My One and Only
Page 31
Okay, why did he leave? Huh? Hmm? Huh? Men. I mean, really! Men! Who knew what went on in their tiny brains? Had he just saved me from myself, or completely insulted me? Hmm? Should I be grateful or furious? I yanked on my pajamas, washed my face, brushed my teeth and got into bed, frustrated…and yes, maybe a little relieved.
Suffice it to say I didn’t get a lot of sleep. Tangled thoughts battered me like a debate team on steroids.
Nick and I lived in different states.
So? Try the long-distance thing.
We have completely separate lives.
They don’t have to be separate.
We already tried this, and it was an epic failure.
You’ve changed.
Please. People don’t change.
He still wants you.
He just walked away from me.
Don’t be coy.
We’ll never get over our past.
Hmm. That might be true.
The past certainly haunts me.
Yes. Okay, you win.
With a sigh, I kicked back the covers, got out of bed and clicked on a light, earning some very tragic and confused blinking from my dog. Great. It was 3 a.m., not an hour when sound decisions are often made.
Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I sat down in front of the mirror and took a good hard look.
I knew—intellectually, anyway—that I was pretty. Beautiful, even. My hair was envied by most of the population on earth. Eyes were green and clear. Bone structure quite strong yet still feminine.
It’s just that it was my mother’s face, too.
I didn’t simply take after her…I was practically a clone. My father was tall, thin, dark and handsome. I was tall, red-haired and fair. Every day for the past twenty-one years…every day…I’d had to look in the mirror and see the face of the woman who walked out on me. I hadn’t heard her voice in more than two decades. In all that time, she had only managed to send four postcards with a combined total of twelve sentences.
And as of today, I was the same age she was the last time I’d last seen her.
That was quite a thought. Quite a thought indeed.
The envelope was still in my computer carrier. Slowly, I got up and withdrew it, sat back down and, with another glance at my reflection, opened it up.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NICK WAS ALREADY drinking coffee and staring out the window of the little hotel restaurant when I came in from walking Coco the next morning. My dog jumped up on the seat next to him and stole a slice of bacon, and I ruffled his hair before sitting down.
“Hey,” he said, looking a little confused at the gesture of affection.
“Hey yourself,” I answered. “Sleep okay?”
“Not really,” he said. “I lay awake for hours, horny as a teenage boy.”
“Duly noted,” I said. “So. Are you bound and determined to get to Minneapolis today, Nick?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Feel like a little detour?”
He must’ve sensed something was up, because he gave me a long, speculative look, as if reading my soul. (Wow. Corny. Sorry.) “Where would you like to go?”
“Aberdeen, South Dakota. Maybe three, four hours from here. If I drive, that is.”
“And what’s in Aberdeen?”
“You mean in addition to the Sitting Bull monument?” I asked, having spent some time on Google a few hours ago. I took a sip of his coffee, which he noted with a wry look.
“Yes. In addition to that.”
“My mother.”
Saying those two words out loud…it took something out of me, because suddenly, I couldn’t keep up the cute banter and my hands were shaking, Nick’s coffee sloshing over the rim. He took the cup from me and held both my hands in his, held them tight.
When he did speak, it was brief. “Ready when you are.”
MY THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY had fallen on a Saturday, but my parents and I headed to Boston on Friday. On a plane, oh, yes. The ferry only went to Woods Hole, whereupon we’d have to take a bus or drive our aging Toyota, which just didn’t fit the glamorous night my mother had planned.
She and I had spent weeks researching the very best restaurants in the city, comparing views, decor, street desirability, menus and wine lists…not that I’d be drinking of course, but just to assess the class of the place. Class was a very important noun to my mother. And so we’d come up with Les Étoiles. “Perfect,” she pronounced. “Harper, this is definitely our kind of place. Now we just have to clean up your father, and we’ll be all set.”
