More Than A Maybe (20 page)

Then it’s time to meet Xavier. I have a limo drop me off near our meeting spot, and I get a seat at a cosy beachside coffee house that Baby recommended so I can have an energizing iced coffee for good luck. The sun is getting low, sending pink Pollock streaks across the cloud-dappled sky and the ocean beneath. I check my face in my compact, and though the light isn’t fantastic my makeup seems relatively free of disasters. Still, I find myself fretting — a client dinner means more pairs of eyes than just Xavier’s, and I instinctively wonder whether I’m overdressed or under.

I catch sight of Xavier then. A car drops him off in front of the entrance to the apartment building across from the coffee house. I’m struck by just how black the building is. It seems like one huge ominous mirror, polished to a high-sheen shimmer, and it fills me with an immediate sense of unease.

My apprehension at the oppressive architecture fades, however, when Xavier’s smiling eyes catch mine. I’m happy to see that he’s dressed smartly tonight, and for him almost cheerfully; he’s got a light suit of dark gray linen over one of his somber T-shirts.
Still
—
dark gray isn’t black,
I think with relief
.
I stand up, grab my bag, and walk across the street to join him.

“No tie?” I ask, taking his arm.

“You’ll provide all the formality I need tonight. Keep me respectable.”

I raise an eyebrow at this. “Not too respectable, I hope. Is what I’ve got on too much, you think?”

“Not at all,” he says. “You make me feel like I’ve finally convinced my secretary to go on that date.”

His words don’t have any sting in them — it’s obvious that Xavier likes the way I look. The light joke makes my heart beat a bit more intensely all the same, though.
I hope your clients are in as good a mood as you are, Xavier.

The doorman nods to us as he opens the door to the building, and we sweep inside into the cool of the air conditioning. Xavier calls the elevator, and while we wait I try to see if I can get any extra details about the party tonight.

“Have you known them for long?” I ask.

“Who?” says Xavier, looking a bit distracted.

“Your clients.”

“Oh. No. No, not really. New clients.”

“Are they important clients?”

“Very important.”

He’s silent again as the elevator doors open for us. I’m immediately taken back to that first night with him; how hesitant he was to go into the hotel room with me. Now I sense that same apprehension again. Or maybe it’s just my imagination.
Maybe Xavier simply has an irrational fear of elevators.

We reach our floor, and then step out together onto the shiny hardwood of the hallway. Our steps echo in unison as we approach the door. Xavier knocks.

There’s no answer. Xavier looks a bit confused. “Strange. This is definitely the right apartment.” He knocks again, louder, then tries the doorknob.

Much to my surprise, the door is unlocked. It swings open into darkness.

This feels odd.
“Come on,” I say quickly. “We must have gotten the night wrong. Or they forgot to lock up, or something.”

“Hello?” says Xavier, calling into the darkness. “Anyone home?”

Much to my continued unease, Xavier doesn’t stop there. He opens the door completely and actually steps inside, starts feeling around for a light switch. Another moment later, and lights flood the room.

I gasp. We’re standing in the foyer of an immense and luxurious penthouse apartment. To the left is a large and gleaming kitchen — steel refrigerator, spotless stovetop, smooth granite countertops. Beyond is a massive living room with enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, opening onto a balcony that overlooks a truly beautiful view of the ocean.

However, I’m struck by something else.

The apartment is either brand-new, or it’s been recently cleaned by an obsessive neat freak. “It’s empty,” I say. Nobody is home, but it isn’t just the lack of people that’s worrying — it’s the lack of
things.
There’s no sofa in the living room, no dining room table . . .

Xavier just looks at me, stone-faced . . . but I think I can just detect a little-bitty glimmer in his eye. “Well, then,” he says, “I can only think of two possibilities. One: the party has been canceled, all the guests have been kidnapped or fallen out the window to their deaths, and every stick of furniture has been stolen by a dangerous gang of thieves.”

I can only blink at that. “What’s the other possibility?” I ask.

“The other possibility,” Xavier says, walking closer to me, “is that this is
our
apartment.”

My heart leaps.

Is he joking?

He isn’t joking.

I have to make sure. “You’re serious?”

