Raindrops on Roses: Book One of the Favorite Things Trilogy (15 page)

"Oh, really?" she interrupted with an amused
smirk.

"
Talking
," he continued, “getting to
know each other better. I'd love to hear more about your
grandmother…and there's still a whole lot I don't know about
you
."

"And a whole lot I don't
know about
you
,"
she replied.

"Right. So let's start talking."

"Okay, but...what
about
breakfast?
We do get to eat while we talk, right?"

He laughed. She reached for the room service
menu.

•~•

"So, where did you go to school?"

"Major Illustrations in Manhattan. You?"

"My dad made me go to local art and business
schools at the same time. I hardly had time to breathe. But it's to
his credit—he supported me the whole way."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight," he said.
"And how old are
you?
"

"I'll be twenty-five next month."

•~•

"Exes?"

"Ugh. Do we have to go
into
that
subject
today?" she asked. "Let's save it for tomorrow, when we're
upright."

"Okay by me," said Michael.

•~•

"So, you said you were planning on moving
soon?"

"Yeah. The lease is up on
my apartment and I'm thinking of buying something in Stuart. It's a
nice midway point between work and"—he dropped a kiss on her
mouth—"
you
."

"New number. New address. New man?"

"Pretty much. I feel like a new man when I'm
with you."

•~•

"I love pink stargazers
and red roses," Priscilla said. "Those are my absolute
favorite
flowers."

"And what's your absolute favorite thing to
eat?"

"Eggplant parmesan," she said without
hesitation. "Covered with cheese. Gran made a killer eggplant
parmesan." Cilla closed her eyes. "I can taste it right now. But
even the thought of trying to make it myself, hurts."

Michael hugged her closer, resting his chin
atop her head. "I'm sorry I never got to meet her. I really
am."

"Do
you
have a favorite flower?" she
asked.

He thought about it. "I guess I like roses.
At least I like giving them."

"And
your
favorite thing to
eat?"

"Well, it's hard to pick
just
one
thing,”
he said, “but I guess I'd just
have
to take a good old-fashioned, fully loaded pizza
with me to a desert island."

"Ahh," Priscilla said, smiling. "She
would've loved you."

•~•

"Tell me about the accident."

Michael sighed. "Well, there's not really
that much to tell. That day, my mom picked up my little sister
Claire from school as usual, and they were on their way home when a
speed demon on his cell phone broadsided the car. It flipped over a
gazillion times, and they said they were both dead on impact."

He paused for a moment and Priscilla kept
quiet.

"I can't even
describe
the feeling
when I found out," he said looking back. "It didn't seem real. Even
after they hadn't come home for days and days and days." He paused.
"And eating? Even
water
tasted bitter in my mouth for like a year after
it happened. And my dad? Forget it—he changed completely. I don't
think he's ever gotten over it. He became paranoid and
controlling...and sometimes downright stifling. It was hard for me
to establish boundaries with him. It still is. He put away every
single picture of Mom and Claire that we had in the house, and to
this day, I have a hard time seeing them."

"Did you two ever get any grief
counseling?"

"No. Just my aunts and uncles and other
relatives doing the best they could. But of course, life has never
been the same." He snuggled deeper into the pillow. "You know,
sometimes I'll wonder—for days at a time—who I would be if my
mother was still alive, and Claire." Michael's eyes shined with
rare tears, but he dried them quickly. "She’d be like twenty years
old now."

Priscilla's arms tightened around him.

"I don't cry about it anymore." He sighed
heavily. "I hardly even talk about it anymore."

Finding her voice,
Priscilla said, "Well, I think this is the one thing you can give
yourself permission to cry about for as long as you live," she
said. "But I also think it would be a good thing for you to talk
about them
more,
and not be afraid to see their photographs. You should be
keeping their memories alive. And I think the same is true for your
father—but who says he
ever
has to get over it? The man lost his wife and his
little girl in one fell, unexpected swoop."

"Yeah," Michael replied, thinking about it.
"But there's no wound that shouldn't ever heal, Cilla. Or you start
losing limbs."

•~•

They had just ordered up lunch when
Priscilla's phone chirped a text from her mother. "Ugh— here it
comes," she said, picking it up.

After reading the text,
she said, "God, I
knew
it!" and tossed the phone down on the bed.

"What is it?" asked Michael.

"I knew as soon as Doug was gone she'd start
squeezing me for more money. I knew it."

Unsure of what to say, Michael kept quiet
and waited for her to continue. He was surprised when she turned
away covering her mouth, and then burst into tears.

•~•

Priscilla asked, "Is it awful of me to wish
she wasn't a part of my life?"

"Well, I haven't heard her side of the
story, but from what you've said?" Michael shook his head.
"Absolutely not."

Room service arrived with their lunch: giant
Italian Panini’s and side salads.

"She remarried a few years ago," Priscilla
continued, "but the marriage is pretty dysfunctional. I have only
vague memories and tons of photographs of my father." She grabbed a
couple of sodas from the fridge in the kitchenette. "They'd never
lived together. And I don't think he was ever really serious about
her."

