Pure Abandon Page 16

  “Why?”

  He takes another slice and furrows his brows as if he doesn’t understand the question. “Why all the work?”

  “Why the music and the kids?” I bite my lip, thinking of how to deliver my next statement. “You don’t seem like the caring, giving type.” I wince.

  He bites back. “That was mean.”

  I smile sweetly. “That was honest. You said you liked honest.”

  He peers down at me. He’s only inches beside me yet feels like he’s mountains above me. “I do, but it doesn’t mean I like to hear it.”

  Asher may not like it, but I may not get this opportunity again. “So why the music programs, the grand concert in the park to raise money for music education programs? Is it a big tax write-off?”

  A frown creases his face. I know I’ve hurt his feelings.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

  “Don’t be. I know that’s how my grandfather sees it, but the motivation behind all of it is completely personal.”

  “Can I know the reason?”

  Alex thinks about this for a moment. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have spoken entirely too much about myself today. We’re done talking about me. Now about you…”

  Slowly unwrapping my sandwich, I look down at my lap and try to think of something interesting to say about myself. I don’t play any instruments or have my own charitable foundations. I don’t own a company, nor am I well versed in culture, history, and the arts.

  Asher notices the expression on my face. “You are fascinating to me. You know this. I want to know you better.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich and ponder what I could possibly talk about. The truth is… “I am so boring I can’t think of a thing to say.”

  Shaking his head again, Asher places his fingers on my chin and raises them to meet his gaze. “Fascinating.” A singular word departs from his lips. I could answer that comment with a single word myself—mesmerizing.

  “Okay, then.” He chides, “If you aren’t going to freely give up any information, I will ask the questions.”

  I open my mouth to begin to protest, but Asher answers my concern in time. “I promise not to ask a single question about your husband.”

  My shoulders relax and I nod in approval.

  “Since being friends seems to interest you so much, who are your friends?”

  Ugh, a dreaded question. “Well, Malory is probably my best friend, although I don’t see her that often or talk to her as much as I’d like.” Come to think of it, she’s a weak excuse for a best friend. Lately, every time I’m around her, I’m either insulted by something or uncomfortable with one of her comments.

  “Malory is your best friend?” This time Asher is shocked.

  “Yeah, well, I guess. I don’t have a lot of female friends. I mean, I do, but as a kid, I grew up all over the country, traveling with my dad, and then I went to college in Maryland and all my sorority sisters went on to live in Virginia, California, Florida… Not too many came to New York, and the ones who did, well, they lead a different lifestyle than the one I wanted.”

  “Park Avenue princesses?” Asher nods in understanding. “I know a few of those.”

  “We tried city living, but I guess I just don’t fit in. I don’t have the clothes or the attitude to keep up. I always felt inferior in some way. I wanted the house on Long Island, kids, vacations… something simple.” What am I saying? “Am I rambling?”

  “No, I just didn't take you for the maternal type,” Asher says. “So what about the women of Long Island? Do you have any friends there?”

  “No.” I swallow another bite of my sandwich. “I don’t fit in there either. I’m not built to be a coupon-cutting, high-waist jean-wearing woman who stays home all day.” I take a breath. “Truth is I never felt more displaced in my life. It’s like I’m riding on the border of two countries yet have citizenship in neither. It’s a terrible feeling.” One that up until this moment I hadn’t realized.

  Asher takes in what I just said and digests it. He also seems to understand I’m evaluating these feelings as well. Thankfully, he changes the topic. “You said you traveled a lot with your dad. What did he do?”

  “He was a baseball player,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “Like a major league baseball player?”

  “Yup,” I say, taking a final bite of my baguette.

  I watch Asher’s face out the corner of my eye as he studies me, and I can see the wheels in motion. “Is your dad Catch Grayson?”

  I swallow and nod at him.

  “Really? This entire time I’ve had Catch Grayson’s daughter working for me and I didn’t even know it?”

