by Carol Rose
“All right, all right,” he said with an exaggerated, over-burdened sigh. “I’ll do the trash and then get busy on my paper.”
As he got up from the table and followed his brother into the kitchen, Max thought again of the contrast between the atmosphere in Ruth’s family and the cold formality he and Pete had grown up enduring. It was no wonder Ruth and David’s sons were such pleasant, charming kids. The past several years he’d enjoyed seeing them grow up.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered how his nephew did in school. Did he have any familial tendencies toward the written word?
“The meal was great, Ruth,” Nicole said with a warm smile. Sitting beside Max at the table, her elbows comfortably propped, she seemed more relaxed than he’d seen her in days. And this change in her had been wrought by the simple diversion of eating a meal with other people. Amazing.
As Nicole and Ruth laughed over some joke, Max realized how narrow his world must seem to others. To him, the work had always been enough. He rose from sleep with his mind possessed by the characters and plots that brought his books to life. Most of his waking hours were spent in the world of his fiction.
Every now and then, he allowed himself to intrude into Cynthia’s family, which consisted of her sister and their elderly mother. Neither sister, now in their forties, had ever married.
Ruth, David and the boys also insisted on him joining their family from time to time. Intelligent, articulate and warm-hearted, they fascinated him and made him feel tremendously welcomed. He’d never been able to fully convey the importance of the connections he’d built with them.
Aside from these borrowed, adopted families and the natural bodily urges he answered—food, exercise, sex—his work was his life. The few women he’d dated for any length of time had hardly dented his preoccupation with his writing.
Ruth’s husband stood up and began removing the serving dishes from the table.
“Since Anna’s gone home, I’ll clean up in here so you three can talk,” David offered handsomely, slanting his wife an affectionate glance.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Ruth said, returning his smile before going back to her conversation.
“So you’ve always lived in the city?” Nicole asked, warmth and genuine interest on her face.
“I grew up in Manhattan,” Ruth responded, smiling.
Nicole shook her head. “It’s such a different world. Don’t you feel crowded sometimes?”
Ruth shrugged. “Sure, but who doesn’t? Fortunately, David and I make enough to afford a decent-sized apartment. Living in the shoebox that most people rent here in Manhattan, now that would make me feel crowded!”
Sitting back listening to them chat, Max felt oddly detached, as if he were seeing his friends for the first time through Nicole’s eyes. It was difficult to be objective about these people who were so important to him.
Nicole seemed as comfortable and at home here as he’d always felt, and he’d know Ruth and David for years.
When Nicole erupted today, declaring herself in need of a break, he’d realized to his surprise that she wasn’t merely complaining. Thinking of her and the way she interacted with others—watching her silly talk show, her occasionally talking on the phone with her friend back home—the hackneyed metaphor of a plant and the sun occurred to him. She needed other people in a basic way—not so much specific people in the way he sometimes felt a need, but people in general. She was so unlike him, requiring human contact almost like sunlight to power her photosynthesis.
And he apparently needed Nicole to be fully functional, at this point. The thought gave Max a pang. In his career, he’d scorned the image of writers needing a muse. He’d envisioned his creative process rather like the workings of a terrarium. Little external resources were necessary to keep him functioning on all cylinders.
It was, however, undeniable that this irritating, intriguing, amusing, really sexy woman had somehow helped him jumpstart the writing process for this book. Perhaps it was the very things he found most annoying about her that stirred the words in his mind. To his surprise, he found himself enjoying their verbal sparring too much…almost as much as he’d enjoyed kissing her. And he’d very much enjoyed kissing her.
Often during the day—and even more often at night-he allowed himself to envision making love to Nicole. She stirred more than his mind.
He’d never admit it, but he’d actually missed her the morning he’d let her sleep in late. With the purely selfish motive of making sure Nicole didn’t burn out and desert him before he’d finished the book, he’d called Ruth and arranged for her to cancel the wake-up call at the hotel. Then he’d found himself missing her interruptions and smart comments, much to his own disgust. But the book would be finished soon enough and he could let go of her.
He’d found that different books “lived” different places. His third book had come to him with the playing of the same INXS compact disc. A book several years ago required him to eat pasta everyday and listen to Italian opera. He’d been particularly grateful to finish that book and it had been six months before he could again face a plate of linguini.
Soon this book would be finished and so too would his interest in Nicole Cavanaugh, thank God. Needing Cynthia and Ruth and their families in his life was one thing, needing Nicole in a closer, more intimate way presented…far too many problems.
* * *
Trying to find Ruth’s powder room, Nicole headed down the darkened hallway after dinner. It had been great to actually sit down to a regular meal with a regular family. Max’s agent was a nice woman with a decent husband and surprisingly well-behaved kids. As a teacher, Nicole realized with amusement, she always noticed well-behaved kids.
She walked further along the hall, the sound of Max’s voice in a room ahead catching her ear.
“Yes, I think it would be difficult to work up much enthusiasm for that topic,” he said. “You’re certain she asked you to write an entire paper on trees?”
