Rusty Nailed (Cocktail 2)

“It’s not that. I just think you’re working too much; you need to slow down a bit,” he grumbled, pulling me across the bed and into his side.

“Things will slow down after the holidays, you’ll see. Besides, I’m in charge right now—kind of don’t have a choice,” I reminded him.

“I know, I just— I know,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

I kissed his chest. “It’ll ease up, I swear in the name of SpongeBob HandBird.”

A moment later, the bed was shaking from laughter. And a few minutes later, the bed was shaking for a different reason.

Eh, sleep is overrated. Being turned over by a Wallbanger? Priceless.

• • •

The week of Thanksgiving started out okay. The morning after the Pictionary party, I left a sleeping Simon behind while I headed over to work for a few hours, came home, and then ate na**d turnovers with Simon in bed. Or, ate turnovers in bed with Simon, na**d? Whatever, that was the high point of the week.

Without a family to speak of, Simon had always kept himself busy over Thanksgiving as well as Christmas. This year, I’d been hoping he’d take my family up on their offer of spending Thanksgiving together, but he wasn’t quite ready for that.

He’d met my folks on several occasions, and holy shit on a shingle, I have never seen Simon more nervous than he was the first time. Meeting the parents is a big deal in any relationship, but he’d never been involved with anyone long enough to make this step before. He totally won them over, though. He flirted like hell with my mom, won my dad over by sharing stories of Formula 1 races he’d attended over the years, and now he looked forward to spending time with them when they came to San Francisco. But a turkey dinner in a house filled to bursting with family?

“I just can’t. Maybe next year,” he explained, while I handed him socks I’d folded for him. He dropped them into the suitcase, then headed into his closet to grab some sweaters. “They won’t be mad, will they? I mean, I always work this time of year; it’s just what I do.”

“No no, they get it. And I get it. But I’ve finally got some time off, and just wish we could spend it together,” I said quietly, watching as the sweaters went into the bag. I’d be working like crazy right up until Thursday, but I’d planned on spending the rest of the week at home with my folks.

“I know, babe. You’ve been so busy lately even when I am here, I hardly see you,” he answered, dropping a kiss on my forehead and disappearing back into the closet.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, my nose wrinkling a bit.

“It’s not supposed to mean anything,” he said, rolling a few pairs of jeans.

“You hardly see me because I’m busy, Simon. It’s not like you don’t know everything I’m trying to juggle right now.” I frowned, sliding off the bed and standing in front of him.

“Don’t get so defensive, it wasn’t a criticism. I get it; you’re busy. Chill.”

My eyes bugged out of my head. Did he just tell me to—chill?

“Christ, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” He sighed.

I started to snap back, then took a deep breath. Let this one go. I reached out and pulled him toward me by the belt loops, letting my head drop onto his chest. A few seconds later, I felt him sigh and then his arms were around me. I breathed him in, then turned my face up toward his.

“We’ll have lots of time to spend together in Philadelphia.”

His face shuttered. He kissed my forehead again, then turned to zip the suitcase closed. “Tell your folks I said happy Thanksgiving,” he said with a tight smile.

Guess that subject was closed.

He left the following day. He was heading back east, doing a photo shoot on Thanksgiving in Plymouth, the pilgrims and all that. It was to be featured the following year in travel magazines and regional newspapers to boost the local economy. But he was going, and I was staying—and that was the beginning of my shit week.

I came home Monday night after spending the entire weekend in Sausalito, to find that Clive had decided he’d had enough of me being gone. Maybe it was time to consider bringing him over to Sausalito, as creative as he was being with showing me his displeasure. He’d left me presents. Multiple presents. In multiple shoes. I missed him too; I just didn’t show it by shitting in his shoes. The image of what size his shoes might be if he did wear shoes wouldn’t leave my brain, so I spent a conference call with Camden’s people not paying attention and doodling cat shoes all over some documents.

You try explaining to your intern why there were tiny paws in pumps all over a contract that she now had to reprint.

