Songbird (18 page)

A good five minutes later, she finally managed to pry open the top of the large, heavy carton. She turned the box to its side, pulled out the contents, and stood it upright on the hardwood floor.

It was a chair. A delicately carved mahogany chair with a straight back and steel-blue, floral tapestry seat, the kind that would be at home in a long line of matching chairs in an elegant, nineteenth-century dining room.

She loved it on sight. The smooth grain was stained a deep reddish color, the same shade as her credenza, the same shade as his hair. He must have seen it in an antique shop and known how much she’d like it. What a unique gift! How thoughtful! She ran her fingers along the highly polished rung across the back, touched to her very soul.

That afternoon, the hot line flashed in her control room at the station. Her heart leapt when she heard his voice.

“
Hi, sweetheart. Miss me?”

“
Yes! Oh, Kyle, the chair...it arrived this morning. How did you ever get it here so fast? I don’t know how to—”

“
Do you like it?”

“
I love it! It’s exquisite. Thank you.”

“
You’re welcome. I wanted to make sure you liked it before I send the other one.”

“
What other one?”

“
You can’t just have one chair, for God’s sake. It’s a matched set or nothing.” He chuckled. “I’ve got to run. I only had a minute between meetings. See you Friday night, right? Let’s eat in. Can you cook?”

“
What?”

“
I asked if you can cook. The only thing I’ve eaten made by your two hands is a freshly squeezed orange, an English muffin, and a salad.”

She laughed. “I can cook.”

“
Great. I’m dying for a home-cooked meal. And I’m dying to hold you in my arms. I’ll see you at the airport. Bye.”

She smiled at the phone long after he’d hung up. “He’s crazy,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely crazy.”

***

It took three-quarters of an hour for two deliverymen to set up the new dining-room table and five additional chairs Friday morning. The note that accompanied them read:

Hope your great-grandmother would have liked this. Love, Kyle.

Opened to its full oblong size with the two accompanying leaves, the gleaming mahogany table stretched majestically across the room. Everything about the table reminded her of Kyle. Its strength. Its beauty. Its polished sophistication. She knew she shouldn’t accept such an expensive gift, but she couldn’t send it back, either. It blended perfectly with her other furniture and suited the house as if made for it.

No wonder he wanted to eat in tonight, she thought with a grin as she frosted a dark chocolate layer cake later that morning. She popped a leg of lamb into the oven—his favorite food, he’d told her, lobster notwithstanding—and set the timer to start baking at four o’clock. After closing the table to a small oval, she covered it with a white lace tablecloth—the only cloth she possessed—and set out her best china.

When she picked him up at the airport after work, they flew into each other’s arms as if separated five months instead of only five days. The aroma of succulent roast lamb enveloped her senses as they opened her front door, and he closed his eyes, savoring the delicious scent. When they finished eating, he proclaimed it the best meal he’d ever tasted, and promptly whisked the chef off to bed to show his appreciation.

The nights were long with loving, the days warm and fun-filled and far too short. Each morning they exercised and jogged. On Saturday they toured the immense
Queen Mary
and Howard Hughes’s
Spruce Goose
, docked at San Pedro harbor. They wandered through the quaint Cape Cod-style harborside shops at Ports of Call Village, where Kyle bought her hand-woven Irish linen tablecloths to fit the table in two different sizes. They had dinner aboard the elegant Princess Louise, a cruise ship turned restaurant, and toasted a passing tugboat with raised glasses of icy champagne.

On Sunday they rented bikes and rode along the meandering paths at a large tree-shaded park a few miles from her house, then returned home with sunburned shoulders and noses. They made love in the hushed stillness of early evening, the setting sun glowing on their bodies through the open bedroom windows.

“
I’m hungry,” she said much, much later, as they lay face-to-face on the plush area rug in her living room, each wearing nothing but a smile. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in four days.” The brass table lamps on either side of her couch cast a warm glow on the frosty glass of iced tea they sipped together through separate straws.

“
It’s no wonder, after all the strenuous activity we’ve had this weekend,” he said.

“
Are you referring to daytime activity or nighttime?”

“
Take your pick.”

She laughed. “How many calories do you think we burned up last night? I should go check my scale. I’ve probably lost five pounds by now.”

“
Don’t get too excited. You’re going to gain it all back at dinner. What I have in mind is sinfully fattening.” He kissed her, then jumped to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen.

“
There’s nothing decent in the refrigerator, unless you want leftover leg of lamb. We ate everything else for breakfast.”

“
I know,” he called from the other room. “Let’s order something in.”

“
Great!” A sudden craving seized her and her mouth began to water.
A thick, Sicilian-style pizza oozing with sauce and cheese,
smothered with... She frowned, shook her head. No. Not his style. A man who serves pâté and champagne and chocolate mousse on a beach picnic, who orders
canard a l’orange
and
salade Lyonnaise
in their native tongue, will not go for an everything-on-it pizza.

He returned with the Yellow Pages. Kneeling down beside her, he opened the book on the coffee table and flipped through the pages. “Is there a place around here that makes a nice, juicy pizza with a thick crust? I always go for The Works—but what do you like? Mushroom? Sausage? Olives? Pepperoni?”

At her astonished expression he added, “What? Don’t you like pizza?” His eyes narrowed and he wagged his index finger at her. “It’s un-American not to like pizza.”

She burst out laughing and threw her arms around his neck. “I adore pizza! I was afraid to admit it. I thought you only liked gourmet food.”

“
There’s a time and a place for gourmet food, and a time and a place for junk food.”

“
That is so profound.” She kissed him, still laughing. “Want to hear a secret? I’m a closet junk-food junkie.”

