“By the way you say, ‘grounds’, I’m guessing we’re not talking about a little country cottage here.”
Her voice had now turned from disappointed to wry, faintly acidic. He’d never thought he could irritate someone so much in three short sentences. “I’m sorry, this conversation doesn’t seem to be going the way I’d hoped. Have I said something to offend you?”
She exhaled, a pretty, feminine sound that was heavy with some unnamed emotion. “No, of course not. Ignore me. I shouldn’t be allowed to speak to normal people, my bad manners are practically contagious. The roses were beautiful. Really, thank you again.”
Christian’s voice came very low. “You think I’m normal? Let me assure you, September, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.”
“Well, your distractingly pretty looks aside—”
“Distractingly pretty?” Christian felt vaguely insulted. She’d called him pretty before too—did she mean she thought he looked effeminate? Jesus, this conversation was getting entirely derailed.
She didn’t even have the decency to sound apologetic. “You are the prettiest man I’ve ever seen, and that’s the ugly truth, Fancypants. You must be aware of how you look by now, you’ve been living with that face for…”
“Thirty-one years,” he said between gritted teeth. “And how long have you been cultivating that devastating charm of yours, Miss Jones?”
She chuckled. “Twenty-four years. Perfected it, haven’t I?”
“To a science.”
She chuckled again, then sighed. “Okay, truce. I promise not to call you pretty anymore if you promise not to send flowers again.”
“You don’t like flowers? Are you allergic?”
“Yes, and no. I love flowers, especially roses. My mother was an amazing gardener, too.” Her tone grew light, suspiciously offhand. “She taught me all the meanings of different flowers. The meanings of their different colors, too.”
A slow, spreading grin took over Christian’s face. Now we’re getting to the bottom of it, he thought. “That’s very interesting. We seem to have much in common, Ember. My own mother taught me the exact same thing.”
The silence from the other end of the phone actually burned. He had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.
“So—is this—is this a business call, or—to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
Stammering her way through it, she sounded equal parts horrified, shocked and utterly confused. God, she was adorable. He knew her face was aflame with heat right now and he wanted to reach through the phone and caress her red cheeks. “Both business and pleasure I think. I’d like to invite you to dinner so we can finalize the deal on Casino Royale.”
“We don’t…we don’t need to have dinner to do that. I can quote you a price over the phone and have it delivered—”
“But then I won’t get to see you,” he said abruptly, his voice very low. He’d gone back and forth over it in his head a hundred times, and hadn’t been able to talk himself out of seeing her again. Just one last time, and then he’d be done with this nonsense for good.
He let it hang there for a moment, giving her space, giving her a chance to say no, though it was all he could do not to find some way to force her to say yes. Ignoring that faint, ringing alarm in the back of his mind that whispered stupid, danger, stay away, he waited.
Finally after a long, tense silence, Ember said, “All right then. When?”
“Tonight,” he said instantly. “I’ll pick you up in an hour—”
“No, I can’t tonight. I’m busy. I have a date.”
That brought him up short. “A date,” he repeated, surprised how much it angered him.
“With Asher,” she said innocently, and he heard her smile through the line.
Oh, the little minx.
“Tomorrow then. Unless you have another date.”
“No, tomorrow’s perfect. It’s my day off.”
“Seven o’clock?” Christian felt the anticipation start to rise within him, dark and electric like the precursor of a storm.
“Seven o’clock,” Ember agreed softly. Before he could say another word, she disconnected the call.
Ember stood staring at the phone silently for several moments, her mind a tangle of unanswered questions, her body a riot of emotions. She raised her gaze to Asher in the living room. When he had realized who she was talking to, he’d sat up ramrod straight on the couch and listened breathlessly to every word she spoke.
“So?” His voice was hushed, his eyes, wide. The green mask had dried in irregular patches on his skin and was beginning to flake off around his nose.
“So…it appears you’re going to get to buy me that dress after all. My knight in shining denim is coming to pick me up tomorrow night at seven o’clock. For dinner.”
