“I heard all that. It’s not like you to talk so glowingly of a young fellow, so I wondered why you were entertaining the idea of a date with another.”
“The trainer, yes. I wondered that too. But he asked and I couldn’t think of a good reason to turn him down. It doesn’t change the way I feel about Dane.” I smile at him.
“Nor should it, but there’s nothing wrong with getting what you want either. You don’t have to settle, Sarah Claire. You went to California to get what you want, so get it. You’re nothing like your mother. You’re loyal to a fault, and if your heart is telling you Dane is something special, why wouldn’t you listen to that?”
“Mrs. Gentry, about my mother,” I say, avoiding the topic. Romantic advice is not what I need.
“We’ll get to her. What does your heart say about Dane? You’re usually very good about knowing a person’s heart. If you think he’s a good man—”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“Was going to California wrong?”
“Well, I screwed up someone’s hair today. Other than that I haven’t cut anyone’s hair. I lower toilet seats, empty garbage cans, and sweep up hair right now. Oh, and I make coffee, so you might say there were some consequences to my decision.”
“That’s just earning your keep, Sarah Claire. Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work; we did much worse than you’re being asked to do just to get our paltry paychecks back in the day. Because we were lucky to have a job, period. It wasn’t about fulfillment, you know. It was about having enough money to put fruit in the cellar.”
“Mrs. Gentry, my mother.”
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready to talk about your mother.”
I shut up immediately. Mrs. Gentry is so amiable, so gentle, but she runs things like any good librarian would. She likes order and will not abide by the chaos of me jumping conversations.
“What I’ve seen is fear driving you, Sarah Claire. You don’t want to end up like your mother, so you leave. But you’re nothing like your mother—because of your mother. You were the caretaker; that makes you different because of your role in the relationship, don’t you see? You can’t run scared of romantic entanglements forever.”
“Mrs. Gentry, I don’t mean to change the subject, but my mother?” I plead. This time more forcefully. “There’s nothing to talk about with my romantic ventures.”
“She had another incident with the law. I think it’s time she went into a program, Sarah Claire. She has no concern for anyone around her. She’s blacked out a few times—once in Milly’s when waiting for an order of coffee and once on the road the other morning before church.”
I swallow hard. How do I get my mother to do anything she’s supposed to do? For the good of humanity, herself, or anyone?
“I’ve looked up a few programs and—” I grimace in defeat. “How would I pay for them? I came here to make enough money, but I have to give it a little time—there are state programs, but I . . .”
Excuses. Just like my mother uses. She could kill someone, and I have to find a way to stop it I know that, and yet I feel powerless.
“She’s going to kill someone if she isn’t stopped.” Mrs. Gentry voices my fears. “Al took her keys away, and the ladies have been taking turns driving her to work. But she’s working at the bar, and the first thing they teach you in any addiction class is that you can’t be near your addiction and what makes you crave it. You can’t be sober and work as a bartender; it’s not going to happen.”
“She doesn’t know how to do anything else.” I wish right now I could just saw away the rope that keeps me tethered to my mother and her addictions. I know, it’s selfish and completely unchristian, but I am so sick of the drama. I’m so sick of my life being halted by whatever stupid situation she’s gotten herself into to make sure I can’t escape.
“Sarah Claire, we’ll pay for the program. You just need to get her into it.”
“That’s all?” I look up at Dane and wonder what it’s like to have a life of normalcy. Did his mother make him sweets, pack sack lunches, and tell him bedtime stories?
“Give me a day. I’ll figure something out.”
“I love you, darling. Send us that letter and take some time to exhale, dear. You live your life too busy. You’ll never feel at peace that way.”
I look over at Dane. “Mrs. Gentry, how did you know with Mr. Gentry?”
“I knew when he looked at me. He made me feel like I was the only woman on earth, and for me he was the only man.”
“Good-bye Mrs. Gentry. I love you.”
“I love you too, dear. Let me know about your mom. We’ll be set on our end. We need a little help getting her in that’s all.”
A little help, she says. It will be like leading a lioness into a cage with, “Here, kitty, kitty.”
chapter 14
A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to
stop speech when words become superfluous.
~ Ingrid Bergman
Everything all right?”
“I’m sorry I took so long, I had to make another call.”
“No problem. Just a little muscle atrophy from hunger.” His arms stretch over his head.
“You really want to go to dinner?”
“Wouldn’t you show me the same hospitality if I came to Wyoming, as a friend of Scott’s?”
My insides warm at his words. “I would. But no one would ever come there.” We start to walk again, and I feel his arm clasp mine a little tighter. “Isn’t your car in the garage?”
“No, it’s up here at the end of the block. Street parking. Didn’t Scott explain I’m a skinflint?”
“No, he did not.” All I can think is how Scott said Dane was off-limits. It breaks my heart he didn’t think I was good enough for him, but that’s Scott. You can’t expect him to do anything out of the goodness of his heart; you’re just surprised when he does.
Dane’s a have. We’re have-nots. Scott is only trying to protect me.
“I worry about you here on your own, Sarah. You shouldn’t be taking the bus.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. Trust me, I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time, and I’m very grounded.” If you’re going to worry, worry about my mother, whose been left without a chaperone. “It’s the whole 1940s way of thinking. Comes with the territory.”
