Chapter 33 Leather in the Rain
Leather in the Rain
Sandy went walking. She wandered for a good two hours before finally reaching her apartment.
So much on her mind, so much regret.
Pushing open the door, she kicked off her heels. Nicolo came rushing down the hall and weaved between her legs. “Che notte.” What a night.
She poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the dining room table. Her stray curled up below, his head on her foot. After a while, she dialed Jack’s phone, listened to his greeting, then said, “Guess the cat’s out of the bag now. Does it change anything? I don’t know.”
The hole in her heart swelled.
She fell silent. Only when the phone beeped did she realize she was still leaving a message.
She hung up and dialed again. “Sorry, I was drifting off. So here I am, Jack. I don’t know what to do. You’re gone and not coming back. What do I do without you? I don’t like being alone. I don’t. Like. Being. Alone.”
A sigh escaped her. She ended the call and let her head fall. As she collapsed onto the table, all the loneliness she’d ever known pecked at her, making it worse than ever.
She withdrew the coral from her pocket and ran her thumb over it.
Despite a difficult childhood, Jack had always loved Florida and had carried this piece of coral in his pocket during deployments to remind him of what he was fighting for.
After his death, the army had shipped her an envelope holding his wallet, his dog tags, and the coral. She’d kept it near ever since.
Though the coral often brought her comfort, tonight it only made things worse. What a terror to be human, to want connection so desperately but to be so vulnerable because of it. It wasn’t that she’d lost Jack eight years ago; she lost him every second of every day, over and over again.
Was it any wonder she didn’t want to endure more loss?
Nicolo stared up at her, and she said, “I know you’re enough. It’s that I . . . Maybe you’re not. I don’t know. Maybe you’re not enough. Sorry, close your ears.”
Leaving the coral on the place mat, she retreated to her bedroom to fade away. After a sleepless hour of stewing in a cauldron of loneliness, she took a shower, then tried to sleep again.
Nothing. Eyes wide open, her mind on fire.
Nicolo kept his distance, clearly insulted by what she’d said earlier.
Not even a book—not even Diana Gabaldon—could take her away from the emptiness inside.
Who the hell wanted to read about love that they themselves would never experience?
As far as Sandy was concerned, the only banned books should be romance!
That’s the dumb shit you think about when you’re exhausted.
In fact, another sleepless hour and she was going to host a book burning right outside the store.
She’d burn every love story left in the store—even if it was a side plot—but she’d start with the one that’d caused all the trouble in the first place, the book that had instilled hopeless romantic dreams for more than two centuries: Pride and Prejudice.
How sweet it would be to watch those pages burn.
Enjoying the end of all hope for Mr. Darcy and for love itself.
Sandy went to the window and looked down on the street, and as stupid as it was, she wondered whether George was up. Knowing him, he’d have already left for the airport to be three hours early. She let go of the blinds and returned to bed.
Eventually she grabbed her phone, put on her readers, and googled his name, George Briggs. There he was on LinkedIn.
He was too old, too organized. And he lived in Arizona. She wasn’t going back to the States. “No offense, US,” she whispered out loud. “You’re fine and all, but you’ve got nothing on Bologna.”
Still, she couldn’t let him leave without a proper goodbye.
He’d been good to her. The least she could do was show up for him and say that it had been nice, them talking and getting to know each other.
He was funny. Terrible shoes, but he was one of the few on earth who could make her laugh. Great hair too.
While she was at it, she had to admit that his love for his daughter, though clumsy at times, was the same kind of love she’d always felt for Jack, even now, eight years after her son had left this earth.
Sandy dressed and descended the steps. She decided she wasn’t going to do some stupid Nick Hornby–novel thing, where she chased George to the airport. He’d either be there or he wouldn’t. Note to self: Burn all the Nick Hornbys tomorrow!
Via Giulia was dead quiet at 3:15 a.m. Even the Italians had closed down their celebrations for the night. A street cat dashed into an alley. A mourning dove was perched on a wire waiting for the sun to peek through the buildings.
A lone taxi passed by, stopping in front of Bianca’s place a block down.
Sandy’s heart felt strange, the way it seemed to come to life. Then she saw him, dragging a bag over the hump of the doorway.
