Chapter Ten
“Add two tablespoons of the Dijon and two of olive oil. Two of each, okay?”
I nodded. “Bossy, much?”
She side-eyed me. “Next, whisk them together before adding a dash of pepper and some red pepper flakes. Got this? Whisk again.”
Frances gave me step-by-step instructions, with me in her profile as she seasoned the filets with a dry rub. “Got it, coach,” I said with a fist in the air.
We’d settled on steaks and some mustardy potato recipe, which was what I was currently working on, and a salad with warm, fresh pita. The last item because Frances was practically orgasming over the bakery counter.
“It’s summer, and I didn’t barbeque yesterday,” Frances had stated in the small grocery store near her apartment. “We should grill,” she’d mumbled to herself.
We gotten grass-fed beef and the ingredients for a side, and then we went to grab a baguette. That was when a moan of epic proportions had escaped her mouth.
“Warm pita, mmmm. My favorite. Do you care if we skip the baguette?”
“Frances, even if you weren’t looking at me with your big green eyes full of desire and want—just to clarify, for the bread, not me—I’d say yes after hearing you moan like that. I’d say yes to anything…even you pulling my toenails off.”
She’d laughed and promptly turned and asked for four pitas, explaining she’d freeze any leftovers. “It’s the water,” she’d said.
“I’m quite aware. New York water makes the best bagels, pizza, and apparently pita.”
Frances dragged me back to the current moment. “Okay, toss that over the potatoes and pop the baking sheet in the oven.”
I needed to remember this was a friendly night, not a lifetime commitment. Although it felt as seamless as one could be. The shopping, joking, cooking side by side…I’d never done that with anyone so easily.
“I’m going to go grill,” Frances declared.
“I’m actually qualified to do that… We had a grill in college. The team used to grill out every weekend.” It was an easier time, less pressure and even more limited reality. I’d been thinking about it a lot and how I should have embraced it more.
“I’d rather do it than be subjected to the neighbors’ questioning later. They watch everything.”
Off she went to grill the steaks on the common deck in the back of the building, and I was left to tend to the side dish and stare at the looming picture of her Paps. He was a good-looking man, despite his age in the photo. I could tell he had blond hair when he’d been younger and eyes the same shade as Frances. Deep green orbs that my grandmother supposedly loved at one point.
He wore a taupe suit complementing the pale pink sheath Frances chose for the event. Her eyes sparkled with excitement in the picture, a champagne glass in one hand and her Paps holding a tumbler of brown liquid.
I wondered who her husband was; there wasn’t another name on the address when I’d googled her. My heart ached for Frances in a way I didn’t know possible, and my head argued with me to turn the oven off and get out. But I couldn’t. Problem was, I’d eventually hurt Frances too—because there was no positive ending in sight. We’d figure out the sordid details of our grandparents, all signs pointing to us falling for one another, and then I’d have to end it.
Yet I wanted to use my kickboxing moves and more on her ex-husband. What kind of asshole didn’t want a child he took part in creating?
Oh right, someone like my own mother.
Which was why this whole scenario was even worse news for me. And why, despite the fun nature of college and being on the football team, I’d never been able to fully immerse myself in it. Because of her.
I sipped the chilled wine, allowing the alcohol to tickle my throat and dull some of my emotions. Except it didn’t work—I wanted to ransack the place and look for evidence of the ex and go find and hurt him. It was irrational but it was happening.
Luckily, Frances showed back up with the steaks, and stated, “I’m going to let them sit for a few minutes while I whip up a salad. Can you check the potatoes? They’re tiny suckers so they should be softening.”
I was grateful for the small task but had to ask, “Um, how do I do that?”
There she went again with the type of laugh her whole body participated in, her neck falling back, exposing her smooth throat. I loved the blouse she wore; I wanted to rip it open and watch the buttons scatter all over the floor before running my tongue over her neck, down to her cleavage, nipping my way up, careful not to leave marks.
“You put a fork in one and see if it’s tender.” She said it before turning around and grabbing a container of spinach, her bun plopping to the side.
I did as she told me to do, and exclaimed, “Tender!” I didn’t add that I was the opposite of soft, my hardened heart doing things it didn’t ever do, and other parts of my body responding in very firm ways.
Another giggle from Frances as she tossed some spinach and cranberries and artichokes had my pulse flaring. She whisked—her word, not mine—a quickie dressing and tossed it all together.
Plating the steaks and salad, she instructed me to get the taters—also her word. And being the dog with a bone, I did what I was told.
“Wanna eat on the sun porch? We can take our plates and wine out. I have two stools out there,” she said, somewhat hesitantly.
We carried all of our stuff out and I was looking forward to digging in.
Clearly, I had an affinity for good food thanks to Milly.