"And she took that out on
you and Douglas? Even after your dad had
died?
"

"Yep. She sure did. She
could
never
control her anger and frustration about any issue, and she
had zero patience for dealing with children. The
dumbest
things would set
her off and she'd fly into a rage, picking up whatever was nearby
and hurling it at our heads. And she would spout the most vile and
hurtful things to a kid's heart. Doug and I never knew where the
dust would settle by the end of her tirades. We'd run from her and
hide, but she'd
always
find us." Cilla set the drinks down and joined him at the
table. "It was awful."

"Well, does she
have
any
good
qualities?" Michael asked. "It's a pretty bleak portrait—I never
like thinking that anyone's
all
bad."

"Well. She keeps a clean
house. She's got good hygiene. She'll drop spare change in a
homeless person's jar." She took the lid off her Panini. "So, no. I
guess she's not
all
bad."

They looked at each other, then burst out
laughing.

•~•

They entered the evening with a candlelight
dinner of filet mignon, a fine bottle of Pinot noir, and a
thoughtful conversation about their passions.

"I'm most inspired by my work, too," said
Michael, his eyes glowing. "I love what we've done with Frosted
Designs. Designing is one of the best things I've picked up from my
dad that I know is invaluable."

"And it's what
caused
us
to
meet—your company working for ours."

"Yeah, that's right," he said, loving the
way she looked in the candlelight. "It kinda gives new meaning to
following your passion."

"And to the importance of listening to your
father," she laughed.

"Good point. Because otherwise I wouldn't
have been there."

"Well, I'm certainly glad you came."

"Not as glad as I am," Michael said, meaning
it so much it was palpable.

After dinner, they had white chocolate
cheesecake on the terrace. There was a nice ocean breeze as dusk
enveloped the island.

"So," he said, holding her gaze. "I'm glad
you didn't decide to 'play it cool.'"

Priscilla smiled. "Me too."

•
CHAPTER TWENTY •

H
er pot roast was ruined. She had left it in the oven and
forgot all about it until the smell of burning meat began to waft
through the air. "Great," said Amber, staring down at the charred
loaf. "I'm officially losing it."

Reaching for the phone, she ordered a
pizza.

She was now being utterly
tormented day and night—plagued by the thought of Michael making
love to Priscilla Bauer. She couldn't seem to stop thinking about
them having sex with each other—
when
they were doing it,
where
they were doing
it,
how
they were
doing it.

It was brutal.

Depression was clawing at her, but she
refused to let it in. She would not slink off and lick these wounds
as if it were even an option—she knew they'd never heal anyway.

Having crunched all
afternoon to meet her deadlines, she had
finally
finished her work for the
day. These days there just didn't seem to be enough time for
anything other than thinking about and texting Michael. Her last
message had been about an hour ago, so as she was getting rid of
the pot roast, she realized it was time to touch base
again.

Picking up her phone, she sent a text
telling him all about how she'd burnt the roast. But Amber was
shocked when she received the response:

Number is invalid. Please
re-send using a valid 10-digit mobile number or valid short
code.

What the...?
She stared down at the screen.
What?

She tried again, this time just typing:
'Hello?' But the same message came back.

Her heart sank.
Oh, my holy God
—
he's disconnected his
number.

At first she just sat there on the sofa,
staring at the phone. The possibility had never even entered her
mind.

He really wants to cut me
off
, she thought, truly shaken by the
reality of it.

That son of a bitch!

With her face in an angry grimace, Amber
quickly found his father's name in her address book and dialed. And
with every single ring she willed Larry Frost to pick up.

He can't do this to
me,
she thought, pacing the living
room.
He
cannot
be doing this to
me!

"Hello?"

"Mr. Frost, it's Amber," she said politely.
"Did Michael get a new cell phone number, by any chance?"

"Uh, no, not to my knowledge, Amber.
Why?"

"Well, are you sure? Because I just got this
error message when I texted him, saying the number's invalid."

"Well, if he's changed his number, he hasn't
told me anything about it." There was a pause. "Amber, I'm in the
middle of something right now so I'll have to call you back."

No, goddamn it!
she thought in a panic.
You need to fucking help me get his new number!

She called Jason next—even
though that fat bastard hadn't returned a single one of her calls
or texts since
any
of this shit had started happening. Getting his voicemail
once again, she left a message. "Jason, it's Amber.
Please
call me when you
get this, it's important, okay? Thanks."

"I
cannot
believe he actually changed
the number!" she fumed through clenched teeth. "He's had that damn
number since
high
school!
"

Oh, Michael!
she thought, looking up at the ceiling.
Why the hell are you doing this to me? To
us?

And for the life of her,
she couldn't figure out what the hell
she'd
ever done except love
him?

Just then, the doorbell chimed.

My
pizza
.

Getting up, she reached for her wallet and
dragged herself to the front door.

And later that night, Amber finally reached
her breaking point. She had endured enough on her own—clearly this
plan wasn't going to work.

Breaking down, she called
Elaine and told her the whole story. "So now, I
definitely
need your help," she
sobbed into the phone, vacillating between heartbreak and outrage.
"Because we
have
to find him, Elaine. Disconnecting his phone number? That’s
just plain cruel! He’s taking this shit
way
too far, so now we're just gonna
have to teach him a
fucking
lesson."

•
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
•

"M
ichael. What the fuck, son? Look, treat me like a man who's
your father. Return this call and tell me what the hell you're
doing because you can't avoid me forever." A pause.
"
I
am not
Amber."