Читать книгу Ticket To Love - Jen Safrey, Jen Safrey - Страница 10

A cey was late for work, which was why she was running.

Acey loved her cute little slide-on white sneakers, which was why she was wearing them.

But her cute little sneakers were not meant for running, which was why, halfway to work, she fell.

She picked herself up from her sprawl across the hard, scratchy sidewalk, wincing. She examined her knee, now dirty with a thin rivulet of blood trickling down her calf.

“Are you all right?” she heard a man ask behind her.

“Oh, yeah, I just love falling on my butt in pub—” she raised her head and looked up at the man “—lic.”

“Don’t worry, it’s hardly public,” the man said. “No one’s around. Can you stand?”

I’m not sure, she thought. If she had already been standing, she would have gone weak in the knees with one look at this guy.

His hair was—well, she would have guessed light brown, but a bit of angling sunlight lightened it to the color of Long Island’s South Shore sand. The short strands were silky. Acey wished she knew what shampoo he used. His chin appeared chiseled from Italian marble and his lips were curved in a wide smile. His eyes were blue. Very blue. Bluer than the bluest crayon she and Steph had ever fought over, and his long, long eyelashes curled away from his profile.

“I can stand. I didn’t break anything. Just skin,” she finally said. The man took her hand, which was shaking a little bit, as she rose to her feet. She winced again. “Oh, it stings. I hate these sneakers. They always make me trip.”

“Why do you wear them, then?”

“Because,” she said, smoothing down her top, “they’re cute.”

“Ah.”

“But now they’re filling up with blood, which isn’t very cute.”

“Listen, come into my apartment. You can wash your knee and bandage it up.”

Come into his apartment? Oh, no. She’d learned a thing or two watching the news with Steph.

“No, thanks, but I can’t,” she said. “I’m late.”

“You’ll be really late,” he drawled, “if you lose all your blood before you get there.”

“That wouldn’t happen.” But Acey, despite her reservations, was having a hard time turning and limping away. She lingered. “I shouldn’t be talking to a stranger anyway.” She couldn’t help teasing, late or not. “Not just a stranger to me, but to this state, I bet. Southern?”

“Texas.”

“Uh-huh,” Acey said, thinking. “Well, I do like steak. And sometimes I catch the rodeo stuff on cable. You do that kind of thing?”

He appeared to be holding back a grin. “Not really.”

“Too bad. It looks cool. Been here long?”

“A few months.”

“Why Valley Stream?”

“Why not?”

She nodded. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I work from home.”

“Doing…?”

“Grant writing.”

“What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“Last name?”

“Wells. Is the interview about over? I think it’s time to clean your knee.”

“I guess it’s all right.” She extended her right hand. “I’m Acey Corelli.”

“Interesting name.”

“I’m an interesting person.” Harry stared at her, and Acey blushed. He took her elbow.

“Go on ahead, Acey. The door’s open.”

She took one step and stopped. “Just so you know, I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t just meet men and get myself invited in. It’s only because I’m a…a damsel in distress right now. And you seem to be a genuine Southern gentleman.”

Harry was charmed. “I am. And your self-analysis is duly noted.”

“Okay, then.”

She walked ahead of him to his door, and Harry forced himself to look at the back of her head so he wouldn’t look at her…oh, forget it. No use fighting biology.

“It’s open,” he said again, and Acey pushed through the door. She leaned against it so he could pass through, and then she followed him up to his apartment. Harry said, “The bathroom is that way. I’ll show you.”

“I’ll find it,” Acey said, her tone implying she didn’t need any nursing, and left the room. “Where are the Band-Aids?” she called a second later.

“Cabinet above the sink.”

“Anything in there that might scare me?”

Harry thought for a moment, decided the athlete’s-foot cream wouldn’t be too disconcerting, and answered, “No.”

He heard the bathroom door close, and he leaned against his table. This was a little strange. He’d never had a woman here, in this apartment, before. He wandered into the living room.

