Hello, It's Me Page 17

  Okay, so he gets it. She waited to call until it was too late to possibly get together. She doesn’t want to see him any more than he wants to see her . . .

  Except that he does.

  So badly that if a U-turn were possible here, he’d be making one. But he’s boxed in by other cars, and suddenly, every time the brake lights in front of him go off, the car ahead seems to be moving entire yards forward at a time, rather than a few inches.

  “I’m not back in the city yet,” he tells Annie hurriedly, knowing the cell phone signal will die the minute he ventures into the tunnel. “Why? Did you want to get together?”

  “Tonight?” she sounds surprised . . . and promisingly hesitant.

  Behind him, a horn blares.

  Oh. The car ahead has moved forward again, and Thom has momentarily failed to catch up to its bumper.

  Releasing his foot from the brake, he scowls at the impatient driver behind him, and reluctantly edges closer yet to the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Where are you?” Annie asks. “Are you driving?”

  Yes. Away from you. Forever.

  “I’m in the car,” he admits. “But if you want to try to get together tonight, I can turn around . . .”

  “How far away are you?”

  “Not far,” he lies.

  She’s silent for a moment.

  He’s forced to move closer to the tunnel again.

  “No,” she says abruptly. “I can’t. I was just, um, returning your call.”

  “How about next weekend?” he asks eagerly, too eagerly, even as he wonders what the hell he’s doing. “Dinner Saturday night, Annie. Okay? You and the kids.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t say you’re busy. Just say you’ll come.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  He brakes again, poised on the threshold of the tunnel, holding his breath.

  Road rage erupts behind him, the angry driver honking loudly and repeatedly. Others take it up, a chorus of blaring car horns.

  But Thom isn’t budging until Annie agrees to see him again.

  “Come on, Annie, say yes.”

  Silence.

  On the phone, at least. Now drivers are shouting expletives out their windows. In another moment or two, somebody’s probably going to start shooting at him.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?” he echoes, not sure he heard her correctly.

  “Yes.”

  Relief courses through him.

  “Okay,” he says quickly, “it’s a date. I’ll call you during the week to confirm it. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I have to go now, Annie . . .”

  Before they open fire.

  And before I say something stupid, like “I love you.”

  “All right. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  With that, he allows the tunnel, and a ridiculously intense sense of well-being, to swallow him up at last.

  Chapter 12

  So that’s a chicken nugget,” Thom muses the following Saturday night, as the waitress sets two plates in front of two beaming children.

  “Not really.” Milo pops one into his mouth. “It’s a fake one.”

  “A fake one?” he asks, amused by the notion of knockoff nuggets. Obviously, Milo is a connoisseur.

  “Well actually,” the boy says, “they call them chicken tenders here so they’re not really fake.” Seeing the look his mother shoots him, he adds hastily, “But they taste like chicken nuggets.”

  “Please don’t talk with your mouth full, Milo.”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Do you want to try one?” Trixie asks Thom shyly.

  His heart melts, same as it did when he laid eyes on her mother half an hour ago. Annie is dazzling tonight in a simple white sheath and sandals, her hair caught back in a filmy white scarf.

  “I’d love to try one,” he tells Trixie, who is nearly as lovely as her mother in a daisy-sprigged sundress, her long hair in a single braid.

  “You need to dip that into some ketchup,” Milo advises as Thom accepts the golden fried morsel from Trixie’s fork. “A lot of it. Like, tons.”

  Thom nods at the waitress. “You heard the man. We’ll need tons of ketchup as soon as possible, please.”

  “Coming right up, sir,” she smilingly says mostly to Milo, and vanishes toward the kitchen.

  “I’m surprised they even have ketchup in a place like this,” Annie tells him.

  “Yeah, and I’m surprised they have chicken nuggets in a place like this,” Trixie pipes up.

  “Chicken tenders. And I’m not surprised,” Milo says confidently. “Thom promised.”

