Meeting Miss Mystic (6 page)

***

Paul must have checked his phone thirty times on the ride from Gardiner to Livingston, glancing at it surreptitiously as he drove along, wondering if Holly would text him or not, unable to control the leaping of his heart at the prospect.

He couldn’t figure out how and why she’d gotten so far under his skin so quickly. It wasn’t like he could see her at school, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she walked down the hall to the craft closet or dressed up a little specially for Greet the Parents night. If she
was
a teacher at his school—as Jenny had been—he’d be able to observe her around others, what made her smile, what made her frustrated. He’d know so much about her based on his extrapolations, without ever needing to say more than a word to her. In fact, if he made a project of observing her carefully, he would have eventually made educated assumptions about who she was, whether that was fair and accurate or not.

Instead, she existed in a totally different plane of reality, allowing him direct access to her head and her heart. It was almost impossible to make assumptions about her, and more and more, Paul was enchanted by the concept of getting to know someone—really
know
them—without the confusion of body language, tone, physical attraction and assumptions.

One thing was for certain: the more he got to know Holly, the more he liked her.

He found street parking about a block away from the Empire Twin theater and made his way up the block, one hand in his pocket palming his phone just in case it vibrated. He opened the theater door and stepped into the stale-smelling, air-conditioned half-light. There was a ticket window to his right.

“One, please. For the, uh, 4:30 show.”

The girl behind the glass looked about the same age as his seniors and wore electric-blue eye shadow with silvery pink lip gloss. She snapped her gum loudly, looked meaningfully over his shoulder, then, convinced Paul had arrived alone, asked, “You mean the 4:45 show?”

Paul flicked his glance up to the marquis behind her.
Closer to You
, which featured a glossy poster with Emma Stone kissing Ryan Gosling in a meadow by sunset, was playing at 4:30 while
The Last Firestorm
which featured fighter jets doing mid-air acrobatics over a burning city, was playing at 4:45.

He lowered his eyes to meet hers and tilted his head to the side. “I said 4:30.”

“Just, uh,
one
?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Paul put a ten dollar bill on the countertop under the glass.

She flicked her eyes to the bill then back to his face without touching it. With that slightly mocking smile still on her face she let her eyes trail lazily down his body, resting briefly on his hips before slowly sweeping back up. She licked her lips.

“I get off at five.”

“Good for you,” Paul muttered without smiling.

The girl smirked, straightening her back so her small breasts jutted out toward him. “Want company? I’ll come find you in the dark once it starts. You say yes, I’ll let you watch for free. Deal?”

“I tell you what,” said Paul, placing a finger on his ten dollar bill and sliding it closer to her. “You go ahead and give me my change for one ticket at 4:30 and I won’t tell the theater manager that you’re coming on to the patrons. Deal?”

She huffed, taking his money and slapping his change on the counter. “Weird for a
man
to see that romance movie all by hisself.”

“
Him
self.”

“Huh?”

“
Him
self. It’s weird for a man to see that movie all by
him
self.”

She curled her lip and narrowed her eyes. “That’s what I said.”

School wasn’t in session and he wasn’t her teacher, but Paul was compulsive about correcting children and he was about to try to explain it to her again when his phone blessedly buzzed, interrupting them. He knew it was Holly. He just felt it.

“
Him
self,” he said again, which elicited another disgusted look from the girl. He rolled his eyes. “Aw, just forget it.”

He fished his phone out of his pocket, but kept himself from looking at the screen, wanting to choose a good seat and get settled before he read Holly’s text and wrote back. The theater was dark and mostly empty, except for a few bunches of girls in the front. Not wanting to appear like a creepy old man sitting by himself in the back row of the theater, Paul chose an aisle seat three rows from the back, sat down and then raised his phone.

It’s me. Are you there?

He smiled at his phone, running his thumb over her words, looking at the 860 area code of her previously unknown phone number and loving that she was suddenly only a phone number away now.

I’m here, he responded. Has yours started yet?

