Slow Dancing on Price's Pier (13 page)

“Garret.”

He opened his eyes. The line had moved forward without him. And Thea stood beside him in a coffee brown tank top that showed off the dark freckles and smooth skin of her shoulders. He had to look away.

“What were you doing with your eyes closed?” she asked.

“Falling asleep,” he said. “Is this a marketing ploy? The heat and the lines? You're trying to get your customers good and droopy so they'll order more caffeine?”

Thea chuckled, and he was glad to see it. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing. Where's Irina?”

The slight pull of a smile tugged her lips. “Come on.”

She walked away, and he hesitated to follow her. She motioned for him to stand slightly behind the counter, and despite his better sense, he did. “Let me guess. Double espresso?”

“Yeah. But
ristretto.
” He liked his espresso to be brewed stronger than the standard “long shots” that had more water but less flavor. “What gave it away?”

“Just going on what I know about you,” she said. “I'd guess you'd want the efficiency of espresso. If you could, you'd take your espresso the Italian way—standing at a counter, one quick shot and then—done.” She glanced at him, a quick sweep from head to toe that made him pull himself up straight. “I'd also guess that you watch your dairy and fat intake, if I were a betting woman. So espresso seemed to fit the bill. And short shots make sense too.”

He laughed—he couldn't help it. He meant to hate her, but for now—for this one second—it didn't seem to hurt anything to relax. “You're good. You're damn good.”

“And don't forget it,” she said. She smiled; her face lit with playful and mischievous light. But no sooner had he seen that glint of good nature than she'd caught herself smiling and turned away.

He watched her grind the beans—the smell of them filling the air—press them gently with a silver tamp, and then set the espresso machine to brew. When she was younger, she'd timed her shots with a stopwatch—twenty-eight seconds—but now she no longer needed it. She tapped the leftover espresso out of the portafilter so it emerged as round and flat as a hockey puck. The dull
thud
of the handle banging against the knock box was a sound Garret had heard for years in his dreams.

He flipped open his wallet to get a few dollar bills as she walked past him.

“Don't even think about it,” she said. “Come with me.”

With no choice—she was holding his espresso hostage—he followed her. The hallway had been painted white, and Irina had drawn all over it—horses, clowns, birds, a few bright, smiling suns, and the ocean. This was no furtive and prohibited drawing that would get her grounded; Thea had left a bucket full of crayons for her at the end of the hall. He felt as if he were a voyeur being allowed to peer for a moment into Thea's life.

Thea pushed through a thick fire door, and then he found himself standing with her in the sunshine, in the littered back alley behind the brick of the shop. A stray orange cat sat halfway in a splotch of sunlight, blinking up at them sleepily. Seagulls waddled aimlessly where the pier ended and the pavement began, plucking at bits of garbage and food.

“Why do I get the feeling that Irina's not back here waiting for me?”

She handed him the espresso; the demitasse was hot against his fingertips. He noticed how short her nails were. How her cuticles were split and chapped. She worked hard. Too hard, he guessed. How often was she at the coffee shop? Did she ever take a break? The tired circles under her eyes confirmed his theory—she worked to avoid her life. Not that he could blame her. Most days he did the same.

“How's the espresso?” she asked.

He took a sip. The espresso was rich, pleasantly bright with hints of citrus, but chocolaty too—low notes of something dark, heavenly, and forbidden. He wanted to close his eyes, to give himself over to the taste and weight of it on his tongue. It was a damn good espresso, but then he knew it would be.
She'd
made it. It burned a little going down.

“It's all right,” he said.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I'm a busy man. I've got things to do, places to be.”

“Stop.” She grabbed his arm; her hand was strong. “Just shut up and listen for a second. You can do that.”

He watched as she gathered her composure. He felt her fingers loosen, and even after she'd dropped her arm he still felt the imprint of her palm.

“I owe you an apology,” she said.

He crossed his arms, careful not to spill espresso.

“Anytime something's gone wrong, I've always had my family to depend on. Well, I've always had
your
family to depend on. Since I met you, they've been my entire life.”

He pressed his lips together. Wherever this was going, he planned to resist. She'd get no sympathy from him.

“But now,” she went on, “I feel like I'm losing them. If they're not already gone.”

He took a sip of his espresso to cover his reaction. “What do you want me to do here, Thea?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I'm afraid I'm not following you.”

She looked down at the ground or maybe at nothing; he couldn't tell. And when she spoke again she seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “I know you didn't want Jonathan to marry me.” She raised her eyes to him, and he was struck by their color—the deep, rich hues of espresso ringed faintly with gold. Why hadn't he noticed the similarity before? “I just wanted to tell you that I'm starting to understand how you felt. All those years you couldn't see your family because you didn't want to see me. I get it now. And I'm sorry for it. If I'd known what this was like . . .”

He waited, aware that he was scowling but unable to stop.

“If I'd known what this was like, I would have done things differently,” she said.

“Like what?”

Her face was shy. “Like, I would have worked harder to make things right with you.”

He threw back the last of his espresso as if it was vodka. “Impossible.”

“Why impossible?”

“I wouldn't have let you.”

“At least I should have tried. I owed that to you. But instead, I just . . . it was easier, you know? Easier not to see you. Easier to let you stay away.”

He looked into his empty cup, the golden crema disintegrating like broken lace. He knew what she meant—but he couldn't let her get to him, not again. He didn't know her anymore. Was she really trying to make peace? Or was she just trying to convince him to call off his campaign to keep her away from his family?

