Seven Years Since The Motel Ch. 07

Maisie straightened as she felt her confidence return. Thank God she'd been able to shower this morning; she wouldn't have been able to think straight while smelling like him, the sticky evidence of the previous night still clinging to her.

"Maisie?"

"Yeah?" She shivered as the warm skin of his palm brushed down her forearm; she'd been so lost in her thoughts she hadn't noticed his approach.

Alessandro held out his hand. "Ready?"

Maisie stared down at his hand. It was now or never, and never wasn't an appealing option.

"Lead the way," she said, raising her eyes to meet his.

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Alessandro stood in the airy second-floor of the boathouse, tongue-tied.

Now that they were in the place where the conversation was supposed to take place, he couldn't say anything, couldn't come up with a single sentence that sounded good in his mind.

Part of his silence was due to fear. The memory of her as the calm before the storm hovered in his mind; what if their relationship—whatever it was—didn't survive the day? It was silly and melodramatic, but he wanted to hold on to the feeling that they had something together, might still have something together.

He was also distracted. She looked beautiful, more stunning than he could ever remember.

She'd chosen a ruffly, bottle-green, knee-length dress, which, against her reddish-blond hair, left her dazzling against the morning sunlight streaming through the huge, harbor-facing windows.

Every time he thought of something to say he'd get distracted by something new about her, like the way the dress's neckline teased him by providing only a glimpse of her collarbone, or the way the cut of the dress made him want to reach out and touch the curve of her hips, just to confirm that she was as soft as she appeared, as he remembered.

Or the scar on her knee, which he thought might have been from the time she'd fallen while rolling one of the old-fashioned wooden hoops they'd found in her parents' barn.

He was wracking his brain, trying to place a scar on her other knee when Maisie's words cut through his catalog of memories.

"What's that?"

Alessandro looked down, thinking Maisie must have been looking at some sort of scar on his body, before following her suspicious gaze to a small table next to a daybed.

"Oh." He cringed; how could he have forgotten? He walked over to the table and picked up the small white bag, careful to fold the top over to hide the logo. "Here, I got it for you."

"For me?" She gave the bag a dubious look.

"Yes, for you." He felt stupid holding the bag, and was relieved when she took it.

"Why?"

"Because . . . it doesn't matter. Just open it."

Maisie gave him a final untrusting glance before opening the package. She blinked as she stared into it, her face expressionless.

Had he misremembered? Had she grown out of them? Or forgotten?

"Are you trying to buy me?" Maisie asked. Her accusing tone grated on him, just as her words had that morning.

"Buy you? With salt water taffy?" He snorted in annoyance. "Don't be silly."

"Then why?"

He took a deep breath. He hadn't expected a bag of taffy would cause so many problems.

"I bought these yesterday to give to you. So no, this has nothing to do with buying you, or our argument this morning, or whatever."

Maisie didn't answer, but frowned at him, as it awaiting further explanation.

"Remember last night, when we were in the sitting room before the card game? When I said I'd been planning on coming over to see you? Well, I thought we could come here and talk. I thought it would be nice to have these here for you."

He grimaced; he was explaining things all wrong. "See, I found some really old taffy yesterday, when I was cleaning out the barn with my mom. I found our old—"

"Time capsule. Yeah, I remember. We put some taffy in, along with some peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff for the Fluffernutter sandwiches you loved as a kid." Maisie played with the paper top of the bag. "I loved the orange-flavored taffy, but hated the rest."

"And while you ate them May through September when the taffy shop was open, you devoured them with fresh strawberries in June." He pointed at a bowl of berries on the table. "I put the taffy and berries here last night for you, but forgot to put them away when we stayed at the house and played bridge. Since you're here now, though, well . . . you haven't grown out of them, have you?"

"I don't know." She bit her lip and stared at the bag. "I haven't had taffy in ages. It was just something I ate as a kid, but only with you, I think. So I haven't had a piece since . . . well, since we stopped hanging out before high school."

"Oh." He felt silly, like a grandmother buying gifts her grandchildren had outgrown years ago. The reminder of how he'd treated her in high school didn't help, either. "So do you want to try one?"

"I don't know." Maisie took a piece of taffy out of the bag and unwound the ends of the twisted waxy wrapper, but then just held it in her hand.

