The Guardian (11 page)

Julie laughed. "I wish I'd seen him. Mabel said exactly the same thing."

She then launched into a description of the things Andrea had said about Cobra. Mike particularly enjoyed the whole Ed DeBoner thing, though why that part bothered Andrea and his other flaws didn't was beyond him. By the end, Julie was laughing, too.

"What's with her, anyway?" Mike asked. "Can't she see what everyone else does? I almost feel sorry for her."

"At least you don't have to work with her. Although, to be honest, it does keep things entertaining around the salon."

"I'll bet. Oh-by the way, Emma wanted me to tell you to give her a call. At least, that's what Henry said."

"Will do. Do you know what it's about?"

"No, not really. Probably wants to give you a new recipe or whatever it is you two talk about."

"We don't talk about recipes. We talk about good stuff."

"In other words, you gossip."

"It's not gossip," she protested. "It's called keeping in touch."

"Well, listen, if you hear anything good, give me a ring, okay? I'll be in all night. And maybe we can set something up so I could get Singer off your hands, at least for a little while. Maybe this weekend?"

Julie smiled. "You got it."

I'm glad I did that, Mike thought, feeling rather pleased with himself.Okay, so it wasn't exactly the most highbrow or intimate conversation, but it did reassure him that Julie still enjoyed talking to him. They'd joked around, they'd laughed together, and that counted for something, didn't it? Of course it did!

He'd played it just right-kept the conversation light, avoided anything touchy, and best of all, he felt confident that they'd probably talk again later, after she'd spoken to Emma. Emma always said something worth repeating, and if on the odd chance she didn't, the whole "I'd be glad to help with Singer" thing was practically a guarantee that Julie would call.

He refused to think about Richard. Every time his image-or that of Richard and Julie together, or even the stupid locket-popped into his head, he forced the thought away. Richard might have the inside track, but Mike wasn't about to let that spoil his thoughts of Julie right now.

And for the most part, his strategy worked fairly well. Mike's good mood lasted through the rest of his work, the trip home, and even dinner. In fact, it lasted right up until he was lying in bed, watching the evening news.

The phone, he realized sadly, hadn't rung at all.

For Mike, the rest of the week passed torturously.Julie didn't call, nor did she swing by the shop to say hello.

Though he could have called her, though he'd never hesitated picking up the phone to talk to her in the past, he just wasn't up to it. For all he knew, she hadn't called because she was with Richard, and he couldn't face the prospect of reaching her at home only to have her explain that she couldn't talk right now because she "had company." Or because she was "getting ready to head out." Or because she was "right in the middle of something." And if by chance she wasn't in, he knew he'd spend the rest of the night wondering where she'd gone and wouldn't sleep a wink.

Not only didn't Julie call that week, not only did Richard show up every single day (and probably at night, too!), but on Friday, Mike saw Julie leave the salon in midafternoon. Though he didn't know where she was going, he was pretty certain he knew why she was leaving early.

Richard, he thought.

He tried not to care; he told himself there was no reason to care. Why should he care what they were doing? His night was already planned; he had beer in the fridge, a video store around the corner, and a Domino's pizza just thirty minutes away. He would have himself a good time. No, a great time. Kick back on the couch and unwind from the week, maybe play a few tunes before popping the video in, stay up all night if he wanted.

For a moment he imagined how it would go, and then his shoulders sagged. I'm pathetic, he thought. My life could send healthy people into comas.

But what really toppled the wedding cake, so to speak, was that despite his determination not to care, he found out where Richard and Julie had gone. Not from her. Instead, he found out about it from people he barely knew, in bits and pieces overheard here and there around town: at the grocery store, at the diner, and even while working in the garage. Suddenly, it seemed that even casual acquaintances of Julie's, people she'd happened to visit with for a few minutes on Sunday afternoon, knew a lot more than he did. By Monday morning, it took him almost twenty minutes to summon the energy to get out of bed.