“Very serious,” Xavier says, breaking into a wide grin. “I designed it. You are looking at the results of
years
of research and development. The next big thing. Interior automation, energy efficiency, sustainable materials . . . ” For a second I think I’m about to lose him on a tangent, as he begins to slip into his own little wonderland of systems and futuristic nonsense . . .

But then he quickly stops himself. “All of those things, however . . . they do not make a home, Veronica,” he says.

In a second those strong arms are around me again, and he’s pulling me in close. “Home . . . that takes people,” Xavier says, slowly. “I wanted . . . no, I
needed
to ask you this. Now. Before you went through with that surgery of yours. If that’s still something you need to do . . . well, you still have my full support, of course. You do know that, don’t you?”

I nod.
Now more than ever,
I think. I see relief wash over Xavier’s face.

“Good. But I still wanted to ask you this beforehand. So you wouldn’t think this was about anything but my true feelings for you. As they are right now.

“I realize that I’ve been spending my life trying to avoid attachment,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Trying to stay flexible enough that I could deal with anything life throws at me. I thought that my work was enough . . . that if I actually committed to someone, it would trap me somehow. But when I’m with you, Veronica . . . I don’t feel trapped at all. I feel light.
I feel free.
”

I love where this is going — and the tingle at the back of my neck signals the arrival of an anticipation I’ve been afraid to let myself feel.

“I want us to be together,” he says. “To live together. I want our relationship to be more than just some night-to-night thing at a hotel. So please, Veronica. Live with me. Make a home with me here.”

The thought is powerful, immediate:
Of course I will.

He wants to have me. Keep me.

I’m something Xavier wants to keep . . . something rare. One-of-a-kind.

So that means . . .

I know what I have to do. It’s almost impossibly difficult not to break down in tears and a chorus of
Yes Yes Yes
. . . but I manage to keep it inside.

I don’t say it.

Instead, I put a mysterious smile on my face and walk forward into the living room. I let my hands slip away from my sides and float into the air, and I spread my arms as wide as I can.

“We’ll need a sofa,” I say. “Here.”

Rosco and Baby are giving my LA-aching tootsies a long overdue aromatherapy bath at Beauty World. When I tell them the latest, though, Baby’s face is a weird mix of Extremely Happy and Incredibly Stunned.

“Let me get this straight,” says Baby in disbelief. “He surprises you with a beautiful beachfront apartment, asks you to move in, and your very first response is to ask for a
sofa?
”

I nod, just a bit sheepishly. “Did I play that wrong, would you say?”

Baby breaks into a grin, rolls her eyes. “Honey — I would say that you’re
learning.
I might have asked for a Queen Anne desk and a shih tzu, but you’re on the right track.”

I frown. “It didn’t seem natural. Like I was punishing him for doing something I really wanted.”

Baby shakes her head. “You can’t look at it like that. This is how it works. You’re supposed to be motivating that guy, giving him a reason for getting up in the morning. Don’t forget what the reward is supposed to be. I’ll give you a hint — it’s
you.
”

“You should listen to her,” says Rosco, butting in with a glass of Napa’s finest. “Jake — you know, my husband? He’s a Xavier type himself. Finance guy. A real numbers kinda man, you know? Spreadsheets and Dow Jones and . . . well,
yeeeeech,
” he says, making a face. “Before we got married, he was like
Why do I do all of this? What’s the point of it all?
”

I swish my toes around in the foot bath as I look up at him. “And now?”

Rosco laughs. “Now he knows why he goes to work. He’s gotta bring me home the bacon. God knows I don’t get nearly the bacon I’m entitled to around this place. Hint hint, Boss Lady.”

Baby smiles, but ignores him. “Look, Veronica: if you’d asked me before, I’d have told you that Xavier had a lifelong case of non-commitment . . . that he’s been doing all this
temporary
bullshit so long that it’s actually become permanent. But this — him wanting you to move in with him? It’s the biggest step I’ve seen him take with someone in . . . well,
ever.
”

She smiles and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re close to him, Veronica. Closer than any girl has ever gotten. Just don’t forget —
keeping
you is his reward. Until you get a ring on your finger, that should always be just out of reach for him.”

