Just Desserts (13 page)

“Listen, I should have thanked you right up front for that extra backstage pass but I really won't be able to use it.”

“You don't know what you're missing.”

“Actually I do,” she said, “and that's why this is killing me. Give me your address and I'll send it back so somebody else can use it.”

“Keep it,” he said. “Maybe you'll change your mind.”

“I wish I could.”

“You can always press it in Lizzie's scrapbook if you don't use it.”

As if on cue, her darling daughter appeared in the doorway.

“Just a second,” she said to Finn, and then to her daughter, “You're wearing that?”

Lizzie glanced down at her faded jeans and favorite sweater. “Yeah.”

“To Tracy's party?”

“It's the twenty-first century, Mom. This is what you wear to a party.”

She could hear Finn laughing on the other end of the line. “How about putting on the skirt you bought at Target last week?”

“I'm late,” Lizzie announced. “Amanda's waiting downstairs. I've gotta go.”

“Don't forget what I said: call me if you change your mind about spending the night. Do not walk home alone.”

“Whatever.” Lizzie leaned in to peck Hayley on the cheek.

“Not ‘whatever,'” Hayley retorted. “Just do it.” She softened a little. “Where's her gift? Do you need any money?”

“I got her an iTunes gift card and no, I'm okay.”

With that her beautiful little Clydesdale thundered down the back stairs and out the door.

“This time I wouldn't blame you if you fell asleep,” she said to Finn. “Family business.”

“Now I believe she's really only fourteen.”

“It gets confusing,” Hayley admitted. “One second I'm talking to Alan Greenspan's long-lost granddaughter and the next second she's Hilary Duff's little sister.”

“You handle it well.”

“So far, so good, but if she takes after her mother, I'm in for a rough ride between here and her eighteenth birthday.”

“You seem pretty levelheaded and goal-oriented to me.”

“You should have seen me when I was her age,” she said, laughing. “I dyed my hair black, rimmed my eyes with kohl, and declared myself Queen of the Goth. It wasn't pretty.”

“Bad poetry and existential pain.”

“Of course. And that lasted until I found out the really cute guys were the rockers and I turned all hippie chick.”

“You still have a hippie chick vibe going for you.”

“Did you just say ‘vibe'?”

“I told you I wasn't just a lawyer.”

“Now I'm starting to believe you.”

He was flirting with her. (Wasn't he?) The teasing. The laughter. The underlying buzz of something more. And she was flirting back. (Okay, she was trying to.)

“All things considered, I'd say you're a dog person living a cat person's life.”

“Run that by me again.”

“You want the devotion a dog gives you but your absentee lifestyle would work better for a cat. And not all cats, just the very independent ones.”

“I thought all cats were independent.”

“Not mine. They're lap cats.”

“What you're saying is either I get off the road or settle for a houseplant.”

“I'm not so sure about the houseplant.”

“You don't mince words.”

“You asked,” she reminded him. “You wouldn't want me to lie to you, would you?”

“Give it a shot,” he said. “I'll let you know.”

They were back on familiar footing again, bantering back and forth, keeping that shimmering bubble of champagne dancing in the air between them.

He was going to ask her out. She might have been out of the romance loop for a while but some things a woman knew without being told. This was goal-oriented flirting and any second he'd take it to the next level.

She waited. He talked. She waited some more.

They talked about cats. They talked about dogs. They ventured into birds, reptiles, and fish. God help them if they started on primates because after that it was a hop, skip, and a jump to ferrets.

She couldn't have been that wrong about the electricity between them. You could almost see the sparks leaping from her cell phone. She was sending out receptive signals. At least she thought she was. Flirting hadn't been part of her skill set for a long time, but short of shrieking, “Ask me out, Rafferty!” into her cell phone, she had made it clear she was wide open to the possibility of breaking bread together.

She babbled on about her menagerie. He responded with stories about Tommy Stiles's considerable menagerie. She was a half step away from discussing the pros and cons of nonclumping litter.

This wasn't going well at all.

“Here's an idea,” she said. “Why can't you bring your dog or cat with you to Mr. Stiles's house during the day?” She took his silence as encouragement and pushed forward. “Your pet could board with his pets when you're on the road.”

“Fido won't want to come home to Montauk after seeing the Hamptons.”

“Fido will cope,” she assured him. “Anyway, it's something to think about.”

“What I've been thinking about is checking out one of the shelters.”

