Brick by Brick (16 page)

“Or Latin. The descriptions are in English.” Most of the selections sounded wonderful, although I wasn’t very hungry.

Pasquale delivered a warm bread basket and a plate with curls of butter on ice. He was jockey-sized, so energetic he bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for a break in the conversation. His accent wasn’t strong, and he made no attempt to hide it. “So sorry to make you wait. Are you ready to order?” He looked to me.

“The grilled salmon. Without the lemon-caper cream sauce, if that’s possible.”

“
Si
, however you like is how we do. The pasta today is sun-dried tomato gemelli in a garlic-butter sauce, or potato, baked, fried, or mashed.”

“The pasta.” I’d at least taste it.

“And for the gentleman?” Pasquale turned to my husband.

“Tortellini Abbruzzese,” James said promptly, stumbling only the smallest bit on the pronunciation.

“Very good choice, I have myself tonight. And you, sir?”

Gage did not look up. “Veal piccata, with the pasta.”

“And to drink?”

“Three waters,” Gage said, and peered at the wine list as if it were in code. “And two glasses of this one.” He pointed.

Pasquale squinted, then broke into a generous smile. “Excellent. I’ll bring the waters. Would you like the wine now or with the meal?”

“Later,” Gage said without asking.

Pasquale retreated.

“Who’s not drinking?” I asked.

“Me. I figured the need for a no-drugs policy means I shouldn’t be drinking every time we’re together, either.”

“You have a problem with alcohol?” James asked.

“No. And before you ask, I don’t need it to take it up the ass.”

“Please, we’re at the table,” I protested.

“Sorry,” he said immediately. “Anyway, you two go right ahead. I’ll drive back if you want me to.”

By the time our entrées arrived and our wine was poured, my no-appetite had progressed to upset stomach, and the familiar heavy ache of cramps and a sudden moistness below. Damn it, I wasn’t due for another two days!

The ladies’ room would have sanitary supplies. A nice place like this, they might be free, individually wrapped in a pretty basket, rather than inside a dented vending machine that might not like my quarters.

“Did you see the restroom?” I asked them.

“You couldn’t go while we were waiting for the food?” James’s fork hovered an inch from his plate. “By the bar.”

“Thanks. Start without me. I’ll be back in a minute.” I stood up, paused for a light-headed moment, then started toward the bar.

James was right behind me, talking rapidly into my ear. “Come back to the table, Nat, right now. You’ve got a big spot. It’s blood?”

“I think so.”

“Well, you don’t want to walk through the place with it showing so bad. Unless—are you going to be sick?”

“Maybe later,” I admitted. “I don’t feel good. At all.”

James maneuvered himself to be behind me for the few steps back to the table.

“Everything okay?”

“Natalie’s sick and needs to go home,” James said.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s just my period.”

“Blood on the back of her dress, the size of my palm,” James said.

“Oh.” He turned in his seat, caught Pasquale’s attention.

“How am I going to get out of here without the whole world seeing?” I asked James, hating the whining edge in my voice.

“Wouldn’t you know it, we’re at an Italian restaurant and not one of us ordered anything in tomato sauce we could spill,” Gage said.

“Or red wine. I’ll walk behind you, real close,” James offered. “It’ll look a little odd, but we’ll be okay.”

“The lady isn’t feeling well,” Gage said, showing his face to Pasquale for the first time. “We just need the check.”

The waiter’s recognition of Gage was obvious. “Right away, sir. Allow me to box your meals, or is there not time?”

Gage looked to me. “Box it,” he said.

Pasquale all but trotted.

“They won’t box the wine.” James picked up his wineglass and drank. “It’s good, even chugged. Nat, you should drink some.”

“Ugh. Then I’ll be sick for sure.”

He lifted my glass and drank the wine just as Pasquale returned.

Our waiter set the check in front of Gage, then busied himself transferring our dinners to Styrofoam boxes.

Gage set a stack of bills on the check. “Keep the change,” he said. “I’m just sorry we can’t stay. Another time.”

“I hope the lady feels better,” Pasquale said.

I hoped so too, because the moment I stood I was so dizzy that I swayed before James’s steadying hand restored vertical hold.

“That’s how we’ll do it. You look faint, and I’ll hold you up. Walk, not too fast.”

