Changes (The Magic Jukebox Book 1) Page 10

  If she broke up with Peter, she would likely sacrifice their approval. Was she ready for that?

  The receptionist had swiveled her chair to her computer and was busily tapping away on her keyboard. No sign of Peter.

  Diana pulled out her cell phone. It was evening in London, probably an hour or so past dinner. Who knew if Serena was out clubbing or at home in bed—quite possibly not alone? Diana tapped in a text: I’m breaking up with Peter. Then she hit the send button. Somehow, putting it in writing and sending it to Serena helped to solidify her decision.

  Another ten minutes passed. Diana checked her emails, relived her meeting with James in her mind, stared at the Rothko painting on the wall facing her and thought about how glad she was to be working with antiques rather than ugly modern art. All those slashes and blotches of black—the painting was truly depressing.

  Finally, the receptionist called over to her. “Peter will see you now,” she said, rising and beckoning Diana to follow her. Although Diana knew the way to Peter’s office, she also knew that no one was allowed to wander unescorted through the maze of offices where staggeringly huge financial transactions took place and rich associates grew richer.

  The thick carpet muffled Diana’s footsteps. She and the receptionist passed a few glass-enclosed rooms filled with busy-looking people and flickering flat-screen monitors, and finally reached Peter’s office. That he had a private office with a window so early in his career reflected his trading and management successes, as well as the simple fact that he was Peter. He got what he wanted. People deferred to him.

  His office door was open, and the receptionist gestured that Diana should go in. Peter was seated behind his desk, but he rose as she crossed the threshold. His expression darkened. He clearly wasn’t thrilled to see her.

  Or maybe his scowl wasn’t a response to seeing her. It was a response to her attire. “You’re wearing jeans,” he said.

  She took a second to recover. “Yes, I am.”

  “You look like a slob. Who wears jeans to work? Besides laborers, of course. And slobs.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “No one at Shomback-Sawyer seemed to mind,” she retorted.

  “They’re probably just happy you’re back home, where you belong. As happy as I am,” Peter remembered to add. He circled his desk to her side and gave her a polite kiss on the cheek. “You’re all done with that Brogan’s Point nonsense, I assume. I’d like to put a deposit down on the Newport place—”

  “Peter.” She eased back a step and took a deep breath. “Brogan’s Point is not nonsense. And no, I don’t want you to put a deposit down on the Newport Place.”

  “You really like that inn better? It’s pretty, I’ll grant you that. But the town, the surrounding environment…”

  “Peter.” Another deep breath. “We aren’t getting married. There or in Newport, or anywhere else.”

  He frowned, although he looked less angry than incredulous. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not being silly.” She dug through her purse until she found the diamond ring, carefully wrapped in a tissue. “I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I really think we should call off the wedding.”

  “You haven’t thought long or hard about anything. Three days ago, we were discussing menus for the reception.”

  She conceded silently that three days wasn’t very long. But she’d thought hard. More than thought, she’d felt. She’d listened to her gut and her heart. She couldn’t expect Peter to understand that, and she didn’t even try to explain. “I’m sorry, Peter, but…I mean, it’s not that I don’t love you. We’ve been friends forever. We’ve grown up together. But I just don’t think we should get married.”

  “You just don’t think at all,” he snapped.

  A frisson of anger shot up her spine, surprising her. She never got angry. Peter was the angry person in their relationship. She was the peacekeeper, the soother, the calmer of waters.

  Not at the moment. “That’s a nasty thing to say. I do think, and now I’m finally thinking about what’s right for me instead of what’s right for everyone else. Kind of a first for me, I’ll admit.”

  “Bullshit.” The word sounded particularly crude coming from Peter’s refined lips. “What’s right for you is to marry me, raise a family with me, live a life of ease and grace with me. What’s right for you is to fulfill your dreams—”

  “Your dreams, maybe. My parents’ dreams. Not mine. Do you even know what my dreams are?”