  “Since you’re not a sports guy, I would have assumed it didn’t matter if my dad were Mickey Mantle.”

  “I may not like to play company softball, but I am definitely a baseball fan. I am a red-blooded male, you know?” He chides. As if I hadn’t noticed his maleness.

  “Dad played in Texas and then for the Reds before we settled here in New York when he played for the Mets. He was… amazing.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Gwendolyn? She’s flighty and immature yet quite possibly the most charismatic person I’ve ever met.”

  I look up to catch golden eyes staring into mine.

  “She sounds like her daughter.”

  Little does he know I am nothing like my mother. I feel really uncomfortable and unbearably shy at this very moment. Turning my head away from his, I rest my face in my hand and look out over the harbor. I respect that he doesn’t try to pry more about my story as I did to him. There is something very natural to this relationship. There’s a level of understanding that we so easily have for one another.

  Turning my head back to face him, I ask one more question for the day. “Tell me something no one knows about you.”

  He arches his eyebrows. I believe he’s intrigued by my question. He takes a moment before answering.

  “I don’t like sleeping alone.”

  I raise a brow.

  “Not in that way.” His voice is condescending. Asher runs his hands through his golden hair and clarifies. “I don’t like to be alone.”

  I redden, thinking of how I have so clearly misjudged this man. Perhaps I can help him, guide him. He doesn’t have a woman in his life and maybe he needs a motherly figure. He hasn’t had one since he was just a boy. My stomach sinks at the thought.

  “Don’t read too much into it. I am a successful man because of my past. I’m okay with it.” He says in an authoritative voice. It’s not a recommendation. It’s an order. And because he said it, I can’t help but want to read way too much into it. For someone who portrays himself to be confident and controlled, he has a vulnerability that is masked by a dark suit and handsome face. Alexander Asher has just peeled away a layer of himself and I want to know what else is beneath the skin.

  So of course I need to know. “Why did you tell me that then?”

  Asher’s eyes search my face as if trying to figure out the answer. “I don’t share my feelings with anyone. I can’t trust anyone. But I trust you. I don’t know why, but I trust you and I like talking to you. This is new for me, so please don’t make me regret opening up to you.”

  “I won’t. I like spending time with you.” I mean it. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

  “Me too.” He stands and holds out his hand to help me up. “Now let me get you home before your husband starts to worry.”

  The ride back down the Henry Hudson is slower on the return. Asher seems to be savoring the last moments of our perfect day. Sara Brightman sings of Eden in our ears. I wonder if his iPod is on shuffle or if he purposefully picked this song of best friends and enemies and never trying to go too far. I decide not to analyze and enjoy the sweet operatic.

  We pull up to Penn Station so I can catch the train home. Asher offers to bring me home, but I can’t bear the thought of my neighbors seeing me on a motorcycle, not that I
know any of them. And getting dropped off at the office is out of the question. Lord knows the gossip I would endure. I don’t want anything to ruin my good mood.

  I climb off his bike and thank him with a nod. Asher thrusts the throttle and with one smooth action, he has the motor running and sets off down Seventh Avenue.

  So much for not analyzing everything in my life. I now have forty-five minutes of train ride to think about… everything. Asher was amazing with the kids. I could tell they loved him. The way their eyes lit up when they saw him, I felt honored to be there with him.

  And then there was the personal side. Alexander the man. I can’t help but recall how natural the afternoon felt. The way he shared stories of his childhood. An orphan. It all sounded so sad. He admired his grandfather and took the tools he was born with and skills he acquired to amass his fortune. It was just beautiful. Yet, something in his words let me know he was substituting his grandfather’s approval for love.

  I want to know more about Asher and I’m no longer worried about what that might insinuate. Alexander Asher can have any woman’s heart. He doesn’t want, or need mine. He dates models and famous actresses. He is seen with the daughters of the wealthy, and I’m sure he has a few prospects lined up. He’s probably dating someone right now. What could he possible want with me? I’m a wife and a mother. I’m old news. Used. I have nothing to offer him. No, this is merely a new friendship I am more than happy to have. It pays to have friends in higher places.

