Can I See You Again? (13 page)

Before stepping inside the Q&A conference room the following evening, I run my fingers through my hair and scan the library one last time. For no reason in particular.

All right, yes.

Fine.

So what if I did walk the long way around, passing by Kid Town? I just wanted to say hi. I'm nothing if not polite. No big deal, really. Besides, I didn't even see Nixon.

“Hey, everyone,” I say to the gang, setting my purse on the nearby chair.

But they don't reply.

Gwen and her friend are hunched over Ernie the oldest member's shoulder. And the two men seated on either side of him crowd close. They're focused on something in Ernie's hands.

“Don't tell me you stole another copy of your grandson's
Playboy
, Ernie. We'll get kicked out again.”

“No, silly,” Gwen says, pointing at what I now recognize as my
Close-Up
article. “We're reading about you!”

I feel myself blushing. “Oh, c'mon, put that away. Unless, of course . . . you don't want to.”

“Why didn't you tell us?” Gwen grabs each of my hands and shakes them in the air. “A gal at my water aerobics class kept going on and on about this fabulous new series in the paper, and when she mentioned your name, I nearly sank to the bottom of the pool. I said, ‘Bree Caxton? I love Bree Caxton.' The other ladies in my class all knew about the article, too.”

“My granddaughter told me,” says Gwen's friend. “And she lives clear out in Florida. She's following it online.”

“Everyone's talking about you,” Gwen says. “You're famous.”

“I don't know about that.”

“Excuse me.” The door pushes open behind me and in walks a twenty-something woman in a powder-blue tunic, black leggings, and brown Ugg flats. Three more twenty-something women stand behind her, waiting to come in. “Are we too late?”

“Too late for what?”

“For the Fall in Love with Bree Caxton question-and-answer session. We saw the article and read about tonight's meeting on the blog.”

They're here for me? Awesome.
“Um . . . no, not at all. Please.” I motion them inside. “We're just getting started. Have a seat, anywhere you like.”

“Told you.” Gwen winks, then pats a chair. “Girls, there's an open spot here.”

Two of the old guys spring from their seats.

Easy, tigers, don't pop out a hip.

“Sit here, if you like,” one says.

“Or here.” Ernie slides out his chair.

“Are you Bree Caxton?”

I spin around and face two other women in their midforties.

Before I answer, one says, “It
is
you. You're much prettier in person.”

“Thank you. Please come in.”

My goodness. An audience
. What a lovely and unexpected surprise. But, crap. Now I have to come up with a discussion topic.
Dating taboos? Meeting the family? Boundaries?

Nixon's nephew knocks on the glass, drawing my attention. He presses his nose against the clear partition and waves faster than a rabbit thumps his foot.

I wave back.

Nixon hurries toward the boy, tugging at his shirt collar and apologizing to me with a crumpled smile.

“No problem,” I mouth.

Whether it's Nixon's tenderness with his nephew or his easygoing attitude outside the office, there's a stirring within me as Nixon's eyes meet mine. Something that feels sharp and vibrant, cutting through the glass between us. Something I haven't felt in a very long time. Is it confidence? Comfort? Wonder?

He waves good-bye and our connection is broken.

But the feeling remains for several moments until an idea pops into my head as I turn toward the group. “Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming. My name is Bree Caxton and for tonight's Q&A, we're talking about hope.”

As luck would have it, no giant sinkhole swallowed Sara's gallery floor. No staff mutiny. No crazed gunman running amok through the streets forcing an evacuation of the entire city block.

My mixer is scheduled as planned.

Sean will be there, polished and positive with his square jaw and deep, thundering voice.

I'm a bundle of nerves, so when my phone squeaks with a text from Andrew, I nearly drop the phone.

Soooo sorry, I'll be there in 5.

That's the second time this week he's been late. Not only was he evasive about his lunch the other day, but just this morning I discovered he e-mailed the wrong person—
twice
. And I caught him on his phone in the break room. He hung up the moment I walked in, claiming it was a telemarketer.
What is going on with him?

Hurry
, I type, then tuck my phone into the back pocket of my sleek gray trousers.

Sara greets me at the door of her gallery.

“Bree, welcome.”

“This place looks amazing.”

“Thank you. We barely pulled it together for tonight, but I'm happy with the finished product.” She slides a single diamond pendant back and forth along her gold chain. “I'm nervous. Nixon's on his way here. Do I look okay?”

I find Candace across the room, studying an abstract painting with Randi. “Here? Like gallery-here?”

“You seem surprised. Oh, no. Have I screwed up? It's too soon, right? I shouldn't have called him?”

