Waiting for the One Read online

  “I owe you that.”

  A slight grin touches his lips before he settles on the chair opposite me.

  “I’m sorry I left, but I never stopped thinking about you. I missed you so damn much.”

  “Apparently not enough to pick up the phone.”

  “It isn’t like that,” he whispers.

  “You keep saying that, but from where I’m sitting, it’s exactly like that.”

  “That’s fair. I want to try to explain.”

  Settling back on the sofa, I pull my legs up under me. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve never told all of this to anyone, not even my family, but I think it might help you understand why I reacted as I did.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve always loved painting and sculpting and I was always good at it. Close friends of my parents visited us in Scotland when I was twelve and when they saw my work, they were quite impressed. They knew I wanted to make a living from my art and offered to sponsor me. I could stay with them in the States while they helped to foster my talent. My parents were hesitant because I was young, but I wanted it so badly that they relented, especially since they were unable to bring me themselves with a business to run and other children to raise. I packed my bags and came to New York City. My parents’ friends treated me like their own son—got me into art classes run by some of the finest artists of our time and even enrolled me in the New York Academy of Art.

  “The dinners started when I was sixteen. They were constantly introducing me to their friends. Networking, they called it, so when they suggested dinner parties, I didn’t think anything of it. The first few were rather nice, but then the guest list shortened and the dinners became more intimate. If the wife’s hand lingered a little too long on my shoulder or lap, I didn’t think much of it.

  “It was when I turned seventeen that the solo dinners started—older woman taking me out to dinner wanting to discuss my art and offering to become patronesses of a sort. From the very beginning, I found these dinners uncomfortable, but the women were friends of the people who were acting as my guardians, so I didn’t want to upset the apple cart. I just assumed I didn’t understand the society I was now socializing in.

  “Then I started getting propositioned. At first I thought that these mature women were interested in me and that we were two consenting adults. I can’t lie, I was flattered, so I took them up on it. And then I began to realize that it wasn’t young and foolish me that they were interested in, but what I was becoming. They started offering to sponsor shows for me in return for sex, and I knew we weren’t coming from the same place.”

  I can see him too, a young, trusting, beautiful boy. The bastards that were supposed to be protecting him were pimping him out. “And so start the rumors of your preference for older and wealthy women. I’m sorry, Logan. What did you do about it?”

  “I started modeling to make some extra money. I’d been approached by several agencies interested in representing me. Modeling hadn’t been a thought for me, but when my art dreams seemed to be dependent on me becoming a person I wasn’t, I needed something to fall back on. I’ll admit I lost my way for a time.

  “My parents have a very successful business in Scotland, but they used to maintain a residence in the States when they were expanding the business and that’s how my brothers and I were born here, but we all moved back to Scotland when my brothers and I were toddlers. I know the decision my parents made to send me back here at twelve had weighed heavily on them—fear I’d lose my way without their daily guidance because I was so young. When their fears proved justified—my face popping up in magazines and gossip about me getting back to them from the States—they dropped everything and came to get me back on track. My brothers came with them, and before they returned, they helped get my brothers and me settled: buying us an apartment, getting Dante enrolled in school, and when they returned to Scotland, my brothers stayed with me.”

  “And what happened to the bastards you stayed with?”

  “They owned an exclusive gallery, but when I finally became a success, my first purchase was buying their by-then-overextended gallery for far cheaper than it was worth, and then I closed it. All of their money was tied up in that gallery, so they were forced to declare bankruptcy. I believe they’re living in New Jersey now.”

  He walked over and hunched down in front of me. “I hate thinking about that time in my life, hate knowing that I allowed myself to be manipulated, but in all honesty I’m also embarrassed by it. Discussing what I consider the worst part of my life with the person who’s rapidly becoming the most important part of it, made me freak. What if it made you think less of me or turned you from me?” He looks down for a minute before he adds, “David Cambre has quite the following, and at times it can be annoying and at other times it can be downright suffocating. The reality that you would be pulled into all that shit was another reason to stay away from you.”

  Hearing that his avoidance really does stem from embarrassment softens me a bit toward him. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t just morally wrong, what they were doing to you had to be illegal. I’ve heard enough about David Cambre to know how much you are admired. I can’t even begin to imagine how trying that must be for you.”

  “But?”

  I’ve softened, yes, but the reality of the past few weeks and how he just walked away keeps me distant. I brought this on, I know that, but my insecurity over whether I’m good enough for him is one thing. Him cutting all connections and shutting me out, that’s something else entirely. What’s to keep him from doing that again? I lower my head, trying to avoid his question, but he touches my chin with his finger and lifts my gaze to his. “I absolve you. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “No.”