The lowest point came on Wednesday afternoon after I sent everyone home early, and then I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to see my family for Thanksgiving. I’d thought I was on top of things, I thought my in-box was finally cleared out enough to sneak away for two days, when I found an e-mail in spam for a job I’d agreed to months ago. To come in and decorate for a client who was having thirty people over to her Nob Hill home for Thanksgiving dinner, and needed the dining room dressed. And the living room. And an entire autumn-in-New-England scene designed for her conservatory, where drinks might be served but might not, but just in case, could I please make it look like pilgrims might have lived there?

I lost my mind.

I didn’t even close the door, since there was no one left there but me.

I was still wiping the sob snot from my face when I heard Skype ringing on my computer. Dammit.

Crawling around the desk—yes I was on the floor, that’s the best place for a breakdown— I popped up and saw that it was Jillian.

Should I answer? Should I not? She’d know I was upset. Oh hell, let her.

I pulled myself into my chair, answering her call with one last nose blow.

“Do you have a cold?” she asked, the video coming through instantly. I saw myself in the tiny window, red eyes and red face, and I lied.

“I do, how’re you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

“Great! We’re just about to take the train into Venice. I never thought I’d be having Thanksgiving dinner in Venice, can you imagine? It won’t be a true Thanksgiving dinner, but we were thinking maybe we’d have something with chicken. That’ll be close enough, right?” She laughed.

“I’d think so. What can I do for you, Jillian? You just caught me.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be there. When are you leaving for your folks’?”

“Um, in a few minutes, just finishing up a few last-minute details,” I answered, struggling to keep my voice from breaking. Mentally, I was going through the stockroom, thinking about how many yards of brown silk I’d need to fashion into a tablecloth.

“Well, good. I just thought I’d check in and see how things were going, wish you a happy Thanksgiving.”

I bit my tongue, wanting to say something but keeping it in check. “Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Jillian. How’s Benjamin?” I managed to ask.

“He’s great, he sends his love. Where’s Simon this year?”

“Back east, taking pictures in Plymouth. Fucking pilgrims. I mean—you know what I—”

“You okay, kiddo?” she interrupted.

I didn’t need her worrying about anything, so I forced a smile. “Everything’s great here, I’m just trying to finish a few things so I can get down to my folks’.”

“Okay, if you’re sure that’s all—”

“It’s all good here, Jillian. Talk to you later, okay?” I hurried, knowing I couldn’t hold the tears back much longer. We said our good-byes and hung up, just as a fresh wave started.

I couldn’t take another call like that, so I chickened out and texted my mom to let her know the change in plans, promising to call her a little later. I couldn’t speak to her until I’d calmed down; I didn’t want to worry her. She knew how many hours I’d been putting in; she was so proud of me and how well everything was going. Ha.

I texted Simon to let him know that I was no longer going home for Thanksgiving, that I was working on a last-minute project, and that I’d call him later on when I took a break.

A break! Pffft.

He tried calling me back almost immediately, but I let it go to voice mail. I needed to work, not wallow.

I spent the next nine hours working on table settings and centerpieces, and then spent six hours Thanksgiving morning dressing a conservatory to make it look like very wealthy pilgrims had wandered by and decided this would be the place they wanted to have spiced squash soup accented by thyme and chervil.

Thanksgiving night, I was on the couch eating ramen in my pajamas with Clive, watching reruns on Food Network of Ina’s Best Thanksgiving shows. It was like disaster porn; I couldn’t look away. Now that I’d saved the day for another family, I could wallow. And wallow I did.

Which is why my wallow was so surprised when Clive began to pace at the front door, seconds before Simon came in.

I looked at him, covered in November rain, his eyes warm.

“I didn’t want you to spend Thanksgiving alone,” he said, shaking off the rain. “And maybe I don’t either.”

I burst into tears for the second time in twenty-four hours.

He just picked me up off the couch and settled me into his lap, his North Face getting my PJs soaked. He held me, soothing me, running his hands over my back and making little circles on my shoulders.