The water shut off and, almost immediately, Acey emerged. Her knee was covered with two crossing Band-Aids, marring the perfect landscape of her leg. She smiled, and said, “Nice place you got here. It’s, well, it’s really clean. A hospital’s not even this clean.”

Harry laughed. “Clean” was pretty much the only thing you could say about it. It was devoid of decoration, a purely functional white-walled enclosure. Thanks to the influence of many maids in his mother’s employ, Harry was only happy in sterile surroundings. “I don’t really like a lot of clutter. Or even a little clutter.”

“That’s all right. I’m not criticizing, just curious.” She shifted her feet, a bit uneasy. Harry knew he was capable of putting her at ease with a gesture, a conversation starter, a drink. He’d done it a hundred times in his life. But he just couldn’t right now.

Another two beats went by. “Well,” Acey said, “I really should be on my way.” She glanced at her watch, perhaps just as an excuse, but then her eyes opened very wide. “Oh, crap, I really should be on my way.” She practically ran to the front door. “This was very decent of you, cowboy. Thanks. See you around.”

Harry fumbled for something to say, but before he could, Acey Corelli winked and was out the door even faster than she’d literally fallen into his life. The strange thing was, he already missed her.

“Sicilian pie, peppers and mushrooms!” Acey shouted over her shoulder while adding up the total on the register. She waited for a middle-aged woman to count the money out of her wallet and took stock of the now-empty restaurant. The lunch crowd started before eleven on weekdays, and the time always flew by until two, leaving Acey with her face and neck sweating from the ovens.

“Sicilian, peppers and mushrooms,” Anthony repeated, sliding the pizza onto the counter. Acey folded the cardboard box like an origami expert and placed the pie inside. “Thanks for coming to Focaccia’s,” she said to the customer.

No one else stepped up to the counter. Acey could actually hear herself think again, and could now hear the piped-in easy-listening music. Acey sang with Carole King as she threw a rag down on the counter and wiped it clean.

“Come on, Lydia, for God’s sake,” Acey heard behind her, and rolled her eyes. Here we go again, she thought. Anthony and Lydia were like a broken record.

“Shut up,” Lydia said, then stomped over to Acey. Her bleached-blond hair was in a neat, sleek ponytail. “Acey, tell that gorilla I hate him. And we’re never speaking again.”

Since Lydia was clearly relying on her as a fellow woman, Acey at least tried to be tactful. “Um, you both work here. I don’t think you can get away with not talking.”

“I’d rather quit than work with that…that…”

“So, why don’t you?” Acey asked, knowing the answer never changed but also knowing she was expected to show interest every time drama arose.

“He should be the one quitting,” Lydia said. “My father owns this place.”

“I don’t think he’s quitting.” Acey patted Lydia’s shoulder and Lydia grabbed Acey’s hand.

“Hon, that’s a nice set of tips. Look at that color.” Acey grinned. No Long Island girl worth her salt went without fake nails. They were a bit of an expense, but Steph worked at a salon, so Acey got a good deal. Lydia examined the little rhinestones and said, “He’s such a Scorpio. He’ll never change.”

So much for getting her off the topic. “You know,” Acey said, “I think you two are the perfect couple. So you fight—” all the time “—but everyone fights. I heard that the couples who fight the worst are the ones most in love. Because they know how to push each other’s buttons.”

“Who said that? Dr. Phil?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe. Just be nice to him. I know he loves you.” This was true. As often as they argued, Anthony was always doing nice things for Lydia. Buying her little gold charms, taking her bowling even though he hated it, bringing her flowers. Acey thought they were the nicest couple, when they were being nice. Their fights were only over stupid things, but they escalated because they both enjoyed yelling.

“Yeah,” Anthony said, coming around behind Acey and giving her a platonic kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, babe.” He glanced at the sulking Lydia. “You should listen to your friend here. I’m a good guy.”

“Please. I wouldn’t come back to you if you were the lottery winner.”

“That’s interesting, huh?” Anthony said. “No one came forward yet.”

