Tainted
Authors: Brooke Morgan
BROOKE MORGAN
For Keith Barnes, with love.
It's always the right kind of stormy.
Holly liked to sit at the front of the bus. The wide windshield gave her a feeling of space and a view forward which quashed any potential travel sickness. And she liked watching the bus driver swing the heavy front door open and closed. There seemed always to be big men driving the route between Boston and Cape Cod; heavyweights with gruff voices and a palpable command over their vehicles. Sometimes they'd crack jokes and talk to her. “This is my ship of the road,” one had once commented. “I'm the captain, sailing her over the highways.” He must have been in his fifties and over three hundred pounds, but there was such a wistful romance in his voice as he said it, she gave him a nickname: the Poet. Every subsequent time she boarded a bus, she hoped she'd see the Poet again, but he'd disappeared. To another highway, another ship.
She was early enough for the eight-thirty a.m. bus to be the first on and snag the front seat, the one beside the window. If she was lucky, no one would come and sit beside her and she could stretch out, have the front all to herself. People trickled on behind her: an elderly couple who went straight to the back, a lone middle-aged woman who took a seat a few rows behind her to the left, two teenage girls who wandered down the aisle toward the middle.
Keep going
, she thought.
Keep going past and down the aisle. Maybe I'll get lucky
. But then she looked out the window and saw a line beginning to form. It was going to be pretty crowded, she gauged. She probably wouldn't get away with two seats to herself.
She almost didn't see him. He had been stooping over, pushing his bag into the cavernous luggage holder and she had almost turned her gaze away from the queue of people when she caught sight of him as he straightened up.
Faintworthy
. That was the expression Anna had come up with to replace “drop dead handsome.” “Lookâ” Anna had pointed at a guy in the bar the night before. “Look, Hollyâthere's a faintworthy over there. At least, he's close to being faintworthy. Let's go talk to him.” Holly had laughed and told her to be quiet. She wasn't going to go talk to some stranger in a bar. Anna could, and Anna usually did. But last night Holly had managed to rein Anna in and they'd stayed where they were, finishing their drinks and then leaving to get some supper.
He was tallish, dark, thin and tanned. He'd rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up over his elbows. Clean-shaven, straight-nosed, strong-chinned. Wearing khaki trousers and loafers. No sunglasses. An old watch with a leather strap. Looking serious and nonchalant at the same time. So, so handsome she felt his looks hit her in a punch of pleasure. Like the first sight of a beautiful painting. He was staring ahead, not up. He couldn't see her looking at him, so she allowed herself to and was reminded of the time she'd been sixteen, in Friendly's, waiting to get an ice-cream cone and seeing, suddenly, at the front of the line, a man she thought she recognized as Noah Wyle, one of the actors in
ER
. She'd stared and stared, taken aback by his looks. He was more attractive in person than on TV and for a second, when he'd bought his cone and turned, he'd caught her eye and she'd blushed. He'd smiled and walked out. Later, she'd learned he was filming a movie around Buzzards Bay, so it was definitely him. When she'd told Anna, all Anna could say was, “Why didn't you get his autograph, Holly? God, how could you let that opportunity slip?” and she'd thought she was much happier with that one fleeting smile than a tangible piece of paper.
Faintworthy had handed the driver his ticket and was climbing the stairs. Quickly, Holly turned her stare to the floor of the bus, feeling that same blush she'd had at Friendly's begin to rise.
A blush is like being sick to your stomach
, she found herself thinking.
You can't stop it. You have no control. It just happens. But he'll walk by and not notice me and as long as I keep my eyes down, I'll be all right
.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
“Sure.” She had to look at him. “I mean, I don't mind, no. You can sit here. I don't mind.” She knew she was sounding supremely inarticulate. Her whole body was blushing.
“Thanks.” He sat down.
Her eyes dived back to the floor.
“I know there are other seats, but I like to sit at the front,” he explained. “I like to see out.”
“Right.”