“All right,” he said carefully. “So maybe now we're even. I thought I'd go the rest of my life living an arm's length away from my family. But instead it's your turn. There's nothing I can do to change that.”

“I'm not asking you to do anything,” she said. Her voice was quiet, as if the words were hard to form. “I'm just saying I'm sorry. For everything you had to go through. Because of me.”

The sunlight in the alleyway had shifted a fraction of an inch, and the cat who had been sitting in the sun got up and moved with the light. Garret took in a deep breath. He'd imagined this moment a thousand times. And in his imagination, when Thea had come to him—groveling, as he saw fit—he showed her no mercy. He rejected her apology. He insulted her, so she knew what she really was to him. There was nothing she could say to make him forgive.

But in real life, he was a different man than he was in his fantasies. Something within him that had been festering and gnarled for a long time began to loosen. Instead of anger and resentment, tenderness welled up. It scared him.

“Look,” he said. “This conversation is going nowhere . . .”

Thea stepped toward him, her eyes searching, questioning. And, before he could force himself to move away, she was pressed against him, clasping him to her after so much time had passed, her two hands wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressed against his chest. Her hair smelled of vanilla, espresso, and spice.

For a moment he held himself upright, away from her, so she could feel that he was not about to hug her back. He let her rub her face against his chest; he let her widen her hands on his back as if she wanted to feel every inch of him at once. And then—though he tried to think of anything,
anything
that would make him remember why he hated this woman—there was nothing but the warmth of her body, her gentleness, melting the ice of his anger, filling him with a longing he couldn't withstand, and he wrapped his arms around her, gathering her closer, folding her into a deeper embrace. He felt her inhale against him, the slight lift of her ribs and breasts. She was so warm. There was nothing false in the soft sound she made when she sighed against him.

He didn't owe her forgiveness, he knew that. But it shocked him to discover that, for his own sake, he
wanted
this—as if some part of him had already forgiven her long ago, though it had lain dormant, waiting for this moment, to be realized.

He let himself hold her until he could no longer stand it, then he pushed her away. He didn't know what to make of this—the sudden urge to accept the past, and by accepting it, let it go. Now more than ever he needed to make it clear that his allegiances were to his brother. He needed to keep Thea out of his life—out of all their lives—if he wanted to feel some semblance of normalcy with his family. But he wanted
this
too, this feeling of completeness that had come upon him so unexpectedly, and yet as if he'd been inching toward it—toward her—for a long time. He had no reason to forgive her for hurting him except that she'd asked for his forgiveness. And yet that had been enough.

“Tell me one thing,” he said.

She nodded, and he knew she would tell the truth.

“You did love me once, right? I didn't imagine it?”

Irina pushed through the fire door with a bang. “Mom! Uncle Garret!”

“Hey, kid!” Quickly he changed modes, already hating himself for the question his ego couldn't help asking. What did it matter if she'd loved him once? She didn't love him now. She didn't
know
him now. What was the sense in asking such a stupid thing?

“Uncle Garret, come see what I did! We made a diorama in class about our parents'
professional establishments
, and Mom helped me make a volcano with coffee trees and everything!”

“That sounds great!” he said.

“Come on!” She grabbed his hand and pulled.

For a fleeting second, he caught Thea's eye, her smiling apology as her daughter tugged and tugged on his hand. Thea's words were soft and rushed just before Irina pulled him inside.

“Of course you didn't imagine it,” she said.

In the evening after what she was coming to think of as her
encounter
with Garret, Thea was restless. A huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she needed something to do with her excess energy. She stayed at the coffee shop though her shift had ended, on the pretense that she needed to taste test the new biscotti samples that had come in. Claudine and Lettie were happy to help, and at some point, Dani had wandered in, her uniform giving her an imposing look that was not at all in keeping with her warm smile.

At a table in the corner, eight new types of colorful biscotti were laid on a white plate before them—samples from a company hoping to get her business. Thea took little bites of rockhard biscotti one by one: mint and chocolate, strawberries and vanilla, espresso and cranberry, kahlua and cream. Some were traditional—straightforward biscuits that packed no surprises but that got the job done. Others had been frosted with pink, green, and white icing, little chocolate shavings or flecks of fruit perched along the top like birds on a line.

Lettie wiped some crumbs away from her lip. “Mmm. This almond biscotti gets my vote. Delicious.”

“No way.” Dani held up a stick of biscotti that was bubblegum pink and turned it like a scientist examining an ancient relic. “Really? The plain ones? Lettie—you're so booooring. Live on the edge. Try the frosted strawberry.”

“No, thank you. I like the plain. They remind me of when I used to be a little girl.”

“I didn't know they had biscotti in the Bronze Age,” Claudine said, grinning.

Lettie chuckled. “We had
manners
back then too.” She dipped the tip of her biscotti in her coffee, watching it turn a darker brown.

“What do almond ones remind you of?” Thea asked, curious.

“Oh, well.” Lettie hesitated, and Thea knew she didn't want to bore anyone. Thea offered her full attention, hoping she would go on. “We lived in Austria until I was five—my father was in the army, you know. And when I walked home from school, I'd stop sometimes at a little bakery opened up by a young Italian couple. I never had much money for treats, and sometimes I'd go in, look at all the pastries, and walk right back out empty-handed.”