“Nope,” Acey said. She’d planted herself in front of the news every night for almost a full week with Steph, but no word. That no winner had revealed himself was becoming more of a story than the fact that there was a winner.

“What kind of a moron doesn’t take the money?” Lydia asked. “I’d run to the lottery office.”

“Maybe someone who’s out of the country. Doesn’t know he won,” Anthony said.

“Or maybe someone who doesn’t speak English, and didn’t hear it on the news,” Lydia suggested, temporarily forgetting the silent treatment.

Acey didn’t remind her. “Maybe the winner is scared.” This was her new theory, after discussing it last night with Steph.

“Scared? Of what? Being rich?” Anthony laughed.

Two junior-high-age boys approached the counter and asked Acey for zeppoles. She submerged five dough balls in the deep fryer. Lydia was saying, “It’s true. Like, if you’ve been dirt-poor your whole life, suddenly having all that money would be a jolt to your system.”

“I’m sure I could handle it,” Anthony replied. “Besides, I don’t think anyone around here is dirt-poor. Just average.”

Acey lifted the crispy zeppoles from the fryer, dropped them into a brown paper bag, and sprinkled in a generous amount of powdered sugar. She folded the top of the bag and shook vigorously, then handed it to one of the boys. Taking their money, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Both boys looked supremely guilty.

“Next time you come in here during school hours, I’m going to charge you double. Got it?” she said. The pair scampered off.

“What about you, Acey?” Lydia asked.

“What about me?” Acey wiped her hands on her filthy white apron.

“Would you take the thirty-five million dollars in one lump sum, or the yearly checks?”

Acey considered a moment. “Yearly checks. That way, you’d always have a little something to look forward to. Or, a big something.”

“Not me,” Anthony said. “I’d take one payment. That way, if I ever got hit by a bus or whatever, my family would have the money right away.”

“If only you’d get hit by a bus,” Lydia muttered, and Anthony smiled as if she’d said something quite sweet.

“Anyway,” Acey interjected before any more yelling could commence, “I’m really dying to know who it is. Aren’t you guys?”

“No,” Lydia said, staring out the window at the busy avenue. “All I know is, it isn’t me.”

“I don’t care,” Anthony said. “Winning would be great, but I got something worth more than a lousy thirty-five million.”

Lydia looked back at him, and he winked at her. She threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking him backward. “You’re worth a hundred million,” she mumbled, kissing his mouth.

“You’re worth a million million.”

She pushed him against the counter, grabbed the back of his head and kissed him even more deeply.

“Guys, seriously,” Acey said, “take it to the back. People are coming in.”

The lovers stumbled together toward the restrooms, pressed together and running their hands all over each other. Acey fanned herself with one hand.

It had been so long since she’d had any kind of feeling for any man. Charlie had been the last, and after the way he and his family had treated her, it was easy to never want to have those feelings again. In fact, the first time she’d since felt any real stirrings was today, with that cowboy. And those had been the most genuine stirrings she’d ever felt. Too bad she hadn’t had time to do some more flirting. Well, he lived in the neighborhood now. She was sure fate would put him in her path again.

Acey stepped up to the counter and cut slices to order from the ready-made pies. But she took a second to peer once more at Romeo and Juliet in the back, and she knew that she, too, would rather have someone to love than a million million.

When Steve showed up to relieve Acey at seven, she scrunched up her greasy apron, tossed it in the employees’ coatroom and, with one wave over her shoulder, strolled out of Focaccia’s. Usually the walk home took her fifteen minutes, but today she was detouring around the corner.

Right through Bread and Milk.

Her week-old curiosity had nearly killed her, but now it was time for action.

Acey peeled off her denim jacket as she walked. The last couple of days had been unseasonably chilly and rainy, but now that June was here, it seemed the weather had decided to cooperate with the calendar.

