That's (Not Exactly) Amore Page 11

  Good grief. Now Joe’s the voice in my head trying to scare me into hailing a cab to go three blocks. And I’m just about to give in when I hear: “’Ey, Laini! Wait up!”

  I turn in the rain, and there’s Joe, carrying an enormous umbrella. He’s grinning like he knows he did a good thing. “You want me to walk you home?”

  “Only if you don’t mind sharing the umbrella.”

  “That’s the idea.” His voice is a little husky and I’m not sure if he’s trying to be flirty or if it’s just a matter of staying dry.

  He slips his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side.

  “Hey, there’s that cop you’ve been seeing.”

  My heart skips a beat as I follow Joe’s gaze to the corner right outside a little skate shop ahead. There’s a group of kids milling around, and I can tell without knowing his exact words that Mark is telling them to break it up. Which they do just as he turns and sees me in the crook of Joe’s arm, headed his way. He scowls. I offer a tentative wave and an innocent smile as we approach each other.

  “What are you doing out in the rain?” he asks. He’s wearing rain gear and a plastic bag over his cap. It’s not very flattering. But I guess that’s not the point anyway.

  “I’m on my way home.”

  “From the coffee shop?” He gives Joe a once-over and grudgingly extends his hand. Which Joe accepts, just as grudgingly. I swear. Men.

  “Actually, I had class tonight. Lucky for me, Joe was there to meet my train since I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

  Joe looks a little smug about it. “I didn’t think she should be walking home all alone on these streets at night.”

  Mark stares, a little hostility in those blue eyes of his. “I patrol this area in the evenings. She’s safe on my streets.” He turns his gaze on me and his defenses lower as concern washes across his face. “You weren’t scared, were you?”

  Well, only for a second.

  I open my mouth to speak, but Joe does it for me.

  “You didn’t even know she’d be walking alone tonight.”

  “Well, I do now, so I can escort her the rest of the way home, if you need to get back to the shop.”

  “Thanks anyway.” Joe sounds anything but grateful. “The coffee shop is closed. I’m free to take her all the way home.”

  I feel like a rope. You know, the tug-of-war kind.

  “Officer Hall, you ready? There’s a call, or did you want me to take this one on my own?” That guy again. He’s so mean to Mark! My heart squeezes a little. If this were a movie, Mark would get a heroic jump on the guy—save his life or something and get a little respect. Too bad this is real life.

  Irritation spreads across Mark’s face as he turns toward the squad car parked alongside the curb. I follow his gaze and recognize his partner from the night of the break-in.

  “Yeah, McNealy. I’m coming.” He turns to me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Hall!” the other officer hollers, his voice impatient. “Come on. Are you deaf? We got a call.” How does Mark work with that jerk?

  “I have to go,” Mark says. “I’ll call you.”

  Joe bristles.

  Mark turns on his heel, waving as he goes.

  “Glad I’m not the victim of a crime waiting while the cops try to hit on a woman,” Joe mutters.

  “Come on.” I move forward and he lurches to keep up. “I’m freezing out here.”

  “That’s another thing,” he says, once again falling into step beside me. “He just kept you out in this without regard for your well-being.”

  “Don’t be surly. Mark’s a nice guy.”

  All I get in response is a noncommittal grunt. Am I wrong to grin at his jealousy?

  When we reach my apartment, Joe holds the umbrella over me while I unlock the door.

  “You want to come up for hot chocolate?” I figure it’s the least I can do, considering he came out just to make sure I got home okay. He hesitates. “It’s okay, Joe. Don’t feel obligated.” I admit I’m stinging just a bit. I mean, he went all macho with Mark. I figured he’d jump at the chance to come up to my apartment.

  “I’m just not sure it’s proper. You know, like it doesn’t look right.”

  “Joe, it’s barely after eight o’clock.”

  “I know. But . . .”

  “Oh, come on. You owe me a date anyway.” Don’t ask me why I’m suddenly feeling bold and beautiful. Maybe the exchange between a great-looking cop and a great-looking shopkeeper has given me confidence. “Remember? You said you’d call and never did?” I keep the tone light so he doesn’t think I’m harboring any real feelings about it. That would never do.

  “’Ey, I didn’t forget. Just trying to figure it all out, that’s all.”

  I grin, stepping inside. “You coming? Since the break-in I don’t go up until I’m sure this downstairs door is closed firmly and locked.”

  And with that, his hesitation seems to melt like sugar in the rain. He nods. “Hot chocolate sounds good.”

  When he gives me that grin, it’s hard to think about his family having “connections” with city hall that might not be completely legitimate. But then, he did say sometimes it’s better to do things by the book. So . . . Oh, why even try to speculate? Just give the guy his hot chocolate and stop overanalyzing everything.

  The next night, I meet Tabby and Dancy for sushi at Inagiku, a Japanese restaurant in the Waldorf-Astoria. Dancy’s treat. Otherwise, it would have set my budget back a week.

  I do some fast talking and explain my dilemma to my friends—the dilemma about Joe’s dad maybe being a little too well connected at city hall. “Do you think I should confront Joe about it?”

