“I’m Ambrosia,” he said. “Carmine talked about you often.”
“The Ambrosia Dellagio? I love your clothes!”
He chuckled. “I understand you inherited the store.”
Maxine and Westley traded weak smiles. That aspect of the will had been shocking. Carmine not only left her the store, but the apartment above as well. At first, it was bittersweet, then she thought it was more than perfect to continue the store for him. But once Stuart looked into the store’s books, it was obvious Carmine wasn’t making a profit and the amount of money he owed the bank would make it impossible for her to continue the business. She had no choice, but to put the whole building and its contents up for sale.
Maxine did take one thing for herself, however, the red dress. She told Ambrosia about the note Carmine had left on it. “Always go for the right fit,” she told him.
He put a hand on his hip. “The right fit is divine, my love. It molds so perfectly, it feels like you’re wearing nothing.” Then he leaned in and said in a softer tone, “The right fit is freedom.”
With the other twenty guests, they all made their way to the theatre. Westley was quiet, staying close to Maxine’s side. Once they found their seats in the opulent balcony, she leaned close and asked, “Are you okay? This must be tough, you’re the one who found him.”
“I never got a chance to talk to him.” Westley’s cheeks bloomed. He undid the top button of his pink shirt and loosened the tie as well. “I needed his advice. I think…I think I’m in love with Stu.”
Maxine snorted, then her face fell. “Seriously? You think you’re gay?”
“I don’t know, maybe, kind of—I hate how he goes on about other guys. It’s like I get jealous or something. I’ve known him since I was eleven. It must be love.”
“Yes, but are you gay?” She waited a moment then said, “Have you told him?”
He shook his head. “No. I need to be sure. What if it freaks him out and never wants to speak to me again? Or what if I’m wrong? How can I say something like that and then take it back?”
She glanced around at all the drag queens settling in around them. “This is pretty major, Wes,” she whispered.
“I know. I’m scared.”
Maxine slipped her hand over his. “Don’t worry. Keep it simple, just tell him how you feel.”
He stared at their hands. “Do you think that’s what Carmine would’ve told me?”
“Maybe.” She smiled. “He probably would have suggested kissing Stu on the mouth as well, but I guess you’ll have to figure that bit out on your own.”
His expression was a mixture of terror and anticipation. He dropped his voice again, “Can we keep this our secret for now?”
“Of course.”
The lights went down, layering the elegant vintage theatre in darkness. She felt Westley relax beside her.
Kinky Boots turned out to be the perfect show to celebrate Carmine’s life. Maxine laughed, truly laughed for the first time in weeks. Her body had forgotten what it felt like to feel joy.
There was a momentary sting of a memory with Antony in his kitchen, but she pushed it down, compressing it, making it slim and void of senses. He still took her breath away and always when she’d managed to forget about him for a few minutes.
At the first light of intermission, Westley took out his phone and wordlessly made his way to the lobby. Wanting to keep a distant eye on her brother, she followed him out and slipped into the ladies washroom, wondering what state of mind her brother would be in for Act Two.
A woman was putting on lipstick in the mirror. “I love your dress!” she remarked to Maxine. “Is it designer? You totally pull it off. I’m so sick of wearing shapeless tents.” She put a hand on her bulbous stomach. “Due next month.”
“Congratulations.”
The woman tilted her head. “You look familiar to me.”
Maxine frowned at the dark-haired woman. “I work at the Cascades spa. Maybe you’ve been there?”
“Maybe. No, that’s not it. Where did you go to scho—oh! Oh my!” She bent at the waist and screamed. Between her legs a pool of fluid spilled onto the floor. “Oh my God!” She held her stomach. “I think my water just broke.”
Maxine stared as rivers continued down the woman’s legs. “Are you sure?”
“Get my fiancé!” She rifled through her purse and handed Maxine her ticket. “He’s sitting beside me.” She started to pant.
“I don’t think I should leave you.”
“Go!”
