Until There Was You
Page 7
Well, bless his heart! He was cute. “This is my first time,” she acknowledged.
“What do you do for work, Posey?” he asked.
“I own an architectural salvage operation.”
“Cool!” he said. “I love old things.”
The night was getting better and better. He crossed his arms. Nice arms, she noted. Nice everything, actually. A little stir of attraction tickled her stomach. She sliced her plum tomatoes obediently as Jon waxed rhapsodic about sauce. “And what do you do, Gus?”
“I’m an actor.”
“Really!”
“That’s right.” He grinned proudly.
“Full time?”
“Full time.”
“Wow.” Posey couldn’t say that she met a lot of actors…a few community theater buffs here and there, but paid actors? “So, you get enough work up here? I mean, we’re hardly New York or L.A.”
“Actually, yes.” He smiled and sliced, rather adept with a knife. “I get plenty of work. I’ve made a pretty good living at this for years now.”
Should she recognize him? Was he someone famous? “Have you been in anything I might’ve seen?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he said. “What do you like to watch?’
Now was probably not the time to mention that last night, she’d watched Phantom of the Opera for the ninth time…might make her seem a little on the fetishist side. “Um…I like just about everything.”
“Have you ever seen Heat Rising?” he asked.
She thought for a minute. “I don’t think so. What was that, an action flick?”
He winked. “It sure was.”
“Is that the one where the submarine is stolen by the pirates?”
Gus smiled. “Getting colder. It was…” He paused dramatically. “An adult entertainment film.”
Posey blinked. “Say again?”
He lowered his voice to a whisper and gave her a very adorable grin. “I’m a p**n star.”
She gave a hearty laugh. “Yeah. Me, too. Posey Does Portsmouth. Have you seen it?”
He stood up straighter, and the smile left his face. “Posey, I act in adult films. That’s my job.”
Holy Elvis Presley. He was serious. “I thought… I didn’t think you were…” She glanced at Jon, but he was helping the Taylor Lautner fan, who was using her knife like a hatchet. “So. Wow. That’s…interesting.”
“It is, isn’t it? And it’s not nearly as sleazy as it sounds,” Gus went on. “I mean, do I get more than my share of tail? Sure. But I’m looking to really connect, know what I mean? Fall in love. Make love. Which is so different from acting, where some know-nothing director is telling me what to do. And it can be hard, you know? Some of the scripts we get are absolute crap. There’s no story, you know? I mean, what are these characters looking for, right? Other than a good lay?”
Posey nodded. Tried to picture bringing this guy home to her parents’ house, where pictures of Pope Benedict, son of the Fatherland, hung in three of the six rooms. He’s a p**n star, Ma. A p**n star. Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen.
“I should probably be honest here,” Posey said, trying to take a note from Wayne. “I…I think your job would probably rule you out in terms of dating. I’m sorry.”
“Who asked you, huh?” he snapped. “Man! You’re so prejudiced! So I screw people for a living! So do lawyers! Would you go out with a lawyer?”
“Um…probably,” Posey said.
Gus tossed down his knife and folded his arms in full sulk. Her brother-in-law gave her a questioning look, then clapped his hands once more. “Gentlemen, take a stroll to your left, won’t you?”
“Holy crap! Posey Osterhagen, right? Shit! Long time no see!”
Posey felt every muscle in her body stiffen. “Rick. Yep, it’s been a while.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are, Rick. Why don’t we just skip each other? No need to waste time, right?”
“Smell the basil, gang,” Jon was crooning. “Isn’t that glorious? Now you know why you paid so much to take this class. This basil was flown in from Cyprus, okay? Heaven!”
“I don’t want to skip,” Rick said. “Dude, relax, okay? It’s just a cooking class.”
True enough. But by all that was holy, she didn’t want to spend a nanosecond with Rick Balin.
Rick was a native of Bellsford, too, and like Posey, he’d moved back after college. But they hadn’t spoken since high school, though of course she’d seen him here and there, at the bank or a town meeting. Rick “managed” one of his parents’ marinas, which, according to the gossip at Rosebud’s Bar and Grille, meant that he came into the office, downloaded p**n (hey, maybe he’d recognize Gus), then left around three to start cocktail hour.
