The Best Laid Plans Page 9

  “This is pretty spectacular,” she said.

  “Yeah. It sold the apartment for me, actually.”

  “If I hang off the edge of my balcony, I’ve got a corner of Albert Park Lake.” She held her fingers an inch apart to indicate how limited her view was. “Nothing like this.”

  He held out a hand. “Let me take care of that for you.”

  She glanced down and saw that she was strangling the neck of the wine bottle. “Sure. Thanks. I wasn’t sure what we were having, so I brought a pinot noir….”

  “Perfect. I’m making us slow-roasted lamb.”

  He moved toward a doorway that she assumed must lead to the kitchen. She spared a quick, assessing glance for his living space before following him. His decor was bold—two black leather Simone Peignoir couches, a pony-skin Le Corbusier chaise lounge, a deep, blood-red rug and three vibrant modern paintings in primary colors that made her think of thunderstorms and wild, tempestuous seas. A red-gum dining table with clean, graceful lines dominated the corner near the window.

  He was pulling the cork from the bottle when she joined him in the kitchen.

  “I like your paintings,” she said.

  “This is where I confess that I know nothing about art but I know what I like.”

  “Well, I really do know nothing about art. I suspect I’m a bit of a Philistine at heart.”

  She glanced at the array of ingredients and tools he had spread before him—little bowls of sliced-up herbs, halved lemons ready to be juiced, a fancy-looking whisk and an expensive copper-bottomed saucepan.

  “You cook,” she said. “I mean, you really cook.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I’ve never pictured you wearing an apron.”

  He gave her a dry look. “Just as well, since I don’t own one. Cooking is my way of unwinding.”

  “I thought racquetball was your way of un winding.”

  “Racquetball is my way of not turning into a fat bastard. What about you?”

  “Are you asking if I’m worried about turning into a fat bitch?”

  He smiled. “What do you do to unwind?”

  “I do mosaics.”

  “As in tiles?”

  “That’s right. Tabletops, mirror frames, that kind of thing.” She felt silly admitting it. It wasn’t as though she was any good.

  “See, I would never have guessed that about you. You’ll have to show me your work sometime.”

  “Or not.”

  He laughed. “Not going coy on me, slowpoke?”

  “Merely sparing you from having to be polite. I’m not very good. Most of my projects are never seen by human eyes once I’m done.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” he said as he poured the wine and handed her a glass.

  “No, I’m not. Trust me. My last creation wound up looking like a dropped pizza.”

  She took a swallow of her wine. Alcohol coated her belly in soothing warmth and she took another big mouthful.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  “You can set the table if you like—cutlery’s in the top left drawer under the counter there. Place mats in the one underneath.”

  She selected two settings and a couple of place mats and headed to the living room. She placed the knives and forks carefully on the polished table, marveling at all the little insights she was gaining into Ethan tonight, things she’d never even thought about—the fact that he cooked, that he came home to this view every night, that he liked modern art. That he owned place mats—several types!—of all things.

  The kitchen was rich with the smell of fresh mint and lemons when she returned. A butterflied lamb roast was resting on the cutting board and Ethan was busy doing something with the juices in the pan.

  “What’s that you’re doing?” she asked, elbows propped on the counter.

  “Making the sauce. Have to skim off the surface fat first so we don’t have coronaries before dessert.”

  “Ah.”

  “Let me guess—you thought sauce came in a packet from the supermarket, right?”

  “No. I thought sauce came in a plastic tub from the take-out place.”

  His mouth quirked up at the corner. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

  He sliced the meat next, then pulled a tray of beautifully roasted vegetables from the oven. She watched as he plated the meal, adding sugar snap peas and baby broccoli at the last minute. He made it all look so effortless, his long fingers working confidently. And perhaps it was, for him. All her culinary experiments ended with swearing and pot banging and the inevitable high-pitched chirrup of the smoke alarm when she burned something. She simply didn’t have the patience.

  No surprises there, given all the years she’d made dinner for two every night, week in, week out.

  “Okay, we’re ready to go.”

  He handed her a plate and they walked to the table.

  “This looks great. Will I shame myself even more in your eyes if I confess that this is probably the best meal I’ve sat down to in months?”

  “You couldn’t possibly be more shamed in my eyes,” Ethan said, absolutely deadpan.

  “Well, I guess I asked for that,” she murmured under her breath.

  Ethan laughed quietly. She concentrated on her meal, slicing into the lamb. She could feel him watching her as she took her first bite.

  “Oh, wow,” she said, her eyes widening. “This is good. I mean, really, really good.”

  “Thanks. Enjoy,” he said, raising his glass in a casual toast.

  He was pleased that she liked it, she could see. He’d gone to a lot of trouble for her. For tonight. It gave her a funny tickle in the pit of her stomach to think of him planning a meal for her, wanting to impress her.

  He wants you to have his baby, Alex. Didn’t we cover not getting carried away with any of this?

