That's (Not Exactly) Amore (3 page)

I buzz him in.

When the other officer reaches my apartment, he takes one look at my cop and scowls. “Mark. You didn’t wait for backup?”

Officer Hall tenses at the slap on the wrist. “I ascertained that the situation was safe and moved forward.”

“That’s not the point. I’m your partner. You should have waited for me. How do you think I felt coming out of Mr. Wang’s to find you gone?”

“Okay, McNealy. It won’t happen again.”

The frowny officer turns to me. “Do you have somewhere to go until you get that lock fixed?”

I shrug, unwilling to be friendly to this guy. He’s not very nice to Mark. “Lots of places.”

He nods. “Then I suggest you pack a bag.”

“I-I haven’t been in the bedroom yet.”

The first officer—Mark, as it turns out—gives me a reassuring smile. “I have. Do you want me to go with you?”

The thought of walking down the hallway to that room alone is a little more than I’m prepared to deal with right now. I nod. “I’d appreciate it.”

I start walking that way and he follows. I’m almost sure I hear the other officer mumble something about a “nursemaid.” Whatever!

Later, curled up in my old bedroom at my mother’s house on Long Island, I try to make sense of where my life is going. It’s weird. I’m an accountant by degree, but I don’t want to live that boring calculator life. I’ve done it. For eight years I worked with other people’s numbers. I truly wanted to do what would finally make me happy. I mean, I’m thirty years old with no marital prospects on the horizon, and I just decided, life is too short to be an accountant if one doesn’t love accounting. And darn it, I don’t. What I love is design—at least I think I do. Like in college. We all did tent theater, Tabby, Dancy, and me. Tabby was the great lead actress and got all the best roles—and now she’s an Emmy-nominated soap-opera star. Dancy wrote scripts—and now she’s a writer after a few years as an editor. And me? I designed sets. Where did accounting come from? It only makes sense that I should become an interior designer, right? If my two best friends can follow their passions, why can’t I?

My parents were both accountants before Dad passed away and Mom retired. Before Daddy died, I was trying to screw up the nerve to break it to my parents that I didn’t want to major in accounting. But then he died from a sudden heart attack and my mom just knew his last request in life would have been for me to follow in his footsteps and be an ace accountant. I got close. Finished school, graduated near the top of my class at NYU, and went to work for Ace Accounting for a number of years. I almost wept with relief when one of the brothers embezzled from the company and I was laid off due to bankruptcy.

You’d think as hard as I’m fighting to become an interior designer, I must have an actual aptitude for the whole thing. More than one instructor has gently mentioned that perhaps I should pursue a different field, but I can’t give up on my passion. Right? I can’t fail!

Besides, I owe my aunt for the tuition plus some living expenses that she graciously offered to pay—after I buttered her up by dragging Tabby (her favorite soap star) to lunch at her house.

At midnight I’m still pretty wide awake, so it doesn’t really bother me when my cell phone rings. I figure it’s one of the girls. Who else would be calling this late? And I did leave messages on their voice mails about the break-in. It’s a number I don’t recognize, so I almost don’t answer. But at the last second, I click the button. “Hello?”

“Miss Sullivan?”

Vaguely familiar male voice.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to call you so late, but I thought you’d like to know we apprehended the man who broke into your apartment.”

My heart does a little loopy loop as I realize I’m speaking to Mark Hall. The hunky cop from earlier. “You did? That was fast.”

“I had a hunch and it panned out,” he says nonchalantly, and I imagine him shrugging those wide muscly shoulders. “People like you make my job a lot easier.”

“People like me?”

“People who hang on to receipts and serial numbers.” He hesitates.

“I come from a family of accountants. We never throw away receipts, paid bills, or bank statements.”

He chuckles. “Lucky for you. We found your TV and DVD player. Your computer too.”

“That’s wonderful.” A broad smile stretches my lips as I imagine this handsome, blond Norse-god type speaking into the phone.

“The guy was an addict and lived in your building until a month ago. He knew you and still had a key to the downstairs door. Tomorrow, I’ll head to a few used-furniture stores in the area, and hopefully we’ll find the furniture you lost.”

“Thank you, Officer Hall,” I say, because it really seems like the only thing left to say.

