The Vineyard (36 page)

“But that's playing a game,” Olivia remarked. “Why do we have to do that?”

“We don't,” Natalie answered. “But if we play, we stand to win. If we refuse, we don't have a chance.”

“Then the women's movement was a waste of time?”

“Not at all. It taught women to aspire. It opened their eyes to possibilities. What it failed to do was to be realistic about getting there. In an ideal world, women have equal rights with men, but our world isn't ideal. Being realistic means working the system. It means understanding the psyches involved and using them. Take Simon.”

Olivia shot her a puzzled smile. “What does Simon have to do with anything?”

“He's a complex person. Women want him to be warm and open, but he isn't. There are reasons for that. If we understand the reasons, we can work around them to find the openness and the warmth.”

“I take it you're talking about his wife and daughter.”

“In part. He was torn apart when they died. He doesn't want to be vulnerable to that kind of pain again, so he's put up a wall.”

Olivia had seen that wall. He had all but planted it in front of her nose when she had first come to the vineyard. “What's the other part?”

“His childhood. His mother was a lovely person. Ana was a local woman who married later in life, but she knew what she wanted. She wanted a husband, and she wanted a child. I suspect that she knew how Carl felt about me, but she was wise enough to marry him anyway. She got a husband and a child, and they did love her. That said, I'm not sure she ever fully believed it. She always held a little something of herself back.”

“So you think Simon is predisposed to hold back?”

“It's possible.”

“Did he do it with Laura?”

“I suspect. She was quiet. It wasn't in her nature to push him.” She looked at Olivia and smiled for a minute longer than necessary.

Olivia smiled right back. “And it is in mine?” Slowly, purposefully, she shook her head.

“Of course it is,” Natalie insisted. “You push me all the time.”

“That's not what I mean. If you're playing matchmaker—”

“I'm not. I'm just making a point about men.”

“You were supposed to be making a point about women.”

“Well, I am. The point is that women can do far better with men if they understand what they're about. I was fine once I understood that Alexander needed to be stroked. Simon doesn't need to be stroked. He needs to be
prodded.”

“Not by me,” Olivia said and picked up her pen. “Do you want to do more now, or would you rather I get back to writing?”

Twenty-one
 

T
HE SUMMER WAS HALF DONE
. Olivia kept thinking about it that night. How not to, with the direction that Tess's questions had taken? They had been reading
On the Banks of Plum Creek,
one of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books that were Tess's bedtime favorites, but her mind was on the kittens. Smack in the middle of a chapter, she looked up at Olivia and asked again if they could have one. Olivia repeated the argument about apartments and cats.

“But if we move,” Tess reasoned, “we could get an apartment that would let us have one. When will we know if we're moving?”

“As soon as I know where I'm working.”

“When will that be?”

“Soon.”

“When will I hear about schools?”

Olivia didn't know. And suddenly, with no more provocation than Tess's few questions, she was worried. With more Asquonset time ahead than behind, she had coasted. She had assured herself that something would come through, that things always worked out, that come fall she would have a job and Tess would have a school.

Now summer was half gone, and she had nothing. She had to get cracking. If she didn't do it, it wouldn't get done.

To that end, she got up even before dawn the next morning and, taking care not to wake anyone along the way, went up to the loft. She turned on a light, then the computer. Within minutes, she was surfing the Internet. This time she wasn't going to put all her eggs in one basket. She wasn't even putting them in a dozen baskets. She printed out the names and addresses of every museum she could find, then did the same with art galleries. Inserting her own floppy disk, she printed out that many copies of her résumé. She was in the process of composing a new cover letter when the door opened. Her heart skipped a beat—largely in relief that she had gotten dressed—even before she saw who was there.

It was Simon. Quietly, she said, “Why did I know it was you?”

“Because,” he answered, closing the door, “no one else is crazy enough to be up so early. I saw the light. What are you doing?” He came up behind her and looked at the screen.

She nearly covered it with her hands, but stopped herself. That wouldn't have been very grown-up. “Don't read it. It's just a rough draft. I'm a lousy speller, totally spell check dependent. If you read that, you're going to wonder how in the world I'm writing Natalie's story, but the finished product is always—”

“Shh!” he said and put a hand on her shoulder.

She didn't say another word. His hand stayed where it was, even after he finished reading and had straightened.

“I need a job,” she said softly. She kept her eyes on the screen. “Natalie signed me on only until Labor Day.”

“Will your work for her be done by then?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Wherever. Beggars can't be choosers.”

His hand moved. Was it a caress—or simply a gesture of comfort? “Why do you say it that way? You have a skill. You're an artist.”

“Artists have a knack for living on the verge of starvation. I need to feed, clothe, and educate Tess.” Taking a breath, she put on a smile and rose from the chair. His hand fell away, which made it easier for her to talk. “I'll find a job. I may try something entirely different.”

“Like what?”

“Being a concierge.”

He looked bemused. “At a hotel?”

“Why not? I'm a people person. I can arrange for theater tickets and limos. I can tell people which sights to see and which ones to avoid. I can recommend restaurants and make reservations.” She grinned, letting her imagination go. “Wouldn't
that
be fun, trying out all those restaurants so that I'd know which ones to recommend.”

“I think most recommendations are bought and sold.”

“Well, that's a cynical view. I wouldn't run my concierge station that way, and I'd let hotel patrons know it. We don't have payola on my shift. I'd tell them the truth.”

“What if their taste in restaurants is different from yours?”

