Beautiful Stranger (11 page)

“There’s no one like you, Sam.”

Sam opened the door to Anna’s place. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Come on. Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Seventy-eighth Street was exactly as Anna had left it at the end of the year. The sidewalk—scrubbed every day by employees of the block association—was as clean as the sand on the most private beaches at Malibu. There wasn’t a speck of litter or even an overflowing trash can. Brownstone abutted brownstone, each in immaculate condition.

Anna and Sam hadn’t taken more than ten steps east on their trek to the Olympia Diner when Anna heard someone softly call her name.

“Anna Percy? Is that you?”

She turned around and saw a blond, preppy-looking guy with deep-set, serious eyes staring at her expectantly from the top step of the brownstone next door. He wore an open light blue shirt over a T-shirt, khakis, and black Gucci loafers without socks. He looked, Anna thought, like he could be Daniel Craig’s son. Same startling blue eyes. Same slightly sticky-out ears. Same sandy hair and jutting jaw.

Anna mentally smiled at her own thought process. Before she’d moved to Los Angeles, she would never have made a what-famous-movie-star-does-he-look-like? comparison. Nor would she even have known who Daniel Craig was, because she never would have gone to see a James Bond movie. But she’d seen the latest one with Sam, and liked it. For a split second, she studied Daniel Craig Junior and tried to place him. He did look vaguely familiar.

“Logan,” she said softly. Now that she took a good look at him, he didn’t look all that different from the boy she’d grown up with. She and Logan Cresswell had gone to preschool together at the Y. And following that, they’d sat next to each other in grade school. He was the first boy she’d ever kissed—on the cheek, in the cloakroom, in second grade—though she could no longer remember why. She hadn’t seen him in forever. He was one of those kids whose parents sent them to boarding school.

“My parents still live here.” He cocked his head toward the brownstone. “But they’re in East Hampton for the summer. I’m here, though.”

Memories flooded Anna. She remembered holding hands with him on a third-grade school trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And also how smart he’d been back in grade school. One year they’d tied for first place in the school spelling bee, because the staff became too weary to go on any longer when the two of them continued to spell every word they were given correctly.

“Logan, of course. Hi!”

She started toward the stoop; he bounded down the stairs, and she found herself enveloped in a not-unwelcome hug under Sam’s curious gaze. He held her at arm’s length afterward, grinning wildly.

“You know I went to St. Paul’s, right?”

“Yes, I heard.” Anna did recall. St. Paul’s was a prep school in Concord, New Hampshire, about as exclusive as they came. He’d started there in fifth grade, and Anna tried to remember if she’d seen him since. She didn’t think so. That really wasn’t so surprising. On school vacations, her own family invariably went away on vacation. During the summer, they went to their retreat on Martha’s Vineyard.

“You look great. Anyway, my parents bought a place in Ireland—on the Dingle Peninsula. It’s fantastic, so I’ve been spending a lot of time there during the summer. But whenever I came home—which wasn’t often—I’d pass by your house and wonder where you were. I hoped I’d run into you one of these days. I’ve been here all summer. But I heard you were out in Los Angeles.”

Logan yielded the sidewalk to a passing woman of a certain age wrapped head to toe in tasteful summer black Chanel, accompanied by two equally regal Labradoodles. Walking the dogs after midnight dressed to kill was just so New York.

“I have been. For the last eight months,” she explained.

“Which would account for the Los Angeles accessory, also known as me,” Sam put in. She stepped forward and extended a hand; Anna was embarrassed that she hadn’t yet made the introduction. That wasn’t like her.

“Oh, sorry, Sam.” Anna quickly introduced them. “So, what have you been doing with yourself, Logan?”

“Tonight? Just got back from a party. A guy I know from St. Paul’s just came into his trust fund. Be glad you weren’t there. He was trying to do a Jell-O shot for each million he just inherited—not the brightest idea when twelve million bucks is involved.” Logan paused as Anna bit her lip. She
was
glad she hadn’t been there. She would have been appalled.

“Are you working for the summer?” Sam queried. “Or just leading the lifestyle of the rich and infamous?”

“Working. I’m a writer’s assistant. With Danforth Marsh? He—”

“Won the Pulitzer Prize three years ago,” Anna filled in. “I loved his last short-story collection.
Tree Rings
. I read it four times.”