  “This is your boss?” Gwen looks at the cover of New York Magazine and opens it quickly. Ever the dutiful grandmother, she came over to spend time with Jackson. And by spending time with Jackson, I mean she’s lounging on my outdoor chaise, reading a magazine, and drinking a martini.

  “Yes, Mother,” I feign indifference.

  We’re in our backyard on yet another beautiful summer Sunday. So far we’ve had gorgeous weekends this year. Makes up for the crappy winter we had. On days like today when everyone is outside, you can hear the laughter and the noise coming from other people’s backyards.

  Gabriel is standing at the far end of the stone patio at the barbecue, wearing khaki pants and a pale-blue button-down.

  “Oh, honey, he is… he’s just so…” Gwen is at a loss for words.

  “Dreamy?” Gabriel teases while flipping burgers.

  I roll my eyes at him. “He is not dreamy. That term should be reserved only for fourteen-year-old girls talking about AC Slater or anyone in Teen Beat.”

  Walking over to the grill, I hold the plate as Gabriel takes chicken off the metal racks.

  “Asher is…” I look for the words. “He’s…” Exotic, mesmerizing, Apollo-esque… “He’s… okay-looking, I guess.”

  Gwen doesn’t even look up from the magazine. “Oh, honey, this man is what fantasies are made of.” I think I see a little drool seeping from her mouth.

  I walk the plate of chicken to the table, and as I pass behind Gwen, I catch a glimpse of the two-page spread of Alexander Asher. I stop in my tracks.

  He looks good. Really good. Who would expect him not to?

  On the left is a photo of him in his office. From the window, you can see all of Manhattan with a spectacular view of the city. He’s standing in front of the glass, wearing a black pinstripe suit with a crisp shirt and black tie. I’ve seen this look on him before. It must have been taken the day I trapped him in the elevator.

  He’s standing with one hand in his pocket and the other on his lapel. He looks commanding, pensive, and smoldering. It’s the exact Asher I thought I knew at the beginning of the summer. Now I know so many more sides. The sad Asher who lost his mother, the grandson who lives his life to win over his grandfather’s attention, the man who was once in love with a girl who wanted him for all the wrong reasons, the giver of music, the teacher, the smartass, and even the nice Asher. There are so many sides to him you can’t see beyond this picture.

  My favorite is the messy eater. I’ve had four other meetings with Asher since our first official one in my office. All have been in his office and all have been over takeout. The man wasn’t lying; he ruins a lot of ties. I only get an hour or so of his time and the shame is we spend so much time talking about everything other than the event, I leave without getting any work done.

  The good news is I haven’t had a single dream about him in weeks.

  “What does he have… yellow eyes?” Gwen asks.

  “They’re a deep gold. Like the color of honey.” The words come out of my mouth before I realize it.

  Gwen turns around and gives me an inquisitive look. “I didn’t think you would have noticed”

  I back away from the magazine. “They’re hard not to notice, but they’re nothing compared to Gabriel’s.” I smile over at Gabe. Hopefully, he didn’t catch my comment about Asher’s eyes.

  Gabriel is looking over at us indifferently.

  “That’s right, Gabriel. You have the market cornered on beautiful eyes.” Gwen looks up from the magazine and gives me a wink. Nice save. “I’m especially grateful you passed them on to my grandson.”

  Thank you, Mom.

  With the spatula still in his hand, Gabriel saunters over to Gwen. He stops to look over her shoulder, appraising the man in the photo. He knows more about the Asher family than I do. Clearly, he knows what Asher looks like.

  “He’s not too bad.” Gabriel walks back to the grill, shrugging his shoulders. “And Photoshop does a lot.”

  “Are you jealous?” Gwen asks, swinging her body around to gauge Gabriel’s expression. She turns to me and says, “That’s good. Very good.”

