Midnight (McKenna Chronicles Book 1) (20 page)

~

Colin
waits for me at the front of the plane. The wind whips my hair as we walk
through the door, it flares like flames around my head. I pull my jacket closer
with one hand, a low shiver rolling through my body from the wicked chill in
the air.

Colin
clutches my hand, steadying my gait as we descend the private stairs rolled to
the door of the plane. His long fingers heat mine as he ensures I’m delivered
safely to the ground. For a quick moment, a multitude of bright lights fire in
quick sequence startling me. I look to Colin, and his eyes squint in the
darkening sky to see the cause, but before he can draw a conclusion we’re
whisked into a waiting car, just the two of us. The Montgomerys and Evan are
escorted to a separate vehicle.

I
turn my head quickly to Colin, searching his eyes for an answer. He smiles and
grabs my hand. Lifting it up, he brushes his lips over my knuckles causing my
insides melt.

“I
want to take you to dinner,” he whispers softly. He leans forward to speak with
the driver and their conversation is hidden from me due to the roar of a plane
taking off on a nearby runway. Colin slides back on the fine leather, pressing
a button so a black window rises between the front and back seats, effectively
plunging us into our own private world. Sitting up straight, he turns to me,
his chest facing mine. Lifting his hand to my face, he holds me like a delicate
flower. Barely touching my cheek, he whispers, “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

Leaning
in slowly, I follow his darkened eyes until his lips press against mine, sweet
and gentle. He doesn’t move to deepen the kiss, his mouth worshiping, his
tongue tenderly rubbing mine in a caress. I sigh into him, the gentleness
sweeping through me, and I revel in the unexpected intimate moment.

Far
too soon he breaks away and rubs his nose against mine, reminiscent of an
Eskimo kiss. Grinning broadly, I lean my forehead to his. How is it he can be
so romantic?

Pulling
away suddenly, I start patting myself down, trying to remember what I have on.
His face registers concern and then he understands where I’m going with this.

“You
look fantastic,” he appraises me from head to toe with a lascivious look in his
eye.

Swatting
at him playfully, I look down at my dark, skinny blue jeans—they’re too casual,
I think. I’m thankful I pulled on my heels at the very least. The deep-red silk
camisole detailed with delicate lace is barely visible underneath my leather
jacket. 

There’s
not much I can do about it now so I lean back into Colin. His arm drapes over
my shoulders as I snuggle deeper into him, enjoying his warmth and nearness. We
ride content without talking, just watching New York City pass by outside of
the car’s darkened windows.

~

We
stop outside of a quaint Italian restaurant. Colin’s hand wraps around mine as
he pulls me from the car, whisking me through the doors and out of the cold
wind. My first impression is that Colin has taken me to an Italian
grandmother’s dining room for dinner. The interior décor is so unlike what I’ve
come to know as his preferred modern industrial style that I’m surprised this is
where we’re eating, but somehow it’s perfect.

Everything
is meticulously cared for: the large, tiered crystal chandeliers dropping from
the white spackled ceiling are pristine, each crystal bouncing brilliant muted
light throughout the room. The deep cream walls have picture after picture of
an Italian family, generations displayed from birth to old age, special
occasions memorialized for everyone they welcome into their family fold each
day. It’s a heartwarming display.

What
is most amazing is the aroma; it’s as if Grandma’s special recipe, the recipe
held in the strictest of confidence, has permanently blended into every nuance
of the room, warming it, welcoming in spirit, beckoning you home. It’s
wonderful, a perfect blend of spice and fresh air, growing the vegetables on
the vine.

The
host exuberantly welcomes Colin, as if they’ve known each other for many years.
“
Buona sera
, Senator McKenna!
Come sta
?” the tall, thin man asks
with a broad, welcoming grin.

“
Molto
bene, grazie. E tu Signore Rosa
?” Colin replies easily as they shake hands
like old friends, Signore Rosa using both of his in welcome.

Transitioning
from Italian to heavy-accented English, he says, “It’s been so long. We’re so
happy you found your way back to us.” His smile doesn’t fade as Colin
introduces me.