  “Maybe you should just let it go,” Dancy says. “If his father has connections at city hall, there’s not a lot you can do now anyway. The project is moving forward, so just stop worrying about it.”

  “Unless you think Joe is involved.”

  I stare at Tabby. “What do you mean? Do you think Joe is like Michael Corleone?”

  “Have you been watching You’ve Got Mail again?” Dancy asks.

  A sheepish grin. “Guilty. Nancy loves watching the two of them together as much as I do.”

  Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan.

  “What does You’ve Got Mail have to do with anything?”

  I guess it’s not completely fair of us to lead her along. I’m about to fill her in when Dancy shakes her head.

  “You know how they talk about The Godfather?”

  Tabby shrugs. “Oh, yeah. That’s true. ‘Go to the mattresses’ and all that.”

  “I swear, Tabs,” I say. “How can you be an actress and never have seen The Godfather?”

  “I don’t like to fill my head with violence. Besides, I’m a New York actress, not a film star.”

  “And soon you won’t even have that. What will be your claim to fame after Felicia Fontaine is no more?” I ask.

  Tabby grins and pats her flat stomach. “Mommy and Wife are all the titles I need.”

  It seems like I can’t spend time with Tabby anymore without feeling that sense of jealousy. Not the kind of jealousy that makes me wish I could have what she has instead of her. But maybe just the kind that wishes we were both married and pregnant at the same time.

  “Okay,” I say, because I really need to pull myself out of the impossible dream for now. “What do I do if he really is involved with organized crime? Do you think I might get arrested?”

  “How do you mean?” Tabby asks as the waiter sets sushi in the middle of the table. “How could you possibly be arrested because Frank and Joe may or may not be bribing someone to hurry a few permits along? You’re the interior designer. Your part of the project doesn’t even start until the architects and contractors do their part. You’re making too much of this, Laini.”

  Okay, that felt a little rough to me. Doesn’t my life feel insignificant enough as it is without my best friend rubbing salt in the proverbial wound?

  “Excuse me.
” Tabby’s chair scrapes hard against the floor and she dashes out of the room, leaving me bewildered and feeling betrayed.

  “She didn’t mean it like that, Laini.”

  I grab a sushi roll with my chopsticks and shrug. “Oh, I know.” But the thing is, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. For instance. Why are both of my friends in happy relationships and I’m not? What’s wrong with me? Why are they both in the careers they want, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing even in my last semester of design school? I ask again, what is wrong with me?

  13

  I decide I’m not in the mood for sushi after all and leave before Tabby gets back to the table. I head out and walk the two blocks to Fifty-first, where I catch the number six train. I’m feeling disheartened as I reach my stop. I can’t help it that I’m sort of hoping to find Joe waiting for me. But then, why would he be there? He didn’t know I was having dinner in upper midtown. I trudge home in the cool evening air. It’s a few days away from March. Spring is peeking around the corner and announcing that it’s heading to Manhattan. I can’t wait! I’m so tired of being cold.

  Tabby calls me and it turns out she’s battling terrible sickness due to the pregnancy. Which, she tells me, is a good sign that hormone levels are rising as expected. It means the pregnancy is going well—less chance of miscarriage.

  She tells me this with such relief that I realize for the first time that maybe Tabby has been worried about losing the baby. Such a horrible thing never occurred to me.

  Her tone sounds quivery over the phone. “I’m sorry if it sounded like I thought your contribution to the renovation at Nick’s wasn’t important. You’re the frosting on the cake. I hope you know I only meant that your involvement comes along far after the big dogs settle the permit stuff, so you shouldn’t get in trouble.”

  I actually do understand what she’s saying and there are no hard feelings. I tell her as much. “I’m just feeling a little nervous about getting the grade. If anything illegal is involved and the project gets shut down, where will I be? I can’t afford to take the last semester over.”

  Financially or emotionally, to be honest. I can’t fail. I don’t know what I’d fall back on. I’ve already been an accountant. For eight years I did a job I hated. And I know I could go back to it if I had to, but oh, the thought feels like a crushing weight.

  “It’s worth taking this risk to be doing what will make you happy, Laini,” Tabby says softly, as though reading my thoughts. “I knew I couldn’t do anything besides acting. What is it that you feel like you have to do or else you’ll always be unhappy? Oh, shoot, Laini. I’m so sorry. I’m going to be sick.”

  She hangs up and I imagine her making a run for the bathroom.

  I think about what she said, though. Is there a certain career path I must follow to be happy?

  Young single women in New York are career-driven. Why else would a woman live in an insanely expensive matchbox apartment in Manhattan and work so hard pursuing that American dream?

  I’m not even sure what the dream is anymore. When I was in college, it was about doing what my mother expected of me. What she assumed my dad would have wanted. And that’s what I did—I became an accountant.

  When I was about to turn thirty, I figured out that accounting stressed me too much, made me tired, and not only that—I dreaded going to work every day.

  Forget that I was very good at accounting. I mean, the numbers were there and made perfect sense. . . . I just happened to hate working with them. It was my lucky day when Ace Accounting went bankrupt and they had to let me go.

