by Anne Calhoun
“It doesn’t taste all that different from Gina’s,” she said. He gave a little huff of laughter, but she continued. “I just like . . . I don’t know. It’s a treat. It’s something I see on TV when I zone out, people with their cups of coffee in New York City or Las Vegas or Miami. When I have to come to Brookings I treat myself.”
This little insight into Marissa’s mind amused him. “So you like holding the cup?”
“I like holding the cup,” she said. “Why? You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine if you need a kick, but it tastes bitter and burned. Most people put cream and sugar in the coffee, so they don’t notice the taste.”
Amused, she said, “So Gina’s coffee tastes bitter and burned?”
“Gina’s coffee tastes like it was brewed with stagnant swamp water then left on the burner for a week.”
She eyed his cup. “What did you get?”
“An Americano. It’s a shot of espresso with water.”
He offered her the cup. Keeping one eye on the road, she took it and sipped, considering the flavor. “Smoother.”
“Let’s go hold Starbucks cups while we look at apartments.”
The first appointment on his list was at a complex near McCrory Gardens. They parked in the visitor spots and found the management office on the first floor of one of the buildings. A woman in her twenties dressed in tight black slacks and a low-cut shimmery blouse led them down the hall to an empty unit.
“Usually our leases run through the school year,” she said as she unlocked the door, “but the tenant dropped out and the unit’s available. When do you need occupancy?”
“Now,” Adam said as he looked around. The door opened into the kitchen/eating area that faced the living room, carpeted in a cream color that had seen better days, even with the smell of a recent cleaning hanging in the air. Two small bedrooms were at the back of the unit, with bathroom, walk-in closet, and washer/dryer hookups opposite. It was more space than he’d ever lived in.
Marissa peered into closets and ran her free hand over the countertops. The leasing manager eyed her, then asked, “What do you think?”
“It’s his apartment,” she said. “I’m just here for moral support.”
The tour took less than five minutes. “Do you want to fill out an application today? I’ll need paycheck stubs and tax returns, plus a credit report, or proof of student loan disbursement if you’re at SDSU.”
“I’m looking at a couple of other places,” Adam said. “I’ll take the paperwork, and if I decide to take it, I’ll bring it by later today.”
“That’s fine,” she said, and stepped back to let them out.
“So, what do you really think?” Adam said as they hurried back to the Charger.
“I think that’s the ugliest shade of green I’ve ever seen in my life,” Marissa said, casting a disparaging glance at the exterior of the buildings. “They redid the kitchen recently but with the cheapest commercial-grade fixtures you can buy.”
“You think it’s ugly.”
She sipped her burned coffee. “I think ugly is generous. It’s worse than ugly. It’s . . . cheap. Soulless.”
He nodded. “On the other hand, I’ve lived in barracks for the last twelve years. It’s a big step up from the barracks. Lots of closet space.”
“That sounds like something Delaney would say,” she said lightly.
“It was something Delaney said. Frequently.”
“You can do better,” she said dismissively. “Let’s look at something else. Anything not in dragon-scale green.”
They saw townhouses on the other side of McCrory Gardens, closer to campus, with a reasonably attractive exterior, but a raucous party was going on in the unit next to the available one. Music thumped through the walls, and empty beer cans collected in recycling containers outside the door. The complex manager smiled, excused himself, and knocked on the next door. The music dialed down in seconds, but Adam refused the offer of paperwork.
“Not in the mood for a built-in party?” Marissa asked when she got into the car.
“I don’t have the patience to live next to that.”
Still holding the cup in one hand, she paged through the printouts in the folder on her lap. “Last one,” she said.
The final option for the day was on the opposite side of campus, in a historic building renovated into apartments. The building’s exterior was red brick, with a recessed entryway accessed through three large arches. “Looks like it used to be a school,” Adam said as he parked on the street at the end of the block. “Look at those windows.”
“That,” Marissa said, “is not soulless.” The coffee had to be cold and coagulated by now, but she still carried it out of the car and paused under a bare oak tree. Rain dotted her hair as she absently tucked it behind her ear. “That is a building worth living in. No air conditioners jutting out of the siding. Whoever redid the brick knew his craft, too.”
“Nice location,” Adam added. “Walking distance to campus.”
“It’s a mile,” Marissa pointed out, “maybe more. Or is that walking distance for someone who’s used to foot patrols with a hundred-pound pack?”
He shrugged. The complex manager waited for them just inside the portico and shook hands with them both. “I have one apartment to show you,” she said as she led them down the wide, wood-floored hall. “It’s our smallest, unfortunately, but it’s available immediately.”
“Oh,” Marissa husked when she stepped through the door.