“Signore
Rosa, this is my friend, Charlise.”

The
thin man’s eyes brighten even more, as he appraises me, “
Benvenuta!
Signorina Charlisa. Sei molto bella
.”

I
flush at his warm reception, and how my name falls artfully from his lips.

“Please,
follow me. I have a special table for you.” He motions with his arm as he moves
into the restaurant.

Colin’s
arm lingers gently on my lower back as we follow Signore Rosa through the
charming, romantic room. Each table seems to have its own place, artfully
separated from the others to ensure whispered words are not overheard, small
gestures are not seen and sweet kisses are between just the two. Candles flame
and wave delicately, sparkling against the white crisp cloth dressing the
square tables, comfortable deep wood chairs pulled intimately into them. At the
far end of the long, rectangular room is a tall, stone wall; a wood hearth is
burrowed into the large rocks, heating the room to a warm glow. Either side of
the stone wall allows entrance to a secondary room, even more intimate than the
first. Signore Rosa waves us over to a very private circular table, hidden
behind a chest-high wall separating it from the rest of the guests, plunging us
into our own private Italian bistro.

Before
I have a chance to sit, an animated little Italian woman, streaks of gray
highlighting her otherwise black curly hair, enters the room, vibrantly
greeting Colin. Her Italian falls from her tongue so quickly there's no chance
I can decipher what she’s saying with my limited knowledge of the language.
Colin doesn’t appear to have any challenges keeping up, engaging fluently in
conversation.

“
Mama
Rosa, cosi
bello
vederti
.” He embraces her warmly, her small
frame dwarfed in his arms, but she squeezes him and he laughs. When they pull
apart she kisses him affectionately on each check.

“You
stay away too long,” she admonishes with her thick accent, her hand holding his
cheek. Glancing behind him she spots me, her eyes rounding at first and then
narrowing in suspicion.
Mama bear protecting her cub
.

“
Una
Rangazza
?” I can tell by the inflection it’s a question, but I don’t know
what she’s asking.

Colin
shakes his head. “
Un amico
.”

She
tilts her head in question and then smiles and squeezes both of his cheeks.
Without another word she waves us into the booth, rattling something in Italian
to Colin. It’s obvious he comes here often, but with whom? How does he know the
Rosas so well?

I
slide into the center of the booth and Colin follows, sitting closer than I’d
expected, gazing at me with hooded eyes. He smirks and brings my hand to his
mouth, brushing his lips over my knuckles. My heart flutters from the gesture.
Setting our joined hands on his thigh under the table, his thumb runs lazy
circles over my fingers, warming my chilled skin. 

Our
waiter appears from around the corner. “
Buongiorno
, I’m Anthony and I’ll
be your server this evening.”

Colin’s
eyes haven’t left my face, watching as my eyes grow wide when Anthony runs
through the abundant number of wine selections; it’s as if he has unearthed a
new language that I’m hearing for the very first time.

He
asks with a hint of humor in his tone, “Would you like me to order,
Charlie?"

I'm
not offended, nodding my head in agreement. He squeezes my hand under the table
while ordering a bottle of Chardonnay.

“Do
you come here often?” I ask to satisfy my curiosity.

His
eyes darken, nodding. “I haven’t been here in a long time” is his limited
response. He turns away, and sweeps his gaze around the small room as if to
remember the long ago visits. 

“Tell
me,” I prompt. I need to learn more about him, this man stirring unchartered
emotions within my heart.

Finally,
he sighs. “My wife and I would come here when we were in New York. It was one
of my favorite places . . .” He trails off, and his eyes reconnect with mine to
judge my reaction to this morsel of information.

I
stare, not sure what I should say or how I feel about it. “Will you tell me
about her, your wife? What was she like?”

His
face forlorn, “I . . .” he starts, and hesitates.

Anthony
saves him, placing fresh bruschetta in front of us and pours the wine into two
glasses. “Is there anything I can get for you?” he asks.

“No,
nothing at the moment. Thank you.” Colin returns his eyes to mine.  