“That's a great idea. We have a wonderful shelter a few miles from the bakery. I volunteer there once a week and it takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from bringing them all home with me.”

In the movies this would be the moment when the guy cleared his throat and asked the girl out on a South Jersey/Long Island shelter crawl, but Rafferty let the opportunity slip between his fingers.

“So don't be a stranger,” she said as the conversation wound down to a whisper. “Keep in touch.”

She waited for the laugh.

“That was a joke,” she explained quickly. “I was trying to give you an exit line.”

“Maybe I don't want an exit line.”

Her heart stopped. This time she didn't mind getting it wrong. If one of the
Grey's Anatomy
interns saw her now, they'd slap paddles on her chest and prepare to call it.

“Oh.” It was hard to say more when you were fibrillating.

“Hayley, I—”

He stopped. She waited. He remained at a full stop.

“That's it?” she asked. “‘Hayley, I—' then nothing?”

Awkward silence number 522.

“You know what?” she said. “I'm all for letting a good silence run its natural course but you're starting to drive me crazy. You called me, remember? The least you can do is finish your sentences.”

Nothing. Not even heavy breathing.

“That's it. I'm going to hang up now.”

“What are you doing for dinner?” He sounded almost as surprised as she was by his question.

“Leftover pizza and whatever else I find in the fridge. Why?” Don't jump to conclusions. Maybe he just wants to inventory your pantry.

“How do you feel about take-out Chinese?”

“Pretty much the same way I feel about dark chocolate and winning lottery tickets.”

“Spicy or mild?”

“Spicy. Is there any other way?” Was this going someplace or was he just taking a survey for the Food Network?

“There's a great place here in town. Best Hunan chicken you've ever had.”

Thanks for sharing, Rafferty
. “Too bad they don't deliver to South Jersey.”

“They might.”

“Yes, but that two-hundred-dollar surcharge is a killer.”

“No surcharge,” he said. “But tips are appreciated.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“If I break a few speed limits I can be there by four.”

“You're going to drive four hours to deliver Chinese food?”

“That's the plan.”

She couldn't help it. The word popped out: “Why?”

“Because it's the best take-out Chinese on the planet.”

Not bad as far as reasons go.

“And,” he said, “because I want to see you again.”

But that was even better.

 

Finn hung up the phone and wondered what in hell he had just done.

Only a total head case would drive four hours on the freaking Jersey Turnpike to deliver Chinese take-out. The thing to do was call her back and cancel. He must have gone temporarily insane.

Only a total head case or a man in—

He wasn't going there.

He liked her. That was all. She made him laugh. Even better, he made her laugh. He liked her unpredictable turn of mind. He liked the fact that the woman got his jokes. Not even people who had known him since childhood got his jokes, but she did.

She was unpretentious, down-to-earth, about as grounded in reality as anyone could be. She didn't play games. If she wanted to say something, she said it. She asked questions. Sometimes painfully direct questions.

Maybe this time those questions would get an honest answer.

By 2:30 Hayley had showered, washed and blow-dried her hair, applied then reapplied her makeup three times, tried on six different outfits, settled on jeans and a sweater, changed into a short black skirt and blouse, decided that was too date-y, changed back into the jeans and sweater, then suddenly realized her entire place was covered in a fine layer of cat fur, dog hair, parrot feathers, and the type of clutter usually associated with people who ended up on the local news after the township condemned their house.

How two people had accumulated such a towering pile of junk and managed to distribute that junk throughout every room of their small home defied understanding.

Books, magazines, half-finished crafts projects, science experiments, shoes (lots of shoes), catnip mice, chew toys for dogs, chew toys for parrots, newspapers—you name it, if you looked hard enough you would find it somewhere in the mountain of stuff.

“I can't let him in here,” she said to the three cats, one dog, and one laughing parrot who were watching her, wide-eyed, from various hiding places.

He's driving all the way from East Hampton. He's going to need to use the john.

The same john that was currently littered with blow dryers, hair products, skin cream, acne medication, mascara, shadow, blush, enough lipsticks to supply the crew of
America's Next Top Model
for the next three seasons, two bras drying over the shower rod, and some unmentionables she would die if he even knew she possessed.

There was no hope for it. She stripped off her outfit, slipped back into her oldest jeans and worst T-shirt, and got down to work.

This is why God made bathtubs, she thought as she tossed piles of junk behind the magic curtain. If it weren't for bathtubs, big closets, and that dusty space under the bed, nobody would ever have people over.