After a low, thrilled gasp, Asher whispered, “You have a date with him, Ember. A. Date. With. Him!” He emphasized each word, his hands clutching the edge of the sofa as if he was afraid he might fall off if he didn’t hang on.
It occurred to her that this might be the worst idea she’d had in a long time.
“Don’t freak out,” Asher warned, reading the look on her face that must have telegraphed the sheer terror by which she was suddenly frozen. “It’s just dinner, Ember. Even you can make it through one dinner.”
“It’s not the dinner I’m worried about, Ash. It’s…everything else.”
Asher stood, crossed to her in a billowing cloud of blue silk, took her shoulders in his hands, and gave her a hard little shake. “Repeat after me: one day at a time.”
“One day at a time. Right. And how exactly does the motto of Alcoholics Anonymous apply to this situation?”
“Oh my God, is that the motto of AA? How the hell would I know that? Do you think that’s a sign?” He looked nauseated for about half a second, then shrugged it off. Asher was very good at shrugging off inconvenient thoughts, a talent of which Ember, plagued by not only inconvenient but agonizing and often immobilizing thoughts, was insanely jealous. “Anyway, it’s universal, honey. Life happens one day at a time. We’re just going to apply that to your relationship with Christian.”
Her eyes bulged. “Relationship?”
Asher rolled his eyes at her horrified expression. “Okay. Friendship, acquaintance, business association, whatever. We’re just going to take it one day at a time, one dinner at a time. We’re not going to worry about the future, we’re just going to enjoy the ride. Even you can do that. Right?”
Ember blew out a breath. The not-worrying-about-the-future part she had down pat. It was the enjoying the ride part that was going to give her trouble.
But Asher was looking at her with such…hope. He really was the only one in the entire world who gave a damn about her. She could probably manage one dinner for his sake.
“I suppose,” she relented. Then when his raised brows and pursed lips indicated he wasn’t quite satisfied with this answer, she said, “Okay, fine! Yes! I can do that!”
He beamed, and a little shower of green flakes from his dried mask drifted down like snowfall from his crinkling cheeks. “Good. One dinner at a time, starting with tomorrow night. And then after you’ve had a few dinners and basked in all his Alpha male glory, you’re going to answer me one question.”
“Which is?”
Asher’s smile slowly faded. He studied her face, and even through the thick layer of crusted pore-reducing mask she saw how concerned he was about her. How much he worried.
“The question is this: how alive do you want to be?” His voice was soft and tender. “Because you, honey, are barely breathing.”
Barely breathing. That sounded just about right. To compensate for the sudden flood of emotion she felt, the rush of sorrow and weariness and longing that squeezed her heart, she said, “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”
He leaned in and gave her a swift, hard hug. “And that’s exactly why you love me,” he whispered into her ear.
When h
e pulled away Tender Asher was gone and he was in full Bossy Asher mode, complete with lifted chin, arch demeanor and a dismissive hand wave that would have been at home on the Queen of England. “Food first, then we’re going to talk about where I’m taking you shopping tomorrow morning.”
“What about the movie?”
“Screw the movie, sister, we’ve got plans to make! My boy Quentin can wait.”
Ember spent her Sunday morning—and most of the afternoon—being dragged from fancy boutique to fancier boutique by an over-caffeinated, almost manic Asher, who insisted they had to find the exact perfect thing for this momentous occasion. Knowing she’d become a project, Ember allowed herself to be manhandled and clucked over by a host of vaguely disgruntled shopgirls who stared at her as if she were a lab animal on which vaginal deodorant sprays had been tested.
She didn’t understand how other women loved shopping so much. It was exhausting. And more than a bit depressing; the clothes always looked much better on the mannequins than on her.
By the time three o’clock rolled around, she’d had enough.
“Enough!” she said to Asher just as he was about to wrap a tissue-thin silk Hermes scarf around her neck. It was the color of the Mediterranean, an enameled azure blue, and floated like a cloud between his hands. She spied the price tag and nearly gagged.