  She sat straighter in her chair. The bossy-britches in her head was right—they were here for a purpose. She needed to keep that top of mind.

  In accordance with her resolution, she took a big gulp of wine then cleared her throat. “So, Ethan, are your parents still alive?”

  It came out sounding much more officious than she’d intended, as though she was conducting a job interview.

  “My father is. Mom died ten years ago. Emphysema. Smoked all her life, and eventually it killed her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was tough at the time, but Dad remarried last year and seems happier now.” He shrugged. “What about you?”

  “I don’t know about my father. I never knew him. My mother died when I was twenty. Complications from surgery.”

  “Twenty’s young to lose a parent.”

  “There’s not really any good time, though, is there?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” she asked.

  “A brother, Derek. He’s younger—thirty-nine—and married with two kids, Jamie and Tim. How about you?”

  “No brothers and sisters.”

  “Ah. Spoiled only child.”

  She thought about how she’d helped her mother dress every morning, the loads of washing she’d done, the household chores, and smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

  She concentrated on her meal for a moment, trying to find a way to frame her next question. “So I take it there are no major health issues in the family…?”

  Ethan put down his fork and regarded her with amused eyes. “Are you asking if there are any genetic skeletons in my family closet, Alex?”

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  “Then the answer is no, not that I know of. Any other questions?”

  “A few.”

  “Well, hit me with them.”

  “You must have some of your own,” she said. “A few.”

  They eyed each other for a beat, then Alexandra reached into her pocket and pulled out her list. Might as well be up front, since she’d already blundered her way into this conversation. Anyway, this was who s
he was. She’d never been the kind of woman who came at things sideways or indirectly.

  She unfolded the pages, smoothing them flat before placing them on the table in front of Ethan. She waited for him to balk or laugh but he simply raised his eyebrows.

  “Only two pages.” He stood and crossed to the coffee table, bending to access the shelf underneath. When he returned to the table he was carrying a legal notepad. He slid it in front of Alexandra.

  “I ran to three. But my handwriting is messier than yours.”

  Alexandra stared at his questions resting on the table beside her own, then glanced up at him. His eyes danced with amusement and they burst into laughter at the same time.

  “This is like that old joke. How do porcupines mate?” she said.

  “I don’t think I know that one. How do porcupines mate?”

  “Very carefully.”

  He laughed. “Not a bad analogy.” He leaned forward to check her list. “I see we’re being careful about some of the same things. That’s a good sign.”

  “Do you think?” she asked, suddenly anxious all over again. She wanted this so badly.

  “Yeah, I do. Hit me with your next question.” He forked up a mouthful of food, watching her expectantly.

  His calm acceptance and openness went a long way to easing the tension in her shoulders.

  “Why don’t we take turns?” she suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  As he’d noted, there was a lot of crossover on their lists. They both wanted to discuss the custody arrangements, and they quickly agreed that it would be difficult for Ethan to have overnight visits until the baby stopped breast-feeding. But after that they would both like the visitation rights to be split fifty-fifty.

  “I’d like to try to breast-feed for at least six months, twelve if possible,” she said.

  “This is an area I know next to nothing about,” Ethan said.

  “Well, me, too, to be honest. But my understanding is that breast-feeding is supposed to be better,” she said.

  She could feel her face becoming warm and hoped that Ethan would blame it on the wine. She’d never sat at a dining table and discussed her breasts before. Perhaps after a few months of nursing she would be as casual about them as some of the women she saw in restaurants and cafés, but she wasn’t there yet.

  Ethan raised the subject of education, and here, too, they readily found common ground.

  “Private,” she said firmly. “The best we can find.”

  Her years at an underfunded state school were still vivid in her memory. Even though she’d eyed the “rich kids” from the private schools with angry resentment on the bus, she’d always understood that they were getting a head start in life. She wanted her child to have every opportunity possible.

  “Absolutely. I went to Scotch College, but I’d prefer a coed school,” he said.

  They talked about sharing the workload and making allowances for their mutually busy schedules and how they would handle differences of opinion. Over two glasses of wine and a bowl of the most sinfully rich chocolate mousse she’d ever tasted, Alex found herself relaxing more and more.

  It seemed the rapport they’d always enjoyed on the court and during their lunches extended beyond the boundaries they’d set. She’d already known that Ethan was good at his job—he had a reputation for being a fair-minded litigator, a lawyer who always looked after the best interests of his clients even if it meant billing fewer hours—and she’d known that he was smart and that he listened well and had a good sense of humor. And now she knew that they saw eye to eye on many of the key issues around parenting.

  She was sure other issues would crop up along the way, problems and situations they couldn’t even conceive of in their childless state. But if tonight was anything to go by, they could handle them. The bottom line was that they were two intelligent adults with lots of common ground. Whatever came their way, they would deal with it.

