He clamped himself more tightly around his mother’s leg. “No!”
“He’s two,” Sharon told Brett, as if that explained everything. Her smile was apologetic. “Max, Mommy’s going to leave now. You’re going to stay here with Tracy. You can play, you can watch videos, you can have an apple later—”
“Apple sauce,” he demanded.
“Fine. Apple sauce.”
She exchanged a look with the teenager, who crossed the living room and knelt down next to the kid. “Max, come on—let’s watch the video. I want to watch it with you.”
“Watch it with Mommy,” he grumbled, although his grip on Sharon’s leg relented. He gave Brett a lethal stare. The feeling’s mutual, Brett wanted to assure him.
“Try to get him to bed by eight-thirty,” Sharon instructed the sitter in a soft, soothing voice. “Have him sit on the potty before he goes to bed, just in case. And he’ll need help brushing his teeth. I left my cell phone number on the kitchen table, along with Dr. Cole’s number and my next-door neighbor’s number. You know Deborah Jackson, don’t you? She’ll be home if you need anything.”
“That’s all right,” Tracy assured her. “My mom’s home too—right across the street.”
“Great.” She glanced down at her son, who abruptly lost interest in her and was trotting back to the stairs. “Good-bye, Max!”
“’Bye,” he said without turning around. Tracy followed him down the stairs, and the living room filled with blessed silence.
Brett wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what: That was irritating. Why did he say no when he meant yes? Does he put you through that kind of torture every time you go out without him? Or: Doesn’t he know how to talk without screaming? Why did he look at me as if I were Satan’s spawn? Is he always that obnoxious? Or: You look fantastic.
Those were the words that came out. Thank God, too—if he’d blurted out that he thought her kid was obnoxious, their outing would be doomed.
It was doomed, anyway, because her kid was obnoxious. But he’d resolved to make the best of it. And looking at Sharon was definitely going to be one of the evening’s highlights.
His compliment caused her cheeks to darken. “Thank you. I see you’re wearing a colorful tie.”
He knew some of the men at tonight’s dinner would be wearing tuxedos and bowties, but that wasn’t his style. Instead he was wore a black suit, a blue silk shirt and a tie featuring an abstract pattern of blue, crimson, lemon-yellow and slate gray. He rarely wore the tie, which his sister had given him for Christmas last year, but when he’d searched his tie rack the colors had beckoned him. Sharon would like it, he’d thought as he’d pulled it off the rack.
He motioned toward the front door. “Shall we?”
“Yes, we should clear out before Max throws another tantrum,” she said with a conspiratorial smile. She lifted a small black purse from the coffee table and headed for the door. Her steps weren’t quite as certain as they’d been the day she’d photographed him. She looked as if she wasn’t used to walking in high heels.
One reason he was glad not to be a woman was that he’d hate wearing the painful kinds of shoes to which they so often subjected their feet. Yet he loved the way her sandals exposed her arches and emphasized the narrowness of her ankles, the way the heels augmented her height so he didn’t tower above her.
They paused on the porch so she could lock the door, and then he took her hand and tucked it into the bend of his elbow. Just so she wouldn’t teeter and trip in those shoes, he told himself.
Because really, his finding her so damned attractive didn’t change the fact that she had a kid. A loud-mouthed, foul-tempered kid who said “No” a lot.
Brett helped her into his car, then joined her behind the wheel. “Is this your toy?” she asked, buckling herself into the leather bucket seat.
“My toy?”
“When I was taking your picture, you said high-performance cars were your favorite toy.”
His Infiniti was a decent car, but it was a little too practical to be a toy. “I was thinking more along the lines of Mazeratis,” he explained. “Ferraris. Lamborghinis. The kind of car you can’t take seriously.” He pulled away from the curb, glimpsed her as he checked his side mirror, and decided to forget about the brat for the rest of the evening.
Except to wonder about the brat’s father. Was Sharon divorced? Brett dated a fair number of divorced women, and she didn’t seem to have the edge they did, that veneer of sorrow or bitterness or pragmatism that layered over them, keeping them one step removed from whatever hurt they believed life and love and men might inflict upon them. If she wasn’t divorced, then what? Widowed? Or a headstrong feminist who had decided to borrow someone’s sperm and make herself a baby?
