Cream of the Crop Page 27

  “When we were in Paris,” he muttered, closing his menu and setting it back down again.

  Now I was the one who had the raised eyebrows, unaccustomed to being interrupted, especially so rudely. But before I could say anything, our waiter appeared, looking at us expectantly. I quickly scanned the menu.

  “I’ll have the blanquette de veau, with a glass of the Château de Chantegrive.”

  “Certainement, bon choix,” he replied, looking at Oscar now for his selection.

  Still reeling from his rude comment, I let him order on his own, not wanting to offer any assistance. As it turned out, he didn’t need it.

  “Cheeseburger. Fries. Bud Light.” He glared up at the waiter as if daring him to challenge his obviously-trying-to-be-difficult order.

  To his credit, the waiter’s eyes merely widened slightly, then he nodded his head. “Certainement.”

  Oscar’s eyes now met mine across the table—challenging me next?

  “I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” I said, my tone icy.

  “I’m surprised he took the order. I was expecting a fight,” he said, smirking a little.

  “The service here is impeccable. No one would ever argue with a customer.” I sighed, placing my napkin on my lap. “But if it’s a fight you’re wanting . . .”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh please, you’re spoiling for a fight.” I leaned across the table, my voice a low whisper. “What the hell is your problem? Is this because of the Brannigan’s thing?”

  He just pointed at the waiter who had brought our drinks. He set them down quickly, obviously sensing the tension at the table.

  Once he walked away, I leaned in. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Jesus, you’re so stubborn. It is about Brannigan’s, isn’t it? I know you didn’t ask me for help, but I—”

  “I didn’t ask you for anything,” he said, cutting me off. Then he drained half of his beer in one draft and looked at me, daring me to say something.

  I wasn’t playing this game. No way.

  I smiled sweetly, ending the trajectory of the conversation. “So, Roxie told me that Polly ate so much of her Halloween candy the other night they’ve had to hide it and dole it out so she can’t OD on it again. Isn’t that funny?”

  I was determined to save this night . . .

  Stepping out of the car in front of Gallery O, I saw the usual photographers, movers and shakers in the art world, simpering debutantes with their equally simpering hedge fund manager boyfriends, blue-blooded matronly art patrons paired off with good-looking young hipsters, society hangers-on, and, in the middle of it all, actual artists.

  I heard a sigh behind me, and when I turned to see Oscar, he was looking at the entire scene disapprovingly.

  “You ready?” I asked, looping my arm through his as he came to stand next to me.

  He grimaced, then forced a smile. “Sure thing.”

  “You sure?”

  “I love it when people ask me the same question twice,” he replied, looking like a man about to walk into the dentist’s office for a root canal.

  I dug my nails into his arm as we walked past the photographers, here to snap a few shots for Page Six. “Play nice, please.”

  “Oh, you want me to play?” he asked, a devious grin now making its way across his face. “Okay, let’s play.”

  I saw my mother coming through the crowd, smiling and nodding and shaking hands, and I squashed every single thing I wanted to say: that I wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, ask him what the hell was the matter, why was he being such an ass, and where was this all coming from?

  I squashed, I centered, I smiled.

  “Mother!” I called out.

  She caught my eye and beamed. She looked radiant. Dressed head to toe in all black accented with a bright lime-green scarf wrapped around her shoulders, she looked like some beautiful exotic bird. Some artists were notoriously shy, but my mother thrived under the spotlight and loved to show people her latest piece.

  And behind her, as always, was my father. Strong and solid, anchoring her crazy with his sensible, he was always content at her side.

  “Natalie, I was hoping we’d see you here,” she cooed, slipping an arm around my waist and hugging me close.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t have missed it. Looks like you’ve got quite a turnout already!”

  “Crows, they’re all crows! Just here for the free food and drink, and to pick pick pick apart my work.”

  “Which she secretly loves,” my dad chimed in, sharing a secret smile with me.