  That bankruptcy set me free to pursue something else. Everyone told me I had an eye for putting rooms together, and I liked it, so I decided to take these classes. Okay, everyone questioned my color schemes, but the furniture, art pieces, those sorts of things, were constantly praised. But—oh, I hate to admit it—I’m not the whiz at design I thought I might be. If I don’t succeed at design, I might have to go back to accounting, and there’s no way I can do that.

  Thank goodness the phone rings and pulls me out of the maudlin, whiney thought process in which I find myself.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Mark.”

  The corners of my mouth lift into a smile. I haven’t heard from him since last night. When it rains it pours. Literally.

  “What’s up, Mark?”

  “I was just wondering if you’d be interested in dinner Saturday night.”

  “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

  He hesitates. “Actually, it’s my dad’s birthday. My sister is closing the restaurant early and we’re having a huge bash with about fifty family and friends.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “You sure? We could wait until Sunday night and have a date just the two of us.”

  “Hey, are you backing out already?”

  He chuckles. “Not likely. You’ll be at your mom’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  And that’s that. I’m still basking in the glow of it when the phone rings again. Only it’s Joe this time. “So, I’m calling.”

  “Yeah?” I give a little laugh. “It’s about time. Glad I wasn’t holding my breath.”

  “So how about Saturday night?” A curious disappointment shoots through me. How can I live in a male-barren wasteland for years and in the span of one month have not one but two fantastic-looking, great guys ask me out? And wouldn’t you know it, they both want me to go out on the same night. Darn!

  I can’t believe that, for a second, I consider accepting Joe’s invitation and calling Mark back to cancel. But that’s not nice. Besides, there’s a lot to be said for sticking to the plan. I swallow past disappointment and try not to sound pathetic. “Actually, Joe, I have plans for Saturday night.”

  “The cop?”

  “Sorta, yeah. He just called a couple minutes before you.”

  “I see.” He clears his throat. “Well, better luck next time, I guess.”

  I want so much to ask if we can make it another night. But I can’t bring myself to be that forward.

  Besides, Joe’s already moving on to the next thought. “So, did Nancy tell you we hired the contractors?”

  “Yep. When are they going to start knocking down walls?”

  “A week from this coming Monday. I put signs up to let the customers know.”

  “That’s great. You must be excited about it.”

  “I never thought Uncle Nick should expand this much, to be honest.”

  “I thought you were the one who wanted the changes, Mr. I-Have-a-Degree-in-Restaurant-Management.”

  “We definitely needed changes, but not necessarily expansion. It takes away from the intimate feel.” I can’t help but laugh as the image of all those people crammed into Nick’s comes to mind. “What was he supposed to do with the crowd, Joe?” During most of the morning hours and until around one thirty in the afternoon, the place is standing-room-only as it is.

  “What’s wrong with people waiting their turn? That’s what all the good restaurants do. Instead, everyone thinks they oughtta be bigger and better. In a crunch, we could add outside tables—like we’re doing between the two buildings, only we could have done it out front instead.”

  You know, now that he mentions it, he has a point. Why try to fix what isn’t exactly broken? Although Nick has a point too. It’s crazy to hobble a business when the opportunity for expansion presents itself—for instance, when a shop goes out of business right next door. I mean, what are the chances? How could he not hop on that?

  I sigh. This is why I can’t figure out my life. It’s too easy to see both sides of the issue. I have to learn to take a stand and stick with that point of view.

  “I think it’s a good idea. Nick needs the extra business now that he’s living in L.A. and hiring a manager and all of that. The extra money will come in handy.”

  He hesita
tes for a split second. “I guess that’s true.”

  Yep. Now if only I could figure out my own life.

  By Saturday I’m more than ready to leave Manhattan and take the forty-minute train ride from Penn Station to Long Island. It’s been a depressing, rainy week. One of those weeks where nothing new happens and life feels mundane. I think I have a little spring fever. It’s not time for spring buds, but all the excitement of winter has long since gotten old and worn out and I’m ready to move on.

  To make matters worse, I’m shocked to find boxes all over Mom’s house. Moving boxes.

  “Mom!” I call as I wade through the clutter all over the living room floor. “Mom! What’s going on?”

  “I’m in the kitchen, honey.”

  She says it so calmly, like I’m not supposed to notice that my childhood is being simultaneously packed into cardboard, taped up, and made ready to go who knows where. I flounce (yes, I’m ashamed to say, I do, like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum) into the kitchen, following Mom’s voice. I find her headfirst in the lower cabinets, her behind the part of her that greets me. “Ma? What’s going on?”

  She pulls out of the cabinet, puffs out a breath, and rests back on her heels. “I haven’t done a good cleaning since your daddy died. You wouldn’t believe some of the old things I’ve found.” I can’t even imagine the look that must be on my face when she looks at me. But her expression washes from fatigue to compassion. “Surely you knew I’d have to start cleaning everything out.”

  I hoist myself onto a barstool and grab a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter. “I guess.”

  She stands and presses her hands into her back for a stretch. “I need a break. Do you want some tea?”