Chapter 10
It’s such a fucking cliché—thegirl who has no idea she’s beautiful.
I can name three cheesy pop songs on the topic off the top of my head…but that doesn’t stop me from being every bit as drawn in by the phenomenon as the teenaged members of One Direction.
As I watch Sully scan the menu in the autumn sunshine, her cheeks pink from the portable heater our waiter pulled closer to our table, and her hair a golden halo around her face, I’m moved by her beauty. Watching her run a finger over her lip as she thinks, the way she tilts her head with an unconscious sensuality…it’s like standing in front of one of my favorite paintings at The Museum of Modern Art.
I go to MOMA at least once a month, usually right when they open on a Saturday, to take advantage of private member hours in the galleries. I didn’t discover art until I was an adult—it wasn’t something my parents had time for or encouraged an appreciation for in their children—but once I discovered the New York City museums, I was hooked.
Hooked on the sheer volume of genius on display, on the beauty and passion and creativity, but most of all, hooked on the way the art made me feel.
I wasn’t encouraged to feel as a child, either. I certainly wasn’t encouraged to give in to surges of emotion or dive deep into the mysteries of the human heart. The Tripps are old school New England, a stoic, solid, cynical lot who value the material over all else. I was taught that the material is all a man can count on.
In many ways, I still agree with that tenant of my childhood—it’s a cruel world and acquiring wealth is one of the few paths to safety—but I don’t want to imagine my life without what I found at the museums. Without awe, reverence, and that ache that hits in the center of my chest when I see clear evidence that an artist working hundreds of years before I was born felt the weight of the world the same way I do…
It’s a kind of connection I never imagined I could experience, let alone crave.
I also never imagined a woman like Gertrude Sullivan would send that same ache winding around my ribs. I’m still not sure why she has this effect on me, why she softens my sharp edges and brings a genuine smile to my face in a way few people can, but I know it’s about more than her beauty.
Or about more than the beauty that’s skin deep, perhaps…
“You’re staring at me again,” she murmurs, her eyes still on her menu. “Am I taking too long to decide if I’m monstrous enough to eat a rabbit?”
“Not at all,” I say, smiling again. It’s a problem, how much this girl makes me smile. “I’m sure the rabbit is delicious. The restaurant has impeccable reviews.”
She glances toward the inside of the bistro, filled with older couples on vacation and a few businessmen scrolling through their phones. “I bet.” She turns back to me, leaning closer as she whispers, “This place is fancy as fuck.”
Again, with the smiling. “So, order the rabbit. If you’ve never had it, a fancy as fuck establishment is the way to go for your first time.”
She makes a soft considering sound, glancing up at me through her long, sandy blond lashes as she murmurs, “I’ve heard that about first times. That fancy as fuck is best.”
I hold her gaze, imagining all the things I’d like to do to her beautiful body if we have a second time. “Thank you. I’m flattered…I think.”
“You should be,” she says, her tongue sweeping across her bottom lip, making the swelling behind my fly more pronounced. “But here’s the problem, Mr. Fancy, I don’t actually want to eat a rabbit. It’s just the only thing on the menu that isn’t stuffed with spinach or comes with some kind of cheese sauce I can’t pronounce.”
“The mussels sound good. Just a white wine sauce, no cheese in sight.”
“But I’ve eaten muscles my entire life,” she says. “I want to try something authentically French, expand my horizons and all that, but…” She glances back to her menu before casting a pleading look my way. “But there’s no porn for eating French food.”
I sputter and nearly choke on my sip of water. When I’ve regained control, I ask in a rough voice, “Excuse me?”
“That’s how I had an idea what to do in the bedroom,” she says, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. But she also looks pleased with herself for throwing me off-kilter. “Porn. The good stuff, though, not the angry, mean-to-women stuff.” She waves the menu back and forth. “But they don’t have that for French food.”
“I’m pretty sure they do. It was called The French Chef and ran for ten years out of a public television studio in Boston in the sixties and early seventies.”
“Before my time, old man,” she teases.
My lips twist. “Before mine, too, young wench.”
She laughs and the ache in my chest squeezes a little tighter. “Touché.”
“Look at you, using French words like a natural,” I say, wishing I could reach across the table, curl my fingers around the back of her neck, and pull her in for a kiss. Instead, I say, “Why don’t you let me order for you? We can get a few things to share. Anything you don’t like I can take care of. I didn’t eat breakfast before the funeral and the luncheon was repulsive.”
Her smile fades. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask how it was.”
“It’s all right. It was sad, but not in the way it should have been.”
Her brow furrows as she mulls that over. “Yeah, I can see that. Better to mourn the loss of a great person than mourn the loss of who that person could have been if they’d had more time.”
My jaw tightens. “Exactly. Though I don’t think Rodger would have become anything better than he was. Most people don’t improve with age.”
“But some do,” she says, her robin’s egg blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my empty stomach even more unsettled. “I already like you more than I did the first time we met. You should let your smiley side out more often. It’s nice.”
She’s astute, perceptive, and deserves a taste of everything on this damned menu…even if I have no intention of embracing my “smiley” side.
