Bombshell (16 page)

And never let me go.

 

I left the house bright and early the next morning, knowing that another day alone in the apartment might do me in.

So I did the thing that never failed to bolster my spirits.

I went shopping.

No, I wasn't looking for a new pair of shoes to uplift my spirits or a flirty skirt that might soothe some momentary
fashion whim. Christmas was coming, after all. Since this was the season of giving, I needed presents to give.

And as I sailed through Bloomingdale's, picking out a soft cashmere sweater my mother would adore once she chastised me over the cost and a navy turtleneck that would suit my dad's scholarly air, I started to look forward to the coming holiday. There was a certain joy in stumbling upon a gift I knew would be just perfect for someone on my list. Each find brought that deep satisfaction that came from knowing how to make another person happy.

I began to understand, in part, what might make me happy, too. Knew now it was something that a lifetime of solitude would never satisfy. I needed people.

Okay, Shelley? There, I said it.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, I had people—lots of them. Especially since, on a whim, I had headed down to Herald Square. I wondered what madness had driven me there, when after three hours of plowing through crowds, I stepped out onto an even more crowded and darkening sidewalk, only to realize it was close to five and conceivably the worst time of day to even attempt to hail a cab.

I would have to go underground, I realized with a sigh. It wasn't that I never took the subway. My commute to work just made a bus more convenient—or a cab, which I often indulged in.

The car was crowded, the ride longer than I remembered and I felt even more put upon when I got off at 86th and Broadway and discovered it had begun to snow. And not the harmless fluffy stuff I could simply have hurried home in. No, this stuff was wet. In fact, only an optimist would call it snow. It was more like rain than anything else.

When I saw the Cozy Café standing like a beacon on the
corner of 85th Street, I decided an impromptu meal was in order. Besides the fact that the Cozy Café made the best damn clam chowder, it was also a welcome respite from my lonely apartment. Funny how earlier I couldn't bear the crowds, and yet now the thought of being without them pained me even more.

I stepped inside, was just dusting off my collar with my one free hand, when I spotted him. Dr. Jonathan Somerfield, sitting all alone at a window table. I would have snubbed him if I could have, but he was looking up at me like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Well, hello,” I said, deciding instead to confront the man head-on and stepping past the Please Wait To Be Seated sign to stand before him.

“Hello,” he said, looking up at me as if I were…a sight for sore eyes. I wondered at that, just as I wondered how he could look so positively scrumptious, even on this somewhat soggy evening. He was dressed a bit better than previously, in a thick, braided Irish sweater and a pair of jeans that took away from his characteristic austerity. He surprised me further by saying, “Why don't you join me? I mean, if you aren't already meeting someone…” He glanced at the door as if someone might come in at any moment and swoop me away.

“No…no one,” I said. Then, as if this admission embarrassed me, I explained how I had been Christmas shopping all day and was on my way home when I remembered how fantastic the clam chowder was here.

At the mention of food, he waxed poetic about the Reuben sandwich, noting however, that it was nothing compared to the one you could get at Delia's Bistro on 115th Street and Amsterdam.

“Oh, I've been there!” I said, realizing that we had been
frequenting the same haunts for quite some time. After all, Columbia was my alma mater, so I could lay claim to its nearby eateries, too. And just as I was about to launch into a review of Ziggy's Bistro—a little known find I had discovered during my freshman year—he, at least, remembered I was still standing there dripping and weighted down by one too many bags.

“Here, let me help you,” he said, standing up to relieve me of some of those bags, carefully tucking them out of the way between the window and the table. Then he was helping me off with my coat, and I would have been suitably impressed by the chivalry of the gesture if I hadn't been completely blown away by the brush of his fingers on the nape of my neck.

My God, this man did something to me. And whatever it was, I wanted to bottle it.

But instead I hid my reaction, taking the seat he pulled out for me and watching as he walked to the rack by the front door and hung my coat.

When he sat down across from me once more, I was again in control. It was a good thing, too, because Dr. Jonathan Somerfield was looking at the way my sweater clung to my curves in a way that declared, yet again, that he was not as immune to me as he pretended to be, and he was clearly not happy about it.