He had an English accent. So his voice was as attractive as his looks. It wasn't fair. She'd have to spend an hour and fifteen minutes with him beside her and she'd doubtless be hot and sweaty and monosyllabic the whole time. She hadn't brought a book, she had nothing she could do to pretend to be engrossed. He was empty-handed as well, sitting there quietly, his arms crossed.
Holly had yet to meet one person who didn't say he or she was shy as a child; even the most outgoing, rambunctious personalities, even someone like Anna, would say, “Oh, but I was such a shy kid. You wouldn't believe it.” And Holly always felt like saying, “No, I don't believe it. Because I was a shy child and I'm still shy and I don't see how you grow out of being shy, ever.”
The last passengers were boarding the bus. A woman came on holding a toddler in her arms and sat down in the seats behind them. She looked tired and stressed and so grateful for a chance to sit down she hadn't even noticed this impossibly handsome man she'd just passed in the aisle.
Children do that
, Holly thought.
They make you concentrate on the really important thingsâlike collapsing into a seat and taking a break from the constant demands for an hour or so
.
She could feel her blush finally subsiding as the bus driver climbed into his seat and swung the door closed.
Pretend you're Anna,
she told herself.
Say something feisty and funny. Make him think you're completely comfortable in this situation. As if it happens every day. A gorgeous man sits beside you and you start a scintillating conversation.
As if.
She remained mute.
“It's interesting. The word âmind.' In England, in London, at tube stations, they say, âMind the gap,' meaning, âWatch out for the gap.' Between the train and the platform. And then there's âmind' in the sense of, âDo you mind me sitting here' like I just asked. And then there's âmind' as in âbrain.' Not that . . .” he paused. “Not that you're interested in me banging on about a word. Sorry. I'm going for a job interview. I'm a little nervous.”
“No. It
is
interesting. I promise.” His anxiety immediately wiped out hers. She allowed herself to look up, into his eyes. They were a dark shade of blue, the same color as the sweater Billy had worn when she'd danced with him.
Bad memory. Cancel it out and move on.
She smiled and he smiled back, offering his hand.
“Jack Dane.”
“Holly Barrett.”
A brief, strong squeeze.
“My grandfather always shakes hands with his left hand. He says it's closer to the heart.”
“Makes sense.” Jack Dane nodded. “But it might be difficult to retrain the entire Western world.”
“I don't think he's trying to convert anyone. In fact, I think he likes it being his private idiosyncrasy. Anyway, what job are you interviewing for? Or is it bad luck to talk about it?”
“Bad luck? No. I hope not. It's not a big job. Just a waiter at a new restaurant in a small town. But it's by the sea and I've always wanted to be by the sea.”
“Where by the sea?”
“A place called Shoreham.”
“You're kidding. Figs? Is that where you're interviewing? That's where I live. In Shoreham.”
“That's the place.”
“Figs is the first fancy restaurant we've ever had. It's big news in town. We're used to diners and clam shacks and Dunkin' Donuts and pizza places. I looked at the menu in the window just a couple of days ago. It's seriously grown-up.”
“Seriously?” Jack Dane laughed.
“Very, very seriously. They have exotic sauces. They have pomegranate cocktails. I think I even remember some herb-encrusted salmon dish.”
“The restaurant I used to work at in Boston has salmon cocktails with herb-encrusted ice cubes.”
“That's ridiculous. What are they thinkâ” Holly saw his sly smile and another blush started. “Oh, God. I can't believe how stupid that was.”
“Noâit wasn't stupid at all. Yes, I was teasing, but I wouldn't put salmon cocktails past that place. Or herb-encrusted ice cubes either.”
“You're just being nice.”
“No way. I worked there, remember?”
“You're from England, aren't you?”
“Yes. But I've never met the Queen, Prince William, Prince Harry or David Beckham. I'm such a disappointment to Americans. I'm beginning to think either I should pretend that I
have
met them or I should lose my accent. Not raise false expectations.”
“Oh, no, you shouldn't lose your accent, it'sâ”
A child's wail came from behind them and then a woman's voice saying wearily, “Stop it, Tom.” But Tom wasn't stopping. His cry moved up a pitch and Holly could hear him pummeling the seatâJack Dane's seatâwith his little legs. Jack turned and rose, putting his face over the seatbacks.
