Miracle On 5th Avenue Page 20

The first time he’d asked her to do that she’d been embarrassed. She knew nothing about wine, and wasn’t about to try to bullshit her way past an expert.

  “I like it. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Why do you like it?”

  “Because it tastes good and makes me want to finish the whole bottle.” She smiled over the rim of her glass. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t get any more technical than that. How did you learn about wine?”

  “From my father.” He topped off his own glass. “It’s his hobby. Growing up, we used to tour vineyards in California, New Zealand and France.”

  Between his upbringing and his book tours, he was well traveled.

  “I’ve only ever been to Europe once. I spent a month working in a kitchen in Paris.” She took another sip of the wine. “You’ve been everywhere.”

  “Not everywhere, and even when I travel I don’t see much of the places I stay. If it’s a book tour then invariably all I see is the airport, the inside of a hotel and a bookstore, before moving on to the next place. Tell me more about Paris. What did you love about it?”

  “So many things. The bread, the passion for cooking, the quality of ingredients.”

  She was flattered by his interest in her. She’d been on dates with men who seemed to want only to talk about themselves. Lucas asked questions and paid attention to the answers.

  He was a generous listener and she found herself telling him about her upbringing, and small details about her grandmother that she hadn’t shared with anyone else.

  “Puffin Island is small, so our house was always full of people. After Gramps died, we didn’t have to cook for about six months. There was always a casserole on the doorstep. And Grams loved that. She worried that it was just the two of us and she wanted to make sure there were plenty of people in my life, so she used to cook constantly and invite people over to sample what she’d produced.”

  They moved away from the subject but a few nights later he raised it again.

  “Why did you leave Puffin Island?”

  “I went to college.” She added a tiny drop of truffle oil to the pasta she was making. “Grams decided it was time for her to make a change, too.”

  “That was brave of her.”

  “She was an amazing woman. She always looked forward, not backward, and she never doubted that she could do something. She moved to New York City after living on a rural island in Maine, and she made it her home.”

  “Having been an English professor she must have enjoyed the access to culture.”

  “She did. And for the first few years she had a small apartment on the Upper West Side. Being close to Central Park was her way of keeping green space in her life. We used to take picnics to the park. I loved feeding the ducks.”

  “Did she miss the island?”

  “I don’t think so.” Eva served the pasta and put the plates on the table. “She thought it was marvelous to be able to listen to outdoor concerts in the summer, and to be able to buy any ingredients she wanted and not rely on the one store on the island to have it in stock.”

  “Did you miss it?”

  “No.” She sat down opposite him. “I loved the island, but New York City was like paradise for me. The day I discovered Bloomingdale’s was the day I knew I was home. That, and the shoe floor of Saks Fifth Avenue. It’s big enough to earn its own zip code. There’s even an express elevator that takes you straight there.”

  “Straight to heaven?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Your grandmother sounds like an extraordinary person. It’s no wonder you had a special bond.”

  “She was my everything,” Eva said. “My whole world. She was the type of person who tried always to focus on what was right in her life, not what was wrong. If I looked out of the window and said ‘it’s raining, Grams’ she’d say it would be good for the plants, or that we’d be able to go out and have fun splashing in puddles. We were snowed in for half the winter once, like the rest of the island, but she never complained. She said it was the perfect weather to cozy up in the kitchen and cook. She was so—sunny.”

  “She passed that on to you.”

  “I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure.” She poked at her food. “Since she died, I feel more like a raincloud than sunshine. She was the most important person in the world to me and I don’t think I’m adjusting very well to being without her—” She blinked, automatically hauling her feelings back inside. “Sorry. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Do you want to talk about something else?”

  No. She wanted to talk about her grandmother. She wanted to talk about her feelings. “I don’t want to moan on about my problems.”

  “Because that’s what your grandmother taught you?” He studied her thoughtfully. “You’re allowed to feel down, Eva. And you’re allowed to talk about feeling down.”

  “I think part of me is afraid that if I start, I won’t stop. My friends have been so good, listening to me and hugging me when I’m upset, but I know I need to sort myself out.”

  “You were the one who told me there was no time frame to adjusting to loss.”

  “I feel as if I’m letting Grams down. I’m trying really hard to be the way she taught me to be, but it’s hard.”

  “Could it ever be anything else? After Sallyanne died I read a lot about the theory of grief, but grief is personal and in practice all you can do is keep going, day after day, and hope it gets better.”

  “What do you miss most about her?”

  “Sallyanne?” He put his fork down. “I don’t know. Probably her irreverent sense of humor. What do you miss most about your grandmother?”

  “The feeling of being wrapped in love. The sense of security that came from knowing she loved me no matter what. Since I lost her, I feel as if I’m lying in a big cold bed and someone has ripped the covers from me. And then there are the hundreds of small things I miss. Like calling her to tell her my news, and hearing her tell me what’s been happening in the assisted living community she was in—the latest funny thing that Tom said, or how Doris left her teeth in a cup and scared the mailman. I used to go to their Christmas party. I miss that.” She reached for her wine and gave Lucas an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Self-indulgent rant over.”

