Something About You (Just Me & You) (10 page)

“Sure. We can talk,” she heard herself say. Not just because
Molly was looking thoroughly pleased with her “solution.” Because that morning
she’d been rifling through the mail and couldn’t find her mortgage statement,
and it seemed like the universe was trying sending her a sign. Sabrina didn’t
appreciate unwelcome signs.

“Why do I feel like we’re meddling?” Sebastian wondered
aloud.

“We’re not meddling, ’Bastian. We’re helping our nearest,
dearest friends.” Molly threw her arms around him and kissed the top of his
head.

“We’re meddling, darling,” he said, tipping his face so she
could kiss him on the lips.

Sabrina snuck a look at Gage. He was observing the tableau
with a ghost of a smile. Their eyes met, and a lopsided grin tugged at his lips
again. Plush lips that had kissed hers. It didn’t help that Molly’s murmurings
and Sebastian’s
mmm-hmms
were kicking up the oxytocin in the room to
heady levels.

Suddenly, Sabrina felt de trop.

“Molly’s made dinner,” Sebastian said distantly. “Feel like
pulling up a chair, you guys?”

“I really need to dash,” Sabrina said, sensing that their
presence was interrupting the couple’s pre-coital action.

“What about you, bro?”

“Nah, I’ve kept you from your bride too long already,” Gage
replied. “I will, however, be happy to see Sabrina to her car,” he added with a
wicked gleam in his eyes.

**

A brisk northern wind scattered the leaves that had been
raked into small piles earlier that day. Gage was accustomed to the intemperate
weather of cold Midwestern winters, so the chill in the air felt practically
balmy. He glanced down at Sabrina, who was pulling her cardigan tighter. There
was a mutinous expression on her face that needed no further interpretation.

Not a happy camper.

“Sebastian and Molly met, and fate smiled,” he mused. Maybe
a little light conversation would break the ice. “One day they’ll be one of
those old couples who slow dance in the kitchen late at night. I hope there’s
some of that cosmic fairy dust still circulating in the atmosphere when I get
married.”

“If you ever get married, I suspect it will be to the last
woman breathing.” Sabrina gave him a crispy glare from underneath a flurry of
long bangs that were whipping in the wind. “So I wouldn’t hold out for cosmic
intervention, if I were you —
Fitz
.”

“It’s always nice to meet another fan,” Gage affected a
genuine tone of voice. So she did listen to his radio show after all. Maid
March was certainly full of surprises. So she thought she had him all figured
out, did she? He tried not to grin.

“You are not — I repeat,
not
 — allowed to
refer to me as a fan.” She shook her head adamantly. “‘Cuffs not as stiff as
the collar’? Seriously, Fitzgerald?” 

“You say you’re not a fan, but you listen to what Fitz has
to say — obviously quite religiously,” he pointed out.

“Everybody listens to ‘Fitz and Giggles’,” she said. “It’s
the aural equivalent of a ten-car pile-up; you can’t help but to rubberneck.
And please don’t speak about yourself in third person. It’s bizarre.”

They came to a stop when they reached her Audi.

“‘Fitz’
is
a third person,” Gage explained. “He’s a
cultural construct. He’s the guy you hate to love — the guy who grabs your
ass in public and calls you ‘sweet cheeks.’ He gives you a roll in the sack you
won’t forget and never calls again. He’s the diamond who’ll always be in the
rough. Men want to be Fitz. A lot of women just want him.”

“Oh, really?” He noticed that she made a point to sound
disinterested.

“Really. Of course, that all depends on the woman. Obviously
you, the more
conservative
—” He stopped short of using the word
“uptight.” “—kind of woman, find parts of my show objectionable.”

“Parts of it?” Sabrina snorted. “Try
all
of it in sum
total.”

“Give me a specific example of a bit you find particularly
offensive,” Gage told her. “Think of it as helping me do market research.”

Sabrina folded her arms across her chest as a look of
concentration crossed her face. He could almost hear the cogs turning in her
brain.
Oh, boy
, he thought. He couldn’t wait for this.

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s start with ‘My Big, Fat Fantasy
Fetish’.”

Gage shrugged and grinned. “Some of my listeners prefer
female companions of more Rubenesque proportions. Where’s the harm in that?”

Sabrina massaged a point between her temples. “You poll men
about their preference in women’s undergarments —
on air
,” she
added with a hoarse squeak.

“Gives ’em something to talk about after the weekend.” He
didn’t want to tell her that the underwear topic had been done to death by
countless radio jocks across the nation. “Personally, I don’t see the allure of
lingerie. What’s the point in getting worked up about something that stays on
for all of thirty seconds before the main event?”