Dammit, Bree. How could you have spaced this?
I muster a smile. “No, no. It's fine. Will you excuse me? I have a couple last-minute details to tend to.”

“Yes, of course.”

I sneak off to a private corner and dial Nixon straightaway.

“Breester, how are you?”

“You can't come to Sara's gallery tonight.”

“Were you sick the day they taught etiquette in school?”

I bite my lip, curbing my smile. “Hello, Nixon. How are you today?”

“I'm good, Bree. Thanks for asking. You?”

“Wonderful.” I pause. There's a moment of silence.

“Fine. Why can't I come to Sara's gallery tonight?”

“Because I'm hosting the mixer here.”

“Yeah, I know. Sara mentioned it.”

“Candace is here.”

“Just so I'm clear, you chastised me for not dating and now that I am dating, you don't want me to.”

“Exactly.”

He sighs. “I'll look like a jerk, but all right, I'll reschedule Sara.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“You owe me a lot more than one.”

I hang up as Andrew strides close.

“Sorry I'm late.” He dabs beads of sweat off his forehead with his palm before studying my face. “My, my, who was that on the phone, making you blush like that?”

“Telemarketer.”

“Touché.” But the little devil grabs my phone and his eyes widen. “Nixon.”

“Shush.” I swat his hand away and slide my phone back into my pocket.

“I knew it.”

“You know nothing. Save your wizardry for someone else. We all set?”

“Yes. Looks like a few more people showed up than anticipated, but I know we're good with drinks and appetizers. The bartender has plenty of seltzer and the blackest napkins I've ever seen.”

“Good.”

He pauses before saying, “And Sean's girls are here.

Sean's girls. Puke.
“Where are they?”

Andrew points across the room at Chelsea, a mortgage broker with false eyelashes and small ears. Standing beside her is Betty, a dental hygienist with a boob job. They're chatting with each other next to a painting of an old barn.

“Just remember why you're doing this.”

For Jo, for the book, for the house.
“Might as well get it over with.”

“Chelsea, Betty, it's nice to see you both.”

They say hello in unison.

Betty starts, “Is Sean here? I'm really excited to meet him. Andrew described him as so dreamy.”

He is. Or rather . . . was.

“Don't forget about me. I'm anxious to meet him, too,” Chelsea says, stepping a few inches in front of Betty.

Two gorgeous women with sculpted bodies both vying for Sean. Awesome. For Jo, for the book, for the house.

“Yes, I'm sure he's looking forward to meeting you both. He'll be here soon.”

“Is that him?”

Like the gods parted the gates, Sean strides into the gallery with the sun haloing behind him, dressed in khaki trousers and a short-sleeve black rayon button-up shirt.

It's a new shirt.

He looks good.

“Yes, excuse me a moment.” I step toward Sean.

He smells good, too.

Which I find incredibly irritating.
“I can't believe you're going ahead with this.”

“Why? I'm here and ready to say yes to love.”

“My book and my business are not a joke. I desperately need this book to sell well. Jo—” I decide not to tell him. He's opted out of my life. He doesn't deserve to know. “You're making light of my future.”

“Speaking of
your
future.” He inches close and says with the warmth of the polar ice cap, “Is your boyfriend here? Thought maybe he and I could compare notes.”

“So this is how it's going to be?”

“Hey, I'm not the one who has a boyfriend.”

“I'm not the one who dumped me.”

“A formality, I'd say. Because from what I'm told, you and Nick go way back. Tell me, did it ever get confusing dating us both, keeping the two of us straight?”

“Fine. There they are.” I point toward Chelsea and Betty, waiting in line for a drink at the bar. “Have at it. Go on and—”

“Pardon me, Bree?”

“What?” I say in haste only to find sweet Sara. I drop my head for a brief second. “I'm sorry. What can I do for you?”

“My security team is asking for a list of attendees.”

“Yes, of course. I'll have Andrew get it for you.”

“Thanks.” She doesn't look happy.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nixon just called. He's not coming.”

“He's not?”
Jesus, Bree, listen to yourself. First you tamper with a budding relationship and now you pretend like you don't know. Congratulations, you're a total jerk.

“Last-minute meeting. God, I hope he isn't blowing me off.”

“Nah, he's just a busy guy.”

“You think? I know we've only gone on one date and it's none of my business, but is he seeing someone else?”

Besides me?

She notices Sean. “Oh, I'm sorry. I completely interrupted your conversation.”

“No, problem. Is this your gallery, Sara?” he asks, reading her name tag and flashing his trial opening argument smile. The same smile he practiced in the mirror for six weeks.

“Yes, it is.”

“Nice place. I'm Sean.”

“Sara . . . as you know.”

