“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“If you don’t get married,” Tess said with a sardonic, slightly bitter laugh.
“Probably not,” Chloe replied, tactfully.
“Smart girl.”
Tess hung up. Chloe sat with the phone in her hand until the dial tone started making that frantic sound and then she set it down. Why was it so strange that she might think about getting married? Why did Tess have to sound so sarcastic about the possibility? Just because she’d never seriously considered the option before didn’t mean it was completely out of the question. Just because Tess was angry with Dave didn’t mean she couldn’t have a sincere, impassioned love affair with Rocco. Oops, bad choice of words—“sincere”—what with Amy so recently standing at her door.
And then she thought about Lia and her three children, of what Lia had said about waiting, and her thoughts became even more muddled. Talk about emotional hell. Maybe she’d watch East Enders too. She was so tired she couldn’t think straight. Switching on the TV, she half watched the cockney soap opera and decided, fantasy or not, her life seemed infinitely sane in comparison.
That moment of understanding helped.
It also made her recall, with almost a degree of comfort, her old saw about fish in the sea.
She wasn’t going to make any swift decisions. For once, she was going to think before she jumped—in this case into marriage.
Rocco could wait.
Her mother would be proud of her self-control.
And as long as Rocco was miles away, she was even able to sustain her dégagé attitude. It was only that closeness thing that caused problems.
She fell asleep watching an Antonio Banderas movie, and her dreams were awash with confusing combinations of Antonio, Rocco and Visnjic—none of them less than lush, however, which made for a pleasant night.
Or half a night.
The phone rang at two thirty-four according to her lighted dial, and as she reached for the phone, she was thinking giddily maybe, maybe, maybe it was Rocco because all rationale aside, her wanting him was at peak pitch what with the sexy dreams and all.
“I just wanted you to know I lost you fair and square,” Colin murmured or slurred—it was hard to tell. “But you’re the best, Chloe, you’re awesome . . . do you mind, Heather, I’m on the phone here—can you wait a minute, hey, cut it out—”
And the phone went dead.
It seemed she didn’t have to worry about Colin falling into any deep depression over her.
But, as Tess would say, this was the real world—not a fairy tale.
THIRTY-FIVE
HER MOTHER’S CALL WOKE HER. AND HER mother’s long lecture on responsibility and reason without once mentioning Rocco’s name was an art form of delicacy and finesse. “I just don’t want you hurt,” she said at the last in her only personal remark.
“Rocco asked me to marry him,” Chloe said. Finesse had never been her forte.
“Isn’t he engaged to someone else?”
“Not anymore.”
“I see.”
It was a negative response regardless of the neutral tone. “I told him I’d think about it.”
“Good for you. Be cautious, darling. You haven’t known him very long, and he sounds as though he’s not completely stable when he jumps from engagement to engagement.”
“He may not have been engaged before, but it’s real complicated.”
“Just use your head, darling. You remember how you wanted to go to school in Florence because Owen was going there, and then after you registered, you broke up with him. And the time when you were going to move to Alaska with Cole and had even packed when you met Kenneth. And then—”
“Okay, Mom, I get it.”
“You’re just impulsive by nature, darling, which is a wonderful quality and the reason you’re so creative, but perhaps at times, er—well . . . you could be slightly more measured in your decisions.”
“I’ll try, Mom.” It was always safer to agree than disagree with her mother. It made the conversations much shorter.
“But why don’t you bring this new man in your life to dinner so we could get a chance to meet him? I don’t suppose he fishes. Your father loves to talk about fishing.”
“I don’t know if he fishes, Mom. I’ll ask him.”
“Ask him if he likes chocolate cake. Most men do. I could make one for dessert. Or cherry cheesecake is another favorite for men, or strawberry shortcake. Do you remember how Uncle Ralph used to like strawberry shortcake?”
Uncle Ralph also used to like his brandy and any other kind of food. He weighed three hundred pounds. Which is why he died of a heart attack at sixty. “I remember, Mom,” she said dutifully, not about to get on the subject of relatives.
“He and Uncle Ben used to fight over the last piece of shortcake.”
“I gotta go, Mom. There’s someone at the door.” Once her mother started down memory lane, there was no telling how long she’d ramble.
“This early in the morning?”
“Maybe Mrs. Gregorich lost her cat again,” Chloe lied. “I’ll call you.”
After having gotten off the hook, she wasn’t quite up to making another duty call right then. She’d read the paper, eat something, have some caffeine and in general avoid calling Rosie until her brain was fed and she’d be more capable of all the little white lies that courtesy required.
She only read the funnies, because her life was in enough tumult already; the world would have to take care of itself today. Her espresso machine actually manufactured a good crema—something in the way of a miracle. Maybe it was a sign. And the burrito in the back of her refrigerator was still edible. Things were definitely looking up.
Now she knew how the Greeks and Romans felt—always looking for advice from signs and oracles.
Finally, she couldn’t put it off any longer. She made her second duty call. She took care not to mention Rocco after having been warned by Tess of Rosie’s problems. All she said to Rosie’s sad lament about Ian’s none-too-stellar track record with marriage was, “I know how tough it is to make up your mind about a guy who appeals to you.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Rosie said with another sigh. “He keeps calling and I keep telling him I need some time to think about us.” She uttered a hiccupy little sob. “As if there’s ever going to be an us.”
