Going Back (16 page)

“You definitely don’t seem like the
pampering type,” he agreed, shaking off the last of his pain. “I
don’t like being pampered, anyway.” He peered up at the angled
ceiling and snorted. “I ought to be able to handle low ceilings.
I’ve had some experience living in attic rooms.”

Daphne knew where he’d gotten that
experience: in college, in his fraternity house, in his top-floor
bedroom. She’d been there. She’d seen the ceiling.

Her immediately instinct was to
avoid looking at him. But he was standing too close to her, with
the slope of the ceiling denying her the space to back away from
him. She couldn’t prevent herself from meeting his gaze.

“You still feel funny about it,
don’t you,” he said, not bothering to spell out what was on both
their minds. Not having to.

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” He ran his index finger
along the edge of her jaw. Despite the tenderness of his caress,
Daphne sensed that he was holding her chin to keep her from
averting her eyes. “Maybe apologizing to each other wasn’t
enough.”

“I don’t know what else we can do,”
she said.

He smiled crookedly. “Find
ourselves a time machine?”

Although his hand was the only part
of him touching her, she was once again uncomfortably aware of his
body’s nearness. In the enclosed space of the bedroom she could
feel his warmth, smell the faint traces of his aftershave, see the
individual black lashes fringing his eyelids. And she could detect
no answering awareness on his part.

“If you really want to go back in
time,” she joked, desperate to lighten the moment, “then let’s go
eat some Italian food. Maybe I can gain back my ‘freshman
twenty’.”

“I wouldn’t let you do that,” Brad
argued, sliding his finger under her chin and down to the delicate
gold chain circling her throat. He let his hand drop and started
toward the door. “Three pounds maximum, Daffy, or there’s no
tiramisu for you.”

***

IT DIDN’T SEEM fair to him. She was
so damned right in so many ways. Her professional achievements were
remarkable, her flair for selling houses impressive. She was smart
and funny; he truly enjoyed her company. Jokes about her weight
notwithstanding, she had a good figure, a bit scant in the chest
area but basically well proportioned and
healthy-looking.

So why was it that he could stroke
the smooth, clear skin of her face and feel nothing more than
affection stirring inside him? Why was it that he could gather her
into his arms and hug her, even kiss her, and not feel all the
usual responses? He didn’t want to think some residual guilt was
dampening his libido. But if that wasn’t the problem, what could it
be?

The obvious one: she was homely. No
matter how tastefully she dressed, no matter how poised and
pleasant she behaved, she still had a plain face, half-concealed by
those distorting eyeglasses. She had a button nose, pale lips,
nearly invisible eyelashes and kinky hair. She had a collection of
features which, while far from grotesque, simply didn’t work any
magic on Brad.

Objectively, he was willing to
concede that Daphne did the most with what she had. He was willing
to concede, as well, that some men might find her cute and
appealing in an eccentric way. Subjectively, he was willing to
accept that he liked her a great deal. But she wasn’t the kind of
woman who could ignite fires inside him, who could drive him to
distraction with her feminine charms, who could reduce him to a
seething mass of lust with a smile and a wink.

She was a lovely woman, but Brad
didn’t love her. He was saving his love for the right woman, the
perfect partner. And Daphne wasn’t it.

He studied her
across the small circular table at the rear of the restaurant’s
dining room. A candle encased in a cut-crystal glass lit the table,
and its dancing flame threw ethereal shadows across Daphne’s cheeks
and brow. Maybe it
was
guilt, Brad thought, because even if he wasn’t able to fall in
love with her, he ought to be able to feel something more than what
he was feeling.

She shook her head to refuse the
cloth-lined basket of bread he extended to her, then asked, “How is
your mother doing?”

“She’s feeling very sorry for
herself at the moment. My father has begun making noises about
wanting to date a widowed neighbor of his.”

“If I were your mother, I’d feel
sorry for myself, too,” Daphne defended Brad’s mother. “Expressing
a desire to take out other women isn’t exactly a sign that your
father’s ready for a reconciliation.”