Which only made me want to torture him further. So I slid my legs under the table until my knee came into contact with his.

I saw his eyes widen, felt him pull away before he began scrambling for conversation. “So, been Christmas shopping have you?” he said inanely. Then he picked up his coffee mug and practically gulped the still-steaming beverage.

“Mm-hmm,” I replied, glancing up at the waiter who approached our table. “I'll have a bowl of the clam chowder.”

When the waiter turned to Jonathan, he said, “I'll have the same,” abandoning all memory of that Reuben sandwich he'd just gone on and on about.

“How about you?” I said now, my question startling him further. Clearly he had forgotten the thread of the conversation, probably because I had increased the pressure of my leg against his. I felt positively vampy, yet I couldn't seem to stop myself. “Christmas shopping? Have you started?”

He frowned, then glanced away at the falling snow outside, as if the thought of the coming holiday bothered him. “No, no. Not yet anyway,” he said, meeting my gaze once more and allowing me a glimpse of that intangible emotion I had wondered at once before and now recognized because I had felt it myself so recently. Sadness. What did this man have to be sad about, exactly?

He looked away, as if he sensed he was showing his cards, then took another sip from his coffee mug before saying, “I'm not really one for the holidays.”

“Why not?” I found myself asking.

He seemed even more disturbed by my question, and I felt a sudden urge to apologize for what now felt like an impropriety.

Fortunately, both of us were saved by the waiter, who placed two steaming bowls of clam chowder before us.

Jonathan seemed cheered by the sight of our meal. “Well, I see you were right about the clam chowder. It looks…delicious.” He reached for his spoon, hesitated before digging in, as if the sight of that savory mixture were enough for him, then looked at me. “Aren't you—?”

I smiled. Wow, a gentleman, I thought, remembering the time I had returned from the rest room to find Ethan a third of the way through dinner. I picked up my spoon, as if to encourage Jonathan to eat, and watched as he ladled the soup into his mouth.

Do I know Manhattan clam chowder or what? I thought to myself as I watched him close his eyes to savor the taste.

When he opened his eyes, he nearly blushed, probably because
I
was devouring
him
with my eyes. “Kinda puts you in the mood,” I said, causing his eyes to widen, much to my delight. “For Christmas,” I finished, as if the answer had been obvious all along.

If my initial comment had shocked him, my explanation only confused him. “You know, Christmas Eve dinner.” Then, realizing that seafood for Christmas Eve dinner was an Italian tradition I had shared in as an honorary Italian with the lovable DiFranco brood over the years, I explained the custom to Jonathan. “I think it might have some religious significance.”

“Maybe,” he replied, “but I believe it might have grown from economic factors as well.” Then he went on to explain how in earlier times, the cost of meat was so much greater than that of fish. And as he outlined the historic and economic factors that had led up to the shrimp scampi I had enjoyed so often with the DiFranco family, I found myself biting back a smile. Jonathan Somerfield reminded me of my father, taking refuge in the certainty of academic facts and avoiding the more slippery terrain of emotion. I was certain now that this was his solution for avoiding the tension that buzzed between us every time we got within three feet of each other.

Now that I understood Jonathan better, I decided that if
I wasn't going to reach him on a sexual level, I'd take a back door. “So what is your area of specialization?” I asked.

“The French Romantics. Mostly Delacroix and Ingres. In fact, I did a little work with your father on post-Revolutionary art and culture. That's how we met. But I really got to know him at all those lunches we used to share. During his last semester at Columbia, we had the same four-hour gap between classes on Thursdays, and we sometimes headed over to the Met together to take in an exhibit. In fact, there's a great one going on right now that I'm sure he'd be interested in—‘Foundations of the Modern.' It's too bad he's not around….”

“I'm around,” I said, pouncing on my opportunity now that he'd opened the door. I don't know what came over me. I wasn't the type to run after a man. Had never really had to, since not many of the species could resist a big-chested blonde and alas, that was probably the problem with most. But something about this man—maybe his very aloofness—lured me. Challenged me.