She turned a corner, stopped and regarded Bread and Milk from across the street. There were haphazard signs in the window for sales and specials, and one was misspelled. “Corn mufins, 75 cents.” It wasn’t unusual, but this neighborhood didn’t care. Rosalia’s store was open from six in the morning until eleven at night, and Rosalia herself was almost always in the store.

Bread and Milk seemed to sparkle a bit now that it had sold the winning lottery ticket. Acey crossed the street. The door was propped open and no one was behind the counter. Acey wandered over to the refrigerator case and grabbed a carton of orange juice. Rosalia came out from her stockroom, hauling a box that had to be twice as heavy as she was.

“Hi!” Acey cried, putting the orange juice on the front counter and rushing over to take the box from her friend.

“Oh, Acey, don’t do that,” Rosalia scolded, but Acey ignored her and took the box, straining to hold it straight.

“Where does this go?”

“By the register there. You’re so sweet.”

“No problem,” Acey said. She dropped the box where Rosalia had indicated—really dropped, when it slipped out of her fingers—but she didn’t hear anything break. She turned to Rosalia and flexed a bicep. “Strong, huh? Check that out.”

Rosalia laughed. “Stronger than my boys. Wish you worked here and not my no-good bums.”

“I’d love to work here,” Acey said, and it was true. It was a friendly store, where everyone said hello and made small talk, and it was a thousand times quieter, without the soap operas that went on at Focaccia’s.

Rosalia put her hands on her hips and shook her head. Rosalia had a way about her, a way of carrying herself that made Acey ashamed of her own slumping. Rosalia was at least five foot ten, and walked with the book-balancing poise of a Miss Colombia. Her still-long hair was graying with middle age, but it looked so fashionable on her that Acey was sure she inspired other approaching-senior-age female customers to follow suit. Her clothes were nondescript sweatshirts and jeans, but Acey thought that even if she dressed in the trendiest fashions, no one would notice them once she flashed her always-lipsticked smile.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Acey.”

“Oh, but I’ve seen you! On TV, eh?”

Rosalia tried to appear nonchalant, but her grin was an easy giveaway. “Just lucky. Really. You won’t believe how lucky.”

“Sure I’d believe it. The store gets a nice cut, right?”

“I’ll get what’s coming to me, yes.” Rosalia moved to the other side of the counter and rang up the juice.

Acey slid the top half of her body across the counter with her money and lowered her voice. “Tell me. Do you know who it is? Who won?”

“No one knows, huh?”

“No, not officially, but…” A man plopped two rolls of toilet paper on the counter and asked for cigarettes. Acey stepped aside until his purchases were bagged and he was on his way. Then she leaned in again. “You must have some idea who won, Rosalia.”

“Why you say that?”

“Because you know just about every single customer by name around here. Did someone tell you? Tell me. I’ll keep it a secret, I swear.”

“I bet.”

“I will!” Acey protested, but Rosalia’s eyes were sparkling. “Come on. Spill it.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you. Still a mystery.”

With one last scrutinizing gaze at Rosalia’s face to see if she was holding out, Acey slumped her shoulders. “I was so certain you’d know.”

“I am surprised, it’s true,” Rosalia said, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “If someone win, I think they would come in here and be—” she waved her arms around “—woooo…”

“Exactly. But no?”

“No. It is a mystery,” Rosalia repeated.

Acey picked up her plastic bag. “Oh, well. I guess I’ll just keep wondering.”

She took one step toward the door and was about to say goodbye when Rosalia said quietly, “But.”

Acey whirled around.

“I am thinking someone.”

Acey rushed back and dropped her bag on the floor. “Aha! You do have a suspect!”

“I know nothing,” Rosalia said in a stern mother’s voice. “I am only thinking.”

Acey circled her hand in an impatient “go on” gesture.

“There is a man. He started coming in here maybe six months ago. About your age. Not from here.”

“He has an accent?”

“Yes. And so nice. He asks about my daughter’s daughter all the time after he once seen them here. And in February, that big snow, he shoveled the front for me. He helps me, like you do.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. He asks about me but keeps so silent about him. But he, he bought a ticket that day. For some reason, I think…everyone else would come tell me if they win but he’s so quiet, maybe he’s keeping quiet on that, too.”

