at least not every day of the year.
“We can’t do this again,” she told him, her face buried in the pillow.
He chuckled, an exhausted chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless. “Eighteen was a long time ago. You can sleep on the plane. I can sleep on the plane. I need to sleep on the plane.”
She lifted her head from the pillow. “We shouldn’t do this again.”
Comprehension dawned. “Oh.” He waited for more of an explanation. Ashley gathered her meager, yet dog-tired courage.
“Tonight was fun. Like being somebody whose life I’ve secretly always envied. But if we go out to dinner, or meet in a hotel, I’m afraid I’ll lose this fantasy, get embroiled in the completely weary minutia of my life, and I’d rather end on the high note.”
“That’s a very defeatist attitude.”
“No, sometimes things are just too good to take a chance and possibly ruin,” she told him bluntly.
“Do you ever get to New York?” he asked, a totally unfair question, because fashion, New York? Hello? Did he honestly think she was that bad at what she did?
“Sometimes. A bit. You ever come to Chicago?”
“Not if I can help it,” he answered, a defeatist attitude if she ever heard one.
“This was fun,” she repeated, rising from the ashes of the bed. Outside, the windows started to rattle again. The airport was waking up. She walked to the shower, femme fatale of the friendly skies, and she felt muscles that she didn’t know she had.
He watched her closely, and she gave her hips an extra wiggle.
“I could help you,” he offered gallantly.
“In the shower?”
He lay there naked, on his back, head pillowed on his hands. Long, lean, and ready to go. Dog tired? Who said she was dog tired?
You did.
“Come on, Yankee-man,” she ordered in a husky voice she didn’t even know she possessed.
And she didn’t have to ask twice.
LATER ON, they didn’t talk to each other on the plane. The 6:00 a.m. flight to L.A. was crowded, but thankfully, Junior and the doting parents from hell were absent. Ashley was stuffed next to a plumbing salesman from Portland who wanted to chat. She pulled out her magazines and pretended to be interested in the latest fall forecast, but instead, her sandpaper eyes kept tracking to the front of the plane. Seat 16A to be exact, where she could see the back of his head. A perfect bed-head, neatly combed into place.
It had taken her two hours to dare to stroke his hair, smooth it the way it longed to be smoothed, and she could still feel it, the fine strands tickling her fingers, still smell the shampoo and soap. Still smell the sex.
Don’t get there, Ash. Not with you-know-who sitting next to you.
Ashley stopped gawking at Seat 16A and instead focused on the magazine spreads in front of her, but her eyelids drifted shut.
She woke up three hours later, having slept through the flight. In her lap was a small white piece of paper. A business card.
David McLean.
Brooks Capital.
Analyst.
On the back, in firm, decisive, indelible black ink was scrawled a cell number and one word.
Anytime.
It was enough to make her not-quite-jaded-enough divorcée’s heart sigh.
Carefully she put the card in her wallet, hidden right behind her driver’s license. It was her memento, a souvenir she would never forget. Some moments were best not to be repeated…except while dreaming.
CHICAGO WAS WARM, windy, and loud. Ashley took a cab back to the Larsen house in Naperville, which was equally warm, not so windy and not nearly so loud. Their street was lined with towering elm trees, hand-painted mailboxes and well-used bicycles. It wasn’t New York, certainly not Los Angeles, but it was home.
Already Ashley began to feel revived.
After the divorce, she’d moved in with Val, their mother, Joyce, and Val’s daughter, Brianna. Three generations of Larsen women sharing one roof. A scary thought, all those hormonal fluctuations duking it out with the inherent uncertainty of the family genes. Frank Larsen, the ne’er-do-well who had sired Ashley and Valerie, was now on his fourth marriage, electing to spend his golden years with his twentysomething secretary in Malibu.
Ashley threw her carry-on in the general direction of the couch, and walked into the kitchen. Val was talking on the phone, stirring dinner over the stove and watching the news. Multitasking, thy name is Valerie.
Val punched a button on the phone, and waved a wet spoon as a way of greeting. “How was the trip?”
“Productive. Very productive,” Ashley answered, focusing on the business aspects of the trip rather than the pleasure aspects, because Val might be her sister, but there were secrets that would never be divulged. Doing David McLean in the O’Hare airport hotel was one.
“Can you watch the monster while I go to a meeting?”
“Mom not home from work yet?”
“No. Inventory.”
“I can watch her. You don’t need to ask.” Val was thirty, a single mom with a fondness for things that weren’t good for her and a hard line in her eyes that Ashley didn’t think would ever disappear. Ashley liked to blame it on Marcus, the drummer who’d dropped into Val’s life, left her pregnant and alone, and then moved on to a bigger gig in St. Paul, never to be heard from again.
Sensing her guilt, Val gave her a long, searching look. “Why are you so jumpy?”
“I’m always jumpy. Flying. Slays me every time.” To further illustrate her point, she held up a suitably unsteady hand.
“Ash, you are one weird sis, but you’re the only one I’ve got.”
A small tornado ran into the room before skidding to a halt. “Ashley, Washly, Bo Bashley, Me Mi Mo Mashly. Ashley.” At eight, Brianna Larsen possessed the trademark Larsen nose, which all plastic surgeons yearned to compress, and more energy than Val and Ash combined.
Brianna shook back her hair in a completely eight-year-old diva manner. “I learned a new word from South Park. Douche bag. As in, Kenny is a world-class douche bag.”
Ashley looked at Val, fascinated yet delighted by the sparkle of humanity in her sister’s too-hard, too-black eyes. “And did your mommy tell you what douche bag meant?”
Brianna nodded. “It’s a soap bottle filled with water and it gets you springtime fresh.”
Ashley