“So, how are you?” Risk asked. “It’s been a while, right?”
She gave a tight nod. The only saving grace was how horrible he looked, even worse up close. The years had taken a toll—the years, and several thousand bottles of beer, she guessed, based on his large belly and florid face. Even so, Rick Balin still oozed that rich-boy smugness (that, and alcohol fumes) as he lackadaisically chopped basil.
For a second, it was as if they were back in high school and Rick was leaning against her locker, blocking her from opening it. Back then, Rick Balin had lived the cliché of trust fund brat: he was beautiful, he was spoiled and he was cruel.
He’d also been her prom date.
“So, you’re still single, Posey?” Rick asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” she answered.
“Me, too. Divorced. Twice, if you can believe it.”
“Oh, I can.”
“So, maybe we can hook up sometime.”
“No, thanks.”
He shrugged and gave her a once-over. “Still scrawny,” he said. His eyes, which Posey had once thought beautiful, settled on her breasts. “Then again, anything more than a mouthful’s a waste.”
She flinched, her arm hitting his, and suddenly Rick was screaming. “What the hell! What the hell!” and blood was pooling on the cutting board, totally ruining Jon’s beautiful basil, because Rick had just sliced into the tip of his little finger.
Which, though she probably shouldn’t, Posey found deeply satisfying.
Jon leaped over with a towel, yanked Rick’s arm up.
“She cut me! She did that on purpose!”
“Oh, grow a pair, Rick,” she said. “You cut yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t drink when using sharp instruments.”
“Did you hear that? She’s so mean!” Rick said.
“It’s a just a cut,” Jon said.
“Dude! I’m gushing blood! I need an ambulance!”
Jon sighed. “Fine. Good thing you all signed that waiver, huh?”
Someone called 911, and Rick was led out of the room. As he left, he turned back to glare at her. “Whoops,” she mouthed.
Granted, it hadn’t been planned. But it was wonderful nonetheless.
“SO THAT WAS FUN,” Kate declared as they drove home. “Did you have fun? Find anyone to marry?”
“The p**n star was kind of cute, but then I remembered my mother’s angina, so no.”
“You okay about seeing Rick?” Kate asked, glancing over. She reached out and patted Posey’s knee. “Awesome that you sliced off his finger.” The boo-boo had already taken on legendary proportions.
“I actually didn’t. It was the divine hand of fate, that’s all. He was half-drunk.”
“He stood you up at the prom,” Kate said.
“Yeah, I remember.”
It was true. But though Rick had indeed dumped her at the prom, it was Liam Murphy who’d done the real damage.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE FIRST TIME Posey laid eyes on Liam Murphy, her life changed.
Until high school, Posey’s childhood had been great—a big brother, Guten Tag as a second home, parents who constantly assured her of her specialness, her beauty (“Cuter than a bug’s ear!” her dad liked to exclaim), her talents (bricklaying…she’d done the entire patio, just for fun). Sure, her parents laid it on a bit thick—after all, Henry had already delivered the goods one pictures when thinking adoption: Asian, IQ of 164, gifted at violin. Posey’s greatest public moment had come when she was cast in her fourth grade’s production of Farmer Smith’s Bunny, in which she played a nonspeaking turnip. But she knew she was loved.
So, yes, despite Stacia’s conviction that Posey was teetering on the edge of death, disaster or kidnapping at all times, life was good, and Posey felt like a pretty normal, happy person, despite her friends’ fascination with her adoption. It was only when Ruth, Ralphie and Gretchen came to visit that the little wounds of insecurity were cut open. Her aunt and uncle showed Gretchen off like a prized dog at Westminster. “Isn’t she the image of Oma? Look at those eyes, like the sky, Stacia! Have you tasted this torte? Amazing!” There was no getting around it— Gretchen was everything good the family genetics had ever produced.
Gretchen was also full of information—older by two months, she seemed to feel it was her job to fill in the blanks for Posey. Gret told her how you got pregnant (French kissing), how babies came out of their mothers (pooped out), where Posey’s real name came from (Great-Aunt Cordelia, who only had one eye and fell in a well and died, but Posey shouldn’t bring that up, because it would make their mothers cry).
