Heartbeat (18 page)

“Are you doing anything this weekend?” he asked hesitantly, not sure how proper it was for him even to ask her. But they could be friends after all. As long as he controlled himself, there was no real reason why they couldn't be together. “I thought maybe you'd like to go to the beach or something,” since she had already told him that she liked beaches.

“I …well …I'm not sure …my husband might be coming home …” She was embarrassed, and yet she wanted to go, and she wasn't sure how to handle the invitation.

“I thought he was in New York … or Chicago …until next week. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I'm very respectable. And it's better than sitting around here all weekend, as long as you're not working. We could go down to Malibu, I have friends who let me use a house there. They live in New York, and they just keep the place for the hell of it. I keep an eye on it for them. You'd enjoy it.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him, not sure why she was doing it. But there was something irresistibly comfortable and appealing about the man, and she stood up then, and prepared to go back to her own apartment. “I'd like that.”

“Does eleven sound about right?”

She nodded. It sounded perfect. But also a little scary. “I'll walk you back to your place.” He had taken the apron off long since, and he looked nice as he walked her back to her town house. And when she got to her front door, she unlocked it carefully, and opened it just a crack without turning the light on. She didn't want him to see how empty her place was.

“Thanks a lot, Bill. I had a wonderful time. Thank you for inviting me tonight.” It was a lot better than sitting at home, feeling sorry for herself and wondering what Steven was doing.

“I had a good time too.” He smiled, feeling happy and relaxed and contented. “I'll come by tomorrow around eleven.”

“That's all right. I can meet you at the pool.”

“You don't need to do that. I'll pick you up here.” He sounded firm and she looked nervous, as she prepared to leap through her front door before he could look inside it.

“Thanks again.” She gave him a last look, and then suddenly disappeared, like an apparition. One minute she was standing in front of him, and the next, she was inside, and the door was closed, and he wasn't sure how she'd done it. It was one of the fastest good-byes he'd ever said, and he walked slowly back to his own place, smiling.

B
ILL PICKED ADRIAN UP THE NEXT DAY AT PRECISELY
eleven o'clock, and she was waiting outside when he came, in jeans, a big floppy shirt, a sun hat, and sneakers. And she was carrying a beach bag full of towels and creams and books and a Frisbee, and he laughed when he saw her.

“You look about fourteen in that outfit.” The shirt had been Steven's, but she had always loved it, and it covered the fact that her jeans were getting a little tight, but Bill seemed not to notice as he watched her.

“Is that a compliment or a reproach?” she asked comfortably. She was completely at ease with him as she started to follow him across the complex.

“A compliment. Definitely.” And then he stopped, he had forgotten something, as he turned to her. “Do you have any sodas at your place? I'm fresh out.” And everything was closed. It was Sunday. Sure.

“Why don't we grab some, in case we get thirsty.” She started back toward her place and he followed her, but when they got to her front door, she stopped, and glanced over her shoulder.

“I'll just run in and get them. Why don't you stay here with our stuff?” She acted as though she thought someone was going to run off with her beach bag.

“I'll come in and give you a hand.”

“No, that's okay. The place is a mess. I haven't had a chance to clean since Steven left …the other day, I mean …when he went to New York …” Was it New York or Chicago, Bill wondered, but he didn't say anything, because it was obvious she didn't want him to go in, so he didn't.

“I'll wait for you here,” he told her at the front door, feeling a little foolish. She left the front door unlatched, but closed so he couldn't see in. It was as though she was hiding something in her apartment. And a moment later, he heard a tremendous crash, and without thinking twice, he dashed inside to help her. She had dropped two soda bottles, and they had sprayed soda all over the kitchen. “Did you get hurt?” he was quick to ask with a worried glance, and she shook her head as he grabbed a towel and helped her clean the mess up.

“That was really stupid of me,” she said. “I must have shaken them without noticing, and then I dropped them.” It took them two minutes to clean it up, and he hadn't noticed anything unusual about the place, until she brought out more sodas and he realized there was no furniture in the kitchen. The place where a kitchen table might have been was empty and there was a lonesome stool sitting near a phone at the other end of the kitchen. And as they walked through the living room, it was almost eerie. There was no furniture anywhere, and there were marks on the walls where paintings had been, and then he remembered Steven loading furniture into a van almost two months before. She had said they were selling everything and buying new, but in the meantime, the apartment looked bare and depressing. But Bill didn't say anything, and she was quick to explain it. “We ordered a lot of new stuff. But you know what it's like. Everything is a ten- to twelve-week delivery. It'll be August before this place looks halfway decent again.” In truth, she hadn't ordered anything. She was still expecting Steven to come home with the old stuff he'd taken with him.

“Of course. I know how that is.” But something didn't ring true, and he wasn't sure what it was. Maybe they were too poor to buy furniture. Maybe it had all been repossessed. People in Hollywood lived like that. He had a lot of friends who did. And it was obvious that Adrian was embarrassed about something. “It's a nice, clean look,” he teased. “And it's easy to take care of.” She started to look embarrassed again and then he teased her gently. “Never mind. It'll look great when all the new things come.” But in the meantime, it certainly didn't. The place looked somehow abandoned.

And as soon as they left, they both forgot about it, and they had a wonderful time at the beach. They stayed until after five when it started to get cool, talking about theater and books, and New York and Boston, and Europe. They talked about children and politics and the philosophies behind both soap operas and news shows, the kinds of things he liked to write, and the short stories she had written in college. They talked about everything and they were still talking as they drove back to the complex in his woody.

“I am in love with your car, by the way.” He had admired her MG the first time he'd ever seen it.

