by Laura Leone
"Uh, Dad—"
"No, no," Abel insisted. "I'm not asking. No need to explain. A father... with two unmarried daughters... who aren't getting any younger..."
"Dad."
"... is only too happy... to find a polite young man in their company."
"You're probably hoping," Sara said to Ryan, "to meet all of my relatives now."
Abel reminded her, "We haven't met. Introduce your father to your friend."
"Dad, this is Ryan Kinsmore."
"Kinsmore? That's not a Jewish name."
Sara said, "I admire the way nothing slips by you."
"Pleased to meet you." Ryan shook Abel's hand. "More water?"
"No, thank you, son."
"Dad, Ryan is my next door neighbor. This is his apartment."
"Oh! I thought you had unpacked awfully fast. And none of this looks like your stuff."
"And the amazing thing," Miriam told Ryan, "is that Dad's a tenured professor in the physics department at Berkeley."
Ryan wisely said nothing.
"I gave you the right apartment number," Sara said to her father.
"Across the hall." He nodded. "I knocked and knocked. The doorbell doesn't seem to work."
"Gosh, what a surprise," Miriam said.
Sara gave her sister a quelling look. "I'll get it fixed."
"And no one answered," Abel said. "So I tried this door. Then I heard a strange noise in here."
"Macy barked at you," Ryan explained.
"I'm sorry, Dad. We were out on the balcony. I didn't hear you."
"Thank God your neighbor isn't so cavalier. I thought I was going to faint in the hall after climbing those stairs."
"But y—"
"I am not bringing Aunt Minnie to your housewarming party."
"Aunt Minnie walks two miles a day and is in much better shape than you, old man."
"It's terrible," Abel said to Ryan, "how my children speak to me."
Sara started trying to haul him out of the chair.
"What are doing?" he protested. "I like this chair!"
"Let's stop bothering Ryan and go into my apartment, Dad."
"We're not bothering Ryan. Are we bothering you, son?"
"Dad, he's got much better manners than you do, so it's not fair to ask him a question like that."
"Do you hear how they speak to their father?"
"Let's go, Dad," Miriam chimed in. "Don't you want to see Sara's apartment?"
"Oh. Yes. All right," he conceded.
"So get up."
"Well, help me, then, help me!"
"I'm trying." Sara held his arm and heaved, then staggered backward as he popped out of the chair like a cork.
"So, Ryan," Abel said, "after I see the apartment, we're going out to dinner to celebrate Sara's descent in the world."
"Gee, thanks, Dad."
"Would you like to join us?" Abel invited.
"Thank you for asking, sir, but I've already got plans."
Sara noticed formal evening wear lying over the arm of the couch, still wrapped in plastic from the dry cleaners. "Come on, Dad, let's motor. We're probably making Ryan late for something."
"I like that chair," Abel confirmed. "It's a good chair."
Ryan said, "You're welcome to come sit in it any time, sir."
"You're a nice boy." Abel added to his daughters, "He's a nice boy."
Propelling her father to the door, Sara said, "Thank you, Ryan. Sorry about this."
"No problem," he said. "It was nice to meet you all."
He even sounded sincere. A nice boy, indeed, Sara reflected.
Chapter Two
Sara sat alone in the dark and wept.
Oh, this is pathetic.
She blew her nose, stuffed the crumpled tissue into the pocket of her bathrobe, and tried to pull herself together. Needing some air, some space, something besides this dark living room full of boxes, she rose to her feet, went to the French doors, and opened them. She stepped out onto the balcony, then looked cautiously in the direction of Mrs. Thatcher's cage. It was gone. Evidently Ryan had rolled the cage inside for the night. The balcony was empty and quiet.
Sara gazed out over the neighborhood. A couple of lights shone like beacons in the dark expanse of Glen Canyon Park. The streets were faintly illuminated, but most of the homes and businesses were dark. Which made sense. It was three o'clock in the morning.