His arms glided around her waist. “Really? A chocoholic
and
a junk-food junkie? I’m impressed. What’s your favorite?”

“
My favorite what?” Her hands combed adoringly through the silky short hair at the back of his neck.

“
Junk food.”

“
Oh!” Her lips followed the movements of her fingers. “Well, a Big Mac of course. They put the greatest sauce on those things. A Big Mac, hot salty fries, and a chocolate shake.”

She spread kisses down his neck, across his shoulder. His breath hissed in through his teeth.

“
That’s your favorite?”

“
Yes...no, wait. Big Macs are my second favorite. My first favorite are S’mores. How I used to love those. I haven’t had one in years.”

He pulled her more closely against him. “What are S’mores?”

“
You haven’t heard of them?” She settled against him, loving the feel of his strong arms around her, the warmth of his skin. “We used to make them on Girl Scout camping trips.” His mouth and tongue paid an inordinate amount of attention to the soft skin behind her ear, and she gasped, arched her neck, and closed her eyes as she struggled to continue. “You...toast marshmallows over the campfire until they’re hot and gooey, then squish them between two graham crackers and a square of chocolate. The…hot marshmallow makes the chocolate melt…sort of like I’m melting right now…” She heaved a deep, ragged sigh. “They call them that because they’re so good, you always want S’more.”

“
I’ll bet.” He cradled her back over his arm as his mouth charted a fiery trail down her neck to the valley between her breasts. “I’ll have to try one some day.”

“
What’s your favorite?” she murmured throatily.

His hand slid up the outside of her thigh, then swept over the curve of her hip to cup her bare bosom. “I always like a nice juicy...breast.”

“
I presume you mean...
chicken
breast.”

“
Presume all you like.”

“
That’s not a junk food,” she said hazily.

“
It’s not? What were we talking about? I got distracted.” His lips closed around the object of his affection and he lowered her to the soft carpet.

“
Kyle. Wait. The pizza...you forgot to order the pizza.”

“
The pizza can wait.” He spread her thighs apart with his own and covered her with his warm, hard body. “Right now,” he whispered huskily, “I want S’more.”

***

Before sunrise Monday morning he sat on the edge of her bed, dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit as he kissed her goodbye.

“
I wish you’d let me take you to the airport,” she said as she held him fiercely against her chest.

“
There’s no point. You’d only be stuck in morning traffic.” He stood up. “I’ve got a busy week of negotiations coming up. I may not have time to call every night.”

“
Okay.”

“
I’ll miss you.”

“
I’ll miss you.” She couldn’t stop the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Damn! She didn’t want to cry every time he left, didn’t want him to see her this way.

He leaned down and kissed her again. “I need you, Desiree,” he whispered. She watched him go through a blur of tears.

It was the longest week of her life. She bought a stack of cards at a stationery store and sent him one each morning. Tuesday she sent him a cuddly, stuffed toy lobster of plush red velour, as big as a bread box, which she found in a children’s boutique.
I’m hungry for you,
her note read.

She didn’t hear from him all day. When she tried calling him at the office, his secretary said he was tied up in meetings, and he didn’t return her call.

Wednesday she had a mixed flower arrangement sent to his office, with a note saying,
Let’s do business together.
She called him that afternoon, but their conversation was cut short soon after he thanked her for the flowers.

“
I’m sorry I haven’t called, honey,” he explained. “I’ve been wining and dining clients all week. I’m in the middle of negotiations for an important contract and I just don’t have time to talk.”

She sat on the edge of her bed Thursday night, fresh from a shower, about to apply polish to the second to last toenail, when the phone rang. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the receiver, the nail-polish brush still in her hand.

“
Hi, lover.” The deep vibrant voice never ceased to send delicious shivers up her spine.

She smiled radiantly into the receiver. “Hi. I miss you. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

“
I miss you, too. And thanks for the stuffed lobster. Didn’t do a thing for my appetite, but he’s cute.” He paused. “Listen, Desiree. I’ve got bad news.”

Her stomach tensed. The radiant smile disappeared. “What’s wrong?”

“
I expected these negotiations to wrap up today, or by noon tomorrow at the latest, in time for me to catch my flight. But there’s no way that’s going to happen. The client refuses to budge on his price, and I’m not going to give this thing away. We need at least three, maybe four more days. They’ve got a bunch of guys here from Cleveland who don’t want to fly home for the weekend and come right back. We’ve agreed to work Saturday and Sunday to get this thing done.”

“
Oh.” She sank down onto the bed. A hot flash of disappointment coursed through her, touching every limb, every nerve. She tried to stab the nail-polish brush back into the mouth of the tiny bottle, missed, and stabbed again. The bottle tipped over and rolled off the nightstand, trailing Passion Pink along the hardwood floor into the bathroom. Tears of hurt and frustration burned behind her eyes.

“
I’m sorry, sweetheart. The last thing I wanted was to spend the weekend locked up in a conference room, haggling with a bunch of cigar-smoking men. But I have no choice. I’d like to turn it over to my negotiating team, but I’ve got two new people and I can’t afford any screw-ups. The deal’s too important. Please don’t be angry.”

“
I’m not angry.” The words shot out sharply, like an expletive. Steve’s excuses for not coming to see her were always just as crucial, just as plausible, and always at the last minute. She believed him right up to the bitter end.

In the past week apart, did Kyle come to see the futility of their relationship? Was this his way of letting her down softly?
No,
her brain insisted. He was telling the truth. He had to be. Two tears spilled down her cheeks and she sniffed.

“
Hey. Hey,” he said softly. “It’s only one weekend. I’ll be there next Friday, on the same flight I planned to take today. All right? You’ll meet me?”