“There’s no rush to make up your mind.” God, she was beginning to sound like her mother.
“I know . . .” Lapsing into a weeping fit, Rosie sobbed an unintelligible explanation of how she felt about Ian.
Fortunately, a word was decipherable from time to time, making it possible for Chloe to make appropriately consoling remarks of a general nature like, “Time heals . . . you know best . . . I know what you mean . . . and there might be a perfectly good explanation,” although she got the impression he’d left wife number one stranded in Moscow, which made good explanations slightly more difficult in that case. But it was kind of weird that he’d tell Rosie about it. “How did you hear about that Moscow story?” she asked, suddenly curious.
“We went out to dinner Saturday night and ran into some of his friends. Melanie told me about it in the ladies’ room.”
Chloe didn’t question the venue. Women always went to the ladies’ room in packs. It must be some evolutionary relic. “How did she happen to talk about his marriages?”
“She pulled me aside and said there were some things I should know about Ian—for my own good.”
“Oh, Rosie—not that old deceit. I’ll bet Melanie had gone out with Ian herself.”
“She didn’t say she had.”
“Ask around. Mark my words, she wasn’t doing you any favors.”
“Do you think so?”
“I’d bet money on it.”
“You’re not just trying to make me feel better?”
“Hell no. Don’t you remember Stacy Lind? She was always doing shit like that. And most of it wasn’t true. Ask Ian next time he calls wheth
er he ever went out with Melanie. See what he says.”
“Maybe I will. Do you think I could call him and ask?” A hint of excitement shimmered in her voice.
“What do you have to lose?” It’s amazing how cool and objective one can be about others’ problems.
“At the moment, not much.” Rosie’s giggled. “Actually nothing. Thanks, Chloe. You have a knack for getting right to the point. I will give him a call.”
“Smart move.”
“I forgot to ask,” she said, all cheerful again. “How’s everything going with you?”
“Good, fine, I’m hangin’ in there.” What could she say when Rosie had her own soap opera going on? “Call me if you need anything.”
* * *
SO FAR SHE was zero for three in terms of useful advice that would unravel her current riddles of the universe. Since she had no intention of returning Colin’s calls, Gracie was her last resort.
“Are we going to be having a wedding in the family?” Gracie inquired brightly when she heard Chloe’s voice.
“Not if I listen to Mom and some of my friends,” Chloe replied drily.
“Pooh on that. Listen to yourself. That’s the only person who matters. Tell me all about this romantic man who drove up to the North Shore to find you.”
“He never found me, for starters. I was at Gull Lake.”
“But he found you eventually, I’ll bet. I had the impression from your mother that he was quite intent on his mission.”
“I saw him last night. He asked me to marry him.”
“I just knew it. I must have had a dream.”
Chloe laughed. “If you have another dream, tell me if I should accept.”
“Do you want to?”
“In a way.”
“But?”
“I just don’t want to go too fast. I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks and he’s not exactly—”
“Reliable?”
“Something like that.”
“Because of that Amy woman?”
“Among other things. He’s too good-looking and he’s pretty smooth. You warned me about that.”
“Sometimes you have to go with your heart, though. There was a time in my life when I didn’t, and I still regret that decision.”
“The man in Japan?”
“Yes. I was young, too young probably, but sometimes age doesn’t matter. On the other hand, your mother and I have never agreed on the merits of responsibility; it’s never easy to weigh reason and love.”
“At least you’re not telling me no.”
“I’d never do that. Does he make you happy?”
Chloe laughed. “Mostly. Although things are pretty volatile in one way or another.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“It is. And that’s what I’m trying to understand—whether excitement equates with love or whether I’m mixing it up with sex and passion. I’m not sure I even know what love is. He tells me not to try to analyze it—just enjoy it.”
“Maybe he’s more sensible than you think. Bring him over for drinks sometime so I can meet this man who’s making you think about love.”
“He is, isn’t he? Wow, that’s a first. It must mean something at least.”
Gracie laughed. “Since when did you start thinking this hard about having fun?”
“You’re right. You’re right. I’m making this all too cerebral. When did I become overly concerned with intellect rather than impulse—oh, oh . . . that might be him calling in.”
THIRTY-SIX
“HOW’D YOU SLEEP?” IT WAS A LOW, SOFT query.
“Hey. Could have been better.”
“Same here.”
“Things are looking up, though,” Chloe purred. She only had to hear his voice and joy filled her heart.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
She could hear the smile in his words. “It looks like it could be a great day.” It does now, she thought, basking in the pleasure.
“A good enough day to skip work? I sold so much product last week, my sister gave me the day off. I’d like to take you up to my cabin.”
“Why?”
“No reason. Do you need a reason?”
“Not really, but I have to pick up my car from Louie’s.”
“I’ll do that while you’re packing a swimsuit.”
“It won’t take me long to pack a swimsuit.”
“I’m downstairs. It won’t take me long to walk to Louie’s. Throw your keys down the stairway.”