She laughs, adding, “You should see your face. You look like you swallowed a shot of apple cider vinegar.”
“Let me order for you?” I ask as I spot our waiter on his way through the mostly empty tables on the outdoor patio.
She nods, a secret smile on her lips. “Sure. But I can’t do wine at lunch. If you were thinking about that. I don’t drink before I get behind the wheel. Not even a little bit.”
“Understandable,” I say, the reminder of her father’s car accident taking some of the shine off the moment.
I hurt this woman. Not directly, not on purpose or with malice of forethought, and the violence I doled out that night was absolutely provoked—Leon came at me first.
But still…I hurt her. And she was only a child at the time, a kid left alone in the world after her parents both abandoned her in their own shitty ways.
When she was telling her story, I could practically see her at eight, wandering around her childhood home, calling for a mother and father who would never be there for her again. It reminded me of my own childhood, of realizing that any thought, feeling, or opinion not approved of by my parents would lead to rejection.
Standing up for my mother when my father beat her led to the same.
My father used my “back talk” as an excuse to beat me, as well, then treat me like a ghost in my own home.
He didn’t leave me alone—he sent me to my room and wouldn’t allow anyone in the family to speak to me for days, no matter how I begged for forgiveness—but the end result was the same. I learned at a young age not to take safety for granted, and that I was the only person I could count on.
I want to tell Sully that I understand her better than she might think, but how can I? When I was part of the reason that she learned such hard, ugly lessons so young?
The only thing I hate more than a bully is a hypocrite. I refuse to be one, so once I’ve placed our order, I turn the conversation to other subjects.
“Tell me why you haven’t tried French food,” I say. “When you’re so close to French Canada?”
She blinks as she sits back in her chair, relaxing now that all our decisions are made. “I don’t know. I haven’t been anywhere, really. I work too much, I guess. And Gramps isn’t one for travelling. Everything he loves in the world is right there in Sea Breeze. Some girlfriends and I have been saving up for a trip to Iceland, though. I’m pretty excited about that. I’m dying to shoot the northern lights.”
I arch a brow. “You’re a photographer?”
She shrugs. “Not really. It’s just a hobby. What about you? Have you been all over the world and seen all the things?”
“No. I’ve been to Europe several times, but I work a lot, too. And I’m not a fan of travelling alone.” I’m shocked to hear that last sentence leave my mouth. I’m not usually the kind who confesses those sorts of things. Not even to myself.
Her brow furrows. “And why are you alone when you don’t want to be?”
“What was the word you used the night we met? Bastard, I believe it was?”
“So you would have had me believe. But you also told me that we’d have to pretend not to know each other if we ran into each other in town,” she shoots back without missing a beat. “And the very next morning you asked me to breakfast.”
I grunt. “Touché.”
She grins. “So why are you alone? The real reason? Are you too picky? Too bossy? Stare too long at people with your icy vampire eyes?”
“Do vampires have icy eyes?” I ask, amused. “I thought they had eyes that glowed red in the dark. Like a wolf’s.”
“Well, Weaver,” she says in an overly patient tone, “vampires aren’t real.” I smirk in acknowledgement of her joke and she continues, “but in the vampire movies Elaina made me watch in junior high, they all had icy eyes. Even if they were brown, they were still…cold looking. Like they’d been frozen and were only just starting to thaw.”
“I don’t know,” I say, wondering if I’m starting to thaw, if that’s the reason for this strange ache I feel with this woman. “Could be all three. Or maybe I’m defective in some other way.”
“Like what?” she asks, proving she’s still the brave, blunt girl who got under my skin the night she crept onto my yacht.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me, if you decide I’m worth a month of your time.”
“A month, huh?” She presses her lips together. “That’s longer than you said before.”
“My family’s affairs are proving more complicated than I anticipated.” I ignore the inner voice taunting me for changing my mind about remote work so quickly. It really would be easier to manage the transitions I want to make to the Tripp business model from Sea Breeze. And if I had a compelling, enjoyable reason to stick around as well…
“What’s your high-powered investment firm going to say about that?” she asks. “Don’t they want you back in the city, doing important things with money in your fancy suit?”
I couldn’t stop the smile pulling at my lips if I tried. “I didn’t tell you I worked for an investment firm.”
She rolls her eyes with a self-conscious laugh. “Okay, fine, so maybe I did a little digging once I found out your name. Just to make sure you weren’t a sociopath. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo, still grinning.
She laughs again and reaches down to swat my leg under the table. “Stop. Stop looking so pleased with yourself. I’m not obsessed with you or anything. I’m just a naturally curious person.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, biting my lip as our waiter approaches with the first course. “We’re about to put that to the test, Ms. Sullivan.”
Our server sets the appetizers down, refills our water glasses, and leaves with a quick, “Bon appétit,” that reminds me why I love French restaurants. I’d much rather have a server who’s politely disinterested than one of those waiters who hover over you the entire meal, asking how everything’s tasting.