Gretchen also told Posey the reason she’d been adopted—Stacia had a baby girl who had died, and Posey was the replacement.
Henry had confirmed that one. In his factual way, he told her their mom had been pregnant when he was in kindergarten, then went to the hospital, and no baby ever came home. That was all he knew.
But all in all, childhood had been A-okay. Posey had friends, was allowed to run cross-country in middle school, deemed the least dangerous sport by her parents. Being a good six or eight inches shorter than most of the other girls, she never won, but it was fun nonetheless. Her grades were solid, her brother was tolerant and helped her with homework. She was invited to birthday parties and had friends over.
And then came high school.
Somehow, everything changed the summer after eighth grade. Girls she’d been friends with were now obsessed with boys or their own beauty, their long hair, their thrilling boobies. Posey was left out, still skinny as a toothpick, uncurvy, undeveloped, uninterested in whether Brandon really had checked out Emily at recess. The boys who’d once played kickball with Posey now made rude comments about her flat chest. When her freshman class read The Diary of Anne Frank, there were giggles and whispers. Posey found energy bars and candy in front of her locker for weeks. Just before the freshman chorus concert, when all fifty kids were waiting to file onto stage, Kyle Stubbins asked her if she had a tapeworm. It was stunning to her…she’d gone to Kyle’s birthday party in fourth grade, gave him a Magic 8 Ball, which he’d really liked. But high school was a cold, alien world, one where old friendships didn’t seem to matter.
So Posey took the tried and true route of teenage survival: invisibility. She was friends with Kate, but they didn’t have many classes together. Posey didn’t raise her hand too much, didn’t try to talk to the popular kids, just floated along at the fringes, ignored the occasional insult and chose extracurricular activities that were underpopulated: the French Club, woodworking. It worked; if she wasn’t noticed, at least she wasn’t tormented.
Then, in the springtime of her freshman year, he came to town.
Posey was standing in the hall, waiting for the popular kids to get out of the way so she could get her lunch-box out of her locker. This simple act was a painful daily event, as all the cool kids got hot lunch and would die before bringing in homemade lunches. Worse, Posey’s locker was next to the locker of Jessica Blair, a junior and reigning queen of the evil popular crowd. Jessica was going with Rick Balin, tanned, blond, and beautiful, star tight end of the football team, and their minions swarmed around them.
Posey waited, hugging her books to her chest. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to ease past Jamie Highgate. He didn’t move, so she wriggled past. Rick was leaning on her locker door and (of course) didn’t notice her. “Excuse me,” she said again. “Sorry, I need to get in here.” Rick finally moved, though he didn’t look at her. And great. Now Mitchell Oberlin was in the way. Despite having had four cheese blintzes for breakfast, Posey was lightheaded with hunger. “Excuse me,” she said once more, managing to open her locker door an inch, just enough to glimpse her salvation in the form of a giant blue lunch-box. “Excuse me. Sorry. Can I—”
And then…and then he came down the hall, black hair thick and rumpled, flannel shirt open over a T-shirt with mysterious logo, faded blue jeans. Scuffed black leather jacket. He was unshaven (unshaven!), and his motorcycle helmet (motorcycle!) indicated his form of transportation. The principal was with him, lecturing him about behavior and second chances, and from the look in his eye, this guy could care less. The crowd around Jessica and Rick fell silent at the spectacle of this…this god. His eyes cut around the hallway, assessing and unimpressed.
For one second, the clear green gaze landed on Posey, and all other sounds were instantly blanked out except the thudding of her heart. Her cheeks tightened with a blush. Knees tingled, mouth went dry. Who was that?
For the next few weeks, Posey found out all she could about this new deity. Liam Declan Murphy…sigh! He was just out of juvie (juvie!) for stealing cars. Every day, he arrived on a battered Triumph motorcycle, which Posey learned was uber-cool, way more so than a newer, shinier make. According to the rumors that flew thick and fast, he played guitar (guitar!) in a band in some sleazy bar (squee!) across the river in Kittery. He lived with an uncle over by the quarry. Parents were either dead, in jail or witness protection.
