Windswept

by Julie Carobini

  "CJ, you're lookin' fine. It's been awhile. Your regular table's open, if you'd like it."

  "I was hoping you'd say that, Mara."

  The woman tucked two menus under her arm. "Right this way."

  When they were seated, Sophia said, "You hate New York yet you have a regular booth at this high-priced restaurant?" She paused. At Sea Glass Inn, he always wore flip-flops and board shorts and reminded her of a surfer who didn't actually surf. His casual attitude fit in so perfectly in the beach culture that she had not considered his ability to adapt to city life as well. "So much for me showing you around."

  He shrugged. "You have now been to the two places that I frequented on my previous trips to New York."

  "I find that hard to believe."

  "Believe it."

  She opened her menu, her eyes unable to focus on the elaborate descriptions. For some reason, she felt jumpy and unsettled. She lingered a moment longer, then with her choice made, she shut her menu and studied him.

  "What?"

  "I'm trying to decide if I should stay mad at you."

  He rolled his eyes. "Give a guy a break."

  Her face broke out in a smile. "I do have a question, though."

  "Bring it."

  "How did you get that scar? I ... I know I've asked you before, but I don't think you really ever told me."

  Their waiter appeared before he could answer and took their orders for both food and wine.

  "Wow," Christian said after she placed hers and the waiter had gone. "You really are hungry."

  "Stop that."

  He laughed.

  The waiter reappeared with an uncorked bottle, which he opened adeptly, poured a sip into a glass, and gave it to Christian. Formality done, he poured two glasses of the Cabernet Sauvignon, set the bottle on the table to breathe longer, and slipped away.

  Christian swirled the wine in his glass, but did not take another sip. "Okay, about the scar." He stretched one arm across the back of their booth. "If we're going to be friends, Sophia, then I'm going to be straight with you. I'm guessing your brother has never told you much about my past—and you probably don't read news rags."

  Friends. Of course. Yes, he was her ... friend. She chased away a small letdown. "I've wondered about your scar, but did not want to pry." Especially since she herself preferred to keep some of her own things buried. "Jackson never mentioned anything about it to me."

  Christian tapped the exposed part of it with his finger. "This is what can happen after three too many beers and a confrontation with the most egregious reviewer of one's genre."

  "You had three beers?"

  "Four. The first one was completely acceptable."

  "Ah." He hadn't struck her as someone with a temper, let alone one that could grow large enough to cause damage. "So you got into a fight and he, uh, hit you?"

  "I hit him."

  "Oh. I see."

  "Surprised?"

  "A little." She took a sip of her wine while consuming this news. "He must have done something terrible for you to react in that way."

  "Actually, he wrote something terrible about my last novel—not that it's a decent excuse. Anyway, he called it disturbing, among other things."

  "Such as?"

  “I think I bored you quite enough weeks ago with tales of my bad reviews.”

  She implored him with a look.

  He blew out a breath. "Okay." Christian looked into the air, as if trying to recall the exact words, then looked right into her eyes. "He suggested that readers light a candle in memory of the trees that lost their lives in the making of my novel."

  "Ouch."

  "Said something to the effect that the only high note was that every other crappy book on the market won't look so bad by comparison."

  "Oh, my. I don't recall you mentioning this when you read me all your terrible reviews."

  "I didn't read them all to you. I do have some pride," he quipped.

  "Admirable."

  His smile was rueful. "Actually, I couldn't. I knew that if I did, I'd end up telling you about that night, about this face." He flipped his hand in a way that gestured toward his cheek. "Wasn't ready to do that."

  "Christian, I'm sorry. That must have been a painful night for you—in more ways than one."

  "The words wounded me, but I let them. I take responsibility for that. Once I gave in to the pity party, it was over. I'd been drinking and the guy could see how his review gnawed at me. He'd been drinking too much too, and so we took our battle outside. He said something to me, then that got under my skin so far that I let him have it. Punched him first, but he bounded back up and got me. I landed on the corner of a flatbed of a two-ton truck. Spent the night in the ER getting stitches and a tetanus shot for my lack of judgment."

  "Sounds like he had it coming."

  Christian spat out a laugh so harsh that it was good he had not been sipping wine at the time.

  A remnant of laughter was still on his face when Sophia said, "What did he say?

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "He got under your skin, so you punched him. So ... what was it he said that got to you?"

  His blue eyes dulled, and he looked around, as if wondering if their dinner would be coming soon.

  "Chris?"

  With a sigh, he leaned forward, strong forearms on the table, as if bringing her into his confidence. "It's ugly, hurtful stuff." He considered her for a few more seconds, and she almost thought he would clam up. Instead, he said, "Reading your novel made me look with hearty anticipation toward my own suicide."

  "No."

  He sat back. "I'm sure he wrote that for his own entertainment. Probably made him laugh quite boorishly at the time."

  "It's unthinkable."

  The crystal blue of his eyes hooked her and reeled her in. In his watchfulness she saw care and concern and deeply felt emotion. She could hardly tear her gaze away.

  "It was a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time."

  "I see. So you mean that if you hadn't run into each other, the fight would never have happened."