“What is that?” Sully asks, eyeing the small cast-iron dish between us with suspicion. “It smells amazing, but…”
“But?” I prompt after a moment, reaching for her appetizer plate.
“But I read the menu. I saw the appetizers,” she says, the uncertainty in her gaze increasing as I slide a slice of toasted bread and two steaming hot escargots onto her plate. “There was nothing that sounded like anything I’d want to put in my mouth.”
“You’ll like this. They’re drenched in butter, white wine, and garlic.”
She hums beneath her breath as she takes the plate from me and lifts it closer to her face, examining the shining brown lumps beside the bread. “Okay, but what are they?”
“Snails,” I say, suppressing a laugh at the gagging sound that bursts from her lips. I slide two onto my own plate and collect a slice of bread. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid,” she says, setting her plate down in front of her, but making no move to reach for her fork. “I’m disturbed. Confused.” She studies the plate for another beat before adding in a softer voice, “Vaguely repulsed.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, sliding a perfectly cooked snail onto my bread. “If you’ve eaten a mussel or an oyster, you can eat a snail. They all come out of a shell, and from a visual standpoint, oysters are far more repulsive.”
“Yes, but they’re also fifty cents apiece at happy hour at the Marina Point Grill on Thursdays,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “And they never crawled through the dirt in my garden.”
“Dirt isn’t inherently dirty.”
“Garden dirt is,” she counters. “Gramps adds cow dung to ours as fertilizer.”
“Well, as I said before, anything you don’t care for, I’m happy to put on my plate. But I didn’t take you for a coward.”
She bristles as she sits up straighter. “I’m not a coward. I’m just…confused by snails on a plate.”
“Better than a bunny on a plate,” I remind her. “No small, fluffy creatures were harmed in the making of our meal. And some might say working through one’s confusion is an act of bravery, Sully.”
“Ugh. Yuck. Fine. You’re right. I may be many things, but I’m not a coward.” She reaches for her fork, mimicking the way I’ve slid a single snail onto the edge of my bread. When it’s ready, she lifts it to hover in front of her mouth. “On three? We go for it at the same time?”
“Sure,” I say, humoring her though I’ve had snails enough times to know these are going to be incredible.
“One, two…” She pulls in a breath, letting it out in a rush as she adds, “Three.”
We both bite down into crusty grilled bread and plump, perfectly seasoned snails.
She chews, her expression still tight with uncertainty, but after only a beat or two, the tension fades from her features.
“Oh, wow,” she says, her mouth still full. She chews for another moment, moaning softly as her eyes slide closed. “Wow.” She swallows and brings her napkin from her lap to her lips, sitting quietly for a moment.
“Good?”
Her eyes open. “I think I just had a food-induced orgasm,” she whispers, making me smile. Again.
And not just smile, but laugh and assure her, “There’s more where that came from. I ordered all the best things. Now try the pastry with pears and Gorgonzola. Quick, before it gets cold.”
“Bossy, bossy,” she mutters, but I can tell she doesn’t mind. She’s already loading a slice of the pastry onto her plate and warning me as I reach for another snail, “Leave me at least one more of those.”
“I’ll leave you two,” I assure her before adding in a whisper loud enough for her to hear, “Now who’s bossy?”
She laughs, her eyes crinkling in a way that makes it impossible not to return her grin. “It’s me. I’m super bossy. All the time. If we’re going to be hanging out, you’ll have to get used to it, Mr. Fancy.”
Oh, I could get used to it, all right. I could get used to a lot of things about this beautiful, vibrant woman.
But I can’t let this ache get any more intense. She’s not a painting in a museum; she’s a human being, and they always let you down, sooner or later. At least, with Sully, however, I doubt the let-down would be intentional. She’s a good, honest person. If she disappoints me, it will be because she’s staying true to who she is, and you can’t blame another human being for that. Living in integrity is an admirable thing, even if one person’s version of integrity is very different than another’s.
We move on to our second course and our third, both of us growing increasingly drunk on good food and better company, no bottle of wine required. By the time I pay the bill and we step out onto the boardwalk outside the hotel to walk off our meal, I can’t resist reaching for her hand.
She casts a startled look my way, but after a beat, her fingers curl around mine. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Fancy.”
“You can call me Weaver.”
She seems to mull that over for a moment before she says, “Maybe I will. And maybe I’ll come over tomorrow night. I have dinner with Gramps tonight at the lodge, but…”
“You would be very welcome tomorrow night,” I say. “I’ll look for you as soon as it’s dark enough to sneak down to the dock.”
She nods. “I’ll be the one dressed all in black.”
“But wear nice panties this time,” I say, earning a glare from her.
“I don’t own any nice panties,” she shoots back. “I have cotton briefs. You’ll just have to make due with those and be glad that you get the chance to take them off of me.”
I tighten my grip on her fingers. “Oh, I will be. Very glad.”
I’ll be far more than “glad,” but I don’t tell her that. I just pull her against me in the shade of a beach shack that’s closed for the season and kiss her, devouring her sweet mouth until she’s moaning for me far louder than she moaned for the escargot.
Take that, snails.