Maxine bolted out of the washroom. An usher standing by the doors gave her an alarmed expression. “There’s a woman in labor in the washroom,” she said as she ran past. “I’m getting her fiancé. Call 911.”
Heart thudding madly, Maxine rushed down the main aisle to row G—the expensive seats, she thought giddily. The prospect of delivering such exciting news made her feel like a hero.
She found the woman’s empty seat and saw the fiancé bent over, reading the program. “Excuse me, sir?” Maxine was two seats into the row when he turned his head. They both looked at each other as if they were seeing ghosts.
“Johnny?” She breathed. The woman’s ticket was still pinched between her fingers.
“Maxine?” He looked her up and down again. “How are you? You look good.”
She blinked, then the words came out so fast Johnny had to ask her to repeat. “Your fiancée is in labor in the bathroom!”
His face went completely white.
“Hurry, jackass!” she ordered, pointing up the aisle.
Within ten minutes, the ambulance had arrived. Maxine stayed in the periphery enjoying a dizzying detachment as if she was watching one of those reality shows Crosby loves.
With his fiancée on a stretcher, Johnny found Maxine in the back of the crowd and went to her. “Thank you,” was all he said. Then he squeezed her shoulder and followed the paramedics out of the theatre to the waiting ambulance.
Maxine stayed in stunned pose, like a wax figure on display behind the red ropes.
“Are you all right?” Westley came to her side.
“Yes,” she answered. “I am.” Then a grin spread over her face. “I really am.” The incredible lightness inside her heart took her by surprise. She no longer loved Johnny—not even one little bit. She took Westley by the shoulders. “What did Stuart say?”
“No answer.”
“You know what, Wes? You have to tell him how your feel, right now, in person, run to him.”
“Uh…okay.” He looked terrified. “Wait? Where are you going? You’re not following Johnny to the hospital are you?”
She pushed her shoulders back. “Nope. I’m going for the right fit.” Maxine ran out to the sidewalk and flagged down a cab. She was so ecstatic with this epiphany she gave the driver a ten-dollar tip before she raced into the apartment building. Antony you were right, her heart was singing, now I’m sure I can love you.
But as soon as she stepped off the elevator her smiled faltered. The door to Antony’s apartment was wide open and boxes lined the hallway. She walked in and sidestepped a burly guy with a moving truck logo stenciled on the back of his shirt.
“Hey!” A cleanly shaven man with a substantial belly held a clipboard. He called out to Maxine, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Antony.”
“He live here?”
“Oui,” she shook her head. “I mean, yes.”
“Well, not anymore, sweetheart.” He slipped a pencil behind his ear. “We got a rush to move everything yesterday. Occupants already moved away.”
“Moved away? Where?”
He gave her a look. “I’m guessing if he wanted you to know, he would have told you.”
There was a crash from down the hallway followed by a muffled curse. The man slapped the clipboard on the top of a tower of boxes beside him and hitched up his pants, grumbling down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
Maxine grabbed the clipboard. Antony’s things were be
ing shipped to an address in Florida.
Florida! The floor almost fell out from under her shoes.
Voices from the spare room grew louder. With a surge of confidence, Maxine took out her phone snapped a picture of the address and then fled the apartment.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Antony parked his new hybrid SUV and sat in the parking lot of Amalie Arena. His palms had already started to sweat. He knew this night was coming, but he wasn’t ready. He left the radio on as he rolled down the window, letting a cool breeze in from Garrison Channel.
“…Laurent in his first game against his old team, Toronto. What should his strategy be tonight?”
The other announcer, a gruff sounding man with a thick southern accent answered, “He’s not only playing against his ex-teammates, but he’s up against the guy he was traded for. Bachlahov, the Russian defender who’d been causing Tampa Bay to give up goals on all the power play chances due to his time in the penalty box.”
“Do you think Bachlahov has a score to settle tonight? He’s facing his ex-team as well. The head coach made no secret he’s been wanting to trade him for some time.”
