Kiss the Girl (21 page)

“I think she was trying to frown,” Erik said.  “Hard to tell with Botox.”

“Her dog liked me.”

“Her dog wanted to roll in whatever’s on your jeans.  Plus you have jerky in your hair.  And you smell.”

Nixie frowned at her blackened knees.  “Right.  Thanks so much for reminding me.”

The elevator rose, and they were silent.  Nixie glanced at Erik. 

“Are you breathing through your mouth?”

He gave her big, innocent eyes.  “What?”

“Jerk.”

He was still laughing when the doors parted again.  Nixie sailed out of the elevator like she was the Queen of England.  “Tell your mom thanks for me.”

“I’ll do that. 

She could feel his eyes on her back as she marched down the hallway to her apartment.  She didn’t look back, just opened her door and let it bang satisfactorily behind her.

Erik rapped on his mother’s door.  He checked his watch.  Eleven twenty-five.  Perfect.  The Senator worked insane hours
--
much like his own now that he thought about it
--
but Sunday mornings were sacred.  She reserved them for coffee, the New York Times, the Washington Post, and a single sticky bun from Heller’s Bakery.

The door swept open and the Senator appeared, wrapped up in a silky red robe that matched her polished toenails. 

“Ah, yes.  I’d recognize that hammering anywhere.  Good morning, beloved child, oh my favorite son.”

“I’m your only son,” Erik told her as he stepped into the foyer.  She presented her perfumed cheek and he deposited the ritual peck on it.   

“Indeed.  Which is why my hopes for you are so high.”

“Yeah.  We need to talk about that.”

She turned her back on him and swished toward the kitchen.  He followed.  “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.  I won’t be here that long.”

“Suit yourself.”  She seated herself at a pretty little café table near the window and raised a china cup to her lips.  Her dark eyes danced merrily over the rim.  “So, what are you angry with me about this time?”

“Let me count the ways.”

“Oh dear.”  She set the cup down and broke off a piece of sticky bun.  “That bad?  I thought you’d like Nixie.  She’s not your usual fare.”  Her mouth twitched.  “Or mine, for that matter.  You’ve got to admit, she’s a refreshing change of pace from the debutante parade.”

Images of Nixie flashed through his mind like a slide show on speed.  Nixie diving into a pile of rotten garbage.  Nixie laughing delightedly at Daryl’s
home made
pot smoke filter.  Nixie, her hands wet with a dying man’s blood,
guiding
a hysterical teenager
through goodbye
. 

“You have no idea.”  Erik sat down in the chair facing his mother and pushed aside the
Times
.  “But that’s not the point, Mom.  You need to stop this.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop
steering
me.”  He resisted the urge to shake like a wet dog.  His mother always made him feel this way.  Like he was too huge, too clumsy, like he required a gentle nudge in the right direction at every crossroads life handed him. 

“I beg your pardon.”  The Senator sipped her coffee.  “I have never steered you a moment in your life.  I suggested American History, you insisted on science.  I suggested law school, you went to medical school.  I’ve introduced you to dozens upon dozens of well-bred, highly educated young ladies and you date...”  She lifted her brows and waved an airy hand.  “Nobody.”

“I date, Mom.”

“Who?  Certainly nobody recently.  At least not that you’ve deigned to introduce to your mother.  Or
--”
  She blinked, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her mouth.  “Oh my
God
, Erik.  Are you gay?”

Erik laughed.  “No, Mom.  I like girls just fine.”

She set down her cup and patted her chest.  “Good heavens.  My heart.”

“Your heart.”  Erik smiled.  “Your heart is made of stainless steel.”

She leveled the gaze on him that had mowed down countless uppity men who’d mistaken her gender for a weakness.  “My heart is committed to seeing you settled with the right woman.”

“And by the right woman, I assume you mean somebody who can trace her ancestors back to the May
f
lower and would be a political asset should I ever do you proud and run for office?”

“Well.”  She sipped delicately at her coffee.  “It
is
a dream of mine.  I’m not going to work forever, you know.  I’d hate to turn this office over to some brash young person with no vision.”  

“Mom, I’m a doctor.  When are you going to accept that?”

“
Edward
Harper
’
s
son
is a doctor
and
he’s
serving on his father’s presidential campaign.
”

“
You really want me to be more like James
Harper
?  The guy who ditched Nixie so he could screw Sloan Leighton across Europe?”

The Senator lifted her chin.  “Howard Dean’s a doctor, too.”

“I like the job I have, Mom.
”

“You’re giving fat diplomats new hearts and stitching up drug dealers in your off hours.”  She looked thoughtful.  “No wonder you don’t date.”