She let me stay home from school that day, and I was thrilled. My mother was my absolute favorite person and always had been. She was much younger than most mothers of kids my age; in some cases, almost a generation younger. And she was so beautiful! She’d been a model, of course, and never lost her love of looking fantastic. Still a size four, that glorious hair, those green eyes. My mother looked ten years younger than thirty-four and she knew it. She was a wonderful flirt, and all the fathers loved her, of course, discreetly checking out her ass or her boobs, which she showcased in low-cut tops and tight jeans or miniskirts. She had flair, she had style, and she was fun. I was so proud to be hers, it was impossible to voice. The only real difference between us was that I was a really good student, and she hadn’t been. Otherwise, we were practically twins.
When my schoolmates voiced their hatred, disgust, despair over their mothers, I listened in disbelief and horror. Seriously? They weren’t allowed to see Pretty Woman? Why? So what if the main character was a ho? They still had bedtimes? Heck, my mother let me stay up as late as I wanted, and we’d watch TV and eat junk food and do each other’s nails. Their mothers didn’t let them wear makeup? Huh. Imagine that.
My mother wasn’t like that. She was miles cooler than those other, frumpy, aging women with short bobs held back by pink plaid hairbands or, even worse, those “I give up” types who carried fifty extra pounds, had gray roots and wore baggy, sagging jeans and voluminous sweatshirts. Yawn. No, Linda—I’d been calling her that since I was nine—Linda was special. She taught me how to dress, was always coming home with classy little outfits…no Madonna-style fishnets for me, uh-uh. Linda and I had class. Though we were far from rich, we looked rich, and being mistaken for summer people was a special point of pride for my mother. She coached me on how to diss boys and then make them like me, how to flirt, how to be popular and powerful with both genders. And God knew, she taught me how to make the most of my good looks because, “let’s face it, Harper. We’re knockouts.” As other girls my age sulked through adolescence, I stood out. Prettier. More confident. Better dressed. More fun. All because of my mother, who taught me everything she knew.
And so, the night before my thirteenth birthday, I came downstairs in my strapless blue minidress and three-inch pumps, smoky eyes and just a touch of clear gloss to my lips. My hair was Grecian tonight, loose curls piled on my head to better show my long, graceful neck. My father choked on the beer he was sipping.
“Linda!” he barked, turning away from me. “She’s thirteen, for God’s sake!”
My mother came out of the bedroom. “And she’s gorgeous! Look at you, Harper! Oh, my God! We look like sisters!” It was true. She wore a silver dress with pearl jewelry, killer pumps encrusted with faux pearls. Her makeup focused on her red, red lips—so daring, so Hollywood.
“It’s a little…sophisticated, don’t you think, Lin?” my father tried again. “She looks…twenty.”
“Did you hear that? Your father thinks you look twenty! And you do! You should order a martini tonight, just to see what the waiter says,” Mom said, adjusting my necklace. “Linda!”
“Jimmy, I wouldn’t let her drink one,” my mother sighed, rolling her own beautifully made-up eyes. “Maybe just a tiny sip,” she added in a low voice, winking at me. I grinned in happy conspiracy against dopey old Dad. Sweet but…you know. So provincial.
Dad was quiet all the way to the airport and during the short flight to Boston. Linda and I ignored him, cooing and clutching hands as our cab neared the restaurant. “Okay, we’re here. Be cool, and Jimmy, try not to act like a bumpkin.” Linda and I giggled, united as always against my dad, though I did give him a pat on the cheek.
Looking back on that night, I would see things differently. My father, a general contractor, made a decent living out on the island, but we weren’t wealthy by any stretch. Spending all that money—the designer dresses bought at full price (“We deserve it,” Linda had said), the shoes, the jewelry, the mani-pedis at the uberluxe day spa, the cab to and from the airport, the flight, and my God, the meal…it probably cost him more than a month’s pay. Quite possibly more than two months’ pay.
But on that night, it was all about Linda and me. We acted blasé as we got out of the taxi, though secretly both of us were darting looks to take it all in…the sleek decor, the legion of restaurant staff—the captain, the waiters, the busboys, the sommelier—the soft clink of crystal and murmur of voices. And yes, heads turned as our party of three was led through the restaurant to the best table in the place, up on the second level, overlooking the rest of the diners. We were a gorgeous family, it couldn’t be denied.