  Moving from him, I stand and walk to the far side of the room. “Look, I hate what those people did to you, abusing their power over you. They don’t deserve to live, but I don’t know what you want from me. You left. You walked away. I pushed to know more about you and you fled. No calls, no explanation, you just left. Do you have any idea what it felt like to find that you were gone? And weeks later, when I buried my pride and called Maria, you were there in that room with her, and you still didn’t pick up the phone. You’re right, I do love you, and maybe you love me back, but it’s not the same. One is a soul-searing, breath-stealing kind of love and the other is much like the love one feels for chocolate ice cream. I am sure there are many ladies out there who would love to be your chocolate ice cream, but I’m not that girl.”

  He is clenching his jaw so hard I’m afraid he’s going to break something. He sounds almost dangerous. “What are you saying, Saffron?”

  I hold his hard gaze, even though my heart is breaking. “I’m saying that you and me, I don’t think it’s going to work.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can see the pain in his expression, and then he starts toward the door; all the while I’m screaming in my head, Fight for me, damn it.

  Just when I think he’s going to walk out of my life forever, his head turns and his gaze spears me from across the room. “Staying away from you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And what I feel for you isn’t like a preference for chocolate ice cream. Every beat of my heart and every breath I breathe I do for you.”

  And then he leaves, but as far as exits go, his was pretty fucking terrific.

  “Tell it again?” Josh asks as he sits across from me at Tucker’s. I’ve already shared the story about my conversation with Logan at least five times, but Josh is addicted. I repeat Logan’s parting words again and can’t help the fluttering in my belly. Josh pretends to swoon as he holds his hand to his forehead. “Dear God, you are one lucky woman.”

  “He said the right words, but living them is another story.”

  “So what happens now?” Gwen asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you want to happen?” Josh prompts.

  “I want it all: the husband, the house, the children, an
d the dogs. I want to wake up next to him every day; I want to watch our children grow; I want to sit on the front porch in rocking chairs when we’re too old to move. I want what Gwen and Mitch have.”

  Josh drops his head on his hand and sighs. “Me too.”

  “It isn’t all flowers and rainbows, you know?” Gwen offers as she picks up her glass of wine.

  “Of course not, where would the fun be in that?” I say.

  “Yeah, not to mention missing out on makeup sex.”

  I roll my eyes at Josh. “You are incorrigible.”

  Gwen holds my gaze. “So what are you going to do?”

  “He claims that he wants me, so I’m going to sit back and see how he intends to win me.”

  “You realize there are thousands of women who would die to be in your shoes, who would actually seek him out, and you have him wooing you.” Josh wiggles his brows at me.

  “Those women like the package. I love the man. Logan’s smart enough to see the difference.”

  “This is going to be fun to watch.”

  Gwen grins at Josh. “You can say that again.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I’m sitting on a bench in town watching the activity from across the street, though what exactly is going on over there, I haven’t figured out yet. A crowd, which in this town is about ten people, has formed a semicircle on the sidewalk. Two men with a truck that has a hoist are parked half on and half off the curb and there’s a cloth-covered something on a dolly. I’m assuming whatever is under the cloth will be hoisted up and placed where the people have gathered. What, I wonder, is under that cloth? Sheriff Dwight is guiding traffic around the truck. Reaper sniffs around me as I sip my coffee. Moments later a shadow moves over me and I look up to see Josh. He takes the seat next to me and reaches for my coffee to share a sip, but his attention is also across the street.

  “What the hell is going on over there?” Reaper sidles over for a scratch behind the ears, and Josh complies.

  “I haven’t a clue. I’ve been watching now for the better part of an hour and I still haven’t figured it out.”

  Josh hands me back my cup. “Anything new with Logan?”

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing. I think he realized that he was smoking crack and has moved on to greener pastures. It’s just as well. Being involved with a famous person is just too much work.”

  “Yeah, and if you keep telling yourself that you may actually believe it one of these days.”

  “I know. I’m pathetic, but at least I have my hair.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’m trying to bolster myself up. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Well, hell, Saffron, that’s just sad.”

  “I know.” I shift to face him. “So, what’s up with you and Derek? You seem to be like peanut butter and jelly.”

  He gets the look, the major one, that warms my heart. My friend is in love. “He’s pretty damn terrific. I mean, like Gwen said, it isn’t all rainbows and flowers, but I love him. He’s the one.”

  “And he feels the same. I can see it when you two are together.”

  “Yeah, he does. We’re talking about moving in together.”

  “I think that’s fabulous,” I say.

  “Me too.”

  At a loud crash we both turn in the direction of the activity across the street. “What the hell?” I jump to my feet. Something seems to be taking shape over there.

  “What’s that thing under the tarp?”

  “I’ve no idea.” I squint, as if that’s going to clarify what I’m currently looking at, just as Chastity appears among the people across the street. With her is none other than Logan.

  “It looks like some kind of ceremony, but I didn’t read about it in the paper,” Josh says just before Gwen appears.

  “Did you hear?”

  We both turn to her. “Hear what?”

  “Logan’s donating a sculpture to the town. He didn’t want to make a big deal about it—wanted it on the down low, so they’re doing a small unveiling.”

  “Down low, Gwen?”

  “I know, aren’t I cool?”

