Chances & Choices (6 page)

"And then?"

"'We'll see," but his eyes were full of promise.

Claire considered.
 His suggestion made sense. She nodded.  "Alright.  Should we lay down the ground rules?"  A little of her earlier sauciness returning, drawing a chuckle from him.

"No.
 I don't think that will be necessary."

"Well, I don't know.
 Is kissing allowed?"

Julian answered her through action, his lips lingering longer than before.
 "Yes.  As long as they don't go much further than that.  And they shouldn't be too frequent, either," he added, backing away from her advancing mouth.

Claire stole another kiss anyway, before she slid off the stool and left to change.

Showering quickly, she pulled on casual clothes similar to his.  She towel-dried her hair and prepared to return it to the top-knot she had worn for her swim.  Changing her mind, she used the blow-dryer until it surrounded her head like a golden veil, curling around in soft waves to frame her face.  

Julian was still at the breakfast bar when she returned, although he had moved round to sit at one of the stools, gazing out at the ocean, lost in his thoughts.
 Hearing her enter, he turned his head.  As he caught sight of her, a startled expression crossed his face.

"You cut your hair!"

"Yes, I forgot you hadn't seen it.  It's easier to care for this way.  I got fed up with it last month and did the evil deed.  It's alright, it didn't hurt a bit," she reassured him, surprised at his reaction; he looked positively bereft.  However, he recovered quickly and like the perfect gentlemen he was, complimented her on the change, adding.

"It gives you an air of sophistication."

Inwardly he shrugged.  It did suit her and at shoulder length it was still long enough and thick enough to...  "How about an omelette for breakfast?"

Claire nodded, following him into the kitchen, wondering what his secret smile was about.
 She discontinued her speculation when he separated some articles from the ones he had taken from the fridge and dropped them in front of her on the counter.

"How come I always get the onions?"

"Cook's helper always gets the dirty jobs."

She eyed him resentfully, but nevertheless began peeling and cutting.
 Together they prepared the omelette.  Claire had forgotten how easily they moved around in this kitchen.  It had been three years since they prepared a meal together.  They had always eaten out when Julian was in New York.  But when he placed the onions in front of her, with such a familiar gesture, those years had fallen away, as if they had never been.  When he asked her to pass him the skillet, she instinctively opened the cupboard it was in and passed it to him, voicing her thoughts.

"Everything's in the same place, it's almost as if I never left."

Pouring the beaten eggs into the pan, adding the onions and mushrooms, he said. "Yes, I’m a creature of habit, I'm afraid"

"Habits can be fun to break," and she let her fingers walk up his back.
  "Sorry, I forgot," removing her fingers when he looked reprovingly over his shoulder.  But she wasn't the least bit remorseful.  "You’d better give me something else to do with my hands."

Smiling, he told her to set the table.
 She completed the task quickly and then looked around.  The house was built in California style; open plan with varying levels.  The table where she sat was nestled in a large bay window, making it a cosy nook looking over the ocean.  The working kitchen was separated from her in part by the breakfast bar that followed round in a semi-u.  To her left were the glass doors leading to the deck and further away three steps led down into the living room, the east wall of which was taken up with a high tech media centre, coupled with shelves of books from floor to ceiling, ranging from gold embossed leather to well-worn paperbacks.

From there, and at the other end of the wooden railing that divided the living room from the rest of the house, the two steps Claire had posed at the top of the night before led up to the bedrooms and across to the dining room.
 This room adjoined the kitchen, although it was one step lower and also led to the entrance to the double garage at the side of the house.  The house possessed four bedrooms, one of which Claire knew Julian had converted to a workroom, so he could work at home if he wanted.

The decor was predominantly Spanish, although it was stylish and comfortable rather than overpowering.
 In fact, it was a lot like the man who lived in it.  Claire sighed contentedly.

"I love your house, Julian."

He placed a plate filled with omelette in front of her and one in front of himself, asking as he sat down.  "Enough to live in it, some day?"

Claire stared at him.
 "Now whose breaking the rules?"

He didn't apologise, as she had; instead he began to eat.

Claire followed suit, but her fork froze on the way to her mouth as she remembered his reaction when she had told him of Richard's suggestion she move in with him, and the full import of Julian's words sank in.  Quickly, she looked at his face, but it was emotionless, as if he had merely commented on the weather and Claire did not have the confidence to probe further, instead she began talking of the weather herself.

After breakfast they went for a walk on the beach, catching up on old news, closing the gap of the years she had been away.
 On the way back to the house Julian suggested driving down to Long Beach for lunch and spending the afternoon there.

"Sounds like fun.
 Should we change?"

He looked down.
 They had walked barefoot along the shore with their jeans turned up at the bottom.  Despite this, the cuffs of both had been soaked by the waves and when they sat down the sand had stuck to the wet material.  Claire followed his gaze and smiled ruefully.

"You're right," and then added challengingly.
 “Bet I can change faster than you."

He laughed.
 "As if any woman could change faster than a man."

"Well, we'll see about that!"

Catching him off guard, she pushed him and then tripped him, sending him sprawling on the beach.  Then she dashed for the house intent on using her unfairly gained advantage.  His cry of cheat reached her just before she entered the house.  Chuckling merrily, she realised she hadn't felt this light-hearted for months, maybe even years, and it struck her that she hadn't only missed the surf - she had missed him.

