Once in a Blue Moon (14 page)

“No wonder it tastes so good.” Randall popped the morsel of sauce-soaked bread into his mouth and chewed, eyes closed as if in silent communion with the gods, before washing it down with a swallow of wine. “When I was a kid, we used to spend a month every summer in Italy with my dad’s family,” he told her. “They lived in the village of Montepulciano, just south of Siena. For my little brother and me, it was heaven on earth. We ate like kings, ran around barefoot all day long, and were spoiled rotten by our
nonnas
and
zias
.”

She was reminded of the first time she’d felt the salty sea air against her cheeks and the sand beneath her toes, walking along the beach here in Blue Moon Bay. She had thought she must have died and gone to heaven. “So how does someone with an Italian father end up with a last name like Craig?” she asked.

He smiled. “Anthony’s my stepdad.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“I never thought of him as anything other than my dad, though,” he went on. “One of the advantages of your mom getting remarried when you’re young, I suppose. Though I’m sure it had more to do with Anthony being such a great guy. Also, I didn’t see much of my real dad growing up.” A note of bitterness crept into his voice, and he offered her a rueful smile. “Not that that doesn’t have its silver lining. I think all writers—the good ones, anyway—are born out of some childhood angst, so I have him to thank for that, at least.”

“If that’s true, then I would’ve been a Pulitzer Prize winner if I’d ever decided to try my hand at writing,” she replied with a short, mirthless laugh.

He cocked his head, his gaze locking on to hers. “So you had it tough growing up?”

Lindsay sensed he wasn’t asking merely out of idle curiosity. Still, she was sorry she’d brought it up. Only the wine and Randall’s easy company made her feel relaxed enough to venture into territory she normally avoided. “My childhood was kind of a mixed bag,” she told him. “I think of it as being divided into two parts, like B. C. and A. D., only in this case, B. C. stands for Before California. I moved here with my parents when I was thirteen. Before that I lived in Reno with my mother and my sister—my real mother, that is.” She paused to add, with a slow shake of her head, “It seems strange calling her that because she wasn’t really a mother. She was just Crystal.”

“That bad, huh?”

Lindsay shrugged. “She wasn’t entirely to blame, I suppose. She had me when she was young—just seventeen. Also, I don’t think she was cut out to be a mom. She wasn’t what you’d call hands-on. She worked nights and slept during the day, so I pretty much raised myself. Then when my sister was born, I was stuck raising her, too.” She hastened to add, “Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister, but—” She broke off, thinking the past had come full circle in some ways.

“Sounds like you had a lot on your shoulders.”

“It wasn’t easy,” she admitted.

“So what happened?”

“When I was twelve Crystal went to prison for dealing drugs. My sister and I went into foster care.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she were speaking about people and events unrelated to her. The years of loneliness and neglect had taught her to distance herself from those emotions.

Randall was just the opposite. His face was like a seismograph charting his every mood, and right now it showed deep empathy. “That must have been hard on you and your sister.”

“More for Kerrie Ann than for me. I was placed with a couple who ended up adopting me. My sister wasn’t so lucky. She was only three at the time, so the only life she’s known was being bounced from one foster home to the next. I even lost touch with her for a while—years.”

“But she’s back in the picture now?”

Lindsay nodded, taking a sip of wine. “Here’s the strange part—I’d spent half my life searching for her, and then a couple of weeks ago, she just showed up out of the blue. I hadn’t seen her since she was this high.” She held her hand out level with the table. “It was quite a shock.”

Randall gave a low whistle. “I’ll bet. Must’ve been some reunion.”

“It was. Though not like in movies, where everybody hugs and then it fades to black.” So many conflicting emotions had been stirred up by her sister’s unexpected arrival. “I’m happy she’s back in my life, of course, but it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing. It isn’t just that we’re at opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of how we were raised—we’re very different.”

“How so?”

She hesitated, not sure how to put it without portraying her sister unfavorably—she didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. “Well, for one thing, Kerrie Ann’s not much of a reader. I can’t imagine my life without books, and my sister doesn’t even know who Dostoyevsky is. Also, I have a long fuse, while she . . . well, rub her the wrong way and she goes off like a Roman candle.” She paused to reflect, fingering the stem of her wineglass as she gazed off into space. “I know she hasn’t had an easy time of it, so I try to be understanding even though I’m not always that patient with her. I keep reminding myself that she hasn’t had all the advantages I’ve had.”

“I’m sure it’ll get easier with time,” he said.

“If we don’t kill each other first,” Lindsay replied with a dry laugh, explaining, “Kerrie Ann’s staying with me and Miss Honi for the time being, until she gets her own place.”

His eyes crinkled in a wry smile. “And who, may I ask, is Miss Honi?”

“You met her—the older lady at the register? I guess you could call her my adopted godmother. She was our neighbor when I was growing up, and she used to keep an eye on us when Crystal was at work. Anyway, she’s the only family I have left. Except Kerrie Ann, of course. I just wish it were as easy with my sister. So far we seem to spend more time bumping heads than bonding.”

Randall nodded in sympathy. “My brother and I are like that, and we grew up under the same roof. He’s a Republican, I’m a Democrat. He’s a churchgoer, and I’m a lapsed Catholic. But even though we don’t always see eye to eye, it doesn’t mean we don’t care about each other.”

Lindsay set her glass down, realizing she was ever so slightly tipsy. Tipsy enough, at least, to be able to look Randall in the eye without losing her train of thought. She regarded him for a long moment, liking what she saw. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice to talk to someone who understands. And who doesn’t think I’m a terrible person for occasionally wanting to strangle my sister.”

