Part 19 (1/2)
”Do you always spend Sat.u.r.days with your kids?” I ask him, enjoying a spoonful of my soup.
”I try. Before we had them, I was a real workaholic. I worked twenty-four seven. But the kids have changed me.”
”Kids will do that,” I point out with a smirk.
”You must really love children.”
”I do.”
”You are probably a great mother,” he adds, cutting into his beef.
I laugh. ”I like to think so. I strive to be.”
”Did you have a good mother?” he asks, and I'm taken aback by his question. He occasionally has an uncanny way of jumping from small talk to more intimate conversation, skipping all the stuff in between, and completely ignoring social decorum. But I kind of like that about him.
I don't really want to answer his question, but I feel I almost need to, since he asked it.
”My mother was a good mother until she fell madly in love with another man.”
”Tell me more,” he says, probably not realizing he's being very nosy.
”She met him at a cafe. He was a professor of French literature, guest lecturing at the university. His name was Gilles. He was French and handsome, impeccably dressed, and he swept my mother right off her feet. She was thirty-three.” I hesitate a bit before telling him the rest-it's not often I talk about this. ”I was only six. My youngest brother was only one. I met the man just once, but I remember him clearly. She ran away to live with him in New York...and took the baby.”
”I'm sorry. That's horrible,” he says with wide eyes. ”Did your father raise you?”
”Yes...me and my two older brothers. My dad's great.”
”Yes,” he says, fork hanging mid-air. ”He would have to be.”
”What were your parents like? What's your family like?” I ask, realizing I really don't know much about him. In my mind, I've already concocted my own story-and it involves a sprawling mansion, a successful family business, impeccably dressed parents and siblings, possibly a game of croquet-a real Kennedy-esque picture.
”Well,” he starts, pausing to take a sip of wine. ”Coincidentally...speaking of professors...my father was also a university professor. At Oxford. Physics. Apparently a genius mind, according to my mother. He also owned dozens of patents. He was an inventor of sorts,” he explains, trailing circles along the bottom of his gla.s.s. ”My parents were both academics. My mother was just a student when she met him, and before long, she was pregnant.”
”With you?” I ask, fully engrossed in his story.
”Yes. With me. And my father didn't want a thing to do with me...or with her, for that matter.”
His childhood was not the one I had imagined at all. In fact, it sounds even worse than mine.
”What's worse?” I venture. ”Your parent leaving you when you're six...or before you're even born?”
He ponders my question for a beat. ”Six, I would venture,” he says, his voice soft. ”I never knew him. I never had a chance to even form a connection. You on the other hand...” he trails off, putting down his fork.
”What happened to you?” I ask. For some reason, I want to know every detail.
”Well, my father supported us financially-he was a wealthy man. My mother hired a British nanny...a real Mary Poppins type.” A smile curves his lips. ”Her name was Elizabeth.”
”Like your daughter?”
”Yes. We named Lizzie after her.”
”She meant a lot to you?”
”She did. I loved her more than my mother,” he says, without the slightest indication of guilt.
”Was your mother not kind?” I'm prying, but the intimate feel of the conversation allows it.
”She was very distant. She was very independent. Sometimes I sensed she wasn't very fond of me.”
”What would make you say that?”
He sets his gla.s.s down and looks out at the Chicago skyline. ”Occasionally,” he pauses for a second, ”she would look at me with contempt in her eyes, and tell me I looked and acted exactly like my father.”
”I'm sorry,” is all I can say. I'm no child psychologist, but even I know something like that could really mess up a little kid.
And suddenly, I feel I understand him a little better...and I want to offer him my affection...my love. I don't want to leave him. And I certainly don't want to hurt him.
I was concerned I wouldn't be able to go through with the break-up. I worried his striking eyes or his drop-dead gorgeous smile would pull me in. But I never realized he would pull me in...him.
I drop my fork and gulp a mouthful of water. I am officially royally screwed.
”I apologize,” he says. ”I really didn't mean to be so somber...but you asked.”
”I did,” I say. ”I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”
”It's fine.”
I smile thinly at him and neither of us utters another word.
We opt out of dessert and head toward Weston's secret destination, whizzing in his town car. I am getting very used to being driven around.
”You don't drive much, do you?”
”I really don't like it. I like to multi-task and work, and I can't very well do that if I'm driving.”
”Time is money right?” I say, crossing a leg over the other. And I notice him glance down at my stocking clad legs.
”Exactly.”
”So, how much money are you wasting with me right now?”
He gives me that s.e.xy smile-the one which makes me crave him. ”A lot. But it's not wasted. Some things are worth it.”
I bite my lip.
I want him.
I shake my head a little.