“Well, I’ll pass along your enthusiasm. He’s doing a reading of his new novel at the Ninety-second Street Y later in the week. You should come.”

“I’d love to!” Anna found herself saying. She couldn’t help but notice that Logan’s childhood cuteness had turned into eighteen-year-old hotness. But what also impressed her was the kindness that seemed to be emanating from those deep-set eyes. Standing here on their shared block, talking under a streetlight, just felt so comfortable.

“If we’re still here next week,” Sam clarified. “We’ve got to go back to L.A.”

At the mention of those two little letters Anna’s stomach twisted like taffy. The thought of returning in a week seemed way too soon. Now that she was standing on familiar cracked concrete, hearing the never-ending traffic roll north on one-way Madison Avenue, and breathing the late summer Upper East Side evening air, she never wanted to leave.

“So how about you?” Logan asked. He sat down on the front step and beckoned for Anna and Sam to join him. They did. “Where are you headed for school in the fall?”

“Yale. And yourself?”

“Harvard. I thought about Yale, because I want to study creative writing. But my parents both went to Harvard, so it’s really a legacy thing. …”

“Excuse me, I hate to interrupt the reunion of the mental titans,” Sam said sweetly. “But we were on our way to get something to eat, remember?”

Anna winced. She knew she was being a bit rude by talking about East Coast things, places, and people that Sam wouldn’t know. “Right, sorry. Logan, we’re on our way to the Olympia. Want to come with us?”

Logan shook his head solemnly. “It’s crazy, but I can’t. Danforth is an early riser. He likes to work from six in the morning till two in the afternoon.”

“He’d never survive in Los Angeles,” Sam quipped.

“Don’t get him started on that subject. He hates L.A. When Ned Tanen was running one of the studios, he once tried to buy one of his short stories. When it turned out Tanen hadn’t read it, Danforth threw a pencil at him. I heard it stuck in his chest. Anyway,” he said, standing, “do you have plans for tomorrow night? Can I take you two to dinner?” Logan asked hopefully.

“I’d love that,” Sam told him. “As long as it’s just you and Anna. My boyfriend is here in New York. I’ll be busy.”

He looked at Sam quizzically for a moment, then laughed. “Well, alrighty then. Dinner with Anna. If Anna is willing to be seen alone with me?”

“Sounds good,” Anna grinned. He handed her his cell phone, and Anna input her number.

“Great, so I’ll call you during the day, we’ll plan something truly exciting. Nice to meet you, Sam. See you tomorrow, Anna.” He bounded up the steps to his brownstone two at a time, waving to them once more before the door closed behind him.

“Very cute,” Sam mused.

“You could say that,” Anna agreed, as they started out toward Lexington Avenue again. “I must admit, it’s nice to run into him after all these years.”

“And by that you mean, right after Ben kicked you to the curb and stomped your heart into the sewage grate,” Sam translated.

“Maybe so,” Anna admitted as they stopped at the corner to wait for a light. Traffic zoomed by, making it impossible to jaywalk.

“A cute guy to hang with till we go back to Los Angeles?” Sam looped an arm through Anna’s as the light changed. They started across Madison. “I’d call it perfect timing.”

The Most Exclusive Ticket in Town

T
he noise inside the old auto repair shop was deafening. The sounds of jackhammering, sawing, pipe-cutting, and drywall-sledgehammering filled the air. Ben cupped his hands and shouted so loudly that Cammie was tempted to cover her ears.

“Okay, everyone! Hold it down!”

His bellowed words had their intended effect. All work that was under way suddenly ceased.

“Nice one,” Cammie quipped, as a couple dozen workmen put down their tools and looked at her and Ben dubiously. Evidently they weren’t used to bosses who were a decade or more younger than they were. “If you can do that with the traffic on the 405, you’re hired.”

Ben grinned, then cupped his hands again. “Okay, lunch break! See you in an hour. And thanks for your hard work, everyone.”

Cammie watched as Ben’s crew—upward of twenty-five or thirty workmen—shuffled noisily toward the doors, some of them with old-fashioned lunch pails and Thermoses or classic brown paper sacks. It was the strangest thing. She’d gotten involved in this project out of her pique with Adam, to make him jealous and to prove to herself that she had bigger and better things awaiting her when everyone scattered off to college. But the more she worked on the club with Ben, the more excited she got. If they were going to do it, it
was
going to be a success. Cammie Sheppard never failed at anything, and she wasn’t about to start.