Insomnia was a common curse among writers. Especially out-of-work ones.
The cool night breeze ruffled Sara's shoulder-length hair, tangling the dark, curly strands. She rested her folded arms on the balcony railing, turned her tear-streaked face up to the night sky, and tried to count her blessings.
I'm alone in a strange place. I'm unemployed at thirty-five. I'll be penniless in a year.
And the career she had built was now all ashes.
So much for trying to find the silver lining.
She started crying again.
Stress, she assured herself, it was just stress.
Moving was supposed to be one of the most stress-inducing things a normal person did. The first night in a new home was always disorienting. Given that she was also depressed about her career... Well, a few tears were natural, perhaps even healthy.
Yeah, yeah, just give into it. Get really depressed. WALLOW. Go on. You know you're dying to.
Sara caved in, lowered her head, and started crying in earnest, letting herself sob as if someone had just died. If she was going to feel sorry for herself, then, damn it, she was going to be thorough about it.
"Sara."
She shrieked and nearly leaped over the balcony rail.
"It's just me," Ryan said. "Easy, easy."
"Ryan!" She stared stupidly at him, sniveling and sobbing.
He came closer, but not too close, and he didn't try to touch her. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she choked out as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Did something happen?" In the faint glow from the city lights, he looked genuinely concerned.
"No!" She realized that sounded too vehement to be convincing. "No, nothing happened."
My whole life fell apart, that's all.
Sara sobbed harder and turned away. Something poked her thigh. She gasped and looked down to see Macy, big and black and hairy, panting anxiously. He burped at her.
"Macy can't stand to see someone he likes crying," Ryan said.
"So I'll go inside."
"Sara..."
"I'm really embarrassed," she blubbered. "It's nothing."
"No," he said, "I'm pretty sure it's not nothing."
"I'm sorry. I'm bothering you," she whimpered. "I'll go inside now."
"Shhh." Now he touched her shoulder. "Maybe you shouldn't be alone."
She just stood there crying. Macy whined.
Shit.
"Come on," Ryan said after a moment, gently trying to tug her away from the balcony railing.
She sputtered with mingled amusement and tears. "I wasn't going to jump."
"I know." He smiled slightly. "I mean, why don't you sit down?"
"Oh."
Sara let him lead her over to the two wooden chairs set up between their respective balcony doors. She sat down and mumbled, "It's so late. What are you doing up? Oh, no! Did I wake you?"
"Yeah, I always sleep dressed like this, Sara."
She heard the dryness in his tone and looked up at him. That was when she noticed he was wearing a tuxedo. "You just got in?" she guessed.
"Uh-huh."
"Oh, your thing."
"My thing?"
"Your..." She eyed the tux, which fit him beautifully. "Concert appearance? Gala embassy reception? Magic act?"
He snorted. "Nah, just a thing. Bland food, warm drinks, boring speeches."
She nodded and sniffed. "Been there, done that. Bought the T-shirt, read the book... Wrote the book." She started crying harder again.
He put his hand over hers for a moment. "Stay here. I'll be
right back. Okay?"
She nodded, because as embarrassed as she felt, a little undemanding company seemed more appealing than the strange bedroom full of boxes which awaited her when she went inside. She hadn't even been able to find the box with her linens, so she'd have to sleep rolled up in an old army blanket tonight. That seemed so sad she quivered with another hard sob. Macy approached her and panted on her knees.
"Macy," Ryan said, returning to the balcony, "move. Come on."
There was a slight scuffle of shoes and paws, then a box of tissues appeared in front of Sara.
"Thanks," she sobbed, yanking on several tissues in a row and then holding them up to her wet, puffy, grimacing face.
"I'm putting the box right next to you," Ryan said. "On the table here."
She nodded, eyes closed, and sat with the tissues pressed to her face. Then the chair creaked under Ryan's weight as he rested his butt on its arm. Sara suddenly felt his body next to her, warm and solid. She shifted nervously when he put his hand on her back.