Richard, it seemed, had picked Julie up in a limousine that had been stocked with champagne; they'd gone to Raleigh for dinner. Afterward, at the civic center in front-row seats, they'd watched a live performance of Phantom of the Opera.

If that wasn't enough, if that wasn't quite special enough to impress her, it turned out that Richard and Julie had spent Saturday together as well, down near Wilmington.

There they'd taken a hot-air balloon ride before picnicking at the beach.

How the hell was he supposed to compete with a guy who did things like that?

Now that was a weekend, Julie thought to herself. Richard, she decided, could give Bob a few pointers on how to impress a lady. Hell, Richard could give seminars on the subject.Staring at her reflection in the mirror on Sunday morning, she still found it hard to believe. She hadn't spent a weekend like that in . . . well, she'd never spent a weekend like that. The theater was a new experience for her, and when he'd finally told her in the limousine where they were going, she figured she'd probably enjoy it but wasn't absolutely sure. Her concept of musicals was rooted in those that had been adapted into films a generation ago, like The Music Man and Oklahoma!; somewhere in the back of her mind, she supposed that seeing a performance in Raleigh as opposed to New York City would be something akin to watching a pretty good high school play.

Boy, was she ever wrong.

She was entranced by it all: couples dressed in evening wear as they sipped wine in the courtyard before the play started; the silencing of the crowd as the lights began to dim; the orchestra's first energetic notes, which made her jump in her seat; the romance and tragedy of the story; the virtuoso performances and the songs, some of which were so beautiful that they'd brought tears to her eyes. And the colors! The props and wildly hued costumes, the use of gleaming spotlights and haunting shadows, had all combined to create a world on stage both strangely surreal and vividly alive.

The whole evening had seemed like a fantasy, she decided. None of it was familiar, and for a few hours she'd felt as if she'd suddenly slipped into an alternate universe in which she wasn't a hairdresser in a small southern town, the kind of gal whose highlight of the week was usually something as mundane as removing a stubborn ring from around the tub. No, this was another world, a place occupied by inhabitants of exclusive, gated communities who studied the stock quotes in the morning newspaper while the nanny got the kids ready for school. Afterward, when she and Richard had stepped outside and looked upward, she wouldn't have felt any stranger had she seen two moons hovering in the downtown sky.

But hey, she wasn't complaining. In the limousine on the way home, while inhaling the musky smell of leather as champagne bubbles tickled her nose, she remembered thinking, So this is how the other half lives. I can see exactly how people can get used to this.

The next day, too, had been a surprise. Not just because of the entertainment, but because it stood in such stark contrast with the evening before: day instead of night, a hot-air balloon ride instead of a show, a walk along carnival-like streets instead of a limousine ride, a picnic on the beach instead of dinner at a restaurant. An entire repertoire of dates in just a couple of days, like newlyweds squeezing everything they could into the last hours of their honeymoon.

Though the balloon ride was fun-scary when the wind gusted, but fun-of all they did, from holding hands as they walked to posing playfully as Richard took a number of photographs of her, she enjoyed the picnic the most. Now that, she thought, was more along the lines of something she was used to. She'd gone on lots of picnics in her life-Jim had been fond of them-and for a moment she felt like herself again. That feeling didn't last long. In the picnic basket was a bottle of Merlot and a cheese-and-fruit plate, and after they'd finished with the food, Richard had offered to give her a foot rub. It sounded corny when he said it, and she'd initially laughed and said no, but when he'd gently reached for her foot, slipped off her sandal, and begun his massage, she couldn't help but give in, imagining that Cleopatra must have felt much the same way as she relaxed under the gently swaying palm fronds.

Strangely, at that moment, she thought of her mother.

Though she'd long since decided her mother was pretty unreliable as a mother or a role model, she couldn't help but remember something her mother had said once when Julie had asked her why she'd stopped seeing a recent boyfriend.