“That’s exactly what he’s ready
for,” Brad maintained, not really expecting Daphne to understand
the convoluted dynamics of his parents’ relationship. “He wants to
make my mother jealous so she’ll beg him to come back to her. She’s
feeling sorry for herself, but she’s too proud to beg.”

“Speaking of jealousy,” Daphne
remarked with deceptive casualness, “how would you feel if I told
you you might be a home breaker?”

“Me
?” Brad froze, holding a chunk of
dipped bread midway between the bowl of herbed olive oil and his
mouth. “What are you talking about?”

“Phyllis Dunn likes looking at you.
Her Significant Other is apparently pissed off about
it.”

“She likes looking at me?” Brad
laughed. He recalled enough about Phyllis’s muscular boyfriend not
to want to be on the man’s enemies list, but looking had never done
anyone any harm. Phyllis hadn’t been so horrible to look at,
herself.

“I think she’s searching for an
excuse to end her relationship with him,” Daphne said. “And I think
you’re the excuse she’s looking for. Consider yourself
forewarned.”

Brad shook his head and took a bite
of his bread. As pretty as Phyllis Dunn was, he couldn’t imagine
relaxing over dinner with her the way he was right now with Daphne.
Touching Phyllis’s face would probably get his juices flowing in a
way touching Daphne’s hadn’t…but he’d rather be with Daphne. Much
to his amazement, he didn’t want his juices flowing at the moment.
All he wanted was to have dinner with a good friend.

Their entrees arrived, and Brad
noted with satisfaction that, after blanketing her pasta in grated
parmesan, Daphne dug into her high-carb meal with gusto. After
having spent the past couple of weeks with her, he could no longer
remember how she’d looked when she was overweight. She really
wasn’t so bad looking. Really. She wasn’t.

Damn. It
was
guilt. Opening his
soul to her last Sunday had helped, but it hadn’t completely healed
him. If he was ever going to recover from the disaster that marred
his past with Daphne, he was going to have to take more drastic
measures. Especially since he was on the verge of becoming her
neighbor.

He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d
made his mind up about the house, but now, sitting with Daphne in
this quaint, unpretentious restaurant in Caldwell, he realized that
he was beginning to think of the town as his home. Assuming that
Daphne was right about the seller’s willingness to come down in
price, Brad would buy the house. Hell, he’d probably buy it even if
the seller didn’t come down in price. In that price range, what was
twenty thousand dollars one way or the other?

He liked it here. He liked charming
suburban village with its twisting, tree-lined roads and gentle
hills. He liked the house itself, with its efficiently arranged
kitchen and attractive yard. The house needed a little work—fresh
paint on the porch, a new lighting fixture in the dining room—but
nothing he couldn’t handle. And he even liked the low ceilings. So
what if he ran the risk of banging his head every now and then?
Brad had never been averse to living dangerously.

He especially liked the notion of
having Daphne living nearby. He could imagine asking her for advice
about what flowers to plant in his flower beds, which supermarket
to shop at, which trains ran closest to schedule. He liked the idea
that he could call her up and talk to her whenever he
wanted.

Except that there was the guilt,
the awkward understanding that still existed between them. He had
seen it in her flat green eyes when she’d stood beside him under
the eaves in the bedroom he was already starting to think of as
his. The air between them had grown electric, tense with something
that approximated sheer panic, at least on his part.

He wanted to make it better. He
wanted to make it go away.

All he needed was a time machine.

THE ELEVATOR DOOR slid open, and
Brad found himself face to face with his father.

The two of them sprang back from
each other in shock. But when the elevator door started to slide
shut, Robert Torrance regained his bearings quickly enough to press
the “Door Open” button and escape into the sumptuously decorated
lobby of the Upper East Side apartment before the elevator whisked
him away again. He smiled tensely, evened his Brooks Brothers
blazer across his shoulders with a slight shrug, and said, “Dining
with your mother, I take it?”

