Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 11

  “Everyone this is Giancarlo. Gian, this is Lucy and Tom. And you know Oliver.”

  Giancarlo smiles at us all. He’s shorter than both Oliver and Cary and adorably boyish looking. “Come out of the cold,” he says ushering us inside.

  “Bathroom’s round the corner and straight ahead,” Jessie says, once we’re inside. “Make yourself at home. Ma maison est sa maison.”

  When we get to the guest room, Cary starts rummaging through the phone book, a determined look on his face.

  “I hope you’re looking for another place for us to stay,” I say, sitting beside him on the bed.

  “Is there a problem?” he asks, not looking up from the phone book.

  “Only Oliver,” I say, looking at him closely. “You know, the guy who asks a lot of questions and sulks when I’m around.” I sigh loudly, dramatically. “I don’t really think staying in the same place as him is a great idea.”

  “Don’t worry about Oliver.” He meets my anxious gaze. “Just think, the money we don’t waste on a hotel here, we can use for more souvenirs.”

  I shake my head, not liking this one bit. “I hope you have lots of plans for us to do here. I really don’t want to get in the way. His sister is being so nice. I don’t want to put her out at all.”

  “I have plans for us,” he starts. Immediately I know there’s a catch. He has that tone.

  “But first,” he says quickly. “I need to run out for a little bit. Just to say hi to a…to a friend.” He rips a page out of the phone book. I hate when people do that, especially when it’s not their property.

  “You can’t leave me alone here, Cary,” I say. “This whole Paris idea was yours. I am here because of you—“

  “I won’t be long.” He runs a hand through his hair and checks his phone, his brow creasing. He looks back up at me apologetically, and I feel for him.

  “Where am I supposed to say you went?”

  He smiles that million-dollar grin of his. “It’s a great chance to work on your improv,” he suggests.

  I groan. Does he think improv is the answer to everything?

  Maybe if the world could just improvise, act like they’re not hungry, world hunger would just go away!

  Cary notices my look and makes a remorseful, albeit impatient, face. And then, he’s gone.

  Since wallowing isn’t exactly in the essence of Christmas spirit, I’m just going to get ready for my night. I plug in my hair straightener and summon some excitement for my unique holiday this year. Christmas Eve and Christmas in Paris. This is once in a lifetime. Maybe when Cary gets back we can go to a fancy restaurant and really celebrate.

  The thought puts a total spring in my step as I jump in the shower. The hot water tingles my skin as I mentally rummage through my duffel bag figuring out what to wear later. There’s the emerald dress that I purchased with Cary. I also brought a burgundy turtle-neck sweater. It’s warm and Christmasy…and much more me. I could wear that with dark jeans—

  A loud bang from inside the bathroom makes me jump and shriek. What the hell was that? I grab the shower curtain and wrap it around my body as I peer out. Oliver is standing there screaming…well something.

  “I’m showering. Oliver—“

  “There’s a fire in the bathroom. What did you plug in?”

  “My hair iron,” I say, defensively. “It fit in the plug…”

  “How did you not smell this burning?” he yells as he moves quickly to yank the plug out of the socket. “Or hear the fire alarm in the hallway?” he adds when he’s done.

  “Well, the shampoo was still in my hair…all I could smell were citrus fruits and all I could hear was the sound of water.”

  I stare startled at the mess that used to be my hair iron. Something that looks like black tar is pouring from it now. Oliver grabs a towel and begins pounding on the small flames. “I can’t believe you used an American hair iron.”

  “I had the converter,” I explain. “It’s right there. In the rubble.”

  It’s then that I notice that Oliver is not wearing a shirt. Just a pair of sweats. It’s definitely not the time to notice that under all that annoyingness, the man hides a pretty nice picture. But before I can stop the thought from forming, it’s there.

  “This isn’t the only thing you needed.” His voice cuts into my thoughts with razor sharp precision. “This makes it so your plug will fit, but it doesn’t change the voltage.”