Coming abreast of the open bedroom door, Nicole couldn’t resist peeking in. There sitting on the bed next to Ruth’s oldest son’s desk was Max.
“I’m sure,” the thirteen year-old replied. “See? She even gave us a list of kinds of trees with their biological names. Ms. Garcia is a big environmentalist. She says living here in the city, we especially need to appreciate what little natural environment we have left.”
Still paused at the door, Nicole smiled. The boy’s comment sounded like a direct teacher quote.
“Ms. Garcia’s right, I suppose,” Max said, his voice different than Nicole had ever heard. He was quiet as he sat on Jake’s bed, his manner surprisingly comfortable. There was a gentle note in his words and she heard none of the mockery he so often directed at adults. Max appeared to give the matter his total concentration. “It is hard to know what to do with such a broad topic.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jake agreed. “I mean, there have to be a million different things to say…and none of them are, you know, very interesting.”
“True,” Max agreed.
“At first, I thought I’d just do a straight report,” the boy confided. “But that seemed really boring. I mean, it doesn’t take much intelligence to write how many kinds of trees grow in New York.”
“No.”
“Then, I thought I could do something more scientific. You know, like how many trees are cut down to make room for buildings and how some species are disappearing.”
“Did Ms. Garcia indicate she preferred that kind of slant?” Max asked, watching the boy’s face from where he sat on the bed.
“No.” Jake shuffled through a folder, finally drawing out a sheet of paper. “Look. She just said to do a report on trees. Nothing more.”
“And she hasn’t said you’re to do only research papers?”
“No,” Jake replied positively. “This is a writing class so we get to do different kinds of papers.”
“Well,” Max said, “if you like the scientific angle, go for it. But you
could also consider using a different perspective.”
Interest flared in the boy’s face. “I had thought about writing about a certain person. How that person enjoyed the trees, maybe. You know, try to find a way of looking at the tree. Maybe even a specific tree.”
“That’s a good idea.” Max nodded, his voice genuine. “You could even carry that idea further, if you wanted. Use the point of view of an inhabitant of the tree—“
“Like a bird or a bug or something,” Jake said with enthusiasm.
“Yes, like that,” Max agreed, the gentleness still in his face. “You wouldn’t have to go all schmaltzy or have your characters say anything like ‘Please don’t hurt my home.’ You could maybe write it from a young squirrel’s point of view. He could talk about his ‘neighborhood’ and who he hangs out with—“
“And the dogs that bark at him and chase him! He could really love making them crazy,” Jake declared, grabbing up a pencil. “That’s a great idea. Thanks! You always have the best ideas!”
“You’re welcome,” Max responded, smiling.
Nicole pulled back out of view, not wanting to disturb a truly sweet moment. The great Max Tucker giving writing tips to a thirteen year-old and seeming to enjoy doing it! It seemed a terrifically human thing of him to do. She’d guess from observing their interaction that Max frequently served as Jake’s mentor when it came to the boy’s schoolwork.
Sneaking past the open doorway so as not to draw their attention, she went on to the powder room, her mind filled with the new sides of Max she was seeing tonight. At dinner, he’d talked like a regular guy, pretty much. She’d been surprised how well he related to Ruth’s husband, but this sweet moment with Jake really struck her. He was great with that kid! He’d talked comfortably and had stayed on the same level with the boy. Some adults tended to talk down to kids that age, usually to make themselves feel more intelligent. But Max apparently had no need to be that way with Jake.
The sexy, sarcastic, millionaire author was actually good with kids. And yet he had no children of his own and, more disturbing, had nothing to do with his own nephew.
It made no sense. He was, in his cold, biting way, a lonely man who didn’t interact with his own family, but he could be really considerate with others. He’d had nothing to gain from helping Jake with his homework. There could be no ulterior or selfish motive for him in this.
If Max truly had a kinder side, why didn’t he share that with his own family?
Frowning, Nicole knew she couldn’t leave this alone.
* * *
“Yes, I swear,” Claire insisted. “They go out every Wednesday and Saturday night. Bingo or the movies. They talk on the phone. Your dad seems very happy.”
“That’s wonderful,” Nicole said into the phone, frowning. Naturally, her dad had dated after her mother died. Unfortunately, a number of the women he’d gone out with over the years had been poor risks. Her dad was too inclined to see only the best in people. While she was grateful he wasn’t worrying himself to death about her or the lawsuit, she still couldn’t help but be concerned about this woman he was seeing.
“Or your dad would be happy, if you’d come home,” Claire mentioned in a dry voice.
“You’re the one who thinks I need to come home. He’s fine with me doing this. He knows it’s our best option,” Nicole insisted. “So who exactly is this woman he’s seeing? Do you know anything about her? Is she nice?”
“Very nice. She’s in her late fifties. A secretary. She grew up here and moved back several years ago, I think.”
“So she’s nothing like that skanky woman who tried to latch on to dad when we were in high school?”
“No,” Claire mocked gently. “You’ve got to quit worrying about your father and let him go out on his own. He is beyond retirement age, you know.”
“Hey,” Nicole said, “I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces every time one of those bimbos would clean him out and disappear.”
