Meet Me in Manhattan (True Vows) (27 page)

She and Ted were still figuring things out. If this was indeed a
date, it was their first, or at least their first in sixteen years. She
wasn't about to invite him into her bedroom.

Not that she wasn't tempted. If she asked the doorman to allow
Ted to come upstairs, they might never reach the wine bar. She
might just yank him across the threshhold, slam the door, shove him onto the bed, and have her way with him. She had been
embarrassing herself with nearly constant X-rated fantasies about
him ever since their outing to Coney Island. Something about
riding the Tilt-A-Whirl with a sexy man could make a woman
incredibly horny.

She laughed, then gave her head a shake, wishing she could
throw off such thoughts the way a dog could throw off water by
shaking its body. Their meeting at Fanelli's had been a get-together,
their outing to Coney Island a lark. She was not going to bring Ted
upstairs. Their history notwithstanding, they weren't going to pick
up where they'd left off sixteen years ago. Ted was not going to gain
easy access to her bed with a wink and a dazzling smile.

Her intercom buzzer sounded, and she abandoned her efforts
to tame the summer frizz from her hair. When she lifted the intercom receiver, the doorman reported that a gentleman named
"Ted Scallop" was asking for her. "Tell him I'll be right down,"
she said, then returned to the bathroom for one final inspection
of herself in the mirror. Her dress was new-she'd bought it just
for tonight-and it looked fresh and flattering without being
obvious. She checked inside her purse to make sure she had her
wallet with her-even if this was a date, she wasn't going to leave
her wallet behind again-and then left the apartment, locking up
behind her.

Ted wasn't in the lobby, but the doorman nodded toward the
building's glass front door and she spotted Ted outside, leaning
against the mailbox and thumb-typing text into his BlackBerry.
She thanked the doorman and swept out of the building.

"Hi, Erika," Ted said without looking up.

She grinned at his ability to sense her presence without even
looking at her. Had he caught a whiff of her perfume? Or was he
just so attuned to her that he felt her nearness subliminally?

He looked wonderful. Not just in an objective sense, not just as
a guy good-looking enough to turn heads, but as Ted, the man
she was going on a date with. The man who had once been the
boy she'd loved.

She had loved him back then. She'd thought and thought
about it, recalling every detail of their summer together, remembering the flutter she'd felt in her heart and her gut every time she
saw him, every time she heard his voice on the phone. Every time
they were together-and when they were apart, too.

She'd loved him but talked herself out of it.

To this day, she didn't regret her decision to break up with him.
The timing had been wrong then. Now, it was perfect. Everything
about this moment-the way Ted looked leaning casually against
the mailbox in a jacket, an oxford shirt open at the collar, tailored
slacks that reminded her of the strength in those wrestler's legs,
and his eyes as green and full of life as the ocean at Coney Island
had been last Saturday-was perfect.

Except for the fact that he had told her he would never love her
again.

He'd asked her out on a date, for God's sake. Maybe he didn't
love her. Maybe he couldn't love her. But they had this evening,
this moment. If it wasn't perfect, it might well be as close to perfect as she could hope for.

At last he tucked his BlackBerry into a pocket and gave her a
full appraisal-and a shimmering smile. "I like your necklace,"
he said.

She had to touch her hand to her throat to remember what
necklace she'd chosen. All that time donning her new dress and
fussing with her hair and eyeliner, and she couldn't even remember what she looked like. The necklace was one of her chunky,
artsy pieces. She had only two kinds of jewelry: classic, demure, daughter-of-a-stockbroker adornments and wild, brash stuff. She
wondered what Ted would think of the elegant strand of cultured
pearls sitting in her jewelry box upstairs.

"Is there a good place around here?" he asked. "This is your
turf. Where should we go?"

"Do we want food or drinks? Or both?"

"Both," he said, then made a hand gesture she interpreted to
mean that she should lead the way.

She didn't want to lead the way. She wanted to hold his hand.
Better yet, she wanted him to arch his arm around her and hold
her close as they walked down the street. This wasn't just a date,
she thought; it was a first date, and their history didn't seem to
matter. He kept his hands in his pockets and she kept hers at her
sides. They felt empty, hollow.

