Chapter Two
Jordan gave me a distrustful look before escorting Chloe out of my apartment.
Their departure left me feeling uncomfortable and anxious. I had intended on getting back to my writing, but the nervous energy they’d left behind demanded a more relaxing activity. I didn’t want Isaac to arrive while I was all worked up.
I grabbed the little black dress I intended to wear and headed to my bathroom. Though I was anything but a fashionista—jeans and a T-shirt were my normal apparel—I did have one or two little dresses. I stripped out of my Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt and turned the water on. The sweatshirt had belonged to my mother. Both my parents had kicked the bucket after a brutal car crash a few years back. I know it sounds harsh, but that's how I cope, so don't judge.
The truth is, I loved my parents deeply, and they had loved me. We had a strong relationship, even when I was in high school. My mom had been my best friend, my fierce protector, and my greatest fan. My dad was the mortar that held our little family of misfits together. Now I lived by myself, in a studio apartment, struggling to pay my own rent. Such was life. But now they were gone and couldn’t help me; I had to remind myself to keep the tears from forming in my eyes.
Before I could get the rest of my clothing off, the bathroom was steaming up from the shower. The bathroom in my apartment is one of those tiny things where a guy could stand in the shower and piss in the toilet, or sink, without missing. I'm pretty sure RVs have larger bathrooms. In the end, I not only straightened my red hair, but I also put on makeup.
Between the makeup, the black dress that left little to the imagination, and the delicate heels, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror. It felt a bit like playing dress up or Barbie. Except, today Ken would actually be arriving at my house.
Isaac is the type of guy that makes a girl's brain turn into liquid and slowly dribble out of her ears. Though he had no distinct features, all his non-distinctiveness consolidated into sheer hotness! His dirty blond hair lay in casual disarray, his nose sat in a slightly cockeyed way, and his facial hair was… there. Like most movie stars, he somehow managed to keep it at the length of stubble without ever letting it get longer or shorter. How men do that is a complete mystery to me.
I went to my Mac PowerBook, saved my document and switched it off. New, the damn thing had cost my dad nearly three grand. Now after ten years, it was worth more as a relic than as a computer. Nevertheless, it continued to run an old word processor program, which was the only thing I really needed it to do.
I had just finished straightening up my desk when I heard a heavy knock that sounded nothing like Jordan’s quick, rhythmic tap. A smile pulled at my lips. Maybe with the help of my little black dress, he’d show a little more interest.
“Coming!” I called.
Isaac stood in the stairwell, dressed in dark wash jeans, a white button-up shirt, and a dress jacket. I have to admit, he didn't look like a college professor. Not that I ever went to college. Weren't professors supposed to be old, with out-of-date glasses and long gray hair pulled back into ponytails?
“Wow!” he said in a breathy tone as he took in my little black dress. Every woman should have one of these, I thought as my face warmed with a typical blush. “You look perfect.”
My smile grew. Call me a sucker, but I love compliments, especially when they come from a guy who looks like he should be modeling Calvin Klein underwear. I grabbed my purse from the small entry table and followed him out, barely remembering to lock my front door.
I lived in a small complex of tiny apartments designed to remind you of old Europe. It was mostly inhabited by ancient ladies who walked around with water cans, even though this was Olympia, Washington—the Land of Continual Rain. Seldom did a day go by without a great deal of the wet stuff falling from the sky. Each exterior door was surrounded by pots of flowers, breaking up the concrete pad. Even the windows were decorated with living plants. I loved the homey feel and mothering neighbors. Also, the rent was cheap.
We pounded our way down the narrow stairs, no doubt annoying Miss Ferguson, my little old gray-haired neighbor. Miss Ferguson was the sweetest senior citizen in the complex, which is saying a lot considering that most of the residents were senior citizens. When we stopped at the exterior door, I could hear her grumbling through the thin walls. I didn't worry about it. She may put on a mean face, but I knew she was nothing but goo and nougat on the inside.
Isaac led me to his car, a silver 2004 Hyundai Tiburon… whatever that is. I'm not a car person, though I can admire a pretty one, and like Isaac, this one was pretty. He opened the door for me and I slid in, trying to pretend like I always wore slinky black dresses and heels that could easily break my ankle. I failed.
He drove us into Lacey, one of the towns wedged up against Olympia; Lacey, Olympia, and Tumwater were basically all one large city. Wednesday night proved to be a perfect night to go to Red Lobster, my favorite restaurant. There was no wait and our server practically lived at our table, to the point where her constant concern for our meal grew annoying. I wanted to be alone with Isaac.
I waited for him to peruse the menu, having already made my choice before we walked through the door. I scanned the seafaring art on the wall. It was that or stare at him, which I didn't think he'd like. The picture on the wall in our booth was that of a lighthouse with an enormous wave crashing into it, the moment caught in perfect clarity by what I imagined must have been an overly-expensive camera.
The writer in me started to think about how a lighthouse attendant would survive such a storm and what daily life was like. I imagined the man, his beard kept long and his body decked in flannel and rubber, hunkered down around a small heater, waiting for the storm to pass. Maybe he would hold on to the picture of the woman he had loved in his youth, but she hadn't loved him enough to brave the perilous life of a lighthouse attendant. What a lonely existence it would be.
From somewhere in the real world, Isaac closed his menu and began to stare at me. Eventually, I realized I was being watched. I grinned sheepishly and folded my hands on the table. “Lost in thought?” he asked.
“Just wondering how a lighthouse keeper would survive such a storm.” I pointed at the picture.
“Your brain never stops, does it?”
I blushed. I couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or not. Before I could respond, the waiter returned with our drinks and took our order. I got shrimp, shrimp, and more shrimp. Isaac got a chicken Caesar salad.
Boy, he knows how to make a girl feel fat, I thought, examining our order. But I couldn't complain; if salad was how he kept his trim figure, well then: yah lettuce!
I wasn't fat myself. I'm not silly enough to think it when it's not true, but that didn't mean there weren't things I didn't like about myself. When I was in elementary school I got hit in the face with a shovel—long story—and had a slight bump in my nose as a result. I didn't like that, for sure.
“Magic,” Isaac asked abruptly.
“Huh?”
“The lighthouse keeper would survive by using magic,” he explained in a matter-of-fact tone.
I didn’t know whether I was supposed to laugh or not. Was he serious? “Well, my grandmother always thought magic was pretty powerful,” I said with a smirk.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on the table.
I snagged a cheese biscuit and broke off a piece, which I quickly popped into my mouth to give myself time to think. My grandma, a rather eccentric person, believed in fairies, vampires, and wizards. Maybe it was her stories that made me write vampire romance novels. Unlike me, she believed them to be as real as the table I sat at or the biscuit I ate. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell Isaac I had a certifiably crazy relative. I finally decided he’d hear eventually.
“Well, my grandma believed in vampires and stuff like that. She always told this story about how my, like, super great-granddad was a magician… or wizard…or whatever. And not like t
he entertainer kind, but the real kind. My grandma believed the story all her life. I think it's a load of bull.”
Isaac smiled at me, an unknown secret bringing a gleam to his eyes. “That's interesting. Do you know what his name was?”
“I don't remember.”
“Well, where'd he come from?”
I frowned. Isaac seemed extra intrigued by my stupid story. Why was he so interested in my family's past? Jordan's warning echoed in the back of my mind. Before I could inquire, our food arrived, distracting me from our conversation.
Isaac didn't ask about my crazy grandmother, or her stories, again.