"She's only sixty-two," she said around the sweet gob. "Hardly ready for a nursing home."
"Remember that health scare she had last month?"
"It was a sinus infection!"
"You can minimize it all you want, but the years are catching up with her."
"She just registered for "windsurfing lessons."
"She only tells you what she wants you to hear. She doesn't like being a nag."
"You could have fooled me." She tossed the dirty spoon in the sink with more force than necessary.
"Adam and I agree about this, and so does Candace. All the worrying Kate does about you and your… Why don't we just come right out and say it?"
Why don't we not? Annabelle screwed on the lid and shoved the jar in the cupboard.
"This anxiety about your fairly aimless lifestyle is putting a strain on her that she doesn't need."
Annabelle ordered herself to let his dig pass. This time she wouldn't let him get to her. "Mom thrives on worrying about me," she said semicalmly "Retirement bores her, and trying to manage my life gives her something to do."
"That's not the way the rest of us see it. She's always stressed."
"Being stressed is her recreation. You know that."
"You're so clueless. When are you going to figure out that holding on to that house is a headache she doesn't need?"
The house. Another vulnerability. Even though Annabelle paid rent every month, she couldn't escape the fact that she was living under Mommy's roof.
"You need to move out of there so she can put the place on the market."
Her spirits sank. "She wants to sell it?" As she gazed around at the shabby kitchen, she could see her grandmother standing next to the sink as they did the dishes together. Nana didn't like messing up her manicures, so Annabelle always washed while she dried. They'd gossip about the boys Annabelle liked, about a new client Nana had just signed, talking about everything and nothing.
"I think it's pretty clear what she wants," Doug said. "She wants her daughter to step up to the plate and live responsibly. Instead, you're freeloading."
Was that what they called the rent money she barely managed to scrape up every month? Still, who was she kidding? Her mother would make a fortune if she sold this house to developers. Annabelle couldn't take any more. "If Mom wants to sell the house, she can talk to me about it, so butt out."
"You always do this. Can't you, just once, discuss a problem logically?"
"If you want logic, talk to Adam. Or Candace. Or Jamison, for God's sake, but leave me alone."
She hung up on him like the mature thirty-one-year-old she wasn't and promptly burst into tears. For a few moments she fought them, but then she grabbed a paper towel, sat down at the kitchen table, and gave in to her misery. She was tired of being the family outcast, tired of coming up short. And she was afraid… because no matter how much she fought it, she was falling in love with a man who was just like them.
By Monday morning, Heath still hadn't contacted her. She had a business to run, and as much as she might want to, she couldn't roll over and play dead any longer, so she left him a message. By Tuesday afternoon, he hadn't replied. She was fairly certain her Oscar-winning performance had convinced him at the time that he'd only been her sex therapist, but more than a week had passed since then, and he seemed to be having second thoughts. It wasn't in his nature to back away from confrontation, and sooner or later he'd contact her, but he'd want their showdown on his terms, which would put her at a disadvantage.
She still had Bodie's cell number from the day they'd spent with Arte Palmer, and she used it that evening.
An early morning jogger clipped past as she wedged Sherman into a miraculously vacant parking space a few doors down from the Lincoln Park address Bodie had given her the night before. She'd set her alarm for five-thirty, a fine time for Mr. Bronicki and his cronies to hop out of bed, but hell on earth for her. After a quick shower, she'd slipped into an acid yellow sundress with a corset-structured bodice that made her feel as though she had a bust, run a little styling gel through her second-day hair, dabbed on eye makeup and a slick of gloss, and set off.
The coffee she'd picked up at a Caribou on Halsted warmed her palm as she doubled-checked the address. Heath's house took her breath away. The free-form glass-and-brick structure, with its dramatic two-story wedge of windows angling toward the shady street, somehow managed to fit in with its neighbors, both the exquisitely renovated nineteenth-century town houses and the newer luxury homes built on the narrow, expensive lots. She walked down the sidewalk, then turned into a short brick path that curved to a carved mahogany front door and rang the bell. As she waited, she tried to refine her strategy, but the lock clicked and the door swung open before she'd gotten too far.
He wore a purple towel and a scowl, which didn't go away when he saw who'd come calling at 6:40 in the morning. He pulled the toothbrush from his mouth. "I'm not here."
"Now, now." She shoved the coffee into his free hand. "I'm starting a new company called Caffeine to Go Go. You're my first customer." She slipped past him into the foyer where an S-shaped staircase curved to a landing above. She took in the tumbled marble floors, the modern bronze chandelier, and the foyer's only real furnishing, an abandoned pair of sneakers. "Wow. I'm totally awestruck but pretending not to be."
"Glad you like it," he drawled. "Unfortunately, I'm not giving tours today."
She resisted the urge to run her fingertip over the dab of shaving cream that clung to his earlobe. "That's all right. I'll look around while you finish getting dressed." She gestured toward the stairs. "Go on. Don't let me interrupt you."
"Annabelle, I don't have time to talk now."
"Squeeze me in," she said with her snarkiest smile.
The toothpaste had begun to bubble at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. His gaze slid over her bare shoulders down to the fitted bodice of her sundress. "I haven't been avoiding you. I was going to call you back this afternoon."
"No, really, take as long as you need. I'm not in any hurry." She waved him away and headed toward the living room.
He grumbled something that sounded blasphemous, and, a moment later, she heard his bare feet padding upstairs. She peeked over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of a glorious pair of shoulders, a naked back, and a purple towel. Only when he disappeared did she return her attention to the living room.
Morning light splashed through the tall wedge of windows and dappled the pale hardwood floors. It was a beautiful space just begging to be lived in, but except for the gym equipment sitting on blue rubber mats, as empty as the foyer. No furniture, not even a sports poster on the wall. As she took it in, she began to see the room as it should be: a massive stone-topped coffee table sitting in front of a big, comfy sofa; chairs upholstered in spicy colors; splashy canvases on the walls; a streamlined CD cabinet; books and magazines strewn about. A kid's pull toy. A dog.
With a sigh, she reminded herself that she'd ambushed him this morning so they could get past their weekend at the lake. The old adage of being careful what you wished for sprang to mind. She'd wanted people to know that Heath had signed with Perfect for You, and the word had spread. Now, if she lost him as a client, everyone would assume she hadn't been good enough to keep him. Everything rested on how she handled herself this morning.
She passed through the empty dining room into the kitchen.
The counters were clear, the stainless-steel European appliances looked unused. Only the dirty glass in the sink signaled human habitation. She was struck by the notion that Heath had a place to live, but he didn't have a home.
She returned to the living room and gazed through the windows toward the street. A piece of the puzzle that made up the man she'd fallen in lust with settled into place. Because he was always on the move, she'd missed the fact that he was basically a loner. This unfurnished house brought his emotional isolation into focus.