He looked at me then, his brows furrowed. “Oh, I didn't know you had an interest in late-nineteenth-century art….”

Well, I was more of a twentieth-century art girl myself, but that was beside the point. “I dabbled a bit in school,” I said, “but I always wanted to explore it further.” Then, because my real motivation was to explore this man a little further, I prodded, “So how about it, Dr. Somerfield? You wanna give this interested bystander a personalized tour of the exhibit or what?”

I
t was curious that after protesting that he wasn't the best guide for this particular exhibit, since the paintings included were really outside of his area of expertise, Jonathan suddenly caved in. I mean, completely caved, suggesting we meet at the museum the very next evening. “Probably less of a crowd with everyone out of town for the holiday weekend,” he added quickly, as if realizing he had gone from reluctant tour guide to eager companion in a heartbeat.

I began to wonder if he was as lonely as I was this holiday weekend. But rather than dwell on that thought, I accepted his invitation. I wasn't going to stand on some ridiculous rule of single life that said I shouldn't accept with
so little advance notice. Besides, it wasn't really a date but more…an outing. A sharing of a common interest.

And perhaps it was this thought that had me dressing cautiously for my meeting with Jonathan, eschewing a skirt for a simple but flattering pair of slim-legged black pants and a sweater set in the softest shade of blue, which showed the color of my eyes without flaunting my other “assets.” We were just going to a museum, after all. I didn't want to scare the man.

Being tall, I always chose my footwear for a date with great care, especially in a city where short men seemed to reign supreme. I couldn't seem to remember how tall Jonathan was, since we had been seated for most of our random encounter at the café, before he practically ran away once the bill was paid and we were left only to drink each other in.

I thought back to the night at the gallery when we first met, how I had looked into his eyes…. Warmth suffused me at the memory, but I pushed it away to consider more pragmatic issues. We had been eye-level. What shoes had I been wearing?

Clicking through my mental files, I remembered first that I had on the pink sweater dress, which I usually wore with my stilettos.

Which was followed by another realization: Jonathan Somerfield was a decent height, if I could look into his eyes in those shoes.

Mmm-hmm. I love a tall man.

Still, I opted for my ballet flats. They suited the Jackie O classic look I was going for anyway. It was just a trip to a museum, not a…ball.

But as I traveled uptown in a taxi I had been lucky enough to hail right outside my building, I felt as if I were going to a ball. My stomach was fluttering with butterflies. Butterflies!

I am not a butterflies kind of girl.

I was glad that I had volunteered to meet Jonathan at the museum, seeing as he was coming from an appointment he had at the university, which was all the way uptown. I clearly needed time to prepare myself for this event.

By the time I walked into the museum and found Jonathan waiting for me in front of the information desk, dressed in a pair of jeans and gray turtleneck, I was ready. And incredibly glad I had gone for a more casual look. At least my instincts when it came to men, and this man in particular, had been right.

So I followed instinct again and didn't launch myself at him the way I wanted to once I laid eyes on him. Not even a friendly kiss on the cheek. Probably because he seemed so reserved, even in blue jeans. Maybe it was the turtleneck.

“Well, here we are,” he said, his eyes roaming over my face as if unable to believe I was there.

Cute, I thought, smiling up at him. He seemed so nervous.

“Yes, here we are,” I confirmed, feeling a flutter of nervousness myself.

Then, as if he feared I
might
launch myself at him, he said, “Well, I've already purchased us some tickets. Shall we?”

So we did, heading for the second floor, where the “Foundations of the Modern” exhibit was located. And because we were following all the rules tonight, we started the exhibit from the beginning. As soon as we began to stroll through, I saw Jonathan gain his stride again, surrounded by a world he understood. Since I knew, like my father, he would be more at ease with intellectual subjects, I played the neophyte, asking questions about the paintings we stood before, which were arranged chronologically to show the beginnings of the modern period in artists as early as Velasquez, whose
brush stroke technique, according to Jonathan, made him a very early precursor to the later Impressionist painters. The exhibit seemed to follow this line of thinking as well, since Monet and Sisley came next. And as we stood before each painting, I merely had to ask a few innocent questions and then stand back and listen as Jonathan gave a running discourse on historical factors contributing to late-nineteenth-century painting, some of which I already knew—not that he realized that. But I wasn't here to learn about art, though seeing these great works collected together was certainly stimulating. I was here, really, to learn about Jonathan. So I simply listened and watched and nodded my head in all the appropriate places.

