Читать книгу Everybody's Hero - Tracy Kelleher - Страница 10

CLAIRE PACED in front of Trish. “You let me go through that whole shoot with powdered sugar on my face!”

“You told him I needed a fiancé?” Trish responded. She darted her head around to see if they were being overheard. She had all the subtlety of a silent film star. The closest person was Elaine. She was over by the bench, talking with the straggly bearded techie. He somehow didn’t seem her type. “Jason probably thinks I’m pathetic.”

“Trust me. He doesn’t think you’re pathetic.” Claire remembered the appreciative look Jason had shown Trish as they got off the ice. Trish, who was looking so together, so sleek. While she, Claire, had a drippy nose and freezing, cramped toes. Sniffling and hobbling—she sounded like two of the Seven Dwarfs. And that’s when she remembered she still had on the skates.

She sat and began yanking them off. “I don’t know why you think anyone would think you’re pathetic. You weren’t the one tripping over her own two feet on the ice, all the while having this white glob on your face. Why didn’t you tell me?” Claire yanked off the second skate and looked around for her boots.

Trish crossed her arms. “Why so touchy about a little bit of sugar on your face? Frankly, I didn’t even notice.”

Claire found one work boot and pulled it on. She didn’t bother to lace it up. “That’s because your eyes were elsewhere.” Claire got on her hands and knees and started scouting under the bench for her other boot.

“He is rather attractive, isn’t he? One could do far worse in the fiancé category. In fact, it might be something worth contemplating seriously—in a very preliminary stage, of course.”

Claire heard the flirtatious lilt to Trish’s voice as she scrounged around on the rubber flooring for her lost boot. Her hand touched something sticky. She didn’t want to think about the possibilities.

“So what did he say?”

“About what?” In the dank, dark recesses under the first row of permanent seating, Claire located her boot. It was pushed against the cement riser.

“You know, about pretending to be my fiancé at the wedding?” Trish must have bent down because her voice was louder.

Claire shimmied out backward, deciding the safest route out was the same way she’d come in. She dragged the boot behind her. “We never got that far. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Her derriere emerged from the deep abyss.

“Ask me what?”

Claire banged the back of her head on the bottom of a metal seat. She dropped her boot and it tumbled into the great netherworld of discarded chewing gum and Raisinets. No doubt Jason was looking down at her rear end as she hesitated on all fours. She could crawl back under. But then there was that mysterious sticky goo.

“You need a hand?” Jason’s voice was louder, nearer. Much nearer.

In the shadowy darkness under the seats, Claire sensed immediately that he had joined her. She felt the ripples of energy that emanated from his body. If only he’d thought to bring a flashlight. “No need to bother. I’m fine, thank you.”

“The lady doth protest too much.”

“And the jock knows a literary line or two. I’m impressed. But truly, I wouldn’t advise scrounging around here unless you’ve had a recent tetanus shot. Besides, I’m just looking for my boot. I had it a minute ago and I seem to have lost it again.” Claire groped with her hand. She landed on something. It definitely wasn’t sticky. And it definitely wasn’t her boot.

It was large. It was strong. Sinews ridged the skin. Knuckles defined the contours. Fingers slightly curled; nails blunt cut. And there wasn’t the hint of a wedding ring. It was power at rest. But it hardly made Claire feel restful.

“Whoops, sorry about that.” Claire turned her head.

“Don’t be. It could happen to anyone.” In the darkness he moved his head toward hers. He shifted his hand.

His movement caused Claire to realize that her hand was still on his. “Oh, sorry.” She started to pull it away, but he switched grips, holding her fingers lightly.

The sudden dizziness enveloping her head had to be due to the awkward position she was in, Claire told herself. She cleared her throat, if not her brain functions. “I think my boot may be over by your hand.”

She leaned awkwardly in that direction. And felt her mouth brush his cheek.

Jason turned. His lips accidentally touched hers.

His lips pressed lightly. Maybe not an accident? It was brief. Lips ever so slightly parted. Warm breaths and tumbling heartbeats mixing.

And it was the most mind-numbing experience of Claire’s life. And it was happening under the seat of a hockey rink.

“You guys all right down there?”

Trish’s voice penetrated the haze of emotions that engulfed Claire. She felt Jason’s hand tighten briefly before he let go.

“No problem. We were just searching for Claire’s boot. I think I found it.” He searched with his other hand, passing it to Claire.

She was surprised she could still mumble thanks. Backing out on her hands and knees, she slowly rose.

“Find something interesting down there?” Trish rested one hand on her hip.

Claire shivered. “You don’t want to know.” She dropped her boot to the ground and worked it on with her toes. Jason got to his feet, as well. He raked his hand through his thick hair.