“That doesn’t make you a terrible person. Just human.”

He smiled and reached across the table to take her hand, giving it a squeeze. It might have been nothing more than a friendly gesture except that his fingers remained lightly curled about hers. There was no denying it now. They’d crossed the line from business into a place she had no business being. She felt a slow heat building in her and could see from the way he was looking at her that business was the last thing on his mind as well.

What am I getting into here? I have a boyfriend
. Reluctantly she withdrew her hand from Randall’s and sat back. “It doesn’t help, of course, that she showed up needing a place to stay when I’m about to be homeless myself—that is, if the powers that be have their way.” Lindsay told him about her predicament, careful to keep it brief lest she spoil the pleasant mood.

Randall listened intently, his expression darkening as she spoke. Clearly he had a soft spot for the underdog. “How much do you know about this Lloyd Heywood?” he asked.

“Not much outside what you can find out by Googling his name,” she said. “Except that he’s a bastard—and a charming one at that.”

“The worst kind,” he muttered, his expression darkening further.

“You can say that again,” she said, recalling Heywood’s cunning attempt to lure her into his web. “But how do you defend yourself against a man like that? He’s the one holding most of the cards. And he has deep pockets. He’ll put me in the poorhouse if he doesn’t first succeed in driving me out of my home.”

Randall lapsed into a brooding silence, and she wondered if he was thinking about a similar experience of his own. Something that might explain why he’d left Wall Street at the peak of his earning years for the uncertain fate of a first-time novelist—perhaps a venture with someone unscrupulous in which he’d gotten burned? But before she could ask, their waiter appeared to clear away their plates. By the time coffee and dessert—slices of Paolo’s delectable
torta di nonna
—arrived, they’d moved on to other topics. He told her more about his mother, who, in addition to having suffered several strokes, was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He confided how difficult it was watching the bright, articulate woman he’d known slip away by degrees. She spoke with emotion about what it had been like losing Ted and Arlene.

When the check came, Randall paid the bill, then came around to take her arm as she rose to her feet. Just then they could have been any couple heading home after an evening out. She felt herself warm at his closeness and took note of the envious looks from several female diners, who no doubt thought them romantically linked and perhaps wished they could be as lucky in love. At the door, Randall paused to shake the hand of the portly, middle-aged Paolo. “The last time I had Italian food that good was at my
nonna
’s table in Montepulciano,” he complimented the chef-owner, whose passion for his cooking was evidenced in the liberally stained chef’s whites that strained at his ample belly, adding in fluent Italian, “
Dal cuore mangiate l’alimento migliore.”

The older man beamed at him, exclaiming, “
Esattamente!
”

“What did you say to him?” Lindsay asked when they were outside.

“Roughly translated, it means ‘From the heart comes the best food.’”

“I didn’t know you spoke Italian.” She was impressed. Languages weren’t her strong suit.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he said, offering her his arm as they set off along the sidewalk. He spoke in a companionable tone, but she couldn’t help noticing the preoccupied look he wore.

Randall had offered to drive her home, and she was in no shape to refuse. Even if she hadn’t given Kerrie Ann the keys to her car, she was too tipsy to be trusted behind the wheel. It wasn’t just from the wine, she thought, holding on to his arm as they made their way to where his car was parked. It was also the nearness to Randall. She felt as she used to with the boys in school on whom she’d had crushes. A feeling she hadn’t had in a very long time.

When they arrived at her house, Randall cut the engine instead of letting it idle.
Nothing is going to happen
, Lindsay told herself. Nothing
could
happen while they sat parked not more than a dozen feet from the house, light streaming from the windows and her dog barking excitedly. But she experienced a little thrill nonetheless. It felt like her high school years, coming home from a date with a boy she liked, knowing the evening wouldn’t end without a kiss. “I had a nice time tonight,” she told him. “Thank you again for dinner . . . and for the book.” Tame words compared to what she was feeling.

“My pleasure. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

“In the meantime, good luck with everything.”

The relaxed mood at the restaurant had given way to self-consciousness on his part as well. She sensed him holding back. Maybe because of the earlier reference she’d made to her boyfriend. Was he merely being respectful of that? Or was he involved with someone as well? He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend, and there was nothing in his bio about a wife, which meant he was either unattached or purposely keeping her in the dark. If it was the latter, it would mean he had designs on her and was only biding his time before he made his move. She felt a trickle of furtive pleasure at the thought.

And what of her own motives? Wasn’t she supposed to be in love with Grant? What would he think if he could see her now?

She lingered a moment longer until she was at risk of appearing obvious before saying, “Well . . . good night.” She leaned in to kiss Randall on the cheek and somehow connected with his mouth instead. The kiss was light, a fleeting sensation of lips brushing over hers, his warm breath tasting faintly of licorice from the anisette he’d had with dessert. But it might as well have been a passionate embrace. She felt a bolt shoot straight down through the pit of her stomach, and if she’d been standing, her knees would have buckled.

She was trembling when they drew apart.

Randall clearly wasn’t unaffected, either. “Good night, then.” His voice was low and husky, and his eyes searched her face.

Even after they’d parted, she lingered for a moment or two on her doorstep, shivering in her light jacket, listening to the sound of his engine receding into the distance.

Randall Craig had forgotten how dark it could get in these remote areas, where there were no streetlights or lighted store-fronts to guide the way. There was only the glare of his headlights as he bumped over the dirt road in his Audi convertible, his hands clenched tightly about the wheel and his eyes staring straight ahead while he replayed the evening in his mind.