  "The thing is, it would have happened. A friend in college committed suicide. The reviewer knew that, so he capitalized on it." Christian leaned his elbows on the table. He pulled his gaze from hers and ran a hand across the crown of his head before looking back to her. "I wanted to find him."

  "That is so much to bear, Chris. I can't imagine what you went through, and your friend's family ..."

  "It's nothing to joke about, that's for sure. I had written about it in an essay, which is why the topic was public knowledge.

  "What I find so especially stunning is that this reviewer knew about your friend and still wrote what he did." As she said the words, Sophia's mind slipped back to her stepfather's letter. He, too, knew how painful his written words would be to her, and yet he'd written them anyway.

  Of course, she was never meant to see them.

  "Chris? Do you think your reviewer is an alcoholic? Or maybe an addict?"

  "It's possible."

  She nodded. "Not that it's an excuse, but I've some experience with this sort of thing ... in my family. Someone once wrote something to me that ... well, I'm just trying to say that I have a small understanding of how you felt."

  Christian's eyes narrowed slowly as he watched her.

  She sighed and looked away. "Sometimes truly wonderful people make surprisingly terrible errors in judgment, especially after they've given in to excess."

  Christian reached for his wine and took a sip. "And sometimes they're just truly terrible people to begin with."

  She nodded, thinking about the way some of her brand's competitors stopped by her booth to say hello and wish her well, while at least one company sent over a scout to "spy." She understood the need for researching the competition, but if the young woman in the oversized spectacles and chic black suit would have allowed her, Sophia would have gladly given her a look at her samples. She would have shared her own story wi
th her.

  Instead, the woman pretended to show little interest even while peering over shoulders in front of her space.

  "Thank you for telling me your story."

  He saluted her with his glass. "You're welcome."

  "I have another question to ask. If you don't mind."

  "Anything. Especially if we're changing the subject."

  "What did you stop and throw away on the street today?"

  By the look on his face, she knew she had surprised him. Both of his brows shot up and he hesitated before speaking.

  "I hope I'm not prying," she said. "It—well, you had a funny look on your face when you did it."

  He was smiling and nodding at her now. "Is that right? A funny look, huh?"

  She laughed lightly. "You know ... you reminded me of a cartoon character who had just had a lightbulb go off in his head."

  He snickered. "What, like SpongeBob Squarepants? Is that what I looked like?"

  She was laughing more fully now and waving his words away with the swipe of her hand. "No, no. Fine. Maybe it wasn't like that at all. If it's personal, I'm sorry for asking. Forget I asked!"

  "Sophia, Sophia ... you could never pry." He grunted a laugh. "Okay, you twisted my arm. I threw away a contract that I'd decided not to sign."

  "For your book?"

  "For my book."

  She swallowed. "But isn't that why you came all this way?"

  "I came to hear them out, and in the end, I decided to go my own way."

  "Spoken like a true rebel."

  He scoffed, a glint to his eyes. A server appeared with their dishes and he waited to respond. "I could say the same about you," he said when the server had gone. "For someone as gentle and lovely as you, I'm impressed with your fortitude—and yes, your rebellious streak."

  "Me? Rebellious?"

  "When Meg suggested you fight back by putting on that dress, I think it blew wind on that spark that I had already seen earlier in the day. You were fighting mad, though you didn't want me to know it. I saw it in your face."

  "Well, if picking up my scrappy self and defending my work means I'm a rebel, then consider me guilty as charged."

  Christian leaned forward until she could see the blues in his eyes turning like a kaleidoscope. Her heart let her know of its presence, the sound of it pulsating through her ears.

  "I can think of a multitude of adjectives to describe you, Sophia, but scrappy is not—nor would it ever be—on my list."

  He didn't move away, but kept staring at her. She, for her part, didn't move either. The world of diners and tourists swirled around them, but she could not muster a thing to respond.

  Their waiter's voice cut through the silence. "Is everything tasting good here?"

  Christian's eyes didn't leave hers. "Everything's great."

  They lingered on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant, the air decidedly balmy, neither of them saying much.

  "I guess I'll grab us a cab." He stuck his hand out, and regrettably, a yellow car stopped immediately. He helped her in, then jogged around to the other side to slip into the back seat beside her.

  He opened his mouth to give the driver the name of his hotel, when Sophia interrupted. "Lincoln Center, please."

  Christian slid her a look, a smile forming.

  She smiled back, her mouth dazzling. "There's something about Lincoln Center at night ... have you ever been?"

  "Can't say that I have."

  "Well." She tapped his wrist. "You'll love it."

  Minutes later, they scampered up the wide, lighted stairs that led to a celebratory fountain in the center of the plaza. Sophia stopped, her back to the fountain's voluminous display, her gaze sweeping over the building in front of them. "Isn't she beautiful?

  The Met.

  He'd never been inside The Metropolitan Opera House, had never given the place much thought at all.

  She took his hand, pulling him along toward the impressive building. "Look at the windows," she said. "I love to come here, especially at night when those arched windows are backlit by the chandeliers. Isn't it gorgeous?"

