“So your relationship with your sister has been a competitive one?”
She lifts her shoulders, shakes her head. “There was never any competition. Catherine always wins. It’s just the way it is.”
“Does she see it that way?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter if she does or not. It’s true.”
“Does she see herself in competition with you?”
“I doubt it.”
“Did. . .” He stops, looks down at his notes. “Connor. Did Connor know about this facet of your relationship with your sister?”
“Not unless she told him.”
“And you never implied this to him?”
Nicole considers his words, trying to figure out his angle. “Connor wasn’t interested in playing me against my sister.”
“What was his interest?”
“Sex, I believe.”
If she had hoped to shock Dr. Baker with her blunt assessment, she can see she has not. But then again, he’s most likely heard it all. And then some.
“At the beginning, did you think this was the extent of his interest in you?”
“I suppose this is the point at which I admit I am a romantic fool?”
“No,” he says in a level voice. “I’m trying to understand what your expectations were.”
“And what if I didn’t have any?”
“I would be surprised.”
“Sex can’t be for the sake of sex?”
“It can be for some people. I don’t happen to think you’re one of those people.”
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you don’t know me, Dr. Baker.”
“I know pieces of you.”
She stares at him, daring for a moment to let him see behind the curtain she attempts to wear as her expression. “Then you know I’m not a very good person.”
“I don’t know that at all.”
She scoffs. “Good people betray their sisters?”
“Is that how you see what you did?”
“Isn’t that how you see it?”
“It doesn’t matter how I see it.”
“Doesn’t it? Why else would I be here?”
“I hope you’re here because you want to see yourself in a way that would make such choices in the future an impossibility.”
She laughs a light laugh. “So I’m suddenly going to start liking myself so much that I’ll be above hurting my sister?”
“I would rather see it as you reaching a point where you respect yourself too much to be taken advantage of.”
She leans back, looks at him through narrowed eyes. “You think I was taken advantage of?”
“Yes. I do.”
She laughs outright now. “What would make you think that?”
He’s silent long enough to make her uncomfortable. “The fact that anyone who knows you as well as your brother-in-law almost certainly knew you would have known you have a low sense of self-worth.”
The words strike her chest like nails from a carpenter’s gun. The sting they leave in their wake is enough to rob her of words. Never before has she thought of herself as being taken advantage of. In fact, she has seen herself as the one who opened the door to what happened in her sister’s apartment that night. Invited it somehow even though it had honestly never occurred to her until the moment he had leaned in and kissed her and the pizza box had slipped from her hands.
She wants to deny the doctor’s assertion, feels the need to tell him he is wrong. But any response she’s compelled to wave as a flag of objection, sticks in her throat, and she can think of nothing to say.
Deep down, in a place she doesn’t want to look at, she wonders if he is right.
Because if she is honest with herself, truly honest, she cannot deny that she has always thought her sister, her family, would be far better off without her.
Chapter Ten
“Learn to enjoy every minute of your life. Be happy now. Don’t wait for something outside of yourself to make you happy in the future. Every minute should be enjoyed and savored.”
― Earl Nightingale
Catherine
SO HE CLEANS up amazingly well.
He’s standing there in the open doorway of my room, looking at me as if he thinks the same might apply to what I’ve done with myself.
“Come in,” I say, sweeping an arm inward, and adding, “I just need to add earrings, and I’m ready.”
He follows me in past the dark wood closet and mini bar and into the bedroom. I walk quickly past the bed, as if the veritable elephant has appeared in the room, and lead him through the glass pane doors onto the terrace. “Make yourself comfortable,” I say. “I’ll just be a minute.”
He sits on the small sofa near the rail, instantly dwarfing it. “Our reservation is at 7:30. I’m early. No hurry.”
I head for the bathroom. I close the door and stare at my face in the mirror. Did I look like this when I arrived yesterday? I have an instant flash of the tired, sun-starved face I’d studied in this same mirror last night before going to bed. No. I had not looked like this. Not. At. All.
My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright. There’s color in my lips, as if all the blood has rushed there like they’re waiting to be kissed.
Ridiculous!
I call myself on the fantasizing. That is absolutely all it could be since I am having dinner with a man nine years younger than I am who lives on an island in a permanent state of vacation. And looks like he walked out of a cologne ad in a men’s magazine. Could that be any more different from my regular life?
No. I repeat: no.
I grab the earrings from the jewelry case I’d stowed in a side drawer, practice patience as I pop off the back and slip the stud through my ear.
This is not a date. Repeat after me, Catherine. This is not a date.
I draw in a reservoir of air and walk back to the terrace, putting in place my most convincing platonic smile.
At my entrance, he stands. “Before I told you how beautiful you look, I wanted to see if the earrings made a difference.” He leans back and gives me a long surmisal. “Nope. You were beautiful before the earrings. But I like them. Can’t go wrong with diamonds.”
