On Second Thought(43)

     



 

His eyes flickered. "Good answer."

I suddenly got the strong impression Jonathan knew exactly what I was  talking about. "Let's change the subject. How did you meet your wife?"

He looked up, then back down at his roll. "We were childhood friends."

"Did you take her to the prom?"

"No," he said. I waited for more. More stayed put.

"Let's have a conversation, Jonathan. You did ask me to dinner,  remember? You wanted to make up for that debacle, which I correctly  predicted. Hate to say I told you so, but I did."

"True," he said. "I didn't quite imagine you trying to assault him, but I can't say he didn't deserve it, either."

"So let's pretend we're friends and talk."

"Sure." He took a sip of wine and said nothing.

Carl returned with our appetizers, and I slurped down an oyster, which  tasted perfectly of the sea and had a nice, buttery after-flavor. "Oh,  that was amazing." I sighed happily. Took a sip of wine. "Want one?" I  offered my boss.

He hesitated.

"Have you ever had one before?"

"No, actually."

"Oh, fun! Give it a try! Smell it first. It should smell like the ocean.  Then just slurp it in. You'll taste the brine, and then give it a few  chews. Don't make it into paste, though. Just let it ride."

He did as instructed. "What do you think?" I asked.

"Very good." He smiled.

That smile was... It was kind of...adorable.

That's the wine talking, I told myself. I ate the last oyster. "So you and your ex...you were childhood friends and then what?"

"We got married and had two daughters."

"That's really crappy storytelling. How about you fill in some blanks?"

He straightened his cutlery. "Yes. Well, we ran into each other again  after college and started dating and got married two years after that."

Still pretty crappy. "What's her name?"

"Laine."

"Were you happy together?"

"We were. For a time. I thought so, anyway." He sighed and looked at me. "Were you and Eric happy together?"

"You know what?" I said, leaning forward. Yep. Definitely a little buzzed. "We really were. We were so happy."

"Until...?"

"Until Nathan died. And then Eric snapped like a toothpick."

"What made you happy?" he asked. Once again, I had the impression that  he was data-gathering so he could report back to his home planet.

But that was just his way, maybe. I thought for a moment. "I loved every  day. I loved doing things together. I loved talking to him, and  just...being part of a couple. Showing him I loved him."

"How did you do that?"

"Oh, the usual, I guess. I left him little notes in his briefcase and  taped to his toothbrush. Cooked his favorite stuff. Made sure I told him  how nice he looked. Bought him little presents. I helped him at work a  little, you know, giving him suggestions of how to deal with difficult  bosses and stuff." I shrugged. "Nothing special."

He just looked at me for a beat. "It sounds very special."

I'd have to be careful with that voice. Just because he'd been blessed  with a lovely baritone didn't mean anything. It was the same voice that  irritably asked me not to ignore the toner light on the printer and  noted how many minutes late I was.

But man, it was a good voice.

We looked at each other for a long second. Then Carl appeared and set  down our plates in front of us, and my lobster risotto smelled the way I  hoped heaven would when I crossed through the Pearly Gates. "Oh, thank  you, Carl." I took a bite and groaned. "You were right. So good! Thank  you, thank you, thank you!"

Carl beamed and put Jonathan's chicken in front of him. "Would miss or sir like anything else?"

"No, we're perfect," I said. "But I love how you call me miss."

Carl nodded and went off to his other (less charming) customers. I was sure he missed me.

"There you are, making friends again," Jonathan remarked, refilling my  wineglass. "The carriage driver, the people in Divorce With Integrity."

"You need a new name, by the way. Whoever thought of DWI?" His mouth  moved in what may or may not have been a smile. Score. "Yes, I guess I  do. I like people."

"I can see that."

"Is that a plus or minus in my column?"

Another near miss with the smile. "I'm still deciding."

If I hadn't almost beaten my ex to a pulp tonight, if I hadn't had a  glass of wine in me on top of a straight-up martini, I might have  thought Jonathan Kent sort of...liked me.         