  Gabriel laughs off Gwen’s comment and returns to cooking. He knows he has nothing to worry about. Doesn’t he?

  “Pay no mind to her. My mother loves drama,” I tease.

  “Say what you will, but it’s good for a couple to be a little jealous.” Gwen looks up from the magazine. “You know, when your father was touring in the majors, I would hear all these stories of women throwing themselves at him. Was I jealous? You bet your ass I was.

  “But instead of getting all worked up…” She continues. “I just made sure your father had something to remember me by before he left the house.”

  “Like what?” As I ask the question, I look over at Gabriel, who has his head tilted to the side with his hands thrown up in the air as if asking me, What do you think she gave him?

  Realization dawns on my face. “Gross!” I got it. “Seriously, Mom. Keep these comments to yourself.”

  Gabriel laughs and plates the burgers on the buns for lunch.

  Gwen reluctantly puts down the magazine and walks over to the table. “So what is on the agenda for this afternoon? When Jackson wakes up from his nap, I thought we could go to the mall. I need some new clothes and the one up in the sticks has the most hideous choices.” Gwen takes a seat across from me.

  I load my plate with chicken and salad. I should pass on the burgers.

  “Mom, your Macy’s has the same crap our Macy’s does.”

  “Oh, rubbish! You have more department stores here and there’s even valet. Trust me, your mall is nicer.” Gwen takes a sip of the apple martini Gabriel prepared. “Oh, Gabriel, this is delicious.”

  “That’s why you love me, Gwen.” Gabriel picks up his beer and the two of them cheers glasses.

  “If you get sloshed, then there’s no shopping for you,” I say, condescendingly pointing my finger in her direction. “I hate the mall as it is. The last thing I need is a lush of a mother falling into the clothing racks.”

  She waves me off. “Oh, hush! You’re so high-strung. When did you stop knowing how to have fun?” Gwen takes another sip.

  Me? I’m a ton of fun! Aren’t I?

  “You two have a great time at the mall. Besides, Kat needs to pick up something for the gala.” Gabriel takes a seat next to me, draping his arm around the back of my chair.

  Shit! Ever since Malory told me I had to wear something formal, I’ve sort of been blocking it out.
So not me. I can’t just wear any old thing. It may be a big production, but the concert is, indeed, a gala, and I’ll be representing Asher. I have to wear something spectacular.

  I nod in agreement. “Let’s go to Bloomingdales.” Yes, they’ll have something there that will be perfect.

  Gabriel whistles through his teeth. “Breaking out the big guns.”

  Oh.

  “No. I’m kidding.” He places his arm around my shoulder and kisses my hair. “You two have fun. You deserve it, baby. My working girl.” He can be so sweet sometimes. “Just don’t spend too much.”

  And there it is.

  Does the man realize he’s sending me shopping with Gwendolyn Grayson? The woman was born to shop.

  Once at the mall, we valet in high fashion and saunter into Bloomingdales. Gwen is well ahead of me as I stroll Jackson through the racks of clothing. Gabriel wanted me to leave him home, but since being at work all week, I cherish as much time as I can get with my sweet angel on the weekends.

  I find Gwen in the women’s section, looking at a table display of sweaters. She’s holding up a powder-blue crewneck sweater against her chest.

  “Aren’t these gorgeous?”

  “Mom, it’s the middle the summer. It’s a little warm for cashmere.”

  “Honey, it’s never too warm for cashmere.” She admonishes. “I’m buying two!” she exclaims, picking up a blue and a green for herself and then grabbing another.

  “Who’s the grey one for?”

  “You, dear. You need a little luxury,” she says, tossing the grey piece of lux at me.

  I spin Jackson’s stroller and meander through the racks.

  Gwen stops at every rack, remarking on how gorgeous each outfit is, and “look at the cut on this,” and “isn’t this color just gorgeous?” When I said the woman was born to shop, I meant it. How she affords it all I’ll never understand. My dad had a lucrative career, but she shops like she’s a Rockefeller.