Addie Combo (5 page)

I try to shake it off.
Think of the stability,
I remind myself,
this is the start of your career! It’s what Randolph
does, and look how well he does it! And since he’s put the deal together, you know it’s a good
deal. You can trust Randolph.

So I sign my name yet again (and again and again), noticing Randolph’s eyes upon me as
I
do.
He’s proud of me,
I want to think,
he sees something of himself in me, and so do I.
A successful part.
And maybe,
I have to admit,
he sees more in me than that; even more than just a professional
or friendly relationship. And maybe I see the same in him. He’s such an interesting person,
I
can‘t deny,
he has so much yet seems to be so lacking. He has a love of life, a joi de vivre, but he
longs for love in his life, for the love of his life.
He has everything that tragedy couldn’t take away,
I come to understand.
He has an
abundance of the things he only realizes now are what matter least in life. And those things that
matter most are what elude him despite his greatest efforts.
Until now?
I wonder.
Is this God’s will, that we find each other? Surely, each can provide
what the other lacks! He has experiences to share with me, wisdom, and I’m in need of those
things. I can offer him new opportunities you can’t get on the dotted line, a freshness in his life
that he’s longing for but is unable to buy.
Let’s not get carried away.
I have to remind myself that love doesn’t work the way a
business deal does. Just because it makes sense on paper doesn’t make it a good deal.
That’s when I realize that Randolph is right; that a balance between a personal life and a
business life is not only important, but crucial. Because the rules are not the same. In fact,
they’re different games all together; play them the same and you can easily lose both. It seems
so clear, I don’t understand why knowing it and living it are such drastically different things.
But they sure are.
Ultimately, with the last paper signed, Randolph turns to me with a wink. “Congratulations,
you now owe almost a million dollars. Welcome to the American Dream!”
The next day we’re back on the hunt for real estate, but this time it’s for an apartment for me.
I almost feel a little silly going with Randolph;
surely,
I reason,
this is waste of his time.
But
he’s interested and involved, and I think he feels a certain protectiveness where I’m concerned.
And he’s so filled with valuable information, I know that it’s all part of the experience, all
part of my education. This time, I’m seeing it from the renter’s point of view. It almost amazes
me, but this is the first apartment I’ll be renting under my own name. I lived at home (like a
livein maid) until I graduated, then wound up as Emily’s roommate. This is a whole different
ballgame.
But I am in a pretty strong position; good job (in real estate, no less), property owner, my
boss ready to cosign if necessary (and I pray that it won’t be). And there are a few to choose
from; shabby singles in fiftyunit postmodern complexes that weren’t leveled in the quake of ’93,
newly renovated one-bedrooms in Los Feliz, not far from my new buildingor from Randolph’s
house in nearby Silverlake.
“Renters want three things,” Randolph says, “privacy, pets and practicality. You don’t have
any pets, that’s a plus. You don’t rent to pet owners at your own building?”
“No, actually, I don’t. Though the place has been filled since I bought it.”
“Keep it that way. Pets are like kids and property taxes, they’re for homeowners.” We share
a chuckle, and he adds, “You’ll be in a safe area, close to shops, freeway convenient. Unless ... ”
An odd silence wriggles between us. I look at him, turning my head to hear what I think he’s
about to suggest.
But he doesn’t. And instead of asking, I look around the Spanish villa design of the pre-
1930s onebedroom on Rowena. “Shall we make an offer?”
A few hours later, we celebrate back at Randolph’s place. We sit in front of his house for a
while, the inky night stretched out above us, the sparkle of the city basin at our feet, that fire wall
licking up from the stone grill. It’s warm and wonderful and exotic, and the sound of the
trickling water from the nearby fountain is a delicate counterpoint to the crackling flames.
Fire and water, hot and cold; the best of both worlds.
I say, “It really is beautiful, I wish ... ”
He looks at me with an expectant smile. “Yes? Tell me what you wish for ... ”
I’m sorry to have to disappoint him, but I have to finish my thought honestly: “I wish my
mom were alive, that she could see how well things are going for me.”
“Who’s to say that she can’t see you, that she doesn’t know?” Randolph gazes up at the
stars, so few compared to the skies over Boulder, even fewer than the skies over the rural areas
outside of town. There, the night’s sky is positively alive with starts, the little white dots
practically splashed across the heavens.