The slight noise registered in the back of Adam’s brain while the apartment’s details occupied his thoughts. Loft ceilings. Hardwood floors, darkened with age but gleaming with a pale patina. Windows that started at mid-thigh and stretched overhead, past the reach of his outstretched fingertips. Rain coursed down the panes, but in sunlight the whole apartment would glow like the interior of a fine sailboat. The same windows illuminated the bedroom, the shadow of the oak tree outside dappling the space where a bed would go. Marissa stepped into the room, and he had a sudden flash of making love to her in all the different lights that would stream through those windows: sunshine, gloomy rainy days, spitting snow. The rooms were small, the kitchen and eating area not much bigger than Marissa’s galley kitchen, but beautiful, content as a cat in their role as a welcoming space.
“You have to provide your own washer and dryer,” the property manager said apologetically, “and parking is an extra monthly fee.”
Coffee cup still in hand, Marissa shot him a look that said as if that matters.
“It’s smaller than the other places we looked at,” he said to no one in particular. By half. He might actually be able to fill this space with all his worldly possessions.
“Size doesn’t matter,” Marissa replied as she ran her hand along marble windowsills aging more gracefully than the steps to the Walkers Ford library. “Harmonious proportions, the relationship between form and function, how it’s used all matter more than size.”
She’d not meant the words provocatively. He knew that by the way her cheeks flushed, and the way she suddenly refused to look at him. He let the words hang in the suddenly warm air for a few moments, then turned to the manager, who gave him a bland smile.
“Paperwork?” he said.
She handed him a folder. “Get it back to me as soon as possible,” she said. “We’ve already had several interested parties tour the apartment.”
“Couple of hours, max,” he said.
They left the building and stood blinking on the sidewalk. Marissa walked to the end of the street and chucked the now-empty cup in the trash can on the corner.
“You sucked every last bit of coffee out of that cup,” he said.
“It’s a treat. That’s what I do with treats,” she replied, glancing up and down the street. “It’s close to the Children’s Museum.”
“And the county courthouse,” Adam said. “I don’t plan to spend much time in either.”
She snickered, and looked at him like
she used to look at him, eyes gleaming, lips curved in a smile that made him feel like he might be okay, all because he’d made her laugh. It was no easy task making Marissa laugh. Even as a teenager she’d been solemn, serious, weighted down.
“Size doesn’t matter?” he said, hoping for another laugh.
“Oh, please. Thanks for leaving me hanging there, by the way. I’m sure she thought we were together.”
“We were together.”
The laughing light in her eyes flickered off. “Not that way.”
So much for connections. “How about another coffee while I fill out this paperwork?”
They drove back to the Starbucks. This time she got an Americano and watched him rip through the paperwork. He was paging back through, double-checking signatures, when she spoke.
“You don’t have anything to worry about as a lover.”
“I was teasing you,” he said without looking up. “You laugh less than you used to, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Why aren’t you defensive about this? Most guys would be.”
He capped the pen he’d borrowed from the barista, then tossed it on top of the paperwork and sat forward, elbows on knees. “About having reached the advanced age of thirty and slept with two women, instead of two dozen, or two hundred?” When she nodded, he added, “‘Quantity equals quality’ is just another way of saying size matters, and I’m not most men.” He pulled his cell phone from his cargo pants pocket and called the property manager. “Linda, it’s Adam Collins,” he started, but she cut him off.
“Adam, I’m sorry,” she said. “Another person brought the completed paperwork to the office right after I showed you the apartment. I’m running the credit check right now, but I doubt they’ll have any problems.”
Marissa was watching him, legs crossed, hair spilling loose along her cheekbones, both hands wrapped around the coffee cup so her fingers met at the mermaid. He felt his face go blank, even as he spoke. “Of course. I understand. Are there any other vacancies coming up?”
“None until May, when classes end,” Linda said regretfully.
Fuck. Fuck! He should have stayed with her, filled out the paperwork in her office, but he’d wanted to get Marissa another coffee. He blew out his breath. “Okay. Would you keep my name and number, in case a vacancy comes up unexpectedly?”
“I certainly will,” Linda said. “Good luck with your search.”
He tapped the screen to disconnect. “Someone else is renting it right now,” he said without looking at her.
“You shouldn’t have brought me,” Marissa said, then set her coffee cup on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “My timing’s always been crap.”
“Hey,” he said. He leaned across the table and nudged the cup toward her. “It’s fine.”
“Should we go back to one of the other complexes?”
He shook his head. Now that he’d seen that building, living somewhere else felt like settling, and he was done settling. Frustration seethed inside him before he locked it down, then considered the equally quiet woman sitting across from him. “We should get some supper and go home. Both of those places are last resorts.”
“Supper?”
“Yeah. I dragged you down here and made you look at shitty architecture in the rain. The least I can do is buy you supper.” Which would give him a great opportunity to ask her about the books in the back of his car, and try to figure out what was going on with her and Brookhaven.
“You didn’t drag me down here,” she said. The words were soft, mild, as she ran her middle finger along the underside of the cup’s lid. “I could have said no. I didn’t.”
The implication being she might say yes to something else, something far more pleasurable than looking at apartments in the rain. “Why did you say yes?”
“Because I didn’t believe you when you said you were here to stay.”
7
ADAM SAT BACK in the blond wood chair, laced his fingers together behind his head, and glanced at the paperwork, then at her. “Do you believe me now?”
