The Redhead Revealed
Page 8

We were relaxed and happy, walking off the enormous amount of chocolate we had consumed. At one point he laughed at me, calling my attention to the fact that during our pig-out I’d apparently been humming “White Christmas” while I slurped. He swore I had a penchant for singing Christmas carols under my breath. I didn’t actually remember this, my attention having been totally focused on the concoction in front of me. A frozen hot chocolate of this magnitude was a true indulgence for me—a real splurge I was already calculating how I’d work off—and I didn’t miss a drop.
Now I was totally focused on the equally yummy Hamilton in front of me. We sat on a bench at the Plaza end of the park, holding hands and people-watching. There were several kids playing on the edge of the little pond, and we laughed as we watched them kick around a soccer ball. Once it came flying over to where we were sitting, and Jack jumped up to kick it back to them. The kids shouted their thanks, and he came back to sit next to me, smiling as he smoothed my hair back from my face. I was still thinking about meeting his family, father especially. My mind kept bumping into it no matter how I tried to not think about it. He watched me closely, and I smiled.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.
“Thought you Brits used shillings and sixpence and whatnot,” I said.
“Do all Americans get their knowledge of British culture from Mary Poppins?”
“Yes, although I also got a bit from Dickens.”
“Ah, yes. Another reliable source for current culture.”
He laughed as I kissed him on the nose. We snuggled together for another moment.
“Nice deflection, Grace, but what are you thinking about?” he pressed.
“Honestly?”
“Yes, please,” he encouraged, hugging me tighter.
“Meeting your family. It makes me a little nervous,” I replied.
“Why nervous?”
“I dunno. Take your pick. I’m considerably older than you, you’re about to be this huge star, not to mention the fact that I’m a Yank…” I trailed off, the words I’d just said hanging in the air. Jack was laughing though.
“A Yank? Seriously, where do you come up with this stuff? Mary Poppins again?”
“No, this time European Vacation. But seriously, Jack. What if your dad doesn’t like me?”
“European Vacation,” he snorted, then looked back at the group of kids playing. “My dad loves any girl who can cook. He always said that was one of the reasons he fell in love with my mum—her cooking. She used to make this shepherd’s pie. Oh, it was the best, she would—” he started, then stopped, looking sad all of a sudden. I took his hands again and wrapped him more firmly around my waist.
“You were sixteen, right? Sixteen when she passed away?” I asked quietly. He nodded.
“I bet she’d be proud of you right now. Look at everything you’ve accomplished at such a young age!” I said, scratching his scalp the way I knew he liked. He leaned into my hand, but was still quiet. We soaked up the fresh air and the sounds of the city.
“Grace, how come you never talk about your parents?” he asked, breaking me out of my spell.
“My what? My parents?”
“Yes, you never mention them. Come to think of it, I don’t think you’ve ever said a word about them. Where are they?” he asked, still leaning into my hand, which had stilled.
“My mom died when I was a freshman in college—boating accident. It happened fast. I didn’t even make it home from school before she was gone. She was only forty-one,” I answered, closing my eyes and remembering how she used to make me scrambled eggs and toast every morning, without fail. All these years and her breakfasts were still the first thing that came to mind when I thought about her. That and her perfume.
“Grace, I’m so sorry,” he said, clutching me closer.
“I’m sorry too—for you. What a pair we are.” I laughed hollowly.
“And your dad? How did he take it?”
“You’d have to ask him, if you can find him. I haven’t spoken to him since I was in third grade. He left my mom and me high and dry. Never looked back—no letters, no phone calls, nothing,” I said, my voice empty. My skin prickled a bit. I never talked about this stuff. It made me uncomfortable, and I didn’t do uncomfortable.
“He just left?”
“Yes, he just left. Can we talk about something else? My dad was a deadbeat. No need to discuss,” I said, just as the soccer ball came our way again. This time I rose and kicked it back, my foot connecting angrily and sailing it over the lot of them. A few of them cheered my kicking ability, and I curtsied. I sat down next to him on the bench again, and we continued to watch.