I laugh softly, feeling my cheeks light up with heat. “Thank you. I’m ready whenever you are,” I say, suddenly sorry we have to walk through the bedroom again.
“After you,” he says.
I lead the way across the marble floor, deliberately ignoring the bed and the fact that it suddenly seems enormous.
“Looks comfy,” Anders throws out behind me.
“It is,” I say, grabbing a shawl from the chest of drawers. “I mean for sleeping, that is.”
Without missing a beat, he says, “What else would you be using it for?”
“We’d better hurry,” I say, heading for the door. “Don’t want to be late.”
I hear him laughing as I click down the marble stairs, holding onto the rail as I go.
“Hold up there,” he says. “We have plenty of time.”
“Oh, I think it’s better not to be late.”
He catches up with me, still smiling.
“Stop,” I say.
“What? It’s just too tempting to tease you.”
“Forty-year-olds aren’t teasable.”
“To the contrary, I find you very teasable.”
Again, I try to ignore him. “So tell me where we’re eating.”
“She’s ignoring me.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Oh, I’m very possible.”
“I need a drink. A large one.”
“And she shall have a drink. Promptly.” Still smiling, he takes my arm and turns me down the hall leading to the center of the hotel.
We arrive at the entrance to L’Acajou where a maitre’d greets us. “Mr. Walker. Ms. Camilleri. So happy you could join us this evening. We have a perfect table for you with an ocean view.”
He leads the way through the restaurant with its colorful chair cush
ions and immaculately set tables. He holds out my chair and waits for Anders to sit before he leans down and says something close to his ear.
He then hands us each a menu and says, “Kyle will be your server this evening. He’ll be right over.”
“Thank you,” Anders says, opening his menu.
“What was that?” I ask, curious about the silent exchange.
Anders smiles. “I bartend here in a pinch. He was just asking if his discretion was working.”
“Was it?”
“Quite well, actually. I feel like a guest.”
I smile and shake my head. “I would imagine it’s far more entertaining to be you here than it is to be a guest.”
“Is there a compliment wrapped up in there somewhere?”
“Maybe a small one.”
“All right then. I’ll take that. Now how about that drink?”
“What do you recommend?”
“That would be a rum punch if you’re going for an island favorite. One of sour, two of sweet, three of strong, four of weak. Lime, sugar, rum and water.”
“Are you hoping to get me drunk?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Now do I look like the kind of guy who would-”
“Let’s not answer that. I’ll have a rum punch.”
Our waiter appears at that moment, as if pre-arranged, asking us if he can bring us something from the bar. Anders orders two rum punches, and while we wait, I glance at the menu.
“Um, you don’t have to actually buy my dinner,” I say. “It’s very-”
“Expensive. What? You think I left Wall Street because I wasn’t any good?”
I hear the feigned hurt in his voice and tip my head. “No. It’s just-”
“I’m old school. I invite you. I pay.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“You weren’t. Some traditions are kind of nice as they are though.”
Hard to argue with that, so I don’t. The waiter returns with our rum punches on a small tray. They look amazingly appealing. He sets them down in front of us and says he’ll give us a few minutes to consider the menu.
I take a sip of my punch. “Um. Delicious. But I understand the three of strong. Whoo.”
“It’s a sipper.”
“But it’s so good,” I say, taking a longer sip than the first one.
“Hey, now. Remember that getting you drunk thing.”
“Actually, I don’t get drunk.”
“How you figure?”
“I never drink enough to get drunk.”
“Don’t say never until you’ve finished a rum punch or two.”
“I promise not to embarrass you,” I say, smiling.
“You might not get drunk, but I don’t get embarrassed.”
“Oh, really,” I say, taking another sip of the punch which by now has spread a very nice warmth from my midsection up my chest and down each of my arms. “Nothing ever embarrasses you?”
“Nope.”
“How is that possible?”
He shrugs. “Because I own my choices. I decided at some point along the way not to care if another person doesn’t approve of my choice. I need to know that I think it’s the right choice.”
“But me getting drunk wouldn’t be your choice?”
He smiles, shakes his head. “No, that would be your choice. Why would that embarrass me?”
The waiter appears at our table, asks if we’re ready to order.
“Hold that thought,” Anders says. And then, “What will you have?”
I open the menu to refresh my memory. Smiling at the waiter, I ask, “May I have the mushroom risotto and the sweet potato fries?”
Anders orders the sea bass and mushroom fricassée.
When the waiter heads for the kitchen, Anders picks up his phone and starts typing, saying out loud, “How to get to know someone on a date.”
“Are you Googling that?”
“Oh. Here we go. 200 questions to get to know someone.”
“Are we staying for breakfast as well?”
“Question number one. If you didn’t have to sleep, what would you do with the extra time?”
“That’s easy. Write a book.”
“So you like to read?”
“I love to read. I don’t make enough time for it.”
“Favorite books?”