He didn't know how long they stood there, Maisie staring at the taffy, him staring at Maisie, awkwardness hanging in the air along with the smells of salt, grease, and wood from the rooms below.

It was hard not to invest some deeper meaning in the piece of candy, like how if she put it back in the bag she was done with him, and if she ate it she was giving him a chance.

Muted sounds of the ocean and harbor seeped through the windows, and the occasional shout or noise from a piece of farm equipment drifted up to his ears, but he had the sense that time—like his ability to think—had stopped.

That the only things moving were the dust motes drifting lazily in the sunlight.

That the only thing that mattered was the sticky piece of artificially-flavored sugar in her hand.

"Why are you giving this to me now, though?" she asked, closing her hand around the candy and looking up to meet his eyes.

Her bottom lip looked swollen and chapped, as if she'd been chewing on it since they'd parted, and as she raised her eyes to his he saw they looked tired and wary.

As much as he hated the sight, it irritated him. She was the one who'd flown off the handle this morning. She was the one who'd pushed him away, telling him they'd needed to "cool off."

"What do you mean, 'why'?" he asked, trying to keep the testiness from his voice. "Because I bought them for you. Because I wanted to give them to you yesterday, to give you something nice. Because I forgot to put them away last night."

"But why did you want to bring me here last night? And why are you telling me to have one now?"

"Because I still don't know what went wrong!" He heard a hint of irritation creep into his voice, but couldn't stop it. "And I want it to be un-wrong again."

"Un-wrong?" she repeated.

"I don't understand why you're upset with me, Maisie." Alessandro threw up his hands in frustration.

He sucked in a shaky breath, intent upon cutting himself off before he tacked on a dozen or so other questions that had been swimming in his mind all day—if not for years—but it was no use.

"Why did you accuse me of all those things?" He put his hands on his hips as his anger roared forward. "You were a full and willing participant last night. What happened? You chicken out? You regret it? Why were you so angry this morning?"

"I can't believe you're pretending you don't know," she ground out, squeezing the candy in her hand even harder.

"Well, I don't. Unless maybe it's for the same mysterious reason from seven years ago, when you snuck out of the motel room when I was in the shower? After everything we said last night, after everything we did, how can you be so angry? How can you just—"

"I didn't sneak out of the motel! I left because you kicked me out!" Anger flared in her eyes with the words, but as quickly as the emotion had erupted, it faded into what looked like a dull hurt. "Why are you pissed about that? What, did you expect me to pop into that bathroom, give you a kiss on the cheek, and say 'thanks for last night, and hey, don't worry, I'm leaving just like you asked' as I headed out?"

Alessandro gaped at her, but didn't answer.

"I still can't believe you did that to me. I'd been a . . . well, you know." Her face burned, and he was torn between wanting her to stop and wanting to learn, at last, why she'd left the motel. "One minute I was snuggled in bed with you, happy and sore and overwhelmed and confused and God knows what else, and the next you were telling me to get out, telling me you didn't want to see me. How could you have done that to me? How could you have been so cruel?"

Maisie's face crumpled as her eyes begged him to deny it. She wasn't shouting anymore; she sounded resigned, almost detached. He wanted to answer, but he was still too dumbfounded.

"And then you kicked me out this morning, too. And now you're giving me some stupid candies."

She looked at the bag in her hand, her look of misery replaced but one of anger. The accusation that he was bribing her with candy roused him from his thoughts.

"I didn't kick you out this morning."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't." He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Yes, you did!"

Alessandro pursed his lips and thought back on his words. "OK, you're right. I wanted you to leave this morning. But," he rushed on before she had a chance to say anything. "I told you to leave so you could avoid any awkward situations with my family. You know they're all early risers. I was just trying to make it easier on you."

He reached out to her, but dropped his hand when she seemed to pull away a little.

"Maisie, you have to believe me. The last thing I wanted this morning was for you to leave my bed. In a perfect world—a world with no parties, where my grandparents and parents were far away—we would have stayed in bed all day. Hell, we would have stayed in bed all weekend, only leaving to shower together and bring food back to bed. I didn't want to get up, and I didn't want to let you go. Please, believe me."