  “I do, I really do,” she agreed, dropping a kiss on his cheek. They both realized there was a man on my arm at exactly the same second, and I stifled a grin when I watched them both tilt their heads up slightly to take in his height.

  “Oh, and this must be the man who’s been keeping my daughter out of town so much lately. Oscar, isn’t it?” My mother offered a hand, which Oscar took. Her eyes widened at the size of his paw.

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Grayson. Looks like quite a show here tonight.”

  “It really is such a spectacle,” she said, looking him up and down, taking the time to catalogue each feature. “And this is Natalie’s father.”

  “Mr. Grayson,” Oscar said, shaking his hand firmly.

  “I’m Al; that’s Anna,” my dad replied, taking it to a first-name basis already. An interesting development.

  Then someone from the gallery came outside and asked my mother if she had a moment.

  “Oh goodness, I’ve got to go—a few interviews. Will we see you later, Oscar?”

  “I’ll be wherever Natalie is, I expect,” Oscar said, smiling smoothly.

  I smiled and nodded, and as the two of them whisked away and melted into the crowd, I looked around for other faces I knew.

  “I’ve got to make the rounds and say hello to some people. You with me?”

  “Sure,” he said, “I’m with you.”

  And he couldn’t have been more wrong. All night long as I introduced him to people I knew—some friends from school, some friends just from the party scene—he was more and more rude. At first it was little things: not listening when other people were talking, staring off into space when I was asking him a question to bring him into the conversation; but then it began to get worse. He was muttering snide comments under his breath, commenting on everything from the hors d’oeuvres to the photographers and finally my friends. I don’t know if they heard it, but I did, and it was enough.

  Not that my friends didn’t have plenty to say about Oscar, too. Rich people don’t say what they’re thinking right out loud, but it’s right there on their face, in their eyes. They asked the right questions: where is your farm, how long have you been making cheese, how long have you been making Natalie (a particularly rude one asked by someone I went to high school with and never particularly liked); nothing openly hostile.

  I’d gotten so used to party small talk that I barely heard it anymore. But Oscar heard everything, and it was not sitting well.

  Finally, after circling around and making nice with everyone I needed to, I knew it was time for a drink.

  “I’ll be right back,” I muttered, starting to head off toward the bar.

  He caught me by the arm. Gently, of course, but still . . . “Where are you running off to?”

  “Getting a drink. I’ll be right back.” And I left.

  Was I rude? Maybe, but I needed a breather. This shit was getting complicated and I didn’t like it. I wasn’t sure quite what was going on with him tonight, but I didn’t like how I was feeling.

  When I finally made it to the front of the crowded bar I blindly asked the first bartender I could find for a double vodka, straight up.

  And when he handed me my drink, and
I finally looked up to hand him a tip, I found myself looking into the coldest brown eyes I’d hoped to never see again.

  “Thomas.” My voice caught in my throat, barely a breath, but he heard it and smiled. My skin crawled.

  “Hello, Natalie, it’s been a long time.”

  I instinctively tugged at my dress, pulling it a little higher across my cleavage, a little lower across my bottom. “What are you—”

  “—doing here? What the hell does it look like? I’m serving the masses. There are so many drunk women here tonight I might get lucky.” And he waggled his eyebrows at me.

  I was frozen. As the familiar scent of his cloying cologne reached my nose, it was all I could do not to burst into tears right then and there. How could he still do this to me, after all this time?

  I’d sacrificed everything for this man: gave up my family, gave up the time in my life when I was supposed to be the most free and adventurous, gave up my dreams.

  I wanted to say something worthy of who I was now, one perfect, cutting sentence that would eviscerate him for what he’d done to me. But no words could ever bring back all that he had taken. So like before—I walked away.

  And walked right into Oscar, who was pacing at the edge of the crowd, looking at his watch like he couldn’t wait to get out of here. And when I saw him, saw the irritation he still so clearly felt with me and at being here, in this world, my world, and hating it, it all became very clear.

