Chapter Fourteen
I pull into the driveway of the house I grew up in and release my death grip on the steering wheel. Maybe I was hanging onto it for dear life so I don’t have to leave the comfort of my car. Tonight will go one of two ways: Mom will either quiz me on Ryan immediately, or he’ll be an elephant in the room, and she’ll eventually ask when I’m going to explain the scope of my relationship with “the fellow who looks like he’s done jail time.”
I’m not sure which option I prefer. The house looms in front of me. It’s big and white with dark-green shutters. The flowers along the pathway up to the front door are lush. I suppose the gardener must use Miracle-Gro or, more likely, specialty plant vitamins Mom ordered. The black front door shines as though it was polished this morning. More cars are parked along the quiet street than normal, but it’s not uncommon for the couple across the street to entertain.
Shifting the bouquet of lilies to my left hand, I tap the brass door knocker. When she doesn’t answer, I try the handle and step in. Clusters of well-dressed people holding goblets of wine chat in the living room.
I freeze, taking in the activity. Mom’s the one hosting a party? Why didn’t she mention it? I consider sneaking back out, but a woman whom I should probably know waves to me from where she stands near the gray-blue wingback chair. I smile politely and walk determinedly to the kitchen. Jazz music fills the room. Mom is placing her famous toasted brioche rounds with crème fraîche and caviar on a platter. “Hi, Mom,” I say, setting the lilies on the counter.
“Hi, dear. What a lovely bouquet. Thank you. I’ll have Gwen put them in a vase. She’s around here somewhere,” she says, turning her head. If I know Gwen, she’ll do it without my mother asking. She’s that good.
Now that I think about it, this party may work in my favor. She’ll be too busy playing the perfect hostess to bring up Ryan. Setting the last two brioche rounds on the platter, she motions to the lilies. “I think they’ll look nice in the Simon Pearce vase, don’t you?” She stops abruptly and peers at me. “What’s that on your face?”
I tap a finger to my chin. A pimple was emerging, and I dabbed a little dark-brown eyebrow pencil on it. I saw that you can make a zit look like a mole with a little brow pencil. “It’s just a blemish disguised as a mole.”
She eyes it warily. “I suggest you take care not to smear it. Did you say hello to everyone?”
“Yeah. Who are they? You didn’t mention a party.”
“I’m sure I told you last week. We settled Ronan, which was quite a coup, and I invited my co-counsel over for a celebratory dinner. And both Benners, of course.” She keeps talking, telling me who everyone is, but I tune her out. I’ve heard it all my life. I really should care, I suppose, but I don’t. Not right now, at least. I’m down to the last hours of the weekend, and I don’t want to spend any more time thinking about work. I emailed the completed settlement brief to Craig yesterday afternoon—he was kind enough to offer to review it before I send it to Kenneth, since Mr. You-Do-Substandard-Work wants it perfect—and implemented the changes he suggested today.
“The young people are out back where I have a bar set up. It’s such a pleasant evening, I thought it’d be a shame not to utilize the outdoor space.”
“I’ll say hello to them.” I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and head to the patio.
An older couple is talking to a guy who appears to be in his twenties. I scan the yard, but he’s the only person I see who’s remotely close to my age. Well, that certainly didn’t take long. I’m sure he’s my mother’s idea of a top-shelf young man, and she probably thinks we’d make a lovely couple. Seeing me with Ryan must’ve made her rush to her contacts in search of a suitable guy.
I contemplate the guests, trying to imagine how Ryan would feel among them. The thought hangs on me like an uncomfortable dress as I envision the sideways glances and judgmental looks. Trading my water for a glass of wine, I make my way to a group of women. They turn when I walk up. “Hi, I’m Katie Capwell.”
One by one, the women extend their hands in greeting. I know most, having met them at some function or another over the years. The women I haven’t met introduce themselves, making sure to mention their firms along with their names. Will the day come when I feel so tied to Janks and Lowe that I’ll automatically tag it to my name? “Hi, I’m Katie Capwell of Janks and Lowe,” I’ll say, offering a knowing yet humble smile when their eyes widen in recognition.