Sabrina raised her eyebrows in surprise. She started to say
something, then clamped her mouth shut.

“‘Fitz and Giggles’ is the reason KCAP has the number one
morning show in Austin,” Gage went on. “I made it happen in Kansas City and
Chicago, too.” He didn’t attach any arrogance to the statement. Regardless of
what Sabrina March thought, he was proud that he could make a living doing
something that he enjoyed. “Bottom line? It works.” 

“I suppose men in your particular line of work have to have
a gimmick,” Sabrina said grimly.

“Okay, I get it. You’re pissed off about Monday’s show. But
you will take note that I never named names,” Gage pointed out.

“You didn’t need to. By the end of your forlorn soliloquy
about heavy petting and blue balls, your listeners knew everything about me but
my parking space number. Do I really have to point out that I work in a
profession where reputation means everything?”

“Sometimes I forget that there are still people who take
themselves way too seriously,” he muttered. “My sincere apologies for offending
you.”

He slipped a glance at Sabrina, who looked only slightly
mollified. If there was a time to bow out of their agreement to discuss housing
arrangements, it was right here and right now. Then he thought of Molly’s
effusive insistence when she and Sebastian had proposed the idea to him earlier
that afternoon. Gage needed a new pad, pronto. Sabrina needed a housemate.
Molly proclaimed it serendipity. Only Molly obviously didn’t know the half of
it, and Sabrina was clearly unhappy with the idea. 

At least the last time he had lived with a discontented
woman, he’d had carnal privileges.

Maid March wasn’t vaguely discontented like the other women
in his life. Gage was sure of that much. Oh, she talked a good game. She gave
everyone the impression that she had it all together. Obviously, that wasn’t
the case.

When Sebastian had first proposed moving in with one of
Molly’s friends, he had given Gage a bare-bones sketch of a woman who had
bought too much house and needed a housemate to offset the expense. Then Molly
herself had filled in the lines with her own colorful flair, and Gage had
discovered that said friend was one Sabrina March. Sabrina, who had purchased
property with ‘the most uninspiring man known to womankind,’ as Molly had
described the ex. A man Sabrina had always had serious doubts about marrying,
even though she had managed to convince herself that these doubts were a bad
case of cold feet.

Or at least that was Molly’s interpretation of it. 

All of this makes Maid March a very foolish girl
,
Gage thought.

But underneath all that fire and pepper was a woman whose
problems ran much deeper than the inability to make sound decisions about
buying real estate. Maid March had needed something — or someone. She had
most definitely needed him, at least for one night. Gage had felt it in the way
she’d clung to him tightly when they kissed, and after that, when she’d fallen
asleep in his arms, her fingers still clasped around the lapels of his tuxedo.

“Look, I promised Molly we’d talk, and I always keep my
promises,” Sabrina told him. “When does your shift end?”

“I get off at ten. But if you’re not crazy about us sharing
digs, don’t do me any favors. I have other options.” Gage took on a serious
tone so she’d know he meant it. Time wasn’t a commodity he had to spare. Of
course, he didn’t have any intention of letting Sabrina know that.

“My goal is to procure a warm, breathing rent-paying body
who won’t hog all the hot water and who is preferably sane by the first of the
month,” she informed him. “Believe me when I tell you that I won’t.”

“Sounds like I could be your man,” he grinned.

“We’ll see.” In the near-darkness, her streaky hair took on
a silvery cast. Gage recalled the way it felt between his fingers. Thick and
silky. Like running his hands through the pelt of an exotic animal.

The unspoken weightiness of their make-out session hung in
the air. Judging from the way Sabrina was sneaking wary looks at him with those
big, liquid eyes of hers, she was thinking about it too. There was something
else she was probably mulling over, he thought. Namely, how to get out of
opening her home to him — and being the industrious type, she’d no doubt
exhaust every option before she turned to him as her last resort.

A strong wind whipped around them in an elliptical pattern,
kicking up the scent of ozone and dead leaves. The yard went a shade darker as
the lights in the house went off. Gage thought of dinner growing cold while
Molly and Sebastian sloped off to bed and turned up the heat.

He watched Sabrina wipe away a drop of rain that had landed on
her cheek. Gage instinctively opened the car door for her. Not to get on her
good side, although that’s probably what she was thinking. He had been raised a
gentleman.

“Meet me on Thursday at noon at the Capitol Grill,” she told
him curtly, slipping into the driver’s seat. “The garage is on the east side of
the main building. Make sure to bring ten dollars in cash.”