"It's okay," he said, his voice like melting butter. "Sometimes a good cry is what it takes." That slight drawl in his voice made him sound so soothing.
So Sara wept. Just cried like a kid whose favorite toy had been broken. The hand on her back stroked her, sure and gentle, an undemanding human contact silently telling her that her tears were all right. Needy and shameless, she shifted and leaned against him. He slid his arm around her and squeezed, settling his weight comfortably against her, then continued those slow, sympathetic caresses along her back and shoulder.
She didn't know how long she cried like that. She was tired when she was done, and light-headed. She sighed and, realizing she'd have to do it eventually, she pulled herself away from Ryan's comforting embrace. Avoiding his eyes, she turned and reached for more tissues, keeping her face averted as she blew her nose. Noisily. Several times.
He rose from the chair. Who could blame him?
Then he picked up something else on the side table and handed it to her. "Here. Drink this."
She accepted a glass from him. The strong smell made her shudder. "What is it?"
"Scotch."
"Oh, good. I'm not nearly maudlin enough yet." She took a bold swig—and suddenly felt as if her esophagus was melting.
"Sara?"
"Ohmigod!" Gasping and choking, she handed the rest of the scotch back to him. "That was diabolical!"
"Maybe a smaller sip—"
"What did I ever do to you to deserve a dirty trick like that? Besides collapse on your balcony in tears at three in the morning, I mean?"
"It's your balcony, too." He sat down in the other chair. "I guess you don't like scotch?"
"I guess not."
"Can I get you something else?"
"No, I think I'll throw up if I add anything to the scotch."
Ryan took a sip from what had been her glass, then leaned all the way back in his chair and sighed. Macy yawned and lay down between them, giving an exhausted moan as he settled in.
With her sob-muzzied head starting to clear—okay, so the scotch hadn't really been such a bad idea—Sara finally noticed that Ryan had removed his jacket, undone his tie, pulled his shirt out of his waistband, and opened the buttons at his throat. It suddenly seemed very intimate to be sitting here in her robe with this stranger who was in a state of dishabille while he drank from her glass—after holding her while she cried her heart out.
"Thank you, Ryan," she said.
He lifted his head. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could tell he was looking right at her. "I won't pry," he began.
"It's okay," she said. "It's not a big secret. It's not even very interesting."
He shifted in his chair. "So do you want to bore me a little?"
"You know," she pointed out, "I could be some neurotic who does this every night, and you're inviting a world of tension headaches by being this nice to me."
"You could be. And I could be preying on your moment of weakness to get you into bed, or maybe just to get into your wallet."
"So you're the reason the rent is so reasonable here."
Sara had heard the words "get you into bed" loud and clear, and her rich imagination immediately conjured up...
No, don't go there.
He gave a soft puff of laughter. "No, our landlord is the reason. Not many people can live with Lance's murals."
Ryan clearly wasn't going there, after all. He'd expressed it as a joke. And that was okay, Sara decided. Gorgeous young men were not notoriously easy for aging women to monopolize, and she would make herself crazy if she tried. Mirrors didn't crack when Sara looked in them, but neither did heads turn when she walked down the street. She was an ordinary-looking woman with curly dark hair, brown eyes, and acceptable features. Her figure was that of a thirty-five year old who spent most of her time sitting in a chair staring at a computer screen. And she'd only get hurt if she fell for her gorgeous, younger, undoubtedly much sought-after neighbor. Besides, she had more important things to do now than lose her head over some guy.
Here in this dark light, with his shirt unbuttoned to bare his throat and his posture weary, Ryan looked even younger than he had this afternoon. All the same, he looked like someone who understood disappointment and fear, and she'd already discovered that he was definitely someone who understood sorrow.