“Have you heard of the term ‘enmeshed’?” her friend asked kindly. “It means ‘over-involvement in a loved one’s life.’ You need to read up on the subject.”
Nicole grinned into the phone. “I’ll do that just as soon as I get home.”
“Hopeless,” Claire moaned. “You’re hopeless.”
* * *
“This is really great Egyptian food,” Nicole declared, biting into the pocket bread while visibly struggling to keep a grasp on the overstuffed sandwich. “Gosh, I’m going to miss the ethnic food when I go home. Don’t get me wrong. We have good food, but this sandwich is terrific.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying your lunch,” Max said dryly. If she did everything with the same gusto with which she approached food, sex with Nicole would be mind-blowing. Every day he had more difficulty keeping his physical response to her under control. It wasn’t just her body that stirred his torrid thoughts, she had other qualities that drew him…and made him crazy, at the same time.
He really needed to get the book finished and convince Nicole to spend a week in bed with him. Could they be friends after sleeping together, he wondered, startling himself. Did he consider her his friend?
“So good,” she moaned, scooping up a stray chunk of cucumber that had fallen onto the plate in front of her.
She sat at his little-used dining room table, one foot propped in her chair, the corner of her beautiful mouth decorated with a smear of hummus that had escaped her pita falafel. The ash blonde hair he now believed to be natural was piled in a haphazard manner on top of her head, wild wisps escaping every which way.
“Did you ever think about writing young adult fiction?” she asked, “or a children’s book?”
Lifting a disbelieving brow, he responded, “You think my style would be accessible to children?”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her head to one side as she considered him. “You might have to tone down your vocabulary a little, but I think you have tremendous potential to relate to kids.”
Looking at him with a clear gaze, Nicole took another bite of her pita sandwich.
“Thank you,” he said, both startled and touched. The feeling surprised him even more than the compliment. He was flattered by her seeing an untapped potential in him? It left him feeling strangely odd that he cared what she thought.
“They interviewed an educator on Johnna! last week and he said kids need to read more emotionally complicated fiction. It improves their vocabulary and helps them come to terms with the real world.”
“And you think I could write complicated stories teens and pre-teens could appreciate.” Flattered more than he would have expected, Max watched her take another bit of her sandwich.
“Yes, of course,” she said, having swallowed. “So what was it like growing up a boy genius in the big city?”
“A boy genius growing up in Gotham,” he murmured, the dramatic image amusing him.
“Did you always actually live in Manhattan like Ruth?”
“No,” he responded, feeling strangely awkward answering her. In his tenure, he’d been interviewed by the best, before he’d stopped allowing the media any access.
Learning to handle impertinent questions was a requirement for anyone with a measure of fame. Nicole, however, could have no intent to profit from the details of his life. He didn’t think she’d betray anyone in that way. Besides, he had her signature on a legally binding instrument requiring her silence. If she thought the lawsuit against her father was bad, she wasn’t likely to risk one even more clearly damaging.
“We lived on Long Island until I was ten. Then my parents thought the opportunities would be better in the city.”
“Your mom and dad got better jobs living here?” Nicole rescued a thin, dangling strip of lettuce from her sandwich.
“No,” he responded evenly. “Better educational opportunities for me.”
“Oh.” She cast him a sideways look. “Tell me about your parents.”
“Edwin and Phyllis Tucker. Married in nineteen s
ixty-eight. Resided on Long Island, then Manhattan. Killed in a car wreck in nineteen ninety-eight.” Max smiled blandly at her. Off the top of his head, there wasn’t much else to say about his parents. He hadn’t felt he’d known them well.
As if she sensed the under-currents he himself worked to ignore, Nicole studied him across the table. “They must have been very proud of you.”
“Very proud of my achievements, anyway. My father purchased one of those ‘My child is an Honor Student’ bumper stickers when I was four years old.”
“Wow.” She returned her sandwich to her plate, fishing out a falafel and biting into it. “Pete is younger or older than you?”
Why he was answering her, he didn’t know. Immediately, he knew he was lying to himself. He actually felt comfortable talking with her this way. “Older by four years.”
“Your dad didn’t buy that bumper sticker when Pete was four,” Nicole concluded, still studying his face.
“No,” Max admitted. “Pete has always been solidly normal.”
Twisting a crumpled paper napkin between her damp fingers, she asked, “You envied him? Why?”
How did she guess that? Here he was fabulously wealthy and successful in contrast to his brother’s merely adequate accomplishments. Why the hell should he envy Pete? It wasn’t as if his brother was hugely successful in any definition of the word.
In the silence that descended between them, Max grappled with how to explain the complexities of his relationship with his brother. Pete was such a simple guy. Any weirdness had to be Max’s fault.
“Envy him?” Max said, the word tasting strange in his mouth. “Only sometimes and then, only briefly.”
He waited for her to ask for an explanation, but she didn’t.
“Did you have lots of friends or did you mostly play with each other when you were kids?” Nicole tucked her foot under her seat, propping an arm on the table in a manner he was coming to realize was characteristic of her.