First date. "This place is nice," she said as the approached a
cozy wine bar. "We can get drinks and snacks."

"Perfect." He held the door open for her and she stepped inside.

The hostess, a thin young woman with cheekbones sharp
enough to draw blood, led them to a small round table. A single
pink rose stood in a bud vase at the center of the table, next to it
a jittery flame dancing on the tip of a wick dipping into a well of
oil in a blown-glass bowl. Erika focused on the flower and the
lamp because it was easier on her nerves than focusing on Ted. He
looked too damned good. And she couldn't erase from her
memory bank those dooming words he'd once spoken.

I will never be with you again.

He asked her how her day was, and she told him. "It was busy.
Demanding. Okay," she concluded with a sigh.

"Just okay?"

Another waif-like woman came to take their order. Unemployed actresses, Erika deduced-both the server and the hostess. Unless they were unemployed models. They were certainly skinny
enough.

Ted skimmed the wine list, then handed it to Erika. "I don't see
any Budweiser here," he joked. "You order."

She requested a Pinot Grigio and Ted requested a platter of
fruit and cheese for them to munch on. As soon as the waitress
sashayed away in what definitely resembled a runway saunter, he
narrowed his gaze on Erika. "Why just okay? I thought this was
your dream job."

"I thought so, too," she admitted. "I shouldn't even be talking
about this, but ... well, the economy is doing its dying swan routine. Some of the big financial companies are going to take a hit,
and my company might be one of them."

"Really." Ted seemed not surprised but concerned. His gaze
warmed with sympathy. "How bad a hit?"

"I don't know. There'll probably be layoffs. I don't think I'm at
risk, but do I want to be there while everyone else is getting
sacked?"

"Everyone?"

"Well, no." She realized she was overstating things a bit, but
sharing her worries with Ted was such a relief. She hadn't been
able to discuss them with anyone else. Her father, a Wall Street
veteran, might have offered good insights, but if she told her parents, they'd fret about her. And she couldn't talk about the shaky
economy with her colleagues, who were all feeling the tremors
beneath their feet as strongly as she was.

But she could confide in Ted, whose insights were every bit as
valid as anything her father might have to say. He talked about
how riding the economy these days was like riding the Tilt-AWhirl-or, more aptly, riding a wave. "You think your footing is
secure and you're balanced, and then suddenly a wave you can't even see knocks you over. It's nothing you did, nothing you can
prepare for. It just happens."

The conversation flowed as smoothly as poured wine. They
sipped their Pinot Grigio, nibbled on grapes and slivers of brie
spread on whole-wheat crackers, and Erika gazed into Ted's eyes
and saw the boy she'd loved as a high school girl and the man he'd
grown into. He had changed-and hadn't changed. It was like
having double vision, seeing the past and the present all in one
person and feeling her own past and present colliding. Who she
was then, who she was now. How she'd felt then, how she felt now.

He'd been easy to talk to then, too-at least until the end,
when the talk had revolved around her leaving him. But even as
she'd broken up with him, she'd trusted him. She'd believed he
was always speaking from his heart, regardless of the fact that his
heart was shattered. She'd hurt him, and he'd told her, as honestly
as he'd always spoken to her: I will never be with you again. I could
never be this hurt again.

She had loved him then. Loved him as well as an eighteen-yearold girl with a horizon yawning open in front of her could love a
boy not standing on that horizon. It had been an immature love,
an incomplete love, an unprepared love. But it had been love.

And now?

It was love. She was falling in love with Ted Skala all over again.
Not with the boy he'd been then, but with the man he was today.
As she listened to his words, as she nodded and laughed and
offered reasonable responses to his comments, a part of her brain
was sending out frenzied signals, like one of those car alarms that
switched from a beeping horn to a siren wail to a screech. Ted was
breaking and entering her heart, and her mind was emitting a
deafening warning: He will never be with you again. Not that way.
You hurt him too badly.