Curiosity got the better of him. “Your son’s father...?”
“He died,” she said.
Brett shot her a quick look to make sure she wasn’t going to dissolve in tears. She appeared calm, accepting. No raw wounds, as far as he could tell.
“He was killed in a skiing accident when I was pregnant with Max,” she told him.
“That must have been rough.”
She shrugged. “We’ve managed. How about you, Brett? Any children?”
God, no, he almost blurted out. “No children, no ex-wives.”
“A confirmed bachelor, huh?”
“If you’re referring to that church ritual for teenagers, yes, I’m confirmed.”
She was kind enough to laugh at his joke. In the dark confines of the car, her laughter sounded hushed and throaty. A pleasant buzz of sexual awareness vibrated through his body. He perceived it like a white noise, in the background but definitely there.
He wasn’t going to act on that awareness. He’d enjoy it for the evening the way he might enjoy a song: he’d listen but he wouldn’t sing along. Sharon was a mother—a young widow—and he knew better than to get involved.
“Tell me about this dinner we’re going to,” she said as he steered north toward downtown. “Are you active in the Leukemia Foundation?”
“Behind the scenes.” The roads were busy, cars carrying people to their Saturday night plans. “I know a lot of power people in Arlington. I invest a lot of their money for them. So I can put the touch on them if it’s for a good cause.”
“I’d better confess something, Brett,” she said, lowering her voice, which made it sound even more alluring. “I’ve never been to a benefit dinner before. Not this kind of thing, anyway. I recently attended a pot-luck supper to raise money for a new jungle gym at Max’s preschool—but I wore jeans and sneakers to that.”
He bet she’d look good in jeans and sneakers. Maybe not as good as she looked right now, though.
“Is there anything I should know?” she asked. “Anything you want to tell me before we get there?”
“The napkin goes on your lap,” he teased. “The little fork is for the salad.”
“Thanks,” she said sarcastically, although he heard amusement in her voice.
“And you’d better not whip out your belly-dancing doll.”
“Well, darn. I thought she’d fit right in.”
He eyed her again. Her smile dazzled him. Just for tonight, he warned himself. He’d enjoy this for tonight, and then he’d put her out of his mind.
* * *
She had known the restaurant would be elegant, but she still felt a little disoriented by the silk wallpaper, the plush carpet, the army of obsequious waiters circulating through the private dining room. She and Brett had arrived early, since he was the host of this gala, and for a few minutes, while he’d gone off to discuss logistics with someone on the restaurant’s staff, she’d stood by herself, fingering one of the pale peach tablecloths, examining the silverware—little salad fork and all—at the place setting before her and watching as waiters wandered from table to table, tweaking the elaborately folded napkins, lighting the candles and adjusting the chairs. But Brett had soon returned to her, and then more people arrive
d. In the corner of the room, near an area cleared of tables, a trio of musicians played mellow jazz.
Sharon observed the people around her like an anthropologist studying a tribe. The men were by and large dressed conservatively, but the women fluttered around like exotic birds, displaying their designer dresses and minaudières, flashing their expensive jewelry and looking a hell of a lot more comfortable in their high heels than she felt in hers.
Once the party kicked into gear, Brett rarely left her side. He seemed to know everyone in the room, and over and over again he introduced her: “This is Sharon Bartell. She’s a photographer here in Arlington.” Whenever someone asked, she told them she ran Bartell Studios on Dudley Road and had met Brett taking his picture for his firm’s annual report. People seemed to find this amusing.
If she were shrewd, she’d be passing out her business card. In a crowd like this, full of people who no doubt ran corporations that issued annual reports, she could drum up some business. But she wasn’t shrewd, and even though she could use all the business that came her way, that wasn’t what this evening was about.