“Too bad we couldn’t afford New York,” Linda said as we sat down. “Better yet, L.A. Harper, you’d be a star right this minute if we lived in L.A.” She shook out her napkin with authority. After all, she’d grown up in California. She knew about these things.
We ordered drinks…tonic and lime for me, which tasted weird but which my mother had told me would look way cooler than a Shirley Temple or ginger ale. Dad had a Sam Adams, causing Linda to sigh patiently before ordering a grapefruit martini, dry, for herself.
Then Dad looked at the menu and tried not to blanch, but holy crap, the prices! Forty-five dollars for a piece of fish? Seriously? Fifteen dollars for a salad?
“Order whatever you want, Harper,” Linda said, gazing blandly at the menu. “It’s your special night. Mine too, since I did all the work.” She gave me a wink and proceeded to order a lobster and avocado appetizer, a caesar salad and filet mignon. She always could eat. Never needed to diet.
Dinner was…well, it was fine. The truth was, my feet hurt in my new shoes, and I was kind of cold in my strapless gown. Food-wise, I’d have secretly preferred Sharky’s Super Nachos back on the island. But I pretended it was the best meal of my life as my mother regaled Dad and me with stories of her life in California, making us laugh, charming us with her tinkling laugh, even flirting with my father, laying her hand on his arm and talking in her animated, talk-show host way.
And that part…that part was wonderful.
My parents had a rocky marriage. I knew that. Linda spent too much, didn’t do a lot around the house, and Dad was often frustrated. Sometimes, late at night, I heard them arguing, Dad’s voice loud, Linda’s defiant. But Linda wasn’t like other mothers, or other wives, and surely he could see that. She was special, more fun, more lively, more envied. Dad’s appreciation for her was far less than mine, but on this night, we were really happy. We were having a ball. Even in this beautiful city, even at this very fine restaurant, we were clearly the people to be.
We ordered dessert (no candle on my cheesecake, it would be so gauche) and were winding down when a man approached us.
“Excuse me, do you mind if I take a minute of your time?” he asked. He had graying blond hair, a wicked expensive-looking suit, and he took my mother’s hand the way Lancelot took Guinevere’s.
He introduced himself, sat between my parents in the unoccupied chair at our table. His name was Marcus something, and he was from New York. He worked for Elite Modeling Agency.
At the name of the agency, my mother’s eyes got the slightest bit wider. Her perfect lips parted, and her eyes darted to my dad, who already looked thunderous.
“Of course we’ve heard of Elite, Marcus,” Linda said, tilting her head a bit. “Who hasn’t?”
The man smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. James, your daughter is a very lovely young woman,” he said, turning to me. “How old are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m thirteen. Well, tomorrow, I will be. It’s my birthday,” I said.
“You’ll be thirteen tomorrow?” he said.
“That’s right,” I answered. I could tell it was a good answer, because he gave an approving nod.
“How tall are you, Harper?”
“Five seven and a half. Still growing, I think.” I smiled, and he smiled back.
“I don’t think I want my daughter modeling,” my father said, his familiar frown lowering.
My mouth opened, and I glanced at my mother for solidarity. Surely, we weren’t going to let a chance like this pass us by, were we? Hadn’t my own mother taught me her runway walk? Modeling…for Elite? This would be a dream come true! My friends at school would die! Linda and I would travel all over the world, and I’d—
“Well, before you make a decision, consider this. Some of our younger models have put themselves through college, just working part-time,” Marcus said smoothly. “Of course we’d like some pictures taken. At our cost. We’d fly you all down to the city for a day or two, take you out for dinner, get you some tickets to a show and see what the pictures say.”
Despite the fact that I was pretending to be terribly sophisticated, I jumped a little in my seat. Was he kidding me? Come on! This was the best birthday ever!
“I can see you’re having a special dinner, and I don’t want to take any more of your time,” Marcus said. “But this is my job, and I have an eye for these things.” He gave me a little wink. “I’m in town with Christy Turlington. Do you know who that is?” Of course I knew who Christy Turlington was! The Calvin Klein model? We must’ve had at least ten magazines back home that were littered with pictures of Christy Turlington!
