Oscar did say he’d like me in the boots, though, and only the boots . . .
“You’ll be back Monday?” Dan asked, interrupting my daydream.
“That’s the plan. I’ll take the train back home on Sunday.”
“Staying up there the entire weekend again? Two Saturday nights in a row, this town has been deprived of Natalie Grayson. I’m surprised the lights didn’t dim on Broadway,” he teased.
“I’m dedicated, what can I say?” I laughed, snatching back the expense reports after he signed them and running them down to accounting before he could ask me any more questions.
And speaking of questions . . .
“I just don’t understand. What in the world could possibly be so interesting upstate that would keep you away from brunch? I mean, it’s brunch, for God’s sake, Natalie,” my mother was saying, walking from the kitchen to the dining room with a tray to arrange the cookies I’d brought. “Explain this to me like I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot, Mom,” I said, biting into one of the cookies.
“I must be, since I’m not understanding this. Two Sundays in a row, Natalie. Two!”
“Ma! It’s for work, okay? New campaign. I’m working with out-of-town clients, and I’m still collecting information. Its research that I need to do, and it helps when I’m in the place I’m actually supposed to be selling to everyone, you know?”
“I understand that, but—”
“And Roxie’s there. It’s great to see her, and meet her new boyfriend and her friends, and it’s a great little town. It’s . . . I don’t know . . . it’s nice,” I muffled my voice with a cookie, “spending some time out of the city.”
She blinked several times. “Who is he?”
“Who is who?”
“Who’s the he that’s making you miss brunch all the time.”
“All the time?” I laughed. “Two brunches is hardly ‘all the time.’”
“Quit deflecting,” she said, sitting down across from me at the table. She’d been in her studio today; she had paint under her nails. She had a new show coming up soon, her first in a few years. “You’ve met someone.”
“You’re psychotic.”
“That’s twice now you’ve changed the subject or not answered me directly.”
“Maybe because you’re being psychotic,” I said through the cookie.
“You always tell me about the guys you’re dating. Why aren’t you telling me about this one?”
“Because there’s nothing to tell! Jeez, what’s with the third degree?”
She settled back into her chair and appraised me the way only a mother can. “You look me in the eye and tell me there’s not a guy involved in this, and I’ll drop it.”
I leaned across the table, keeping my face as composed as I could. “There is not a guy involved in this.”
She paused a moment, her eyes searching. “Okay. Enough. I won’t say another word.”
I let out my breath. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pack some things for my trip tomorrow. Did you know that there’s a town literally five minutes up the Hudson where you can’t even see the city?”
“It’s called Yonkers, sweetie. It’s been there a long time. I think we might have kept you in Manhattan too long.”
“Perish the thought.” I grinned and dropped a kiss on her head. “I’ll call you on Sunday, how’s that?”
“I’ll be reading the Times, don’t interrupt me.”
“Duly noted. Love you.” As I walked past her, she reached out and patted my arm.
“You’ll tell me about this guy when you’re ready.”
That woman has X-ray vision.
Thursday morning went by in a blur, and before I knew it, I was on the train and heading north once again along the Hudson. It was a gorgeous sunny day, the sun shining down and reflecting off the water so brightly it was almost blinding. But not so blinding that I wasn’t able to enjoy the view. Normally a train for me meant sardine-packed between a thousand other commuters, or don’t fall asleep or you’ll miss your stop.
But I found myself once again watching the little towns go flashing by, wondering at the lives led behind those front doors. I got a quick snapshot into a life that I’d never know anything about, but it was fun imagining what might being going on behind those closed doors. My train was merely a background sound to them, a train that had rattled by twelve times a day (twenty-four if you count the other direction), a sound they’d no doubt tuned out long ago. Or a train they’d taken themselves on a sunny Saturday, to head into the city to watch the Yankees play. All these little snapshots of a life led on the Hudson River Line, and today I was once more part of that background noise—albeit a very excited part, as I was nearly bouncing out of my seat to get back to Bailey Falls.
I had all my research and notes for the Friday-morning meeting, to talk about how they wanted their town presented. I had a date set up with Chad Bowman to get a more specific glimpse into some of the businesses and sights that I might feature.
But I certainly wasn’t bouncing out of my seat because I’d be meeting with Myra Davis, owner of the Klip ’n’ Kurl, a third-generation beautician and proprietor of the town’s hottest beauty spot. Or with Homer Albano, owner of the hardware store on Main Street, who’d been handing out homemade popcorn along with his wrenches and hammers since 1957.
I was bouncing and humming and practically climbing out of my skin because I was going to hopefully, probably see Oscar again. And the thought was driving me mad.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with the one-night stand; I’d indulged a time or two or several. The term implied, “Hey, let’s scratch this itch and then go our separate ways, but thanks for the orgasm.” Or multiple orgasms, if you were lucky.
But I was coming back to the scene of the one-night stand. The one-afternoon-getting-thoroughly-worked-over-in-the-barn stand. And I wanted more.
I craved him, simple as that. When I just saw him at the farmers’ market, I was free to make up any backstory I wanted about him. Now he was real. Now I knew enough to know I wanted to know more.
Had he thought about me this week? Had he been at work concentrating on something really boring but necessary, and then an image of my naked body shot across his imagination?