“Cute kids,” he said, watching them play.
“Yes, cute,” I replied, watching them as well.
“Do you want kids, Grace?” he asked, turning to look at me.
“What, right now? Today?” I teased, standing up and depositing myself on his lap. He made room for me, tucking me in with his arms around me and his chin on my shoulder.
“Obviously not today, Crazy. Although later on today I’ll be glad to demonstrate how babies are made.” He laughed, cuddling me to him. “But really, do you want kids someday?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, I think if I wanted them, I’d have thought more seriously about it by now,” I said. “What about you? I mean, not now, but do you want kids someday?” I asked, shuffling around a bit so I was looking down at him.
“Hmm, I don’t think so either. I don’t particularly care for children—at least not in the sense that I want any of my own,” he said, kissing my fingertips, each one in turn, lavishing attention on my pinkies in particular.
“You might change your mind as you get older,” I said.
“Don’t you think you might change your mind?” he asked, still kissing my fingers.
“Eh, I don’t have all the years in front of me like you do. My choices are a little more finite. Maybe I will, but I doubt it,” I answered, sighing happily as he placed a kiss on my palm. I laughed a little, and he looked at me curiously.
“What’s funny, love?”
“It’s funny that you’re dating a woman in her thirties, and you managed to find the one who doesn’t seem to have a biological clock—at least not one that’s ticking,” I said, planting a kiss on top of his head and pulling him to his feet.
We began to walk back toward the Plaza to catch a cab.
“You really don’t want kids, Grace? I mean, you seem like you’d make a great mom…” He trailed off.
“Yeah, I think I would too. But that doesn’t mean I should have kids—does that make sense? There are plenty of women who have kids and do great with them, but that maybe didn’t really in their true heart of hearts want them. Not every woman is made to have a family. My friends feel like my family, and now there’s this Brit who I’m taking care of. He does take up a lot of my time.” I laughed, straightening his shirt and zipping his jacket up further against the cold.
“Hmm…tell me more about this Brit,” he said, wrapping his arm around my waist as we walked.
“He’s quite handsome and very sweet. A little on the g*y side, but then again, he is British,” I continued.
“Of course, of course,” he agreed.
“And I love him—quite a lot, actually,” I finished, leaning my head against his arm as we walked.
“Hmm…I see. He sounds fantastic, obviously. Does he love you as well?”
“He says he does, and I mean, really, how could he not?” I giggled, doing a little pirouette on the path in front of us.
He stopped to watch me, then caught my hand and pulled me back to him. “How could he not?” he confirmed, and kissed me.
We smooched for a moment, sweetly and softly, and then went to grab our cab. Neither of us heard the clicking of the camera.
Chapter 6
The rest of the weekend flew by, and it was Monday night before I knew it.
We’d spent the rest of Saturday afternoon in his hotel, passing more time in that blessed shower. You’d think we were part fish the way we splashed around. Saturday night we went to see a show. I had been saving Wicked to see with him. I knew he wasn’t so fond of musicals, but I thought this one would hold his interest.
True to form, I cried like a baby, and he seemed surprised at how affected I was. He enjoyed it, although he didn’t sob like I did when Elphaba sang “Defying Gravity.” Really no one did. It seemed I would continue to make an ass of myself whenever live theater was concerned. I enjoyed this show so much I actually forgot Jack was there, and I was surprised to find him next to me at the end when we all filed back into the lobby.
“You were lost in your own little world, Gracie. I watched you as much as I watched the show,” he said, holding my hand and helping me throw away all the crumpled tissues I’d shoved in my pockets and purse during the show.
Sunday morning was chilly and wonderful. We spent the day at MOMA and went to Mott Street in Little Italy for dinner. We sat family style with other diners at a lovely old restaurant, passing plates and plates of food and carafes of cheap red wine.
And we spent every night rediscovering each other’s bodies again and again. We did spend one night in my apartment, but we preferred to spend the others at his hotel, languishing in the giant bed and taking advantage of the room service the film company was paying for.