Suffice it to say I didn’t get a lot of sleep. Tangled thoughts battered me like a debate team on steroids.
Nick and I lived in different states.
So? Try the long-distance thing.
We have completely separate lives.
They don’t have to be separate.
We already tried this, and it was an epic failure.
You’ve changed.
Please. People don’t change.
He still wants you.
He just walked away from me.
Don’t be coy.
We’ll never get over our past.
Hmm. That might be true.
The past certainly haunts me.
Yes. Okay, you win.
With a sigh, I kicked back the covers, got out of bed and clicked on a light, earning some very tragic and confused blinking from my dog. Great. It was 3 a.m., not an hour when sound decisions are often made.
Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I sat down in front of the mirror and took a good hard look.
I knew—intellectually, anyway—that I was pretty. Beautiful, even. My hair was envied by most of the population on earth. Eyes were green and clear. Bone structure quite strong yet still feminine.
It’s just that it was my mother’s face, too.
I didn’t simply take after her…I was practically a clone. My father was tall, thin, dark and handsome. I was tall, red-haired and fair. Every day for the past twenty-one years…every day…I’d had to look in the mirror and see the face of the woman who walked out on me. I hadn’t heard her voice in more than two decades. In all that time, she had only managed to send four postcards with a combined total of twelve sentences.
And as of today, I was the same age she was the last time I’d last seen her.
That was quite a thought. Quite a thought indeed.
The envelope was still in my computer carrier. Slowly, I got up and withdrew it, sat back down and, with another glance at my reflection, opened it up.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NICK WAS ALREADY drinking coffee and staring out the window of the little hotel restaurant when I came in from walking Coco the next morning. My dog jumped up on the seat next to him and stole a slice of bacon, and I ruffled his hair before sitting down.
“Hey,” he said, looking a little confused at the gesture of affection.
“Hey yourself,” I answered. “Sleep okay?”
“Not really,” he said. “I lay awake for hours, horny as a teenage boy.”
“Duly noted,” I said. “So. Are you bound and determined to get to Minneapolis today, Nick?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Feel like a little detour?”
He must’ve sensed something was up, because he gave me a long, speculative look, as if reading my soul. (Wow. Corny. Sorry.) “Where would you like to go?”
“Aberdeen, South Dakota. Maybe three, four hours from here. If I drive, that is.”
“And what’s in Aberdeen?”
“You mean in addition to the Sitting Bull monument?” I asked, having spent some time on Google a few hours ago. I took a sip of his coffee, which he noted with a wry look.
“Yes. In addition to that.”
“My mother.”
Saying those two words out loud…it took something out of me, because suddenly, I couldn’t keep up the cute banter and my hands were shaking, Nick’s coffee sloshing over the rim. He took the cup from me and held both my hands in his, held them tight.
When he did speak, it was brief. “Ready when you are.”
MY THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY had fallen on a Saturday, but my parents and I headed to Boston on Friday. On a plane, oh, yes. The ferry only went to Woods Hole, whereupon we’d have to take a bus or drive our aging Toyota, which just didn’t fit the glamorous night my mother had planned.
She and I had spent weeks researching the very best restaurants in the city, comparing views, decor, street desirability, menus and wine lists…not that I’d be drinking of course, but just to assess the class of the place. Class was a very important noun to my mother. And so we’d come up with Les Étoiles. “Perfect,” she pronounced. “Harper, this is definitely our kind of place. Now we just have to clean up your father, and we’ll be all set.”
She let me stay home from school that day, and I was thrilled. My mother was my absolute favorite person and always had been. She was much younger than most mothers of kids my age; in some cases, almost a generation younger. And she was so beautiful! She’d been a model, of course, and never lost her love of looking fantastic. Still a size four, that glorious hair, those green eyes. My mother looked ten years younger than thirty-four and she knew it. She was a wonderful flirt, and all the fathers loved her, of course, discreetly checking out her ass or her boobs, which she showcased in low-cut tops and tight jeans or miniskirts. She had flair, she had style, and she was fun. I was so proud to be hers, it was impossible to voice. The only real difference between us was that I was a really good student, and she hadn’t been. Otherwise, we were practically twins.