“My car’s around the corner.” He points ahead, and I try to match his long stride in my heels. When he looks down at me, I feel completely safe, like nothing could break into my peace.
I drop my head on his shoulder and gaze up into his eyes. Those sable eyes. We stop walking and face one another.
“Are you playing me, Dane?” I whisper.
His humor is apparent. “Sarah, I wouldn’t know how to play you if you were an instrument. Let me tell you, a guy who’s interested in ancient things is not a real turn-on to the Hollywood crowd.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can spot a fake from twenty feet away. I think that eliminates three, quarters of my dating pool. And if you add in a Christian as a prerequisite, I’m done for. Help me, Sarah Claire, you’re my only hope,” he says mimicing Princess Leia.
I force back my smile. “Then why is your business here?” I ask with my fists on my hips.
“Because customers here buy what their designers tell them to. It’s a profitable place for a man who knows the business of antiques. I’ve done whole houses for people who never see a stick of the furniture before they move in. Business, I’m good at. It’s all the other aspects of life that trouble me.”
Maybe I am too suspicious, but I let my eyes float from his head to his well-dressed feet. It’s hard to buy the innocent act from Dane. Impossible, actually. Men who look like this do not have trouble in life, especially with the ladies. I may be from Wyoming, but the call of the wild is what it is. Gorgeous, well-off men are not lacking for comfort. Not in Wyoming or Beverly Hills. Either one of those attributes is enough, but together they’
re lethal.
“Is it really so hard to believe I’d like to get to know you better? That I felt something in my heart when you stole my hat?” he asks.
“Impossible, actually. In life there’s something called a caste system. In India it’s more formal. In America it's much less hard to define but equally rigid. Well-off men pay, and beautiful women jump.”
“That’s the most pessimistic thing I’ve ever heard in my life, Sarah. You can’t possibly believe that as a Christian.”
“Look at your church. How many rich men have ugly wives? When they looked for Queen Esther, did they look in the homely barrel?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Sarah. I’ve got a client who collects Marilyn Monroe memorabilia. One of the most beautiful women in history and—”
“And she never married a poor man. So I rest my case.”
“And no man ever married her either. Not who she really was. It’s fascinating what you can learn about people’s true selves when you start studying their belongings.” He pauses. “Wait a minute, she married a poor man the first time.”
“A politically correct answer; that was before she was blonde,” I tell him.
“So you’re jealous of blondes? Is that what this is about?”
“Of course not. Marilyn’s color is easily duplicated. I'm an expert, remember? It’s about commodities. The haves and the have-nots. Did you ever see The Philadelphia Story?”
“Is that a joke?”
“No, it’s not. Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn belonged together. Sure, she was tempted by the raw and charming Jimmy Stewart, but Cary’s character knew her. He knew her world.”
“And this has to do with commodities . . . how?”
“It’s a business deal. Love is a business deal. I learned my place early on in Wyoming. You are Cary Grant and I’m the supporting actress, don’t you see?”
Dane lifts his brows. “Not in the least bit. I keep trying to chalk this conversation up to jet lag, but you weren’t on the plane.”
“I’m just stating the facts as I see them. You are a have, I am a have-not, and whenever I’ve seen the two mix, the have-not gets the short end of the stick. So while I may dream of—”
“Are you talking to me?” Dane asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, quite frankly, it sounds like you’re arguing with yourself. Are you expecting a return answer?” He shrugs. “Because you know, I want to do the right thing here, and you agreed to help me out.”
“I did?”
“This line of thinking is bigoted, you know. I’m a worker bee just like you, and even if you were competing on a beauty level, can you tell me the problem here? Because if you think there’s a problem, I’m thinking eating-disorder material.”
“In that suit you want me to believe you’re a worker bee.” I roll my eyes. “Listen, I’ve seen enough clothes here to know the good stuff. What did you pay for that suit? Just the word antiques makes you a have. We just call that stuff ‘old.’ My family can’t afford Ikea; you want to up that, Mr. Worker Bee?”
“No, I don’t. I want to know why you think that’s a drawback. I can define an antique. I don’t need to spend time with someone who has that talent, unless I’m looking for a business partner. Besides, what does any of this have to do with our getting to know one another?”
“I just don’t want you to think I’m naïve and that I can be swept off my feet by someone with pretty words. Even if they do look like you.”
“Tell me, how’s my hair?” He pats his dark brown, grown-out curls.
I look into a storefront rather than answer.
“It’s awful, right? You can tell me at dinner why I should spend more than ten dollars on a haircut because I associate that with the haves.”
“Ten dollars! You pay that here? In California?”
He brushes his fingers through his brown locks, which curl at the ends. “I have to go into Hollywood, and my barber doesn’t speak English, so I’m at his mercy, but it makes me look eccentric, I think.” He uses the storefront window as a mirror. “An antiquarian should always have a bit of an Einstein look about him. It perpetuates the whole mad-genius thing, so people aren’t questioning the prices.”
“They only give the test in English and Spanish, so are you sure your barber has a real license?”