And then there was the B.F. Ben Factor. Being around him again reminded her of all the reasons she’d been into him in the first place. And now that he was an aspiring club owner, his appeal had been upped exponentially. He was always three places at once, giving orders, pitching in with drywalling, on the phone with one regulatory authority or another, checking out marketing materials—the list went on and on. Assertive and active guys were hot. The fact that the building was as yet un-air-conditioned, and he’d taken to wearing wife-beaters and his most battered jeans, didn’t hurt either.

Being warmed by Ben’s heat factor, even if nothing was going on between then except work—yet—made losing Adam feel a little less cold. He still hadn’t called, texted, or e-mailed her. She was beginning to resign herself to the fact that he never would. And that hurt. Much more than she’d ever admit to anyone. From time to time, she wondered what he was doing, whether he was even in Los Angeles. Maybe he’d gone back to the walleyes in Michigan. But she always cut off that line of thinking.

Ben turned to her. “You aren’t exactly dressed for manual labor.”

True. Cammie had selected her outfit with even more than her usual care. She wanted to look hot for Ben, but she didn’t want to look as if she’d tried very hard to do it. She wore a YA-YA beaded lavender silk halter top with Miss Sixty dark distressed cropped jeans, and her newest Ferre gold-foiled strappy sandals with the narrow three-inch heel.

“Bosses don’t labor—they delegate,” Cammie pointed out slyly. “Although I see you’re taking a more hands-on approach.”

As usual, Ben had dressed to work in scruffy jeans with holes in the knees and one of his new supply of wife-beaters. Both were now covered in sawdust. There was a tool belt around his waist, and he wore a red bandanna pirate-style over mussed brown hair that protruded sexily from beneath the cloth. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He still looked yummy. Hot-carpenter yummy, to be more specific. Cammie had never done a hot carpenter.

“We’re still in the clean-it-out phase, not the renovate-it-and-get-it-ready phase,” he explained, glancing around his now-deserted workspace. “There are two full Dumpsters in the back, and we’ve got two more to fill. Should be ready to start real construction in a couple of days, though.”

“You know what you’re going to build?”

Ben grinned, and motioned to the back door. “I thought you’d never ask. Come on out back. I’ve got something to show you. It’s where my dad told me he wouldn’t back me. Before my angel—better known as Cammie Sheppard—came along.”

“Hey. You know me better than that. Never call me an angel—it tarnishes my image. Besides, the papers my dad’s lawyer drew up make
me
the majority owner. So I’m not exactly a philanthropist,” she pointed out, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Thanks for reminding me, majority owner.” Ben led her out the back door of the building into an alley that was cramped by the aforementioned Dumpsters. But just outside the door, an open card table and four folding chairs stood in a small area that faced the rear alley. On that table was a large three-dimensional model.

“Cammie, meet Bye, Bye Love.” He pointed to the mock-up. “How I see it, anyway.”

She marveled, taking in the model of the club. It was roughly the size of a dollhouse she’d played with when she was younger. Ben’s model was painted sky blue and silver, with the name of the club on one of those low-rent yellow changeable letter signs that you saw so often in front of auto repair shops advertising the latest oil change and tune-up specials.

“Let me give you the grand tour.”

As Cammie watched, Ben removed the roof from the model and showed her his vision of the club, getting more excited as he spoke. He envisioned it as three separate spaces, much like Trieste was laid out. One area would have its own bar, serving unlimited Taittinger champagne to VIPs and other select people on the list. Those people would get temporary silver-and-blue tattoos of the Bye, Bye Love logo on the backs of their hands. Cammie knew this would be wildly sought-after. Another would house a small stage, with only enough seating for ten or fifteen people.

“The idea is, we’d put on short plays or have comedians do their acts on the stage—very short, maybe fifteen minutes max. People would come in to be entertained, to get away from the noise, and of course because it’s the most exclusive ticket in town. Speaking of, did you talk to your dad about the liquor license?”

Cammie nodded. “How ridiculous is that? Every kid in Beverly Hills gets a fake ID at fourteen, but whatever. I talked to my father. He’ll sign for it.”