She changed into light green slacks with stovepipe legs and a blouse in a small check of white and matching green.
 She decided to wear a light foundation to cover her untanned complexion.  Blusher, eye shadow and lip gloss completed her toilette and she joined Julian in the living room, who, despite her duplicity, had managed to dress ahead of her.  He had changed into beige slacks and a polo shirt of a deeper shade of green than her own clothes.  A shade, she couldn't help noticing that exactly matched the colour of his eyes.  He stood up when she entered and looked at her in pretended fierceness.

"Minx!
 I ought to take you across my knee."

"Huh!
 You and whose army!"

But when he advanced on her, she turned tail and fled to the relative safety of his car.

Their light-hearted mood continued over lunch as they gaily baited one another and traded insults across the chequered tablecloth of the outside cafe.  Claire decided to round off her meal with an ice cream cone, so they made their way along the wharf to the Baskin-Robbins concession.  She had just finished her selection when an all too familiar voice rent the air and Claire was eternally grateful she had changed her clothes.

The afternoon crowd parted and Andrea appeared in all her splendour.
 She was attired in lavender slacks of the same style as Claire's, and looked just as good in them, regardless of the fact Claire knew her to be well over twenty years older than herself.  Unlike Claire's, which were cotton; they were fashioned from the same material as her elegant, cream, silk blouse.  Numerous gold chains adorned her neck, wrists and even her ankle.  A pair of cream strappy sandals added to her already towering height, and the whole effect was regally capped by a turban, in the same shade of lavender wrapped around her smooth, platinum-coloured head.

As usual, Andrea looked outrageously fabulous.
 She didn't look a day older than at their last meeting, two years ago in New York.

"Julian, I knew it was you, I'd know those curls of yours, anywhere."

Claire could have sworn she was going to ruffle his hair in much the same manner she would one of her three full grown sons.  It was amazing how such a maternal woman could dress in so unmatronally a fashion and get away with it.  Andrea's attention was drawn away from Julian as she noticed Claire.

“
Why it's Claire.  I hardly recognised you.  You're all grown up.  Isn’t she, Julian?"

He handed Claire her ice cream (who fervently wished she had chosen any flavours other than bubble-gum and tutti-frutti) and refrained from answering.
 He merely sent Andrea a warning look.  A look missed by Claire.  Andrea paid no attention.

"Of course she is.
 It's more than your hair, which really does suit you.  You've acquired a New York polish, created your own style," and then she added with an emphasis not missed by Julian for whose benefit it was uttered.  "Nobody would take you for a teenager now."

"I should hope not, I'm twenty-seven."
 Claire replied and stuck her nose mutinously into her cone.

"Twenty-seven, how time flies.
 Next we know you'll be married with babies.  Won't she be, Julian?"

She looked at him quite pointedly and he almost laughed outright.
 Really, she was incorrigible.  He had just decided to come to Claire's rescue, when he was forestalled by the appearance of Andrea's husband, Stephen, and their three year old granddaughter.  The little girl squealed with delight at the sight of Julian and threw her arms around his legs, demanding to be picked up.  After this had been accomplished, she announced to all and sundry that he was her favourite person in the whole world, and then deflated this statement by qualifying it with.

"Next to mommy and daddy and granny and grandpa ... "and after a slight pause added, almost apologetically,” ... and my baby brother Michael.
”

Julian treated this obviously recent defection as it deserved, by tickling her.
 This procedure was greeted with squeals and chuckles and after a questioning look at Andrea, he treated her to an ice cream, and to Claire's dismay she chose the same combination as herself.

She tucked into the offending article as the adults beamed at her, as adults tend to with children who are not their own.
 Having demolished a goodly portion, she stared at Claire and uttered a question with a forthright candour that marked her unerringly as Andrea's kin.

"Who are you?"

Julian laughed indulgently. "Marcie, you should wait to be introduced, like a proper, young lady."

"Why," emitted the potential, proper, young lady, wiping her chin on his shirt.
 An exercise, to Claire's amazement, he completely ignored.  "Oh alright, intra  ... doose me then,"  Marcie capitulated, her inexperienced tongue having a little difficulty with the word.

"Claire, I'd like you to meet Marcella Saunders.
 Marcie this is Claire Fitzpatrick, a very good friend.”

"How come I've never met you before, if you're Uncle Julian's friend?"

Good Lord, Andrea must be training her.

"Because I've been away in New York."

"Oh."  She accepted the explanation and returned to her cone, but first managed to wipe her sticky hands on Julian's hair.

“
Why don't we find a shaded cafe and have a cool drink," suggested Stephen.

Everyone assented and they walked along the wharf, Claire falling into step beside Stephen, behind Andrea and Julian, who still held Marcie in his arms.
 She hardly heard Stephen's comments welcoming her back so engrossed was she in observing Julian's dexterity with the child.

She turned to Stephen, who had taken his pipe out of his rumpled pants pocket and was now fishing through his nondescript shirt for a light.
 She offered him the matches she had picked up at lunch and wondered, for at least the hundredth time, what this quiet, faintly absent-minded man ever had in common with Andrea.  There had to be something.  They had been married for twenty-eight years and, according to all reports, extremely happily.  Declining to further explore this mystery, she returned to her previous source of amazement.

"Julian seems to know Marcie very well."

"Oh yes, they get along famously.  Course, he's the same with our other boys' children.  But I must admit I think Marcie's his favourite, being the only girl."

He puffed on his pipe and then continued.
 "He's fond of the children; pity he doesn't have any of his own.  Susanna couldn't," he added by way of explanation and then coughed, wondering if maybe he shouldn't have mentioned Susanna, vaguely remembering Andrea saying something about Julian being in love with Claire.  Or was it Claire?  Perhaps it was some other girl.  He hoped so.