, eyes wide open. “But it can’t be.”
They scrambled to their feet and raced to the stairs.
“Did you lock it?” she asked when they reached the bottom.
“Of course,” he said, hoping it was true.
“My phone’s in the trunk,” she said at the halfway point.
“Mine’s in the glove box.”
“This can’t be happening,” she muttered and took the last of the stairs two at a time.
They reached the top in time to see the MG fishtailing out of the parking lot with two young men inside. Reid ran after the car, chasing it along the access road. Closing in to within a few feet until they swerved onto the highway, heading north and disappearing over the rise. He stopped and bent at the waist, catching his breath, still not believing what had happened. But the truth was right there in front of him.
Uncle Albert was gone.
FIVE
In the parking lot, Vicky was still standing in the spot where the MG had been, staring up at the sky and talking to herself. Or was she talking to him? Reid couldn’t say for sure, but as he drew closer, one thing was perfectly clear. The softness, the tenderness was gone. All he saw now was confusion.
“We should have stayed on the road,” she said. “Eaten in the car. At least taken our phones with us.” She threw up her hands and headed for the stairs again. “I cannot believe I listened to you.”
Reid’s mind struggled to catch up. “You’re not blaming me for this, are you?”
She started down the steps. “Come on, Reid,” she called back to him. “That car attracts so much attention, it’s a wonder it wasn’t stolen years ago.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, following her down the stairs and across the beach to their blanket. “Didn’t you see the pickup parked on the access road? Those boys probably stole the truck first and were looking for a chance to ditch it. They would have taken anything with four wheels.”
“Not if they couldn’t get into it.” She knelt down on the blanket, stacked what was left of the sandwiches together and wound a piece of plastic wrap around them. “Old cars are ridiculously easy to break into and even easier to hot wire.” She gave her head a disgusted shake and dropped the sandwiches into the basket. “If we’d used my car, this would not have happened.”
He gathered up apples and pears and dropped them into the basket. “You’re really reaching right now.”
“Reaching?” She took the fruit out and put the poppy seed cake into the basket instead. “My car has special locks, an anti-theft device. Global tracking for God’s sake.”
He picked up one of the crystal glasses and a napkin. “So it’s my fault the car was stolen because the MG doesn’t have global tracking.”
“No. It’s your fault because you didn’t tell Albert about us.” She held out a hand. “Give me the glass.”
He snapped his arm up, holding it out of reach. “What is it you’re really mad about, Vicky? The fact that we almost had sex, or that we were interrupted?”
Her face burned, but she wouldn’t look at him. “That was a mistake.” She took a swipe at the glass. “Rest assured it will never happen again.”
He got to his feet, taking the glass with him. “I don’t know, Vick. Judging by that kiss, I’d say you still miss me.”
She rose and took another swipe at the glass but he held it higher. “Your ego hasn’t suffered at all, has it?” She made one more grab for the glass then folded her arms and shook her hair out of her face. “Reid, give me the glass.”
“Not a chance.” He flipped open the napkin, wrapped it carefully around the crystal, and tucked the bundle into the basket. “And ego has nothing to do with any of it. I know what I felt, what I saw.”
She pulled the glass out again, rewrapped it and reached for the second one. “Tell yourself what you like, the truth is—”
“The truth is you want me.” He sighed and handed her a napkin. “God knows I still want you.”
His voice was soft enough to make her stop, look up. His eyes were dark and intense, the pull magnetic. When he took a step toward her, every traitorous sense in her body was instantly awake and straining toward him, longing again for the smell, the taste, the feel of him.
She snatched the napkin out of his hand, wrapped the glass and stuffed it in the basket. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss it,” she said, and set about stuffing plates, food, bottles into the basket. She set the box of truffles on the sand. “You should take the rest of those,” she said and got to her feet. Picked up the blanket and gave it a shake. “We need to find a phone. Get the car back.”
“Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?” he said. “How many nights I lay awake thinking about you, wanting you?”
No more than she had, Vicky thought, rolling the blanket into a tight, solid ball.
He drew up behind her, his hands gentle on her shoulders, his chest solid and warm against her back.
“We should go,” she said, and stepped away. Steeling herself against this, against him. “Those kids could be anywhere by now.”
“Vicky, I love you,” he whispered, and her silly heart leapt, actually beat faster, wanting nothing more than to stop fighting and simply believe that love could be enough. But when he reached for her again, she moved aside, refusing to be drawn into the cycle again. Knowing it was useless to hope, to dream, to believe for even a moment that he would change, because when all was said and done, he was still Reid. The sweet talker, the bad boy, the one that should have gotten away. And she’d come too far to go backward now.
“Don’t,” she said, and jammed the blanket into the basket. “Please don’t touch me anymore.”
He held up both hands. “Whatever you want.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice to stand with her while she shoved her feet into her sneakers and picked up the basket.
He grabbed the handle as she passed. “Let me take that.”
“I’ll be fine, thanks.”
“No doubt, but without a phone or a ride, we may be walking a while.”
She held on a moment longer, fighting him even on this. Finally she shrugged and let the basket go. “Suit yourself.”
She walked away. Started climbing the stairs without once looking back and it occurred to Reid that maybe she was right. Maybe they really were finished. He was no stranger to the world she wanted. He’d grown up on Long Island with the big house, two cars in the garage, and a father who worked long hours to hold onto it all. Quality of life was what mattered, they told him.
Then one night his father fell asleep at the wheel, on his way home from closing a big deal, and Reid realized his parents were wrong. Quality of life meant nothing. It was all about quantity. How much you put in versus how much you got out, and nothing was guaranteed. So he flew planes, drove fast cars, and made a point of finding out what lay around every corner because he might never have the chance again.
No Regrets had been his motto for years, and so far it had served him well. But watching her reach the top of the stairs and keep going, he cou
ldn’t help wondering what he would regret more. Letting it end now, or putting his heart on the line one more time.
Reid shifted the basket to his other hand and started walking. Knowing that for better or worse, or for now at least, he had to hold on and keep hoping. As much as she hated to admit it, she was still in love with him, he was sure of it. And as long as she loved him, there had to be a way to figure this out.
He caught up with her by the highway. She was standing on the shoulder, watching the crest of the hill. She didn’t look at him, didn’t say a word when he set the basket down beside her.
“Has there been much traffic?” he asked.
“Nothing until right now.”
Of course it had to be a minivan coming over the hill. A shiny red one with four bikes on the roof and a huge trailer bringing up the rear. The future Vicky wanted coming straight at them.
She smiled and raised both arms, waving in a wide arc over her head.
“Nothing like getting back to nature with satellite TV and a wireless router,” Reid said.
“Just smile. And try to look harmless.”
“I don’t know, Vick. A picnic basket always says ‘serial killer’ to me.”
She smiled harder. “Do not blow this.”
Reid smiled and waved. He could see the woman in the passenger seat pointing at them with one hand and flapping the other at the driver. Did she mean stop, stop, stop or speed the hell up? Reid was betting on ‘speed up’ until the minivan started to slow. The van crept forward yard by yard, finally coming to a rolling stop in front of them. The passenger window slid down a couple of inches. Gandalf shouted, “You shall not pass,” and a woman’s eyes appeared in the opening. “Boys, pause the movie,” she shouted as she looked from Vicky to Reid to the basket and back to Vicky again. “You folks need some help?” she asked.
Vicky turned up the wattage on her smile but didn’t move closer. “Our car was stolen. We could use a ride to the next town and maybe a phone.”
“Stolen, huh? Well that’s California for you.” The van came to a full stop. The locks clicked. “Boys,” the woman called over her shoulder. “Move some of that stuff off the middle seat. And push the dog over too. We’ve got company.”
Love, Albert Page 5