Erik rubbed his eyes.  “I date, Mom.”

“Not successfully.  If you did, I’d have grandchildren right now.”

“You don’t want me to have kids.  You want me to have a First Lady.”

“Ideally, you could have both.  Children can be a political asset.”

“
Sure, but at what cost
?”

She leveled a
look
at him and said,
“Is that a dig?
”

He gazed at her in silence.  She sighed and said, “I’m just trying to help you, Erik.”  S
he leaned forward and took his hand.  “You are something special,
you know
.  And I’m not speaking as your mother now.  You have a world-class brain, a stellar education, and a social conscience a mile wide.  One day your ambition’s going to kick in, and I don’t want to see you chained to an inappropriate family situation when it does.”

Old bitterness washed over him like sour coffee.  “Is that how you
thought
of us?  Of me and D
ad?  Your inappropriate family situation?”

She let go of his hand, ran a finger around the rim of her coffee cup.  “Do you want me to be honest, or do you want me to be your mom?”

“Honest.”

“I love
d
your father, Erik. 
He’s been gone
over
ten years and
I still do.  But we were never made to live together.  We wanted different things from life.”  She gave him a crooked smile.  “The only thing we ever agreed on is you.”

“That’s not exactly an answer.”

“It’s the best you’re going to get, young man.”

“Right.  Fine.”  Erik sat back, blew out the bitterness with his pent up breath.  “Just quit catapulting women at me, Mom.  And for that matter, quit letting Nixie Leighton-Brace into my apartment.  She nearly gave me a heart attack.”

The Senator’s smile went sly.  “Did she now?”

“
God
, Mom.  Not like that.”

“Hmmm.”  She went back to her sticky bun.  “But you’re not gay?”

“Not gay.”

“Okay.  Sorry.  She was just so lost and lonely.”

“Lost and lonely?”  Erik snorted.  “
Aside from maybe her mother, s
he’s the most
recognizable
humanitarian on the planet.  I don’t think she’s lonely.”

“Famous and lonely go hand in hand, dear.  Try to listen a little, hmmm?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that.  I love you more than anything, darling boy, but sometimes, you’re all send and no receive.”

Erik frowned.  He thought of Nixie’s bright, cheerful effort to feed him eggplant and his casual rejection.  She was so...easy and flip.  She was the most approachable woman he’d ever met, for all that she was ridiculously rich and famous.  Naïve and kind and warm and smart-mouthed.  How could she be lonely?

“Just try not to leave any more women in my kitchen, okay?”  He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“Okay, okay.”  She tapped a polished nail on the
Post
and sipped her coffee.  “What are you going to do?” she asked as he headed for the door.

“About what?”

“Nixie.”

“I already gave her a job.”

“She needs a friend.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“Of course.”

Erik let himself out of his mother’s apartment and stood breathing the fresh air for a moment.  He always wondered what was in that perfume of hers.  He couldn’t think straight when it got into his brain.  He looked at Nixie’s door and shook his head. 

Lonely.  Ha.  His mother must think he was a
fool
.  How lonely could the
country’s favorite do-gooder
be?

He strode toward the elevator, but stopped halfway there.  He sighed, called himself six kinds of idiot, then turned around and walked back to Nixie’s door.  He gave a few quick raps.

She answered the door wearing clean jeans and a simple white shirt, her feet bare, her hair wet.  The scent of lemons wafted out into the hallway.

“No eggplant,” she said.  “I mean it.”

“Me, too.  Nobody should eat that crap.  Come on.  I’m taking you out to lunch.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

She spotted the diner half a block away. 

“Is that where we’re going?” she asked Erik. 

“Yep.”

Nixie’s eyes
watered
, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the wind blasting down the street or all that neon lightin
g in one place.  They reached the plate glass door, and Erik
yanked it open
.  W
ith one hand at the small of her back,
he
thrust her into a world she’d only ever read about.

It was a shoebox of a place, longer than it was wide, with black and white tiled floors.  Everything that wasn’t tiled was either stainless steel or covered with neon lights.  Vats of smoking hot oil filled the air with the promise of artery-clogging goodness, and Nixie stood just inside the door, gaping at it all. 

She allowed Erik to peel off her scarf and coat and hang them next to his own on a coat rack as a tiny train raced around a track near the hammered tin ceiling.  A juke box
--
the old fashioned kind that played honest-to-goodness vinyl records
--
squatted in the corner, resplendent with zipping lights.  She started toward it automatically.  She wanted to play some Patsy Cline.  This place
demanded
Patsy Cline, but Erik took her elbow.