“Well, I am here to protect and serve, after all.”

How cute is that? He’s flirting.

Oh, my stars! He’s flirting.

“Well I definitely feel protected and . . .” Good grief.

“Served?” His voice is rife with amusement.

I really don’t know how to answer this man. Anything I say is going to sound so Magoo. While I try to think of something oh-so-clever, I finger the wedding-ring quilt my grandmother left me when she died. I’ll take it when I get married. If that ever happens.

“Listen,” he says, maybe picking up on the fact that I have nothing to say. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in having coffee with me sometime?”

Is he kidding?

“Sure. Sounds good.” Real smooth.

“Great. How does tomorrow strike you?”

“Tomorrow?” I croak out, definitely no longer smooth.

“Too soon?”

You’re blowing this, Laini Sullivan!
I think in my mother’s voice.
Pull it together before he writes you off as a nutcase.

I sit up straighter in my seat and pretend I’m dignified even though no one can see me. The action works because I feel better already. More confident.

He clears his throat as though my long silence has made the poor guy uncomfortable. “Well . . . sorry to have bothered you.”

Say something.
Quick.

“No bother at all, Officer. I appreciate the call. And I’d love to have coffee with you.”

“You would?” He seems genuinely surprised. I can’t say that I blame him. “I just thought . . .”

“Sorry about the delay. I—uh—dropped the phone.”

How terrible is that? Starting the relationship off on a fat lie. “Well, I mean, I didn’t exactly drop it.”

Oh, bummer. I’m making it so much worse. Okay, either pony up completely, lie, or just shut up.

This is a no-brainer. I decide to end the conversation.

“So, Officer Hall,” I say, completely ignoring the fact that I have been rambling stupidly and lying to boot. “I know a great coffee shop just around the corner from my apartment. It’s called Nick’s Coffee Shop. You know the place?”

“Sure I do. Everyone knows Nick’s. Tomorrow morning . . . say . . . ten?”

“I was actually thinking maybe Monday? I’m on Long Island at my mom’s.”

“Oh, okay. I guess that’s too far for coffee.”

It wouldn’t have taken much for me to hop the train and meet the guy. It’s not
that
far. And with a little nudge I would have agreed, but he doesn’t nudge. As a matter of fact, he sounds a little down, like he thinks I’m not interested. Say something quick! “I’ll be back on Monday. I have a class that night, so maybe we could meet at eleven at Nick’s. Would that work for you?”

“That’ll work out great. Only, I was hoping to see you over the weekend.”

My stomach does a somersault. I’m not used to guys being open and honest.

“That would have been fun.” Now might be the time to say something about meeting him after all, but a girl can’t start changing plans for a guy she just met. And Mom counts on me to spend my time with her when I visit. Every single weekend of my life. Okay, beside the point. “I spend weekends at my mom’s anyway, so I’m not usually around for dates.”

“That’s admirable.”

“You think? Most guys are afraid I’m still tied to my mother’s apron strings.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not worried about it, Officer Hall.”

“Not at all. And, Laini?”

“Yeah?”

“If we’re going to have a coffee date on Monday, you’d better drop the ‘officer’ and just call me Mark.”

“Okay, Mark.” I nod, even though he can’t see me.

“Great.” I hear the smile in his voice. I wonder if he can hear mine.

3

S
aturday mornings are for sleeping in. For everyone but me. I love the early morning. Sunrise pumps my blood like a great workout seems to do for Tabby. On weekends when I’m at my mom’s, I love to sit on the deck, look out across the backyard, and just breathe.

Don’t get me wrong. I really do love Manhattan. It’s a fun, exciting place to live. But it’s not where I see myself in ten years, five years if God smiles on me and finally sends that guy I’ve been waiting for all my life. It’s not where I see myself raising a family.

Speaking of guys . . .

I barely slept a wink after hanging up with Mark last night. I kept thinking about his sparkling grin and the way he blushed when his more-experienced partner chewed him out right in front of me.

I liked the way he handled it. Admired him, in fact, and felt oh-so-safe when he walked me through the apartment to gather up my belongings. Mark’s a guy I definitely want to get to know better, although I can’t help wondering what he sees in me. But hey, even if this is a mercy date, I’ll take it and try to wow him while I have his attention.