"I suppose I've been keeping things bottled up for too long," Sara said at last. "I might not have gone to pieces tonight if I hadn't been so rigid about holding myself together until now. There was just so much to do, so many things to accomplish in a short space of time. So many decisions... It all kept me busy. Focused. Determined. Sure of my choices." She sighed. "But now that's all done, and tonight... all that's left is me."
"And you couldn't keep out the rain anymore," he guessed, watching her.
"Yeah."
"What made you move here?"
"A fork in the road," she said. "A new beginning."
"A fresh start?"
"Exactly."
"A fresh start." Butter melted with honey in his wistful voice. "A second chance."
"Are you making a fresh start, too?" she asked, looking at him curiously.
"Me?" There was a pause before he said, "No." He finished the last of the scotch. "Well, maybe I did. I made some changes a couple of years ago. When I moved into this apartment."
He didn't give the impression of wanting to talk about it, but Sara wanted to know more. She tried a question which wasn't too personal: "Did you move here from out of state?"
He nodded. "Originally. But that was a long time ago." He stared into his empty glass and added, "Another lifetime."
"You don't look old enough to have run through one life already."
"Oh, I've run through a few."
"Then you must have made a deal with the devil."
"What?"
"I mean, your past doesn't show on your face."
He gave another soft puff of laughter, but he didn't seem amused this time. "A deal with the devil," he repeated.
"Where are you from?" she asked, sensing his withdrawal.
"Ah. I've still got some of that accent, don't I?"
"It's slight." After a pause, she added, "I like it. It makes you sound... I don't know. Soothing. Friendly." Sexy.
After a moment of silence, he evidently realized it was his turn to speak. "I was raised in Oklahoma."
"Do you ever go back there?"
He shook his head. "Nothing to go back to."
"So you were already living in California—in San Francisco—when you moved to this building?"
"Yeah."
"And made your fresh start."
"It wasn't really a... Maybe I wanted it to be," he said, "but it's not that easy, is it?"
"No, it's not easy." When he didn't say anything, she risked asking, "Has it not worked out for you?"
"Well... the apartment has worked out for me." He added much less moodily, "I like it here. You will, too, once you're unpacked." His
tone indicated he was ready to change the subject. Perhaps even regretted having said as much as he had.
"I'm sure I will." Sara sighed. "But I'm not really worried about that."
"Then do you feel like telling me what is worrying you?" he invited.
She knew he didn't want to talk about himself anymore. And since her self-absorption was running high tonight, she was quite willing to let him shift the conversation back to her. "My career went on the skids recently. I'm trying to start over. Go in a whole new direction. Wrest success from failure."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a writer."
"What do you write?"
"You mean, what did I used to write?"
"You've stopped?"
"I've been terminated."
"Fired?"
"Dumped."
"I don't understand."
"For five years, I've been writing a mystery series set in the Jewish community of Moorish Spain. It was a time and place of high culture and relative intellectual freedom for Jews." She paused. "You did get that my family's Jewish, right?"
"Yeah, somehow I clued into that," he said. "But, Sara—you're a novelist?"
"Yes."
He leaned forward. "That's so cool! I'm not sure I've ever met a novelist before. I've definitely never sat around talking to one, anyhow."
"It follows, therefore, that you've also never watched one bawling her eyes out and blowing her nose?"
"So I could go to the bookstore and find some of your books?"
"Yes. Well... Maybe not the first bookstore you tried. Not anymore." Since that sounded morose to her, she added, "But they're definitely at the library."
"That's—Wow!" He grinned. "A real live novelist living right next door."
"A real live one," she agreed. "It's amazing how many people think you have to be dead—like Thomas Hardy or Agatha Christie—to be a writer. Trust me, being dead makes it so much harder to write."
Ryan seemed much more animated now than he had been when they were talking about him. "How many books have you written?"
"They've published six. I turned in my seventh a few months ago. It'll be released in the fall. But you'll probably need to hire a team of detectives to find it, since I doubt they'll print more than eight copies or even mention to head buyers and distributors that they're publishing it."