“Well, come now,” Trish announced. “Enough of this hide-and-seek. Vernon has agreed to leave you in our care, Jason, for the rest of today’s schedule.” She flounced her coat more squarely on her shoulders. “Why don’t you leave that motorbike of yours here while we take a taxi uptown to the hospital?” Trish waved in the general direction of Elaine, who looked as if she was starting to lose interest in her Mr. Right. “Elaine can drive it up and meet us there.”

“Claire maybe, Elaine never,” Jason said.

“I’m only too happy.” Claire walked over and grabbed her camera bag. Whatever distance she could put between herself and Jason would be a welcome blessing.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. We need you close by. We can always send a security guard. What’s more to the point—” Trish grabbed Jason’s arm “—when we’re all alone in the taxi, I want to know what you think about the fiancé thing.” Claire trailed behind as Trish kept her half nelson grip on Jason. “I realize it’s an imposition, and it was highly unprofessional of Claire to mention it to you during a session.”

“Maybe I will ride the bike after all,” Claire murmured.

“What’s that, Claire?” Trish stuck out her hand for a cab. The ones that sped by had their lights on, indicating they were occupied. “I should have had Elaine arrange for a car service to pick us up.” She dug in her Prada shoulder bag and pulled out her cell phone. “I can still have her do it.”

Claire saw some commuters eyeing Jason. It was only a matter of time before they were surrounded. “Never mind about Elaine.” She spotted a taxi barreling down the other side of Sixth Avenue, stepped off the curb, and with her thumb and middle finger forming a circle, delivered a piercing whistle.

Like Odysseus responding to the sirens’s call, the cab made a suicidal move through the traffic and shrieked to a halt. All that was lacking was for it to be dashed against the rocks. Luckily, the curbs in Manhattan are low and rounded.

Trish snapped her cell phone shut. “I’d forgotten that little trick of yours.” She let Jason hold open the car door, then got into the back seat first.

Jason waited for Claire to get in next. “You realize you just demonstrated requirement number three.” He pantomimed her whistling.

Claire stared at the way his fingers touched his open mouth. And found her libido bouncing around with all the manic exuberance of a two-month-old Labrador retriever. “Boy, you’re easy to please. Half the women in the world must meet your requirements. And if you don’t get in the taxi soon, a few of them will be joining us any minute.”

They bundled in, Claire in the middle. Her camera bag rested on her lap. Jason didn’t seem much farther away. “You can’t move a little?” She looked down at his thigh pressed up against her leg.

Jason leaned over to speak to Trish, ignoring Claire’s comment. “So, tell me about the wedding.” His jacket sleeve put pressure on Claire’s shoulder.

Claire pursed her lips and studied the taxi driver’s license displayed on the dashboard.

“It’s really very simple. Claire, David and I all went to high school together in Leeds Springs,” Trish explained quickly.

“Leeds Springs?” Jason asked.

“A suburban town north of New York City.”

“Think country clubs and golf courses,” Claire said. She focused on the driver’s name, trying to decide which eastern European country he had come from. One with an overabundance of “k’s” it seemed.

Jason turned to Claire. “You lived in suburbia?”

She shrugged. “Only a year and a half. I survived. So did it.”

“Yes, well, all three of us were inseparable, mainly because we all worked on the school newspaper. Claire was the photographer, David covered sports, and I, well, not to be immodest, but I was the editor-in-chief.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Jason said. Claire decided to kick him for that smug little comment.

“Anyway, to make a long story short, David was my first true love, something that’s very special to a woman,” Trish went on.

Claire eyed Jason. “Don’t even go there,” she warned sotto voce. He placed his hand on his chest. Who me? he seemed to indicate. She kicked him again.

Jason winced. “Has anyone ever told you that you have violent instincts?”

She stared wide-eyed. Only a newborn calf could have looked more innocent. “Sorry, my foot slipped.”

“Twice?”

“Repetitive stress syndrome?”

“And even though we all went our separate ways, we stayed in touch.” Trish cupped her chin wistfully. “Call me unrealistic, but somehow I thought one day he’d come back into my life. Only I never envisioned we’d meet again at a wedding—his wedding, to someone else. To an orthodontist no less.” Trish took a pair of sunglasses from her bag and wrestled them onto her face. “An orthodontist,” she harrumphed.

“I’m sure she has very nice teeth,” Claire said.

“Don’t try to be nice, Claire. It doesn’t suit you.” Trish fiddled with the bow of her glasses, designer ones, naturally. “Anyway, even though David’s moved to Chicago—he’s a district attorney—” she turned to Jason “—they’ve decided to get married back at his parents’ place in Westchester, a nice Tudor place right by the golf course. I always did think it would make the perfect place for a wedding.”

Trish paused, as if visualizing the outdoor seating arrangement of her dreams—lilacs and lilies of the valley roped in garlands along white satin-covered folding chairs, a veritable aromatherapy of connubial bliss. “Well, when the invitation came, I accepted as a matter of course, and replied I would be bringing a guest. The thing of it is, to make this really work—to attend from a real position of strength—what I need is not just a guest, but a fiancé. That way I truly look like…” For once in her life, Trish actually needed to pause.