“Don’t even start with me, chica, you’re getting this scarf whether you like it or not. You need color against that pasty skin of yours.” He eyed her complexion and clucked in disapproval. “When you’re that pale, you need something slightly darker yet brighter than your skin tone to complement it. This is definitely your color.” He held it up to his face and examined himself in the nearby full-length mirror, smiled at his reflection, and blew himself a kiss. “And mine.”
“Asher, you know I can’t afford—”
“Tch! Quiet! Not another word, ingrate! I told you this is on me!”
He’d already bought her a dress, shoes, and a matching handbag, and had snuck in some lacy black underwear while she wasn’t looking—a matching bra and panty set that looked decadent enough to eat. She wouldn’t wear them. If she wore them, she’d be exquisitely aware of them all during dinner. She’d know they were there, lurking beneath her clothing, all fancy and feminine and demanding to be ogled.
Too dangerous. No elaborate underwear. She wasn’t even sure she was going to shave her legs.
By the time they made it back to the apartment, Ember was so exhausted she forgot to be quiet on the way in. Four steps past Dante’s apartment door and he burst through it as if he’d been coughed out.
“Americana!” He held his arms out wide, beaming at her as if she were a long-lost relative. His black toupee was askew atop his balding head, as always, but at least he was dressed: trousers and a dark blue cardigan that looked a little moth-eaten around the edges. “So good to see you! How was the weekend in Terrassa with your amor?”
Asher and Ember glanced at one another. Asher made a jerking little head motion toward Dante: play along!
“Um, it was, um…short.”
There. That wasn’t exactly a lie. It was so short it actually hadn’t happened at all.
“Ah! Young love! So…” He muttered to himself in Spanish, searching for the right word, then, finding it, brightened. “Sweet!”
Love? Ember’s face reddened. With a sour glance at Asher, she said sarcastically, “It really is, isn’t it? Love is like oxygen. Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong—”
“Dante, your English is getting so good,” Asher interrupted smoothly, ignoring her. “Ember’s lessons have been working!”
“Muchas gracias!” Dante made a low, sweeping bow that would have done the king proud, and when he rose someone stood in the open door behind him. A girl of about ten, pale and willowy, with dark hair and eyes the exact color of the summer sky in Taos—a deep, fathomless blue.
“Hi! I’m Clare. What’s your name?” The girl skipped forward to stand near Ember. She looked up at her with an open, curious expression, very direct for such a young person. At her age, Ember had avoided adults like the plague.
“My granddaughter,” explained Dante, turning to the girl with an expression of such obvious pride and tenderness Ember had to look away.
“I’m Ember.”
Clare stuck out her hand and Ember, bemused, took it. They shook hands as if they’d just sealed a very important deal and Clare began to chatter in perfect English.
“Cool name! What does it mean? I was named after my grandma who died. You’re pale like me. Roberto says I need to get out in the sun more, but I like to read and watch TV and play with Bieber and he doesn’t like to go outside very much so neither do I. Do you like video games?”
Clare was looking at her expectantly. Some kind of reply was obviously in order but she wasn’t sure where to start after that dizzying intro.
“Who’s Roberto? And Bieber?”
“Roberto is my son, her father,” Dante said, ruffling Clare’s hair affectionately. “And this little monkey knows she’s not supposed to call her father by his first name, but ‘not supposed to’ never stopped her from anything, did it, Clare?”
Clare beamed. “Nope.” She turned back to Ember. “Bieber’s my dog. He’s a Yorkie. I named him after my favorite singer. Do you like Justin Bieber? Roberto says little dogs are for gays but I love him.” Now she turned her direct gaze to Asher and smiled at him. After looking him up and down—taking in his gym-perfect physique, skinny jeans, the designer glasses, and the fuchsia socks that peeked out above the patent leather Pradas—she said with innocent curiosity, “Do you have a little dog?”
Asher answered with great sincerity, “No. But according to Roberto, I definitely should.”
“Cool!” Clare beamed again, glad that was settled.
“Go back inside, gordita, it’s too cold out here for you and you’re not wearing your jacket,” Dante scolded gently.
