Right Place, Wrong Time

by Judith Arnold

  Another swell of voices rose from the living room again. The words were muffled and muddled, for which Gina was grateful. She didn’t want to hear what Ethan and Kim were quarreling about—especially if their fight concerned Gina’s needling of Kim’s father throughout dinner, and Ethan’s tacit encouragement of her.

  “They don’t like each other very much, do they?” Alicia said in a deafeningly loud whisper that echoed off the glossy tile walls.

  “I think,” Gina whispered more softly, “they’re just having some problems.”

  “Like Mommy and Daddy?”

  Gina busied herself shaking the bottle of purple nail enamel. Ramona and Jack were having some problems the way Placido Domingo had some voice. But she wasn’t going to tell Alicia that now. She wasn’t going to spoil Alicia’s manicure—or her vacation. “Your parents are married,” she noted. “Ethan and Kim aren’t.”

  “I don’t think they should get married,” Alicia said somberly. “I think Ethan should marry you.”

  “Me?” Gina laughed, but for some reason her laughter got stuck in the vicinity of her diaphragm. “Ethan and I have nothing in common.”

  “You both like to snorkel,” Alicia pointed out.

  “So do you. Why don’t you marry him?”

  “I’m too young.” Alicia’s frown conveyed that she considered her aunt extremely foolish even to suggest such a thing. “But you’re old. You should marry him.”

  “I don’t want to.” Gina tried to force another laugh, but it wouldn’t come. She busied herself dabbing polish onto Alicia’s nails, one finger at a time.

  “Why not? I bet he’s rich.”

  “See? There you go—he and I have nothing in common. He’s rich and I’m not. Now, hold that hand flat and don’t move it. Give the polish a chance to dry.”

  Alicia laid her hand carefully on her knee and extended her other hand to Gina. “If you married him, you’d be rich, too.”

  “Why are you so eager to marry me off?” Gina asked, pretending indignation. “I like my life fine the way it is. I don’t have any room in it for a husband. I don’t have any room in my apartment for a husband, either.”

  “You could get a bigger apartment,” Alicia suggested.

  “Big apartments are too expensive.”

  “If you married Ethan, you’d be rich.”

  Gina painted a final dot of polish onto Alicia’s pinkie, then capped the bottle. “Let them dry, and then I’ll do a second coat,” she instructed Alicia, then leaned back against the wall and shifted her butt so it wouldn’t go numb. “I’m in no hurry to find a husband. And in any case, I don’t want you mentioning to Ethan that you think he and I should get married. He’s got to work things out with Kim, and we should mind our own business.”

  “But—”

  “And even if he and Kim don’t work everything out, he’s all wrong for me, Alley Cat. He’s too fancy. Know what I mean? He’s a Connecticut kind of guy. And I’m a New York kind of girl.”

  “He could learn to like New York.”

  “Sure, he could. But it wouldn’t be in his blood, the way it’s in yours and mine.” Hearing herself say the words convinced Gina of their resounding truth. Ethan might be handsome. He might have a subversive sense of humor. He might be breaking up with Kim. He might even be flirting with Gina, if she was willing to let her imagination stretch that far.

  But he wasn’t her kind of guy.

  AN HOUR LATER, Alicia was sound asleep, her fingers and toes tipped in shimmering purple polish. The fighting between Ethan and Kim had long since ended, and when Gina emerged from her bedroom, after telling Alicia her own version of “The Ugly Duckling,” making it about a Bronx pigeon’s egg that wound up in a suburban robin’s nest, and fumbling her way through the song “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid—“because that movie is like snorkeling,” Alicia had explained—the TV was off and the door to the master bedroom was closed.

  Gina should probably go to bed, as well. But she was too wound up. All day long she’d deferred thoughts about her sister’s disintegrating marriage. Now, without Alicia to distract her, worry and anger inundated her.