  “It’s Mr. Brannock.” Annie moves her son’s precariously placed water goblet away from his elbow.

  “Thom is fine.”

  Daddy would be better.

  Thom blinks. Where on earth did that thought come from?

  For Pete’s sake. What the heck is he doing?

  You don’t know what you’re doing. That’s the whole point. You’re clueless about this stuff, remember?

  What if he’s wrong about Annie, the way he was wrong about Joyce?

  Maybe Annie isn’t really interested in him after all. Maybe she’s the kind of woman who . . .

  No. There’s no question about what kind of woman Annie is. She’s not the one who might have ulterior motives here.

  He is.

  Still uncomfortably uncertain about the nature of his feelings for her, Thom told himself that if she didn’t call back last Sunday night, it might be for the best. Then there would be no risk of anybody getting hurt . . .

  Other than him, of course. Because if Annie didn’t call back, he would have been devastated.

  But she did call. And when she did, he spontaneously asked her out to dinner, and here they are.

  To hell with motives, his or hers, whatever they might be. He’s going to enjoy this evening with Annie and her children, ketchup and all.

  On that note, the waitress arrives with a white porcelain ramekin on a doily-enhanced saucer.

  “What’s that?” Milo asks, standing on his tiptoes to peer at it with suspicion.

  “It’s ketchup,” Annie tells him. “Sit down.”

  “Why is it in a fancy bowl?”

  “Because this is a fancy restaurant,” Trixie tells her brother, who is already dunking a hunk of chicken into the ketchup.

  “Milo! Use the spoon to put some on your plate!”

  “Oops. Sorry, Mom.”

  “You were s’posed to use your good manners tonight, remember?” Trixie says worriedly. “Otherwise Mr.—Thom—will be sorry he took us to a fancy restaurant.”

  “Sorry,” Milo says again, looking so embarrassed that Thom pointedly dunks his own chicken nugget directly into the bowl.

  Milo shoots him a grateful smile, and Annie hides her own behind her cloth napkin.

  “How do you like it?” Trixie asks anxiously.

  “Delicious,” Thom pronounces. “Almost makes me wish I’d ordered this instead of the filet mignon.”

  The children, of course, are delighted to hear that, and eager to share more of their nuggets.

  “No, you guys go ahead and eat them. I’ll order my own next time.”

  Milo pounces on that. “You’re going to take us out to dinner again?”

  “Sure.” Thom looks over at Annie. Her sweetly sentimental expression catches him off-guard.

  “You’re very good with them,” she says quietly. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me.”

  She shrugs. “Not everyone would be as . . . patient. Or charming.”

  “What can I say? I’m a patient, charming guy.”

  Annie nods, her smile more fond than amused, triggering an intense reaction in Thom’s soul. He wants to tell her that he can do much more for her and the children. So much more than buying them a couple of dinners . . .

  But he doesn’t dare.

  Watching Annie dig into the surf
and turf he insisted she order, he tells himself that maybe buying a few dinners will have to be enough.

  “Can Thom come in and play, Mommy?”

  Annie laughs and shakes her head, shooting a sidelong glance at the man in the driver’s seat beside her.

  “I think he thinks you’re his new best friend,” she tells Thom.

  “The feeling is mutual,” he says so easily that she wants to hug him.

  In fact, she’s been tempted to hug him all evening, and not just because he’s been great with her children, or because he treated three hungry Harlowes to the best meal any of them have had in ages.

  Yes, Thom Brannock has a huge heart.

  The thing is . . . he’s somehow managed to capture Annie’s.

  And the man is too good to be true. She keeps waiting for him to reveal some fatal flaw, some reason she shouldn’t fall in love with him . . .

  But you already have your own reasons for that, she reminds herself firmly.

  “Please, Mommy?” Milo says from the backseat, where his sister is slumped over, sound asleep.

  “It’s late, Milo. I think Thom has had his fill of playing for one day,” Annie says, though she isn’t so sure.