Not yet. Still previews. And hi. :)

Heya Holly. I’m smiling so wide right now, it’s ridiculous. Thanks for doing this.

Thanks for asking me.

How was your drive? he typed.

Fine. The theater’s only 15 min from my apt. You?

Good. Sunny. The Yellowstone River snakes along by the hwy. Lots of mountains. Makes for a nice ride.

It’s raining here. Perfect day for the movies. My drive wasn’t pretty, though. Just highway. I-95. I really don’t like hwy driving, but I was running late.

You don’t like hwy driving? he asked.

I prefer back roads.

Back roads. I haven’t heard that expression in a long time.

You don’t use back roads in Montana?

Not like you do in New England. In NE there are a million ancient back roads you can use to take the scenic route or avoid traffic.

Exactly.

In MT, every route’s the scenic route and there is no traffic.

You really love it there? You don’t miss NE?

I do sometimes. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, mostly. Nobody does Christmas like Maine. That’s why I go home.

And to see your family?

He paused before answering. He typed “It’s complicated” but erased the words. He didn’t want to send up a warning flag about him not liking his family or having problems with them. But it
was
complicated.

Paul was sixth-generation Johansson and his father’s expectations had been very clear: Brown undergrad, Harvard law, then partner in the family law business like his older brothers, Ted and Bennett. Going into the family law business in Boston wasn’t what Paul wanted. He didn’t want to make that ninety-minute commute every Monday morning, only returning north on Friday afternoons. Keeping an apartment in the city. The endless hours of work. The temptations of spending most of your life far from home. The women. He bit the side of his cheek as his father’s face came into focus, swiftly followed by his mother’s. They were still together after forty years, but it wasn’t a happy marriage.

How in the world could you explain all of that in a text? Why would he even want to?
Hey, Holly, here’s a look into my incredibly wealthy, incredibly privileged, incredibly dysfunctional, unhappy family. Want to get to know me better
? Yeah, right. What girl wanted that? Especially a girl who had lost her own parents but managed to hold on to strong relationships with her sister and aunt. No. Better that he gloss over it. He’d tell her all about it in nitty-gritty detail some other time.

Of course. To see them too.

Two brothers, right? Local?

Boston.

Huh. Close. More local to me than to you.

His eyes narrowed, thinking of Ted or Bennett finding out about Holly and making a move on her just to spite him.

They’re in Shanghai as far as you’re concerned. And they smell. And have rotten teeth.

LOL! *am smiling*

I love making you smile, Holly. :)

Ooo! Movie’s starting. Yours?

Not yet. No spoilers, now, Miss Morgan.

Just then the lights dimmed in Paul’s theater and he slunk back into his seat as the previews started.

Previews just starting, he typed. Then, Hey Holly?

I’m here.

That’s the thing…I wish you really were.

He stared at the screen, but she didn’t text back in the same rhythm they’d established a minute ago. Shoot. Had he gone too far? He waited a good thirty seconds and still no response, but he decided not to take it back or play if off as a joke.
A card laid is a card played…
and, anyway, he meant every word.

Chapter 4

Zoë stared at the little screen.

I wish you really were.

Goose bumps raised on her arm as her heart kicked into a gallop, but she only had a moment to enjoy the rush before guilt took over.

Yeah, right. If you only knew
, she thought acidly, self-consciousness broadsiding her. She swore she could
feel
her scars throbbing.

She knew he was waiting for her to write back—she could
sense
it—and yet she had no response. None. Her fingers gripped her phone tightly as she glanced up at the screen where Emma Stone, wearing a white sundress and bare feet, was sitting on an old-fashioned country swing hanging from the branch of an ancient plantation tree with her face bathed in sunshine and her light red hair back in a ponytail. That’s the sort of girl Paul wanted to be sitting next to, not Zoë.

She hadn’t been truthful about highway driving either. It didn’t
bother
her. It scared the holy hell out of her since the accident. Getting on the highway today for a total of two exits and ten minutes had made her hands sweat so badly, she’d pulled over when she got off the exit, breathing deeply and drying off her steering wheel and hands with the hem of her skirt. She should have tried to be more honest, but she’d passed over it, deciding to give him the low-down another time. She was just a big liar, all the way around.