If she loved him-no if about it-then he could hurt her as
badly as she'd hurt him. And then they'd be even. Maybe that was
the best she could hope for.

Because suddenly, finally, she comprehended what he'd experienced all those years ago, when she'd abandoned him and set
out on her own path. What he'd felt then, what she was feeling
now, was crazy. It was obsessive. It was magical. It was scary.

It was love.

"So, you're going where tomorrow?"

"Sun Valley," she told him. They'd finished eating and drinking and left the wine bar. Above them the sky stretched lavender,
a color she always associated with summer evenings in
Manhattan, and the air was warm without being oppressive.
Unlike SoHo, Gramercy Park radiated a dignified calm: young
couples strolled along the sidewalk pushing elaborate strollers,
elderly couples leaned into each other and moved slowly, their
lumbering gaits heavy with age and affection. A few children
skimmed past on scooters. The trees surrounding the park at the
center of the neighborhood were dense with leaves that fluttered
slightly, casting flickering shadows on the ground. "I'm leaving
directly from work tomorrow."

"What's in Sun Valley?"

"Ski slopes," she said, then laughed. "Nobody's skiing at the
moment, of course. It's beautiful there in the off season. When I
was in college, I did a lot of hiking. I really loved the mountains
out west. So some friends and I are meeting there to hike and
swim and enjoy the resort at discount prices."

"Sounds nice."

"I think the time away from the office will be good for me."
The time away from you will be good for me, too, she thought. Her heart seemed swollen with love for Ted. She needed to get away,
to regain her perspective. To remember that he'd sworn he would
never love her again.

"I hope you spend the whole time you're there thinking of me
slaving and sweating here in New York, breathing all the bus
fumes and trying to keep the economy from going under."

"You're so noble," she teased. "So selfless."

"Yeah, that's me." Abruptly, he took her hand and gave it a tug.
She thought he must have noticed a kid on a scooter or a skateboard speeding toward them, and he was pulling her out of the
kid's path. But when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw no
one. And when she turned back she realized Ted had pulled her
to a stoop, the brownstone steps leading to the arched entry of a
charming old townhouse.

Before she could question him, he had her in his arms. He
bowed his head, touched his mouth to hers, and lingered.

This is love, she thought, wrapping her arms around his strong,
solid shoulders and kissing him back.

The kiss seemed to last forever. It wasn't fiery, it wasn't forcing.
Just Ted's lips against hers, sweet and gentle, exploring, nibbling,
savoring. She tasted tart wine and honey-sweet pears and the heat
of her own desire as he quietly seduced her mouth with his.

Then and now, she thought. He'd been a fabulous kisser then,
and he was an even better kisser now. She'd been crazy for his
kisses then, and she was even crazier for them now.

Oh, she had it bad. This wasn't nostalgia. It was love.

He was the one to end the kiss. If it were up to her, she'd have
remained by that townhouse stoop, snuggling into his embrace,
kissing and kissing as the night fell over them and the next day
arrived. She would have missed work and her flight to Idaho.

But if she'd been the sensible one sixteen years ago, he was the sensible one now. He drew in a deep breath, peered down at her
and smiled. Then he took her hand and walked with her the last
block to her building. Neither of them spoke. As easily as they
could talk, they could just as easily enjoy each other's silence.

At her building, she considered asking him in. She shouldn't;
they both had work tomorrow morning, and she still had to pack
for her trip, and ...

And she didn't want her heart broken. Even if that was her fate,
she wasn't ready to accept it yet.

But he took the choice away from her by stepping back and
saying, "So, I'll see you when you get back."

"Okay." She sounded half-drugged. Okay. Anything you say,
Ted. I'm all yes for you.

He was still holding her hand, and he lifted it to his lips and
pressed a kiss to her palm. Then he folded her fingers around it,
as if to make sure his kiss wouldn't slip out of her grasp, and
turned and walked away.

She told herself she would sleep on the flight. She sure as hell
didn't sleep that night. She was too psyched, too crazed, as dizzy
as if she'd just stepped off the Tilt-A-Whirl. As if she was still on
it, unable-unwilling-to get off.