  The vibe Thom is sending her way says he wouldn’t be opposed to coming in for a while . . . but not to play. At least, not with the children.

  He says nothing, just steers along Montauk Highway toward their house, clearly determined to leave the decision up to Annie.

  She hedges.

  They really should call it a night . . .

  But it’s been such a wonderful evening she hates to see it end.

  First dinner at a casually elegant restaurant in Sag Harbor, then browsing among shops where she pointed out some of her artwork on display. Thom was impressed—at least, he seemed to be. Even after Annie told him that sales had been pretty dismal lately.

  “But I’m hoping things will pick up now that the summer people are back,” she said with false optimism.

  “I bet they will. You’re talented, Annie.”

  He had to say that. At least, that was what she told herself. But she couldn’t help feeling a little thrilled at his proclamation. How long had it been since somebody had believed in her?

  Before she could remember that Andre used to say things like that, and that Andre used to believe in her, and that it had now been more than a year since his death, Thom was making her laugh and dragging her and the children to a toy store, just to “browse,” or so he claimed.

  Before they left the store, Thom insisted on buying each of them a kite and promising he’d show them how to fly them. Back in Montauk, they stopped at Fudge ’n Stuff for sundaes—a triple one for Milo, who requested extra sprinkles and two cherries, much to Annie’s chagrin and Thom’s indulgent amusement. Between the ice cream and a sunset walk along the beach, both kids were so sticky and sandy that Annie cringed when they climbed back into Thom’s car.

  “Don’t worry, everything’s washable,” he said with a laugh, seeing her face as Trixie left hot fudge fingerprints on the window before rolling it down, and Milo dumped the sand out of his sneakers onto the floor mat.

  Through it all, with every kind word he said and every fond gesture he made toward her children, Annie grew more and more captivated.

  She can almost convince herself that this is a man who could fit seamlessly into their lives . . . until she remembers that he comes from a world that couldn’t be farther removed.

  Now, all too soon, Thom is turning into their driveway, steering past hedges that sorely need clipping and violet-and-dandelion-dotted grass that desperately needs mowing and flowerbeds that are choked with weeds.

  Home, sweet home.

  “Here we are.” Thom glances over at Annie, who nods, trying to ignore the unmistakable current sizzling in the air between them.

  She looks away, out the window, and murmurs, in an effort to diffuse the tension, “I’ve got to take care of the yard. It’s a mess.”

  For a moment, there’s silence.

  Then Thom exclaims, “Violets!”

  Annie looks at him. “What?”

  “Your lawn is covered in violets.” He shakes his head in wonder. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that before. They’re everywhere.”

  “Yeah, well, they pop up every June.”

  “I can’t believe it,” he says again.

  “What can’t you believe? That the violets pop up every June, or that I’m too lax to keep my lawn mowed?”

  “Just . . . never mind. Wow. Violets.” A giddy laugh escapes him.

  The sound is contagious enough for Annie to join in, though she has no idea what they’re laughing at. As far as she’s concerned, it just feels good.

  And if it feels good, do it, says the old Annie, the one she thought was lost forever.

  “Can Thom come in?” Milo asks again.

  “It’s late,” Annie repeats lamely, knowing that one word from Thom will sway her.

  And that if he comes in, they’ll end up in each other’s arms the second the children are tucked into—

  “But look up at the sky. It’s still light out,” Milo protests.

  “It is, but it’s late.”

  “There’s no school tomorrow.”

  “Milo,” Annie says in a warning tone.

  “Come on, Mom. Daddy would have let us stay up late if it was still light out and there was no school,” he informs her, effectively snuffing the electricity sizzling in the front seat. At least, on Annie’s end.

  “It’s time for bed,” Annie says briefly, reaching for her door handle as the tires crunch to a stop at the end of the drive.

  “But, Mom—”

  “No, Milo.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, and is curtailed by Thom’s stern, “Listen to your mom, Milo.”