I wish you really were.

She stared at the words hard.

Zoë’s heart and head agreed wholeheartedly. She’d love to be sitting beside him. Unless Paul was grossly misrepresenting himself, he was a catch. Good looking, quietly successful, satisfied with his life, with deep friendships. Returning home a few times a year on principal’s salary means that he probably had a strong relationship with his family too. What girl wouldn’t want that man sitting next to her?

On the flip side, why would a man—an amazing man with everything to recommend himself—be interested in someone with scars on her face and body? Someone who’d unintentionally but carelessly allowed grave injury to befall someone she loved? Someone who had lied about her looks and important details of her life since the moment they’d met? Zoë shouldn’t be looking for Paul. She should be looking for someone as damaged as she was.

She looked up at the screen and watched Emma, dressed in ’40s clothes, fry up eggs and bacon in an old-fashioned kitchen, chatting cheerfully to a basset hound at her feet while a radio played ’40s music.

Her phone vibrated.

Holly? It’s starting.

She stared at the phone screen, thinking for the hundredth time that she should cut bait and let Paul find someone as wonderful as he was.

I didn’t mean to freak you out, Holly. Write back? Please?

Zoë winced at the words. She couldn’t bear for him to think he’d done anything wrong by being honest with her and by speaking from his heart to hers. Still, she couldn’t encourage a train of conversation that veered toward meeting in person either.

No problem! Doesn’t that swing look like heaven? she asked.

Emma of reminds me of someone in that white dress. :)

My hair’s not as red.

Yours is like sunshine.

She smiled at her phone, feeling a sudden warmth ignite and establish itself at a low burn in her belly. She took a deep breath and sighed.
It was. Once.

You’re sweet, Paul.

You think so?

I do.

*Smiling*

She turned her glance back up to the screen where Emma was swing dancing and giggling with a red-headed actor wearing a WWII uniform, before kissing him on the cheek and making him sit down for breakfast.

Do you like music from the 1940s? Big band music? she typed.

I do. You?

Very much, she confessed. I used to be a pretty good dancer too.

Used to be? Are your dancing days over? Or are you just looking for a good partner?

She bit her lip at the Glossing Ahead sign on the road in front of her. Again, details for another time.

You volunteering? she demurred.

I’m not a bad dancer, Holly. My mother insisted every gentleman should know how to dance a few steps. I was forced to take ballroom dancing.

Forced, huh? Sounds like you absolutely loved it! LOL

I didn’t mind. I got to hold hands with Evelyn Berry.

It was absolutely ridiculous that a strong slice of jealousy cut through Zoë, but it was an uncontrolled, visceral reaction. She hated the idea of him holding hands with some other woman. Any other woman. Of any age. At any time. Possessiveness hissed and spat, making her eyes narrow at the little screen in front of her. Her fingers moved like lightning.

Evelyn Berry? Where is she now?

Still somewhere in Maine, I guess. Why?

She better STAY in Maine.

Had she, now?

She had. (If she knows what’s good for her.)

And if she doesn’t?

Oh, Paul. A Maine girl versus a Mystic girl? It’s simply not a fair fight.

Holly!! :)

Zoë bit her lip and giggled aloud at her boldness. It felt so unusual, sounded so foreign and fine to hear her own voice laughing, it made her breath catch and tears sprang into her eyes. Sitting in a dark movie theater two thousand miles away from the man who meant more to her every day, she wanted to weep. He’d made her giggle. Giggle. It had been months since she giggled spontaneously just because she was happy. It felt so good that her eyes glistened with gratitude she wished she could share with him. Instead she glossed. Again.

Now stop distracting me. I have to figure out what’s going on here. I feel a love triangle brewing. She smiled as she pressed send.

You and me and Evelyn? he asked a moment later.

Bite your tongue.