Acey thought a moment. “Has he been in here since the numbers were picked?”

“Yes, but he acts the same. Nothing different but I have a feeling about him.”

“Huh.”

“Maybe,” Rosalia said, “you can look at him, tell me if you have the feeling, too? He comes every day, at almost exactly five minutes after one, for lemonade.”

“Interesting. Okay,” Acey decided. “I’ll be here tomorrow at five after one. Just point him out to me.”

“You won’t miss him,” Rosalia said. “I think no girl would miss him.”

“You won’t even notice I’m gone. Twenty minutes, Lydia, please?”

Acey glanced nervously at the clock. As usual, the time had flown by and it was now five of one.

“Oh, crap, Acey, it’s crazy in here,” Lydia complained, slicing a pie and boxing it.

“I know, but I have a…a…” Acey struggled. “A doctor’s appointment.”

“Twenty minutes for a doctor’s appointment?”

Acey hated to lie, so she hardly ever did. Which was why she was so awful at it. “They’re squeezing me in.”

Lydia paused and studied her. Acey squirmed with guilt. Why was she doing this anyhow? Wasn’t Lydia right yesterday? Why should you care who won the lottery if it wasn’t you? But Acey did. For something so wonderful to happen right up the street…it was like a miracle almost, and Acey was a pilgrim. She just wanted the tiniest glimpse at the lucky person. And she desperately wanted it to be someone nice, because people who had piles of money, like Charlie, so often didn’t deserve it.

“You never skip out like this,” Lydia said. “Is it serious?”

“Um, not really, but like I said, he’s fitting me in, so…”

“Are you pregnant?”

Acey handed a customer some change. “Thank you,” she said to him. “I’m not even answering that,” she said to Lydia.

“Just checking. I mean, I didn’t think you’ve been getting any action since Charlie, but…”

“Can you please cover for me?” Acey asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, it’s not going to be easy. Okay. I’ll do it on one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“That you tell me the truth. This is no doctor visit. This is about a guy, right?”

The minute hand edged toward one o’clock.

“Yeah,” Acey said. “It’s about a guy.”

“Then go, girl.” Lydia grinned. “Twenty minutes.”

Acey pulled off her apron. “Can I borrow your sunglasses?”

Lydia pulled them off her head and handed them to Acey, who grabbed them and sprinted out the door.

Acey peeked over a box of Cap’n Crunch and watched the door. She held a shopping basket, but just for show. Lydia’s sunglasses were enormous for her face, but they made Acey feel covert. She was on the case. Like Nancy Drew. Nancy Drew with big hair and acrylic nails.

She checked her watch. Four minutes after one.

“It’s almost time,” she heard in her ear, and jumped about three feet. She turned to find Cassandra, wrapped in her nubby black cardigan, rocking back and forth. “The end. It’s upon us.”

“Oh, okay,” Acey said weakly. Cassandra had been a regular for at least a dozen years. Acey didn’t know her real name. Steph had nicknamed her Cassandra a long time ago because of her constant doomsday prophesies.

Acey humored Cassandra each time she saw her, which was more and more seldom as the woman aged. The end was probably near for her, and it made Acey a little sad. Not for the first time, she wanted to offer Cassandra something, like coffee, but she never knew how to ask so that it sounded more friendly than pitying. The old woman shook her head and shuffled away. Acey sighed, turned back to the cereal and saw that someone had come in. Rosalia was already deep in conversation with him.

Cowboy boots. Really scuffed up, too. As if he’d just left Silver hitched to a mailbox outside.

Acey got a funny little prickly feeling.

