Once in a Blue Moon (21 page)

“Thanks,” she said as she dabbed on perfume. Her gaze met Kerrie Ann’s in the mirror.

But her sister only replied with a laconic shrug, “For what?”

“For taking an interest, number one. And for not asking a lot of nosy questions.”

Kerrie Ann arched a brow. “You mean about why you’re getting all dolled up for a guy who isn’t your boyfriend?”

“Something like that.”

“Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”

“Not that I have anything to hide.” Lindsay replaced the stopper in the perfume bottle and turned to face her sister. “I’m a bookseller. It’s good business to get to know authors.” She relied on the firmness of her tone to make up for her wavering sense of moral authority.

“I see.” Kerrie Ann smirked. “So you get this dressed up for all your authors, do you?” She took a step back to survey Lindsay in her evening finery, her lips curling in a knowing smile.

Lindsay felt herself blush. “No, not all of them. But there’s no law that says I can’t mix business with pleasure.”

“So you admit you’re into this dude?”

“I like him, yes. He’s good company.”

“He’s also pretty damn hot. I’ve seen his photo.”

Lindsay risked a small smile, her blush deepening as she recalled the brush of Randall’s lips over hers and how alive she’d felt in that moment. “He’s easy on the eyes; I won’t deny it.”

“Well, have fun.” Kerrie Ann, her arms folded over her chest, tipped Lindsay a conspiratorial wink as she headed out the door. “And for God’s sake, try not to be too much of a Girl Scout.”

Lindsay drove north along Highway I toward San Francisco, to the seductive beat of Bruce Springsteen’s
Born to Run
album, which helped her unwind, as it always did, and made her feel like she belonged in the clothes she wore. Forty minutes later she was easing her Volvo into a parking spot that had magically opened up a block or so from Randall’s place in the funky, outlying district of Noe Valley. Finding his address proved a bit trickier. She spent several minutes tottering up and down the sidewalk in her borrowed shoes before she finally located it, tucked behind one of the large, gracious Victorians that faced onto the street.

A converted artist’s studio, painted white trimmed in robin’s-egg blue, it stood at one end of a narrow brick courtyard bordered in oleander. She slowed as she approached. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced onto the courtyard, she could see Randall moving about inside, dressed casually in khakis and a striped button-down shirt open at the collar. She watched him uncork a bottle of wine, then pause as his gaze turned inward. He stood that way for a moment, staring sightlessly ahead, wearing a small, preoccupied frown. What was he pondering that had him so deep in thought? she wondered.

Then he was greeting her at the door, all smiles. “So, you made it. My directions okay?”

“Your directions were fine. I even found a parking spot.” She stepped into a room fragrant with cooking smells. Obviously they weren’t going out tonight. She cast a wry glance at him as he was taking her jacket. “So this is the neighborhood restaurant you were telling me about?”

He flashed her a smile. “The place I had in mind was booked for a private party, so I decided to cook for you instead,” he explained as he hung her jacket in the small coat closet. “No guarantees on the food, but you can’t beat the location. Though it’s a shame I won’t be able to show you off. You look absolutely stunning.” He stepped back to admire her, and Lindsay felt her cheeks warm. “I have to confess, I don’t remember you being so tall.”

She looked down at her feet. “It’s these shoes. They’re my sister’s, and frankly they’re killing me.”

“In that case, why don’t you take them off? There’s no one around but us, and I promise I won’t tell.” He guided her to the sofa, where she sank down with a grateful sigh and eased off her shoes. Mellow jazz was playing on the stereo, and candles glowed. “There, that’s better, isn’t it? In fact, I think I’ll join you.” He slipped off his own shoes, a pair of brown suede driving mocs. “To be honest, I normally go barefoot around the house—one of the advantages of working for yourself.” His smoky-blue eyes crinkled in a smile, and he reached for the open wine bottle on the coffee table. “Can I offer you a glass of wine? If you prefer white, there’s a bottle of pinot grigio in the fridge.”

“Red’s fine,” she told him.

He poured them each a glass. “I have friends who own a vineyard in Santa Ynez,” he said. “They put out some very nice wines. This petite sirah is my favorite.”

She took a sip, murmuring appreciatively, though she knew little about wine—one of the many things that set her apart from Randall. She glanced around the room. “I like your place. It has character.”

“That it does.” He followed her gaze, taking in the snug interior, with its tongue-and-groove wainscoting and old cypress flooring that resembled the deck of a boat listing slightly at sea. Piles of books were stacked beside built-in bookshelves crammed with more books. A large Chinese urn by the door held a potted ficus. The chairs and sofa appeared comfortably worn. “I lease it from the lady in the big house—Mrs. Adler. Her husband was an artist. This used to be his studio.” He gestured toward a skillfully executed seascape on the wall. “That’s one of his. He was quite good, as you can see.”

She gazed at the painting admiringly. “What became of him?”

“He died some years ago. The poor old gal still hasn’t gotten over it. They were married fifty years.”

Lindsay sipped her wine. All this talk of long-term devotion was prompting uneasy thoughts of Grant. She said brightly, “So tell me about the tour. Did you do a lot of signings?”

“One in each city, and don’t even ask which cities because it’s all a blur at this point.”

“Good turnouts?”

“For the most part. Except this one—Cleveland, I think it was—where only two people showed up.” He gave a rueful laugh. “One of them must’ve felt sorry for me because he hung around the entire time. Turned out he was a tech geek, and when I told him I was looking to upgrade my laptop, he gave me the lowdown on which model to buy and where to get one at a discount. So even though I only sold a couple of books, I’d say it was a good night.”

“I wish every author had that attitude,” she remarked. “Most are nice about it when there’s not much of a turnout, but a few get nasty. I’m not naming any names, but I once had an author go off in a huff. He was mad because he didn’t think I’d done enough to promote his event. As if it were my fault that it was pouring rain that night!”