“Why?” he asked, nonplussed.

Sabrina swung her other leg into the car. “Because I’m not
comping your parking.”

From: docmarch@riversidedental…

To: [email protected]…

Subject: Dinner w/ my Daughter

Sabrina,

Your mother called this morning in the middle of a root
canal, so I knew it had to be about you. Nola tells me you’ve bitten off more
than you can chew with that damned house. She mentioned something about you
looking for a renter. I don’t like to think of my daughter taking in a stranger
to pad her mortgage payments.

I want to help. Even if you decline said help, I would
still like to have dinner with you tonight. I’ll be in Cadence Corners around 7
p.m. How ’bout Bella Notte?

Dad

P.S. I read in the newspaper that your man Ward is
introducing some kind of “urban revitalization” bill this session. The Tide
Brothers must have deep pockets.

Some things in the Corners never changed, and Bella Notte
was one of them.

Sabrina’s gaze swept over the pristine white tablecloths,
low-hanging chandeliers and tall windows with their luminous ivory panels. When
she was a little girl, the restaurant impressed her as the height of
sophistication. The olive-skinned waiters spoke with Sicilian accents, and the
menu items were written in
Italiano
.

In its heyday, Bella Notte had been the first and last port
of call for governors, visiting dignitaries and even presidents after working
hours ended. Sabrina could think of many times when she walked home from school
only to see a fleet of black stretch limousines parked in front of the
restaurant’s entrance. When Les March’s dental practice finally started to generate
a healthy income, he had treated his wife and daughter to a meal there every
Friday night. Sabrina had been thrilled.

Bella Notte still drew the occasional cadre of statesmen,
who gathered at the bar during happy hour, as well as neighborhood old-timers
who went there to celebrate special events. Sabrina had to concede that after
more than two decades, Bella Notte’s Old World atmosphere felt dated compared
to the trendy tapas bars, sushi joints and farmhouse French cafés downtown.

But the old restaurant would always hold a special place in
her heart.

“Maybe we should have gone someplace else,” Les March
muttered, turning the menu over again. “I’m in the mood for a good tenderloin,
not Italian.”

“There’s steak on the menu, Dad,” she reminded him. Her
stomach growled. God, the man could be both fickle and extravagant. A thriving
career in cosmetic dentistry had made him that way. Given his druthers, Les
would drag them downtown, where they’d duck into various restaurants until he
finally found a menu to his liking. Then they’d order at nine p.m.

Another thing that would never change. 

Lester March, D.D.S. wasn’t a man to whom most people would
attribute memorable qualities. He had a fuller head of hair than Theo, only now
it was more silver than gold. His winning feature was a strong, perfectly
square chin — the one distinctive trait he and Sabrina had in common that
ultimately convinced her she wasn’t in fact adopted. She assumed that at one
time he had a certain something that caught her stepmother’s attention. He did
have perfect teeth. Maybe that had accounted for his allure.

“How’s the porcelain holding up, Sabrina?” Les finally put
the menu down.

“Dad…”

“Come on. Let’s see the chompers.”

“We’re in public,” she hissed.

“Humor your old man, honeybunch.”

This isn’t going to end
, Sabrina thought. She
grimaced a smile for his inspection. Les put on his reading glasses and leaned
forward for a closer look.

“Probably could have gone a tad lighter,” he said with a
frown. “Other dentists would have stuck you with unnaturally white veneers. The
kind that look blue. I’m more of a naturalist.”

“Stop justifying the color, Dad. I’m perfectly happy with
the teeth,” she assured him. The veneers were Les’ idea, and he’d put them on
gratis. There was no doubt that cosmetic dentistry was Les March’s forte. After
years of straightening and whitening, Sabrina’s teeth could have been featured
in dental association brochures.

“You, me and Mom used to come to Bella Notte once a month.
Remember?” She failed to flatten the wistful note in her voice.

Les furrowed his brow distractedly. “You’re right. We did.
Nola always insisted on this place. When were we here last? Thirty years ago?”

“Twenty-five.” Sabrina’s smile felt fragile. A well of
bittersweet rose in her solar plexus, both comforting and forlorn, as though
she’d come across a favorite childhood doll when cleaning out the garage. The
smell of the rich cuisine — veal, poultry and seafood drenched in
marsala-saturated white and red sauces — was thick and redolent and
dredged up memories of the time Nola taught her how to correctly use a soup
spoon to consume aragosta (“Scoop inward, from outer lip to your lip, dear”).

Nothing bad could happen at Bella Notte.