“What do you do for work, Posey?” he asked.
“I own an architectural salvage operation.”
“Cool!” he said. “I love old things.”
The night was getting better and better. He crossed his arms. Nice arms, she noted. Nice everything, actually. A little stir of attraction tickled her stomach. She sliced her plum tomatoes obediently as Jon waxed rhapsodic about sauce. “And what do you do, Gus?”
“I’m an actor.”
“Really!”
“That’s right.” He grinned proudly.
“Full time?”
“Full time.”
“Wow.” Posey couldn’t say that she met a lot of actors…a few community theater buffs here and there, but paid actors? “So, you get enough work up here? I mean, we’re hardly New York or L.A.”
“Actually, yes.” He smiled and sliced, rather adept with a knife. “I get plenty of work. I’ve made a pretty good living at this for years now.”
Should she recognize him? Was he someone famous? “Have you been in anything I might’ve seen?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he said. “What do you like to watch?’
Now was probably not the time to mention that last night, she’d watched Phantom of the Opera for the ninth time…might make her seem a little on the fetishist side. “Um…I like just about everything.”
“Have you ever seen Heat Rising?” he asked.
She thought for a minute. “I don’t think so. What was that, an action flick?”
He winked. “It sure was.”
“Is that the one where the submarine is stolen by the pirates?”
Gus smiled. “Getting colder. It was…” He paused dramatically. “An adult entertainment film.”
Posey blinked. “Say again?”
He lowered his voice to a whisper and gave her a very adorable grin. “I’m a p**n star.”
She gave a hearty laugh. “Yeah. Me, too. Posey Does Portsmouth. Have you seen it?”
He stood up straighter, and the smile left his face. “Posey, I act in adult films. That’s my job.”
Holy Elvis Presley. He was serious. “I thought… I didn’t think you were…” She glanced at Jon, but he was helping the Taylor Lautner fan, who was using her knife like a hatchet. “So. Wow. That’s…interesting.”
“It is, isn’t it? And it’s not nearly as sleazy as it sounds,” Gus went on. “I mean, do I get more than my share of tail? Sure. But I’m looking to really connect, know what I mean? Fall in love. Make love. Which is so different from acting, where some know-nothing director is telling me what to do. And it can be hard, you know? Some of the scripts we get are absolute crap. There’s no story, you know? I mean, what are these characters looking for, right? Other than a good lay?”
Posey nodded. Tried to picture bringing this guy home to her parents’ house, where pictures of Pope Benedict, son of the Fatherland, hung in three of the six rooms. He’s a p**n star, Ma. A p**n star. Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen.
“I should probably be honest here,” Posey said, trying to take a note from Wayne. “I…I think your job would probably rule you out in terms of dating. I’m sorry.”
“Who asked you, huh?” he snapped. “Man! You’re so prejudiced! So I screw people for a living! So do lawyers! Would you go out with a lawyer?”
“Um…probably,” Posey said.
Gus tossed down his knife and folded his arms in full sulk. Her brother-in-law gave her a questioning look, then clapped his hands once more. “Gentlemen, take a stroll to your left, won’t you?”
“Holy crap! Posey Osterhagen, right? Shit! Long time no see!”
Posey felt every muscle in her body stiffen. “Rick. Yep, it’s been a while.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are, Rick. Why don’t we just skip each other? No need to waste time, right?”
“Smell the basil, gang,” Jon was crooning. “Isn’t that glorious? Now you know why you paid so much to take this class. This basil was flown in from Cyprus, okay? Heaven!”
“I don’t want to skip,” Rick said. “Dude, relax, okay? It’s just a cooking class.”
True enough. But by all that was holy, she didn’t want to spend a nanosecond with Rick Balin.
Rick was a native of Bellsford, too, and like Posey, he’d moved back after college. But they hadn’t spoken since high school, though of course she’d seen him here and there, at the bank or a town meeting. Rick “managed” one of his parents’ marinas, which, according to the gossip at Rosebud’s Bar and Grille, meant that he came into the office, downloaded p**n (hey, maybe he’d recognize Gus), then left around three to start cocktail hour.