“Like you’re sleeping with someone?” Claire offered.

“That you have someone who is special, a lover,” Jason corrected.

Trish turned and pulled off her glasses. “Claire, you’re so predictable. But, Jason, you’re really quite sensitive, aren’t you?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Sensitive is not the adjective I would have chosen.”

“But then words are not your line of work, are they?” Jason shifted his weight and put his arm over the back of the seat. His hand casually rested on Claire’s shoulder. She hunched forward and hugged her bag.

“And what makes it even more incredible, Jason, is you’re clearly amazingly handsome and famous,” Trish said.

Jason nudged Claire. “See, someone recognizes my better qualities.” She hunched farther forward.

“But I’m not sure people are going to believe we’re an item.” From the emotional high of a second ago, Trish dipped to the depths of the Marianas Trench. “I mean the wedding’s this Saturday. And we’ve only just met. Besides, it’s not as if we have anything in common. I mean, I wouldn’t know a hockey bat from a baseball bat.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “It’s a stick, Trish, a hockey stick.” She would have said something further along those lines, but she saw that her friend truly looked despondent, only reinforcing Claire’s long-standing belief that it never paid to fall in love. “Listen, sweetie, don’t worry about the sports stuff. Didn’t you ever hear of the theory that opposites attract? You can just say you met over this story, which is perfectly true. And there was this instantaneous spark. This spontaneous combustion.”

Trish sniffed. “Spontaneous combustion?”

“This violent, passionate bolt of desire, which struck like lightning.”

“Oh, that spontaneous combustion.” Trish waved her hand dismissively and replaced her sunglasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. That kind of thing never happens. I’m surprised that a cynic like you, Claire, would even mention something as silly as that. People just don’t suddenly get all weak in the knees by some sudden onslaught of passion.”

Claire stared at Jason. She saw him work his jaw. She immediately thought of their fleeting kiss. Her stomach contracted violently. “I suppose you’re right,” she said softly, still looking at his lips.

“Still, people will believe anything, won’t they?” Trish sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. “And seeing as we could say it was this sudden thing, we could also say afterward that it broke up just as quickly—one of those sputtering flame things. So, will you do it?” She turned and rested a hand on Jason’s sleeve.

Jason looked at Claire’s lips.

“Jason?” Trish asked.

“Hmm?”

“Will you do it? Will you be my fiancé?”

He stared at Claire’s mouth as he spoke. “There’s still six weeks to the start of the season. And when you put it that way, how can I refuse.”

THREE HOURS LATER, ensconced in the children’s ward of an Upper East Side hospital and research institute, Claire had just about run out of film.

That wasn’t the only thing to run out of steam. After going through several tapes and lobbing out questions that seemed to touch on everything from his first-grade teacher—Mrs. Greenberg, she wore a hairnet and orthopedic shoes—to the latest rumors about his hot-and-heavy affair with a Swedish cover girl—“We’re just good friends,” Claire heard him say over the whir of her camera—Trish packed up her recorder, her cell phone and her handheld organizer, and had Elaine arrange for a car to take her back to the office.

Someone else had yet to wilt, though. Jason was enthusiastically chatting away and signing autographs in the children’s clinic. Despite the ever-present barrage of tubes and drips, the mood was pure upbeat, with Jason trading high-fives with most of the kids.

Claire circled a hospital bed as Jason joked with one boy about the cap he was wearing. “Hey,” he called over to Claire, “don’t take his picture unless he promises to get rid of that Rangers cap. It’s Blades or nothing around here.” Jason dug into a bag and pulled out a cap. “Now that’s more like it.”

The smiling boy, his head billiard-ball smooth, laughed as he doffed the Blades souvenir. “Hey, Jason, you fall for my trick every time. I must have four Blades caps from you already.” The youngster adjusted the bill just right.

Jason held up a warning finger. “And that’s going to be the last. At least for today.” He pulled down the bill as Claire snapped another picture. “I’m all out of caps. Did everybody get one, Larry?” He looked to the doctor who was accompanying them.

“I think you’ve hit everyone, at least once, Jason.” As the rest of the medical team, Larry—Dr. Lawrence Shepherd, head of pediatric oncology—wore bright colors instead of the usual white uniform. He had a silly-looking frog hanging off his stethoscope. It seemed to suit the middle-aged physician with the gimlet smile. “We’ll see you back here in two weeks anyway, right?”

Jason nodded. “Got enough for the scrapbook, Claire?” He got up off the bed, looking bone-weary but deep-down satisfied.