Sabrina ordered pomodoro caprese and a side of capellini Genovese.
Les ordered Steak Diane and a second Glenfiddich with a twist of lime. Their
relationship was a perfect argument for nurture over nature, Sabrina thought as
they ate in silence. In this case, silence was a good thing. Because unless the
conversation involved playing golf or performing intricate bridgework, Les
March had little interest in any given topic.

They were complete opposites in every possible way.

Well, except for the chin. 

“I suppose we should talk about your house—” Les mopped up
the last bit of sauce on his plate with a piece of bread. “—and I’m sure you
know you got yourself into a helluva pickle. That’s not like you, Sabrina. Why
did you and Jackson get a divorce?”

“An annulment, Dad. Our marriage was
annulled
,” she
reminded him patiently.

Les waved his hand distractedly. “Divorce, annulment.
They’re the same damned thing.”

“That’s what Nola said.”

Les looked up sharply. “Jackson didn’t hit you, did he?”

“Oh, god no.” Sabrina replied hastily. Admittedly, she had
intentionally been vague in her email, knowing that Les would never understand
the reasons she insisted on ending her marriage so soon. But was physical abuse
the only legitimate one he could come up with?

“Then … why?” Les persisted.

Sabrina tabled the idea of telling him about Jackson’s
ultimatum. Conversations with her father were easier when she cut straight to
the chase.

“Look, Dad. I realized I didn’t really lo —
care
that deeply about Jackson,” she paraphrased Nola’s words. “I don’t think he
really cared about me either. We settled for each other. I know it sounds
crazy, but I don’t think I would have figured any of this out had we not
married each other.”

“Well, that’s pretzel logic if I’ve ever heard it,” Les
harrumphed. “But I suppose if you didn’t love each other, nothing will fix
that. I don’t know what I’d do if Livvy wanted to call it quits.”

The tines of Sabrina’s fork squeaked on the plate of
capellini as her hand tightened.
What about Mom?
The three words popped
into her mind as they always did when Les mentioned
She Who Shall Not Be
Named
.

The words bubbled to her lips whenever Sabrina saw her
father bring her stepmother flowers for no particular reason. And when he
capitulated to her desire to upsize to a large home in Peyton Heights.
What
about Mom?

What about Nola?

Sabrina’s ears picked up the sound of a man braying from the
direction of the foyer as he harangued the restaurant’s host. “Do you or do you
not have valet parking? You do? No, sir, I did not see the sign outside.”

She recognized that voice. Her spine stiffened as though
bamboo reeds had been shoved into her lower vertebrae. “Please tell me that’s
not who I think it is, Dad,” she said warily.

But there was no mistaking the head of gold hair she saw
coming through the front entrance. Slightly tubby with a florid complexion,
Chet March bore few other similarities to Les and none at all to Sabrina. He
had round, mean little eyes, and the pudgy flesh of his cheeks seemed to end
right where his mouth began, giving him the appearance of a Labrador on
prednisone.

Sabrina had been first introduced to her half-brother when
she was fourteen and Chet was two. She had been relieved when she saw that the
DNA that bound them was visually innocuous, and she didn’t hesitate to say so.
This had spurred her stepmother, Olivia, to pull Les aside and inform him that
his daughter was “acting like a brat.”

“What’s Chet doing here?” Sabrina hissed at her father.

“I asked him to drop by,” Les said in a reasonable tone.
“We’re all family.”

Family.
Right.

Chet walked toward their table purposefully. His smart
custom-made suit completed an air of outward importance and made her
half-brother appear a good decade older than his twenty-five years. His
fiancée, Fay, trailed several steps behind. An exercise in self-obfuscation,
she limited herself to plain pantsuits in unmemorable shades of beige and brown
and walked with her shoulders in a slump, as though she were perpetually
ducking under a labyrinth of low doorways. Sabrina couldn’t decide if Fay was a
pretty girl attempting to be homely or a homely girl who just didn’t give a
damn.

“Dad, thanks for calling me in for this confab. Sabrina.”
Chet nodded at her dismissively as he pulled up a chair without bothering to
pull out Fay’s. “How’s life on Capitol Hell?”

“Peachy, Chet.” She forced a cheery smile. “How’s tricks in
the trading?”

“Busy. Four private companies went public today. One opened
at twenty bucks a share and closed at eighty.”

“Not shabby.” Les looked impressed.

“Everything could change next week, of course,” Chet mused
with his studied business frown. Sabrina theorized by the time he reached
adolescence, he’d figured out he hadn’t exactly won the genetic lottery and had
to compensate in other ways, starting and ending with the pursuit of fancy
suits, expensive cars and other lucre.