When my schoolmates voiced their hatred, disgust, despair over their mothers, I listened in disbelief and horror. Seriously? They weren’t allowed to see Pretty Woman? Why? So what if the main character was a ho? They still had bedtimes? Heck, my mother let me stay up as late as I wanted, and we’d watch TV and eat junk food and do each other’s nails. Their mothers didn’t let them wear makeup? Huh. Imagine that.
My mother wasn’t like that. She was miles cooler than those other, frumpy, aging women with short bobs held back by pink plaid hairbands or, even worse, those “I give up” types who carried fifty extra pounds, had gray roots and wore baggy, sagging jeans and voluminous sweatshirts. Yawn. No, Linda—I’d been calling her that since I was nine—Linda was special. She taught me how to dress, was always coming home with classy little outfits…no Madonna-style fishnets for me, uh-uh. Linda and I had class. Though we were far from rich, we looked rich, and being mistaken for summer people was a special point of pride for my mother. She coached me on how to diss boys and then make them like me, how to flirt, how to be popular and powerful with both genders. And God knew, she taught me how to make the most of my good looks because, “let’s face it, Harper. We’re knockouts.” As other girls my age sulked through adolescence, I stood out. Prettier. More confident. Better dressed. More fun. All because of my mother, who taught me everything she knew.
And so, the night before my thirteenth birthday, I came downstairs in my strapless blue minidress and three-inch pumps, smoky eyes and just a touch of clear gloss to my lips. My hair was Grecian tonight, loose curls piled on my head to better show my long, graceful neck. My father choked on the beer he was sipping.
“Linda!” he barked, turning away from me. “She’s thirteen, for God’s sake!”
My mother came out of the bedroom. “And she’s gorgeous! Look at you, Harper! Oh, my God! We look like sisters!” It was true. She wore a silver dress with pearl jewelry, killer pumps encrusted with faux pearls. Her makeup focused on her red, red lips—so daring, so Hollywood.
“It’s a little…sophisticated, don’t you think, Lin?” my father tried again. “She looks…twenty.”
“Did you hear that? Your father thinks you look twenty! And you do! You should order a martini tonight, just to see what the waiter says,” Mom said, adjusting my necklace. “Linda!”
“Jimmy, I wouldn’t let her drink one,” my mother sighed, rolling her own beautifully made-up eyes. “Maybe just a tiny sip,” she added in a low voice, winking at me. I grinned in happy conspiracy against dopey old Dad. Sweet but…you know. So provincial.
Dad was quiet all the way to the airport and during the short flight to Boston. Linda and I ignored him, cooing and clutching hands as our cab neared the restaurant. “Okay, we’re here. Be cool, and Jimmy, try not to act like a bumpkin.” Linda and I giggled, united as always against my dad, though I did give him a pat on the cheek.
Looking back on that night, I would see things differently. My father, a general contractor, made a decent living out on the island, but we weren’t wealthy by any stretch. Spending all that money—the designer dresses bought at full price (“We deserve it,” Linda had said), the shoes, the jewelry, the mani-pedis at the uberluxe day spa, the cab to and from the airport, the flight, and my God, the meal…it probably cost him more than a month’s pay. Quite possibly more than two months’ pay.
But on that night, it was all about Linda and me. We acted blasé as we got out of the taxi, though secretly both of us were darting looks to take it all in…the sleek decor, the legion of restaurant staff—the captain, the waiters, the busboys, the sommelier—the soft clink of crystal and murmur of voices. And yes, heads turned as our party of three was led through the restaurant to the best table in the place, up on the second level, overlooking the rest of the diners. We were a gorgeous family, it couldn’t be denied.