  We all turn back to the scene across the street. I ask, “What do you think it is?”

  “I hope it’s a self-portrait, a nude one.” Josh sighs.

  Gwen and I eye him, but he has that faraway dreamy look about him. Clearly he’s envisioning Logan naked. I lean over and whisper, “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s better.”

  His eyes narrow at me. “You are a hateful woman.”

  Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, I turn back in time to see Chastity doing her thing, talking to the people gathered, while waving her arms as she has a tendency to do. Without much pomp and circumstance, the sheet is removed. At first I’m momentarily frozen at the sight and then I roar with laughter.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Gwen asks.

  “I don’t understand,” Josh says.

  But I’m still staring across the street, staring at Logan, who is looking right back at me with a sexy little grin. Logan’s sculpture, the one he’s donating to the town, is a life-size swordfish.

  “You hate swordfish, Saffron,” Josh says, clearly confused.

  “I do, but I love that one.”

  “Have you seen the papers today?” Josh asks as soon as I open my door to him a few days after the unveiling of Logan’s gift to the town.

  “Hi to you too.”

  He steps into my house and holds one of the gossip magazines up to my face, and staring back at me is me.

  “Holy shit, that’s me.”

  “You’re famous.”

  The picture is of me behind the bar at Tucker’s. There’s another picture, this one of Logan, but he’s younger, minus the Bigfoot disguise. The caption reads:

  Is the art world’s famous playboy finally settling down?

  There’s nothing of substance in the article, merely speculation, but there’s definitely a negative spin. As in: Why is someone like David slumming with the likes of me? As much as I want to, I can’t argue with the question. Why indeed.

  “You look sick. Why do you look sick?”

  “Logan is Logan to me. The idea that there’s this whole other part of him, the famous part, is unnerving.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess I just never really put it all together that being with Logan, or David, means that my life falls under scrutiny too.”

  “The curse of being famous.”

  Logan said it. David has quite the following. He works really hard at keeping Logan and David separate; those who come here are coming to see David. David is the one people are interested in, David is the one people want to see. And now David is the one who I am being linked to.

  “Why, Josh? Why would Logan be interested in me when he comes from a world so far removed from our little part in it?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that there are countless women out there who come from the same background that he does. Why would he settle for me?”

  “He’s not settling with you, but to answer your question, maybe it’s just as simple as he likes the peace of our small world better.” He starts toward the kitchen. “Do you have any of those brownies left?”

  I follow after him but I don’t think I agree with him.

  Later in the week my mom calls. Even as I’m reaching for the receiver, I know whatever is about to be said will not be good. I have a sixth sense for this.

  “Mom, how are you?”

  “Saffron. I’ve just been visiting some friends and they informed me that my daughter is dating some millionaire playboy. Is that true?”

  Wow, so efficient, the gossip mill. Too bad we can’t use that efficiency in more productive pursuits like solving world hunger and finding world peace. The image of me on stage accepting my Miss America trophy pops into my head. We must think of the children.

  “Saffron!”

  Right . . . “Well, ye
s, I am dating a very nice man who happens to be semifamous.”

  “I don’t understand. You drag your feet about dating a steady guy and now you’re dating someone who is anything but. What are you thinking?”

  Oh, I have so many problems with that statement. How does she know anything about Logan except for the crap she reads in the rag mags? And a steady guy? Yeah, that’s exactly how I want to describe any man I date. Steady and sturdy, like a tree. If I weren’t so annoyed, I’d laugh. “He likes me. I like him. We’re giving it a whirl.”

  “He likes you because he thinks you’re easy.”

  I am easy, well, I am with him. He can mold me like clay anytime he wants. Despite the fact that I’m trying to find humor in this, she’s stirring my temper. “Why do you say that?”

  “You work at a bar.”

  “So everyone who works at a bar is easy? That’s an awfully narrow-minded and, I have to say, stupid generalization.”

  “Do not speak to me that way.”

  “But you can call me a slut because of my choice of profession?”

  “Tending bar is hardly a profession.”

  “And drinking and playing bridge is?” Ah, did I just say that out loud? I close my eyes and wait for it. Three, two . . .

  “How dare you! This is what I’m talking about! You are out of control and now you’re throwing yourself at some man who is so far above you. Do you really think his interest in you will lead to a white wedding? You’ve nothing to offer him that he can’t find on any corner in any city in the world.”

  “Are you comparing me to a prostitute?”

  “What? I was talking about bars. Women working in bars.”

  My pulse pounds in my throat. For a minute there I thought I was going to have to catch a plane just so I could punch my own mother in the face.

  “He’s going to hurt you.”

  And she’s not?

  “Whatever it is you think is going on, I assure you it isn’t,” she continues. “Be smarter than that, Saffron. Think about what I’ve said. I’ve got to run.”

  And then she clicks off. Is it any wonder why I have such self-doubt? And as much as I want to dismiss everything she said, I can’t. Laced through her bullshit rhetoric, she actually voiced some of my own concerns.