Randall shook his head. “Pretty shortsighted of him, I’d say. The first rule in touring is don’t shoot at your own troops. We need you as much as you need us. Let me guess—I’ll bet you didn’t exactly go out of your way to feature his book after he went off on you like that.”

“I wouldn’t say I discouraged people from buying it, but they might have had a hard time finding it,” she confessed.

Randall laughed and told her about the time early on, before the sales of his novel took off, when he’d sweet-talked a clerk at a Barnes & Noble into displaying
Blood Money
on the front table even though it wasn’t part of any paid promotion. She didn’t have to ask if the clerk had been female and found herself wondering if he’d gotten the woman to do more than prominently display his book. She felt a small stab of jealousy at the thought. Which was ludicrous, she told herself, since she hadn’t even known him then and certainly had no claim on him now. Besides which, she had a boyfriend.

She once more resolutely pushed the thought of Grant from her mind, and soon she was coasting on the effects of the wine and Randall’s easy company. Seeing him in his well-worn easy chair, his stockinged feet propped on the ottoman, it was hard to imagine him as a hard-driving Wall Street financier.

“Do you ever miss New York?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I miss certain things about it. Like, oh, I don’t know, the smoked fish at Russ & Daughters and listening to live jazz at the Blue Note. Shakespeare in the Park on a summer night when the moon is out. But no, overall I don’t miss New York.”

“How long did you live there?”

“Almost fifteen years. I got a job on Wall Street right out of college.”

“It says in your website bio that you were the youngest ever to make partner in your firm.”

“Ah, yes, the fair-haired boy.” He raised his glass as if to the ghost of that dear, departed young man. “What isn’t in my bio is that I had to slave my ass off for ten years to get there. And for what? So I could make even more money that I was too busy to enjoy?”

“So you up and left? Just like that?”

“Just like that.” His expression darkened, and once again she wondered, as she had the night at Paolo’s, if there was something he wasn’t telling her about that chapter of his life. Abruptly he changed the subject. “But you didn’t come all this way to have me bore you with talk of finance. I want to know what you’ve been up to while I was away. How is it going with your sister?” He reached for the wine bottle and refilled their glasses.

She sighed. “Okay, I guess . . . except when we’re at each other’s throats.” She told him about the fight they’d had earlier in the week and her concerns over the romance developing between Kerrie Ann and Ollie. “It’s not all her fault, though. She tries, in her own way. Part of it’s me—I tend to blow things out of proportion.”

“Maybe because you’re not starting with a clean slate.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you had to take care of her when you were kids. I was just wondering if you might be harboring some old resentment.”

Lindsay frowned. “Why would I hold that against my sister? She was just a baby at the time.”

“It’s easy to blame the nearest target when the person you’re really mad at isn’t around.”

His words hit home, and she nodded slowly. “Crystal, you mean. You could be right. I was angry at her for a long time. I guess my sister could be stirring up some of those old feelings. I hate to say it, but she reminds me of our mother in a lot of ways.” Lindsay tucked her feet under her, leaning into the sofa as she turned to face him. “What about you?” she asked. “Do you think you’ll ever stop being angry at your father?”

Randall seemed to wrestle with his emotions before he replied, “It’s different with me. My old man’s still around to stoke the fire. Though I don’t see much of him, I confess. Every once in a while he’ll give me a call when he’s in town, and we’ll get together for a drink or a meal, but other than that he leaves me be.”

“Still, he must be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

Randall shrugged and took a sip of his wine. “He doesn’t consider it a real job. He thinks I just got lucky. Not like when I was raking in the dough on Wall Street—
that
he could respect.”

Lindsay found herself disliking this man whom she hadn’t even met. “It’s not just luck. First you had to write the book when you didn’t know if you would even get it published, much less hit it big. I had one author tell me it’s like performing to an empty auditorium.”

Randall gave a knowing laugh. “More like performing to an audience of one, which is tougher in a way since I’m my own worst critic. I suppose it goes with the territory,” he added with a shrug.

“Except most authors aren’t as talented as you.”

He smiled. “Thanks. I just hope you think as highly of my cooking. Shall we?” He rose, extending a hand to help her up. “Supper’s basically ready. I just have to throw a few things together.”

Lindsay started to put her shoes back on, but he stopped her, saying, “No sense in being uncomfortable. Besides, I like you this way—it suits you.” He regarded her for a long moment, his eyes communicating some unspoken emotion, then he turned and led the way into an alcove off the kitchen, where a small table was set for two.

Lindsay was grateful when he disappeared into the kitchen. It gave her a chance to collect herself.

Randall reappeared a few minutes later carrying a tray on which sat a conical clay
tagine
. He lifted the lid to reveal a mound of fragrant curried-chicken couscous and spooned some onto her plate. After she’d pronounced it delicious, he said, “Good, because it’s practically the only thing I know how to make.” He explained that he’d once signed up for a cooking course but ended up attending only one session. He winked. “Don’t tell anyone, though. My friends all think I’m a gourmet cook.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me.”

He passed her a basket of warm pita bread. “Ever been to Morocco? It’s a fascinating place.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never been anywhere, really. Mostly I just read about all the places I’d like go to someday.” She glanced up at him shyly. “I must seem awfully provincial.”

“Not in the least,” he said. “You just haven’t had the opportunity to travel. But all those places will still be there when you do get around to visiting them. So,” he asked, leaning back in his chair, “where would you most like to go if you had to choose just one?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ve always wanted to see Russia.”

“Ah, the land of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.”

She smiled. “What can I say?
Anna Karenina
was my introduction to literature when I was fifteen. I thought it was the most brilliant novel ever written. In some ways, I still do.”