As I try to think of something to add to the conversation, someone taps my shoulder. It’s the guy I spotted earlier. Wire-rimmed glasses outline his grayish-blue eyes, and a few pimples dot his chin. Well, there’s one thing we have in common. He wears crisp chinos and a button-down chambray shirt with a green-and-navy striped tie knotted perfectly at his collar. It looks like he circled a picture in the J. Crew catalog and ordered everything, right down to his brown leather Top-Siders.
“Hi there. You must be Katie.”
“I am. And you are?” I hate how I sound, but I feel like my mom would be nodding in approval. She taught me well.
“Edward Benner.” We shake, and he clasps his hand over mine the way politicians do. “Really nice to meet you.” He leans in close as he releases his grasp. “I’m glad there’s someone else here who might still have other interests besides the law. I can talk shop with the best of them, but five days of being an attorney is enough, if you know what I mean.” He nudges my arm, as if we’re in on the joke together. Maybe we are.
“Yeah. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly prepared for all this. My mom forgot to mention she was having a party.” I look down at my jeans, ballet flats, and flowy peasant top. It’s cute but certainly not party-worthy. I’m surprised she didn’t text me with instructions to dress appropriately.
He eyes me up and down, not in a lecherous way but like he’s appraising the appropriateness of my clothing. “You look great.”
“Thanks. That’s sweet of you to say.”
“So you’re Lin’s daughter. I’m Bruce and Hillary Benner’s son.”
“Ah. Do you work there, too?”
“I sure do. It was pretty inevitable. I had a little family pressure.” He nudges my arm again. “How about you? Did your mom want you to become an attorney?”
“She did.” I shrug. “But I wanted it, too.”
“A good thing, I suppose. Sometimes I feel like I didn’t have much say in the matter. It’s what was expected.” His words flow so easily from his lips, but I wonder if he has some latent resentment toward them. He sounds rehearsed.
“Have you been practicing long?”
“Five years.” He lets out a small laugh. “I’m still relatively new at this, even though it feels like I’ve been practicing forever. How about you?”
“I took the bar in July and am clerking at Janks and Lowe.”
“Interesting. Entertainment law with your mom wasn’t in the plans?”
“No, I really wanted to work for a plaintiffs’ firm. I want to help people with more than contract negotiations.” I pause, my eyes wide. “Not that my mother doesn’t help people tremendously, but I wanted to help in a different way—to make changes.”
He smiles. “I totally get it.” Tugging on his tie, he says, “So you’re just a pup. Getting pushed around by all the jaded partners, are you?”
“Everyone’s been great so far. I’m learning a lot.”
“That’s good. I hope it stays that way.” Clasping his hands, he says, “Enough of that. What do you do when you’re not working?”
“I kickbox.” I wasn’t planning on saying that. It just sort of came out.
“You kickbox? Like competitively?” His eyes go wide, making it hard to determine if he’s intrigued or horrified.
“No. I train for fun. My instructor’s great. He has a bunch of awesome tattoos.” I cringe at my comment. It wasn’t meant to hurt him. It was meant for my mom, even though she can’t hear me.
“Oh. Is that your thing? The rebellious guys?” He averts his eyes and shifts his feet.
No! No, it’s not my thing. Edward’s my type—conservative, nice, maybe a little dorky—but I’m feeling trapped. “No. Not really. You know, I’m actually not feeling well. I think I’ll bow out early. It was really nice meeting you, Edward.”
“Oh. Okay. Can I get you anything? Maybe some club soda?”
“No, but thank you. I’m sure it’s nothing some sleep can’t take care of. Enjoy the dinner. My mom is a great chef.”
“Sure. I hope to see you around.” He smiles and gives me an awkward salute.
I shuffle away, feeling terrible. He was totally nice. But I just can’t be here tonight with all these people.
Mom is in the kitchen talking animatedly with a group of colleagues. The thought of sneaking out without saying a word is enticing but, sadly, not an option. I force myself to interrupt her, attempting to look as sick and pitiful as possible as I give her a quick hug and say goodbye. I compliment her delicious fare and assure her everyone is having a wonderful time. I even gush about Edward.