I’m feeling absolutely swoony, sitting on my deck chair thinking about those blue, blue eyes and big muscles, when my mother opens the French doors that lead from the kitchen to the deck.

“Morning, Mom.”

She gives a weary sigh. A weary sigh less than ten minutes after rising from her bed. Her pink house slippers make a flapping sound as she walks across the planks. Her hands are wrapped around a steaming coffee mug with the New York Mets logo etched into either side. She drops into the cushioned deck chair with a grunt. “Good morning, honey. How did you sleep?”

Now, I know this question is the preface before she launches into the sad story of how she “didn’t” sleep, but I give her the “fine” answer anyway and let my mind wander while she begins the inevitable diatribe.

Sometimes you just have to face facts. And the fact at this moment is that my morning solace is over for today. I’m not bitter. It’s just the way things are. I know my mom depends on me.

As far as immediate family goes, it’s been just the two of us since Daddy died the summer after my high school graduation. Mom fell apart and I had to shoulder a lot of her emotional baggage. I make the best of things where she’s concerned. I don’t mean to imply it’s all about me sacrificing for her. There are plenty of good times when I love her company. And plenty of times when I don’t. That’s life.

For now, while I’m still a little shaky from last night’s robbery, Mom feels like a safe place. So I tune out her complaining and take a good look at the woman who raised me.

My mom has worn the same yellow housecoat every morning for years. A chenille, ankle-length zip-up that is practically threadbare in certain areas. The bottom hem is frayed. I know she wears it because it’s the last gift my dad bought for her before he died. For their twentieth anniversary. She can’t let go.

Mom used to be a lot of fun. Smiled all the time, never let anything keep her from a goal. I knew she loved and missed my dad. But I never realized just how much until my first Christmas break as a freshman at NYU when I came home for three weeks. Anyone can hide depression for a weekend, but three weeks? Not a chance.

I figured out pretty fast that most days she had trouble getting out of bed. Christmas was a nightmare that year—our first without him. She cried from Christmas Eve through New Year’s and was still teary-eyed on January 7 when I left to go back to school. I remember her standing in the doorway, clutching the neckline of her robe and waving good-bye, so forlorn and alone. I should have wanted to run to her. But I didn’t. All I wanted to do was get away.

Three years ago, I finally broke down and bought her a new robe. A nice new chenille. Similar to the one she’s worn for the past twelve years only without the frayed ends and repaired holes near the zipper. Plus, it was white. I love white robes.

She smiled politely, thanked me with a kiss on the cheek, and never wore it. Not even once that I’ve ever seen. For all I know, she gave it to Goodwill.

“Aren’t you freezing, Ma?” The chiminea throws out enough heat to keep things cozy, but not when a person isn’t wearing a coat or at least a warm housecoat. “That housecoat . . .”

She gives me a half-smile and interrupts me without taking the bait. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. How about some breakfast?”

It looks like we’re not going to discuss the robe again. That’s okay. Avoidance is how Mom deals with life. I understand and don’t push. I suppose I have a little avoidance issue too. “Want me to cook?”

She gives me a look. I should have known better. I might be a cook extraordinaire everywhere else, but not in Mom’s kitchen. I give her a quirky grin and a peck on the cheek. “Sorry. I’ll just go shower and dress while you fix breakfast.”

“Good idea.”

I step inside just ahead of her and start down the hall to the stairs when I realize she’s following me.

“Something wrong, Ma?”

“No.” She hesitates. Clearly something is on her mind.

“Come on, spill it.”

“I was just wondering who called so late last night.”

“Oh! I forgot to tell you. Mark Hall, the officer who came to my apartment, found some of my things and the guy who took them in the first place, so they think they’ll be able to recover almost everything.”

“That’s wonderful, honey.”

But her voice isn’t very enthusiastic. Her eyes search my face. “I guess you won’t be staying long, then?”

Ahh. That explains it.

“Just the weekend. It’s too far from school and Nick’s for me to stay here. You understand that, right?”

As long as I can remember, my mother has waved that bony hand of hers whenever she’s trying to convince someone that she doesn’t care in the least. Now is no exception. “Oh, sure. I just wondered how much meat to buy later when I go shopping.”