“You’re a fraud, Jason Doyle,” Claire said as she packed up. “Vernon churns out the usual publicity drivel about the swinging star-athlete making the requisite charity appearances, and here it actually looks like you enjoy it. Next you’ll tell me you’ve been coming here off-the-record for five years.”

“I’d say it’s more like fifteen,” Larry said as he walked them to the elevators. He pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses and looked at Jason.

“It’s the food. I just can’t get enough of it.”

“Just bring the Stanley Cup to New York this coming season,” Larry said. “I’ve got a twenty-dollar bet riding on it with the president of the hospital board.”

“And here I thought I was appreciated for just being me.” They walked companionably to the elevators, with Jason inquiring about how Larry’s children had liked sleep-away camp. Without too much prompting, Larry opened his wallet.

“That’s some catch.” Claire leaned over to take a look at the snapshot. A boy of around ten with board shorts and a baseball cap turned backward was proudly holding a fish. A fishing pole stood at attention in the other hand.

“Largemouth bass. Must have been two pounds.” Larry grinned before carefully packing up his wallet.

“Paging Dr. Shepherd. Dr. Lawrence Shepherd.”

Larry looked up. “Never a dull moment.” He held open the elevator, letting Claire and Jason enter without him. “Remember what I said.” He looked at Jason.

“I know, the twenty dollars.”

“That, and my usual invitation. It’s always good any time you want.”

The doors closed. Jason leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. She let the day’s first moment of silence embrace them before finally asking, “How come you know Larry? You’re not from the city, right?”

“Nope, I’m one of St. Johnsbury, Vermont’s finest. Larry was my college roommate’s doctor. I never forgot what he did for Danny. Larry has a gift.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re completely untalented. How many people can play hockey the way you do?”

Jason opened his eyes. “Did a goal ever save anyone’s life?” He paused. “But enough humility on my part. Instead, let’s turn to a far more intriguing subject—Claire Marsden.” Whatever weariness or bitterness he may have felt was quickly masked.

“Trust me, it’s just your run-of-the-mill, globe-trotting photojournalist stuff. Not a very interesting topic.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s start with this.” Jason playfully tugged Claire’s streak of gray hair. “I’ve been dying to know. It’s real, yeah?”

“It’s real, yeah. Do you know many thirty-year-old women who purposely put gray in their hair?”

Jason toyed with the dramatic lock. “I like it. It’s different. It’s you.”

“Actually, it’s more my father. He had the same streak. Turned gray around seventeen, eighteen, just like me. And that’s what I inherited—besides seven hundred and forty-five dollars, a Leica in impeccable working order, and a good set of camera lenses.”

“I’d say from your talent, you inherited a whole lot more.” He toyed with her hair a bit longer. “And what did you inherit from your mother?”

Claire rescued her hair from his fingering and tucked it behind her ear. “If you met my mother, you wouldn’t even bother to ask the question. Let’s just say we’re the yin and yang of mother-daughter relationships.” The elevator doors opened at the hospital lobby. “Our eighteen months of living together were as baffling to her as they were to me. To her great consternation, I just never learned essential life lessons, like how to coordinate my handbag with my shoes.”

Jason studied her work boots and canvas camera bag that doubled as a catch-all purse. “I noticed. It’s one of your more charming qualities. I hadn’t thought of it before, but I may add that to my requirements for a future wife. Let’s see, where does that put you? Four in total?”

Claire swung open the wide glass door and walked outside. She waited under the canopy on the sidewalk. She looked around as he joined her. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish with all this future wife rigmarole, but it’s starting to get a little stale.”

Jason zipped up his jacket. “Rigmarole. I like that. Whoever said words weren’t your strength?”

Claire spun around. The man could try the patience of Mother Teresa. “All right, I’m just going to ignore whatever’s going on.”

“But why?”

“Well, for one thing, do I need to remind you that you’re supposed to have fallen madly in love with Trish and are engaged to her?”

“That’s pretend.”

“Nevertheless.” Claire pulled out the schedule from her back pocket and unfolded it. “Let’s see. Tomorrow appears to be a full day. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning we hit your gym.” She folded the paper back up. “A little workout’s in store.”

Jason wetted his lips, letting the tip of his tongue rest in the corner of his mouth. Never had a gesture of thoughtfulness been so X-rated.

“Hey, Jason, I don’t know which gets more stares—you, or that damn bike of yours.” The hospital doorman tossed him the keys. Jason’s motorcycle had mysteriously rematerialized in front of the hospital.

“Thanks, Nick,” he replied, then turned to Claire. “Can I give you a lift? I need both hands to steer, you know.”

“Even without your hands, you’re not to be trusted. I think I’ll take my chances on the street.” She took a few backward steps.

“Tomorrow.” Jason nodded. “I’ll be ready, Claire Marsden. Oh, which reminds me. Before, when you were explaining why you were going to ignore me, you said ‘for one thing.’ What I want to know is, what’s the other reason?”