Wait for Me (10 page)

“Do you like the theater?” he asked, opting for old standbys, hoping for the best.

“Which one?”

“Which one?”

“Well, I like the one on Bow Street better than I like the ones downtown,” she said, unable to resist the urge to tease him. “It’s still a big screen and it’s really old-fashioned, but they have great popcorn. But then there are so many theaters to choose from that I suppose it would depend on which movie we wanted to see.”

“No. I meant the
theater
theater. You know, plays and...”

“Oh,” she said. “You want to do that stuck-up stuff.”

“Stuck-up stuff?”

“Where people get all dressed up to show off their new clothes before they sit and watch some sad old story that people used to watch wearing bed sheets.”

He turned to her in utter disbelief—and that’s when he saw the merry twinkle in her eyes.

“Exactly.”

She chuckled and tossed the napkin and bottom of her cone into a trash can as they passed by.

“Stuck-up stuff can be romantic sometimes,” she conceded airily. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a play, but not the opera.”

“You don’t like opera?”

“I grew up with Italians. I love opera,” she said, taking his hand and turning it a bit. “You’re dripping over here.” She licked up a little of his triple Dutch chocolate, saying, “But they’re doing
Rusalka
at the opera house, and I hate it when the prince dies. It’s probably true that the sad ones have all the prettiest music, but I prefer the comedies. I see enough tragedy. I hear the Joffrey Ballet is coming next season, and I wouldn’t mind seeing them again, no matter what they’re performing.”

Chocolate ice cream dribbled between his fingers as his mind raced. She liked opera and ballet! Most of his dates tolerated it for a variety of reasons—to show off their clothes, as Holly had said; to say they’d been; to be with him. But it was a rare woman in his experience who knew anything about it or showed real appreciation for it.

His love of music was a gift from his father, one of the few interests they’d been able to share. He actually preferred symphony music to opera and ballet, but common ground was common ground, and it was hard to come by in this particular area. He wouldn’t split hairs.

“If I can find a good comedy playing someplace, would you like to go?” he asked, grateful to see another trash can in their path.

“Wellll,” she said, sly and designing and not trying to hide it. “If you really want to go to all that trouble to impress me, and if you really want to be romantic, they’re doing Debussy at Davies Symphony Hall.”

“You like Debussy?”

“Doesn’t everyone? They’re doing
La Mer
and
En blanc et noir,
I heard, for sure. But maybe they’ll do a few other preludes.
Children’s Corner
or
Estampes.
If they do
Claire de lune,
I’ll cry. I love his piano pieces.”

She chatted and walked on as he came to a gradual stop beside the trash can, staring at her, cold chills running up his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. The mostly eaten ice cream cone fell from his fingers as he realized that she’d plucked nearly every word she’d said directly from his heart.

“What?” she asked, turning back when she discovered he was missing, only to catch him staring at her as if she were some foreign creature he’d never seen before. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head clear. “I was just thinking that I have recordings of
L’Isle Joyeuse
and
Iberia
that you might like. They’re... not done that often.”

“I’d love to,” she said, watching him. He examined his sticky fingers in disgust and finally bent to rinse them in a fairly clean puddle of rainwater on the sidewalk. He dried them with his handkerchief and then held out his hand to her. She took it, saying, “I’ve heard
Iberia,
but not
L’Isle.
Is it as pretty as the others?”

While he expounded on Debussy’s movements, she was regarding the strength and heat of his hand. Solid and comforting. To be sexually attracted to a man was something, but to like him, truly like him, was something even more special and rare. She’d seen him four times, and yet sometimes she felt as if she’d known him forever. She had to keep swallowing the urge to ask him,
Where the hell have you been?
As if he’d been away too long. And still he was new and constantly refreshing.

Oliver had the potential to be everything he had been in his past, what his aunt and Barbara Renbrook were now. A snob. But his ego was strong enough to be teased, he could be spontaneous, he could do a tolerable job of walking in the rain, and he wasn’t too proud to wash his hands in rainwater.