“Thank you, Katie. And I would tend to your mole. It’s starting to smear.”
I rush to the powder room and flick on the light. A brown blotch is smudged on my chin. Oh. My. God. Did I honestly have an entire conversation looking like I have chocolate on my chin? Why wouldn’t he say something? Maybe it smeared when I hugged my mom. That must be it. I would’ve noticed if Edward had been staring at my chin. And there’s no way he could’ve kept his eyes off this, no matter how polite he is. I grab a tissue and wipe off the brow pencil. My zit is bright red and larger than life. I open my makeup bag and dab a little concealer on it. It’s what I should’ve done in the first place. I know better than to trust the advice from a teenage beauty vlogger.
As I drive down the tree-lined street, a rush of relief washes over me. How is it that I can be in a house full of lovely people and feel so alone? I mean, Edward was great. I’d be a fool not to notice that. And yet, I couldn’t wait to leave.
As I exit the freeway, I veer left instead of right and pull into a strip mall parking lot, easing my car to a stop in front of a bookstore. There’s no rush getting home. Lauren will be at Paul’s, and as much as I didn’t want to be around all the semi-strangers, being in an empty apartment doesn’t sound too appealing, either.
My mother’s birthday is in a few weeks, and while I usually find gifts for her at Gable’s, I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea of visiting that place again. Besides, her cupboards are full of crystal, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be interested in an acid green frog. But something like a specialty cookbook could be a big hit. Maybe I can even find a beginner’s guide to cooking for myself.
The store is quiet as I step inside. Sitting on the front table, as though it were made just for me, is a welcoming display of cookbooks. At closer inspection, I see they’re regional cookbooks mixed in with a variety of books on travel. Picking one up, I flip through shiny pages of recipes from Southern France. The food seems a bit too exotic for my taste, though my mom would appreciate it. I set it down and pick up another. The Amazon rainforest in brilliant shades of green pictured on the cover makes me feel healthier just by looking at it. The recipes include simple ingredients, and the photographs of the food are brilliant. I take both books and wander to the back.
As I walk, a title on the shelf at the end of a row in the career section grabs my attention: I Hate My Job. Now What? The title is bright red, like it’s shouting at me. Sneaking a look over my shoulder to make sure no partners happen to be here, I pluck it from the shelf and scurry into the adjacent aisle where the self-help books reside. I crack the cover and read the first page, keeping a look of feigned disinterest on my face. I don’t want a passerby to think I hate my job. Of course not. It might not be what I’d imagined, but I don’t hate it. And this book may give me a much-needed laugh. That’s all.
You wake up every morning with a sense of dread. Your job looms in front of you, less appealing than a day at the dentist. Sound familiar?
When our work feels like a chore, we’re not on the right path. Listen to that inner voice. The universe is always talking to us, showing us signs, conspiring in our favor. There are no coincidences. Every person we meet, every experience we have, is meant for us.
“I’ve never seen anyone so mesmerized by a book,” a soft voice says behind me. I whip around to see a guy in trendy jeans and a leather jacket with artfully messy hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
My ears perk up at his accent. British or Australian. “That’s okay,” I say, flipping the book to hide the cover.
He motions to it with a tanned finger. “What has your undivided attention?”
“Nothing really.” I set the book facedown on the shelf next to me but steal a last look at the title. I might need to order it off Amazon. “It wasn’t what I thought it’d be. Deceiving title.”
“Those sneaky marketing people.” The way he says it makes me feel like we’re in on something together. He offers his hand. “I’m Lachlan.”
“I’m Katie. Nice to meet you. Is that a British accent I detect?”
“Indeed. You have a good ear.”
“Thanks.” I stand there, mesmerized by his lively brown eyes, and I can’t let him escape just yet. “This isn’t exactly a popular tourist destination. Or maybe you’re an expat?”
“No. That sounds glamorous, though, doesn’t it? Expat. However, I’m here for a brief visit. A travel journal is what I’m after. I want to write down my thoughts and feelings about my experiences so I remember them when I return home.”