“Hey, Murphy!” Brett clasped hands with a good-looking man in a pale gray suit and a stylish black shirt. “Sharon, this is Dennis Murphy, an overpriced attorney and one of my poker buddies. Murphy, this is Sharon Bartell, a photographer friend of mine. Oh, and this is Murphy’s wife Gail,” he added as a slim blond woman in a rose-hued dress turned toward them after snatching a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Gail’s a lawyer, too.”
“An underpaid one, unlike my husband,” Gail told Sharon.
“I didn’t know there was such a thing as an underpaid lawyer,” Sharon joked.
“Oh, there are lots of us. We work in the Public Defender’s Office.”
“They may underpay you—but unlike some of us, you’re guaranteed a queen-size bed in heaven when you die,” Murphy pointed out, giving his wife an affectionate squeeze. “Plus, you get to hobnob with the mayor.”
“Not because I’m a public defender. Because my boss stuck me on a stupid committee.”
“What committee is that?” Sharon asked. Several of the people Brett had introduced her to served on different fundraising committees. The benefit world of Arlington, Connecticut was evidently a small one. Sharon imagined this same cast of characters would all be showing up next month at the auction to raise money for AIDS research, and in November for a party to collect Christmas gifts for needy children.
“The birthday committee,” Gail told her. “Next year is the city’s three hundredth birthday.”
“I’ve heard a little about that,” Sharon said.
Gail grinned. “You’re going to be hearing a lot about it over the next year. You’re going to be hearing so much about it, you’ll be sick of it by the time the festivities begin. Arlington is hyping this birthday as if it were the Second Coming. And I’m stuck on the committee—at no extra pay.” She rolled her eyes.
“But a guaranteed seat on the express train to heaven,” her husband promised.
“What is the city planning?” Sharon asked.
“You name it. A huge parade, of course. A carnival. Special vacation packages to bed-and-breakfasts in the area. All sorts of art programs. A couple of theater people from New York who have weekend houses out on the west side of town are writing a musical revue tracing Arlington’s history, from the Native American settlements to today. I’ve seen a rough draft of the script, and it’s awful.”
“Really?” Sharon laughed.
“And we’re going to be stuck watching it from front row seats, too, I bet,” Murphy complained.
“The committee has asked for revisions, but they’re New York artistes, so who knows what they’ll do? Then there’s the sculpture the mayor wants to install in the lobby of City Hall. We’ve already gotten bids on that. I’ve seen some of the submissions. One person came up with a statue of a Native American and a white settler shaking hands. Very trite. Someone else came up with an abstract design that looks like a bowling ball with spears sticking out of it.”
“How much is the city going to pay for this thing?” Brett asked.
“Too much,” Gail assured him. “Watch your mailbox. We’ll be soliciting for contributions soon. And if you know what’s good for you, Brett, you’ll donate.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then there’s the commemorative book the city is going to publish.”
“I’ve heard about the book,” Sharon said. What she’d heard was that it would be filled with photos of Arlington and the surrounding region. Photographers from as far away as Boston were putting together proposals. Whoever won the commission would receive not just a generous fee but invaluable exposure for their work.
Sharon would love the exposure. And she needed that generous fee. When she and Steve opened the studio, before Max was born, they’d had the time and energy to build their business into a profitable enterprise. It was still profitable—only now Sharon was running it by herself and raising a son at the same time. She lacked Steve’s flair for promotion. He’d always been the one to sell their services, while she’d preferred working behind the camera.
Ever since she’d heard about the memorial book the town wanted to publish, she’d been building her portfolio in order to bid on the commission. If the photos she’d taken of the YMCA at sunset had come out well, one would be included. She had taken a striking photo of City Hall at night, its dome a moonlit bell against the black sky, and the Old Town Hall at dawn, glazed in lavender light, and a gorgeous shot of an apple orchard in full bloom, which she’d taken during a drive east of town with Max last spring, before she’d heard anything about the commemorative birthday book. It had been a clear, sunny day and the trees had been exploding with pink blossoms, so she’d pulled off the road, climbed onto the roof of the Volvo and snapped a few shots.