  “You said you’d teach me to tie my shoes.”

  “And I will, the next time we see each other. I promise.”

  “When will that be? Tomorrow?”

  “I have to work for Merlin again tomorrow,” Annie says in a clipped tone, her stomach churning with guilt.

  For a few hours, she forgot. Everything.

  How could she have done that?

  How could she have forgotten Andre?

  “So what if you have to work, Mom? You don’t have to be around.”

  “Milo!” she says sharply.

  “Sorry,” he grumbles. “How about Monday, Thom?”

  “I have to go back to the city tomorrow night, Batman,” Thom says, reaching back to ruffle his hair.

  “Back to the city?” echoes Batman, who earlier today growled if anyone dared call him anything other than Green Lantern.

  “That’s where I live,” Thom explains.

  “But we’re coming to the city!”

  “You are?”

  Yes. They are. Annie forgot all about Erika’s week-old invitation, but obviously, Milo didn’t.

  “Yup,” he says excitedly. “We’ll be there on Wednesday to go to the movies. You can come with us!”

  Thom looks at Annie, clearly at a loss.

  As if Annie has any clue what he should say. Right now, her head is spinning and all she wants is to crawl alone into the bed she used to share with her husband.

  “Auntie Erika wants to take you and Trixie to the movies alone, Milo,” she manages to say. “Just the three of you.”

  “What are you doing while they’re at the movies, Annie?” Thom asks, resting a gentle hand on her arm.

  Suddenly, despite her guilt, despite her urge to be alone, popcorn and HBO don’t seem nearly as alluring as . . . other things.

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

  “Why don’t I take you to dinner?” Thom suggests.

  “I want to go, too,” Milo chimes in excitedly from the back seat.

  “Milo, relax, nobody’s going to dinner,” Annie says.

  “Why not, Mom?”

  “Why not, Annie?”

  “Beca
use . . .”

  She can’t think straight, dammit.

  Gazing thoughtfully at her, Thom says, “I’ll call you during the week, and we’ll talk about it then. Okay?”

  With a helpless shrug, she says simply, “Okay.”

  It seems as though mere minutes have passed since Annie collapsed into bed after an exhausting, unbearably humid evening spent waiting tables at the golden anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Claudius Yates on Sunday evening, another income-netting “favor” for Merlin.

  But when she awakens to Trixie’s blood-curdling screams, a glance at the illuminated dial on the bedside clock shows that it’s already four o’clock Monday morning.

  How time flies when you’re having fun, Annie thinks, swinging her legs around to the floor.

  Fun, in the form of yet another erotic dream about Thom. This one, featuring a romp in a field of violets, was even more sensual than last night’s escapade, which rivaled the surfside love scene in From Here to Eternity.

  Pushing Thom from her thoughts, Annie swiftly makes her way down the dark hall to Trixie’s room.

  In the glow of the Madeline night-light plugged into a baseboard outlet, she sees her daughter huddled, whimpering, near the foot of her bed.

  “It’s okay, baby girl, I’m here,” Annie croons, taking Trixie in her arms and rocking her the way she did as a newborn.

  Annie never minded the wee-hour feedings that are the bane of most new mothers’ existence. She enjoyed stealing through the hushed, sleeping household to instantly soothe her little one’s wailing; loved having her precious children all to herself for a little while, holding them close and feeling their baby breath soft against her arm.

  Sometimes, she’d fall asleep holding them. Then, inevitably, Andre would come looking for her. He’d bring her back to bed and they’d drowsily make love, and Annie would drift off to sleep wrapped in her husband’s arms and the knowledge that all was right in her cozy little universe.

  How lucky we were then, she silently tells her daughter . . . and her husband, wherever he is.

  So lucky, and I knew it all along.

  How often, when somebody she knew faced the sudden loss of a loved one, did Annie hear them say that they never appreciated the person while they were alive? That they never stopped to count their blessings?