  I’d sacrificed everything for a man once. I’d never do it again.

  Neither of us spoke in the car on the way back to my place. I should say, neither one of us spoke actual words. There was sighing, there was restless movement, there were lips bitten and tongues bitten, for that matter, and none of those things were done in the usual Natalie and Oscar fashion.

  The car pulled up in front of my place, and like a shot, Oscar was out of the car and around to my side, as though refusing to let me get the jump on him again. I was angry. I was angry at how I’d handled things with Thomas, of course, but more important, I was angry at how Oscar had been behaving all night. I knew how to compartmentalize Thomas and would deal with that later. But I hadn’t built up any defense against Oscar.

  I’d never thought I’d need to.

  I stormed past him, clicking up the steps to my apartment while he slammed the car door shut behind me. I turned the key in my lock as if the door had done something personally to me. I sort of wished it would, so I’d have an excuse to break something.

  What the hell was happening? Hours ago, we’d been making out behind the stall at the farmers’ market, hardly able to be near each other without wanting to bang our brains out. Now there was this horrible tension, like waiting for a balloon to pop.

  I heard him come in behind, heard him shrug out of his jacket and felt his hands near my neck, ready to help me out of mine. I whirled on him suddenly, no longer willing to pretend I wasn’t angry.

  “What the hell is happening?” I demanded. “I mean it, Oscar: what the hell?”

  “You want to talk about this now?” he asked, tugging my coat off and hanging it carefully next to his.

  “I think we’d better, don’t— Hey, don’t walk away from me!” I shouted as he walked toward the kitchen.

  Spinning on his heel, he held his hands in the air as if to say no big deal. “Just getting a drink, baby. That’s all.”

  “Don’t fucking call me baby. I hate that. You never call me baby,” I sputtered, still standing in the entryway, getting angrier by the second.

  “What do you want me to call you? Honey? Sweetie? Tell me exactly what you want to be called, so I can make sure to address you correctly.” He disappeared around the corner and I could hear him opening the fridge, the ice tinkling in the glass.

  I stomped down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He poured a scotch, then waved the bottle around dramatically. “It doesn’t mean anything. Why does everything have to mean something?”

  “It doesn’t, normally. But when someone’s acting like an asshole, then yeah, things tend to mean something.”

  “An asshole?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  I shook my head in surprise. “You don’t think so? ‘What do you want to be called, tell me exactly what you want to be called so I can’—what did you say?—‘address you correctly’? Asshole works, but I’m thinking jerk, dickhead, and straight-up motherfucker sound pretty good, too.”

  “You’re pissed at me,” he said.

  “You’re damn right I’m pissed at you. Your behavior was totally out of line tonight. First at the restaurant, and then at my mother’s art opening. I think out of line is an understatement.”

  “Your mother was nice. Your father, too. But the rest of those people?” He tossed back the rest of his scotch. “They were all assholes.”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, fire creeping into my face.

  “I’m sorry, too. Your little social circle is filled with jerk-offs.”

  “You don’t even know them. How can you make judgments about people you just met?” I asked. “I’ve known some of these people for years. Maybe they’re not close friends, but I’ve spent time with them. We see each other at all the same parties, all the same restaurants, all the same events. Maybe they’re a little snooty at times, and a bit judgmental, but . . .”

  Huh. Some of them were assholes, actually. But still, they were my assholes. Wait, that sounded terrible.

  I changed course. “Oscar, I know you like to say what you want, when you want, at the exact second you have a thought. But sometimes you have to take a minute and think about what you’re saying, and if it’s necessary, and are you hurting anyone when you say it!”

  “It hasn’t been a problem yet,” he answered.

  I slammed my hand down on the counter. “It is a problem if I can’t take you out without worrying if you’re going to be an asshole!”