I did, feeling conspicuous and ridiculous.

But no one seemed to be watching me and James. All eyes, and more than a few gasps, were well behind us. I glanced over my shoulder.

Gage was showing himself, absorbing all the attention of the three of us leaving. He smiled at people, nodded his acknowledgment of their recognition, reflected back their loving admiration. It was fairly disgusting.

We got well ahead of him and kept going to the ladies’ room, where the napkins were indeed free and prettily displayed. James waited at the door, watching Gage give autographs, until I emerged, then escorted me to the parking lot.

“I’m a little buzzed.” James unlocked the car. “Are you okay to drive, or should Gage?”

“I will.”

“If you’re sure you’re okay, I’d better go save him. Pull up near the entrance.”

I found a magazine to sit on, saving my upholstery. Five long minutes later, James emerged with Gage in tow, literally pulling him out by the arm as women still thrust Scapaletti’s menus, wine lists, and scraps of paper toward Gage. James cradled three Styrofoam boxes against his chest with his other arm.

They got into my car, Gage taking the backseat. “Drive.” He waved. “Now, damn it.”

He seemed to relax once we were out of the parking lot. “Are you all right?”

“I feel kind of sick to my stomach, and I have cramps. But I’m all right.”

“Good. Thanks for the rescue, James.”

“Thank
you
for the rescue,” I corrected.

“It’s not that big a deal. It used to happen all the time, until I learned how to move around in public.” He pulled the knot of his tie down and unfastened his collar. “Can you believe some actors like that shit so much they go out of their way to get it? I hate strutting around like a movie star, but sometimes you gotta take one for the team, right?”

“Right.” James reached between the front seats to pat Gage’s thigh. “The team appreciates it.”

“You the coach?”

“Team captain.”

“Which means I’m the manager,” I said.

“What’m I?”

“Star player. Biggest paycheck, besieged and beloved by fans,” I said.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Back at home, I excused myself for my third shower of the day. The dress, I discovered, was labeled
Dry Clean Only
. Great choice for a Tucson summer. I supposed it didn’t matter; I’d probably ruined it. I rinsed the big spot in cold water, but it didn’t all come out.

In my nightgown, my damp hair pulled back, I padded back into the living room. The guys were watching TV, eating their dinners from boxes on their laps. Their coats and ties lay over the end of the sofa.

“There she is. Better?” James lowered the volume.

“Maybe. Cleaner, anyway.”

“Want me to nuke your dinner?”

“Ugh. No. Tea?”

“I’m on it,” Gage said. “Want some toast? That’s what Rowan used to have. Toast with jam meant she had cramps.”

Even though I felt crummy, I enjoyed a pleasantly normal night at home. We watched whatever I wanted to, although James insisted on the remote and tended to stop on sports or suits during the ads. The guys ate my dinner, and I had two rounds of tea and toast, with a couple of pills on the side.

They helped, but when we all went to bed, my cramps didn’t let me fall asleep. I grabbed James’s robe and drifted in and out over a paperback until James appeared just after five.

“Bad night, huh? Does Dr. What’s Her Name know it’s this bad?”

“Of course. She recommends childbirth.”

“Right, you told me that. Can I eat breakfast in front of you?”

I waved my permission and managed a smile when he delivered tea and toast. I’d have to shop soon, the way we were going through bread. Maybe Gage could—of course not. Having a face everyone knew probably meant he couldn’t run my errands. He’d been both cautious and lucky at the drugstore.

James ate, then got ready for work. He was quick, since there was no point in showering before a job that got him sweaty and dirty even when it wasn’t hot. Still, his scrubbed face and toothpaste breath nearly overrode my disapproval of the jeans that showed his underwear.

“Can you do a load of wash today? These are all I’ve got.”

“Sure. Can you bring home bread?”

“If I don’t forget.”

“Speaking of which, don’t forget your sunscreen.”

“Thanks. Love you!”

The house was quiet for a while, and I dozed again, but not so deeply I didn’t snap awake when the bedroom door opened cautiously and Gage tiptoed out, in the trousers of his suit, the dress shirt open at the throat, its sleeves rolled up his forearms.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“I was more awake than asleep. Good morning.”

“Not for you, looks like. Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“James is gone?”

“Hours ago.”