He held his breath. Her eyes darted around the room, like she was looking through her mind, trying to piece together what he'd said with her memories.

"I want to believe you, Less, but this morning wasn't the first time. Knowing that you kicked me out seven years ago . . . it's like a pattern, you know?"

"I didn't kick you out seven years ago."

"Yes, you did!"

"No, I . . . ." He grimaced. "Why don't you tell me what you remember. Because I swear to you, Maisie, when you left me seven years ago . . . it was one of the worst mornings of my life. I never wanted that to happen."

Maisie stood before him, shaking her head.

"Tell me what you remember, Maisie. Please."

She stared, then closed her eyes and screwed up her face.

"We were in bed. You woke me up. You started touching me, rubbing your hand on my hip. You kissed me good morning, right here." She opened her eyes and swallowed hard as she touched a spot on the back of her head. "And then . . . and then you told me my ride would be leaving soon. That you didn't want to get out of the shower and find me under the covers."

Her voice broke as she finished. Alessandro closed his eyes in horror as comprehension dawned. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have said those words, have not realized how she'd misinterpreted?

"See?" she cried. "You can't even deny it! I knew you said that! Carolina tried to tell me that I was wrong—and damn me, I believed her because I wanted to. But I'm not! I know I'm not. You kicked me out!"

"I was your ride, Maisie."

His voice was flat as the reality of what had happened sunk in; had they really wasted seven years because of his stupid words?

"What? What are you talking about?" Her face was red and her brows furrowed as she spoke. "Tracy Washington and I took the train up to Stamford, and then Brooke Goger picked us up and drove us up for the weekend. Brooke was my ride."

"How would I have known that? We never talked about how you got there that weekend; I'd assumed you'd taken the bus."

"No," she whispered. "No, Brooke was my ride, not you."

Alessandro closed his eyes. "I had my mom's car; remember me saying my keys were in Jack's room? I wasn't in college, and I wasn't leaving for Italy for another week. That morning when I woke up, I decided to go to New York with you. I wanted to spend hours in the car with you. I wanted to spend as much of the week as possible with you."

He opened his eyes to find her staring at him, a look of horror and disbelief on her face. "I was your ride, Maisie. I didn't want to leave without you, or you without me."

"That's what you meant?" she whispered.

"Yes. I wanted to leave that motel. It was gross, remember?" He let out a harsh laugh. "I wanted to get my keys, to go someplace nicer with you. To get out of that cheap cocoon and have fun with you in the city."

"I don't understand."

"You're not a morning person, Maisie—everyone knows that. I said I didn't want to get out of the shower and find you in bed because I wanted you to join me in the shower. So that together, we could go get my keys and leave. I didn't want you to leave without me."

"You wanted to . . . to be with me, for more than one night? You wanted . . . ." Her eyes were wide as she trailed off, and she shook her head as if she couldn't believe what he was saying.

"I waited for you in the shower for God knows how long before deciding you must've fallen back asleep. When I came out and found you gone, I assumed you'd gone to get your stuff. I sat on the bed waiting for you for two hours."

He moved to sit on a daybed, and patted the space next to him, but Maisie didn't move or speak.

"Oh God." Maisie stood before him, wringing her hands as the look of horror on her face grew.

"And this morning, I didn't want you wandering down into the kitchen when my grandparents were there. Not because I was ashamed of you, but . . . Christ, Maisie, you'd already said you couldn't face them because of the capsizing incident. I thought you'd be furious with me if I let you meet them wearing your clothes from the day before, looking like you'd just spent the night doing much more than sleeping."

"Oh God." She buried her face in her hands.

He waited for her to say something, but she seemed unable to move.

"It doesn't matter, OK? We're here now. Just . . . sit down, Maisie." He patted the space next to him again. When she remained before him, head in her hands, he sighed. "Sit with me. Please?"

After a moment's hesitation, she did, but she wouldn't look at him. She stared at a spot on the floor several feet in front of them.

Alessandro wrapped an arm about her shoulder and pulled her close to him, then closed his eyes and kissed her hair. Her hair tickled his nose as he kissed her again on the spot she'd touched minutes earlier, the same spot he'd kissed years ago in the motel when waking her up.

Comfort and relief, he thought as he inhaled a long breath.

