The Summer of Sunshine and Margot(72)

“Quiet.”

“Just how you like it.”

He chuckled. “That is true.” He circled around the island and sat on the stool next to hers. “Bianca will figure it out because she loves Wesley and when Bianca loves, she’s all in. When I was ten or so, she was dating a race car driver who was very macho. I was a brainy little kid and we had nothing in common. I remember one day he wanted me to go throw a baseball with him. I wasn’t interested and we got into it. Bianca got between us and stood up for me.”

One corner of Alec’s mouth turned up. “He said if I didn’t start acting like a man, I was going to grow up to be some pansy-assed homo and it would all be her fault.”

Margot didn’t know which slur to address first. “He really said that?”

“He did.” The half smile turned into a full one. “My mother clocked him. Hit him right in the face. She told him that I was my own person and if I wanted to throw around a baseball, then fine, but if I didn’t, then I should be left alone. As for being gay, she said she didn’t care if I fell in love with a sea cucumber. That I was her son and she loved me and would always support me and welcome anyone I cared about.”

“Wow. Good for her.”

“That’s what I thought. She threw him out and we never saw him again.” He raised his glass. “That’s my good Bianca story.”

“I think we should pass on the bad one today.”

“I agree.”

Margot smiled. “I would have liked to have seen her punch the guy.”

“It was impressive.”

“I’ll bet. So about Merelyn. She seemed nice.”

Alec sighed. “Why did I think I was going to escape without having to talk about her?”

“I have no idea.” She smiled. “So—the ex.”

“She’s not my ex. She was my decorator and we had a couple of weeks together. It was nothing serious.”

“She thought it was.”

He looked at her. “Yes, she did. How did you know?”

“The way she was looking at you. Like she was lactose intolerant and you were a big ol’ bowl of ice cream.”

“I’m not sure about that analogy but I get your point. It wasn’t like that. I quickly figured out she wasn’t my type.”

Margot knew she should quit while she was ahead. She liked hanging out with Alec, and teasing him about his ex-girlfriend, while fun, wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to do. Did she really want him thinking about another woman while he was with her? Still, she couldn’t help asking, “What is your type?”

He took another sip of his Scotch. “It’s more emotional than physical. I like a woman who is intelligent and kind, with a sense of humor.”

“So Merelyn was a humorless dummy who kicked kittens?” she asked hopefully.

He laughed. “Not exactly. She just wasn’t for me.”

“I’m glad.”

The words popped out involuntarily. Margot immediately wanted to call them back, but it was way too late for that. They just kind of hung there in the air before slowly, so slowly, sinking to the floor.

Alec stared at her, his expression unreadable. She succumbed to panic. Was he mad? Repulsed? Confused? Disinterested? She wasn’t sure which of the four would be worse, and if she had time, she would rank them from lowest to highest preference, but there wasn’t and, oh dear God, couldn’t he say something?

She sprang to her feet as her brain offered her the thinnest of lifelines.

“You have a package! I signed for it when I came in and left it on your desk.” She pointed back toward his office. “It’s kind of small so maybe not documents, but I had to sign for it, so you should probably go check it out.”

He studied her for another second. She was about to bolt when he said, “Why don’t you come with me? I think you’ll find the contents unexpected.”

Which wasn’t the same as Hey, I think you’re smart and kind and funny and sexy, which wasn’t on my list, but you are and let’s go make love, but it also wasn’t him running away from her, so good.

They went into his office, where he opened the small package. Inside the shipping box was another, smaller box, then tissue paper. Alec pulled out a tiny wooden carving of a rabbit. It was obviously very old and detailed. There was an odd open space between the rabbit’s front feet.

“What is it?” she asked.

He took her hand in his and then placed the small figurine on her palm.

“Netsuke,” he said. “It’s Japanese. Men’s kimonos didn’t have pockets to store things like tobacco or other small items, so the men hung stylish boxes from their sashes or obi. The netsuke attached to the other end of the cord as a counterweight to keep the boxes in place.” He nodded at the carving nestled on her palm. “This is a lunar hare.”

“It’s beautiful. The carving is so intricate. I’m assuming netsuke is an art form?”

“It is.”

He crossed to the large cabinet behind his desk and opened it. Dozens of netsuke lined the narrow shelves across the entire length of the cabinet.

“You’re a collector,” she breathed, moving closer to study the tiny pieces.

“I am. Most netsuke are carved ivory—not a practice that we would approve today, of course. But back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, ivory and wood were popular materials.”