  She’d liked her brother-in-law at one time. Jack Bari had been staggeringly handsome, and he’d doted on Ramona, and he’d called Alicia his princess. He’d also been kind of a jerk, laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny, like the Three Stooges or broadcasts where they showed baseball players getting hit in the groin by line drives. He’d been lazy around the house, tossing his jacket onto a chair rather than hanging it in the closet, and leaving dirty dishes in the sink rather than stacking them in the dishwasher. He’d insisted on his nights out with the boys—although, in retrospect, Gina wondered whether some of those nights out might have been spent not with the boys but with his sweetie pie.

  Yet he’d seemed like a pretty typical guy. Gina had yet to meet a man who was diligent about cleaning up after himself. Her father was truly one of the best men she knew, but he never managed to get his dirty laundry into the hamper, and the concept of making a bed was alien to him. Kyle used to keep his uniform impeccable, but the minute he took it off he turned into Officer Slob, dressing in frayed jeans and torn T-shirts, splattering coffee all over the counter and never bothering to wipe the spills. She recalled the overall tidiness of the master bedroom that morning when she’d taken Ramona’s phone call, but for all she knew, Kim picked up after Ethan.

  What was she going to tell Alicia? How was she going to break the news to her magnificently manicured niece that King Jack had deserted his princess and abdicated the throne for a little extramarital nookie?

  Maybe some fresh island air would clear her head. She padded barefoot through the silent living room to the sliding-glass door—and saw Ethan seated out on the terrace by himself. Just as he’d found her last night.

  She pushed open the door. He glanced around and his face broke into a spontaneous smile. “Hey,” he said softly.

  “Mind if I sit out here awhile?”

  He gestured toward the empty chair next to him. “You’re paying as much as I am,” he joked, then lifted the beer bottle he had in his hand. “Would you like one?”

  “No, thanks. I’m stuffed from dinner and tanked on wine. Thanks so much for treating us, Ethan. That was awfully generous of you.”

  He shrugged. “If you can get tanked on a glass and a half of wine, you must be a cheap date.”

  All right, she wasn’t tanked. She didn’t want a beer, though. She didn’t want anything more than what she had right at that moment: the starlit sky above her, the murmur of the ocean below her, the tangy air around her. And Ethan beside her.

  She shouldn’t want that.

  He, too, was barefoot, his feet propped onto the railing. The hems of his trousers slid up just enough to expose his bony ankles. The breeze toyed with his shirt, causing it to ripple against his chest. His hair was mussed, his forearms tanned, tendon and muscle tapering down to his large, strong hands.

  She shouldn’t want this.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. Ethan sipped his beer. She leaned back in her chair and listened to the wind and the water. Finally, he broke the silence. “So, what was the phone call about?”

  She might have been annoyed that he’d reminded her of that unpleasant subject, except that she hadn’t really needed a reminder. Concern about her sister and Alicia was stuck like a piece of food in her throat. She was going to have to swallow it down or cough it up if she didn’t want to choke on it.

  She decided to cough it up. “My sister kicked her husband out of the house,” she said. “He’s going to be gone by the end of the week. I’m supposed to explain all this to Alicia before we get back to New York, so she’ll be prepared.”

  “Ouch.” Ethan reached over to pat her hand, which rested on the arm of her chair. He left his long, warm fingers draped over hers, a gesture too casual for her to read meaning into but too comforting for her not to read meaning into. She moved her hand experimentally
, but he didn’t draw his away. His touch felt good, so she relaxed and let herself accept it. “I gather you haven’t told Alicia yet,” he said.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “She’s too happy.” He sipped some beer. “Is she close to her father?”

  “She thinks he makes the sun rise. God, he’s such a bastard.”

  “These situations are never simple, Gina. There may be good guys and bad guys, but no one is ever all good or all bad.”

  Was he giving her moral instruction? Or perhaps working through his own “situation” with Kim? “The son of a bitch stepped out on my sister,” she grumbled. “Are you going to defend him?”

  Ethan eyed her and laughed. “And turn you into my enemy? No way.” He held up both hands in surrender.

  Gina laughed, too, although she wished he hadn’t removed his hand from hers. It was just as well that he did. The more she desired the contact, the more she ought to avoid it. “You make me sound dangerous.”

