The Awakening of Nina Fontaine Page 8

  “Yes, and they’re all over forty. In fact, they’re all over fifty, except for Blanchett, who’ll be fifty soon,” Karen said.

  “Your point?”

  Karen started to say something but stopped when the waiter returned with the oysters and crab cakes. He asked if they wanted anything else while they waited for their soup, then stepped away from the table.

  Karen reached for one of the oysters. “My point is that we’re only as old as we think we are. Do you think there’s a red-blooded man in the world who wouldn’t be more than happy to take any of those women to bed?”

  Nina laughed. “I think the rich and beautiful thing might have something to do with that.”

  “I’m sure that helps,” Karen said, “but my point remains.”

  “What’s your point again?” Nina asked.

  “My point is that the rules are different now. We can either be frumpy, boring middle-aged women or we can be sexy, exciting, experienced middle-aged women. We get to choose.”

  Karen tipped her head back and let one of the oysters slide off the shell into her mouth. Nina couldn’t deny that Karen had plenty of sex appeal, but Nina wasn’t sure it was something she could find in herself.

  “What if we don’t get to choose?” Nina asked, cutting into the crab cake on her appetizer plate. “What if some of us have it and some of us don’t?”

  “First of all, I don’t believe that. Second, I’d say your red-hot phone makes it pretty obvious you’re not lacking anything in the sex appeal department, and you’re not even trying right now,” Karen said.

  “Hey!” Nina laughed.

  “I’m just saying: if you managed to hook Jack Morgan and Liam McAlister in your uniform, with little to no effort, imagine what you’ll be capable of when you roll out that lingerie and the Louboutins.”

  “Hey! I like my clothes.” Even as Nina said it, she wasn’t sure it was true. Did she like them? Or was she just comfortable in them because they helped her disappear?

  “They don’t seem to be hurting you so far, but…” She sighed. “Never mind.”

  “What?” Nina prodded.

  “How do you know?” Karen asked.

  “How do I know what?”

  “How do you know who you are? How do you know what kind of clothes you like and what kind of men you like and what kind of sex you like?”

  “What do you mean?” Nina asked “I know because I know.”

  Karen shook her head. “I know because I’ve tried different things over the years, and because being in this city, being single in this city, forces me to keep trying different things.”

  Nina looked down at her half-eaten crab cake. “And you don’t think I have?”

  “Have you?”

  Something in Karen’s voice forced Nina to meet her eyes. “At first, moving to the suburbs felt like trying something new.”

  “It’s been almost twenty years, Nina.”

  Karen’s voice was gentle, and Nina was embarrassed to feel tears sting her eyes. She blinked them back.

  “After awhile it wasn’t about trying something different — it was about trying to fit in.”

  Karen reached across the table and touched Nina’s hand. “That was then. You don’t have to fit in anymore. Now you get to figure out who you are, and I promise you, whoever that person is will find her way. But how will you know if you don’t experiment a little?”

  “Experiment with what?”

  Karen shrugged. “With everything. New clothes are a good start. Liam and Jack are an even better one.”

  “That’s something I have to figure out,” Nina said.

  Karen looked confused. “What’s to figure out?”

  “I thought maybe the dinner with Liam was a friends thing, but now I’m not so sure. He’s asking me to brunch Sunday.”

  “So?”

  “So… what do I tell him about Jack? Or what do I tell Jack about him?” Nina asked.

  Karen’s confused expression deepened. “You don’t tell them anything unless they ask.”

  Nina shook her head. “I can’t date them both… can I?”

  “You not only can, you should,” Karen said. “It isn’t 1950. You don’t owe anyone anything. You can date however many men you want until you decide you want to do otherwise.”

  Nina thought back to the moment in front of her apartment after dinner with Liam, the moment when she’d wanted to invite him up, when she’d been able to imagine his naked body against hers.

  “What about the sex thing?”

  “The sex thing?” Karen repeated.

  “What if things… progress?” Nina asked. “I can’t sleep with them both.”