Though there was a slight chill in the air, the sun was shining brightly, and neither Ember nor Asher had bothered with jackets today. She wondered if Clare caught cold easily, if that was the reason for her pale skin, those faint purple bruises beneath her eyes. And she was so thin. Maybe she was recovering from the flu that was going around?
Looking up at him, Clare smiled at her grandfather and patted him on the arm with motherly fondness, as if she were the adult and Dante the child. “Don’t worry so much, abuelito. It’s bad for your old man heart.”
“Old man! Ah, I’ll give you that spanking, little monkey!”
Dante was obviously teasing, trying to suppress a smile and failing. This seemed an old threat between them, a game they played, because when Dante made a menacing move for her, Clare squealed with delight and skipped away. She darted inside the apartment, swift as a hare, then popped her head back around the door a second later.
“ ’Bye Ember! ’Bye Ember’s friend!”
Ember and Asher waved goodbye, and Clare disappeared for good.
“How old is she?” Ember asked, and Dante’s smile began slowly to fade.
“Diez.” Ten. “But only outside. In here,” he pointed to his chest, indicating the heart, “she’s older than those mountains.” He lifted his gaze to the jutting dark line of the Collserola range rising above the city, and closed his eyes just longer than a blink.
Sensing more to this than simple metaphor, Ember asked, “Is she okay?”
Dante, with a quick glance inside to make sure Clare wasn’t standing near the door to the apartment, slowly drew it closed. He sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “For now, yes. She’s been out of the hospital for three months, which, for my little gordita, is good. Usually the good times don’t last this long.”
Asher said, “What’s wrong with her?”
“Cystic fibrosis.” Dante spat the words as if it burned his tongue to say them. “God’s curse on innocent little children. Their lungs fill up with mucous, their
bodies don’t grow, they can’t digest food or sleep without pain or run without gasping for breath.” He put a hand to his forehead and Ember noticed it was, very slightly, trembling.
Ember knew nothing about cystic fibrosis, except it was bad. Exactly how bad, she had no idea. “Is there a cure? Can they do surgery? I mean, don’t they have drugs for that now?”
Dante looked at her, his eyes suddenly fierce with unshed tears. “There is nothing to be done. When it gets bad, she goes to the hospital and they can make her a little more comfortable. They have some things they can do to help, some medicine to reduce infection, oxygen to help her breathe. But there is no cure. Children with this disease usually don’t live to become adults.”
His voice grew bitter with grief. “In her case, the doctors don’t think she’ll make it another few years.”
Horrified, Ember and Asher gasped in unison.
“That’s awful, Dante! That must be so hard for you and her parents!”
Asher’s words were met with a surprising reaction. At the mention of the word parents, Dante practically growled. “Ah, my good-for-nothing son drops her off here when he can’t take the pressure of caring for his own child anymore. And that woman who is her mother”—he spat a curse in Spanish, a terrible word for any woman to be called—“I hope she rots in hell! She’s a junkie and a worthless waste of human life. She deserted her daughter and my son, left them both when Clare was just a baby. My poor gordita, God tests her courage every day.”
Tears threatening, Ember covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Dante. I’m so, so sorry.”
He suddenly looked older. His toupee drooped, his skin was sallow, the light that normally shone from his merry dark eyes grew dim. He shook his head slowly back and forth. When he spoke again, his voice had lost all the anger it held when he spoke of her parents, and now had only sadness, and a quiet sort of wonder.
“Clare has faced death every day since she was a baby. Nothing scares her anymore, not people, not dying. She is kind and happy and open, she is fully present in every moment, every hour for her is big and round. Death is just another door that will soon open for her. Because that’s how she sees it: the start of a new adventure. With rainbows and unicorns and the cat she had when she was five that got hit by a car.” His voice grew even quieter. “I have raged against God for the unfairness of this, I have prayed and cursed and cried. But now…now I believe there is a reason behind her suffering. She is teaching me and everyone who comes in contact with her something priceless, I think. Something holy.”
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