“Vodka please,” he answered, crunching down on the pepper. I added booze and ice into a shaker, shook for thirty seconds, then poured into two martini glasses.
“Olive? Onion? Lemon?” I asked. I’d stocked the bar. Well prepared.
“Lemon’s good, thanks,” he replied, and I nodded as I used a tiny paring knife to peel back a sliver of lemon. I added a twist to my own glass, then handed him his.
“Cheers,” I said, clinking his glass. We sipped, and our eyes met over the rim of the glasses. No one said anything, except for Frank, who was now crooning about strangers, and them being in the night. Heavy.
The silence stretched out, and finally he said, “Well, we sure are fancy tonight, aren’t we?”
“I know!” I said with a laugh, and it was easy again. “After that amazing day yesterday, I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“The dress is nice,” he said, letting his eyes roam once more.
“Thanks. I’ve been so busy lately there hasn’t been a lot of opportunity to dress up, you know?” I gulped my martini. “Not that this is an occasion to dress up; that’s not what I mean. I mean, it’s just dinner, nothing special, just two people, having dinner, at home . . . I’m going to stop talking now, okay?”
He simply said, “So show me around your pad.”
“Pad?”
“It was fifty-fifty between that and digs.”
“Pad it is; I’ll give you the tour,” I said gratefully, leading him into the less formal family room. “It’s really my dad’s pad; it’s been in his family for years. Thank goodness my mom didn’t get it in the divorce.”
“Your parents are divorced?” he asked, following me into the dining room, where I flipped on the lights so he could fully appreciate the kitsch.
“Yeah, they’re both back in San Diego. They fought like it was their job. Better for everyone that they’re divorced—although they had a huge fight over this house, lemme tell ya.” I grimaced.
“She wanted it?”
“Oh good lord, yes, which never made much sense to me. We only came up here now and then, and all my mother talked about was how much she wanted to redo it. Maybe she wanted it just so that he couldn’t have it—wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Are you guys close?” he asked, admiring the miles of orange Formica.
“My mother and I? Hmm, tough to say right now,” I admitted, opening the screen door onto the patio. “It’s complicated.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”
“Nah, its okay. She was furious that . . . we called off my, the wedding, and she hates what I’m doing up here. Wow, not really complicated at all.” I sighed, sipping my martini. Not complicated except for my tripping over my pronouns. I needed to be more careful.
I flicked on the Christmas lights that were strewn through the trees out back, and suddenly it was like being in a fairyland. I loved to sit out here, especially at nighttime; it was one of my favorite spaces in the house. Brick patterned patio floor, giant hedges that offered some privacy, and a view that went all the way to the coast on clear days.
“Why would she hate what you’re doing up here? Everything I’ve heard about Our Gang sounds pretty terrific,” he asked, his voice confused.
“Yes. You know that and I know that, and everyone else knows that. But when someone says those things to her, what she actually hears is ‘Our Gang, that place where my daughter is throwing her life away to pick up dog doodoo and raise a bunch of vicious mutts.’ She can’t understand how the same girl who won a crown and a sash by throwing a fire baton could also want to do this. Not when there are social committees to chair, and a golf grip to master,” I finished, realizing I hadn’t taken a breath that entire time.
“Wow,” Lucas said.
“Yeah,” I said, drinking the rest of my martini and then rattling the ice in my glass. “Another?”
“I think I kind of have to, after that,” he said with a chuckle, draining his glass. “Fire batons? Damn.”
I shook off the melancholy, took the glass from him, and nodded toward the gas grill. “You go get that fired up, I’ll make the drinks, and then we’ll get dinner going. I need to eat something, or I’ll get sloppy drunk and you’ll end up having to put me to bed.”
I started across the patio, then turned back to him just as he was opening his mouth. “Shush,” I warned, then my dress and I flounced over to the bar. Where I mixed two more martinis with a twist . . .
We made dinner together, Lucas in charge of grilling the skewers of steak and onion, while I tossed cherry tomatoes in a hot pan with some olive oil, fresh garlic, and lots of parsley and thyme. I boiled fingerling potatoes in a brine of water and salt, then steamed them for a few minutes in their skins, making them perfectly tender inside. I then tossed them with a little brown butter and cracked pepper. With the kabobs, it was a perfect meal to eat outdoors, under the fairy lights.
I’d wisely switched to ice water after my second cocktail, and I could see a two-drink maximum was going to have to be the new standard around Lucas—especially when he was wearing navy blue. It was almost impossible to stop myself from crawling across the table, curling into his lap, and licking his face. Maybe I should have made the time to grind a bit earlier—it might have taken the edge off.
Once dinner was over and we’d switched over to espresso (made with the ancient espresso maker my grandfather had in the kitchen since it was built), we just sat and talked for hours—the kind of hours you can afford when you have zero cares in the world and no responsibilities. We had those cares, yet we still stayed up talking well into the evening.