  “Um, yes you can,” Karen said. “In fact, you should. It’s not like you’re looking for the love of your life. You just got divorced.”

  “I am definitely not looking for love.” Opening herself up to physical contact felt fraught with peril, but opening up her heart after what she’d been through with Peter made sex look like the bunny slope.

  “There you go,” Karen said. “You’re looking to have fun, sow your wild oats. How are you supposed to know which oats you like best if you don’t try them both?”

  Nina almost choked on her crab cake.

  “I’m serious, Nina. You’re forty-five years old. It’s 2018. It’s not like it was when we were young. No one’s going to think you’re a slut if you date more than one man at a time. It’s expected, and you better believe most of the men out there are doing the same thing.”

  “We weren’t talking about dating,” Nina said.

  Karen waved away the comment. “Sex, dating, it’s all the same thing now. You could even try dating a woman if that sounds up your alley. Things are… loose.”

  “Sounds like people are loose too,” Nina said drily.

  “Yes, and it’s a lot more fun that way, “ Karen said.

  Nina laughed. “You’re terrible.”

  “I’m honest,” Karen said. “And if you don’t take Liam up on his offer of brunch, I might call and ask him out myself.”

  “And I don’t tell him about Jack?” Nina asked.

  “Tell him what? That someone asked you to an event Saturday? You’re not sixteen, and Liam McAlister isn’t your boyfriend. Don’t say a word unless it comes up. He can ask if he’s worried about it, and if he does, you should be honest.”

  Nina looked up as the waiter returned bearing their soup.

  “Ladies.” He set the bowls in front of them. “What else can I get you?”

  “Some champagne,” Karen said.

  The waiter raised his eyebrows. “What are we celebrating?”

  “My friend’s impending escape from the bounds of her puritanical past,” Karen said.

  The waiter laughed. “Sounds like the best of all reasons for champagne.”

  Nina tuned out as he and Karen discussed the varieties of champagne available at the restaurant, but it wasn’t Karen’s explanation of the modern dating scene that replayed in Nina’s head. It wasn’t even her practical assessment of Nina’s position as a new divorcee.

  It was Karen’s mention of Nina’s age.

  She was right: Nina was a grown woman. If her experience, her pain, had bought her anything it was the right to be honest about what she wanted — and to be honest when she didn’t know what that was.

  And she didn’t know. Not specifically. But she knew she wanted to go to brunch with Liam on Sunday, and she knew she was excited for her date with Jack.

  She was entitled to explore both options.

  “Ready to celebrate?” Karen asked as the waiter walked away to get their champagne.

  “Yes,” Nina said. “I think I am.”

  16

  She was pacing her living room the next night, fighting the urge to hyperventilate when the intercom buzzed. She looked at it for a few seconds before crossing the room, the Louboutins clicking on the wood floors.

  “Hello,” she said into the speaker.

  “It’s J
ack.”

  His voice was every bit as commanding as she remembered and all he’d done was say his name.

  “I’ll be right down,” she said.

  “You’ll buzz me up,” he said.

  Another order.

  She found herself complying even as some distant voice in her head wondered what would happen if she refused.

  If she disobeyed.

  A shiver ran up her spine. It wasn’t at all unpleasant.

  She hurried into her bedroom and took one last look in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. The dress was perfect, flattering and sculptural while skimming all the right places. Underneath it all was a bra she’d bought specifically for the dress and a scrappy bit of fabric that hardly qualified as underwear.

  She’d swept her hair into a low knot at the nape of her neck and pulled out a few tendrils. They curled around her face, carefully made-up according to Karen’s instructions and a Youtube tutorial Amy had texted her right after Robin’s message telling Nina to be herself and let the chips fall where they may.

  She loved Robin’s sentiment, but she was glad she’d taken Karen and Amy’s advice. The makeup was striking but subtle, highlighting Nina’s cheekbones, her hazel eyes that responded to the makeup by turning mossy green. She was especially glad she’d taken Karen’s advice about the red lipstick: the pale pink was much more flattering.