Then, not one bit shy or hesitant, she asked, “Tell me, what had you so deep in thought when I came back with the steaks?”
“There she is…my tiny sleuth.”
“Come on, fess up,” she said, sticking a potato in her mouth.
“The grilling had me thinking about the team, and that led to a dark time when I wished my mom would come to a game. I was the kicker—as you know—and I always hoped it would impress her. That’s all. It didn’t.”
“I’m sure that hurt.” Frances stopped eating and set her hand on mine. “I don’t know how she didn’t want to be at everything. I would have.”
I nodded, saying, “I know,” and ending this conversation. It was meant to be a fun night, and it was turning into one sad story after another. “Enough of my sob story,” I stated. “Tell me what you did to ring in the Fourth?” I wondered if she’d worked, knowing it could be a big day for retail.
“Ring, not exactly. I had a quiet day, reading and relaxing. I make my own schedule and most of my clientele was either traveling or in the Hamptons this week.”
I found myself admiring what a hard worker she was. Many people thought I’d been handed a golden egg with Silky. But they didn’t know how difficult it had been to take over my family business. My dad not quite believing in me and the pressure to succeed were quite the cocktail to choke down.
“So what did you do yesterday, ride around on a private yacht, drinking champagne?”
I chuckled. Secretly, I loved the way she ribbed me. “No private yacht. Not my thing, especially on holidays. I’m pretty much a ‘golf and head home’ kind of guy on these types of days.”
“What about the Hamptons?” she asked and took a small bite of steak. Another thing I found myself liking about Frances—she ate.
“I have a place, but I don’t use it much. My aunt Susie spends a lot of time in the area, and I try to avoid her.”
“Do you rent your place?”
I shook my head and had a gulp of wine.
“But you don’t use it?”
“When I want, I do.”
“Well, nice that you can just use it when you want and not have to rent it to make it all work from a numbers standpoint.”
I noticed she was sensitive to money, likely from her settlement and bearing the weight of what it meant to have money from that angle. I didn’t give a shit… I found myself tumbling fast for Frances.
I nodded, unable to come up with a good explanation from a numbers standpoint, other than I didn’t need the money. All the while, I kept thinking the small square footage of a balcony Frances had been left in her settlement was the answer to my problem. A sliver of public space and a healthy dose of fresh air was good for me when it came to falling for the woman next to me. I also made a note never to have her over to my place (again) because this evening was going to end with my having this beautiful creature after dinner if I didn’t get my shit together. And I didn’t do dessert.
The thing was, best-laid plans were never easy to execute, which was how I found myself the very next day, back in my study with Frances, with two coffees on the table, reading the remainder of the Milly letters.
At least I’d left my relationship with Frances firmly in the friend zone. The night before, I’d said good night after helping with the dishes, making up some excuse about an overseas zoom to Israel where they work on a Sunday. It happened occasionally for me, so not the end of the world, to tell a tiny white lie—right?
My Dearest James,
Thank you for the roses mixed with lilies. When I woke up and saw the bouquet of red and magenta in my window, all I could think about was you and when I could see you next. My heart pattered and beat a frenzy just thinking about you. Of course, I had to hide the beautiful arrangement in my closet, but I’m going to bring it out later to admire. And smell. I adore lilies, peaceful and energetic in their nature, and they smell best at night. Did you know that?
My mind went wild thinking about our company’s original scent—Rose’s Lily was its name. We’d always been in the skin care business, but my dad started the scent line around the time I was five. He’d been to a conference—I remember because it was the one time my mom stayed with me—and came back full of excitement over perfumes. He’d even brought my mom back some samples.
“What is it?” Frances sat across from me, reading a book, peering over the edge. She wanted to be there for support, but mostly she was here for any tidbits she could draw out of me.
“Silky’s first scent was called Rose’s Lily. I always thought it was a play on Milly’s name, a tribute from my dad. But this makes it feel differently to me. Milly found herself involved in the business after my grandpa died. Well, she made sure she was, and this was her collaboration with my dad.”
Frances nodded, a strange look across her face. “I wasn’t sure if there was a connection, but I’ve seen older bottles of it. My Paps used to buy it for my grandma, which sounds atrocious but I guess it was his way of being close to Milly.”
I nodded, not wanting to discuss how awkward that made it all sound. I read on, ignoring the woman possessing my mind. She still had a distant look on her face, but I chalked it up to the weirdness swirling the room.
My parents are being extra watchful after seeing us on the park bench.
I explained we are friends from the store, but they don’t believe in girls and boys being friends, especially ones of different religions.
My Dearest James, I’ve explained to you that when I am ready to get married, I will go on meetings with a chaperone and my suitor. It seems outdated, but it is our way.
Although it’s been like a dream to think about you being the suitor for a brief moment while we sat on the bench. Our five children running around our house, your customs and mine mixing and blending, our love and adoration carrying on forever.
