Love, Albert Page 9

  He stood behind her, not touching but close enough that she could feel the growing weakness in her knees.

  She stepped to the side. “Your daughter also has her heart set on a horse, but that’s not going to come true either.”

  “Still with the horse.” Reid sat on the edge of the dresser. “I thought she was over that.”

  “Kira doesn’t give up easily. Something she comes by naturally.” She tucked the shopping list into his hand. “Since you’re the one with the money, you’ll need to pick these things up.” She thought a moment, took it back and grabbed the pen again. “Get some fishing lures for my father, too. For being such a sport. Chocolate for my mother, just because. And maybe a scarf for the dog.”

  “Please, he’s embarrassed enough.”

  Vicky laughed. “At least Jason didn’t get the cat. The poor thing would have been traumatized for days.”

  “Try weeks,” Reid said, his voice oddly flat. “Probably sue him for mental anguish and a diminished sex life.”

  “Kitty’s fixed,” she said, and waited for a comeback. But he only grunted and picked up the pen.

  “I’ll need a razor too.”

  She watched him scribble on the list, his handwriting illegible as always, and the words were out before she could stop them. “Is everything okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” He set the pen down and stuffed the list into his pocket. “We can probably get everything at Louis’s Dry Goods across the road.” He glanced up. “Except perhaps the shampoo, since that technically is wet.”

  She saw the shadow pass as quickly as it had come, tucked safely behind a casual air, an easy grin, as though he honestly believed he could hide from her.

  Vicky lifted her chin, insulted. Not that she cared, or would ask again, or try to help. Or rub away the knot of tension she knew was forming in his shoulder. No, from here on in, she would be as cool as he was. Cooler even.

  “Shall we go shopping?” he asked.

  She crossed to the door, held it open for him. “Let me know how you make out. And keep the receipt.”

  He strolled toward her. “Don’t you want to talk about a contingency plan? Think ahead? Find out what’s in my pocket?”

  She folded her arms, propped the door wider. “I’m more interested in what’s up your sleeve.”

  “The answer to all your problems.”

  She tipped her head to the side, smiled sweetly. “Oh, honey, you brought the separation agreement after all.”

  “This is better,” he said and pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket. “The number of someone who will take down those mirror tiles. Just have Mr. Robinson call, and Zack will be there tomorrow, crowbar in hand.”

  Vicky stared at the paper, her smile frozen. How could one man find so many gray areas in such little time? Would taking the number make her beholden to him? Or simply stupid if she let the opportunity pass by?

  Stupid, she decided. He was only being nice. Would have done the same for anyone. But it didn’t mean she had to fawn. Especially when he was still trying to hide whatever was wrong.

  “Almost as good.” She snapped the paper out of his fingers. “Zack, I’ve heard that name. Works at North Star, right?” She picked up the receiver and glanced back at him. “How are things there anyway?”

  He turned away and strolled to the window. “Great. Listen, I’ve got these tickets to Ribfest.”

  Her fingers hovered above the numbers, watching the way he tapped his fingers on the frame, leaned his weight first on one hip, then the other, and kept his back to her the whole time.

  ” … we could hit the dry goods store first. . ”

  There was definitely something wrong. Something to do with North Star. And cats.

  ” … then hop on a hay wagon and go have dinner.”

  Cats? Vicky shook her head, unable to make the connection, and just as well. She would mind her own business, make her lawyer proud. She glanced down at the scrap of paper in her hand. Even though he had given her the answer to all of her problems.

  He walked back to the dresser. “So what do you say to Ribfest?”

  Vicky punched in Mr. Robinson’s number. “Have a good time.”

  “But you have to eat. Unless, of course, you’re going to try the picnic again”

  “Not a chance. I cleaned the basket out when I got here.” She counted the rings. “I’ll just order pizza. Someone has to be here in case the police call.”

  “We can check in with them every half hour. And we’ll get separate bills. Separate tables if you like. But I’d never forgive myself if you missed this event because of me.”

  “Oh, please.” Four rings. She got ready to leave a message, oddly relieved that she wouldn’t have to speak to Mr. Robinson again today.