  I look at the mess in shock, beginning to feel the tips of my ears burn in humiliation. “Why would they make it so the plug fits, but the voltage doesn’t change?”

  He looks at me and seems to notice my makeshift towel for the moment. I look down at the shower curtain, realizing the plastic is nearly see-through.

  “Oh!” I yelp, bending forward so my body is further away from the material. “Seriously, Oliver, don’t you know how to knock or just wait until someone is done showering before barging in?”

  “I’m sorry, should I have just let you burn?” he says. He turns away slowly, exhaling deeply. His cheeks seem a little flushed.

  “You could have banged on the door and told me to put it out,” I argue, trying to focus on my anger rather than his sculpted back. “Instead of barging in here like a big gorilla.”

  “For all I knew, it was you that was burning in here,” he says, staring at the wall. “And anyway, you probably would have tried to put it out with that plastic shower curtain and burned the whole place down.” He lifts his hand, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “You know, Miss Gray, I come in here to help you, you’ve ruined my sister’s countertop, and you have the gall to yell at me.”

  “Can you please get out?” I say, my voice quivering. My body is starting to shake from the cold.

  He looks down at the mess on the counter one last time. Deciding that the bathroom can survive the remainder of my shower without his help, he walks out without a word or glance, thankfully, in my direction, closing the door behind him.

  My knuckles are white from clutching the curtain in a death grip. I let it go, rearrange it and step back under the hot water, feeling cold water from my hair trickle down my back. I stand still for a long while, letting my body warm up. Tears cloud my vision as my nose turns numb and I begin to tremble.

  How could I have done that? Jessie has been so nice to me. She opened her house to me and I’ve honestly ruined her bathroom counter. That was not quite how I imagined thanking her for her hospitality.

  I shudder a sigh as tears threaten to fall and I wonder for a moment what Christmas would have been like if I had just stayed home.

  Okay, so my plan to look like an elegant Parisian with sleek hair has completely backfired. I’m sitting on the bed in the guest bedroom and my hair’s curlier than ever, almost as if to spite me. After that awful shower, I was in no mood to throw on the emerald dress, which is why I’ve donned my warm burgundy sweater and dark jeans for my Christmas Eve night on the town. Except Cary’s still prancing through Paris without me. Outside the room, I hear the distant rattling of dishes and chatter. The Burke clan is getting ready to sit down for dinner.

  Oh, where is Cary? He was only supposed to step out for a little while and it’s already been two hours.

  There’s a soft knock at the door. It’s about time. I swing the door open expectantly, ready to grab Cary by the collar and turn him around so we can slip right by Oliver and right out of this house. Only it’s not Cary on the other side of the door. It’s Jessie. She smiles and looks past me.

  “Still no sign of your petit lapin d’amour?”

  I can only assume she means Cary. “He should be back any second,” I say. I sigh and meet her gaze with my own. “I’m so sorry, Jessie, about the bathroom.” Hot embarrassment weaves itself into tight little knots in my stomach. “I feel like one of my students right now, hiding from the teacher,” I explain as my cheeks warm instantly. “I’m totally hiding in here,” I admit sheepishly.

  “You really don’t need to hide from me. Oliver’s
the scary one of us,” she quips, laughing lightly.

  I walk over to the nightstand and snatch up my purse, opening it. “Don’t worry,” I press. “I have my checkbook. Just let me know how much you think it’ll be.”

  “Well, that depends,” she says very seriously. “Are we taking into account exchange rates?” She waits and stares at me expectantly, before bursting out laughing.

  “Oliver mentioned that, did he?” I say, relaxing a little. She really doesn’t seem too bothered by my accident earlier.

  “He did,” she says, squinting at me, like she’s considering me. “He mentioned quite a few things, actually. Right up until the bathroom caught fire.” She laughs again and I drop my purse by my side, clutching it tightly. I really don’t know what to do here. I need to repay her for what I did. Surely, she must want some compensation for the mess in the bathroom.