  He took it all in, for the first time ever. "Yes. It is."

  She shut her eyes for a slow moment, her smile turning reflective. "When I was a kid, my mother and I sometimes would come here late, just as the doors opened and the crowds came spilling out. She and I loved to see the men in their tuxedos and the women in their gowns. We'd ooh and aah"—her gaze found his now—"like they were strolling the catwalk just for us."

  They wandered to each of the buildings that flanked the square, taking in lights and people and stargazers. For him, New York had always been the place to get things done: business lunch at his favorite restaurant, finalize the contract, sign the books—then get out. In the short time they had been here, he had already seen so much.

  "I've got more to show you," she said.

  "Lead the way."

  They took a cab to an address on East 42nd Street. He paid the driver and hopped out. "Grand Central?" He held her door.

  "So much more than a terminal!" She whisked him inside on sheer energy until they stood beneath one of the massive chandeliers in a side corridor. "Look up," she said.

  They stood still, holding onto each other for support, gazing up at the spheres of golden lights that dropped from the ceiling like acrobats.

  "Each of the chandeliers weighs a ton. This is one of the world's earliest all-electric buildings, so the Vanderbilt family designed those chandeliers with exposed bulbs."

  "Ah. So they were showing off a little."

  She swung a look at him that included a slight eye roll. "Wouldn't you?"

  He cracked a smile.

  She dragged him out to somewhere in the middle of the main hall and again grabbed his arm and peered up at the painted ceiling. "It's said that the constellations are backward when looking at them from this angle. That this view shows us what the Divine sees."

  He took in the vast overhead mural scattered with stars. How many times had he bolted through this hall without ever having glanced up? Without knowing the presence of stars hanging overhead. He continued to hold her hand, taking in the depiction of the heavenliness, not wishing for this night to end.

  She began to pull away from him. "Stay here while I go wait for you at the information booth."

  Reluctantly, he let her hand go. "What ... what do you mean?"

  Sophia grinned and held her forefinger to her lips. "Shush. In a few minutes, pretend to find me at the base of that large opal clock over there."

  He looked toward the massive four-sided clock that held court over the information booth and then back to her. "Is that a thing?"

  But she only smiled and turned away.

  Christian dug his hands into his pockets and took another look around the grand terminal. He'd been through here before—how many times, he could not recall—but only to catch a train or disembark from one. Never to pay the building's architecture much thought. Back then, he might have thought the idea crazy.

  But now?

  He sneaked a look toward the information booth. Sophia's eye caught his, but she snapped around and pretended to look at brochures. What was she doing?

  She looked over her shoulder again, a little coyly this time, and he took that as a sign.

  Nonchalantly, he wandered toward that big clock, stopping twice to take random pictures of the terminal's turn-of-the-century architecture. Playing the part of a tourist the best he could. For all he knew, those photos would be blurry and undecipherable. When he arrived at where Sophia stood, idly browsing the brochures, he tapped her on the shoulder. "Sophia Agli? Is that you?"

  She spun around, those sculpted lips of hers open in surprise. She took his hand in both of hers. "Christian Capra ... oh my goodness, it's you! How lovely to see you here—of all places!"

  They collapsed into laughter.

  "How'd I do?" he finally asked.

  She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as they began to stroll
. "I think you should stick with writing."

  He gasped only for her to reply with lilting laughter. "Should we stay and spy on others?"

  "Why'd we do that again?"

  "Because this clock is a famous meeting place. People from all over New York meet at this very spot."

  "Hmm, really? I thought they met at the top of the Empire State Building."

  She paused. "Wow. You are a romantic—I had no idea!"

  He quirked a grin at her. "There's a lot you have yet to learn about me, Sophia."

  Sophia's laughter quieted now, a smile lingering on her face. They were walking, arm in arm, directionless, yet neither displaying restlessness.

  "How about dessert?" he asked her.

  Her face lit. "Yes. I have the perfect place."

  "Somehow I knew you would."

  Outside, he signaled for a cab, but she tugged on his arm. "I was thinking we could walk."

  He nodded toward her feet. "Sure you don't mind? Are your feet tiring?"

  "Or you could carry me."

  He froze.

  She burst out laughing. "See? I can make jokes too. Yes, I'm fine walking in my heels. Been doing this for as long as I can remember. Let's go up Lexington."

  His head swirled at the temptation of her. If she'd been serious about him carrying her up the block, he would have scooped her up and found a quiet place. No questions asked.

  They arrived at Serendipity III, and after ducking in and around tables and a hodgepodge of colorful lighting and eclectic, enormous clocks, they found a table in the back corner. He'd never heard of this place, but by the number of people milling about, he was in the minority.

  "Would you like to share a frozen hot chocolate with me?"

  "You're asking me to share the impossible with you, but sure."

  She snickered. When the waiter appeared, Sophia said, "One frozen hot chocolate with two straws please."

  "You are full of surprises tonight, Sophia."

  "Do you still hate the City?"

  "Never said I hated it."

  "Well, what did you say?"

  He mulled that. "I believe I said I don't care for it."