Monday we had plans to sightsee, but we just couldn’t seem to make it out of bed. We tried several times, but in the end gave up and gave in to our insatiable need. We ordered room service for all three meals that day—perish the thought. We didn’t even leave the room to have housekeeping come in, although Jack did sneak out into the hallway (wrapped only in a sheet, mind you) to steal some chocolates off the maid’s cart as she was making up the room across the hall.
Late Monday night, we did something we’d never done before.
Heavens no, not that…
We took a bath together.
We filled the giant tub with bubbles, turned on the jets, and had a little bath time. Jack sat with his back against the marble, and I tucked contentedly between his legs, lying back against his chest. He ran the sea-wool sponge up and down my arms and squeezed the water and bubbles over my chest. Something about seeing my boobies covered in soap, he said, made him all kinds of happy.
I could feel how happy he was.
I snuggled against him, the water lapping gently at my warm body, not needing anything else in the world. I’d even planned ahead and ordered an ice cream sundae, which was now perched precariously on the side of the tub. I was being kind and letting him share my lovely sundae. Since I so rarely indulged like this (although I was kind of on a roll this weekend…), I tended to guard my goodies like a mama bear with her cubs. Except I was protecting something even more valuable—ice cream. I maneuvered the spoon up behind me and toward his mouth.
“Thank you,” he said through a mouthful of ice cream and chocolate sauce.
“I thought I ordered nuts on this. Where are the nuts?” I exclaimed, digging through the concoction.
“You’re looking for nuts, Miss?” he asked, trying to dip my hand below the water.
I laughed and shrugged him off. “Not until we finish this lovely dessert. Then I’ll be happy to attend to your personal nuts.” I giggled, spooning sauce and finally finding the hidden nuts. I forced another bite on him, then settled back against his chest once more, scooping up my own bite.
“Gracie, I don’t know how you’re not the size of a bus, the way you eat. I love it! Too many girls just eat lettuce and drink bottled water. It’s nice to be with a real woman.” He laughed, smoothing his hands along my skin under the water, along my stomach and hips, beginning to work his way toward my thighs, and specifically what was between my thighs.
I stopped cold, the spoon clenched between my teeth. “Wait, what?” I asked, my breath stuck in my throat.
“You heard me. It’s amazing that as much as you eat you’re not a little butterball—not that you couldn’t stand to gain a little weight. I bet your tits would be even more fabulous…” He trailed off, chuckling and kissing the back of my neck.
He must have felt how tense I was, because he stopped. “Grace? What is it?” he asked, trying to turn me around.
I removed the spoon from my mouth and set the ice cream down. I faced him. “I look the way I do because I work my ass off. Why do you think I’m constantly going for a run, or going to the gym, or running off to another yoga class? You think it’s easy to look like this? I have to stay ahead of everything I eat. Don’t think for a second that I won’t be at the gym as soon as you head back to L.A.,” I said, my voice getting low again. I pulled myself out of the tub and shrugged into a robe, still dripping wet underneath, bubbles everywhere.
“Where are you going? What the hell just happened?” he asked, his eyes wide at my current state of crazy.
I went into the other room and grabbed my wallet. I came back into the bathroom, where he was still sitting in the tub, looking dazed. I took a picture out and handed it to him. I watched as his eyes grew wide. He looked up at me, then back to the picture, then at me again. His eyes grew thoughtful, then sad.
“Grace,” he said quietly, handing me back the picture.
I took it from him, wiping the bubbles off the edges before allowing myself to look at it. It was a picture of me from two years ago. Once I’d started making plans to lose weight, my trainer had taken a picture of me: one I was to keep with me in case I ever needed additional inspiration. It was me at my heaviest, and while you could tell it was me, there was a sadness in this picture that always made me refocus when I wanted to skip that early yoga class or get overly indulgent with my desserts. I never wanted to go back to that girl again, but there were days I felt she’d never left.