She's All That (31 page)
“I kissed you, Lilly. I didn't take you to bed and not call the next morning, all right? And I put together a stealth business plan for you, in fact. Isn't that enough of a penance?”
“Fair enough. If I can borrow your car.”
“When will you bring it back?”
“Tonight. I'm just going to Napa. I'll be back before you wake up. Weren't you up all night with China?” I ask, hopefully.
“No, actually, I never slept better in my life.”
“Please, Nate.”
He pulls his keys off a hook.
Yes!
“No later than seven.”
“I'll be back, I promise.”
“And fill it up!” he shouts after me, as I'm running down the stairs.
I love driving in San Francisco. Some people get nervous at the constant tension, the weaving in and out of traffic, the honking, but I live for the adrenaline. You will never be “let in” in San Francisco. The point becomes to “get over at any cost.” And with my mood this morning, I'm more than willing to play chicken with a few cabs and BMWs.
Bring it on! I'm
on a mission!
In odd contrast to my driving mood, I listen to praise music and Third Day and let it blare, thumping my palms on the steering wheel while lane-changing to the beat. Before long, I'm nearing the Bay Bridge, heading for the pristine Napa Valley and my friends. I can't wait to tell them about the fashion show. I can't wait to pitch my idea to Morgan. I've never bothered her before to wear anything because I didn't want to be anything like her dad. But today, with this fashion show, I believe she has the distinct opportunity to be her own woman. To separate from the man, if not from all that glitters.
It's at this small moment in time that I hear the enormous squeal and a crunch, while my neck snaps backward, then forward. Even after the car is stopped, it seems I continue to hear the noise from the impact and feel the car moving without my help, jamming into a place as I try to brake and steer to no avail. The scraping, whining squeal and my first glimpse in the rearview mirror at the metal that has made contact with Nate's Saab. It's some American make, from another era when big cars ruled the landscape. We're near the Fourth Street exit of 101, the last exit before the Bay Bridge, and traffic is honking, with a few shouts of “Get off the road!” among other expletives.
I know I'm not hurt. Not physically, anyway. But when I see the size of this great American gunboat, I know Nate's car cannot be in good shape. I step out of the car, since traffic has slowed to a crawl, and meet the face of the man who hit me.
He stares at me, then takes off running.
This is not good.
So here I am, stranded on Highway 101, with Nate's car scraped and leaking yellow fluid. I endure the wrath of Sunday morning traffic. (Apparently no one is on their way to church, judging by the language.)
After what seems like an eternity, a CHP comes up beside me, turning his flashing lights on and taking up yet another lane which is oh, so very popular with the lanes trying to get to the bridge.
“Are you all right, miss?”
“I'm fine,” I say, though I hear my voice shaking. I'm not as fine as I would be if I was still on my way to the beautifully serene wine country, that's for certain.
“License and registration.” He holds his palm out.
“That's it? That's all the sympathy I get? This idiot hit me, and ran off, and I'm stuck out here all by myself.”
“License and registration, miss.” Behind him, I see the huge tow truck that's come to clear both cars away.
“This isn't my car!”
“Ma'am, you'll have your opportunity to give your side of the story, but I need to see your paperwork. We've got to get this cleaned up. It's Sunday morning!” he says, his voice rising, and I feel completely guilty. I'm hearing my Nana shout that if I'd been in church where I belonged, none of this would have happened.
I rifle through my new Marc Jacobs handbag and pull out my driver's license. Getting the registration, I just cringe.
Nate
is going to kill me!
The only thing he loves more than this classic Saab is Charley. And now, both of them are leaking.
A
fter giving my statement on what CHP kindly deemed “the accident,” the officer gives me a ride to the cable car, and I grab a ride down to Fisherman's Wharf, then walk to the Marina. I find it funny that it's called a hit-and-run, because at the moment, while I definitely got hit, the places I can run seem pretty limited. I have to call Nate, there's no getting around that, but I'm not exactly wanting to see him face-to-face yet. I dial his cell, and he's not answering. For this, I'm grateful. I call Morgan and Poppy, but they must be enjoying an elegant Sunday brunch because they don't answer either. This leaves Nana's place as the only refuge I can think of, even if I do have to face her worried frown.