  “It’s also a great opportunity to do some asking around about Seaport.”

  She pursed her lips. He did have a point.

  Being the man that he was, he took full advantage. Went straight to the window and opened it, letting in a night breeze tinged with ragtime music. “They’re out there, Vicky. Firing up grills, brushing on sauce, line dancing.” She raised a brow and he held up a hand. “Okay, maybe they’re clogging. The point is, we’re here, and we haven’t had ribs since—”

  “Last Fourth of July,” she said, and turned away. Focused on the beep in her ear and tried not think about a grassy hillside, a cooling hibachi, or Jason’s eyes—so wide and filled with wonder at that first shimmering burst of gold in the sky above him. Or Kira, writing her name in the air with a sparkler, again and again—delighted to see her name in lights already. Vicky smiled. She was a born actress that one. Just like her father, the lighter of sparklers and buyer of ice cream. A man who walked like a biker and smiled like an angel and could make her breath catch with only a glance.

  “Please leave a message after the tone.”

  Vicky snapped herself back. “Mr. Robinson, it’s me.”

  While she assured Mr. Robinson that she would have one of her company’s sales agents accompany the contractor to the house and repeated Zack’s number twice into the phone, Reid held the tickets over his mouth and nose and made dark and mysterious eyes at her over the top.

  “You don’t quit, do you,” she said when she hung up.

  “Not when it’s important.”

  She felt the draw as he came nearer, the pull that was always there, waiting to drag her under again.

  He stopped in front of her and she knew she should say no to Ribfest. Stay in her room and order that pizza. With anchovies so he wouldn’t be tempted to stay.

  But if he left, she’d have to ask him for money, a humiliating prospect at best.

  The tickets, on the other hand, were already on the list, already added into the total. Plus Ribfest was bound to be crowded and noisy. How much safer could she be? And they were talking about ribs.

  She strolled over to the window, peered out at the street. “Okay, we’ll have dinner. But there are new ground rules.”

  “How many this time?”

  “Two.” She counted off on her fingers. “One, we call the police every half hour. Two, there will be no touching, no kissing, relayed or otherwise, understood?”

  “I can take it if you can,” he said, his gaze moving lower, drifting like heat over her lips, her throat, her breasts. Making her feel wanted, sexy, alive.

  “Piece of cake.” She plucked one of the tickets from his hand and turned away. Drawing in a slow, discreet breath as she gathered up her sweatshirt and room key. She could do this. It was a matter of control. And maybe a cold shower when she got back.

  Reid came out into the hall behind her and she pulled the door closed, locked it. “We can stop at the dry goods on the way,” she said. “And there is one more thing.” She spun around and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling him in and pressing her mouth to his, but making sure she set him back before he could get in on the action.

  She flashed him a smile and headed for the stairs. “Thank
s for Zack’s number.”

  The Ribfest setup was simple: An arch of colored balloons led to a small carnival at one end of the field and competitors manned fifty or so booths and tents arranged in a semicircle at the other. Four long lines of tables covered in plastic ran in between and a radio station out of Fort Bragg provided music guaranteed to keep things hopping.

  All along Competitor’s Row, past winners displayed trophies and ribbons while newcomers boasted that they would be taking home the pig this year. As far as Reid was concerned, there was no contest.

  He leaned over a barbecue and inhaled deeply, reverently. “This is the one,” he said and held out a plate.

  “Smoking Gun is the one,” she called from the next booth. “You wait and see.”

  Reid had to admit their sauce was a winning combination of hot and sweet, but for his money the choice had to be Sizzlin’ Satay—the only booth where east met west in a sauce that gave peanuts a whole new reason to live.

  “You’ll weep when they announce the winner,” he called back to her.

  But she merely shrugged and parked herself at a nearby table. Dismissing him the same way she had after she’d kissed him.

  Reid moistened his lips and handed his ticket to the chef at Sizzlin’ Satay. If he let himself, he could still feel that kiss. Hot and hard, a challenge if ever he’d had one. The fact that neither of them had spoken about it since made no difference at all. The gauntlet had been dropped, and he was not the type to leave important things lying around, especially during courting season.