Her gaze traveled up long legs. Long legs. That ended in a…wow, nice ass. Much smaller than her own, which usually daunted her but for some reason, she had the urge to slip behind him and see if she could fit that butt in both her cupped hands. Then she could slide one of those hands over his hip and check the size of…

“Oh, my God, Acey,” she said out loud. The man looked over his shoulder and Acey dropped to a crouch. She shifted a few boxes of elbow macaroni around so she appeared to be a legitimate shopper. She rose to her feet and peeked at the counter, where Rosalia and the man were chatting again, but now he was leaning one arm on the counter as Rosalia flipped through photos.

It was no shock when Acey saw his face. Harry Wells.

Rosalia glanced up, saw Acey and raised her eyebrows. Acey suspected the thick stack of photos was deliberate on Rosalia’s part, to keep their target there long enough for Acey’s assessment.

Her assessment? Same as the first time she met him. An Ebert and Roeper two-thumbs-way-up.

Being careful to stare at the shelves of sundries, Acey moved up an aisle closer to the front. Yes. Much better. Now she could hear them.

“She’s beautiful,” Harry was saying.

“She looks just like my daughter,” Rosalia said with pride.

“Actually, I see so much of you,” Harry answered. “Definitely that smile.”

“The end.”

Acey realized Cassandra had sneaked up behind the man and repeated her usual proclamation. Harry didn’t even seem surprised when he turned around and Cassandra said, “Are you ready? For the end? It’s here.”

“If the end is truly here, then at least they sent the most beautiful angel to tell me,” he told the soothsayer. Cassandra studied him, nodded, and left the store.

Acey’s jaw hung.

“Thank you for showing me your pictures,” Harry said to Rosalia. “They really made my day.” He grinned. “Now, I guess I should get what I came here for and let y’all get back to work.”

Harry took a step in Acey’s direction, and her head snapped back around. She pulled open the refrigerator case, yanked out random items and dropped them into her basket. Harry was getting closer, and Acey stared at the floor and silently berated herself. She’d known he was coming here for lemonade. Why was she hanging around right next to the lemonade? Nancy Drew would have hung her red head in shame.

She peeked over her shoulder and saw Harry go down the next aisle. She dropped the basket and darted for the door before he could see her. She gave Rosalia a hasty wave she hoped her friend would interpret as “talk to you about this later.”

She hopped out the door and jumped into the nearest doorway on the left. Mission accomplished. Rosalia wanted her to get a feeling about Harry? She got a feeling, all right. Right down between her thighs. Damn.

Her watch said twelve minutes after one. She was about to cross the street to head back to work when she spied the cowboy coming out of Bread and Milk. He was on the opposite corner, walking away from her. And away from Focaccia’s.

Acey turned her head toward her place of employment, then walked the other way, following Harry, keeping half a block’s distance. Just two minutes. She’d turn back in two minutes.

After about only a minute, Harry ambled up the walkway of his brick apartment building. Acey dashed across the street, tucked herself into the doorway of an orthodontist’s office and watched him through the dark glasses. If only she had a good pair of binoculars.

Holy crap. Was she insane? She was like a crazy stalker. This had to stop.

But before she could head back in the direction of the hot ovens, a plastic Wiffle ball hit Harry lightly on the shoulder, and a boy of about eight rushed up. He looked as if he was apologizing, but Harry held on to the ball, a smile on his face. Then he began to demonstrate a pitch, arcing his muscled arm and letting his body follow through.

“Leave,” Acey said out loud. “Now.”

An elderly man came out the building’s front door, weighed down with two bags of trash. Harry handed the ball back to the boy, sprinted over and grabbed a bag. As soon as his back was to the street, Acey skipped out of the doorway and ran back up to Focaccia’s. She hopped behind the counter and looked up. Twenty-five after. Whoops.

“You’re late,” Lydia said, and before Acey could apologize, added, “and I should hope so. How is he?”

Lydia’s face was expectant. Acey took off her friend’s sunglasses and handed them over.

“I can’t believe it myself,” Acey said. “But he’s…he’s…”

Possibly stinking rich. And therefore, not for me.

“You’re speechless,” Lydia said with a chuckle. “This one must be a real winner.”

“Funny you should say that,” Acey replied.