There was a disgruntled sound from the other announcer. “You can’t compare these guys. Laurent was pulling Toronto through a record high injury roster, Bachlahov was a goon, smashing anything that tried to reach the net.”
“He’s not a goon! Toronto needed someone to step up and keep their top scorers safe. It’s an investment.”
“Many think Laurent was moved to Florida in a trade that was hasty on Foster’s part.”
“He moved a player who was at his peak. Isn’t that the best time to get the most mileage out of the trade?”
“You think Bachlahov is a better player than Laurent? That’s bullshit!”
Antony smiled at the exasperation in the announcer’s voice.
“The Toronto club needed a tough guy back on defense. Laurent was trying to make the highlight reel every game.”
Antony leaned forward and turned off the radio, his dress shirt stuck to his back. He wasn’t exactly used to the warmer temperatures yet. The new uniform was hard to put on, too. Antony was secretly sentimental about his old jersey, but at least he was able to keep his same number, twenty-seven.
Knowing the only way through tonight was to actually start moving, he left the car, slipped his sunglasses into place and walked with his suit jacket slung over one shoulder.
Marc would be taping the game at home, but instead of an apartment above six lanes of traffic, Antony had rented them a condo on Lagoda Drive, a thirty-minute drive from the arena. They looked out over their pool and then beyond that, the Hillsborough Bay, constantly dotted with boats.
It had only been a few days since they’d arrived, and they were still living out of boxes. Sasha had set them up for home care to assist Marc, but it wouldn’t start until tomorrow. The brothers spent their days moving around each other in casual friendliness, careful of the fragileness under the surface.
Antony had gone with Marc outside last night along the waterfront walkway. Plants were in bloom and it amazed Antony that back home, a mere three-hour plane ride, that everything was still bare. He let his hand graze the top of a group of shrubs.
“Bachlahov will hit from behind,” Marc said. “Watch him on left wing.”
“I’m on different line.” Antony was distracted by a cruise boat sailing by. “We’ll never be on ice same time.”
“Foster will make you face Luca. C’est certainment. Bachlahov is with Luca’s line.”
He nodded, and they moved down the trail, sidestepping the runners that shared the pathway. Antony couldn’t do this in Toronto, he’d be recognized too easily. But in Tampa, the city didn’t revolve around hockey.
“Luca,” Antony said, more like a whisper. He missed his friend’s genuine wisdom. He even missed Chase’s antics and crude humor. Partly, he hoped they would give the Russian a hard time, or at least not let him slip into the group easily.
The locker room for the Lightning was an entirely different story. Antony stood out, they called him Frenchie. It was a horrible nickname.
“Luca’s weakness is passing too early. Watch for that.”
“Oui, tu es raison.” Antony crouched and rubbed the leaf of a green plant between his thumb and finger. The scent of mint wafted toward him.
And there it was. That moment when Maxine crept into his thoughts—usually when he least expected it—and it cut more deeply than having her in his mind all night long. The hours he spent staring at the ceiling while Marc snored down the hallway were the worst times. There was no distraction, only his memory torturing him with voluptuous images.
Does she know I’m in Florida? Does she even care?
He plucked the leaf and let it fall to the ground. Maybe this was the best thing, he thought, moving away, removing the temptation to call her or drop into Carmine’s.
“Don’t look at Coach Foster,” Marc continued. “Useless distraction. You look at Bachlahov, stare daggers at him. Make sure he see you watching him.”
“Oui.”
“Faites attention,” Marc finally said. “Be careful.”
Antony paused. It was the first time since they’d played together he’d uttered the cautionary statement.
Now, as Antony stood on the ice in an arena full of screaming fans, fully dressed as a Tampa Bay player, Marc’s words came back to him. It was like he had an implant inside his ear, coaching him on all the stats. He was an expert on his former team after all, except this time he was using that knowledge to defeat them.