Rich or poor, she believed that people were born to certain stations in life and that it took a great deal of courage, love, and understanding to overcome them. Oliver knew and understood these things. He was a man among men, capable of great things—capable of one great thing in particular, making her fall in love.

It was nearly nine by the time they’d finished eating at the little cafe a few blocks from her apartment. The rain had stopped, but everything had looked coated in glass as they’d walked home.

“So, Holly,” he said, as his lips played over hers outside her apartment door. “We’ve fed the ducks. Will anyone go hungry tomorrow if you invite me in tonight?”

At present she didn’t care if the whole world starved to death... But it was a terrible thought.

“No. No one will starve tomorrow because of us... he kissed her till her toes curled, “...and you’re welcome to come in...” a scattering of sweet sipping kisses down her neck, “...you can even stay the night, but...”

“But?” He pulled back to look at her.

Her sigh was long and hard and disappointed.

“I won’t be here.”

“Why not? Where are you going?”

“It’s my turn to work the turnaround. I have to go back to work tonight.”

“But you worked all day.”

“We’re short staffed. Weekends especially. We take turns on the night shift, and on weekends we do turnarounds. Eight on, eight off, turn around and do it over again.”

“When the hell are you supposed to sleep?”

“Oh.” She grinned. “Were you planning to actually sleep here tonight?”

“I’m serious. Doesn’t that place ever close?”

She didn’t like the tone of his voice, but she understood it.

“People don’t stop having problems between five
P.M.
and nine the next morning. In fact, it’s the dark hours that are most frightening for them.” She put her hand deep into the pocket of her jeans and withdrew the key to her apartment. She turned to the door, saying, “Darkness can be very heavy. Overwhelming sometimes. Despair sets in fast without the light of hope. Nothing happens at night. While the rest of the world sleeps, the hopeless are awake, thinking and worrying and deciding they’re better off dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, not immune to the plight of the poor, but more concerned for Holly’s well-being. He followed her inside. “But isn’t there some other way to arrange the schedule? You need to sleep. When are you...”

She laughed at his guilty expression when he realized she would have been sleeping if she hadn’t been out with him. She reached up on tiptoe to kiss him.

“Today with you and the rain was better than twenty-four hours of sleep. I had a wonderful time.” She held her arms out at her sides. “I feel happy and full of energy and ready to take on the world.”

Damned if she didn’t look it, too, he thought.

“When do you have to go back?” he asked, slipping his arms around her waist, a move that came as naturally as blinking.

“Eleven.”

He wanted to drive her to work, to spend every second he could with her, but he knew she’d need her car to get back in the morning.

“Will you call me when you get home tomorrow?”

“Are you up at eight?” She grinned.

“I will be tomorrow.” He kissed the smirk off her face and waited till he felt her knees buckle before he lifted his face from hers. “Clavin’ll wake me up.”

“Who’s Clavin? The butler?” She was being facetious, but when he smirked at her... “You really have one, don’t you? And maids, too, I bet.” She shook her head. “I keep forgetting.”

“I know. And I like it. But you really should develop some respect for money, you know. It can buy more than bread.”

“It can’t buy anything important.”

“True. But it can make life a little easier so you can enjoy the important things.”

That was true, too, though she wished it weren’t. There was such a vast and vexing void between what was and what ought to be that she simply couldn’t reconcile herself to it. Life should be easy for everyone. Not opulently easy, necessarily, but basically easy. If one was blessed with a child, none of that joy should be tarnished with concerns for keeping it warm and fed and safe. If one was lucky enough to fall in love, none of the thrill should be discolored with fears of keeping each other healthy, sheltered, and out of harm’s way. It simply wasn’t right.

“You’d better go. Clavin’ll be worried about you,” she said, pressing her cheek to his chest and holding on tight as she banished the evil thoughts she had for his money. It wasn’t his fault he was rich, any more than it was her fault that she knew so many frightened and hungry people.

