Melted and Whipped (8 page)

Of course he’s right. I have to go home immediately. I nod.

“You’re not in any state to drive,” he says. “I’ll drive you to your place so you can pack some things, then I’ll take you to the airport.”

“Okay,” I say. I don’t want to need his help, but the fact is that I do. I’m shaking so badly that it’s not safe for me to drive right now. “We can take my car, and I’ll pay for you to get a taxi from—”

“Nonsense. I’ll drive my own vehicle.”

I have to get dressed.

I have to get a plane ticket, will need to spread the cost across my credit cards.

What I don’t do is think about Stacy, at least not in any detail. I can’t allow myself to, not if I want to hold it together long enough to get home.

Porter stops his luxury SUV in front of my apartment building.

“I’ll be fast,” I promise.

He turns off the engine. “I’m coming in to help,” he says.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I’m not very good at sitting around in a crisis.”

A crisis.
The words echo as I unlock the front door and walk up the narrow creaking steps. They’re painted white, which puts the filth in stark relief. I’m far past being embarrassed, though.
A crisis
.

This
is
a crisis, though I don’t want to think about it, can’t let myself…

“It will only take me a few minutes,” I say numbly. “Please make yourself comfortable.” I gesture vaguely at the couch, which is the opposite of comfortable, as Porter will soon discover for himself, and I drop my purse onto the coffee table.

My apartment is tiny, one step up from a studio. The kitchen and living room are all one room, and I’ve got a bedroom barely the size of one of the gondolas on the mountain. The bathroom doesn’t even have space for a tub. In a resort town like this one, real estate is worth more than gold.

I know that later I’ll be ashamed of my shabby furnishings, the mismatched curtains, the three-quarter-sized refrigerator, the bare light bulb that hangs over the center of the main room. My home isn’t nice, and I haven’t done much with it. To be honest, short of dousing everything in gasoline and shooting a flaming arrow into the couch, I’m not sure there’s anything I could do to improve it.

My obsolete laptop, the one I bought a few months before I was laid off, is sitting on the table. I open the cover and tap impatiently on the trackpad, willing it to rouse itself.

“You’re flying into New York?” Porter asks, coming to stand beside me.

I nod as I turn my wooden chair to the side so I can rest my left knee on it. My computer screen flickers, and I click on the browser.

“If you like, I can search for flights while you pack. It’s more efficient.” He’s already pushing into my space.

“I don’t think there are that many leaving in the next two hours,” I say.

“To go to New York? There’s one in forty-five minutes and another in… It doesn’t matter. I can get you on that one. It will connect in Chicago.”

Maybe under different circumstances I’d protest, but it will save me a lot of time if he looks for flights, and he clearly knows the route well. I guess it makes sense if he’s been commuting back and forth.

“Thanks. The computer’s kind of slow,” I say apologetically.

“I’ll survive. Go pack what you need.”

I hurry into my bedroom, open the shallow closet and stand on tiptoe to reach the large backpack on the top shelf. It’s not the kind used for hiking, but it’s still roomy enough to hold what I’ll need for a couple of days. Normally I could borrow clothes from my sister, but… not now.

I throw in a pair of jeans, two shirts, some socks, bras, and underwear. I normally wouldn’t bother with toiletries—I’m sure it won’t be a problem if I stay at my dad’s house—but the waterproof bag is still stocked from my last trip. I drop my toothbrush into the top and add it to the backpack.

Phone charger.

What else do I need?

That’s everything. At the last minute I grab the paperback I’ve been slowly reading for the last few weeks.

Zipping the bag closed, I mentally run through everything I could possibly need, but I think I’m covered. I switch off the light and return to the living room.

Porter is standing next to the door. “Ready to go?”

My gaze darts to my laptop. The cover is closed. “But—”

“Hear me out,” he says. “I…” He looks uncomfortable.

“There’s no room on the flights?”

“No… I don’t know. I…” His gaze dips down for a moment, but then he raises his eyes to mine, and his hesitation is gone. “I have a private plane. I was going to return in two days anyway.”