     



 

Or pitied me. Shit, there was that, wasn't there? This was his apology dinner, after all.

"So what happened to you and Laine?" I asked, deciding I hated that name. Too snooty.

His eyes dropped to his meal. "My father had a massive stroke, and I  took over running the magazine. I worked a lot. He needed a lot of help,  ah, transitioning. The children were small, and it was difficult for  her."

"That's it?" There seemed to be a good chunk missing from the story.

"Pretty much."

"She couldn't cut you a little slack? Your father was sick, you were  trying to earn a living and she dumped you. That's pretty cold."

"I dumped her," he said, cutting his green beans.

I blinked. He always had a slightly martyred air; I just assumed he was the dumpee.

"Why?" I asked.

He didn't answer, just kept cutting those green beans into one-inch pieces, eating steadily.

Oh.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"About what?" Still no eye contact.

"She cheated on you."

He stopped chewing for a second, then swallowed. Took a sip of wine. "Yes."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"No, thank you."

I put down my fork. And then, maybe because of the wine, maybe because  he took me for a carriage ride like any good Prince Charming, I reached  out and gave his hand a squeeze.

He looked at our joined hands-human contact, how curious-then up at me. "Would you like to tell me more about Eric?" he asked.

There it was, the little flash of gold in his left iris. "I would," I  said taking my hand back, and I felt myself smiling. Why, I wasn't sure.  Wine. Stress relief. Suddenly, our conversation in the Algonquin, all  of us looking like Blue Man Group rejects, seemed funny. "He's become a  grade-A dick, hasn't he? But honestly, Jon, he wasn't always like that.  He used to...I don't know...need me."

I took a bite of risotto and thought. Jonathan waited.

"And I loved that. Then when he got sick and he was so scared, I just  kind of...stepped it up. Took care of his appointments, his medications,  went to the doctor's office with him-"

"Yes, I know," Jonathan said. "You still have minus fourteen days of vacation."

"Thanks for reminding me, boss." I pushed my excellent risotto away. A  place like this would have boffo desserts, and I wanted to save room.  "When Eric had cancer, I was completely...necessary."

"I would imagine you were completely necessary well before then."

As was so often true, his formal language kept a distance between the words and the sentiment. I thought it was a compliment.

I thought it was a very, very good compliment.

Jonathan looked steadily at me, not blinking, the impeccable suit, the  muted tie. One hand was on his wineglass, his long fingers graceful on  the stem.

Suddenly, I could feel my heart beating. My skin seemed to tighten at the same time my bones grew hot.

Jonathan Kent was smiling at me. Just a little. Just enough.

"Did you read the piece on the pumpkin farm?" I blurted. "That's pretty interesting, right? All those...pumpkins."

"Yes."

"Was it okay? The piece?"

"It was fine. Very good. I liked the bit about the dogs. That was your addition, wasn't it?"

I nodded.

"You're not as bad at your job as you pretend to be, Ainsley." He was  still looking at me. His voice seemed to creep under my dress and caress  my skin.

Clearly, two glasses of wine on top of a martini was way, way too much  for me. He hadn't said a single thing that was even in the same  neighborhood as flirty or dirty, and I...I was just overly emotional  tonight.

"Would miss or sir like dessert?" Carl asked.

"No, thanks," I blurted. "I need to get home."





Chapter Eighteen

Kate

On Friday, I went to my parents' house for a family dinner. Ainsley had  to be in the city for work, which may or may not have been coincidental.  My mother often held family dinners when Ainsley was out of town. Every  summer, when Ainsley and Eric were off on vacation with the Fishers,  Mom held a neighborhood picnic, too.

I wondered if Nathan and Madeleine had ever gone on vacation with his parents. I'd never asked.

I hadn't read those emails yet, either. I just couldn't, and now the thought of them sat in my mind like a tumor.

Being with my family would be a good distraction.

My parents' house had been redecorated since the last time I was over,  before Nathan died. Everything was now white, save for the abused "pop  of color" notion that embodied itself in orange throw pillows-three in a  line on the couch, one on each white chair.