She shrugged. “That's bound to happen once in a while. You can't please all the people all the time. We could live right there at the hotel. Can you imagine? Tess would be another Eloise. Wow, did she love those stories. She wanted to go to Paris after she read
Eloise in Paris
. But I think she'd settle for New York. Wouldn't that be cool, living at the Plaza—”

Simon silenced her with a kiss, not altogether a surprise, given that seconds before he was looking at her mouth, but that didn't prepare her any. Nor did talk of moving to New York do anything to dampen the feeling. It was warm and fuzzy, familiar in ways that it shouldn't have been with only one prior kiss.

Olivia had always liked warm and fuzzy. Warm and fuzzy was a sepia-toned print of an apple pie hot from the oven, sitting with crockery that had seen generations of use. It was a dancing fire drying a pair of wool mittens with her name knitted into them—or a big mug of hot cocoa with a huge glob of whipped cream on top. Warm and fuzzy was the kind of kiss that was so gentle and sweet you wanted to melt—the kind you leaned into and curled up next to—the kind that just went on and on and on without losing a drop of heat. It was the kind that you clung to, that you didn't want to end, that startled you when it did because you didn't understand it at all.

Simon looked just as startled; not that that answered any questions.

“What
is
this?” she whispered.

“Beats me,” he whispered back. Holding her close with one arm, he moved his fingers slowly through her hair. It was growing out, but not fast enough.

“It used to be long, down below my shoulders, right up until
this past May. It was really pretty neat, but too warm. I got impatient one night and cut it all off. I'm like that—impatient and impulsive. Maybe that's what this is.”

He ran his thumb over her mouth, again slowly, and it didn't feel like an impulsive thing. It was arousing in the deepest, most unbelievable way—every bit as hot as his kiss—and then he did the most incredible thing. Watching his own hand, he slid it down her throat to her chest, turned it over, and ran the back of it over her breast.

Olivia could barely breathe. She caught his hand and pressed it tight against her, closed her eyes, put her forehead to his chest. “What
is
this?” she murmured.

“What is
this?”
came an echo, but not from Simon.

Olivia looked up to find his eyes on the door, and shot a look that way, fearing that Natalie had found them out. But it wasn't Natalie standing there. The resemblance was strong—same height, same shapeliness, same remarkable posture and dewy skin. The hairstyle was even the same, though this woman's hair was a warm chestnut color rather than white. Olivia felt she was seeing Natalie as she had been twenty years before.

Susanne smiled in amusement. “And here I thought Mother might be up early working on her guest list. You're looking rosy cheeked, Simon.”

“And you,” he said with remarkable poise, moving ahead of Olivia, as though to shield her. “I didn't know you'd come.”

“Neither does Mother. I arrived late last night. I thought I'd come up here, open this door, and surprise her.” Her eyes went to Olivia, brows raised in question.

Olivia had already moved out from behind Simon. She didn't want to be shielded—what an
arcane
male thing—though she did take example from his poise. Extending a hand, she said, “I'm Olivia.”

Susanne said, “I figured you were.” The dry tone notwithstanding, her handshake was warm. “It was either that or the new maid, new accountant, or new field hand.” She paused and drew back. “Any other defections lately?”

“Madalena and Joaquin,” Olivia said and watched Susanne's brows rise and her eyes fly to Simon.

He edged in front of Olivia again. “Natalie's already hired a replacement.”

“A second replacement,” Olivia corrected, coming even with Simon. “She starts next week. This one sounds promising. She worked in a restaurant in Pawtucket. The first one didn't know anything but fast food. She couldn't deal with a substantive dinner.”

But Susanne didn't seem to hear. She was glaring at Simon. “You
rat. That's
why you called. Natalie needs my help, you said. She needs a
cook,
is more like it.”

“You're the best,” Simon said, “but that wasn't why I called. Another cook is on the way.”

“I'll believe that when I see it,” Susanne murmured. Slipping her hands in her pockets, just as Olivia had seen Natalie do dozens of times, she looked at her and said, “So. You and Simon.”

“No,” Olivia replied.
“Not
me and Simon.”

He seconded that. “There's nothing going on.”

“I'm just here for the summer.”

“I can't handle anything deep.”

“Sex doesn't have to be deep,” Susanne remarked, but that hit Olivia the wrong way.

“It does. It should be.”

Simon said, “What you just saw wasn't sex. It was—”

“A hug,” Olivia proposed. “I was feeling discouraged because I don't have a job yet for the fall, which is why I was working before hours up here. Simon was trying to make me feel better.”

“I'll bet he was,” Susanne said. “I want to say that this is a novel use of this room, but for all I know it's been a little love nest for years. I need coffee.” She backed out, shutting the door behind her.

F
IVE MINUTES LATER
, Olivia found Susanne in the kitchen with a pot of coffee already on. “I'm sorry,” she said. “You shouldn't have to walk in on something like that in your own home.”

Susanne opened the cabinet that contained baking supplies. “Then you admit it was something?”

“Yes,” Olivia said, because it was absurd to deny it, “but I don't for the life of me know what, and I don't really want it to happen again.” She touched her chin with a level hand. “I'm up to here with other things on my mind besides Simon. For what it's worth, he's never been in that office with me before, and I don't think your mother was there with Carl, at least, not fooling around.”

“But you don't know for sure, do you?” Susanne said, holding
the cabinet door. She made a face. “Fooling around. That's an absurd phrase for someone Mother's age.”