“So, how are you?” Risk asked. “It’s been a while, right?”
She gave a tight nod. The only saving grace was how horrible he looked, even worse up close. The years had taken a toll—the years, and several thousand bottles of beer, she guessed, based on his large belly and florid face. Even so, Rick Balin still oozed that rich-boy smugness (that, and alcohol fumes) as he lackadaisically chopped basil.
For a second, it was as if they were back in high school and Rick was leaning against her locker, blocking her from opening it. Back then, Rick Balin had lived the cliché of trust fund brat: he was beautiful, he was spoiled and he was cruel.
He’d also been her prom date.
“So, you’re still single, Posey?” Rick asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” she answered.
“Me, too. Divorced. Twice, if you can believe it.”
“Oh, I can.”
“So, maybe we can hook up sometime.”
“No, thanks.”
He shrugged and gave her a once-over. “Still scrawny,” he said. His eyes, which Posey had once thought beautiful, settled on her breasts. “Then again, anything more than a mouthful’s a waste.”
She flinched, her arm hitting his, and suddenly Rick was screaming. “What the hell! What the hell!” and blood was pooling on the cutting board, totally ruining Jon’s beautiful basil, because Rick had just sliced into the tip of his little finger.
Which, though she probably shouldn’t, Posey found deeply satisfying.
Jon leaped over with a towel, yanked Rick’s arm up.
“She cut me! She did that on purpose!”
“Oh, grow a pair, Rick,” she said. “You cut yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t drink when using sharp instruments.”
“Did you hear that? She’s so mean!” Rick said.
“It’s a just a cut,” Jon said.
“Dude! I’m gushing blood! I need an ambulance!”
Jon sighed. “Fine. Good thing you all signed that waiver, huh?”
Someone called 911, and Rick was led out of the room. As he left, he turned back to glare at her. “Whoops,” she mouthed.
Granted, it hadn’t been planned. But it was wonderful nonetheless.
“SO THAT WAS FUN,” Kate declared as they drove home. “Did you have fun? Find anyone to marry?”
“The p**n star was kind of cute, but then I remembered my mother’s angina, so no.”
“You okay about seeing Rick?” Kate asked, glancing over. She reached out and patted Posey’s knee. “Awesome that you sliced off his finger.” The boo-boo had already taken on legendary proportions.
“I actually didn’t. It was the divine hand of fate, that’s all. He was half-drunk.”
“He stood you up at the prom,” Kate said.
“Yeah, I remember.”
It was true. But though Rick had indeed dumped her at the prom, it was Liam Murphy who’d done the real damage.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE FIRST TIME Posey laid eyes on Liam Murphy, her life changed.
Until high school, Posey’s childhood had been great—a big brother, Guten Tag as a second home, parents who constantly assured her of her specialness, her beauty (“Cuter than a bug’s ear!” her dad liked to exclaim), her talents (bricklaying…she’d done the entire patio, just for fun). Sure, her parents laid it on a bit thick—after all, Henry had already delivered the goods one pictures when thinking adoption: Asian, IQ of 164, gifted at violin. Posey’s greatest public moment had come when she was cast in her fourth grade’s production of Farmer Smith’s Bunny, in which she played a nonspeaking turnip. But she knew she was loved.
So, yes, despite Stacia’s conviction that Posey was teetering on the edge of death, disaster or kidnapping at all times, life was good, and Posey felt like a pretty normal, happy person, despite her friends’ fascination with her adoption. It was only when Ruth, Ralphie and Gretchen came to visit that the little wounds of insecurity were cut open. Her aunt and uncle showed Gretchen off like a prized dog at Westminster. “Isn’t she the image of Oma? Look at those eyes, like the sky, Stacia! Have you tasted this torte? Amazing!” There was no getting around it— Gretchen was everything good the family genetics had ever produced.
Gretchen was also full of information—older by two months, she seemed to feel it was her job to fill in the blanks for Posey. Gret told her how you got pregnant (French kissing), how babies came out of their mothers (pooped out), where Posey’s real name came from (Great-Aunt Cordelia, who only had one eye and fell in a well and died, but Posey shouldn’t bring that up, because it would make their mothers cry).
