Page 4 of Roses, Pearls, and Hot Summer Nights
A new one for me.He wanted to make me out so he could use me in a play. Well, I intended to put him in my stories, too—not that I would ever admit it to him.
I clarified, “You want to go out for Italian food so that you can use me in a play?”
He shook his head. “No, so I can understand you better. You’re intriguing. I only came to town to see my Granny because we all visit once every two weeks, if not more. It was my turn. It just worked out conveniently because I got to meet you.”
I sighed. I didn’t think he would let me leave without dinner. Maybe I could chew with my mouth open and then he would leave me alone? My family never expected me to have manners. They seemed to forget that my mother had been raised with them. They grew up with the same nannies and the same lessons in manners. In her own way, Mom relayed her early lessons to me as best she could before she died.
“Okay, I like Italian. Let’s get this done so you can fulfill your obligation. Hopefully, you’ll decide I’m not too crazy to be allowed near your Granny, who clearly has a big heart to go with her eccentric ways. I picked up on the fact she wants to take me on because my aunt reminds her of some past personal experience.” Though I honestly doubted his grandmother’s experiences could’ve been anywhere near my personal hells. I motioned toward the door. “Shall we go?”
He put his hand out. “Ladies first.”
I obeyed, walking toward the doorway before I stopped. “I want to confess I haven’t been out much since I got here. Actually, twice I’ve followed my aunt to the drug store. First, I needed some pencils and the second time to show me where I would go to school, since she might not have time to do it later. Where are we headed?”
“This way.” He nodded left, so I followed him out then down the street.
I knew almost nothing about Manhattan, so I struggled to resist gawking at everything around us. My parents raised me in Colorado, in a small formerly thriving mining town. Few people remained there at all anymore. After my father died, when I was seven, my mother moved us even further away from populated areas, to very rural North Dakota. We stayed there until she died. Since then, I’d lived in San Francisco and Chicago—both busy places, but nothing like our current metroplex.
We strode down the sidewalk on the Upper East Side, but I honestly didn’t know much more than that. My mother seemed allergic to her family’s wealth, or so she liked to joke. I realized later that money made her nervous. Of course, we never had any, so it had just been impressions she gave me. If someone drove too nice of a car, she avoided them. So far, from my personal experiences, I could understand why. People were mean, and they cared in abundance about who had more than them andwho had less. Maybe it really was better to live someplace where no one had anything?Things seemed certainly simpler that way.
As if he knew the direction of my thoughts, Julian asked as we turned onto Seventy-Sixth Street, “How do you like it here so far?”
My eyes scanned around me again, and I shoved down a wave of panic. Instead of answering, I desperately hoped he would walk me back home after dinner. I sucked at remembering directions, especially in cities, where all the cement looked the same to me. It was easy to find my way in the country. The big tree marked the place to turn left to get to school, or the dirt road was a mile ahead. In the city, everything looked the same.Gray. Glass. Big buildings, big stores, lots of noise.
I shrugged, focusing on his question. “It’s fine here.”
“Right.” He nodded. “You hate it.”
I glanced at him quickly, surprised at his response. Julian was dangerous.With those pretty blue eyes of his, he sees too much.
2
We walked down Seventy-Sixth Street together, headed toward Second Avenue before we turned left. We passed a pretty little French restaurant in silence before arriving at a small, homey Italian place. He held the door for me, so I walked inside ahead of him. Themaître d’smiled then winked at Julian. She had to be at least ten years older than him, not that I would judge her out loud. Just silently. Hewasreally cute.
Then I rolled my eyes at my own foolishness. I needed to remember the things I learned since I became orphaned. After all, rich boys acted like rich boys, making women seemingly desperate to get their attention. The women in question didn’t care if it made them seem pathetic and sort of creepy or like a child molester, so focused on their prize.
Then again,I don’t even know Julian’s age.
Still, even if he was eighteen, her open and admiring gaze pinged my ick factor hard. I gritted my teeth. Despite not wanting to know any more about him, I probably would have to eventually figure out his age.
“How old are you?” I asked bluntly as I sat across from him at the table. Only an olive oil bottle and a table separated us as the drifting notes a crooner sang filled the room with low, melodic tones. A glance around verified the music wasn’t live but some kind of recording. The entire setup seemed designed for intimate conversations and comfort.
He picked up his menu, scanning it briefly before replying, “Seventeen.”
I guessed right.It also verified the creepy factor of the older woman basically hitting on him, yet he hadn’t even blinked at her attention.I bet it happens to him all the time.Those blue eyes, and a wallet full of money? He likely would find it more surprising if hedidn’tget women’s attention.
Julian set down his menu. “I don’t know why I’m bothering to look at the menu. I know it by heart. My brothers and I come here once a week when we’re all in town.”
He’d mentioned his brothers several times.Should I ask?It sounded natural to ask. I second guessed myself, because experience had taught me the hard way that people didn’t want to tell me about themselves.Better to pretend I don’t care and be left alone. In this case, though, I decided to risk it. “How many brothers do you have?”
I stared at the menu to ensure I didn’t put him on the spot, but I also tried to figure out if I wanted to order the most expensive thing or the least expensive. His granny wasn’t wrong about the credit card in my pocket—it burned when I had to use it. Sometimes my aunt would sigh then bemoan how much she had to spend on me every month. She would even pull out receipts, so they all could roll their eyes about how much Delphine’s daughter continued to cost them.
I might not have understood my mother’s hesitations when I was a kid, but I could see what her family’s money meant since she’d died—and the paper trail of how much I owed them. Theymight be enormously rich, but they resented every dime wasted on me.
Julian answered, “There are four of us, a huge family by today’s standards.”
Is it?I grew up in very rural areas, so I expected much bigger families. Four didn’t seem unusual, although based on my school experiences in San Francisco and Chicago, he might have a point. Among his kind, three kids seemed the magic number for a family. In the city, it wasn’t at all unusual to find myself surrounded by a lot of only children.
I set down my menu, too, since I would just order pizza. Deciding how much of a burden I wanted to be was too exhausting for the moment. Besides, the faster we ate, the faster we could leave. My fingers tapped the table, impatience thinning my lips and my temper. Instead of dealing with him, I could be home with my drawings.