  “Do you?” His voice carried a sneer.

  More anger spun through her, fierce and electrifying. She handed him the tissue-wrapped ring and stepped toward the door. “Right now, my dream is to leave this office.”

  He shocked her by snagging her arm, his fingers closing around her wrist like a manacle. “Don’t you dare walk out of this office,” he said, his tone now dangerously hushed. “You can’t do this to me. To us. I love you, Diana. I’ve always been good to you—and good for you. Do not walk away from what we have.”

  His words touched her. Yet whatever affection and need they carried was belied by the painful grip of his hand, and by the fact that he was issuing an edict. She felt less like his equal than like a recalcitrant child about to run into the street, being held back by her father. Peter might be able to convince himself that he was denying her escape in order to save her life. But he couldn’t convince her.

  “Let go of me,” she said, quietly but firmly.

  “I don’t want you to make the biggest mistake of your life.”

  “That makes two of us,” she said, wriggling her arm until, at last, his fingers relented on her.

  She fled through the door, not looking back to see if he was following her. Outside his office, she slowed her pace from a run to a brisk walk so as not to draw attention to herself. She didn’t want to humiliate him. He could tell his colleagues that his engagement was off when he was ready to. The last thing either of them needed or wanted was a scene.

  She kept walking, sparing a swift nod for the receptionist before she left the office. Not until she’d stepped into the elevator and the door whisked shut did she let out a breath. She was shaking, she realized. Her vision blurred with tears, but through the blur she was able to see the red marks Peter’s hand had left on her wrist.

  Her purse was shaking, too—or, more accurately, vibrating. She lifted the flap and pulled out her phone. The message light blinked. She tapped the screen and a text from Serena appeared:

  Halleluiah!

  Through her tears, Diana smiled.

  ***

  Chapter Ten

  He wasn’t sure why he decided to head for the beach after work. The day had been warmer than usual, hinting at spring’s approach, but by the time he left his cramped office in the community center, the sun had set and the wind blowing off the water was blustery.

  He needed that blast of cold. He needed the familiar, sour scent of the ocean filling his lungs. He felt restless, anxious. Like something was about to change.

  Not him. He didn’t have to change. He was fine.

  He parked just off Atlantic Avenue, crossed the street to the retaining wall and stared out at the ocean, nearly black but tipped with lacy whitecaps that remained visible even as the daylight faded away. The salty wind tugged at his hair and filled his lungs. He’d been born into the sound of the surf pounding the shore, and the deep ocean smell. Sometimes he wondered how people who didn’t grow up near a coast could stand breathing such bland, odorless inland air.

  Maybe that was why he’d driven to the water’s edge—for the smell, or for the rhythmic hiss of the waves rolling in to lick the sand, or for the wind. Or for some other reason. Something had compelled him to come.

  The moment he spotted Diana down on the beach, he knew why he was here.

  She sat alone on the sand, wrapped in a coat and scarf, her knees drawn up to her chest and the sea breeze whipping her hair back from her face. He thought about shouting to her, but with the gusts blowing in
from the ocean, his voice probably wouldn’t reach her. Besides, she seemed absorbed in her own thoughts. If he called to her, he’d startle her.

  He should leave her alone. She had said she would call him when she got back from Boston, and she hadn’t called. That meant either she wasn’t ready to talk to him yet, or she was done with him.

  The hell with that second possibility. He wasn’t done with her. And if she wasn’t ready to talk…he’d just sit quietly beside her, and they wouldn’t talk.

  He strolled to where the retaining wall ended at the jetty, picked a careful path over the rocks and down to the beach, and walked to her. She was so solitary and still, she might have been a statue. He slowed as he neared her, searching for any indication that she’d sensed his approach. But she was lost in thought, her eyes focused on the dark sky and the darker water.

  When he was only a few steps away from her, she turned her head and peered up at him. “Hi,” she said. Calmly, quietly, as if she’d been expecting him.