“Could you control your child, please?” he asked.
“He's tired and irritable,” the mother replied. Holly could hear her exasperation. “I'm sorry. Tomâstop that now.”
Jack Dane turned back and sat, frowning.
“What were you saying?” he asked.
“Only that you shouldn't lose your accent.”
He flinched as another bout of flailing legs hit the back of his seat.
“Tom, Tom, stop. I mean it.”
Holly peered through the crack between the seats and saw the mother struggling to keep hold of the squirming little boy, but he was determined to keep kicking. “You're bothering that man, Tom. Stop it or I'll put you to bed as soon as we get home. Do you hear me?”
“Bloody useless,” Jack Dane muttered.
“She's trying.”
“Not hard enough.”
Whack, whack, whackâunrelenting tiny feet pounded the seat.
He stood up.
“This is really annoying and it's not going to stop. I'm off.”
Don't go. Please don't go. Can I say I'll move with you? No. I can't. I'll sit here like an idiot and you'll be sitting beside someone else, teasing someone else as this bus hits Route 128.
“Come on.” He leaned over, took hold of her hand and pulled her up. “There are two seats in the middle back there. Let's go.”
She followed him as he led her down the aisle, not looking at the mother and child, knowing how embarrassed that mother would be. He motioned for her to go in first and take the window seat, a row behind the two teenage girls she'd noticed before.
“That's better.” Settling in beside her, he immediately relaxed. “I hope you don't mind me dragging you with me.”
“I don't mind,” she smiled. “And we're right back where we startedâwith that interesting word âmind.' ”
“The secret of a good dinner party is a running themeâor two. Some story or joke the table shares and then can refer back to, embroider on. Food and drink count, but it's the conversation that really matters.”
When had her father told her that? She had to have been young, maybe eleven or so. He'd been sitting with the
Boston Globe
on his lap; it was in the morning and her mother was in the kitchen. Preparing for a dinner party? Holly didn't know. She remembered thinking she'd have to try to create running themes when she gave dinner parties. Whatever running themes were. Now that she did know what they were, the other part of the equation was missing. She'd never given a dinner party. She couldn't imagine ever giving one.
“So tell me. What's Shoreham like?”
“Wonderful. At least I think it is. It's basically a one-street town. You know, like you see in old movies. A bank, a fire station, a hairdresser's, a grocer's, a liquor store, a diner and that's itâwe used to have a movie theater but that was ages ago. And now of course we have Figs.”
Shut up
, she told herself.
You're babbling. You're so used to being the one who listens, you get nervous when someone asks you a question.
“So he's like asking me out on a date, but I don't know if it's a date date or just a going-out thing. It's so not clear. And I'm like trying to figure him out.”
The obnoxiously loud voice came from one of the teenage girls in front of them. Holly waited for the other one to reply but the first one kept talking.
“You think so? I mean, I'm with Teresa on the bus here and she's been saying it's a date date but I'm not so sure and what does that mean anyway? I mean, what do I wear?”
“Oh, no.” Jack Dane shook his head. “We know how to pick them, don't we?”
“No way. The pink top sucks.”
“They have cellphone-free places in the trains, but not in the buses,” Holly said apologetically, thinking,
And I'm just as bad as she is. I'm acting like a teenager too. When you asked me to move seats with you, when you just said “we,” my heart did a little dance.
“OK, OK, I hear you. Look, I gotta go. Teresa is handing me a sandwich and my stomach's like empty. Talk later. Yeah.”
Jack Dane scrunched down in his seat so his head was level to hers; he leaned over and whispered, “She's going to eat. We're saved.”
His breath was warm, clean, so intensely male, she held it inside her as if it were a drug.
“Which is worse?” she whispered back. “The little boy kicking the back of your seat or the cellphone screamer?”
“It's a tie. Although I should be used to cellphone screamers. They inhabit restaurants too. Someone like me who hates noise shouldn't work in restaurantsâbut I do, so I should be used to it. Anyway, tell me, Holly Barrett. How old are you?”