The Icing on the Cake (26 page)

Finally, Isaac spoke. “It’s like a collection of word portraits,” he said. “You write about the good in people so you can look back and remember.”

I blinked a few times, staring at Isaac. “So you don’t . . . you don’t think it’s dumb?”

“Dumb? It’s amazing. Seeing the good in people and letting it inspire you is nothing close to dumb.” Isaac paused for a moment. “This book is so . . . you. It captures the essence of who you are. A kind, caring, incredible woman. Annabelle, I . . .” Isaac began leaning close to me, and I felt my breath become shallow and my heart begin to beat faster.

This is it
, I thought.
Our kiss is finally going to happen
.

“I have to ask you something,” Isaac said. His tone made it sound almost as if he hadn’t planned on saying the words. He slowly moved away from me.

“What’s up with you and that Patrique guy?”

“What do you mean what’s up with me and him?”

“Well, I know that he’s Jean-Pierre’s nephew and that Jean-Pierre wanted you to go to art shows with him. But is that all?”

“Of course that’s all,” I said, wondering how in the world Isaac could think otherwise. I mean, he’d met Patrique. How could there be any question?

“It’s just that he seems so . . .”

“Creepy,” I offered.

“Well, yeah. But the thing is . . . I saw him hug you at the art festival yesterday.”

“Isaac,” I began, “I didn’t know that was coming. I didn’t invite it. Patrique is just a creep. He has no respect for anyone. And I pushed him away. That’s how Arnie got knocked over. Did you see me push him away?”

“I saw it. But what I’m wondering is why he felt comfortable enough to hug you? And on Cannery Row he called you ‘lovely’ or something like that. If nothing’s going on, why is he acting like that?”

“He’s crazy!” I insisted.

“Did you know I was there?” Isaac asked.

“Did I know you were where?”

“At the art festival. Did you know I was there?”

I gulped. “Um, yeah, I had seen you a little while earlier. I was . . . I just . . . you were busy talking to Rona and then you were talking to that man in the olive-green suit, and so I just waited to come say hi.”

“So it wasn’t that you were avoiding me because you and Patrique were on more than just a work-related outing?”

“Of course not! Isaac, I promise.” I couldn’t help laughing. “If you knew how much I detest Patrique we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said. “I believe you. I just needed to make sure because I’m . . .”

“Because you’re what?” I asked anxiously.

“Because I’m absolutely crazy about you,” Isaac said in a deeper-than-usual voice.

“I’m a little crazy too,” I confessed. “I mean about you,” I clarified with a laugh.

An affectionate grin formed on Isaac’s lips, and I knew it was going to happen. Our kiss.

My heart pounded as Isaac moved close to me and took my face gently into his hands. I couldn’t breathe as he moved his lips close to mine, and closer still. Finally, our lips touched softly and I suddenly felt an incredible warm sensation pass over my entire body, like warm honey was being smoothed onto my limbs. The kiss was sweet and meaningful, like a promise, and lasted only a moment.

A perfect, beautiful moment.

That night, before I knelt at my bedside to pray, I did something I had never done before. I made a Pink Notes entry on a guy who I cared about in more than just a friendly way.

As I wrote the last sentence, the craziest feeling took over my body. I traced the words with my finger, feeling the warmth of their meaning wash over me. It was true. I was falling in love with Isaac.

Okay, one more time, just so I can hear myself say it: I was falling in love with Isaac.

J
ust a minute,” I called out toward the front door of my condo. I quickly headed to the gas grill I had set up on the balcony and flipped the barbecue ribs over one last time.

It was six o’clock Saturday evening, and I was making Isaac a special dinner. I had asked him what his favorite food was and without hesitation he had replied “barbecued ribs.” So I had called Dad, who is a barbecuing genius, and asked him for step-by-step instructions for ribs. He not only gave me his rib secrets, but also let me use his homemade barbecue sauce and prized grill.

With the ribs flipped, I made my way to the front door.

“You’re early,” I said with a smile as I swung the door open, not bothering to check the peephole.

“I am?” the person at the door said. The person who was Patrique.

“What in the world are you doing here?” I glared at Patrique and saw that he was holding a bouquet of violets—probably stolen from La Bonne Violette—and a slightly large painting that looked like it was still wet.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Patrique asked, stepping inside my apartment without being invited. He kicked the door closed behind him.

“You have to go,” I said briskly. “I’m expecting company.”
And disaster could strike if Isaac finds you here.

“I can see that,” Patrique said as he looked at the long candles burning on the dining room table.

“What do you want?” I asked Patrique, my words rushed.

“I wanted to give these to you.” Patrique handed the flowers to me.

I didn’t move my hands forward to accept the flowers. Instead I said, “You really should be giving those to Tempest, not me.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here.” Patrique took off his jacket and draped it on the back of my couch. He set the violets on the coffee table, carefully propped the painting against the table, and sat down on the couch.

“Listen, Patrique,” I said, “whatever you want to talk about, it’s going to have to wait until Monday.”

“It can’t wait until Monday,” Patrique said. “Please sit down. I have something to show you.”

“I’m not sitting down. And you are not staying.” I looked at the front door and then at the clock. Isaac would be arriving any minute.

Patrique stood up from the couch and I relaxed a bit, thinking that perhaps he was going to leave. But he had other plans. He picked up his painting and walked toward the wall where I had hung three of Isaac’s photos the night before.