“Hmm. Books that make me think. Man’s Search for Meaning. Viktor Frankl. How to Win Friends and Influence People. Dale Carnegie. And The Omnivore’s Dilemma. Michael Pollan. That one made me a vegetarian.”
“So you’re really excited about that Sea Bass I just ordered.”
I shake my head, smiling. “It’s what you said before. I own my choices. You own yours.”
“Touché.”
“What’s question number two?”
He glances at his phone screen. “What’s your favorite piece of clothing ever?”
“Favorite piece of clothing. Let’s see. Ah. A purple velvet hat I had in third grade. I was convinced it made me the next Drew Barrymore.”
“Purple velvet, huh? If that choice didn’t embarrass you-”
“Hand me that phone,” I say, reaching out to snatch it from him. “Question number three. What job would you be terrible at?”
“Sumo wrestler,” he says without hesitation. “The outfit would be the deal breaker. Thong. Me. No.”
I laugh, bending over and holding my stomach.
“You’re picturing it, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry. I-”
“Thought so. How would that go over in spin?”
I cover my mouth, trying to stop the laughter from spilling out. “What a wedgie that would-”
Now he’s laughing. “Next question,” he says, taking the phone back. “What’s something you like to do the old-fashioned way?”
I hesitate long enough that he raises an eyebrow and smiles that suggestive smile of his. My heart ka-thumps a beat, and with a straight face, I say, “Talking on the phone instead of texting.”
He’s still smiling when he says, “Good one. Me too. So I read this article that said people are using texting to argue about issues in their relationship. This UCLA professor found that body language makes up fifty-eight percent of communication. Thirty-five percent is through body language and vocal tone. Seven percent was from the actual message.”
“How scary is that? People say things in texts they would never say face to face.”
“True that.” He taps something onto the keyboard.
My phone dings from inside my clutch purse. Keeping my gaze on his, I pull it out and read the message on the screen. You look incredibly hot tonight.
I draw in a deep breath and reach for my rum punch, this sip not exactly a sip.
He holds my gaze, smiling.
Fortunately, the waiter arrives with our dinner, and I’m saved from a response. Not that I would have one.
The food looks incredible, and I’m suddenly famished. We pick up our forks at the same time, eating in cautious silence. We both murmur polite comments about the excellence of the food but otherwise finish our meal in silence.
“That was so good,” I say, finally sitting back in defeat. “I can’t finish though. I hate to waste it, but I’m so full.”
He pushes his own plate back. “Think I’ll leave a little myself. We aren’t going to impress anyone with our dancing if we have huge bellies.”
“What?”
“Dancing. Step two in our celebration of your birthday.”
“You don’t have to do that. This is more than enough.”
“I want to do that.” He waves a hand at the waiter. “This was wonderful,” he says when the waiter arrives at the table. “But we’ve got a dance floor waiting on us.”
“By all means,” the waiter says. “I’ll get the check.”
Chapter Eleven
“The job of feets is walking, but their hobby is dancing.”
― Amit Kalantri
Catherine
WE LEAVE
THE hotel in a white van taxi. It weaves and winds the narrow Barbados roads, headlights flashing us from the right lane.
“Where are we going?” I ask, aware of the minuscule amount of distance between Anders and me on the seat behind the driver.
“Red Door,” he says. “Best club on the island.”
“Ah, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Let me guess. You don’t dance?”
“How did you know?” I can still hear the rum punch in my voice, the way it adds a lilt to the ends of my words.
“As of tonight, your first night of being forty, you dance. Just like you now drive a Sea-Doo.”
“Then surely you know you will regret this.”
“Remember? I don’t embarrass.”
“So you’re owning the choice of taking me out dancing?”
“Damn right I am,” he says, throwing me a grin.
Realizing I’ve defeated my own argument, I sit back and watch night-cloaked Barbados roll past my window, wondering if I will be the first reason ever Anders Walker has to be truly mortified.
*
ONE OF THE HOUSE specialty drinks is the Red Door Mule.
As it turns out, the Red Door Mule is all you need to become an incredible dancer.
Or at least, to make you think you’re one.
I’ve had two, and I’m pretty sure that’s my limit, but I’m dancing. I feel liquid, free and ridiculously happy.
The dance floor is so crowded I’m all but pressed right up against Anders. Who happens to be one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. I mean like he could be on Dancing to the Stars. I mean with. With the Stars.
His body loves the music. And I love his body. I love watching his body. I’m not even thinking about my own moves. I’m just following the beat, completely mesmerized by the man in front of me.
There isn’t an insecure bone in him. The music just becomes part of him. We’re two in a crowd of swaying, laughing, happy people, the music a pounding pulse in our ears, the beat deep and contagious.
Someone jostles into me from behind, and I tip forward, falling into Anders with a gasp. “Easy there,” he says, his head dipped low to my ear as he loops an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him.
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