I
take a big sip of wine, knowing I’ll need some form of buffer for the
information I hope he shares. It’s surprisingly spicy with a hint a vanilla.
 

“Charlie,”
he starts again, “I didn’t bring you here because I want to talk about her. I
haven’t been here in a very long time and it is one of my favorite places; they
have excellent food. I thought you might like it too,” he finishes, lifting his
glass to his lips, watching me thoughtfully.  

“I’m
just trying to get to know you, Colin. She’s a huge part of you: the love you
had for her, the time you spent together, your loss, they have all shaped who
you are today. I want to know you. I’m not afraid of your past and how it has
moved you through to the present.”

His
face is unreadable, contemplative; he unlocks our hands, pulling away from me
physically as he distances himself emotionally to talk about her. Sighing, he
continues. “Abby. Her name was Abby.” His head drops, focusing on the empty
plate in front of him. Neither of us has touched the bruschetta. “Ella actually
introduced me to her. I knew Ella from college; we were both in a Young
Republican group working on President Bush’s campaign. She invited a group of
us to a fundraiser sponsored by her family. Abby was there.” Colin’s eyes
change, but I can’t read the emotion held within their depths. I remember what
Molly and Sally told me about Ella and Colin dating before he swapped her out
for Abby; that doesn’t seem like something Colin would do.

He
continues, “I thought she was very different from everyone else at the party.
Abby wasn’t materialistic, nor did she cave to her parents’ high-society social
rules. John always considered her a rebel.” He laughs, a hard, brittle sound.
My heart sinks for him as he remembers her, pain evident in his
features.  

“Go
on,” I prompt.

Shaking
his head, he says “What else do you want to know Charlie?” I see him retreating
into himself. “It’s in the past; she’s gone.”

I
don’t want to push him, but I have questions. “How long were you married?”

“Two
years,” he says without emotion.

“How
did she die?” I whisper, not knowing if this is too much.

He
blows out a deep breath. “She died in a car accident.” We have a sad
commonality: the loss of loved ones in a car accident.

“I’m
sorry.” I wonder if he ever let himself grieve for her, for his child.

“I
don’t talk about Abby very often. It’s a painful topic,” he admits. “I don’t
want to bring her into our night together, please. I really did bring you here
because I like it, not because she did.”

“Is
she the reason why you’re complicated?” I gravitate to the words he uses to
describe himself.

His
laugh is hard. “You could say that. I feel like my whole life is complicated.”
His eyes are sad when they find mine. “My marriage is certainly a contributing
factor, and then there’s my career. Both of those things make it nearly
impossible for me to have a normal relationship.” His voice houses a certain
level of hopelessness I deeply wish I could erase; yet I don’t understand why
these two things are so hurtful to him.

“You
equate the complications of your life to your ability to have a relationship?”

“A
normal relationship,” he clarifies.

“I
don’t understand, Colin; what’s normal?”

He
shrugs. “A wife, a dog, two-point-five kids, living in a subdivision in Middle
America with a mini-van and a white picket fence.”

I
laugh at his description. “So, why can’t you do normal?”

“Charlie,”
he levels his eyes at me, “this is exactly one of the reasons why I’m drawn to
you.” He finds my hand again, squeezing it gently. “You so easily see past
pretenses, but in this case there are truths that can’t be overlooked or
forgotten. If all goes as planned I’ll reside in the White House for the next
eight years. There’s no subdivision surrounding 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
That’s a big complication.”

“So
you’re missing one out of seven; a wife, a dog, and kids are all possible. The
White House is close to Middle America, so we’ll call it even, and I think you
could put one hell of a white picket fence up around the lawn. You would be,
after all, the president of United States, with the most absolute power. I have
no doubt you would make a white picket fence possible. Don’t let that
complicate your life.”

He
tries hard to keep a straight face, but he can’t. A low rumble begins and then
he’s laughing deeply. “In the matter of a minute you have been able to simplify
what I thought was one of the most complicated challenges surrounding my life.
Thank you.”

I
realize I love his laugh and that I can make it happen. But his reason for it
saddens me. “Are you serious? Do you seriously doubt you’ll ever find love
again?”