“You . . . are . . . the best . . . boyfriend . . . ever!” I wailed, wiping my nose on my arm. Clive ran in and out of Simon’s legs, threading himself as close as he could get without appearing too needy. Hell, I was idling at needy, ready to downshift into pitiful.

By the time my sobs tapered off, I was shivering, the chill from the rainy night moving into my bones.

“Come on, sweet girl, let’s get you changed into something warm,” he said. Reluctant to be set down, I clung to him. So he stood with me wrapped around him in front, and walked us back to the bedroom.

“I can’t put into words how happy I am to see you, Simon. I really can’t,” I whispered, arms tight around his neck.

“I missed you too,” he answered, trying to set me down on the bed, but I was fighting him. “Babe, let’s get you into some dry clothes.”

“Kiss me, please,” I asked, pulling him down to me.

He kissed me. And I kissed him back, needing to feel him. I wrapped my arms back around his neck, around his back, under his North Face, needing skin. He rocked against me, needing it too. “Caroline,” he groaned, pulling back to look into my eyes. That made me tear up again, just seeing his face so unexpectedly close to mine.

When you were in a long-distance relationship, of course you made the most of the time you were together. But sometimes, it was the unexpected that really made the difference. The unexpected emotions you were hit with when you saw that face, looked into those eyes, felt those lips. The unexpected reminder of why you fell in love with this person could hit you so powerfully. And this was that time.

I memorized his face, felt every line and every pattern, drew his temple, his nose, his dimple, the bow of his lip, drew it all with my fingertips and memorized it once more.

“I love you, Simon. Love you, love you, love you so much,” I chanted as he laid me down, peeled the clothes from my body and his own, and entered me.

He groaned my name, answering my cries with his own, loving me sweetly. And when my orgasm crashed through me, it was wonderful and secondary to what this was.

He was here with me. Not photographing pilgrims.

chapter eleven

The time between Thanksgiving and when we left for Philadelphia flew by. I was always at work before everyone else, and almost without fail I closed the office every day. I put out fires, I trained Monica, I even did payroll a few more times. It was crazy, hectic, impossibly frantic. There were days when I barely saw daylight, ate every meal straight from the microwave, and the only time I sat down was to pee. And even then, I was reading e-mails. Please, like everyone doesn’t bring their phone to the bathroom to read?

And through the crazy, the hectic, the impossibly frantic life that I was leading, I was getting my shit done. I was not only handling it, I was actually now ahead of the curve. I’d turned some kind of time management corner and was holding my own. I walked not with a drag but with a bounce; I rushed from meeting to meeting and job site to job site with a renewed sense of purpose. I was tired, but I was happy in a weird way. I was getting the swing of things. I was still stressed, but it was a good stressed.

I was ahead of schedule on the hotel project, and I was even able to start working on a few Christmas projects. If you were very wealthy, you didn’t do your own Christmas decorating—heavens, no! You hired it out. Initially I thought that with Jillian being gone I’d need to contact some of the other design firms we were good neighbors with to farm some of it out, but I couldn’t do it. I needed to make sure that everything at Jillian Designs functioned the same way as when Jillian was actually in residence. So I slept less. And got to work on decking the halls with boughs of Red Bull.

Simon was home. His trip to Plymouth should have kept him busy until right before the reunion, but now he had some free time. Something he usually didn’t have much of. But now he did. After coming home one night to a present in his own shoe from Clive, he agreed that instead of spending a few nights a week over in Sausalito, it would be easier to just move out there and bring the little shoe pooer. So Clive was now a country cat. And he had a stay-at-home daddy.

The two of them had a ball, exploring the new house and spending hours looking out the window wall. Clive had never had so much room, and he relished all the closets and beds he could hide in and under. Simon took over the nightly game of Hide the Pounce, something that I unfortunately didn’t have time for anymore. One chilly night I came home late and found Simon holding Clive up to the window, making paw prints where it was foggy and talking about how far away the city of San Francisco was.