Marissa shrugged more nonchalantly than she felt. Something odd, something strange was happening, something that started in the bedroom of that gorgeous apartment when she stepped into the tracing of bare branches in the square of light on the floor. She felt it, saw it in Adam’s darkening eyes, almost could have believed it; but like everything else, the timing was off. Someone else rented the apartment, and the thought of his staying, even in Brookings, was laughable. “Not really,” she said.
“Why would I go through all this if I wasn’t staying?”
Again, she shrugged. “Something to do?” That wasn’t right, either. It was like he had something to finish, and this odd excursion was part of it. Whatever it was, her involvement was a huge risk.
“Why wouldn’t I stay?”
“Why would you?”
“I’m from here. I’m enrolled in a graduate program at SDSU.” He said the words without inflection, and she wondered if he knew how much space he took up beyond his sheer size. His biceps and triceps bulged under the soft cotton of his shirt. He’d always been tall. Now he was both tall and bulky. He had the untouchable, locked-down appeal of a monk, or a happily married man. Except he was neither. A little thrill zinged through her at the thought of unlocking him.
“You’ve been gone for twelve years,” she pointed out.
“This is home.” His gaze sharpened. “Why are you still here?”
“I never left.”
“You could leave. People do it.”
She laughed. “Do you have any idea how much money I have tied up in Brookhaven? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Have you tried to sell it?”
“No,” she said, more sharply than she intended. “Restoring Brookhaven is the only dream I’ve ever had. I’m two weeks away from living that dream.” Two weeks away from showing everyone in town, from longtime families like the Walkers to newcomers like Alana, that being a Brooks meant more than dreaming big. It meant making a dream a reality, restoring the Brooks name to its original status. To get so close to that goal only to have it slip through her fingers, and at Delaney’s wedding reception, no less, wasn’t an option.
Then why are you sitting in Starbucks rather than getting the mantel you need? Are you familiar with the concept of self-sabotage?
“Five generations of Brookses are buried in the cemetery, including my husband. I’m not leaving. And you’re not staying.”
“Maybe we’re both wrong,” he said. “Supper?”
A faint alarm went off in her head as she stared at him, but she shook it off. He had to be here for a reason, going through the motions of squeezing those broad shoulders into a life that was two sizes too small. Whatever motivated him didn’t have anything to do with her, but she’d bet money she didn’t have that it had something to do with Delaney. A meaningless bet. She didn’t have any money. A man with Adam’s control would do nothing randomly. He never had. Recklessly, yes. Randomly, never.
She might as well have supper. “Okay. Where?”
“How adventurous do you feel?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A new Thai restaurant opened a couple of months ago.”
She considered this. “I’ve never had Thai food before. Have you?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s intense. Really spicy, but they can tone it down if you ask.”
She shouldn’t. She should go home, heat up soup, take a bath, and go to bed. Alone. She needed to focus for the next two weeks, and Adam was a very potent distraction. But he was leaving. She felt the separation coming, even if it was weeks down the road. When he’d done whatever he was in Walkers Ford to do, he’d leave. Again. The smart thing to do was say no.
“Sounds good,” she said.
This time when they trotted through the rain to the car, Adam opened her door for her. She smoothed down her damp hair, then twisted it into a coil at her nape. “Sorry about your hair,” he
said when he got in. “I never think to carry an umbrella.”
She glanced at his squared-off buzz cut. “I suppose you don’t,” she said as he started the car. “It doesn’t matter. I work outside in all kinds of weather. Usually it’s in braids.”
“You curled it, though.”
Her cheeks heated, and not just from the hot air blasting from the vents in the dash. She rarely cared if she looked pretty, but today she’d wanted to fit into whatever metropolitan aura Brookings possessed.
And look nice for Adam. Which he noticed.
You’re not in high school anymore, Ris.
“I knew it wouldn’t last,” she said, wedging her chilled fingers between her thighs to warm them. “It’s rained for two weeks straight, and from the looks of the forecast it’s going to rain for the next ten days, at least. How’s your mom?”
He smiled. “I shocked the hell out of her when I showed up on her doorstep.”
“Why didn’t you tell your mother you were coming home?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Last I saw her was August. I renovated her bathroom and she gave me some green beans and tomatoes from her garden.”
“Marble countertops, a custom tile design in the shower stall, wainscoting,” he mused, then cut her a quick glance. “What did you charge her for?”
“I found most of the pieces in remainder bins. We bartered for the labor,” she said.
“Must have been one hell of a sewing project. She does curtains, cushions, slipcovers, but I didn’t see a sofa in your apartment.”
“I haven’t asked her to make me anything yet,” she hedged, and she really didn’t want to talk about this.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. They found parking across the street and two doors down from Khao San Road, the red letters visible in neon above a steel-gray sign. Despite the now-sheeting rain, he parallel parked the Charger with swift turns of the wheel, then cut the engine. “Mom doesn’t need anyone’s charity, and you deserve to be paid for your work,” he said. “How much?”