The tone of Sean's voice has grown warmer. “Bree, you didn't answer me. Is your boyfriend coming tonight?”

“Oh, that's right,” Sara says. “Nick, isn't it? I read about him in the article. You two seem so cute together.”

“Aren't they?” Sean says. “Damn near the cutest thing I've ever seen.”

I take it back. Sean's the total jerk.

“No, I'm sorry. He has a surgery scheduled.” I cringe at how easily lies have been rolling off my tongue. I reach for my neck and scrape my already sore skin.

“Oops.” Betty laughs, catching our attention. She bends over, exposing the edge of her lace stocking through the slit in her dress. She picks up the lime wheel fallen from her glass.

“I think she needs me.” Sean laughs. “Great meeting you, Sara.”

“You, too.” She turns to me. “He seems nice.”

I used to think so.

“I'm gonna buzz around the room, answer any questions about the art. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do, thanks. And Sara, I'm sorry about Nixon.” And I am. I really am.

I glance again at Sean. He shakes Chelsea's hand, then offers Betty a napkin. Look at him. I know exactly what he's doing, exercising what he calls his “mental floss,” running mnemonic techniques through his mind to remember their names.

Whenever he meets someone, he assigns a label to their face. Prideful of his “gift,” he'd tell me what stamps he came up with. I hate to admit it, but I'd laugh, even at the monikers on the verge of being cruel.
Rick the dick. Prissy Missy. Elizabeth lizard breath.

He casts his eyes over Betty's ample chest.

Her name is not Betty Big Boobs.

An hour later, after the impromptu art presentation Sara offered, the party's in full swing.

Andrew mingles with the crowd, tending to minor details like “My heels are rubbing on my pinkie toe, do you have a Band-Aid?” and “A waiter asked for my phone number, should I give to him?”

I hang back, as I customarily do, studying the group's dynamic, the conversations, and, of course, the body language.

Those who found someone interesting have shrunk their personal space to no more than a couple of inches, and the typical clues are evident. The women lick their lips, trace their fingers along their palms or forearms, angle their chin toward the man, pat his arm.

The men laugh with a deeper tenor or stand with widened legs as if they just corralled the cattle and dismounted a horse. They spew strength and masculinity while at the same time are insecure, hoping desperately to read the women's clues correctly.

Not everyone finds a match. Love is trial and error, that's why a mutual relationship that ebbs and flows organically feels so good.

And when it's gone, hurts so bad.

Candace joins me. “It didn't take long for our boy to settle into a quiet conversation with a young woman.”

I've tried like hell to avoid glancing at Sean, seated on a leather bench beside Betty, chatting for twenty-seven and a half minutes.

“What do you see? Any chemistry between the two?”

I don't want to look. I want to bury my face in my hands like I did at my friend's end-of-summer slumber party when we watched
The Shining
.

“Your thoughts?”

Be a grown-up, Bree. For Jo, for the book, for the house.

“Right. Well, if you'll notice, her legs are tightly crossed and aimed toward Sean.”

“Why is that significant?”

“Because the farther away the body part is from the brain, the less aware we are of it. We control our facial expressions, shoulders, and hand gestures but often forget our feet. So it's what the lower body is doing that tells us what a person is
truly
feeling.”

“Interesting.”

“And see, she's facing him, showing off her legs. It's a position that increases her sexual allure, emphasizing her feminine shape and tone.”

Jesus, this is unbearable. A root canal is less painful.

“What else?”

Wasn't that enough?
I breathe deeply. “All right, see how she's sliding her thumb and finger up and down the stem of her wineglass?”

“Yes?”

“She might as well unzip his pants and pull out the real thing.”

“Pardon?” Candace asks.

I said that out loud, didn't I?
“Um . . . what I meant to say is, that gesture is a phallic transference, stimulating basic urges in males.”

“Oh, my.”

Betty tosses her head back and laughs.

She likes him.

Candace's phone rings. “Excuse me for a minute.”

Andrew steps near. “Guess what?”

“Betty is a transvestite?”

“No, no.” He laughs. “Our bank executive sparked a connection with the Escondido Realtor.”

“Great.” My tone is flat.

“Don't let him get to you.”

“I thought I knew him. All this time together and I really thought I knew him. But now, watching him, I'd never picked him as the kind of guy who could discard our past so easily and move on to another woman. What do you suppose he sees in her?”

“Maybe it's her kick-ass body.”

“You're not helping.”

“I know, but hell, look at her. A couple more glasses of wine and
I'll
go home with her.” Andrew nudges my shoulder in an it'll-be-okay way.

Sean leans toward Betty as she whispers something in his ear. He laughs, then slides his hand on the small of her back.

He likes her, too.

Bree, what have you done?