I reach the top of her hill, and my legs are shot from walkingâeven the slight hills in the Marina. Clearly, sitting at the computer and the sewing machine has done nothing for my physical prowess. But if I had to take an anatomy test right now, I'd be set, because I can feel every muscle in my body. So much so, I remember their names. And I thought I'd never use that information. I owe my anatomy teacher an apology.
I knock on Nana's door. Nothing.
What is with my Nana?
Where does she go? Church should be over by now. Why can't I
have her life?
I hear a car pull up behind me and whirl around to see Max getting out of a Mercedes convertible, a fake blonde behind the wheel. Well, the woman is real, just the blonde part is fake.
“Thanks again, Jenna!” He waves at her, and she peers over her sunglasses to check out whether or not I'm any competition. Apparently, I'm not. She speeds off. “Lilly, what are you doing here?”
“My Nana lives here.” I don't know if it's fatigue, the fear of telling Nate, or feeling so utterly alone, but I have to fight back tears when I look at Max.
“Her church was putting on a family potluck today. I don't think she'll be back for hours.”
I sigh, and slide against the door until I reach the ground. “I'll wait.” I put my palm over my eye, as it's throbbing.
“Come upstairs. I'll make you something to eat. Are you all right?”
“My head hurts.”
Max bends over at the waist and gently lifts my bangs off my forehead. “You have a red mark here.” He brushes his thumb over my eyebrow.
“Ouch!” I yelp as he touches it.
“Come on up. We'll put some ice on it. What have you been up to this weekend? Did you get caught in a mosh pit again?”
“I got in a little car accident when I was driving to Napa.”
“You don't have a car.”
“Exactly. Aren't you glad I didn't take yours? Because now, Nate doesn't have a car either. At least not one in working condition.”
Max reaches down, leaning with one arm on his crutch, and pulls me up. He follows me up the stairs, and we reach his landing. I just look into his dark espresso eyes, and I forget all about my head. It's the only excuse I have for what comes out next. “Are you busy this Saturday?”
“It depends,” he says. “Are we talking busy, as in
I don't
have a television show to watch
, or busy as in
I can TiVo it,
because this is an offer I can't refuse?”
“Definitely the latter,” I say.
He unlocks the front door and hobbles up the two steps into his living room where he opens the shutters and lets the sparkling blue bay and skating sailboats invade our view with the morning sun. “Do you want something to eat?”
“Just that ice would be good.”
Max opens a Sub-Zero refrigerator, and pulls out a package of frozen peas. “Here, this works great. Let me grab one, and we can nurse our wounds together,” he jokes.
I put the bag over my eye. “I didn't think I got hurt.”
“I thought the same thing when I broke my leg and tried to stand on it.” He continues to brush the hair off my forehead. “So, what's the offer I can't refuse?”
“It's almost Fashion Week.”
“I know, believe it or not.”
“Don't tell me, Valeria's modeling?”
“No, the hotel is booked solid with New York media. San Francisco fashion is finally on the map, apparently.”
“Max, I need some buzz.”
“What?”
“I need the media to take notice of me, because this is my last shot at fashion. If I can't make it next week, I'm going back to a desk job. I've lived the dream long enough. If it doesn't happen now, it's not going to, and my Nana deserves to know I'm well taken care of. If seeing the woman who abandoned me taught me anything, it's that Nana allowed me to have a childhood. It's time to have an adulthood.”
“Meaning?”
“I want you to come to the fashion show with me.” I nibble on my lower lip. “I want you to be my date.”
I could die.
This is exactly like the time I talked to Steve Collins in college and asked him to a football game, only to have him tell me American football was hardly worth his time.
And neither was I.
“Well, well.” He falls on the sofa and crosses his hands behind his head. “Yeah, they all come around sooner or later.”