“Oh,” I say, equal parts shocked and horrified. “That’s…” Actually, I don’t know what that is. My mind can’t handle this on top of everything else, and I don’t know what to say, how to react. “You can’t…”

“My pilots and crew are on the way,” he says. He opens the door. “Come on. We have to get out within thirty-five minutes.”

“Thank you,” I mumble. I know I probably sound ungrateful, but for the moment I’m ashamed, and I feel uncomfortable. But this is Stacy. I would never take charity for myself, but for Stacy, for Greg… Getting home as soon as possible is all that matters.

I heft the backpack over one shoulder, but when I reach Porter, he takes it from me. “You forgot your purse,” he says, nodding at the scratched-up coffee table. “Your phone and keys are in it.”

He’s right. “Thank you,” I say.

Something tells me I’m going to be saying those words an awful lot.

The airport Porter takes us to isn’t one I’ve ever seen before. After presenting some identification to a guard, he drives his car almost right up to the plane, which is smaller than most of the commercial flights I’ve been on but certainly isn’t the smallest.

Dawn has turned into early morning, a new day full of promise, but as I stare at the gleaming white plane, all I can think of is Greg.

Greg never wanted Stacy to get pregnant. Before they started dating, he knew about our family history, the rare genetic disorder that makes pregnancy dangerous. He knew how our mother had died. One day, about a year ago, he called me and asked, “Can I ask you a personal question? Feel free to smack me, but don’t tell your sister.”

“Greg,” I said, laughing. “Since when do you care about personal or not personal?”

“Do you plan to have kids? Have you changed your mind about that?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, and I wasn’t laughing anymore. “It’s not worth the risk. And suppose the baby survives but I don’t? What kid needs to grow up with that kind of guilt?”

“Stacy wants them. I can’t talk her out of it.”

“Keep your snake in your pants, and she won’t have much say about it,” I suggested. “Anyway, she’s just talking. She doesn’t mean it.”

He laughed, but I could tell he was worried. Then, three months later, when I was in town for a short visit, Stacy hosted a family dinner to announce that she was four weeks pregnant. She knew it was early, but she wanted to tell everyone in person. After a stunned silence, we all congratulated her, but the tears in Dad’s eyes weren’t of joy. He was scared. We all were.

And now I know we were right to be.

Porter gestures for me to climb the plane’s steps. “Be careful,” he says. He probably thinks I’m so out of it that I’ll slip and fall, but I grab the thin metal railing on each side of the steps. Still, we’re probably both relieved when I step into the plane.

“Good morning.” A woman in her mid-fifties gives me a radiant smile. From the quasi-military way she’s dressed, I’m guessing she’s one of the pilots.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m so sorry to get you up so early.”

Porter’s hand presses on my back, like he wants to reassure me.

“I was already up, feeding the horses,” she says good-naturedly. “And now I can do some shopping in New York. I should thank you.”

I appreciate her effort to put me at ease, but when I see the cabin, I start to feel sick again. It’s over-the-top luxurious, pristine tan and cream couches and chairs, small but elegant tables fixed next to the seats. It’s gorgeous. Even the shades on the windows are custom fabric and not the hard plastic things I’m used to. I can’t even imagine how much it will cost in fuel to fly it halfway across the continent. All this just to get me to New York. If I weren’t so worried about Stacy, I’d be running out.

A flight attendant emerges from the back of the plane to take the backpack. “Good morning to you both,” she says.

“I’ll be right back,” Porter says, steering me to a seat.

The material is soft, supple, and the chair is so comfortable it’s hard to believe I’m on an airplane.

“Can I offer you something to eat or drink?” the flight attendant asks.

“What do you have?” I’m not thirsty, but I’m nervous, and I want something to do with my hands, which are still trembling.

“Anything you want,” she says.

“A mimosa?”

“That’s festive. Coming right up.” She seems so happy.

And then I realize it’s Christmas Day. All these people were dragged out of bed at dawn on Christmas Day because of me.

Immediately I feel even worse.

Porter reappears. “We’ll be taking off in a few minutes,” he says, sliding into the seat across from me.

“Porter,” I say, but I can’t continue.

