The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(62)

“You surprise me,” said Tom, standing and lifting her in order to step out of his pants, her legs around his waist, then turning and setting her down in the chair again, kneeling on the rug in front of her. “It’s so perfect for it.”

He bent his head to her stomach again, then began to work his way down.

“Oh,” said Nina, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. “You’re right. It’s . . .”—her voice faltered for a second—“perfect.”

The next morning, Nina woke and through her sticky contact lenses saw Tom moving around in the kitchen. She smiled, remembering the way it had been. For once, she didn’t want to leave, or get him to leave, or do anything other than everything all over again.

He looked over and saw her watching him. “Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “Coffee?”

She nodded.

“I went out already and got breakfast,” he said. “And I made peace with your insanely jealous cat.”

Nina realized Phil was standing on the kitchen counter, eating something. “How did you do that?”

“Old-fashioned bribery,” replied Tom, carrying two mugs of coffee over to her. “It turns out he’s happy to share you in return for organic smoked salmon.” He sat on the floor next to the bed and leaned forward to kiss her. “How are you?”

She sipped her coffee and smiled at him. “I’m good. You?”

“Very good.” He smiled back. “Last night was amazing. You’re amazing.”

She handed him back the coffee cup and lifted the duvet. “Come back to bed,” she said. “I thought of a few more amazing things.”

He grinned and slid under the sheet.

A few hours later, they managed to make it out of the apartment, and wandered hand in hand to Larchmont Boulevard, which was wearing its Sunday best. Sunday was not Nina’s favorite day in the neighborhood, because the Farmer’s Market brought what felt like a million visitors to the hood, all of them vying for limited parking and carrying ethically sourced string bags they filled with overpriced produce.

Tom turned to Nina. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Not really,” she replied. “But I can always have ice cream.”

He smiled and kissed her softly on the lips. “You don’t think you’re sweet enough already?”

She made a face at him. “I might be sweet, but do I contain an interesting variety of carefully curated ingredients? I don’t think so.”

“It’s a good point,” he said. “Besides, what if you collapsed from vanilla deficiency?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Only the rapid application of ice cream will prevent disaster.”

They turned into one of the two, yes, two, artisanal ice cream stores on the Boulevard. Sometimes Nina imagined their workers, late at night, coming out onto the street, scoopers at the ready, or maybe with a giant ice cream trebuchet, throwing enormous balls of frosty death at one another, competing to be the Ice Cream Monarch of Larchmont Village. An Ennio Morricone version of an ice cream truck jingle would hang in the air, and in the middle of August, the ice cream would melt on the hot street and cream would run in the gutters.

Nina told Tom about her theory as they waited in an impossibly long line, and he listened to her very carefully, nodding at the trebuchet part and pursing his lips in consideration of the street-cleaning ramifications. Then he sighed and kissed her so deeply that conversation in the line stopped while people admired his technique. Finally, he let her go and said, “You are a complete lunatic, Nina Hill, and I doubt I will ever have any idea what’s going on in your head.”

Nina caught her breath and nodded. “It’s probably just as well,” she said, although right at the moment, he was the only thing in her head. No need to tell him that, of course.

Then she ordered a scoop of salted peanut butter with chocolate flecks and Tom ordered Brambleberry Crisp and they went outside to sit on a bench silently licking and watching people go by, enjoying that incredible feeling after you’ve finally slept with someone you wanted to and it turned out to be even better than you hoped it would be.

People walked by with the joie de vivre all Angelenos have, at least in that neighborhood. People were fit, healthy, attractive, and living their dream, or at least trying to live their dream. It was Sunday, and they were busy working up their enthusiasm for the coming week. Each morning they would face possible disappointment (no callbacks, no job interviews, no call from the Academy) but would march themselves to lunchtime yoga and drink a green juice and look forward to the next opportunity to Break In or Go Big or Make It Work. Maybe this week they would meet The One. Los Angeles runs on youthful optimism, endorphins, and Capital Letters.

Tom licked his cone in silence, which Nina appreciated. First, because the ice cream deserved respect, and second, because her favorite sound was no sound at all. It couldn’t last, however, and Tom broke it.

“I really like your name,” he said. “Are you named after someone in the family?”

Nina laughed. “Well, until three and a half weeks ago, the only family I had was my mom and the nanny that raised me, but no, I’m named after a girl in a photo.”

“A photo?” He looked quizzically at her, and Nina explained.

“My mom’s a photographer. There’s a girl in a famous Ruth Orkin photo called American Girl in Italy whose name was Ninalee, and she always loved that name.” Nina shrugged. “She also likes those drawings by Hirschfeld, you know, where he hid the name Nina somewhere in the picture . . . ?” She ground to a halt. Her ice cream was dripping and Tom was staring at her and maybe she was being boring.