For five minutes, we were in love in the open, for everyone to witness what true, true, true love is like. When two people love one another for their deep souls and beautiful personalities. That is me and you. Until we were spotted.
My dad said none of it is possible and that broke my heart.
I miss you, my Jimmy, and I will see you soon. Even if it’s to say goodbye.
“I don’t think I want to read the final letter. This was enough,” I said, setting the next-to-last letter down on the coffee table.
“It’s mostly more regrets and goodbyes.”
“Too sad,” I muttered.
She nodded but didn’t move to my side of the room.
Her hair was down, smooth and glossy, but she wore her jean shorts and black tank top, a bunch of necklaces twisted around her neck. I liked the casual side of Frances.
“They definitely had a thing,” I stated.
“Do you think your dad knew?”
“No. He and Milly were not fans of one another. They mostly fought. No way he wouldn’t have dragged this in if he knew.”
“I’m sorry.” With those two words, she was on the move, coming close, her hand touching my arm.
“I’m not saying he didn’t feel the effects of it. Maybe Milly resented him. I don’t know. But he sought love from places he shouldn’t. Like my mom. He became consumed with his love for her.”
With the tips of Frances’s fingers singeing my forearm, she spoke. “That’s why you don’t believe in love? Because your dad believed in it too much?”
Running my free hand through my hair, I took a deep breath. “She was the only person my dad loved. Samantha, that’s my mom. Sami to my dad. Sure, my dad loved me, but not in a deep, soul-shattering way.”
I watched Frances slide her hand down my thigh. It felt weirdly platonic and sensual at the same time; I needed space, and to be closer to Frances.
I was losing it, yet I kept going on with my emotional vomit.
“What I mean is my dad didn’t care for me in the ‘I would go to the ends of the earth for my kid’ way. He did go to the end of the universe for my mom. Several times—looking for her when she disappeared once, then twice. First time, she was in Barcelona. After that, she wasn’t as easy to find. She’d pop back up and go again.”
“I can’t imagine,” Frances said, her voice raw and raspy with emotion.
“I knew you couldn’t from just the way you spoke about your pregnancy.”
A tear fell from her eye, and she waved her hand, signaling me to not bring up the subject.
My leg felt the absence of her palm and my heart broke at her not wanting to discuss what a wonderful mother she would have been.
“Milly was left to take care of me, and she adored me. She gave me the unconditional warmth kids crave, but I never saw her act that way with my dad. Maybe she never did. He looked for the feeling with my mom, and she couldn’t give it to anyone but herself.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that. You could love and be loved.”
Turning to face Frances, I stared at her for a beat or two. “No, I can’t. But that’s what is frightening about you. You make me think I can care for someone like that. You may be small, Feisty Frankie, but you are brave and hopeful and full of passion and optimism. It’s a cocktail I want to get drunk on.”
“I’m not…optimistic,” she countered.
My fingers grazed her cheek. “So beautiful,” I whispered. “I’m going to be honest. I don’t fucking know what I’m doing right now. I can’t—won’t—spend my life chasing something that doesn’t exist for me. Yet here you are, and you make me feel like it does. It’s your optimism, raining over me. No one chases down their grandfather’s love story if they’re not a believer in all things positive. That’s you, Frances.”
Her hand came to my thigh again and I wished I wasn’t in track pants. Shorts, boxers, anything where there could have been skin-to-skin contact would have proven better.
“I’m not—” she started to argue.
I interrupted. “I’m going to kiss you, and then we are going to brunch. Because if we don’t…I’m going to say something brutally honest here…I’m going to fuck you. Hard and fast and furiously.”
My hand guided her face toward mine and our mouths crashed as violently as I wanted to be inside her. Last time, our kiss might have been gentle. This wasn’t. Twenty-four hours of want and need were bound in one long-ass meeting of the mouths. We didn’t break for air to slow the pace. We went at it, gasping all the way. My tongue slid in her mouth, hers meeting mine. I couldn’t get enough of her taste—minty and tainted with the hope I saw in her eyes. I wanted to swallow the feeling and all that was Frances.
For five, ten, fifteen minutes maximum, I wasn’t jaded-and-cynical Mack, but a believer in peace, love, and destiny.
“I’m not going to break if you fuck me.” That was what she broke free to say…
“Don’t ever, ever say fuck again near me.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Because I’m trying to do the right thing, and hearing that kind of language from your Smurfette mouth does things to me.”
She broke out into laughter. “Smurfette…that’s funny,” she said in between giggles.
“Come on,” I said, standing, hoping my dick realized it wasn’t getting involved with the blondie.
She took my hand, smoothing her tank with her free fingers.
“Brunch or bust.” I had to get out of here.