She glanced at the clock. She had thirty-five minutes to mop the kitchen floor, hide the mop, hide the kitchen (if only), then change back into clothes that didn't make her look like Cinderella before the fairy godmother came to town.

The house phone rang as she slipped out of her scullery maid clothes.

“Aunt Fee, this isn't a good time…Yes, I understand…Sure, I'd be happy to…Not right now…Somebody's coming over…Yes, the lawyer, but it's not a date…No, I don't know what it is…He's bringing Chinese food…From Montauk…Okay, so maybe it does sound a little like a date…I'll let you know…I promise.”

So Fiona thought it was a date. What did she know? Fiona had married her first boyfriend and stayed married to him for over fifty years. The last time Fiona had obsessed over some guy Eisenhower was president. Times had changed. Dating wasn't dinner and a movie anymore. Sometimes you couldn't tell where friendship ended and dating began.

If it began at all.

For all she knew the Chinese food was a cover and Rafferty was stopping by to make sure the small-town baker could handle the uptown job he had commissioned.

She could handle that. She even understood that.

But the fact that a great-looking, funny, decent man was willing to drive almost the entire length of Long Island and New Jersey to see her was enough to make her consider the witness protection program.

Worrying she was good at.

Dating was another story.

 

Finn sailed across the Verrazano and through Staten Island in a haze of guilt and expectation.

Either that or he was high on fumes from the three shopping bags filled with Chinese food on the backseat.

A full blast of irony smacked him in the face as he rolled down the New Jersey Turnpike. He was the one who had reamed Tommy for crossing the line before they had the facts to back him up. He was the one who had wanted to keep everything strictly contained within a legal framework.

And now he was the one following his heart down to South Jersey at the speed of light.

Exit 8A.

Exit 8.

Exit 7.

The township names whizzed by in a blur as he got closer to Lakeside.

He could still turn around and head back to Montauk. All he had to do was call her and say something had come up, some rock star emergency that required legal assistance on a Sunday afternoon.

Everyone knew celebrities were needy. That was a given. Celebrities required toadies and handlers and lawyers to walk ten steps behind them and clean up the mess. Even the good ones like Tommy created a wake that knocked smaller boats off course, sometimes permanently.

Exit 6.

He had never been good at keeping the personal separate from the professional. Ask his ex-wife. The endless phone calls, the months spent on the road, the temptations. She wanted a real home, a family of her own, and it quickly became clear Finn's skill set came up short.

When they lost the baby they lost the last thread binding them together.

Maybe if he had been older, he would have understood what was happening, but he had been as caught up in his grief as his ex was. Unable to look beyond his own pain. He wanted everything to go back to the way it had been before the pregnancy but that was impossible. She wanted more at a time when he was able to give even less.

She was happy now. She had a husband and home, the kids she had always longed for. Every now and then he ran into somebody who knew her and the news was always good. He was glad. She deserved better than the man he used to be.

Tommy was his boss, his family, the guy who took him in when he needed a home. The boundaries shifted with the circumstances and after a while they disappeared entirely.

“I'm your family too,” his wife had said to him during one of their last arguments. “Why can't you understand that?”

His loyalties had belonged to Tommy Stiles. Everyone else ran a distant second.

This was the first time he could remember being conflicted about where loyalty to Tommy began and ended. The fact that he had driven almost two hundred miles to deliver some noodles and a container of hot-and-sour soup meant something but he wasn't sure he was ready to find out what.

He liked the way she looked, the way she laughed, the things she said, the way she said them. He liked the way she took care of Lizzie, the connection between them. She had inherited a down-on-its-luck bakery and brought it back to life and somehow found time to grow another business decorating upscale cakes.

He wanted to see her again. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to watch the way she tucked her hair behind her right ear when she was concentrating.

He hadn't known how much he wanted it until he heard her voice a few hours ago. He missed her. He barely knew her but he missed her in a way that was so primal, so life-shaking, that on another day he might have run as far and as fast as he could from the feeling.

This time he was running straight into it.

He hit Lakeside at quarter to four and was standing at her door at ten to the hour. Was early better than late? He wasn't sure. Early had to be better. Nobody liked to be kept waiting. Waiting was for doctor's offices and planes, not a first date.

But was this a date? Driving over two hundred miles to deliver Chinese food to a terrific woman had to mean something, but for all he knew she saw him as an overeducated delivery boy.

“She's not there.”