After our wonderful night at the beach, at my insistence, Isaac had driven me to MainFrame where I had bought some gorgeous frames. Isaac had then helped me nail the photos to the wall in my condo, kissing me softly on the cheek after each one had been hung.

Patrique took down the photo of the children playing on Carmel Beach and hung up the painting in its place.

“What are you doing?!” I shouted. I took the painting down, shoved it into Patrique’s hands, and put my beautiful photograph back on the wall.

“I’m hanging up your painting. And be careful, it’s still a little wet.” Patrique looked at the painting admiringly, almost adoringly.

I glanced at the painting, finding it hard to decipher what it was. I had just decided it looked an awful lot like a horse head when Patrique said, “It’s you.”

“What?” I asked, staring at the portrait. I didn’t look like that. Did I? I suddenly had a very strong urge to find a mirror just to make sure I hadn’t taken on the look of horse without knowing it. “It’s great and all Patrique, but I liked what I had on the wall.”

“Those are poor excuses for photos. This is real art!” Patrique removed the photo once again and hung the painting on the wall.

“Take that down, and leave!” I ordered.

Just then a knock sounded at the door. I froze in place, moving my eyes from Patrique to the door and back to Patrique, trying to figure out what to do.

Just open the door and let Isaac inside. You aren’t doing anything wrong,
my brain instructed.

But obviously Patrique is a sore spot with Isaac—what if he thinks something?
I argued with my brain.

The knocks repeated.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Patrique asked in a horrifically loud voice. I threw my finger to my lips in a “shush” gesture. Why was he screaming all of a sudden?

“Do you know anything about ribs?” I asked Patrique quietly, desperately.

“What?”

“Ribs,” I repeated as I pushed Patrique toward the balcony. “I was hoping you could tell if they were done. You know, since you know so much about food and all.”

“Well, I do know a few things . . .” Patrique began.

But before he could finish I quickly led—well, more like shoved—him onto the balcony and said, “Could you turn off the grill too?” Then I quietly yet swiftly pushed the sliding glass door shut.

I had about thirty seconds to find a way to make sure Isaac didn’t find out that Patrique had been in my apartment giving me flowers and a painting in which I looked like a horse. It just wasn’t worth the risk. It was better that he didn’t know.

I exhaled quickly and scurried to the front door. “Hi,” I said, stepping onto the concrete steps outside my condo and closing the door behind me.

“I know I’m early, but I couldn’t wait.” Isaac handed me a cellophane bag full of chocolate-covered gummy bears and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I said with a smile as I took the bag. Then, without missing a beat, I added, “So, I was thinking we could go out to dinner.”

Isaac smiled. “Dinner didn’t quite work out the way you hoped?”

“Yeah,” I replied, justifying the statement by telling myself that it was technically true.

“So, I was thinking Italian,” I said. I grabbed onto Isaac’s arm and lead him down the five concrete steps and onto the sidewalk, hoping he wouldn’t notice I was wearing a pair of green frog slippers and not proper shoes.

But he did notice. He stopped walking and looked down at my feet. “You know that I think you’re adorable no matter what, but are you really going to wear your slippers to a restaurant?”

“Sure. Why not?” I resumed walking, leading Isaac a few feet down the sidewalk.

“What’s going on?” Isaac asked, stopping yet again.

“N-nothing,” I stammered. “I just really want to get Italian food.” As soon as the words escaped my lips, I felt horrible about not being completely honest with Isaac. So horrible that I almost considered telling him everything. But then I remembered the look on Isaac’s face, the sound in his voice when he had been asking me about Patrique the night before, and I lost my nerve.

“I don’t even think you locked the door,” Isaac said. Then, before I could stop him, he began moving quickly back toward my condo.

I tried to follow after him, but my frog slipper jumped off my right foot, and nearly killed me. Finally, I got the thing back on and ran like a crazy person up to Isaac.

I reached the front door just as Isaac opened it. “See, you didn’t lock it, sweetie,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, I guess I didn’t,” I responded, reaching for the door. Quickly, I tried to close it.

But it was too late.

Inside the condo, Patrique was emerging from the balcony, casually saying, “They look good Annabelle.”

“What’s he doing here?” Isaac demanded, glaring at Patrique.

Patrique halted just inside the sliding glass doorway and returned Isaac’s glare. “What are you doing here?” he asked Isaac with a territorial sound in his voice that infuriated me.

I pulled Isaac outside, slamming the door shut behind me. “Isaac . . . I didn’t . . . he just . . .”

“Is this why you wanted to leave? Did I come too early and interrupt something?” Isaac gazed at me, the look in his eyes a mixture of confusion and anger.

“No, you didn’t interrupt anything. Patrique came over unannounced and . . .”

“He came over for what?”

“To bring me something,” I answered vaguely.

“To bring her the painting,” Patrique declared, swinging the door open. He made it sound like I had requested the thing.

“Patrique, please!” I snapped. I grabbed the door and attempted to close him inside again.

“What painting?” Isaac asked, his voice strained.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter!” Patrique shouted, flinging the door open widely. “That’s not how you were acting on Thursday!”

Patrique’s statement caught me by total surprise, and I was too shocked to come up with a rebuttal.

“Thursday,” Isaac repeated. Then the look in his eyes seemed to change from confusion to understanding, as if he had just figured out the last word in a crossword puzzle. With an injured expression on his face, he shook his head gently.