  “Ahhhh,” he said, setting his drink down and taking a few steps closer. “That’s what this is about: not knowing how the guy from the sticks is going to behave at one of your bullshit cocktail parties.”

  “Is that what you really think of me?” I whispered, feeling tears spring to my eyes.

  “Why’d you talk to Brannigan’s about me? Tell the truth, now.”

  “I already told you: because I wanted to help you! They’re one of the fastest-growing brands in the country, and they can put your product on shelves in cities all over the place. Why wouldn’t you want that?”

  He slammed his hand on the counter. “Because I don’t need that! I don’t need to be on everyone’s shelves, I don’t need to be ‘in,’ and I don’t need some rich girl in Chicago to tell me that my cheese is good. I know it’s fucking good. Why does Bailey Falls Creamery need to be a household name?”

  I blinked, surprised by his vehemence. “What’s wrong with being a household name?”

  “I was supposed to be a household name! Me!” he yelled, pounding his chest. “And I didn’t want it! I didn’t want it then, and I don’t want it now. What the hell is wrong with everyone these days? Everything has to be bigger and brighter and better—when is it enough?”

  “No one is saying that it has to be that, Oscar. I only thought that—”

  “All my father wanted from me was to be a famous football player. Always number one; coming in second wasn’t an option. I got drafted for the National Football League, Natalie—and the first thing he said when it didn’t happen until the second round was that he hoped when it was my younger brother’s turn, he’d go in the first round.” He paced around the kitchen, getting wound tighter and tighter. “Do you have any idea how proud I am of what I’m doing now? I love what I do. We’re making some money, sure, but people love that fucking cheese. It’s really good, and that’s saying something.”

  “It is really good, and you know how much
I love it, too. But for God’s sake, Oscar, sometimes it’s okay to let someone help you. I can put your product on shelves across the country: why wouldn’t you want that?”

  “Because I don’t. And that should be enough for you.”

  I dug my hands into my hair, closing my eyes in frustration, trying to understand.

  “And if that’s not enough for you, then maybe I’m not enough for you.”

  What? My eyes snapped open, not sure what I’d heard. “What are you saying?”

  “Come on, Natalie—where is this going? Huh?”

  I felt punched in the gut. “Wait, hold on. We’re deciding this now? What do you mean, where is this going? We’re having fun, we’re enjoying each other—what’s wrong with that?”

  He nodded, crossing the kitchen toward me, reaching out with one hand. “Yeah, we are, and it’s great. But come on, you live in the city; I don’t. I’m not moving here. For me, everything is in Bailey Falls.”

  “Sure,” I nodded dully, feeling nothing now except the warmth of his hand. “Sure, you’ve got the cows.”

  “I’ve got my life,” he corrected, “and you’ve got yours. Unless you’d consider . . .” He trailed off, his eyes hopeful.

  “Unless?”

  “You’d consider moving upstate.”

  And there it was.

  Move upstate, giving up everything else, uproot everything I know and love and worked my ass off to get—sacrifice it all, for a man.

  Tears spilled over, sudden and hot, and then there I was, hands shaking, taking him into my arms and telling him no, no, I can’t do that.

  Because no matter what, that was the one thing I’d never, ever do again.

  And then he’s kissing me, kissing my tears away and telling me he understands, and then he’s picking me up and wrapping his arms around me and taking me back to the bedroom and he’s loving me, and he’s loving my body and he’s peeling off my dress and he’s making me naked and warm and his hands are running all over my perfectly imperfect body, and he’s so warm and he’s so tender and he’s so gentle and his body is so incredibly strong, and maybe it’s strong enough and maybe he’s strong enough and maybe he’s strong enough for both of us, and maybe I could just consider that maybe, possibly, I could think about this some more . . . But then no, no, no I can’t do that because I can be strong, too, and I can be strong on my own and for myself, and oh yes, oh no, and now he’s loving me so hard because he knows I can take it, and so sweet because he knows that I need that, too, and it’s too much and not enough all over again . . .