Aftermath of Dreaming(108)

When I awaken the next morning, every inch of my apartment is filled up with him. He’s only been here twice, but in the rooms where there aren’t memories of us, I have memories of the fantasies of us, so it’s all here—a kind of parallel life that happens as soon as I open my eyes to the day.



Andrew and I talked every day for two weeks after that night, but then he went to New York, so the phone calls have stopped for the past week, and since he’s with his family, I know we can’t talk, but this silence will end as soon as he comes back to L.A. I hope to God that it’s soon because I am about to lose my mind not speaking to him. Fortunately, I’ve been busy getting the order ready for Hawaii, though not distracted enough to not think about him every minute.



I am stuck in four-thirty eastbound traffic on the 10. Cars have surged to a stop, but sitting here isn’t bothering me too much because I just shipped off my jewelry to Greeley’s receiving warehouse to then be sent to Hawaii in time for my early March delivery. Greeley’s has a warehouse in west Texas where every item must go to be processed, then directed to the appropriate store. Even when my jewelry was going across town to Beverly Hills, it first had to make a journey to Texas before it could be shipped here. Getting the order inventoried, packed, and shipped to Greeley’s specifications was like doing a tax return with lots of those frightening schedule forms. I wish Andrew were back in town so he could come over tonight to celebrate with me—or even just call me, so I can tell him about it. How long is this damn New York trip going to last? I wish I could fly down to Honolulu and see my jewelry in the store. But even with the check for the sales in Beverly Hills, the amount of inventory I just invested in for this order was large, so I should be conservative until it blows out of the Honolulu store—please, God. The cars in front of me have barely moved. I suddenly realize that I’m not stuck in traffic—I am traffic.

I am also famished. I skipped lunch to make my deadline, so as I inch toward the Robertson Boulevard exit, I decide to get off and find some food.

Daydreaming about my jewelry being in every Greeley’s store—there are nine across the country, dotting the map like bright lights of style—keeps me driving north on Robertson and forgetting my hunger until I’m in the fashionable shopping district almost at Beverly Boulevard. I notice that across from Wisteria and its eternally sun-drenched patio is a café I’ve never seen before. I pull into a parking spot—a miracle on this street after eleven A.M.—and walk in.

The café’s interior could have been airlifted from SoHo. There are tons of that very tiny white tile with deep blue accents and heaps of stainless steel. I walk toward the glass-fronted deli case and see to my right a section of white-clothed tables set with deep blue linen napkins and yellow roses in French jelly jars. Light streams in through tall windows that have red geraniums growing in weathered window boxes. Every dish in the deli case is gorgeous. Salads and seafood and tarts and pastas and vegetables with incredible things done to them—the kind of food I like to think I will someday make, but doubt I ever will. There isn’t another person in sight. It’s that funny nontime for restaurants between lunch and dinner, and as I gaze at the different delicacies, I wonder if they are even open.

“See anything you like?”

I look up into clear blue eyes refracting the light. The man who owns them is tall with dirty-blond hair and looks like he came from the Brittany coast with his strong jaw and cheekbones, rugged but refined.

“Everything looks amazing and I’m starved. What do you suggest?”

“The artichoke pesto penne is really good.”

“Sounds great.”

“You like salad? I’ll put some greens with walnut and mandarin orange in for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” As he arranges large portions in a takeout box, his strong back and arms are apparent under the white of his chef ’s shirt. I look back in the deli case as if fascinated by its contents to keep from staring at him.

“So, when did this place open?”

“Three and a half weeks ago. Do you work around here?”

“No, I design jewelry. My line’s not in these stores, but Greeley’s just picked it up.”

“That’s great—that’s a big deal.”

“Oh, thanks.” I look up into his eyes, and they are waiting for mine to join them. For a moment, I have to remember to breathe. “Well. So, what do I owe you?”

“That’ll be six dollars and eighty-nine cents.”

As I try to figure out if that’s right—according to the prices on the large blackboard, it seems he only charged me for one item—I discover that I’m out of cash, so I pull out a credit card.

“Our machine’s not hooked up yet.” His eyes are still on mine like they belong there.

“Oh, God, well, this is embarrassing, but I’m out of cash and left my checkbook at home. I’m sorry you went to all that trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He puts two pieces of baguette into the bag with the food, folds it closed, and hands it to me. “Here.”

“I can’t let you do that, bosses and profits and all.”

“Take it. Enjoy your dinner.”

I will if I think about you during it, I think as I take the bag from his large, strong hand. “That’s incredibly sweet of you. Thanks so much.”