"He didn't rock my boat," her mother had informed her matter-of-factly. "Sometimes it's like that."

Julie, eight years old at the time, nodded, wondering where they kept the boat and why she'd never seen it.

Years later, she finally realized what her mother had meant, and while staring at Richard, her foot in his hands, the expression came back to her.

Did Richard rock her boat?

He should, she knew. Lord knew she probably wouldn't find anyone better, not in Swansboro, anyway. He was the full package as far as eligible men went, but even now, after four romantic dates and a lot of time spent together, she suddenly knew that he didn't. The realization left her feeling as if she were weighted down in a swimming pool, but she couldn't deny that whatever it was that brought couples together-whether it was chemistry or magic or some combination of both-simply wasn't there. She just didn't feel the little tingles on her neck that she had when Jim first took her hand. She didn't feel like closing her eyes and dreaming of a future together, and she knew with certainty that she wouldn't spend the following day wandering around in a romance-induced daze. The dates he planned were fabulous; it was just that, as much as she wished otherwise, she wasn't so sure about Richard, other than that he seemed like a nice guy . . . the kind of guy who'd be perfect for someone else.

Sometimes, as her mother had said, it's like that.

She wondered if part of the problem was that she was trying to rush her feelings. They might need some more time before things were comfortable and easy. Her relationship with Jim had taken time to develop, after all. After a few more dates, she might look back and wonder why she'd been so skittish. Right?

While brushing her hair in front of the mirror, she considered it. Maybe. Then, laying down her brush, she thought, Yes, that's got to be it. We just need to get to know each other better. Besides, it's partly my fault. I'm the one who's holding back.

Though she had talked for hours with Richard, most of their conversations had hovered over the surface. Yes, he knew the obvious things about her, and yes, she knew the obvious things about him. But she didn't volunteer much more than that. Whenever the past had come up, she'd found a way to avoid it. She hadn't revealed how difficult her relationship with her mother had really been, how unnerving it was to see men wandering in and out of her house at all hours, how desolate she felt leaving home before graduating high school. Or how scared she'd been when living on the streets, especially late at night. Or what it felt like when Jim had died, when she wondered how she would ever find the strength to go on. Those were the hard memories, the ones that left a bitter taste when she spoke them. Part of her was tempted to share them with him, so he could really know who she was.

But she didn't. For some reason, she couldn't. And he didn't tell her much about himself, either, she noticed. He had a way of avoiding the past as well.

But wasn't that what it came down to in the end? The ability to communicate, to open up, to trust? She and Jim had had that, but like "the chicken or the egg" dilemma, she couldn't remember which part had come first, the little tingles on the back of her neck or all those other things.

The ringing of the phone interrupted her musings. Singer followed her to the living room as Julie picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"So what happened?" Emma demanded. "I want to hear all about it. And don't leave anything out."

"A foot massage?" Mike asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief. It was the one part he hadn't heard about from strangers."That's what she told Emma yesterday."

"But . . . a foot massage?"

"I'll admit he does have a flair about him."

"That's not what I mean." Mike paused, pushing his hands into his pockets. His face took on a distracted look.

Henry leaned forward. "Listen, I hate to offer you more bad news, but Benny's called to say he's coming in today."

Mike winced. Benny, he thought. Good God, Benny.

Oh, this day was turning out grand, wasn't it?

"And Blansen still needs his truck," Henry went on. "You'll have it done, right? It's part of the contract I worked out with the bridge people, so it's important."

"Yeah, I'll be finished."

Andrea couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. The whole thing made her practically sick to her stomach, especially with Julie's oh-so-nonchalant attitude about the whole thing. A limousine? Champagne? The play . . . Phantom of the Soap Opera or whatever it was called? Hot-air balloon ride? Picnic at the beach?Andrea didn't want to hear it. She didn't even want to overhear it by accident, but that wasn't possible in a small place like this.