Читать книгу My Favorite Mistake - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 12

LAUGHTER BOOMED over the phone again. “It’s Redford, Denise—your ex-husband. Who did you think it was?”

I was instantly nervous, hearing his voice when my body still vibrated from his memory-induced orgasm. “Um…someone else.”

“Sounds like a pretty interesting conversation,” he said, his smooth Southern voice infused with amusement. “If this is a bad time, I can call back.”

“No,” I blurted, my cheeks flaming. “I can talk now.”

“Good,” he said easily. “Listen, I got a letter from the IRS yesterday—looks like the government wants a little more of my time.”

“I received the same letter,” I said, regaining a modicum of composure. “You’re out of the Marines?”

“Retired for almost six months now.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Kentucky. Versailles, to be exact. This is where the girls are.”

So he had children—the girls he’d wanted. I don’t know why the news surprised me, but my disappointment was acute. And then I realized that Redford having a family certainly made things easier for me—I could shake my stubborn fantasies once and for all.

“That’s nice,” I managed.

“And you’re still living in the same place?”

In other words, my life hadn’t changed a bit. My chin went up. “I’ll be buying my apartment soon.”

“Great. So, do you live alone?”

I frowned. “Yes.”

“No kidding? I thought you’d be remarried by now.”

“Um, no, I’m not married.” I stared at my closet door—plastic covering the wedding gown stuck out from under the door, mocking me.

“Not married? Don’t tell me I ruined you for other men,” he teased.

Had he always been so cocky? My mouth tightened. “Not at all.”

“Darn. And here I was hoping that you still carried my picture around.”

I glanced down at the framed picture still in my hand and dropped it back into the cigar box as if it were on fire. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He cleared his throat, as if he realized he’d over-stepped his bounds. “Well, Denise, what do you know about this audit?”

“No more than what the letter said.”

“Three years seems like a long time to have lapsed to be audited.” He sounded concerned.

“No,” I assured him. “Considering the backlog at the IRS, I’d say three years is about right.”

“Are you still a financial planner?”

“Yes. I work for a brokerage firm now.”

“Congratulations. Does that give us an advantage? I mean, do you deal with the IRS often?”

“Only as an advisor to my clients regarding payment of fees or penalties.”

At the sudden silence on the other end, I realized my response wasn’t exactly comforting, and since the audit was most likely a result of my creative accounting, I felt as if I owed him a little reassurance.

“Redford, chances are this will be a routine interview. They’ll probably just want to ask us a few questions, see a few receipts, that sort of thing.”

He gave a little laugh. “I don’t even know where my tax records are—in storage somewhere.”

“I kept everything,” I said.

“Everything?” he asked, his voice suspiciously nostalgic.

I glanced at the cigar box containing souvenirs of my time with Redford and closed the lid. “All the tax records,” I corrected. “I’ll bring them to the interview.”

“Great. I guess I’d better start making travel plans.”

“The interview is a week from Tuesday,” I offered.

“Yeah, but I’m interested in buying a stud horse in upstate New York. I was thinking I could come up early and maybe kill two birds with one stone.”

So Redford had entered the family business. Another area where we were opposites—the closest I’d ever gotten to a horse was walking next to a carriage in Central Park, and one of the beasts had nipped a hole in my favorite sweater.

“And I’ve never been to New York City,” he continued, “so I thought I’d try to squeeze in some sightseeing since I might never get the chance again. How would you feel about being a tour guide?”

“Fine,” I said, then wet my lips. “Are you coming alone?”

“Yes.”

My shoulders dropped an inch in relief. I don’t know why, but I didn’t relish the thought of meeting his new wife. “When would you arrive?”

“Whenever you can fit me in,” he said, and God help me, my mind leapt to a time when I had “fit him in” anytime I could.

“How about Friday?” he asked.

“I’ll ch-check my schedule, but that should be okay.”

“Great,” he said, his genial tone making it obvious that our conversation wasn’t affecting him at all. “And if you could recommend a place to stay while I’m there, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll look into it,” I promised. “How can I reach you?”

He recited a phone number, which I jotted down.

“Although you never know who might pick up around here,” he warned with a laugh.

On cue, I heard a shriek of childish laughter and the patter of little feet in the background.

“If you leave a message and you don’t hear back from me within a few hours, just call again.”

“Sure,” I said, my heart dragging. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay. Listen, Denise…”

My heartbeat picked up. “Yes?”

“It’s great to hear your voice again. I’ve thought about you a lot over the years and…”

And? I swallowed, waiting.

“And…I’m glad to know you’re okay.”

I closed my eyes before murmuring, “Same here.”

We said goodbye and I disconnected the call on an exhale, feeling wobbly and acknowledging the sudden urge to eat a party-size bag of peanut M&M’s. I settled for a cup of nonfat, sugar-free vanilla yogurt with a little cocoa sprinkled over the top (not the same, no matter how much the weight-loss gurus try to convince you otherwise) and tucked myself into a chair with my legs beneath me.

So I was going to see Redford again. I lay my head back on the chair and released a sigh that ended in a moan. Just speaking to him on the phone had left me feeling fuzzy, as if he had brushed his naked body against mine. How pathetic was I that the mere sound of his voice could rattle me after all this time? Especially when Redford had obviously found someone else to brush up against.

I wasn’t naïve enough to think that Redford hadn’t taken other lovers after our annulment. But because our sexual relationship had been so radical and so…incomparable for me, deep down I guess I’d hoped it had been for him, too. That he hadn’t played the “kiss you all under” game with anyone else, or that no other woman had left teeth marks in his shoulder.

I laughed at myself. I hadn’t really expected Redford to be pining for me, had I?

I mindlessly spooned yogurt into my mouth, sucking on the spoon (which even Freud would have deemed too obvious for analysis), while my thoughts coiled into themselves in confusion. I was scraping the bottom of the container with an eye toward licking the foil lid when the phone rang again.

My pulse jumped—maybe Redford had forgotten to tell me something. I idly wondered if he had kept my phone number and address somewhere, or if he’d simply looked me up through directory assistance. I padded to the bedroom where I’d left the handset and pushed the connect button. “Hello?”