  “Don’t apologize. And for the record, I don’t think you’re self-indulgent. Far from it.” He helped himself to more food. “From what you’ve told me, I think you’ve been keeping too much of it to yourself. You should talk. It’s important.”

  “You don’t talk.”

  “I write. That’s my way of relieving tension.”

  “You kill characters?”

  “That, too.” He gave a soft laugh and she laughed, too.

  She realized she felt better than she had in ages. “Thank you for listening. It’s easy to talk to you, perhaps because you’ve lost someone, too. You know how it feels. You understand.”

  It was something else that connected them, another layer of intimacy deepening what they already had.

  She’d given up trying not to want him. She wanted him desperately. She wanted him to take her to bed and make love to her the way he had the night of the ball, but no matter how late they talked into the night, no matter how personal the conversation got, he didn’t touch her again. And she tried desperately not to touch him.

  Once, she’d touched him by accident while handing him a plate and she’d pulled back so sharply the plate had almost landed on the floor. He’d caught it one-handed and the brief flame in his eyes had told her he was not only aware of her struggle, but he was experiencing it, too. But even though the sexual tension simmered hotter than anything she cooked up in his kitchen, he did nothing about it.

  And neither did she.

  She told herself that he was being sensible, but still there was a dull ache of disappointment that things couldn’t be different and a sharp edge of longing. Her nights were disturbed by sweaty, erotic dreams, the images from which she found it h
ard to erase in the light of day.

  She tried to lure her mind away from thoughts of sex. “How is the book going?”

  “It’s going well, thanks.” He poured more wine. “I wrote another ten thousand words today. Enough to make me think this book might actually be finished on time.”

  “As I’m in it, are you going to let me read it?”

  He reached for his glass. “You don’t read crime fiction.”

  “I’ve never played a starring role before.”

  “I never let anyone read my work until it’s finished.”

  She felt a stab of disappointment. “All right. But I expect a signed copy.”

  “Even if there’s blood on the cover?”

  “I’ll wrap it in flowery pink paper.”

  She served a light tarte au citron inspired by the summer she’d spent in Paris, and afterward Lucas returned to his study.

  Eva caught up on her emails, updated her social media accounts and made two calls to clients.

  On her way up to bed she made herself an herbal tea, and took Lucas one, too.

  The door to his study was open, but there was no sign of him.

  She put the tea down on his desk, and noticed the words on the screen. He’d obviously stopped in the middle of a chapter.

  Curiosity tugged her toward the screen.

  She felt a flash of guilt that she was peeping without asking him, and then shrugged it off. She was his inspiration. Surely that entitled her to at least take a look at the character he’d created?

  She stared at the screen, intending only to read a few lines.

  But then she kept reading. She kept reading even though her mouth was dry and her hands were shaking.

  She was so absorbed, she didn’t hear Lucas come back into the room.

  “Eva?”

  His voice cut through her shock and she backed away, stumbling over a stack of books he’d left on the floor.

  “It’s me.” The words jammed in her throat. “You said I was your inspiration—”

  “Eva—”

  “I’m the murderer. I thought I was a nice, kind character but I’m the murderer? You made me the murderer?”

  “It’s not you. My characters are not real people.” He hesitated. “It’s true I took some of your character traits.”

  “She has blond hair and a DD cup. She’s a brilliant cook! You might as well have called her Eva! Everyone is going to know it’s based on me and it’s h-horrible.” She couldn’t push the words past the tense ball of anger in her chest. “And the detail—”

  “Eva, please—”

  “All those questions you asked when we were together. I thought it was because you were interested in me. Because you wanted to get to know me, but you wanted more detail for your book.”

  “That isn’t true.” He stepped toward her but she lifted her hand.

  “Do not come any closer. Do not touch me, Lucas, because right now I’m so mad.”

  “You’re overreacting. At most it’s loosely based on you, that’s all.”

  “All?” She stalked forward, her finger outstretched. “I’ve got news for you, Lucas. I am a real person. A real, flesh-and-blood person with emotions and f-feelings. I am not one of your characters and we are not in one of your novels. This is real life. This is my life and you don’t get to—” She stabbed him hard in the chest, her breathing shallow and rapid. “You don’t get to turn me into a murderer.”

  “If you’d listen—”

  “Don’t placate me. You think I’m capable of murder? Well, I’ve got news for you—” she spat the words out “—since I met you, I just might be. Right now I can think of at least a dozen interesting ways I could kill you that you’ve probably never even thought of.” With that she turned on her heel and left his office, slamming the door behind her.

  She went to her bedroom and slammed that door, too, so upset she couldn’t breathe.

  He’d made her the murderer.

  All this time she’d thought they had something special, that this new intimacy was genuine and deep, and all the time he’d been using what he’d learned about her in his book. He wasn’t interested in her because he cared about her, but because he cared about his story.