“Too bad we couldn’t afford New York,” Linda said as we sat down. “Better yet, L.A. Harper, you’d be a star right this minute if we lived in L.A.” She shook out her napkin with authority. After all, she’d grown up in California. She knew about these things.
We ordered drinks…tonic and lime for me, which tasted weird but which my mother had told me would look way cooler than a Shirley Temple or ginger ale. Dad had a Sam Adams, causing Linda to sigh patiently before ordering a grapefruit martini, dry, for herself.
Then Dad looked at the menu and tried not to blanch, but holy crap, the prices! Forty-five dollars for a piece of fish? Seriously? Fifteen dollars for a salad?
“Order whatever you want, Harper,” Linda said, gazing blandly at the menu. “It’s your special night. Mine too, since I did all the work.” She gave me a wink and proceeded to order a lobster and avocado appetizer, a caesar salad and filet mignon. She always could eat. Never needed to diet.
Dinner was…well, it was fine. The truth was, my feet hurt in my new shoes, and I was kind of cold in my strapless gown. Food-wise, I’d have secretly preferred Sharky’s Super Nachos back on the island. But I pretended it was the best meal of my life as my mother regaled Dad and me with stories of her life in California, making us laugh, charming us with her tinkling laugh, even flirting with my father, laying her hand on his arm and talking in her animated, talk-show host way.
And that part…that part was wonderful.
My parents had a rocky marriage. I knew that. Linda spent too much, didn’t do a lot around the house, and Dad was often frustrated. Sometimes, late at night, I heard them arguing, Dad’s voice loud, Linda’s defiant. But Linda wasn’t like other mothers, or other wives, and surely he could see that. She was special, more fun, more lively, more envied. Dad’s appreciation for her was far less than mine, but on this night, we were really happy. We were having a ball. Even in this beautiful city, even at this very fine restaurant, we were clearly the people to be.
We ordered dessert (no candle on my cheesecake, it would be so gauche) and were winding down when a man approached us.
“Excuse me, do you mind if I take a minute of your time?” he asked. He had graying blond hair, a wicked expensive-looking suit, and he took my mother’s hand the way Lancelot took Guinevere’s.
He introduced himself, sat between my parents in the unoccupied chair at our table. His name was Marcus something, and he was from New York. He worked for Elite Modeling Agency.
At the name of the agency, my mother’s eyes got the slightest bit wider. Her perfect lips parted, and her eyes darted to my dad, who already looked thunderous.
“Of course we’ve heard of Elite, Marcus,” Linda said, tilting her head a bit. “Who hasn’t?”
The man smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. James, your daughter is a very lovely young woman,” he said, turning to me. “How old are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m thirteen. Well, tomorrow, I will be. It’s my birthday,” I said.
“You’ll be thirteen tomorrow?” he said.
“That’s right,” I answered. I could tell it was a good answer, because he gave an approving nod.
“How tall are you, Harper?”
“Five seven and a half. Still growing, I think.” I smiled, and he smiled back.
“I don’t think I want my daughter modeling,” my father said, his familiar frown lowering.
My mouth opened, and I glanced at my mother for solidarity. Surely, we weren’t going to let a chance like this pass us by, were we? Hadn’t my own mother taught me her runway walk? Modeling…for Elite? This would be a dream come true! My friends at school would die! Linda and I would travel all over the world, and I’d—
“Well, before you make a decision, consider this. Some of our younger models have put themselves through college, just working part-time,” Marcus said smoothly. “Of course we’d like some pictures taken. At our cost. We’d fly you all down to the city for a day or two, take you out for dinner, get you some tickets to a show and see what the pictures say.”
Despite the fact that I was pretending to be terribly sophisticated, I jumped a little in my seat. Was he kidding me? Come on! This was the best birthday ever!
“I can see you’re having a special dinner, and I don’t want to take any more of your time,” Marcus said. “But this is my job, and I have an eye for these things.” He gave me a little wink. “I’m in town with Christy Turlington. Do you know who that is?” Of course I knew who Christy Turlington was! The Calvin Klein model? We must’ve had at least ten magazines back home that were littered with pictures of Christy Turlington!