I consider this for a few seconds, then nod. “Always one sofa away.”

Baby laughs. “Or a shih tzu.”

* * *

Of course, I get my sofa — and Xavier gets his
Yes.

Things move into high gear then. The weeks slip by, and it’s amazing how quickly the apartment becomes a home.

Soon the huge walk-in closets are full of our clothes from the hotel. My months of shopping takes up most of the space — neat rows of heels and skirts, hanger after hanger of dresses from Bettie’s Retro, fluffy cashmere throwovers for nighttime beach strolls. On one side is Xavier’s Gloom Closet, the black Japanese fashions a dramatic counterpoint to my cornucopia of whites and pastels and pinks.

My shopping suddenly becomes a lot less Bettie and a lot more Williams-Sonoma. We get a juicer, and an espresso machine that uses little individually-packaged bullets of coffee, and a rotisserie. Xavier brings home a ridiculous countertop pizza maker that looks like a record player, and while I appreciate his effort, we never do get around to using it.

When I’m not busy turning the apartment into a home, I spend a lot of time stretched out on the sofa that started it all. It’s a long thing of leather and sophisticated stitching, and quite cool to the touch; one of those rare pieces that’s as stylish as it is comfy. I’ve just started to enjoy the freshly-poured glass of Chardonnay in my hand when I get a text message:

> girl it has been 4 eva! u still livin like a princess

I totally am
. . . but I don’t exactly know how to tell Jayla that.

Truth be told, I haven’t been keeping in touch. Not as much as I should have, anyway. If the last time we’d talked had sounded like bragging, then I don’t know what this is going to sound like. Still, I know that I do owe her an update. For everything.

So I call.

There’s no trace of sleepiness — Jayla’s voice is as excited as I’ve ever heard it. “Hey, what’s up? Been too long, bitch!” she says. “I wanna hear everything. But first — shit, you’re not going to believe this!”

“What is it?” I ask, feeling a smile spread across my face.

“I did it! I got accepted!”

“Slow down for me, hon,” I say. “Accepted into what?”

“The nursing program!” she says, almost tripping over the words in her excitement. “The nursing program at Johns Hopkins! Exactly the one I wanted. My advisor turned out to have a friend who knows the dean, and he made a couple of calls . . . ”

“That’s fantastic!” I say, my voice nearly a shout. I’m genuinely happy for her . . . medical school might not have been my big dream, but it certainly was Jayla’s. “Fantastic! So I guess you’ll be saying a fond farewell to the girls at Mirages.”

“No way!” she says. “Not yet. If anything, I’m going to have to turn it up a notch over there. I’ve still got my savings . . . but that school is going to cost a ton. I’m going to shake it for another year, and then I’m off to sunny Maryland. But anyway — enough about my black ass. How are you and the California Prince?”

“Good! Actually . . . Xavier asked me to move in with him. We’re just getting settled.”

For a second I think she’s dropped her phone. “Are you for real? Seriously?”

“For real.”

“Damn! You
sure
there are no other Xaviers floating around out there in the ocean?”

I stand and walk to the window, looking out over the vast blue expanse of the Pacific. “It’s beautiful, Jayla,” I say into the phone. “You should come. See it for yourself.”

“You know I’d love to, but . . . shit. Never a dull moment around here,” she says, a bit sadly.

“Yeah . . . I know. Well — listen, it was great talking to you. I’ve got to let you go. Got a package coming.”

“Anytime, bitch. Love you!”

“Love you too.”

I hang up and drink wine for another half-hour until the package comes: a new cordless Dyson vacuum cleaner with a rechargeable battery. I test it out: it sounds like a hyperactive hair dryer.

I put it in a closet in the hallway. Then I sit and watch our new Roomba travel around the carpet, searching for crumbs and dust bunnies. The cleaning service has been very thorough, however, and it doesn’t seem to find any.

* * *

All through the final week leading up to my surgery it is nearly impossible to keep my nerves in line. Xavier often asks how I’m doing, but although I know he means well I find that I don’t much want to talk about it. Instead, I try to keep myself distracted by putting the finishing touches on our new apartment.

But then Boobday has actually arrived — and it’s now or never.