“I should have gotten up. I heard the alarm, I think. It kind of freaked me out, going to bed with two people and waking up alone. Can I make coffee?”

“There’s nearly half a pot left.”

Gage drank it and had cold cereal, before he crouched near the sofa where I lay miserably curled. “Okay, what needs doing? I’m the substitute Natalie.”

He was too. He sorted the laundry in the living room, so I could supervise, then figured out the washer on his own, doing the jeans first. While they were going, he tidied the kitchen in that good-intentions-no-clue way of men and moved on to dusting.

If I’d felt better, I’d have chuckled at his puzzlement on where to put things away, and laughed aloud at how he looked with his hair in wild disarray as he vacuumed with an attitude approaching vengeance.

Finished, Gage showered but wouldn’t accept the loan of James’s clothes or use his razor. His beard was light, befitting a man without much body hair, the splinters on his upper lip somehow complementing the remnants of fine European tailoring. I pondered the contrast and decided he had a decadent Eurotrash thing going.

Guilty over being in my nightgown at nearly one o’clock, I made myself shower and dress. When I came out in a gaudy shapeless dress my sister was sure I’d love, he had the grace to smile and say nothing, just gesture at the table. He’d brewed tea, found crackers, and made a small fruit salad for us to share, mixing what was in the fridge with canned mango and sliced peaches.

“You’re sick, and I’m fat.”

“What?”

“My agent says maybe I’m not getting the roles because I’m fat.” He relaxed his abdomen and peered down at the slight bulge.

“Your agent sounds like he either doesn’t know or doesn’t want to say the real reason. Eat.”

“You eat. You haven’t had anything you could call a meal in a while. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

When we finished, I said, “I think I feel a tiny bit better.”

“Good. Now what?”

“Now you can stop being my cook and housekeeper and go do whatever you want.”

“Not unless you know where James put my keys.”

He hadn’t given them back? “Did you look in the bedroom?” He nodded. “You could call him and ask.”

“I don’t want to bother him at work. Unless I’m bothering you at home,” he added.

“I like having you around,” I told him.

A little smile curled the corners of his mouth.

“You want to borrow my car? I’m not going anyplace.”

“I’d like to stay and take care of you, if that’s all right.”

“I don’t need taking care of.”

“I know.”

In a female household, he’d picked up that distraction and TLC can make a bad period bearable. We spent the afternoon watching old movies on TV. During the ads, Gage gushed about aspects I hadn’t noticed, mostly performance but sometimes the script, the set, even lighting. It was pretty interesting; I didn’t mean to fall asleep.

The doorbell woke me.

“It’s my mom,” James said in a hiss that would have woken me if the doorbell hadn’t. Was he trying to be quiet? How long had he been home? “Quick, into the bathroom.”

“What?”

“Hurry up before she rings it again and wakes Natalie. Move it!”

“I’m awake,” I said to the bathroom door as it closed.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, dear. Natalie, how are you feeling?” Mrs. Bedwell wore a mask of exaggerated concern. “James said you were really under the weather with your monthlies, and I was glad to help out.” She raised a sturdy plastic shopping bag.

Only Hanna Bedwell would call them that. My reluctance to use “dirty” words fit right in with her primness. “I’ll live,” I said. “But thank you for…”

“Dinner.” James gave his mother a half hug and took the bag from her. “I didn’t want you to have to cook, feeling lousy and with no sleep last night.”

“I could have managed.” Or ordered a pizza, or sent James for takeout. How did he think he got dinner all the other months I endured cramps?

“It smells good, Mom. Chicken?”

“Those teriyaki kebabs you like, plus rice and a salad. Nothing fancy.”

“Well, we really appreciate it.”

“Aren’t you going to ask if I’ve already eaten?”

James and I exchanged glances. “Of course we are. I’m just kind of, you know, scattered, with Nat not feeling well and all.”

“I’m just teasing, James. I ate at home. You don’t invite a dinner guest, not even family, when your wife has her monthly visitor. Only she gets to do that. So I’ll be heading home as soon as I use your bathroom.” She strode toward the big bathroom, not the more distant powder room.

“Mom, wait.”

“James, if it isn’t clean enough for company and Natalie’s got her curse, it’s your job to get in there with the Ajax.”