Cued by Chet’s stare, a black-suited waiter promptly rushed
to their table.

“No, we’ve already eaten.” He pushed the proffered menu
away. “But I want a whiskey sour — make that a double.”

“And a Diet Coke.” Fay’s voice was barely audible.

“She takes that with lime,” Chet told the waiter, then
turned his attention back to Sabrina. “I hear you have financial problems.”

“You heard — Dad—?” Sabrina felt her poise
disintegrate. She glared at Les, mortified. “How
could
you?”

“Wait until you hear what your brother has to say before you
go off, Sabrina,” Les coached her.

Half-brother
, she corrected him silently.
Partial.

“Okay, then,” she told Chet. “Tell me what shit shape I’m
in.”

“I estimate you’re spending more than fifty percent of your
salary on basic living expenses, given your net-to-debt ratio — assuming
no debt.”

Not this again
, she thought miserably. Sabrina had
heard so many of Chet’s long-winded lectures on the merits of the fifty-fifty
net formula, she could recite them by heart.

“That’s a presumptuous statement, Chet. You don’t know what
I make.”

“Yes, I do. I looked it up on the Internet.” 

Sabrina stared at him, aghast. “You Googled my salary? I
don’t believe it.”

“Civil servants’ salaries are public record,” Chet said a
bit imperiously. She looked to her father beseechingly, but Les was staring
into his scotch.

“Look, Sabrina, I wouldn’t have come here tonight if Dad
hadn’t asked,” Chet went on. “We discussed at length a way to fix this that
benefits both you and me.”

Clearly her father and Chet had cooked up some sort of
half-baked solution behind her back. Sabrina felt played. “Just tell me what it
is.”

“I’ll move into it. Well, me and Fay, that is.”

“Hmm.” She pretended to contemplate the proposal. She didn’t
think there could possibly be a worse idea than renting her spare bedroom to
Gage “Fitz” Fitzgerald. But here it was, the mother of them all. Then again,
when had Les ever come through for her when she needed him the most? She could
see her father looking from her to Chet hopefully.

Les had probably peddled the idea, Sabrina decided, noticing
the anxious expression on Fay’s face. She lobbed Chet a slow ball. 

“That doesn’t sound practical,” she told him. “The guest
bedroom is terribly small for two.”

Father and son exchanged looks.

“You didn’t fully grok what I said, Sabrina. Fay and I want
to buy your house and live in it ourselves.” Chet irritated her even further by
over-enunciating. “We need our privacy. I’m sure you know why, having been
married yourself. For
one day
,” he added snidely.

Fay choked on her Diet Coke.

“Cadence Corners is a good neighborhood,” Chet continued.
“Nonexistent crime. Exemplary schools. The house isn’t exactly in Peyton
Heights, but it’s still in a good zip. We drove around before we got here for a
look-see. It’s small for a starter home, but Fay and I can manage until we find
something bigger.”

“The historic houses are real pretty,” Fay offered up
wispily before bowing her head again.

“It’s dandy you’re not put out by the floor space, Chet.
Now, where the hell am I supposed to live?” Sabrina wanted to know. Her face
flushed hot with anger.

“You could rent an efficiency,” Les finally jumped in. “Or—”

“—You could buy a place in Shady Oak Hills.” Chet finished
his father’s statement by mentioning a remote unincorporated area with just as
many strip malls and fast-food joints as there were people. Shady Oak Hills had
erupted practically overnight on either side of a congested major arterial and
had neither of the desirable landmarks that its name implied. A mish-mash of
cheaply built houses and huge apartment complexes plopped on flat, treeless
plots, the soulless community was Sabrina’s worst nightmare.

“Real estate’s dirt-cheap there compared to Cadence
Corners,” Les pointed out.

“That’s because Shady Oak Hills is an hour-long commute to
the city on a good day,” Sabrina said, aggrieved. “I don’t suppose it occurred
to either of you that I represent Theo Ward, who represents Austin. Therefore,
it might be a good idea if I actually lived here.”

A taut silence immediately descended over the table. Of
course Les had cooked up a plan that would benefit Chet, his golden-haired boy.
Sabrina pressed her lips together. She didn’t trust the words that might come
out of her mouth next. She suddenly remembered the Christmas her father gave
her a signed first edition of Paul Bowles’
The Sheltering Sky
. She’d
been over the moon until she found out that he had given Chet a new Porsche. If
her half-brother thought of her as far less than his sibling equal, she had
only Les to blame.