She needed more photos for her submission, but it was hard to accumulate them while she was so pressed for time. When she wasn’t working in the studio or going out on paid jobs, she was with Max. And a part of her suspected that, no matter how magnificent a portfolio she put together, the mayor was going to wind up choosing an insider to do the book, someone he knew, quite possibly someone who attended benefit dinners at restaurants like Reynaud, who hobnobbed with the folks here tonight, who traveled in Brett Stockton’s social circle.
She was traveling in that circle tonight. But she was only a tourist, not a native. She hadn’t bought her seat at this dinner. And even if she was standing with a glass of champagne in her hand, making small talk with someone who might help to select the photographer for the book, she couldn’t bring herself to put her name forward. It wouldn’t feel right, no matter how much she wanted that commission. Brett might think she was taking advantage of him, and she’d hate to have him think anything negative about her.
He was so suave, so poised, so handsome—and he was standing at her side, calling her his friend. She could hardly believe this was actually occurring, but it was, and she was determined not to screw up. She’d use the right fork for her salad, and she’d refrain from promoting herself for the commission, no matter how much she wanted it.
People began to gravitate toward the tables, and Brett steered her to the table closest to a podium set up on a platform in one corner of the room. “I’ve got to do a few host things,” he whispered as he pulled out her chair for her. His breath brushed her hair and danced against her ear, and his hand left heat where he touched her shoulder.
He was more than suave and poised. Much more than handsome. She tried to recall the last time a man pulled out a chair for her, and drew a blank. It had been so long since she’d been out with a man, so long since she’d fixed herself up like this and been treated with such courtesy. Courtesy was all Brett intended, she reminded herself—but that didn’t lessen the dark thrill she felt when he touched her.
The Murphys sat at their table, along with someone with an impressive title affiliated with Arlington Memorial Hospi
tal and the publisher of the Arlington Gazette. Sharon made chit-chat with them until the room’s noise level dwindled to near-silence and everyone turned to the podium, where Brett loomed above the microphone. The recessed ceiling light cast stark shadows across his face, giving him a brooding, almost dangerous look.
What am I doing here? she wondered for the zillionth time that evening. Her first date since high school, her first time out with a man since Steve’s death, and she was seated in an alien world of movers and shakers, wearing a dress she’d picked up off the clearance rack at Macy’s and using the purse and shoes she’d bought for a cousin’s wedding she and Steve had attended four years ago. And her escort for the evening was standing at a podium, eloquently thanking everyone who’d come to this gala. “A lot of you are here because leukemia has touched your lives personally,” he said. “A lot of you are here because I twisted your arm. Either way, our money is being put to good use. It’s saving lives. And helping to save lives keeps us honest. It keeps us human. It reminds us of how much we have, how fortunate we are, and how much we need to do.
“Enjoy your dinners, folks.”
Applause accompanied him back to his seat next to Sharon. “I hate giving those speeches,” he admitted.
“Even more than you hate posing for pictures?”
“No. Pictures are much worse.” He grinned. His elbow touched hers as he reached for his water glass. A fresh surge of heat flooded her body.
Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the heady atmosphere, or the fact that she was far from Max, surrounded by adults, not having to think about potty time or lullabies. Or maybe she felt overly sensitive to Brett’s every glance, his every accidental touch, because of who he was, how he looked, how it felt to be with a man like him. Maybe it was because of the way he looked at her, his eyes the color of a clear autumn sky, his lips curved in a smile that expressed what he’d said when he’d picked her up that evening: “You look fantastic.”
Waiters moved about the room in a smooth processional, bringing out course after course of gourmet cuisine. Sharon ate, she managed lucid conversations with the others at her table, she sipped the red wine the waiter had poured for her—but Brett’s nearness pulsed inside her, a low, constant beat. When he laughed, when he parried someone’s caustic remark, when he twisted in his chair to confer with someone who’d wandered over from another table... she seemed almost painfully aware of everything about him. The way he angled his head when someone posed a question. The way he leaned back in his seat. The way he smiled at her every now and then, his eyes meeting hers and making her feel as if they were the only two people in the room.
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