  She’d kidded herself that she was helping him by being here, inspiring him. Instead she’d given him the inspiration to turn her into a bad person.

  She paced the floor, so monumentally stressed she had no idea what to do to calm herself. A drink. She needed a drink. It worked for Lucas in times of stress, so why not her?

  She stalked downstairs to the kitchen. She ignored the whiskey and instead reached for a bottle of wine from the rack.

  Footsteps sounded behind her but she didn’t turn.

  She didn’t want to look at him, let alone talk to him.

  How much of it had been real? Those lingering glances, the almost agonizing restraint they’d both shown when they were in the same room—had she imagined all of that?

  She’d told him things she hadn’t even told her closest friends, and instead of guarding those confidences like treasure, he’d stolen them for profit.

  She thumped the wine down on the counter and grabbed a corkscrew.

  “Whatever you do don’t drop that,” he breathed. “It’s a bottle of—never mind.”

  “Great value, is that what you were going to say?”

  “There are only eleven bottles left in the world. It’s the best.”

  She gave him a long, hard look and then yanked the cork out of the bottle. “Now there are ten.” She poured the wine into a glass and lifted it, challenging him with her eyes. “To murder.” She took a sip and closed her eyes briefly. “Mmm. You’re right, that is good. They say crime doesn’t pay, but in your case it obviously pays extremely well. You should have bought the other ten bottles.”

  He eyed the open bottle. “I did.”

  She lifted the bottle and topped off her glass, temper simmering. “Where are they?”

  “In storage.”

  “So what’s this one doing here?” She took another mouthful. He was watching her with the same degree of caution he might have shown an unexploded bomb.

  “I was keeping it for a special occasion.”

  “Doesn’t get much more special than this. It’s not every day a girl finds out she’s a murderer. It’s not exactly the career I had mapped out for myself and I’m not sure my grandmother would be proud, but I believe in celebrating every little thing. I hope I’m good at what I do. Am I?” She drained the glass and thumped it back down on the counter.

  He winced. “You shouldn’t drink that so fast. You’ll get a headache.”

  “I’ll drink it any damn way I like and you can watch me do it.”

  “This isn’t like you.”

  “Maybe it is. Maybe this is the side of me you haven’t seen before. You’re the one who is always telling me people have other sides to them. You think because I’m optimistic and like to see the best in people that makes me weak? You thought I wouldn’t dare open your superexpensive wine? Think again, Lucas.” She sloshed more wine into the glass. “How much is this bottle worth?”

  He named a figure that almost made her drop the bottle, but she tightened her grip. “Right. Then I’d better savor every mouthful.”

  “You’re not planning on sharing it?”

  “No. You’re going to watch me drink it, and that is as close as I am ever going to get to torturing someone. And it’s the closest I’m going to get to satisfaction.”

  His gaze was wary. “What do you mean?”

  “I liked you, Lucas.” Her hand shook on the bottle. “I really liked you. And I thought—never mind what I thought. I was stupid. You can put that in your book if you like. Might as well get the facts down.”

  “If you’re implying that our sleeping together had something to do with my book, then you’re a million miles from the truth.”

  “Really? And yet we haven’t had sex since. So either you didn’t enjoy it, or you got what y
ou wanted, and—”

  “Eva—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Truly.”

  “The book has nothing to do with why we haven’t had sex since that night.”

  “Save it. From now on I’m not saying a single word because that way you can’t use what I say for evidence, or characterization, or—” She waved the bottle. “Or other nefarious gains. Nefarious. You see? I know words other than nice and fine. Are you impressed?”

  “I think you probably need to stop drinking.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need. Are you suggesting I can’t hold my alcohol? Because I’ll have you know I could drink you under the table.” She swayed and just about managed to stay upright. “Screw you, Lucas. Oh wait, I already did that.” Deciding to exit while she could still walk without falling over, she scooped up the wine and stomped up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

  Fourteen

  A good friend is cheaper than therapy.

  —Frankie

  The following morning Lucas was downstairs before Eva was.

  She finally emerged, holding tightly to the banister as she walked down the stairs, as if the slightest movement caused her pain. Judging from the look she sent in his direction she didn’t seem any more inclined to forgive him than she had the night before.

  He took one look at her pale face and opened the drawer where he kept medicines. “Painkiller?” He held out the packet, but she ignored him.

  “My head is perfectly fine. I’ve told you, I can hold my drink.”

  He knew she was lying but she didn’t hang around for a discussion.

  She walked away and came back moments later carrying her coat and hat.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere I can’t be tempted to do you physical harm. I don’t want to spend Christmas in jail.” She tugged the hat onto her head and fastened her coat. “Go and work. That’s what you care about, isn’t it?”

  “It’s freezing and icy out there. You can’t go out.”

  “I can look after myself.” She pulled on her gloves. “Don’t follow me.”

  She stomped toward the door and slammed it behind her.

  Lucas ran his hand over his face and swore softly.