Really romantic! Right?
But sitting in front of this hilltop house, looking over the city as if it’s a kingdom and I am its
princess; it’s more than Colorado ever offered me, that’s for sure.
Randolph says, “I often think,
hope
really, that ... ” He takes a moment and swallows hard,
lifting his brandy for another whiff. “I hope there is a life after this one, where we’re reunited
with those we knew, those we loved. I ... I wrestle with it, sometimes, the not knowing. It’s
hard.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sympathetic nod, “it’s not easy, Randolph. But after all, you aren’t
really supposed to know, are you?” He looks at me for a moment, both hopeful and confused.
“That’s why it’s called
faith
, Randolph. You’re not supposed to know, you’re supposed to
believe
.”
He looks at me gravely, his eyes locking in on mine. “What if everything I know, everything
I rely on, tells me one thing; but everything I believe, everything I want with all my heart to have
faith in, tells me something else?”
I feel the tension thickening around us, drawing us closer, pulling us together.
I say, “You have to follow your heart, in business or in your personal life.”
“Is that so?” he asks with a slightly exaggerated tone. “How do you figure that?”
“People just want three things.” My voice gets lower, almost whisper-quiet as our heads get
nearer to one another, our gazes entwined, our lips pursed and ready. “Privacy ... ”
After a sexy little second, Randolph asks, “Yes?” his voice as quiet and breathy as mine.
“Um, passion ... ”
“Passion? Is that right?”
I nod with an affected sternness. “Oh, absolutely yes.”
We’re closer now, almost close enough to kiss. My heart is beating fast, blood rushing in my
veins, my mouth suddenly dry. Letting our faces hover so near to each other, he says, “And ...
the third thing?”
I can’t help but smile. And I don’t want to help it. Finally, I say, “Um, actually, I ... I don’t
remember ...”
We chuckle a bit, the moment is so free and so fragile, such fondness and nearness and
warmth. And he’s so handsome and gracious and kind and giving and graceful.
Finally, our words abandon us, and we’re well rid of them. Our kiss is delicate, his lips
barely touching mine at first. Then he presses a bit harder, and I press back. Our lips part and
our tongues meet, intersecting at last in a long-awaited dance, a song without words or melody
but not without rhythm.
Our breath collects around us, warming our faces; our noses rubbing, chins passing each
other in a sweet caress. His hand drifts up and touches my cheek, fingers strong against my
smooth skin. I feel small and vulnerable with him, and he seems so powerful and almost heroic;
he could protect and take care of me, instead of me having to slave to take care of someone else.
I feel that I could be loved, instead of merely loving and getting nothing in return. This
wonderful and lonely man offers me so much; his time, his attention, his kindness, his secrets.
He is trusting me in so many ways. Even this kiss is a leap of faith for him, a foray into
potentially dangerous territory.
No,
I hear my own voice protest,
not this time, not with me; this tender, beautiful man will
not suffer at my hands. I’m going to be the one who loves him! I’m going to be the one whom he
loves, whom he can continue to love. No tragedy or turn of fate will get in our way, not if I have
anything to say about it.
And even if I don’t!
So we keep kissing, our tongues becoming more aggressive and more welcoming; our hands
becoming more restless, more willing to explore. The warm summer night pulls us even closer
together; closer than either of us could have thought we’d be, closer almost than it’s physically
possible to be. Then even closer.
I look up at that dark night, only a few stars looking down on us, flickering and blinking in
excited curiosity. The wall of fire breathes warm waves over us, water trickling in the
background to punctuate our deepening gasps and rising sighs.
♡
I don’t have very much to move out of Emily’s place, so I don’t bother Randolph with
dragging him along. He’s already done so much, including buying furniture for the apartment.
I’m beginning to feel a little conspicuous about it.
“Sounds like things are going great,” Emily says with a chirpy, cheerful grin. “Why aren’t
you moving right into hisplace?”
“Well, that would be a little too fast. I mean, they’re going great, that’s true; I’d like to keep
them going that way.”
Quinton turns from gazing out the window. “That is one heck of a nice car, Addie.”
“It’s just a company car. It is nice though, isn’t it?”
“Company car,” Emily says. “Sure, ‘cause he likes your company.”