“George,” she called out.
He didn’t hear her.
Damn him, he was going to make her run, and that’s what she did.
If that wasn’t a sign for something.
Sandy was not one to run. Not even if she was caught in suede in the rain.
Sandy Cooke ran for no one.
But she was running for George and calling out his name as the taxi driver popped the trunk and climbed out.
George was slinging his bag into the back when he finally heard her. “Sandy? What are you doing?”
“I’ve no idea,” she said, their proximity driving her mad. “Couldn’t sleep. Nice cool night too.” She had to say more. She wasn’t here to comment about the stupid weather. She kept approaching, and she wasn’t sure whether she could tolerate another handshake or cheeky hug.
Sandy stopped three feet from him, this man who’d invaded her heart.
What was she to do now? She looked at the taxi driver and said, “Potestri aspettare in macchina, per favore? Ho una queastione in sospeso con quest’uomo.
” Will you please wait in the car? I have some unfinished business with this man.
He gave a nod and retreated to his seat, shutting the door.
Back to George, she said, “You kept me up all night.”
“Why’s that?”
She looked into his eyes. “Dammit, why are you doing this to me?”
Poor George looked at her like he’d done something wrong. “Doing what?”
Ripping the words from her throat, she said, “For some God-knows-what reason, I don’t want you to leave, and I think I’m sad about it.”
He gave his handsome laugh. “Ah.”
It wasn’t only his laugh. Something she’d said seemed to wake him, his face gathering color, his eyes widening.
Sandy moved closer, wanting to take his hand but terrified.
“I don’t want you to go. There. I said it.
And it’s your fault, all of it. I tried to stay out of the way, but I’m sad about you leaving.
And yesterday. Last night when we said goodbye.
All I could think about was how I couldn’t lose you.
There was no way I could lose you, not see you again.
Not see those stupid white tennis shoes and even stupider pink tools and your great hair.
I hate the idea of you not being around to make your silly jokes, always trying to make me smile. ”
George ran a hand through his hair, probably frustrated with her—or soaking up her “great hair” flattery.
She wasn’t done. “Okay, fine, I surrender. I want more from you than just being friends, and I have no idea how it would ever work, but I’d like to try.
I want to try.” Something else occurred to her.
“I’m sorry I lied about my son, by the way.
I won’t lie to you again; it was this thing I kept doing, pretending, holding back the pain, burying it away. ”
He nodded. “I understand.”
She raised a finger. “For the record, I’ve tried to spare you from me, but it seems you’re dumber than you look and maybe I am, too, and . . . Ugh, I’ve never talked so much in my life. Do you hear what I’m trying to—”
The taxi driver reached a hand out the window. “Andiamo!”
“Are you kidding me? Puoi aspettare.” You can wait. She said a few less ladylike words too.
“I do have a plane to catch,” George said sheepishly.
Her mouth fell open, wide enough to fit the whole damn collection from the Library of Congress. “I spill my guts and that’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want, Sandy? I tried. You can’t throw all this at me in the final hour.”
“The final hour? What are you, dying? Don’t be so dramatic. There are always more planes. Every day there are planes.”
Doing something that Sandy Cooke didn’t do, she reached for his hand and said, “I like you, George. And I don’t want you to leave.”
“I live in Arizona.”
“Which is dumb. You don’t belong there.”
“What else do you want me to do?”
“What do you think? Move to Italy.”
“Are you kidding? I can’t move to Italy.”
“What else do you have to do?”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Okay, fine. Then how about you come upstairs? Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a brothel. I’m saying come up to my place so we can talk about it. Get a flight tomorrow. Or the next day. But give me a morning to work through whatever the hell has brought us to this moment.”
He laughed. “You’re a mess.”
“Got that right. But you do something to me, George, and I don’t want you to stop doing it.
You hear me?” She squeezed his hand tighter.
“You’ve broken through and now I’m all yours.
I want to give us a shot, and I don’t give a shit if you’re living on a golf course in a state with such high temperatures that it cooks people in the summer, while I’m over here in paradise.
We’ll figure that out. For now, let the taxi go, and let’s drink a cup of coffee, because I’m tired and you don’t look too perky yourself. ”
George glanced back at the door to Bianca’s apartment, then at the cab and Sandy.