  “I saw what you did to Kim’s father this evening. You are dangerous.”

  “I wasn’t really that bad, was I?” She’d only been teasing the guy, trying to pluck some of the stuffing out of him.

  “You were great. I was cheering you on the whole time.”

  “Is Kim mad at me?”

  “Kim is mad at the world right now.” He sighed and let his hand settle back over hers. Maybe this time he was seeking comfort rather than giving it. She arched her hand so she could slide her fingers between his, and he responded with another gentle squeeze that sent a charge through her. She’d never been turned on by holding a guy’s hand before. And she wasn’t really holding Ethan’s hand—and she wasn’t really turned on. But…damn. The heat of his palm, the protective curve of it and the strength in those fingers…It all felt much, much too good.

  “I bet it’s just you she’s mad at,” Gina said, as if to convince herself that she shouldn’t like him, that maybe he was one of the bad guys. “You broke her heart.”

  “I don’t think it’s broken.” His thumb moved lazily along the outer edge of her pinkie and he stared out at the horizon. “Kim’s a terrific woman. I like her. She’s going to make some man very happy someday.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I’m not that man.”

  “You told her that?”

  He pondered the question for several long seconds. “Pretty much,” he said.

  “Meaning what? You were vague, you left the door open, you’re hedging your bets?” She knew guys who kept their options viable, stringing along several women at once and insisting to each one that he’d stopped seeing the others. One of her classmates at RISD, a sculptor with a buff build and bedroom eyes, had been a master at that game. For a while, she’d been one of the several women he’d strung along. Eventually, before she’d gotten too involved with him, she’d figured out that the line he was handing her—“I’ve ended things with the others. You’re the only woman who matters to me”—was the same line he was handing a photography grad student and a premed from Brown University, just up the road from the art school.

  “Meaning,” Ethan said, “I told Kim I was never going to marry her.”

  “And she heard you clearly? Sometimes…” She didn’t want to say anything against Kim—or against women in general. Much as she relished his hand clasping hers, he was a man, which meant he didn’t automatically deserve her trust.

  “Sometimes what?” he prodded her.

  “Men don’t make themselves as clear as they need to be,” she said, placing the blame where it belonged.

  He stared at her. “We don’t make ourselves clear?”

  “You know. Like maybe you told her you weren’t going to marry her, but you still felt close to her and wanted to be in her life because she’s a terrific woman and blah-blah-blah. And you’re holding my hand here, just kind of testing the waters, but you’ve got Kim warming the bed for you. That kind of thing.”

  He lifted his hand from hers, letting his fingers slide across the back of her hand in a farewell caress. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  She minded not having his hand there, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “I don’t even know you, Ethan. And I’m not in the market for one of those vacation romantic fantasy flings, okay? I’m here in St. Thomas with my niece.”

  “And I’m here with the Hamiltons. Don’t worry. I won’t touch you again.”

  Talk about breaking someone’s heart. She was proud of herself for doing the right thing, but her hand felt cold and abandoned. “We have nothing in common,” she reminded him, just as she’d reminded Alicia earlier that evening.

  He stared at her again, his gaze curious, tinged with amusement. “Nothing at all,” he said, a bare hint of sarcasm coloring his voice.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not making a pass at you, Gina. I wasn’t making a pass at you when I took your hand. It was just a gesture of friendship.”

  Oh, God, had she just made a total ass of herself? Had she read more into his touch than he’d ever intended? Her cheeks tingled as embarrassment flooded her. “All right, well, I don’t know what I’m talking about,” she mumbled, pushing herself to her feet. “It’s past my bedtime. I’m going inside.”

  He grabbed her hand once more, and pulled her back into her chair. “Hey,” he murmured. “It’s there, Gina. We both know it’s there. I’m not making a pass at you, but…” He pulled her hand toward him, close enough so he could peer at her fingertips, close enough that he could kiss them if he’d wanted to. He looked as if he wanted to. But he placed her hand back on the arm of her chair and released it, then took a long slug of beer. “I’m not your brother-in-law. I’m not the kind of guy who takes his girlfriend on a vacation and—what’s your expression? Steps out on her?”