A hot foreign guy who wants to record his thoughts and feelings? I’m almost too stunned to reply. “That’s really cool. The journals are up front. I noticed them when I walked in.”
“Well, I got quite off course, then, didn’t I?” He taps a finger to his lips. “But you know, something made me come back here. Maybe I was destined to meet you tonight. Do you believe in that sort of thing?”
This guy has my attention, but I’m not the type to fall all over him. It’s entirely possible he’s a practiced flirt. “Undecided.”
He nods. “I’ll have to believe enough for the both of us then, won’t I?” Before I can respond, he points to the cookbooks. “Are you buying those?”
“One, not both. I can’t decide which one. It’s for a gift.”
“Of course you know. There must be a part of you that wants one more than the other. You have three seconds to pick.”
“I can’t choose in three seconds,” I say, not even trying to hide the delight in my voice. “This is a big decision.”
“One, two, three—go!”
“Okay! The one with the rainforest on the cover. The photography is better.”
He looks at the book and nods. “You’re right. It’s lovely.” His brown eyes take on an earnest expression. “Okay, next question. You have two seconds to answer this time. Are you ready?”
“Fire away.”
“Will you go to dinner with me Saturday night?”
Whoa. A part of me was hoping he’d ask me out, but I never imagined he actually would. His brows are raised slightly, and he looks positively adorable.
“Your two seconds are up. What will it be, Katie? A yes and I go home a happy tourist, or a no and I leave to write bad, dark poetry in my new journal.”
“Bad, dark poetry? That sounds tragic.” My heart gallops toward a yes, but my brain yanks the reins. This guy is charming, but he’s also a complete stranger. Ted Bundy was allegedly quite charismatic and turned out to be a serial killer. Just because I need to meet new guys doesn’t mean I should be hasty and irresponsible.
His eyes meet mine, prodding them. “So is that a yes?”
Craig would tell me to go for it. Mom would tell me absolutely not. Ryan would tell me I could knock him out with two punches. Ugh! It doesn’t matter what he’d say. “Yes. I’d love to.”
He takes my hand, kissing the top of it. “Brilliant. My new journal thanks you in advance. I’m sure it would be horrified to have my rendition of dark poetry scribbled across its pristine pages.”
I laugh as I stack the books in my arms. “I’m going to check out after I put this one back. I can show you where the journals are.”
We reach the front, and he skims the selection of journals, pulling one from the shelf. That was fast. He didn’t even bother to look carefully. He just grabbed the first one that caught his eye. Does he do that with women, too?
“Do you have a Biro on you?”
“Excuse me?”
“A pen. Do you have something to write with?”
“Yeah.” I wonder if he’s going to start writing now, before he’s paid. I reach into my purse and hand him a pen.
“Brilliant. My first page will consist of today’s date, your name, and your phone number. I’d like to be able to confirm our dinner plans.”
“But you haven’t paid yet.”
A lopsided smile eases onto his face. “I’ll do that now.”
“Good idea. I don’t know how they are in England, but you could get kicked out of the store here. Possibly handcuffed.”
“Sounds exciting.” He winks at me as we head to the checkout counter. He allows me to pay for my book first, and once our transactions are complete, I give him my information, which he proceeds to scrawl in all caps. “By the way, I’m staying at a house on Ocean Drive. Shall we meet at a restaurant by the beach?”
“That sounds great.” I wonder how he ended up on Ocean Drive. There aren’t many rentals, and the ones that are available to rent are rock-star expensive. “You’re lucky to get a spot right on the beach.”
“Yes. It’s lovely. Friends of Mum and Dad own it. They agreed to let me stay for several weeks while they’re on a fall foliage tour. Can you imagine? Going on a tour to look at leaves?”
“No.” I laugh. “That would get old pretty fast.”
“Precisely. But it worked to my advantage, so I hope they have a brilliant time with their fall foliage. I’ll ring you to confirm our plans. It’s been a pleasure, Katie.”
I cruise out of the parking lot and consider my luck. Just as Lauren predicted, I met a nice guy. Two, in fact. And I seriously doubt either is a serial killer.