"It's all my fault," she whispered. "All of it." Her voice was louder as she pulled away to look at him. "How could I have been so stupid? If I hadn't run . . . ."

Her unfinished statement hung in the air, its meaning taking hold in his mind, and, he was sure, in hers.

What would those seven years have been like? How would his life have been different? How would he be different?

"Don't do that, Maisie. It's not all your fault."

"Yes, it is."

"Maisie," he chuckled. "It's not. I mean, yes, you ran away. But I did nothing about it. We both messed up."

"No—"

"Yes. I knew you were only half-awake, and I never thought that I'd said something stupid. I was too young and immature to tell you how I really felt, so I covered it up with lame humor. And then I sat at home and moped."

He shook his head. "I didn't chase you to New York, I didn't sit on your doorstop insisting you talk to me. I didn't ask Carolina or Gemma for your email address—hell, in the past seven years, I never asked them a single thing about you."

"It's not the same." She bit her lip. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but what I did was far worse."

"No." He smiled at her. "I'm the one who said the words that set this whole thing off. You said it yourself: you'd never woken up with anyone before. You must've been so nervous when you found yourself in that dirty, cheap motel room with me, on a weekend known for random one-night stands. Coming after the way I acted towards you in high school—again, my fault—I'm not surprised you thought the worst of me. You were vulnerable, and I acted like your worst nightmare. "

"But—"

"You know," Alessandro interjected, putting a finger against her lips, "I always followed you when we were kids. Whatever you decided to do, wherever you decided to go, I followed." He gave her a rueful grin. "Maybe I shouldn't have dropped that habit when we hit high school."

"Maybe." Maisie reached out a hand and toyed with the bottom of his shirt. "But if I hadn't left, you wouldn't have had to follow."

"You running away wasn't the problem. The problem then—as it apparently was last night and this morning—is that we've so far proven ourselves to be terrible at communicating."

He saw a hint of a smile on her lips, and she glanced down at the taffy on her lap.

"You mean," she said, unwrapping the candy. "Like how I asked your sisters not to tell you anything about me? That sort of terrible at communicating?"

"Something like that. Though at least you didn't pretend I didn't exist, which is the approach I took." He laughed, shaking his head. "God, Maisie, we were such fools."

"Yup." She stared down at the unwrapped candy in her hands. "So, do you forgive me?"

He started to say that there was nothing to forgive, but changed his mind. She needed to hear the words.

"Of course." He smiled. "In fact, I forgave you a long, long time ago."

"Thank God." Her face softened into a wide smile. "I can't tell you how awful I felt there for a few minutes. Like I'd screwed up, big time. Like I'd ruined everything forever."

"Nah, not forever. If I can forgive you making me row out to Steward Island and getting that spike stuck in my foot, I can forgive anything you do."

"I told you not to walk off the path." She chuckled as she popped the candy in her mouth. She chewed a few times, her eyes brightening. "Oh my God," Alessandro barely made out through her smacks and slurps. "I forgot how good these are."

"Glad you like them, even if they are repulsive." He watched as her eyes strayed to the bag. "Go on, have another."

"Maybe just one more." She grabbed another out of the bag.

"So do you forgive me, too?" He couldn't stop the words from coming out, and held his breath as she chewed on the candy before swallowing.

"Yeah." She gave him a teasing smile. "Though you didn't get off the hook—I mean really, fully off the hook—until last Monday."

"Monday, huh?" He blew out a whistle. "That's harsh, Maisie."

"It is, isn't it?"

She gave him a thoughtful look as she chewed on another candy. "You know, maybe you deserve a reward for being in my bad graces for all those years, for being on the receiving end of so many voodoo pins," she lowered her voice to a sultry purr he'd never heard from her before. "A reward from me, I mean. You know, as some form of penance."

"A reward?" His eyes dropped to her breasts, then to her waist and legs; the erotic contrast between the prim and proper party dress and her voice sent a shudder down his body. "What kind of reward did you have in mind? I can think of quite a few ways you could reward me, ways that would make your efforts far from a hardship for you."

"You can? Well, I was thinking." She licked her lips and lowered her eyelids. "This." Her voice was husky as she held out a piece of taffy to him.