  He juggled plate and beer over to the table, and wasn’t at all surprised to discover that Vicky hadn’t waited for him to start. She was already deep in sauce and conversation with the men and women around her. Discussing the nuances of hickory, the joy of garlic, and the sadness of apartment dwellers who would never know the delight of a covered smoker or the nirvana of a pit. Completely indifferent to the fact that the seat next to her was occupied by someone other than himself.

  Or perhaps she liked it that way.

  “You’re in real estate in the Bay area?” the young woman across from her asked.

  Vicky nodded and the woman sat up straighter. “How do you find the market these days?”

  “Steady,” Vicky said, ignoring Reid as he walked around to the other side of the table and set his plate down at the last spot. Squeezing himself in between an old man and a ham-handed younger one who couldn’t take his eyes off Vicky.

  Not that he blamed him. She looked relaxed and happy, chatting about real estate while she sipped beer, munched fries and ripped meat off a bone with her teeth. When she set that bone down and brought her fingers to her lips, Reid felt the ham-handed man lean forward with him. Holding his breath. Watching. Waiting.

  “Honey,” Reid called, and tossed her a wet wipe. “I know you were looking for these.”

  She blinked, “So I was,” she said, dipping that finger into her mouth anyway, and turning back to her conversation. “Tell you what, Grace. How about I put together a market analysis as soon as I get back.”

  “Your girl?” the ham-handed guy asked.

  “My wife,” Reid said, watching her take a card from the woman across from her and tuck it into her pocket. “Don’t forget to tell them you only work for full commission,” he called and gave her a thumbs-up.

  She paid him no mind, simply leaned forward, her smile wide and genuine. “What kind of house would you like to buy?”

  “Victorian,” Grace said, almost sighing the word. “Gingerbread trim. A big wide porch. Climbing roses—”

  “And a porch swing,” Vicky murmured.

  “A porch swing,” Grace repeated.

  This time Vicky sighed with her. “I hear you.”

  She’s good, Reid thought. Not because she was pushy or aggressive, that wasn’t her style. But because she understood that this woman wasn’t seeing bricks and mortar when she looked at a house. She was seeing a dream. The same one Vicky had on her mind. Turkeys at Thanksgiving, firecrackers in July. All the things that made a house a home, and gave a family traditions and roots, if you believed what you saw in magazines.

  Reid had lived for too many years in magazine rooms with picture-perfect parents to be fooled. A roaring fire hadn’t made the holidays merrier, any more than a lush green lawn had made his father come out and throw a ball on the weekends. Reid hadn’t felt rooted to anything until Albert came along and showed him what family was all about.

  “Victorians in San Francisco are so expensive,” Grace was saying. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

  “If you’re willing to go outside the city a little, I’m sure I can find you something.”

  “A fixer-upper’s what you want,” Reid called across the table. “Can’t beat one of those for a lifelong project.”

  Grace grabbed her husband’s arm. “That’s exactly what Stan and I thought.”

  Stan gave Vicky an earnest smile. “We want to get our hands dirty for a change. Really dig in and build something to last.”

  Stan was pasty-faced and pudgy and Reid figured he’d been watching too many renovation shows. Didn’t realize his dream would end up being a nightmare with a crumbling foundation, cracked plaster, and miles of sagging hardwood. Even if they stuck it out, he and his wife would spend the best years of their lives sanding, insulating, wiring, plumbing. All so they could finally sit on that damn porch and swing, too old and too tired to do anything else.

  “I’ll do my best,” Vicky said, and looked directly at Reid. “Because it’s always so nice when two people want the same thing.”

  He met her gaze and smiled. “Even when they don’t know it.”

  He saw the slight lift of her brow, the flash of curiosity before she turned to Grace again. “Where did you say you’re living now?”

  “Millbrae.” Grace laughed and twirled a fry in ketchup. “Who’d have guessed we’d run into a local agent all the way up here?”