  “Jessie—“

  “Look, it’s Christmas Eve. Forget all about earlier. Join us to eat.” I open my mouth to explain that Cary will be back any moment but she holds up a hand. “At least join us until your husband returns.”

  An hour later, I sit back in my chair and stifle the urge to unfasten the top button of my jeans. That Giancarlo can cook. I am completely stuffed. Jessie is one lucky girl because she’s found herself a man who apparently will gladly spend hours in the kitchen, simmering a dish to utter mouthwatering perfection.

  “The trick is the red wine,” he explains. Because I can’t stop complimenting his spaghetti sauce. Sheer self-restraint is the only reason I am not drinking it. “Plus, you must simmer the sauce all day, and cook the sausage and meatballs in it to add flavor.”

  Normally I’d be eating ham. At my mom’s house, I mean. Christmas Eve dinner every year is the same. Ham with an orange glaze, turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and veggie casseroles. This year, it’s an Italian feast in Paris and my mouth has gone to heaven.

  “You’ll have to give me the recipe,” I say to him.

  Jessie laughs. “If Gian weren’t here, we’d be eating cinnamon oatmeal.”

  Oliver smiles and looks at his sister curiously. “Didn’t we do that one year?” he asks her.

  She nods, but her smile falters a little bit. “It was the Christmas after we lost Dad.”

  “Ah,” he says simply, his own smile dissipating as he stares at an invisible spot between himself and his younger sister.

  “It wasn’t all bad,” Jessie says lightly. “We added tiny marshmallows to the oatmeal.”

  Something in my stomach tightens. I’ve mentioned Oliver’s dad to him a bunch of times. And every time it’s seemed to bother him. I just assumed his dad was busy running the hotel, letting Oliver annoy guests and do as he pleased. No wonder he was always so guarded when I mentioned his dad.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammer, looking just at Oliver, hoping he understands. “I didn’t know.”

  He waves his hand dismissively, offering me a small, appreciative smile.

  “Lucy, where are you staying in London?” Jessie asks, lifting the heavy mood that’s threatened to settle over the table.

  “The Chaizer.”

  At the mention of their dad’s hotel, Jessie looks confused, which just confuses me. “You know, where your brother works…”

  She looks quickly at Oliver and then back at me. “Right, right. The famous Chaizer.” She chuckles at Oliver. “God, that must be a nightmare for you.”

  I look at him, utterly lost, not missing the look of exasperation he gives his sister.

  A half hour later, I sit curled up by Jessie’s quaint, adorable fireplace reading my book, an afghan keeping me warm. Jessie and Giancarlo are cleaning in the kitchen still.

  “The Cat Who Went To Paris?” Oliver asks, peeking at the cover of my book.

  “Yes.”

  He has that look on his face, like he wants to laugh but thinks better of it.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just…who would bring their cat to Paris?”

  I close the book, my finger holding its place. “Ricky would love Paris,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “My cat. Ricky. He’d love it here. Though he wouldn’t enjoy being quarantined.”

  “I see,” Oliver says. He rewards me with one of his rare grins.

  I return the smile and put the book down. “I don’t think I thanked you for putting the fire out in the bathroom earlier.”

  “You yelled at me,” he says lightly, a teasing glint in his eyes.

  “Well, you walked in on me in the shower,” I reason.

  He looks at me for a long moment. “Well, you’re welcome,” he finally says.

  “I’m going to pay Jessie for the damage.”

  “I know my sister, and I really don’t think she’ll let you—“

  Before Oliver can finish his sentence, the front door bursts open and Cary shuffles in looking disheveled and utterly upset.

  “Hi,” I say, getting to my feet. I clamp my book shut and hold it to my chest, looking worriedly at him.

  Cary looks at Oliver and me, and then at the floor. He walks down past the living room and begins heading toward our room.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, walking behind him. “Where were you?”

  “Don’t start with me,” he says. “Please.” Reaching our room, he opens the door. I place my hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. He turns to look at me and what I see behind his eyes gives me chills. He looks so unlike himself. So dark. So…unhappy.