  They moved to the couches for coffee and chocolates. By mutual unspoken consent the conversation shifted to other subjects, as though they both needed some breathing space while they processed everything they’d learned about each other.

  Alex told him about her recent holiday to France and Italy and they compared notes on Florence and Rome. Ethan pulled out a book he’d bought on the architecture of Venice and they pored over stunning photographs of basilicas and piazzas and palaces.

  “Tell me about your childhood,” he asked as she closed the book.

  She leaned forward and returned the book to his coffee table. “What do you want to know?”

  “The usual. Were you happy? Were you lonely, being an only child? What was your childhood like?”

  She shifted on the couch. She didn’t like talking about her childhood. People tended to become uncomfortable when she explained about her mother and the accident. They didn’t know what to say or they tried to paint her as some kind of a long-suffering saint. But Ethan might be the father of her child, so she had to be prepared to offer up her truths.

  “My childhood was pretty typical, really. Mom was on her own, so we weren’t exactly rich. But we got by. She was always pretty creative with presents and making money go a long way.”

  She smiled, remembering how much she’d longed for something new—anything!—because her mother bought all her clothes from the thrift shop. By the time her mother was finished altering or embellishing them they were unique and special but Alex had always craved clothes that had never been worn by anyone, ever. When she’d gotten her first real job after graduating she’d saved up a nest egg, then spent it all in an uncharacteristic splurge, replacing everything in her wardrobe in one fell swoop. To this day she still had a weakness for the pristine freshness of new clothes.

  “What did your mom do?”

  “She worked at a dry cleaners. She did the repairs and alterations and managed the front desk. I used to go there after school and do my homework.”

  She couldn’t smell dry-cleaning fluid without thinking of that milk crate in the corner where she’d sat and read her books and puzzled over her homework. Her mom used to quiz her on her times tables between customers.

  “She was a good mother. I hope I can be half as good as her,” Alex said.

  “So you didn’t go through the mandatory stage of hating her when you were a teenager?”

  Here we go.

  “Not really.” She took a deep breath. “My mom had a car accident when I was twelve. She was a passenger, but she wasn’t wearing her seat belt and she went through the windshield. She fractured her skull and for a while there they thought she was going to die.”

  Ethan was watching her intently and she was grateful that he didn’t interrupt.

  “She pulled through, though.” She reached for one of the cushions, resting it in her lap. Like the rest of Ethan’s things it had clean, strong lines but the fabric had a pleasing nap and she ran her hand over it a few times before making eye contact with him. “She was different afterward. She couldn’t remember things, she cried for no reason. She couldn’t count past ten and sometimes she’d have trouble finding the right word for what she wanted to say. If I didn’t keep an eye on her, she’d try to cook and put an empty pot on the stove. Or leave the fridge door open. Or go out and leave all the doors and windows open.”

  “So you wound up being the mother,” Ethan guessed.

  “Someone had to do it. And she was still very loving. She was still my mom.” She smoothed her hand across the cushion again.

  “Did you have any help?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said drily. “Social services were awesome. They wanted to put me in a home and institutionalize Mom. Fortunately I was nearly sixteen by the time they started getting really aggressive and I was able to prove I could look after both of us.”

  “You said she died in hospital?”

  “Yes. She was having headaches and they found some scar tissue on her brain they wanted to remove. She had a heart attack coming out of the anesth
etic.”

  “So you dusted yourself off and put yourself through law school?”

  She nodded. “Not exactly the cheeriest tale, I know. But not the worst, either. Like I said, she was a great mom.”

  “Sounds like you were a pretty good mom, too.”

  She thought about it. “I was okay. I used to get angry with her sometimes. And resentful.”

  “Thank God. I was beginning to feel really inadequate.”

  She laughed.

  “You want another coffee?” Ethan asked.

  She looked at him. She’d expected him to probe more, perhaps mouth some platitudes about how hard it must have been. Instead, he was offering her more coffee.

  He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just you’re the first person who didn’t want to turn it into Angela’s Ashes.”

  “Really? You have friends who are stupid enough to think you want their pity?”

  She laughed. Apparently he knew her better than she thought he did.

  “Believe it or not, yes.”

  “Obviously they’ve never been pounded by you on the racquetball court.”

  She laughed again.

  “So was that a yes to coffee?”

  “I’ll be up all night if I do. But thanks,” she said.

  They both fell silent. She glanced at the time on his DVD player and blinked when she saw it was past one in the morning.

  Wow. How had that happened?

  “I should really get going,” she said, unfolding her legs from the couch and searching for her shoes with her toes.

  “Sure.”

  There was a new tension in the room as she pulled on her shoes and stood. Ethan stood, too.

  “Thanks for tonight. And thanks for being so open to all my questions,” she said.

  For some reason she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She settled for clasping them loosely at her waist.

  “Ditto.”

  “Do you feel like there’s anything else that we should cover? Anything else you need to know?” she asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  She looked at him, watching her so carefully. Did she need to know anything more?