“It was great,” he said, sitting in the leather chair in the towel, while she tried not to laugh, looking at him. He looked funny and vulnerable and sweet. “Actually,” he corrected himself, “it wasn't. It was good. But not as good as Portofino and Sardinia with you. I thought about you a lot after you left.”
“I thought about you too,” she admitted, and then smiled at him. “I'm glad you're back. I didn't expect you to call me so soon.”
“Neither did I. Or actually, yes I did. I wanted to call you as soon as I got back.”
“I'm glad you did. What kind of pizza do you want, by the way?”
“What do you like?”
“Anything. Pepperoni, pesto, meatball, plain.”
“All of the above,” he said, watching her. She looked at ease in her domain.
“I'll order the one with everything on it, just no anchovies. I hate anchovies,” she said, as she left the room.
“Me too.”
She went back to check on the dryer again then, came back with his jeans, and held them out to him.
“Put your pants on. I'll order the pizza. Thanks again for fixing my sink.”
“I didn't,” he reminded her, “I just turned off the water to stop the leak. You've got to get a plumber here on Tuesday.”
“I know.” She smiled at him, as he disappeared into the bathroom again, carrying his jeans. He came back and handed her the folded towel, and she looked surprised as she took it from him.
“What's wrong?”
“You didn't leave it crumpled up on the floor. What's wrong with you? I thought that's what all men do.” She was smiling at him, and he grinned. For a minute, she'd had him worried, she had looked so startled when he handed her the towel. The apartment was so impeccably neat, he couldn't figure out what else to do with the towel other than hand it back to her.
“Do you want me to go back and leave it on the floor?” he offered, and she shook her head, and then called in the order for the pizza. As soon as she did, she offered him a glass of wine. She had several bottles of excellent California wine in the refrigerator, and opened one for him. It was a Chardonnay, and when he tasted it, it was delicious.
They went back to the living room again then and sat down. This time she sat next to him on the couch, instead of across the glass coffee table from him. He had an overwhelming urge to reach out and pull her close to him, but he wasn't ready to do that yet, and neither was she. He could sense the palpable awkwardness between them. They scarcely knew each other, and hadn't seen each other now in several weeks. “You're not exactly typical for me either,” he commented, in response to her astonishment that he hadn't thrown her clean white towel on the floor. “If you were, you'd be having some kind of hysterical fit over the leak in your kitchen, or maybe even telling me it was my fault, or something your last boyfriend or ex-husband was doing to terrorize you, because he wants both of us dead. And any minute, he'll be coming up the fire escape with a gun.”
“I don't have a fire escape,” she said apologetically, laughing at what he said. She couldn't even begin to imagine the women he had been involved with before. And now neither could he.
“That simplifies things,” he said quietly, admiring her. “I love your apartment, Sylvia. It's beautiful and elegant and simple, just like you.” It wasn't pretentious, or showy, but everything in it had style and was of great quality.
“I like it too. I have a lot of treasures here that mean a lot to me.”
“I can see that,” he said, thinking that she was rapidly becoming a treasure that meant a lot to him. Now that he saw her again, he realized that he liked her even better than he had before. There was something very real and meaningful about seeing her where she lived. It was different than seeing her in restaurants, or on Charlie's boat. She had looked beautiful and appealing to him then, but now she seemed more real.
They talked about her gallery then, and the artists she represented, while they waited for the pizza to arrive.
“I'd love to see your work,” she said thoughtfully, and he nodded.
“I'd like you to see it too. It's not the kind of work you show.”
“Who's your gallery?” She was curious, he had never mentioned it to her, and he shrugged when he answered.
“I don't have one at the moment. I was really unhappy with my last dealer. I have to do something about finding someone else. I don't have enough for a show yet anyway, so I'm in no rush.”
The pizza arrived then, and Sylvia paid for it, although Gray offered to. She told him it was his fee for stopping her leak. They sat at her kitchen table, and ate the pizza as they chatted comfortably. She shared the wine with him, turned down the lights, lit candles, and served the pizza on good-looking Italian plates. Everything she did or touched or owned had a sense of elegance and style. Just as she did, in her simple ponytail, bare feet, and jeans. She was wearing the same stack of turquoise bracelets he had noticed her wearing in Italy.
They sat there for a long time, talking about nothing in particular. They just enjoyed being together, and she was glad he had come over to help her with the leak. It was ten o'clock when he finally admitted that the jet lag was getting to him. That with the wine was putting him to sleep. He got up from the table regretfully, helped her put the dishes in the dishwasher, although she insisted she could do it herself after he left. He liked helping her, and he could see it wasn't familiar to her. She was used to doing things herself, just as he had been all his life. But it was nicer doing things together, and he was sorry to leave. He liked being with her, and when he turned to her before he left, she was looking up at him.
“Thanks for coming by, and helping me, Gray. I appreciate it. I'd be swimming around my kitchen by now if you hadn't turned the water off for me.”
“You'd have figured it out. It was a great excuse to see you,” he said honestly. “Thanks for the pizza, and the good company.” He reached out and hugged her then, and kissed her on both cheeks, and then he stopped and looked at her, and held her there, wondering if it was too soon. There was a question in his eyes, and she answered it for him. She reached up to him and pulled him closer to her, and as she did, their lips met, and it was hard to tell if he had kissed her, or she had kissed him. It no longer mattered, they were holding tightly to each other, with all the longing they had felt for each other in the past few weeks, and the emptiness they had lived with for months and years before that. It was an endless, breath-consuming, life-giving kiss. And when he held her afterward, she leaned her face against his.
“Wow!” she whispered. “I wasn't expecting to do that.…I thought you just came over to fix my sink.”
“I did,” he whispered back. “I wanted to do this in Italy, but I thought it was too soon.” She nodded, knowing it probably would have been. She wanted to go to bed with him, but she knew it was much, much too soon, according to all the rules. They had barely known each other for a month, and hadn't seen each other in weeks. One day at a time, she told herself. She was still savoring their first kiss. And just as she thought about it, he kissed her again. This one was more passionate, and she couldn't help wondering how many times he had done this with other women, how many affairs he'd had, how many crazy women had come into his life, wanting him to rescue them, how many times it had ended, and how many times he had started over again with someone else. He had had a lifetime of meaningless relationships, like a merry-go-round of women, and in her whole life, she had loved only two men. And now him. She didn't love him yet. But she thought she could one day. There was something about him that made her want him to stay and stay and stay, and never leave. Like the man who came to dinner, and never left, and just moved in.