  “Good.” Her voice sounded rusty and she swallowed.

  “Not that I don’t want to. Make a pass at you, I mean.” He addressed the horizon. “But I won’t.”

  “I think that’s the best thing.” She had to force out the words, even though she believed them fervently. What she wanted, what he wanted—it wasn’t the best thing. The best thing was to pretend neither of them wanted anything.

  “Do you hate me for being honest?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding? You get points for being honest.” Without his hand to clasp, she fidgeted, tapped her fingers together, picked at a thread on her shorts. “Whatever it is between us, Ethan, it’s meaningless. It’s just the ocean and the heat and the Caribbean moon. You go someplace exotic, and you get thrown together with a stranger, and it distorts everything. I’ll bet if we met under different circumstances, we’d never even notice each other.”

  “I’d notice you,” he said simply.

  “Well, yeah. Guys notice anything with breasts.”

  “Actually, it was your feet that caught my attention.” He gazed at them, and she wondered whether she should tuck them underneath her so he wouldn’t have to see them. “Your feet and your eyes,” he added.

  “My eyes are nothing special. My feet, okay, no argument. But my eyes are just—”

  “Wide and dark and full of spirit,” he said. “And shining with love for your niece. They’re wonderful eyes.”

  “Oh.” She’d never felt comfortable receiving compliments. Even when people gushed about her feet, a reaction she’d grown accustomed to, she always wanted to deflect the flattery with a joke. But she couldn’t think of any jokes to defend herself from Ethan’s flattery. In a way, this entire conversation was hysterical—but not necessarily funny.

  “I’m sure your breasts are fine, too,” he added. “They just haven’t been my primary focus.”

  “I think I’m relieved.” A tiny laugh escaped her. “Anyway, Ethan, my point was, if you met me in New York City, say, and I was wearing closed shoes, you never would have given me a second look. We would have been two strangers passing each other on a crowded sidewalk.”

  “Depends on how crowded the sidewalk was.�
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  “Get real. You probably wear suits to work every day.”

  “I’m expected to. It’s that kind of job.”

  “And I dress in all black. Or I dress funky. I’m probably the only one of all my friends who doesn’t have a tattoo—and that’s only because I’m afraid of needles.”

  “Thank God for that. I hate tattoos.”

  “Okay, so that’s my point. We have nothing in common.”

  “We have plenty in common,” he argued. “I hate tattoos, and you don’t have a tattoo.”

  She laughed again, more easily this time. “You’re a white-bread businessman, Ethan. I bet you went to prep school.”

  “Only because my father was on the faculty,” he told her. “He teaches classics. As his son, I got a free ride.”

  Free, schmee. She’d hit a bull’s-eye. “Okay, so you’re a preppy. Probably went to an Ivy League university, too.”

  “Amherst College.”

  “Same thing. I bet you don’t know how to eat pasta with a spoon.”

  “With a fork and spoon together? I’ve seen it done. I’ve never done it myself, but—”

  “And you know your way around sailboats.”

  “Well—growing up in Connecticut…”

  “And you think New York City is dirty and noisy and full of the great unwashed, and when you go into the city it’s to see a Broadway play or some concert at Lincoln Center, and then you flee back to Connecticut right after the final curtain call.”

  “I…” He shut his mouth, thought for a moment, then spoke again. Keeping his voice level was apparently a struggle. “I don’t get down to New York that often,” he said. “Believe it or not, we’ve got plays and concerts in Connecticut. When I go to New York, it’s usually for business. I take care of the business and then I go home.” He glared at her. “How often do you go to Connecticut?”

  “Why would I want to go to Connecticut? I’ve got everything I want in the city.”

  “Rolling hills? Clean beaches? Forest ponds? Ponds in Connecticut are complex ecosystems. What have you got in New York—that reservoir in Central Park? It’s man-made and it’s dead. There are no fish, no algae, not even any insects living in it.”