Brad had arrived at his mother’s
apartment from the office, where he’d wasted the better part of the
afternoon pretending he cared one way or the other regarding the
selection of the new IT person and trying not to be too obvious
about the fact that he was waiting for word from Daphne. She was
supposed to have contacted the owner of the expanded cape that
morning to make an offer on Brad’s behalf—an offer that seemed
insultingly low to him—and she’d promised she would call Brad with
the seller’s counter-offer, assuming the guy wasn’t so offended by
Brad’s bid that he refused to make one. But Brad’s cell phone had
never rung. Now he was stuck fulfilling a dinner obligation to his
mother, during which he would continue to be distracted by thoughts
about whether or not he was going to be able to buy the damned
house and make use of his return ticket to Seattle on the following
Monday.

He was scarcely prepared for the
ordeal of being charming with his mother all evening. To see his
father emerging from the elevator left Brad at a complete loss.
When he didn’t speak, his father filled the silence by mumbling, “I
stopped by the apartment to pick up a few items, that’s
all.”

Given his father’s
empty-handedness, Brad felt safe in assuming that Robert was lying.
Judging by the tousled state of the older man’s thick, silver hair
and the lingering gleam in his eyes, Brad had a pretty clear idea
of what his father and mother had been doing together that
afternoon—and it wasn’t picking up items.

He was pleased. If his parents were
willing to acknowledge their compatibility in bed, they ought to be
willing to acknowledge the even more obvious truth that they
belonged together. “Dad,” he said, trying to sound calm and
impartial, “you don’t have to pretend you and Mom aren’t still in
love. You are, and I think it’s great.”

“Did your mother tell you we’re in
love?” Robert asked indignantly. “If she did, I can assure you that
she was speaking for herself and not for me.”

What a pair of stubborn asses, Brad
thought with wry amusement. His mother would never admit that she
still loved his father, either. If only they would stand side by
side in front of a mirror, they’d see the love emanating from their
own eyes—and from each other’s. “Why can’t you two just sit down
and work it out?” Brad asked with what he considered supreme
sensibility. “Why can’t you air your differences and admit that
they aren’t serious enough to destroy your marriage? Why do you
feel you’re better off apart?”

Brad’s father exhaled. He moved to
the gold-veined mirror adorning one entire wall of the lobby, but
what he saw in his reflection apparently wasn’t love—it was a
crooked necktie. He adjusted the knot, then turned back to Brad. “I
wish I could say it’s none of your business. But since you’re our
only child, I don’t suppose I can. However, you’ll just have to
take your mother’s and my word for it that we’re pursuing the
course that’s best for us.”

“Even though you’re still...?”
Unable to think of a tactful way to mention his parents’ ongoing
physical relationship, Brad tapered off and glanced toward the
elevator.

“Sex isn’t everything,” his father
retorted dryly.

“It’s a hell of a lot,” Brad
pointed out.

Robert thought for a moment. “Your
mother and I aren’t divorced, and we happen to be ethical people.
We aren’t about to engage in extramarital affairs. Once our
situation is finalized, I’m sure we’ll both find other...outlets
for our particular needs.”

“Outlets? Needs?” Now it was Brad’s
turn to be indignant. “Come on, Dad. After you and Mom spend one of
these afternoons together, don’t you feel close to each other?
Don’t you feel anything at all for each other besides
animosity?”

Robert contemplated the question,
then offered a grudging smile. “I suppose we wouldn’t bother at all
with these occasional…afternoons,” he said euphemistically, “if we
didn’t feel something bordering on pleasant. I imagine that such
pleasant memories help to make our separation less acrimonious.
Your mother and I don’t hate each other, Brad. And she’s a damned
attractive woman.” He checked his tie in the mirror one last time,
fidgeting with the knot even though it looked fine to Brad. “Beyond
that,” Robert concluded, “I have nothing to say on the subject.” He
smoothed his collar, then headed briskly toward the door, giving
the doorman a perfunctory nod on his way outside.