  He settled onto the sand next to her. “How was Boston?” he asked.

  “Wonderful.” She sighed. “Horrible.”

  Despite the rapidly fading light, he could see that her cheeks were pale and tracked with glistening streaks. She’d been crying. He guessed her trip was more horrible than wonderful. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I am. Really.” She turned back to stare at the water. “I broke up with him.”

  Her fiancé. Well, that was good for Nick, but maybe not for her.

  “I was going to phone you,” she said, speaking more to the ocean than to him. “But I didn’t want you to see me crying.”

  He snorted and shook his head. Was she afraid he would think less of her because she was human? Did she think he’d condemn her for having feelings, for mourning the end of something significant in her life? He looped an arm around her and she rested her head against his shoulder. He could feel more than hear her sobs, faint tremors that rippled through her body.

  He had no idea what to say, so he said nothing. He let her weep, let her grieve, let her lean on him.

  After a while, the tremors stopped. He wished he was the kind of gentleman who always carried a fresh handkerchief in his pocket so he could hand it to her. He bet her fiancé would have produced a dainty, monogrammed square of linen for her to blow her nose into. “So much for the wonderful part,” he joked. “What about the horrible part?”

  She managed a choked laugh. “I haven’t told my parents yet. They’re going to freak out. He’ll probably tell them before I have a chance to. He’ll probably recruit them to try to change my mind. They adore him.”

  “That’s their problem,” Nick said simply.

  She flickered a look at him, her eyes clear and wide. “You’re right.” Then she settled back against his shoulder and sighed again. “He was so angry. I hadn’t expected that. I thought he’d be upset, or maybe hurt. But all I saw was anger.”

  “He was probably trying to cover up the hurt,” Nick said, donning his social-worker hat. “Men don’t like anyone to see them hurt. It makes them feel vulnerable and weak. So when they’re hurt, they sometimes lash out in anger.”

  She mulled that possibility over, then nodded, her hair sliding against his neck with the motion of her head. “Is that what you do when you’re hurt?” she asked.

  “I’m never hurt,” he said, another joke. “What do you think, I’m one of those weak, vulnerable guys?”

  “You’re right,” she murmured. “About Peter, I mean. He was probably just hurt. I feel so bad. I never wanted to hurt him.”

  “Only a sociopath wants to hurt others,” Nick pointed out. “I don’t know how he usually behaves when he’s hurt—”

  “”The situation arises so rarely. People always let him have his own way. I guess I used to let him have his own way, too—until now. I didn’t mean to hurt him, though. That wasn’t my intention .”

  “Of course not.”

  “He’ll get over it,” she said, sounding as if she was trying to convince herself. “He’s got so much going for him. He’s smart, he’s handsome, he’s rich… Once word gets out that he’s available, women will be lining up outside his door.”

  “You make him sound irresistible.” Nick’s tone was light, but he felt a twinge of insecurity. What could a guy like him possibly offer a woman like Diana, who’d been engaged to such a smart, handsome, rich man? An occasional lobster dinner? A middle-school b-ball game? Some hot sex? He could certainly offer her that.

  “I hope someone does find him irresistible. I want him to be happy.”

  “How about you? Are you happy?”

  “Yes.” Again she sounded uncertain. “I’d be happy if I knew he was okay. And if I knew my parents would accept my decision.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll be okay with it.”

  “They don’t have much choice,” Nick pointed out. “It’s your life.”

  She nestled more deeply into the curve of his arm and returned her focus to the water. The tide was coming in, the moon rising, a bright silver crescent the shape of a smile.

  They sat in peaceful silence for a while, listening to the waves, feeling the wind caress them. Eventually, she stirred. “How did you find me? Did you know I’d be here?”