“That’s all I got, George. I wouldn’t blame you if you climb into that taxi and run from all that’s me, but what I hope you do is close the trunk and come upstairs for a coffee. I don’t do Nespresso. I make the real thing. You’ll never have another one like it.”
George held eye contact for a while and then turned back to the car. He lifted his bag out of the trunk. Sandy’s heart grew wings. That’s what she got for opening herself back up to love.
George set his bag down, slipped his arm around her.
“Good choice,” she whispered, moving closer to him, inches away.
“It better be great coffee,” he whispered, their eyes drawing each other in.
She pressed a grin into his lips. “The best you’ve ever had.” They kissed warmly, deeply, without any holding back.
The driver yelled through the window, “Andiamo!”
“Lui sta con me!” He’s staying here with me!
In the elevator, she said, “No one’s been up here, other than the plumber and electrician, since Jack.”
George was still tasting that kiss, thinking about how long he’d wanted it. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about how there was promise of many more of those. Maybe he had done something right along the way.
“Nicolo will probably try to kill you,” she said, as she jiggled the keys in the lock.
“Nicolo? You have some sort of Russian bodyguard up here?”
“He’s my cat, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right.”
She led him in, and the cat came running.
“Hey, Nicolo,” George said. He’d never been much of an animal person but ran his fingers through his fur and made short conversation. The cat kept swerving around and coming back for more.
“How about that?” Sandy said.
“He’s got good taste in men,” he said.
She took his hand to show him around. The place was as classy as she was. Remarkably clean. Wonderful art. Sharp furniture. A stack of jazz records in vinyl next to a pair of large speakers in the living room.
They stood on the rug, and she folded into him. “About that coffee.”
George tasted her again, wondering where any of this was going to go. The morning. The day. Tomorrow. The next.
“Sugar and cream,” he said, feeling his nether regions come alive.
“You drink it black here.”
“Fair enough.”
He ran his fingers up her sides, then went in for another kiss, and maybe it was him, but the lights flickered and the walls shook.
An hour later, someone rang the bell.
“Si?” Sandy said into the intercom.
“It’s Bianca. Can I please come up?”
Sandy looked back down the hall. George was in the shower. “Um, yeah, okay.” Somehow his daughter knew where he’d ended up. Had he texted her?
Sandy opened the door to find Bianca standing in a near fighter’s stance. “Can I say something to you?” she asked Sandy.
“Yeah.”
“You just let a great man leave this city without you. You let a great man walk out when you know damn well he loved you. When you know you’ll never find another like him.”
Sandy started to reply, but Bianca didn’t let her.
“You’re a cliché, a classic wall builder, who lets the good things pass you by because you’re too afraid to open yourself up to them.
And I’m sorry about your son. I can’t imagine, but the idea that you refuse to let love into your heart ever again, it’s moronic.
You push Moira around like she’s nothing.
Same with everyone in your life. And yet people still try with you.
George tried, and he would have been the best thing that ever happened to you. ”
Sandy attempted to interrupt, but—
“He might not be perfect, but who is? What I can tell you is that he’s loyal and sweet and loves harder than he can handle; that’s why he messes up sometimes.
But let’s be honest, there’s nothing perfect about you.
I guess I’m here to say that you messed up, and you better know it.
He’s such a good man, a great father, a—”
“B?” came George’s voice from over Sandy’s shoulder.
The two women turned to find George standing in a towel, his hair soaking wet.
“Dad?” Bianca looked to him, then to Sandy.
“I was trying to say,” Sandy started. “I didn’t let him leave.”
Bianca pointed at her dad, then Sandy, then back. “Wait? You two?”
“She was pretty convincing,” George said.
“What about your flight?”
“There’ll be more planes. Sandy’s asked me to hang around a few days. Figure us out.”
Bianca turned to Sandy again. “Well, this is awkward. Can I take back everything I said? Actually, not everything. As a textbook wall builder—and it takes one to know one—you better get to work deconstructing.”
“Fair enough. May I say that I very much appreciate a gal who looks out for her dad?”
“Yeah, well, he’s a good one.”
Sandy reached out to him, and George joined her. “Yes, he is,” she said.