She looked pleased at the compliment. “So am I. Everybody's been trying to get me to give it up for years, but I can't. I love it too much. It's part of me.”

“So is my woody.” He beamed. This was a woman who understood what it was to love a car. This was a woman who understood many things, like caring and loss, and integrity and love and respect, and she even shared his passion for old movies. The only thing wrong with her, aside from her eating enough for two families, was the fact that she was married. But he had decided to ignore that and stop chafing about it, and just enjoy her friendship. It was rare for men and women to be friends, without expecting anything sexual out of it, and if they were able to have a real friendship, he was going to consider himself very lucky. “Do you want to have dinner on the way back? There's a great Mexican place in Santa Monica Canyon, if you want to try it.” He treated her like an old pal, someone he had known and loved forever. “Or you know what, I've got a couple of those steaks left. Do you want to go back to my place and I'll cook you dinner?”

“We could cook them at my place.” She had been about to say that she should probably go home, but there was no reason to, and she didn't really want to. It was a lonely Sunday night, and she was enjoying him too much to give it up just yet. And there was no real reason why she couldn't have dinner with him.

“I'm not exactly dying to eat them off the floor,” Bill teased her. “Or is there more furniture I haven't seen yet?” Only her bed, but she didn't say that.

“Snob. Okay,” she said playfully, feeling like a kid again, “let's go to your place.” It had been years since she'd said that to a man. She and Steven had gone out for two years before they'd gotten married. And here she was, suddenly, five years later, having dinner at a man's apartment. But she had to admit, she didn't mind it. Bill Thigpen was terrific. He was smart, interesting, kind, and he gave her the impression of taking care of her, no matter what he did. He was always concerned if she was thirsty, hungry, wanted an ice cream, a soda, needed a hat, was warm enough, comfortable, happy, all the while keeping her amused with his stories about his soap opera, or the people he knew, or his two boys, Adam and Tommy.

And when she walked into his apartment, she saw yet another dimension. There were beautiful modern paintings on the walls, and some interesting sculptures he had collected in the course of his travels. The couches were leather and comfortable and well worn. The chairs, enormous and soft and inviting. And in the dining room there was a beautiful table he had found in an Italian monastery, a rug he had bought in Pakistan, and everywhere there were wonderful pictures of his children. There was a feeling of hominess about it that made you want to browse around, walls of books, a brick fireplace, and a beautifully designed large country kitchen. It looked more like a home than an apartment. He had a cozy den where he worked, with an old typewriter almost as old as his beloved Royal, and more books and a big cozy leather easy chair that was all beaten up and well loved and had been his father's. There was an attractive guest bedroom that looked as though it had never been used, done in beige wools, with a big sheepskin rug, and a modern four-poster, and there was a big colorful bedroom for the boys, with a bright red bunk bed that looked like a locomotive, and his own bedroom was just down the hall, all done in warm earth tones, and soft fabrics, with big sunny windows that looked out on a garden that Adrian hadn't even known existed in the complex. It was perfect. It was just like him. Handsome and warm and loving. And parts of it looked a little worn from the hands that had touched it. It was the kind of place where you wanted to stay a year, just to look around and get to know it, and it was in sharp contrast to the expensive sterility she had shared with Steven until he walked off with all of it, leaving her nothing but the bed and the carpet.

“Bill, this is gorgeous,” she said in open admiration.

“I love it too,” he admitted. “Did you see the kids' bed? I had it made by a guy in Newport Beach. He makes about two a year. I had a choice between that and a double-decker bus. Some English guy bought that, and I got the locomotive. I've always had a thing for trains. They're so great and old-fashioned and cozy.” He sounded as though he were describing himself as Adrian smiled at him.

“I love it.” No wonder he had laughed at her empty apartment. His had so much character and so much warmth. It was a great place to live or to work.

“I've been trying to talk myself into buying a house for years, but I hate moving and this is so comfortable. It works. And the boys love it.”

“I can see why.” He had given them the biggest room, even for the little time they spent with him, but to him, it was worth it.

“When they're older, I hope they spend more time here.”

“I'm sure they will.” Who wouldn't, with a father like him, and a home like this to come back to. It wasn't that the place was so big or so luxurious, it wasn't. But it was warm and inviting, and it was like a big hug just being there. Adrian felt it as she settled into the couch to look around, and then went out to the kitchen to help him with dinner. He had built most of the kitchen himself, and he was adept at cooking their dinner.

“What can't you do?”

“I'm rotten at sports. I told you, I'm terrible at tennis. I can't build a fire in the wilderness to save my life. Adam has to do it whenever we go camping. And I'm terrified of airplanes.” It was a short list compared to what he could do.

“At least it's nice to know that you're human.”

“What about you, Adrian? What aren't you good at?” It was always interesting to hear what people said about themselves. And he asked her as he carefully chopped fresh basil for their salad.

“I'm not good at a lot of things. Skiing. I'm so-so at tennis, terrible at bridge. I'm lousy at games, I can never remember the rules, and I don't care if I win anyway. Computers, I hate computers.” She thought seriously for a moment. “And compromising. I'm not good at compromising about what I believe in.”

“I'd say that's a virtue, not a flaw, wouldn't you?”

“Sometimes,” she said thoughtfully. “Sometimes it can cost you a lot.” She was thinking about Steven. She had paid a high price for what she believed in.

“But isn't it worth it?” he said softly. “Wouldn't you rather pay a price and stick to what you believe? I always have.” But he had ended up alone, too, not that he really minded.

“Sometimes it's hard to know what's the right thing to do.”