And I did learn a few things. About art. And about the adorable Dr. Somerfield.

That he enjoyed the painterly style of some artists over the more restrained brush strokes of others. That historical subjects seemed to invigorate him somehow, while the landscapes made him ponderous.

That his eyes had gold flecks of color in them and his brows furrowed most becomingly whenever he stumbled upon a contentious subject.

By the time we were about to turn the corner on the twentieth century,
I
thought I might launch myself at him. The thing about Jonathan was that between his tall good looks and his keen intelligence, he was absolutely…irresistible.

And challenging. I had let him fly so long in those lofty intellectual heights I thought for a moment I might never bring him down. Maybe I should have worn a low-cut dress after all.

When we got to Cézanne's
Still Life with Fruit Basket,
I was bubbling over with something. And despite all those lush
paintings Jonathan had just guided me through, I feared it had little do with art.

“Ah, here we are,” he said, studying the painting, which featured exactly what its title implied. “The beginning of the end.” His brows furrowed deliciously.

Whether it was the desire that shot through me at the sight of that now-irresistible expression, or the challenge of his somewhat blasphemous proclamation about the painting, I found myself ready to duel. After all, I was a modern girl myself, not only in my taste in art, but in my relationships with men.

“The end?” I said. “Maybe the end of this exhibit, but Cézanne laid the foundation for many of the abstract artists of the later period.”

“I'll give you that, but just take a look here. See the way that table looks like it's tilted? He had no regard for reality. I mean, those fruits should be rolling off the table and on to the floor. The composition is…off.”

I smiled, remembering how one of my favorite art history professors had argued that Cézanne had fashioned a whole new language for composition out of an inability to paint. It was the kind of argument that had given hope to a dreamy-eyed freshman with little artistic ability herself. After all, it had been hard to accept my lack of ability, especially in the face of all the accolades my mother had received for her talents as a musician. Or all the honors heaped on my father over the years for his academic writing. Of course, I was no Cézanne—in fact I had I finally given up and switched to business administration in my sophomore year. But the mythology of Cézanne's art had bolstered my spirits as a young woman still searching for her way in life.

The memory of that bolstered me now. Or maybe it was the way Jonathan was looking at me, with a kind of hungry anticipation of my next words.

“That may be true,” I began, “but we couldn't have had a Picasso without a Cézanne. I think his disregard for the rules of composition is precisely what inspired later artists to explore a new language in their art making.”

Those brows smoothed out once more. “Point taken,” he said. Then, as if he wondered now at all the rather sophomoric questions I had lobbed at him through the rest of the exhibit, he said, “So I see someone isn't as unknowledgeable about her art history as she pretends to be.”

I shrugged nonchalantly, then finally confessed. “Actually, I studied fine arts at Columbia before switching to business administration.” Even as I said it, I felt that old insecurity rear its ugly head. Like I wasn't good enough to pursue those lofty dreams my own parents had pursued. “I loved the art history courses,” I added, as if I were scrambling for common ground between us. “I guess I'm just more suited to analyzing budgets and monitoring trends than I am at…at painting landscapes.”

A smile touched his features. And what a smile it was. “Clearly business was the best choice for you. I remember how proud your father was when you landed some big managerial position,” he said. “A pharmaceutical firm, wasn't it?”

If I was surprised to have been a subject of conversation between Jonathan and my father, I was even more shocked that Jonathan remembered it. “That's right. Only I've moved on since then. Now I'm in cosmetics.” Realizing I was in danger of sounding fluffy, I added, “More creative opportunities. And money, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, his smile deepening.