He pulls down a tendril. “Does it matter?”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “Listen, if I was going to find a have, you would be on the top of my list, Dane.”
“Ah, see, you did notice my haircut and you weren’t going to tell me. What’s this about being honest with me? What if I’m a have with a bad haircut; don’t you have any mercy? That’s reverse discrimination.”
“Dane, have you ever heard the term baggage? As in emotional baggage?”
“I have. When I have a designer with a difficult client, I always like to include a vintage Louis Vuitton trunk to add symbolism. It’s an antiquarian’s attempt at comedy.”
“I’m an entire luggage department at Wal-Mart.” I study my feet. “I have no idea why I’m telling you this. It’s like my mouth won’t stop moving, so let’s go home.”
As we stroll along Rodeo Drive, I wonder what it must be like to go into one of these shops and spend money. I’m not even tempted. I’d only be thinking about starving children or the East Side, which we drive through on the way into town. Living well to me isn’t spending a lot of money.
“You’re telling me because you’re trying hard to resist my charms, but deep down you really don’t want to.”
“I need to make sure my head’s on straight. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You’re the girl next door. The real thing. Mary Ann and not Ginger. Genuine brunette. Authentic, stunning figure, with an aura of comfort surrounding your nature. We define the haves differently. You’re exactly what every man in Hollywood is looking for.”
“Ah . . . are they checking behind Jessica Simpson for me?”
“If beauty is a commodity, as you so eloquently are trying to tell me, then you are a have.”
“Ah, see, that’s not really true. If I am a beauty, as you’re insinuating, that’s where the myth comes in. I trade my beauty for your financial solvency and a deal is made, but that deal won’t last.”
“It won’t?”
“Because my beauty will fade and then you’ll start to feel as though you were given a raw deal. A bait and switch, if you will. So you will look for a younger, prettier version of me.”
“Or I may begin to see the inner beauty blossom and my investment pay off in spades. I may be the kind of man who believes a woman grows more beautiful as you get to know her deeply.”
“Yeah, that could happen,” I quip sarcastically, but as I say it I feel guilt bubble inside of me. Mrs. Gentry would burst into tears if she heard my attitude, and I have watched her grow in beauty while my mother withers. And I do know what the Bible says about beauty being fleeting. But still . . .
“So you want to be alone then? I was under the impression with the old Hollywood thing, you still had hope.”
His question catches me off guard. “Of course I don’t want to be alone.”
“So where does God come into play in this commodity business? It seems to me He took a woman drawing water and gave her to Isaac. He took the mother of our Savior and placed her safely in the arms of a lowly carpenter. Seems to me you’re limiting God on what He might have for you.”
I am, and yet I’m hoping with my whole heart it’s something more than I can fathom. I want to say, “I’m scared, Dane.” But what I actually say is, “It’s late, Dane. We should get home. I destroyed a reality-TV model’s hopes today. That’s enough of a day for me.”
“I’m going on another buying trip soon to France. The piece I went after wasn’t available yet. My house should be done by the time I’m home.”
This stops me. The thought of him leaving again makes me ache; yet the reality of continuing in this
farce of a relationship looms. What if Mrs. Gentry’s right about my feelings for Dane? What if it’s time to risk something?
“I suppose I should say bon voyage then.”
“Sarah, tonight is dinner. I’m not asking you for a lifetime commitment.”
Of course he isn’t. And he won’t. Men don’t marry Winowski women.
“You’re hardly dressed for the beach.”
“You’re humiliated by my stuffy appearance? My antiquated look?” He shakes his head. “You are a snob, aren’t you? I thought maybe, just by knowing what a fedora was you were different. What if I lose the jacket?” He puts my bag down and strips out of his navy blazer. My stomach churns again.
What if, for just one minute, I forgot all my fears?
What if I did what I wanted just this once and abandoned myself to emotions?
“Can I have that ride home?” I ask, though with all my heart I can’t help but wish he’d take charge and kidnap me to the Pacific. But I know his inner gentleman will rule out, and I’ll spend the night with Cary Grant again.
“Perhaps it’s me getting taken for the ride.” He raises his eyebrows. I love those eyebrows.
We both stop walking and look at each other. No words are necessary. This dance we’ve been having in conversation has nothing to do with what we’re thinking. It’s avoidance. Pure and simple.
“Kiss me, Sarah.”
That’s what we’re thinking.
He bends down and, unwittingly, I step back. He steps forward and suddenly something inside me breaks.
I will not back away from what my heart wants. Not this time.
Dane’s lips brush across mine, and I relish the touch. He surrounds me with his arms and I kiss him like Ingrid kisses Cary in Notorious. There’s no thought to the matter; I am lost in his touch, just as Ingrid was when she thought it might be her only moment to tell Cary how she felt. We fall into an embrace of all the emotion neither of us has stated in our conversational dance about beaches and antiques and commodities. The emotion we have fought every time we laid eyes on each other in my cousin’s hallway. Every time I caught him peering at me over his business magazine. My chest radiates with the heat I’ve been avoiding through careless conversation. I’m lost in his kiss, tasting his lips on my own and kissing him back with a hunger I’ve never expressed before. Never felt before.
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