“I should go,” I say.
“No,” Alan says firmly. “I’m in Southern California, Chrissie.”
“You’re not in New York? You’re not on the road?”
“No. I’m in Malibu. Working.” He inhales deeply. A long pause. “I’m alone. I told myself I wouldn’t do this unless you called. I’m alone, Chrissie. Spend the week with me.”
~~~
I pause at the drop-off loop curb at LAX, not exactly sure what to do next.
A car pulls up in front of me. A very sleek, black, foreign sports car. I move toward it and the passenger window rolls down.
“Chrissie. Toss your bag in the back. I’m not getting out of the car. It’s better that I don’t.”
I open the door, drop my bag on the floorboard, and then sink in the passenger seat beside him. Alan starts to speed out of the airport.
We sit in silence as our drive takes us through clogged, slow-moving Southern California freeways toward the beach. After what feels like a never-ending vacuum of quiet, Alan’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Was your flight good?”
I turn my face from the window and my eyes fully settle on him for the first time since I climbed into the car.
“It was OK.” I struggle for something funny to say to break the tension suffocating me. Then, “For proletarian travel.”
Alan laughs, downshifting the car for the slowing traffic ahead. “I should have sent the plane,” he jokes quietly, “I know how you hate proletarian travel, Chrissie.”
A small measure of nervousness leaves me and I smile. “Nope. I’m a commercial travel kind of girl these days.”
“Probably all the traveling between Berkeley and Seattle,” he says matter-of-factly.
I can feel his eyes studying me even though his gaze looks locked on the road, and I tense. He just brought Neil into the car with us, and I’m not sure why he did that.
“How long are you on the West Coast?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Four weeks. Then on the road again for another year.”
“You said on the phone you were here working. What are you working on?”
“A new album.” Alan gives me a small smile. “What did you think I was working on?”
I shake my head. “OK, stupid question.”
I stare out the window, focusing on the ocean, as we whiz down the Pacific Coast Highway, away from the town and the hotels.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“I have a house here.”
“Since when? I thought you hated California.”
“I used to,” he says. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time here in the last two years. Now it’s where I prefer to be.”
I chance another look at him and I wonder what he’s thinking and what he thinks about me being here. No part of this has flowed in a predictable way, but then nothing with Alan ever flows in a predictable way.
“I thought you would never live anywhere but New York,” I say.
“And I thought you would call me sooner after Berkeley. I never expected to wait seven months to hear from you.”
The sharpness of his tone makes anxiety flood my stomach, and then Alan’s eyes fix on me. He looks a touch irritated and a touch angry, and I don’t know why he should be either since I’m the one who called him.
I turn my head and stare out the window.
We pull into a narrow driveway hugging a stunning multi-level concrete and glass structure rising above the beach in Malibu. I climb from the car before he reaches my door and wait as he walks to me. He doesn’t look at me, and I realize that he hasn’t touched me, not even in a casual way, since I got here and he’s deliberately maintaining space between us.
“Let’s go inside,” Alan says, as he reaches in for my bag. “The press doesn’t seem to know about this place yet, but we shouldn’t stand out here all afternoon.”
He gives me a benign sort of nothing smile. My scalp prickles as every nerve in my body is suddenly blasted by a chill. The press. I don’t know how I failed to put that worry on my mental list of reasons not to do this. As awful as it was after New York, it is going to be doubly so if anyone finds out we’ve been together again.
I step back from him quickly and hurry ahead down the walk to the house. I wait as he unlocks the door, and rush into the house before him.
It’s warm inside, dimly lit, with a giant wall of glass overlooking the Pacific Ocean. There’s a wide patio, one flight of stairs below, just beyond the living room, surrounded by a tiled, concrete privacy wall. The area is artfully decorated with enormous greenery, potted trees and ferns, tables positioned near fire pits, and chaise lounges encircling a blue-bottomed pool.
I drag my gaze from the exterior and take in the interior of the house. It’s stunningly turned out in white and black shabby-chic furnishings with natural wood tables and giant canvases encased in glass, of boldly colored European Impressionist art, floor to ceiling. The walls are white. The floors a darkly painted surface that looks almost like the concrete of the foundation. There are instruments everywhere, personal possessions only lightly sprinkled here and there. The house does not have the feel of having ever been lived in.
I turn to find Alan standing just inside the entry hall. I watch as he moves to the bar to pour himself a tall scotch, and my nervousness prompts me to wander around the room. I pretend to examine a Native American bowl of some kind resting on the coffee table as Alan sits on the arm of an overstuffed chair. I can feel the heavy pressure of his eyes on me. Why is he just sitting there, staring at me and saying nothing?
I search for something to say. “How often do you come here?”
“I spend most of my time here when I’m in the states. This is where I come when I want to be alone.”
“Inviting me sort of ruins that, doesn’t it?”
“That depends on why you are here, Chrissie.”
Startled, I turn to look at him, and instinctive fear rises through my center. Oh no, I’ve seen that expression before, and how I’ve imagined this night might play out just radically changed.
It seems like Alan doesn’t talk or move, forever.
Then, he sets down his drink. “I’m not sure I should want you here. I haven’t decided yet. I’m trying to figure out why you called me.”
I fight to maintain my composure, but it is not easy with the way he is looking at me. His stare warns that this could go any direction depending on how I answer him. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing is harsh, and I can tell he is struggling to stay calm.
“I don’t know why I called. Does it matter?”
His eyes flash, and then he’s across the room. He keeps his eyes on me, unblinking, and while nothing is showing on the surface, the anger is jolting through him.
“What the fuck do you want from me, Chrissie?”
I take a step back from him and his features tighten with unconcealed anger.
“I don’t want anything,” I whisper anxiously.
Alan grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his smoldering eyes. His expression is disconcerted, angry, and even sad. “Then I will take you back to the airport and dump you there. Why are you here?”
Panicked and terrified, I manage to hold it together, even as a weird feeling of déjà vu surrounds me. Then, my mind fills with disjointed scenes of the night in New York when I was afraid he would dump me in the hallway wrapped in a sheet.
His gaze, burning and angry, never lifts from me, and I am quaking like a leaf. There is something on his face that warns me I could blow this very easily, that this is not a dose of Alan theatrics, but a dangerously serious moment for me and if I answer it wrong we will be over forever this time.
I stare up at him. “I’m here because I love you.”
We stand together, staring at each other, and very gradually he relaxes, and now, on top of everything, I feel like I’m going to cry. Alan closes his eyes and exhales and then he is lifting me from the floor.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A sound from the beach jolts me from deep sleep, and I open my eyes. The moonlit room is warm and Alan is warm against my back, still holding on to me.