He turned at the sound of an old man's voice behind him. It was the dry-cleaner sentinel he remembered from last time. “What was that?”

The guy was short, bald, and easily pushing ninety but he had the presence of a linebacker. “I said, she's not there. She told me to tell you she tried calling but your cell is turned off.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm Lou. I live next door. I've known that kid since she was in high school.”

He nodded. Lou had a proprietary interest in Hayley's welfare. He got it. “So where is she?”

“Beats hell out of me. When that dog takes off it's anybody's guess.” He pointed down toward the lake. “She went that way.”

He put down the three shopping bags of Chinese food. “Would you watch these for me, Lou?”

“What's in it for me?”

“How does an egg roll and a bowl of hot-and-sour soup sound?”

“Like twelve hours of heartburn.”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a ten. “Feeling better?”

“That'll get you thirty minutes.”

“And what happens after thirty minutes?”

“We renegotiate.”

So that was where Lizzie got her deal-making skills. It wasn't genetic after all. It was in Lakeside's water supply.

He took off toward the stand of trees at the far end of the block. A pair of teenage girls stopped to watch and giggle as he darted around them. At the corner a middle-aged guy in a pale green minivan leaned on the horn when he should have leaned on the brakes, and Finn thanked high school football for his broken-field running skills. Small towns could be deadly.

The air was rich with the smell of a rainy spring and a few other country aromas he didn't want to dwell on. The grass was wet and muddy and he sank deep into the muck with every step.

“Rhoda!” Hayley's voice sounded from a distance. “Rho-
da
!”

He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hayleeeey!”

There was a beat of silence, then a loud “Rafferty?”

Followed immediately by thundering hoofbeats and an even louder “Woof!” as a dog the size of a humpback whale hurled itself at his chest.

 

Hayley popped through the thicket to find Rafferty lying flat on his back in the mud, trying to fend off slobbery kisses from an uber-friendly Rhoda.

“Do something,” he said, ducking another onslaught. “I think Cujo's in love.”

“Don't let go,” she said as he hung on to Rhoda's collar to keep her from bolting. “Rhoda has a slight problem with authority.”

“Don't we all,” he muttered. Then, “What do you feed this dog anyway?”

“She stole some cat food this morning,” she said, trying hard not to laugh. “That's Fancy Feast on her breath.”

“She's sitting on my lungs. Do you think you could—”

“Sorry! I was taking out the garbage and she blew past and out the door before I could grab her.” She wrapped her hand around Rhoda's collar. “Come on, Rhoda. Let's—”

She hadn't been kidding when she said Rhoda had a problem with authority. Hayley struggled to hang on to the collar but Rhoda had the moves. Rhoda went left as Hayley went right and it was all over.

She fell hard across him, breasts flattened against his thighs, her breath moist and warm against his chest. Her hair smelled like the ocean even though they were miles from the shore. She was softer than he had expected. Rounder. More yielding.

Sometimes the gods managed to get it right.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I had the breath knocked out of me. How about you?”

He couldn't stop smiling. “Couldn't be better.”

She shifted position against him and his reaction was instantaneous and very rewarding. Her cheeks reddened and she ducked her head. She wondered if he knew she was smiling too.

They were lying in cold mud in broad daylight in a public park while a giant dog nudged them with a very wet muzzle. It was the most fun either one of them had had in a long time.

She made no effort to get up.

He wondered if she noticed that was fine with him.

He liked the weight of her body on his. He liked her peppermint breath, her full mouth. He liked the fact that if he leaned forward he could taste that mouth—

“Mary Jane Esposito is watching us,” she said.

“I don't see anyone.”

“She's behind that blue spruce over there.”

“Does Mary Jane Esposito spend a lot of time spying on you from behind a blue spruce?”

“It's been a long time since I gave her anything to spy on.”

Her huge blue-green eyes crinkled when she smiled. He added it to the list of things he liked.

“I'm willing to aid the cause.”

“I think we've given her enough to keep her busy.”

There it was: the right moment. Their mouths were inches apart. He wanted to kiss her. She wanted to be kissed. All he had to do was lean forward and do it.

“It's cold out here,” she said. “We should get back to the house.”

She scrabbled for purchase but fell back against his chest.

“You're not much help,” she said to him, half laughing, half serious.

“Try again,” he invited. “I've got all day.”

For an instant she melted against him, pliant and yielding, and then something clicked and she shook her head. “I have a daughter,” she said softly. “That changes everything.”