Gretchen also told Posey the reason she’d been adopted—Stacia had a baby girl who had died, and Posey was the replacement.
Henry had confirmed that one. In his factual way, he told her their mom had been pregnant when he was in kindergarten, then went to the hospital, and no baby ever came home. That was all he knew.
But all in all, childhood had been A-okay. Posey had friends, was allowed to run cross-country in middle school, deemed the least dangerous sport by her parents. Being a good six or eight inches shorter than most of the other girls, she never won, but it was fun nonetheless. Her grades were solid, her brother was tolerant and helped her with homework. She was invited to birthday parties and had friends over.
And then came high school.
Somehow, everything changed the summer after eighth grade. Girls she’d been friends with were now obsessed with boys or their own beauty, their long hair, their thrilling boobies. Posey was left out, still skinny as a toothpick, uncurvy, undeveloped, uninterested in whether Brandon really had checked out Emily at recess. The boys who’d once played kickball with Posey now made rude comments about her flat chest. When her freshman class read The Diary of Anne Frank, there were giggles and whispers. Posey found energy bars and candy in front of her locker for weeks. Just before the freshman chorus concert, when all fifty kids were waiting to file onto stage, Kyle Stubbins asked her if she had a tapeworm. It was stunning to her…she’d gone to Kyle’s birthday party in fourth grade, gave him a Magic 8 Ball, which he’d really liked. But high school was a cold, alien world, one where old friendships didn’t seem to matter.
So Posey took the tried and true route of teenage survival: invisibility. She was friends with Kate, but they didn’t have many classes together. Posey didn’t raise her hand too much, didn’t try to talk to the popular kids, just floated along at the fringes, ignored the occasional insult and chose extracurricular activities that were underpopulated: the French Club, woodworking. It worked; if she wasn’t noticed, at least she wasn’t tormented.
Then, in the springtime of her freshman year, he came to town.
Posey was standing in the hall, waiting for the popular kids to get out of the way so she could get her lunch-box out of her locker. This simple act was a painful daily event, as all the cool kids got hot lunch and would die before bringing in homemade lunches. Worse, Posey’s locker was next to the locker of Jessica Blair, a junior and reigning queen of the evil popular crowd. Jessica was going with Rick Balin, tanned, blond, and beautiful, star tight end of the football team, and their minions swarmed around them.
Posey waited, hugging her books to her chest. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to ease past Jamie Highgate. He didn’t move, so she wriggled past. Rick was leaning on her locker door and (of course) didn’t notice her. “Excuse me,” she said again. “Sorry, I need to get in here.” Rick finally moved, though he didn’t look at her. And great. Now Mitchell Oberlin was in the way. Despite having had four cheese blintzes for breakfast, Posey was lightheaded with hunger. “Excuse me,” she said once more, managing to open her locker door an inch, just enough to glimpse her salvation in the form of a giant blue lunch-box. “Excuse me. Sorry. Can I—”
And then…and then he came down the hall, black hair thick and rumpled, flannel shirt open over a T-shirt with mysterious logo, faded blue jeans. Scuffed black leather jacket. He was unshaven (unshaven!), and his motorcycle helmet (motorcycle!) indicated his form of transportation. The principal was with him, lecturing him about behavior and second chances, and from the look in his eye, this guy could care less. The crowd around Jessica and Rick fell silent at the spectacle of this…this god. His eyes cut around the hallway, assessing and unimpressed.
For one second, the clear green gaze landed on Posey, and all other sounds were instantly blanked out except the thudding of her heart. Her cheeks tightened with a blush. Knees tingled, mouth went dry. Who was that?
For the next few weeks, Posey found out all she could about this new deity. Liam Declan Murphy…sigh! He was just out of juvie (juvie!) for stealing cars. Every day, he arrived on a battered Triumph motorcycle, which Posey learned was uber-cool, way more so than a newer, shinier make. According to the rumors that flew thick and fast, he played guitar (guitar!) in a band in some sleazy bar (squee!) across the river in Kittery. He lived with an uncle over by the quarry. Parents were either dead, in jail or witness protection.