  “How could I have known that? I left work and felt like coming down to the beach. I wasn’t looking for you.” He probably was, subconsciously. He’d been restless, edgy, wondering if he would ever see her again. For all he knew, she could have traveled down to Boston, seen her fiancé, and realized she really did love him, after all. The guy could have gotten appropriately excited about the big purchase she’d pulled off, and he could have swept her into his arms and charmed his way back into her good graces. He could have offered her the use of a monogrammed handkerchief, while he was at it.

  A lot could have happened in Boston—wonderful for Diana and horrible, or at least not so wonderful, for Nick. During his turbulent childhood and adolescence, he had always biked to the beach when he needed to decompress. His mode of transportation may have changed since he’d reached adulthood, but the beach was still his destination when he needed to calm down and regain his perspective.

  He hadn’t realized how much Diana’s trip to Boston and her failure to call had agitated him. Thoughts of her had been like a white noise inside his skull all day, barely perceptible but unsettling. So he’d come to the beach—and found her. And the moment he’d spotted her, the white noise had disappeared. More than the beach itself, seeing her had soothed him.

  “Well,” she said. “Maybe you weren’t looking for me, but you found me.” She extricated herself from his embrace and turned to face him. “You must be hungry. I think it’s my turn to treat you to dinner.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “No. I mean it. I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat. You name the place. I’ll pay.”

  ***

  The place he named was his own house—or, more accurately, a supermarket about a mile away from his place. Diana considered eating in an excellent suggestion. She had stopped at the Ocean Bluff Inn to drop off her suitcase, but she was still dressed in her jeans, which now had grains of sand embedded in the seams despite her having vigorously dusted herself off when they’d left the beach.

  She was tired of eating in restaurants, being served, grazing through tasting menus. She hadn’t cooked in nearly a week, and while she wasn’t the most talented chef in the world, the thought of fixing a simple, home-cooked meal with Nick appealed to her.

  Suburban supermarkets were so much more spacious than the neighborhood grocery stores where she did most of her shopping in Boston. She and Nick loaded the cart with chicken, vegetables, a baguette of French bread and, at Nick’s insistence, a quart of premium vanilla fudge ice-cream. He assured her he was well stocked with everything else they could possibly need—butter, salad dressing, coffee, spices.

  His house was tiny. It contained a small kitchen equipped with twenty-year-old appliances and Formica
-topped counters, a slightly larger living room filled with mismatched but comfortable-looking furniture, and a bathroom not much larger than a closet. Despite being ridiculously small, the bathroom was clean. “I’ve got to buy a new shower curtain,” he mumbled when he showed her the room, but she couldn’t see anything terribly wrong with the shower curtain hanging from the rod.

  He was a bachelor, and she doubted he was earning a six-figure salary as a social worker running programs for Brogan’s Point’s children. The house might be modest, but it suited him. She couldn’t imagine him living in an elegant apartment like Peter’s. Nick’s eclectic furnishings, the tidy stacks of books and the recently vacuumed carpet covering the living room floor indicated that he took pride in his home. On the living room walls, he’d hung a few seascape paintings. Not masterworks, nothing Diana would have encountered in her art history classes at college, but they were pretty.

  “All right,” she said once they’d returned to the kitchen and unloaded the groceries. “Go do something. I’ll give a holler when dinner is ready.”

  “Forget that. I’ll help.”

  “If you help, I’m not treating you to dinner.”

  “If I don’t help, you won’t know where to find the pots and pans.”

  She surveyed his kitchen. There weren’t too many places to hide pots and pans—some cabinets above the counter, some below. She’d bet the pots and pans were below. She swung open a cabinet door and found exactly what she was looking for—a roasting pan. She pulled it out and gave Nick a triumphant smile.

  Still, even if she didn’t need his help, she liked having his company in the cozy little kitchen. They worked side by side, seasoning the chicken, scrubbing the carrots and potatoes and broccoli, arranging everything in the roasting pan and shaking assorted spices over the whole thing. Once that was in the oven, she prepared a salad while he disappeared down a flight of stairs to the basement. He returned a minute later holding a bottle of red wine. “I don’t have any white, so I hope this will work.”