  Another of life’s mysteries, Reid thought. Like why Stan would imagine he’d look good in a tool belt. Or how Vicky could believe for even a moment that they were better off apart.

  Grace went on about the house they were in now being small and boxy while Vicky asked questions, toyed with her fries and tried not to look at him. But something drew her back, made her turn and meet his gaze. Reid knew she was still as torn as he was, and just as determined to stick to her course.

  The lines were drawn, the positions clear, and he couldn’t wait to see who ended up on top.

  EIGHT

  The sun had finally set and the moon was shining brightly when the carnival kicked into high gear. Gone was the popcorn and kiddy ride persona of the daytime. The midway by night was long shadows and flashing lights, driving music and games of chance. It was tacky and tawdry and Vicky couldn’t resist one quick peek through the archway while Reid was on the phone.

  He’d borrowed a cell from the man sitting next to him at dinner, and while he checked in with the police, Vicky stood off to the side. Listening to the screams and laughter of the midway, wishing there was more time to spend.

  Reid drew up beside her. “I am feeling lucky tonight.”

  “They found the car?”

  “Not that lucky. But there are stars in the sky. The moon is full and the ring toss is calling my name.”

  She laughed. “It’s calling everyone. Listen, it’s saying ‘Robert’ now.”

  “Then we’d better hurry.” He took her hand and started walking backward, bringing her with him. “Because I hear that Robert guy is pretty good.”

  If she was the sort to believe in such things, she might have thought the moon was watching her. Holding onto Kira’s wish and waiting to see what Vicky would do next. Of course, she wasn’t that type at all. She was practical and logical and any second now her feet would remember that.

  “Reid, we can’t,” she said. “We need to make a contingency plan in case they don’t find the car.”

  He kept walking “They’ll find th
e car, but just in case, we’ll make a plan while we walk. Which brings us to a most important decision. Which do you prefer? A teddy bear or a dog?”

  When they reached the arch of balloons, he accepted a Midway Guide from a clown and held it out to her. His eyes daring her to come with him, or turn now and run.

  “I’ll need one of each,” she said. “A bear for Kira and a dog for Jason.”

  Reid laughed and swung an arm around her shoulder. For an instant she saw herself back at the hotel grabbing his shirt, kissing him hard. Confident she was up to an evening at Ribfest, so sure she’d be safe in a crowd.

  A little shiver ran through her as she fell into step beside him, her body fitting against his easily and naturally, as though she still belonged there. She couldn’t help wondering if she would ever be safe.

  He lifted his head, sniffed at the air. “I can smell their fear.” He looked down at her, did the Errol Flynn eyebrow. “Come. The rings know we’re about.”

  She laughed, feeling the quickening of her pulse, the tingling in her skin as they made their way through the crowd. Her mind racing ahead, eager, expectant, waiting to see where he would lead, what they would find. He’d always been the better navigator, after all.

  That was part of the appeal, the very thing that had drawn her from the start and held her for so long. The way he ate life, regretted nothing, and made everything he touched more exciting. Road trips. Picnics. Most of all, her.

  She’d known from the beginning that she could lose herself in this man, but it hadn’t mattered, because with Reid she felt more, saw more. Strange faces, blind alleys, everything intrigued her, and she longed to explore, to discover. Without him, she was just Vicky the dull. With her lists and her worries, determined to be the mother her children needed in the house she had wanted for so very long.

  She raised her head, watching him. Aware of the weight of his arm, the press of his thigh, the swirling electrical charge in the air, wondering if she would ever feel this way when he was gone for good.

  They turned the corner into an area marked Sweet Endings, where funnel cakes, beaver tails and éclairs vied for attention with funhouses and games of chance. As a result the crowd was heavier and the pace slower. A man jostled Vicky on his way by, separating her from Reid. She floundered, lost among the faces, carried by the flow. Then suddenly he was there, his strong hands reaching for her, bringing her in, tucking her safely beside him. This time she shook off her worries, her lists, her lawyer’s warnings, and looped an arm around his waist. Holding on tight, for the moment at least.