Then I discovered something else about Dr. Jonathan
Somerfield. That far from wanting to spend the evening espousing his theories on art, he wanted to know about me. In fact, I think he felt some sort of relief at giving up the scholarly role I had maneuvered him into previously. Once we made our way out of the gallery, he even suggested we go to the balcony for a cocktail.

And as we sat overlooking the lovely lobby of the Met from high above, he asked me all about myself. My job. Growing up on Long Island. What it was like to have the illustrious Dr. Noonan for a dad.

I laughed at that. “According to my father, you're pretty illustrious yourself. Imagine what your kids will feel like someday….”

His expression became shuttered, and I wondered at that. Wondered even more when he returned his gaze to mine and I saw that same sadness I had seen there before. What did this man have to be sad about? I found myself wondering once more.

As it turned out, I didn't find out that evening. Because I also discovered that one of the reasons Jonathan wanted to talk so much about me was so he could avoid talking about himself.

It made him more of a mystery. And more of a challenge. “So tell me your story,” I said finally.

“Ah, it's the usual dull tale,” he said with a smile. “Grew up in Connecticut, went to Yale, then on to New York and Columbia for grad school. I did some post-doc work at the University of Chicago, even taught there for a while. But when the Columbia position came up, I couldn't resist returning to New York.” He looked around the beautiful balcony we sat on. “I'm a slave to it really. All this…magnificence.” Then he met my gaze again, and I saw from the way
his eyes roamed over my face that he thought I was pretty magnificent, too.

Not that that got me anywhere. Because after we shared a cab back to the Upper West Side, with me plotting during the whole ride how to get him at least to my doorstep for that end-of-evening kiss I was anticipating in every part of my body, he simply smiled at me when we pulled up in front of my building and bid me a husky good-night.

It didn't worry me though. Because Jonathan clearly had been doing a little plotting of his own in the cab. Two blocks before my building, he had casually mentioned that he had tickets to a concert Tuesday night and just as casually asked me if I wanted to go.

It was enough to make a girl feel positively cheerful.

 

“'Allo, Grace!” Lori greeted me when I arrived back at work on Monday morning.

“Welcome back, Lori,” I said, smiling at her. I hadn't realized how much I had missed her until I felt a wave of pure relief wash through me at the sight of her. “How was your trip?”

“It was fab!” she continued, her voice lilting oddly.

I raised an eyebrow at her, my smile still in place. “Really?”

“Oh, Grace, it was the best bloody vacation I've had in…in yonks!”

Yonks?
Suddenly I understood that strange inflection in Lori's tone. It seemed our girl had taken on a bit of a British accent during her brief stay across the pond. She went on to explain how “brilliant” her trip was, describing the sights she and Dennis had taken in, the photos she had shot. The reminder of those photos caused her to pause in her discourse to dig into the knapsack beside her desk.

My smile grew wider as I remembered what it was to be young, to feel the freedom—or was it the naiveté—that allowed you to try on different hats and boldly wear them, no matter how silly they looked—or sounded.

“So how did Dennis's interview go at the school?” I asked.

Opening her packet of photos to show me, Lori rolled her eyes, looking like the all-American girl she clearly was. “The guy he met with was a bit of a wanker,” she said, clearly pleased with her clever insertion of British slang, “but it went very well. Dennis liked the school, even met with one of the professors he hopes to study with. And the grounds were just…
fab.
Have a look for yourself,” she continued, laying the photos out on the desk before her.

I leaned in to look, feeling keenly her anticipation of my opinion as I studied them. There were some shots of the campus, along with the typical tourist shots of Big Ben gleaming the sunlight, the Houses of Parliament. Dennis gazing out at the camera from beside the Thames and from within what looked like a castle turret. The photos were well executed, but they were nothing compared to the grouping she brought out next. A stormy sky sheltering a cobblestone path. A gray stone structure set off by a sweep of lush green landscape. A closeup of a child caught in a moment of surprise as she encountered a pigeon in Trafalgar Square.

“I especially like these,” I said, pointing out the landscape she had captured and the photo of the cobblestone street.