“You’re downstairs!”
“Sorta.”
“You’re so adorable.” Reason didn’t have a fighting chance against the tidal wave of happiness flooding her mind.
“I’m not sure I want to be adorable. How about rugged or strong or well-equipped?”
“Nope. Adorable. Although, I’ll give you points for those others too.”
“Good, because I’m thinking maybe we could take advantage of the well-equipped part now before we leave.”
His voice sounded close, and looking up, she saw him lounging in her bedroom doorway, one shoulder against the jamb, his phone to his ear, his smile so beautiful it made her melt with longing. He was dressed for the lake in jeans and a T-shirt, the jeans riding low on his lean hips, the grey, athletic T-shirt taut over his hard muscled body, his virile maleness reminding her of a Calvin Klein ad where you’re never quite sure if they’re selling sex or T-shirts.
He snapped his phone shut and arched one brow. “Or then again, maybe you could help me drive and we’d get to the lake sooner.”
God worked in mysterious ways. She’d taken off the chain lock when she’d picked up the paper, and look at her prize. Her own Calvin Klein ad in the flesh. “Help how?” she murmured, a ripple of heat radiating through her body, one particular possibility front and center in her mind.
“Sit on my lap while I drive,” he said with a sexy grin.
“That’s what I thought you meant.” Her body was way ahead of her, every libidinous cell dancing the tango.
“So?”
“I’m hungry. You’ll have to feed me if I go right now.”
He laughed. “You’re talking about food, right?”
“Very funny. That must be male humor.” Throwing back the covers, she rose from her bed, wishing she’d worn something more sexy than her Mickey Mouse nightshirt. “I want something sweet and gooey, a caramel roll or creme puff to go with my latte.”
He pushed away from the doorjamb, looking so gorgeous she was seriously thinking about attacking him, but not before she brushed her teeth and got rid of the taste of Louie’s gin.
“You’ve got it, babe. Give me your keys. I’ll be back in ten minutes with your car and something gooey. All you need is a swimsuit. At least for the daytime. If you want to stay and skinny dip tonight, I don’t have to be back until morning.”
“I should say no. I should stay home and work. I shouldn’t always just do whatever you ask me to do.”
“Do you like to water ski?”
She grinned. “Damn you. I suppose you have a sauna by the lake too.”
He smiled. “And if you decide to stay tonight, I’ll cook you s’mores over a camp fire.”
“Ummm, s’mores, now there’s temptation. On the other hand, my mother said I should be less impulsive and more considering in my decisions.”
“So think about it for another few seconds.”
She looked out the window, then gazed back at him. “Okay, I’ll go.”
He held out his hand.
She picked up her keys from her dresser and tossed them his way.
Catching them with a kind of lazy grace, he grinned and left.
Men always said, “Throw a swimsuit in your bag,” like it was that easy, like women were like them and packed a duffel bag for two weeks in Europe. She ran for the bathroom wondering how she’d possibly have time to make herself presentable in only ten minutes. Lord, it could take her ten minutes trying to decide which swimsuit to take along
. But then, maybe his seductive promise apropos of the car ride north gave wings to her feet, or maybe she’d lucked out and slept on her hair in just the right way, so it curled in provocative disarray instead of flat-as-a-pancake disarray. Ripping off her Mickey Mouse nightshirt, she quickly splashed water on her face and everywhere else she could think of that needed a splash, ran a comb through her hair, brushed her teeth, threw on a minimum of makeup (read: lipstick) and slipping her arms into a robe, dashed to her closet where she stood for probably seven of her ten minutes trying to decide what to wear.
North woods denim? Boaty stripes for the lake? Chinos and plaid? Was gingham too farmy—not woodsy enough? Something for the beach, maybe? He must have a beach. A cute little sun dress with colorful sandals?
“Jeez, women. Your car’s back, the food’s in my truck, and you’re still not ready.”
She swung around. “I don’t want to hear, ‘jeez, women,’ like you’ve done this ten thousand times before. That would ruin my perfect day.”
He held out his hands, palm out. “Let me rephrase that. I’m anxious to leave. Could I help you in any way?”
“You certainly could, Mr. Vinelli.”
He grinned, readjusted his timetable and said with a dip of his handsome head, “How may I help, Miss Chisholm?”
She waved him toward her dresser. “Pick out a suit for me. Second drawer. And take back your money clip. It’s in the kitchen in the drawer next to the fridge.”
This might be the time to explain why he hadn’t told her to mail him his money clip that day at Diversified Foods. On the other hand, this was more likely one of those occasions for which the phrase “let sleeping dogs lie,” was coined. Considering her very good mood, he opted for the latter. As she turned back to her closet, he walked to the dresser, opened the second drawer, put in his hand and pulled out a suit.
“How about this?” he said, holding up a tiger print one-piece suit.
She spun around. “I don’t like that one.”
“Okaaay.” As she went back to her perusal, he picked up a large canvas book bag hanging from a chair, emptied it of books, and stuffed it with the contents of the second drawer. Then he went to the kitchen, picked up his money clip, carried the bag downstairs and put it in his truck.