I force myself to refrain from rolling my eyes. “You can even break up with me in some dramatic way after the event. It'll help your playboy status with the Valerias of the City.
“As if I need help.”
I can feel the sting of tears again. “Please don't make fun of me, Max. I saw your picture in the society page in the Datebook section of the paper. I know you're some hotshot around town because your family owns the hotels. Anything I can do to create conversation, even if it's about me being with the City's playboy, I could use.”
“My pastor wouldn't exactly appreciate the
playboy
description. Neither would my mother, frankly. Besides, what have I ever done to you to deserve that title?”
My voice is timid here. I had the feeling he'd like the title. “I just thought because of Valeriaâ¦and that girl that dropped you off just nowâ”
“So let's see, because I had a woman make me dinner, and a friend from church drop me off, that makes me a player? If you want to know the truth, Lilly, your Nana had more to do with Valeria being here all the time. She invited her over to cook, because she was so certain I needed a wife to keep me company. I don't think it mattered to her that the girl's IQ and her bra size were about equal, in actuality.”
This just makes me laugh. I try to stop, but I'm giggling like a schoolgirl, and every time I try to stop, it gets worse.
“So you see, I'm not really the player you think. I have an ex-girlfriend or two, sure. Would you really trust me if I didn't at this age?”
Not answering that question.
“Morgan Malliard is going to be my finale, and I want you to be my date, Max.” I press the peas tighter against my head. “No, wait, you don't even have to really be my date. I want you to pretend to be my date. We'll have our picture taken. We'll smile for the camera, and then, you're on your way. One of your hot, little chauffeurs can come rescue you from the after-party.” I shift the icy peas on my forehead. “Maybe Tara Reid is available,” I mumble.
“Boy, since you're asking me for a favor, I hoped to find you a little more humble.” He laughs. “Let me give you a hint: when you want a favor, usually it's a good idea to warm up the room a bit first. You know, feel the love.”
I get down on my knees, drop the peas, and clasp my hands together. “I'm begging, all right? How's this for humble?”
“Lillian, what are you doing on Max's good rug?” I whisk myself off the floor and face my Nana in the doorway.
“Nana, I thought you weren't due home for a while.”
“I'm home early. Everyone made mashed potatoes. How can you have a potluck with four types of mashed potatoes and no meat?” She catches a glimpse of my head. “What did you do?”
“I got in a little accident.”
Nana comes toward me and puts her icy hand on my forehead. “Well, you don't have a fever. That's good.”
“Speaking of which, what have you been doing at the hospital, Nana?”
When the going gets tough, the tough always
shift the focus back.
She purses her lips at Max, as though he's betrayed her confidence. “Getting a flu shot. They were out of them the first time. I had to go back a couple times until they had stock.” She points her finger at Max. “Must you tell everyone my business?”
Max shrugs. “I'm just sitting here, waiting for golf to start. In case you haven't noticed, Jacobs women, this is my place!” He clicks on the set.
“We'll go downstairs. Max, I brought you some leftover spinach casserole. I put it in the fridge.”
As we start to exit, I feel myself getting anxious to the point of near-panic. I wait for my Nana to start on the first step, and then I turn back into Max's house. “Please, Max. Will you do it?”
He beckons me with a finger. “Come here, first.”
I get close enough to him where I can smell his woodsy, expensive cologne. It's light enough to incite my senses, but not overwhelming enough to make him smell like an overeager teenager. Oh yeah, Max is easy on the nose. No Lysol necessary.
I gaze at him, face to face, and I watch the corner of his lip curve into a smile. “I wouldn't miss it, Lilly,” he growls. Growls!
I pick up a pillow and throw it at him. “You made me suffer for nothing!” I start toward the door.
“Hey, wait a minute. What day?”
“This Saturday night, at your father's hotel.”
“Which one?”
I just look at him. “You know, you could figure that out. Is that your way of letting me know he owns more than one?” I shake my head. “Call your concierge,” I joke.