Bachlahov was in the penalty box within the first three minutes of the game. Antony watched Luca make an early pass, he picked it off, stormed up the center and passed to the Tampa Bay forward who made a wicked slap shot to put them on the scoreboard first.
Antony skated passed the Toronto bench and couldn’t help but smirk at Coach Foster.
He grew cocky, thinking about the announcer making fun of him wanting to get on the highlight reel. Screw you, I am the highlight reel.
On his next shift, he got another chance to score. Pounding down the ice on a breakaway, Antony saw everything in slow motion; the opening in the defense, the angle he’d need to shoot the puck over the shoulder of the goalie…and then he realized why he couldn’t see the other defender. Out of the corner of his eye, Bachlahov came in like a blur.
He didn’t even feel the hit.
Antony blinked, but when his surroundings came into focus he wasn’t on the ice or even the arena. Florescent lights glared down, he didn’t recognize the muffled sounds around him, but one thing was certain, he couldn’t feel his legs.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“I got the weatherman from channel five as the mystery bachelor!” Crosby’s voice hit a high note as she typed on her laptop.
Maxine took another sip of wine then refilled her glass. Crosby had been hitting high notes for the last half hour. The spaces on Crosby’s spreadsheet that had been empty since she announced the ambitious project—The Bachelor Auction—were finally filling up. Just like she predicted; it was all coming together in the end.
Maxine’s magazines had been moved off the table to make room for Crosby’s mass of paperwork and sticky notes.
“Too bad you broke up with Antony,” Crosby said. “I bet he could have gotten one of his teammates to sign up. That would have been extremely helpful.”
Rose dug into the bowl of party mix, taking a few extra red candies. “Subtle.”
“Interesting how my life decisions don’t revolve around your latest work project,” Maxine said. She refilled Rose’s wine glass and topped Crosby’s as well.
Crosby looked up from the screen, her expression was open. “I’m purposely interjecting his name into the conversation during non-emotional issues,” she said. “I read that casual repetition of the thing you’re trying to forget is a more effective means to forgetting the thing you’re trying to forget in the first place.”
Rose nodded. “Can’t argue with science.”
Maxine turned her back, hiding her grin, as she concentrated on getting more potato chips from the cupboard. Since the night of the theatre, she’d been on a reserved high of sorts. After she left Antony’s empty apartment, she rushed home and directly removed Johnny’s ice cream from the freezer. Then she collected all the wedding invitations, excluding the flash cards Antony had made for her, and tossed the whole mess into a bag and dropped it down the apartment’s garbage chute.
It was the clean break she’d been waiting for to make.
Finally.
She wasn’t euphoric, but rather at peace, and the sensation of freedom was softly rejuvenating. When she’d seen Johnny at the theatre, Maxine was struck by two truths; that she didn’t hate him, and secondly, that she didn’t love him anymore.
The feeling was so definite and strong there was no lingering doubt.
But more importantly, she knew that Antony had been right all along. In a way, she’d been waiting for Johnny to return. Maybe to make sure she was ready to move on. The tentacles of four years of being together had finally withdrew from her heart and soul.
It only took seven months and ten days.
After she’d thrown out her emotional baggage—literally—she sat down and wrote Antony a letter, telling him everything that had happened with Carmine and bumping into Johnny at the theatre. She wrote ‘I love you’ all over one entire side of the paper.
Then she ended with this sentence.
I am yours, come and get me.
She paid to have it translated into French. Then she sent both versions by express post the next day to the address in Florida, making sure to arrange signature confirmation. Maxine had thought about calling him, but she wanted the gesture to be grand and romantic. Besides, she didn’t have the guts to dial in the first place. What if he hung up on her? What if he let it ring and she ended up leaving a stupid message on his voice mail? A long heartfelt letter seemed to be the best choice.
There were all kinds of reasons to believe he’d never get the letter, but Maxine had to let go of the doubt and decided to trust the universe. He was her right fit. And it was that hope that bolstered her out of her gloom over Carmine’s death.
The Right Fit Page 22