He could almost feel her trying to bridge the gap that had formed between them, that enormous hollow of money. The smell of the rain and her clean, fresh hair filled his head, and he knew in that instant that he’d give it all away to make her happy in his arms.

A staggering thought, that. To give up everything for her. For Holly. Was that love? Or some outrageous form of lust? She felt so good, so close, so right, but...

“I agree with you. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be here in the morning when you get back.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she said, feeling a bit lost when he held her away from him.

“You’ll be tired in the morning, an easy target.”

She grinned.

“I’m an easy target now, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she said, stepping into his embrace.

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. Just like that, they were together again, on a sturdy bridge so far above the money that it couldn’t be seen anymore.

“I noticed. But there’s not enough time for me to do anything about it.”

“There’s still time. How much do you need?”

“Lots.” He kissed her long and leisurely, a promise of things to come. “Possibly all night.” He kissed her again. “Three or four days perhaps.”

A lifetime, he thought. Maybe more.

“Clavin, have there been any calls for me?” It was nine o’clock and he’d been up since seven-thirty waiting to hear from Holly.

He’d listened sharply during the ten minutes it had taken him to shower. But he still could have missed it. Come to think of it, there was more than one line in the house. She’d said she’d called the house before, but maybe he should have given her his private number,

“No, sir, no calls,” Clavin said.

Tall, thin, and half-bald, and more like family to Oliver than several of his blood relatives, Clavin poured coffee from a shiny silver pot into a thin china cup and set it in front of his young employer. With every crease of his livery unwrinkled, he then stepped aside.

“If a woman named Holly Loftin calls, I’ll take it immediately.”

“Very well.”

He opened the newspaper and picked at his customary breakfast of fresh fruit and dry toast and missed Clavin’s hesitation.

“Sir. I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“About what?” he asked absently, his mind on Holly. What if she’d been mugged last night? What if someone had broken into the apartment... Hell, they could have blown the damned door in... What if...?

“About Ms. Loftin.”

“What about her?”

“When she started calling—”

“When she started calling? How many times has she called?”

“She called several times a while back, after Mister Adrian passed on. And then again this morning.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” He recalled her saying that she’d called but hadn’t been able to get through to him. “I asked you five seconds ago if I’d had any calls, and you said no.”

“I beg your pardon, but I was under the impression that you weren’t taking Ms. Loftin’s calls.”

“When the hell did I tell you that?” he shouted, his anger rising so fast and so uncontrollably that it brought him to his feet.

“You didn’t, sir,” he said, falling back on his “sirs” when faced with Oliver’s rage. “Miss Renbrook—”

“Miss Renbrook. Babs? Barbara,” he added, recalling her preferred title. “What the bloody hell does she have to do with this?”

“Sir, after Mister Adrian... passed away... sir, I left Ms. Loftin’s messages on the table with the others. Ms. Renbrook was going to return a few of them for you, I believe, when she came across those from Ms. Loftin. She told me not to take any more, as you wouldn’t appreciate getting them.” Clavin looked at him nervously. Oliver could feel himself turning cold with outrage. “Sir, your aunt was there also, and she agreed.”

He was about to ask the man when he had last received a paycheck from either Ms. Renbrook or his aunt, but knew it was far more satisfying and efficient to slay the dispatcher than it was to wring the messenger’s neck.

It had taken a long time to develop a sophisticated temper. He’d trained his ire to be quietly sarcastic, sharp-tongued, and toxic to humans stupid enough to tamper with him. He hadn’t thrown a royal, blood-curdling fit in many, many years. However, that didn’t mean he’d forgotten how.

“Holly, I’m sorry I missed your call this morning,” he told her machine, his temples still gently throbbing in the aftermath of his wrath—though it was late in the afternoon. “I waited to call. I thought you might be sleeping, but I see you’re up and out again...” he said, picking up the framed picture on his desk. The waiter he’d paid to take care of it and deliver it to his office the next day, had come through. Big tips always paid off.

The photograph could have been of anyone’s hands. He liked to think they were his father’s and his, but they could just as easily be his and maybe a son’s someday.