“And I like his, maybe a bit more than I should. I’m a little nervous about it, I don’t mind
telling you.”
“Maybe that’s love,” Emily says with an excited squeak.
I say, “Maybe. He’s certainly letting his guard down for me -”
“And you’re doing the same for him,” Quinton says. “Don’t undervalue yourself.”
I have to smile. “Sounds like something Randolph would say.”
Quinton smiles too. “I like him already.”
We all share alittle chuckle, and I go on to say, “I’m just worried about becoming too reliant
on him. That’s not why I came out here, to become some rich man’s kept woman.”
“Kept woman?” Emily scrunches up her pert little smile into a disapproving frown, even
shakingher head a bit to illustrate her position. “Emily, you’re not in a Charlotte Rae novel!”
After a quizzical moment, I ask, “You mean Charlotte
Brontë
?”
Emily shrugs and waves me off. “Same thing.”
I notice Quinton shooting her a look, one of disappointed neardisbelief. He’s a powerful
young man, intelligent and compassionate, embarking on a career as a legal champion; and he’s
about to marry a woman who doesn’t know the difference between the nineteenth century author
of
Jane Eyre
, and the actress who played Mrs. Garrett on TV sitcoms
Diff’rent Strokes
and
The
Facts of Life
.
Then Quinton looks back at me, and there’s a spark that I cannot deny and which I only hope
Emily doesn’t detect. I wonder in that split-second if Quinton and I aren’t both with the wrong
people. But I can’t entertain the thought for long, because things for us are moving quickly and
taking us in separate directions. It would take something drastic to change that, and neither one
of us wants anything too drastic so early on in our lives.
“Anyway, I’m worried that I’m putting all my eggs in one basket, as they say.”
Quinton smiles. “Well, you remember what Mark Twain said: ‘Put your eggs into one
basket, and then
watch that basket!
’” Another little chuckle flutters among us, but it doesn’t do
much to settle my nerves. I’m still worried about Randolph, and thinking about Quinton. And as
well as everything that’s going on, I’m still plagued by this nagging feeling that something is
about to go terribly wrong.
Something drastic.
CHAPTER FIVE
Weeks roll on, with Randolph taking periodic days off to be with his mother, whom he still
won’t introduce me to. I don’t press it, of course. It’s his private business, his family, his own
mother! And I’m his personal assistant, his fortunate pupil, (I hope) a good friend and I don’t
want to violate the confidence of those relationships.
But truth be told, I can hear my own voice echoing in the back of my brain like some crazed
rehearsal of lines that I just don’t dare deliver, things I cannot bring myself to say:
Don’t you think it’s time I met her? Now that we’re ... together?
But sooner or later it does come up; the fact that he’s given me no number there in case of
emergencies, that he visits and never speaks of it or of her or of their past. It reminds me of my
own mom; the fading memories of her pretty face receding with every year, every month, every
day.
“It’s hard when you lose parents,” I say to him over a grilled salmon and butter bean relish.
“I wish I could see my mom again, just once, tell her how much I love her.”
Randolph smiles his usual casual smile. “My mother and I are ... familiar with the way the
other feels.”
After one or two other mentions of her, I’m almost surprised when Randolph finally invites
me for an afternoon with the legendary Margaret MacLeish. She greets us at the door of her
apartment in Santa Monica, her waddling frame slow but still oddly spry. Margaret can’t move
quickly, but she ties harder and more than makes up for what time has sapped away.
Her place is dark, drapes shielding the musty rooms from the flood of sunlight, even this late
in the year when the beach areas are mostly foggy.
I try to say as little as possible; there’s too much to look at and listen to and learn from; for
me to try to contribute anything would be pointless.
She’s a short woman, about five feet; and broad, but it’s hard to tell under her shawl. And
she speaks in a kind of Celtic brogue so thick that it’s hard to follow; a steady stream of guttural
sounds, compressed vowels,slurred S’s and rolled R’s. I have to interpret her meaning by
Randolph’s reactions and by my own intuition.
“No, Mother, she’s my personal assistant ... yes, and a colleague, but not ... that’s none of
your business, Mother ... and will you show some couth, for heaven’s sake?”
She’s cantankerous and brassy and smells a bit like midday liquor, and I’m almost thinking
about setting her up with my father when I realize that I can’t decide who’d be the worse off or
why.