He leans forward and gently touches my knee. “Did you get another phone call?”

“No. I…” Before I can explain, the flight attendant returns carrying a tray with two drinks. She places the mimosa on the little table. “Thank you,” I say, barely holding back from apologizing.

Porter gets coffee. Unless she emptied a few shots of peppermint schnapps in it, I’m the only one drinking. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any shittier. Miserable, I take a sip of my mimosa. The bubbles and citrus mix perfectly in my mouth, but I can’t enjoy the drink.

“Will it help if I hold your hand?” Porter asks.

The last thing I want is to take another favor from anyone, especially Porter, but if I say no I’ll be lying. So instead I say nothing at all.

He takes my hand, holding it between his. “I’m sorry you’re going through this,” he says.

“I’m not going through anything. My sister is.” It comes out a little harshly, and I shake my head. “Don’t listen to me, Porter. I’m…” I’m sick of myself. I feel selfish and guilty, and angry because I should have picked up extra shifts or done whatever it took to fly home for the holidays. I should have been there. “I appreciate that you’re doing this, but it doesn’t seem fair to have dragged your crew away from their families on Christmas.”

Porter’s smile is warm. “Lisa, the attendant, loves working holidays because she knows she’ll get a nice bonus. One of the pilots is based in New York, and the other lives in Florida. None of them live here.”

“Oh,” I say. What he’s telling me makes sense. “In that case, I guess you’re the bad guy for dragging them out here for the holidays.”

He grins. “I’m very fair to my employees. Later, when I use the bathroom, you can ask Lisa.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

The plane’s engines become a little louder, though not much, and soon we begin to move. The ride is so smooth, if I closed my eyes I would think we were sitting still. Gradually, I become aware of Porter’s hands around mine, cupping my fingers between his. Even though sex should be the last thing on my mind, the sensations and images from last night press to the front.

A quick glance around and I notice Lisa is out of sight, out of earshot. “How can you tell if a woman is kinky?” I ask.

Porter seems to consider that before frowning. “I don’t know. How?”

I almost laugh when I realize he thought I was asking him a joke. “No, it’s a serious question. How can
you
tell?”

Porter does laugh, then he leans toward the window. “This is my favorite part. I like watching the mountains become small. Humanity’s response to the awesome scope of the natural world.”

“Distance,” I say.

“Distance and perspective.”

Now I laugh. “It’s like we’re back in art appreciation class,” I say.

“I’m going to nod, and you’re going to pretend I said something that adds to the conversation, because I don’t remember a damned thing from that class.”

“Really? I feel like I’m always seeing or hearing something that reminds me.” Which is funny, because I spent more time staring at Porter than taking notes, but I guess it got into my mind somehow. He doesn’t need to know that, though. “I’d never taken any kind of art class before. It was like a new world opening up. After I landed the job in the city, I loved going to art museums.”

“The resort village and town have world-class art galleries,” Porter says. “I assume you attend the openings?”

I shake my head, and even though it feels natural to take a sip of my drink, unless I take my hand out of Porter’s grasp, I’ll have to reach over with my other arm. It would be so awkward that Porter would probably release me.

I don’t want him to let go. Ever.

“No,” I say. “The galleries are for people thinking about buying the art,” I say. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to go there. Even if I didn’t drink their wine and snack on the hors d’oeuvres, I’d be taking up space that should go to a potential customer.”

“That’s…” He frowns. “The saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You work in banking. I’m sure you’ve heard sadder.”

Porter squints into the distance. “No, actually, I haven’t. First, how do you know you’re not a potential customer?” His golden eyes probe mine as he waits patiently for an answer.

“Because I’m broke,” I say simply. “I guess you figured that out twenty seconds after seeing where I live.”

“I love where you live,” he says. He seems to mean it.

“Then you’re insane. There’s nothing romantic about poverty.”

“No, there isn’t. At the risk of sounding elitist, when I see your apartment, I don’t think about poverty. I think I’m in the home of someone who lives
on
the mountains. What better furniture than resting on a pair of skis? What better decoration than newly falling snow? Show me a sound system that can rival the whispers of the wind through the firs.”