  “Start with you?” Oliver asks and I notice then that he’s also decided to follow Cary down the hall to do what he does best: make everyone else’s business his own. “She asked if you were all right, man. You’ve been gone half the day, it’s Christmas, and you’re on your honeymoon. Or so you say,” he adds, looking quickly and pointedly at me.

  “I am sorry,” Cary says to me. “Let’s talk in here.”

  The moment the door is closed, I turn to Cary and attempt to lighten the mood. “Was this our big public falling out?”

  He smiles sadly and shakes his head. But still, he says nothing.

  “If it was, I’m going to tell Anne to give you a big, gold star for your performance. You did really well.”

  “Please don’t…don’t mention Anne,” he begs, sighing. He sits slowly on the edge of the bed and leans forward, resting his head in his hands. He finally looks at me again. “I’m sorry I was rude, especially in front of him. I should have known better. I should have done better.”

  I kneel beside him on the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you kidding? Walking in, getting mad at me for no apparent reason…we’ve never looked more married.”

  He laughs and puts an arm around me, searching my eyes. “You are forever the optimist.” He kisses my forehead and rubs my arm, seeming to relax a little.

  “We’re friends, Cary,” I say when our eyes meet. “So dish.”

  He drops his arm, and takes a deep breath, groaning on the exhale. “I hate him,” he finally says, so quietly it’s barely audible.

  “Oliver?” I ask, looking at the door. “I’m thinking that a lot of people feel that way.”

  “Not Oliver.”

  “Who?”

  “Jacques Marchand,” he says in a way that suggests that Jacques Marchand is a hoity-toity French jerk.

  “I already hate him too,” I say in what I hope is an encouraging way.

  Cary smiles, but looks kind of far away. “Well, Anne doesn’t hate him,” he says, shaking his head angrily. “You might even say she loves him.”

  “Anne…your teacher?”

  “She’s not just my teacher, Lucy,” he finally says, squeezing his eyes shut. He turns to me. “Do you honestly think I’d spend nine Christmases in a row away from my family if she was?”

  “I thought you were a committed actor.”

  “I am,” he says, growing frustrated.

  I don’t quite understand. “Are you two together?” I ask.

  He shakes his
head, looking the perfect picture of rejected. He’s so gorgeous that rejection just looks wrong on him. “We’re friends,” he says, putting a hand through his hair. “Very close friends.” He turns away from me again, looking at the door like it’s Anne herself. “I’ve dated girls. Lots of girls. I’m pretty confident when it comes to that stuff. But with Anne, I’ve never felt so…paralyzed.”

  I nod, taking this in. “Does she return your feelings?”

  “I thought so.” He sighs “I’ve never been brave enough to ask her out. I just keep coming back to her stupid classes. I keep coming back, thinking this year will be the year that I do something already.”

  “You never said anything. I had no idea you had feelings for her.”

  He sighs. “That was on purpose. You see, I was actively trying to get over it, but she keeps—she just makes it so hard.” He looks at me. “It’s so easy to just talk about her the way that I want to view her. Teacher. Inspiration. Friend. I never really let on that it’s a lot more complicated than that. And that’s on purpose.”

  I sigh. “She’s in Paris?”

  He nods. “She used to live here.” He turns and stares at me. “She encouraged me to come here. She talked about the City of Lights like it was this place that, I don’t know, gave someone who’s scared shitless the strength to make a move already. I assumed she was talking about me. That’s why I dragged us here.”

  “I actually don’t see why you needed to have me here. You’ve spent most of the time running away from me.”

  He smiles. “I thought you might like seeing Paris at Christmas. I was coming and thought it might be good for you to come, too.”

  I smile appreciatively. Coming to Paris is the second most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done. I rub his back, realizing that somewhere in the middle of this mess we’re both involved in, Cary’s become a friend. I hate seeing him like this. I prefer the guy who smiles and jokes all the time.