Page 33 of What I'm Looking For

Deb kisses me on the cheek. “No. We trust you with that.”

Pam’s staring at the answering machine. “Maybe we should get one of those fax machines. Then Will could get these scripts, like, instantly.”

Deb shakes her head. “If everybody gets a fax machine, the bike messengers won’t have anything to do.” Her eyes flick to the kitchen clock. “Oh my god, it’s almost time forMacGyver! Let’s go, Rufie!”

In the wake of their exit, I’m buzzing like I just received a standing O. Maybe a bit of change won’t be such a bad thing, after all.

Chapter9

BEEP. Saturday, 8:38 a.m.

Hey, Will, it’s Kate. Just letting you know I got your message and I’ll see you at the Coffee Connection in Harvard Square this afternoon. I can’t wait to find out what our surprise destination will be.

WILL

After we park our bikes, Kate jogs ahead of me on the path that circles Walden Pond, brushing a hand along a branch bursting with bright green leaves. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here! I mean, I readWaldenin high school but I didn’t think of it being an actual place you could visit.”

For our date, she’s in jean shorts and a checkered cotton shirt with her hair up in a ponytail—a welcome change from the severe suits she wears to work, I’m sure—and her manner reflects it. On the way here, she kicked her legs out to the side as she rode through a puddle and hooted with laughter when she got wet. Now, she’s whooping as she hurls rocks into the pond, clapping when one makes a big splash. She’s as radiant as the day itself, which is as good as it gets in Massachusetts. Fluffy clouds float in a mellow blue sky above trees filled with blooms of pink and purple, mirrored in the clear surface of the famous pond.

I toss a few rocks in myself before taking her hand. “Come and check out his house.”

She peers in the doorway of the tiny cabin. “Is this really where he lived?”

“It’s a replica, but it’s supposed to feel authentic.”

When I follow her inside, energy ricochets between us in the small space. To redirect my desire to pull her in close, I run a finger over the rough wooden wall. I could see myself living here.

She stoops to peer out the window. “I couldn’t live without a refrigerator, but I like it. It’s cozy.”

“Seriously? That surprises me, I have to say.”

“That I need a refrigerator?”

“That you like it. I mean, this is the antithesis of the yuppie world you’re a part of.”

She straightens, her brow furrowed. “Man, you have one heck of a chip on your shoulder about that stuff.”

The cabin walls seem to close in slightly, so I focus on the window. If I’m going to spend time with her, I need to find a way to deal with our differences without getting so wound up. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just that my dad made a lot of mistakes with money, and the rest of the family paid for those mistakes. I don’t ever want to be like him.”

She tips her head, her assessing gaze peeling away layers of protection. “I don’t think you’re in danger of repeating those mistakes. Whatever they were.” With a shrug, she walks out the door and back toward the water. After a beat I follow, stopping a few feet away, watching as a soft breeze ruffles her hair.

“It’s so quiet here,” she says softly. “Do you come here alot?”

“I used to come out here all the time when I was in college. It was a great way to let off steam, get out of the city. It was like being a kid again, when you’d leave the house in the morning on your bike and not come home till it was dark.”

“We did that too when I was little, but for us, it was a boat. We had a sailboat and a little skiff we’d run around in.”

She sits on a bench near the water, stretching her long legs out in front of her. When I sit next to her, my hand itches to skim over a well-defined thigh. I picture her piloting a little sailboat, ponytail flying in the wind. “Where did you grow up?”

Every once in a while I hear a lengthening of vowels, hinting that she might be from the south. She definitely doesn’t have a Massachusetts accent. Of course, I don’t either anymore. It was browbeaten out of me in speech classes.

She leans back, face tipped to the sky, eyes closed. “Virginia. In between Richmond and D.C. I grew up right on the Potomac River. You’re from here, right?”

I mirror her position and let my gaze follow the drifting clouds. “Yeah, pretty much. Western Mass, really. A little town in the Berkshires. My parents’ car broke down there on a road trip, and they basically never left. Well, my mom didn’t. She raised three boys on her own after we lost my dad.”

Her hand finds my forearm and squeezes gently before releasing it. “I’m sorry.”

I wave my hand in the air. It wants to find hers, but something holds me back. “It all happened a long time ago. And my mom worked in the school system. She’s a high school librarian. So all the teachers looked out for us.”

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