  Her arms were toned thanks to the last few months at the gym. She even had a collarbone again, and while she would never be slim, her curves were more pronounced now thanks to a decrease in body fat and muscle built up through a steady routine of strength training.

  A knock at the door set her heart racing all over again. She left the bedside lamp on as she took the three steps required to get her from the bedroom to the door.

  She took a deep breath and opened it, then had to remind herself to exhale.

  His coat was unbuttoned at the top, and she caught a glimpse of the bow tie she assumed was attached to a tuxedo. His dark hair was slicked back, silver glistening at his temples and making his face look even more striking than she remembered.

  His eyes raked her face, then descended over her body. He took his time, made no attempt at subtlety as he scanned her neck and collarbone, grazed her breasts and continued to her waist, over her hips, all the way down to the stilettos.

  He lifted his gaze to meet her eyes. “You’re stunning.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You look nice too.”

  “I was hoping you would choose the Jason Wu,” he murmured with approval.

  Her cheeks heated with the compliment. “The dresses were all gorgeous — and you’ll have to tell me how to get them back to you — but this one is definitely more me.”

  “I know,” he said simply.

  He tipped his head, his eyes taking on a studious air as they dropped to the bodice of the dress.

  “Take off the bra.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The bra,” he said. “The dress doesn’t need it and neither do you, not with this dress. Not tonight.”

  She swallowed the mixture of fear and excitement that rose in her throat. While she’d dropped two cup sizes during the divorce, she was still far from a perky A cup.

  “I don’t… I’m not sure I’m comfortable going without it,” she said.

  “Comfort is overrated.”

  There was a promise in his voice that sent a current of electricity through her body.

  She ducked into her bedroom, where she slipped the bra off without unzipping the dress. She returned to the hall without looking in the mirror, not wanting to give herself a reason to be any more self-conscious than she already was.

  He dropped his gaze to her breasts when she stepped into the hall. Approval lit his eyes — approval, and something else she couldn’t name.

  “Perfect.” He returned his eyes to her face. “Shall we?”

  She nodded and reached for her coat.

  He took it from her and she turned around to slip her arms into the waiting sleeves. His mouth was near the back of her neck in the moment before he settled the coat onto her shoulders. His hands lingered there and she waited, strangely — thrillingly — under his command, until he dropped them back at his sides.

  She tucked her new clutch under her arm, stepped into the vestibule, and closed and locked the door.

  He slipped her hand into his arm as they walked down the stairs, leading her patiently, as if he knew she was holding her breath against the possibility of falling in the stilettos.

  She wondered what he thought about the peeling paint on the walls of her building, the narrow staircase, the smell of damp and old concrete.

  When they stepped outside, Jack’s driver — she remembered Jack calling him Reggie — was standing next to a black stretch limo with tinted windows. He rushed to open the back door, and Jack waited as she slid into the car.

  She tried not to show her nervousness as Reggie started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  She was way out of her league.

  Jack leaned forward and removed a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket set inside the ledge in front of their seats.

  “I believe the kids call this pregaming,” he said, reaching for two glasses.

  She laughed, remembering Karen saying the same thing, and some of her nervousness dissipated.

  “You find the word amusing?” he asked.

  “Not the word so much as the way you said it,” she said. “It sounded so… formal.”

  “You don’t like formal?” he asked as he poured.

  “To be honest, I don’t have much experience with it.”

  “That kind of experience isn’t important to me.”

  “What is?”

  “The kind of experience that makes one resilient. The kind that makes one willing to try new things.” He handed her one of the glasses. “Are you willing to try new things, Nina?”

  Challenge ran under his words like a current.

  It terrified her. It thrilled her.

  “I think so,” she said.

  He touched his glass to hers. “To new things then. May they challenge and excite us.”

  17

  They spent the rest of the ride discussing Nina’s impressions of the suburbs after living there for nearly twenty years, her move to the city, her new job at the Stockholm Gallery. He listened with intense interest, asked questions that went far beyond casual conversation, that probed at parts of her psyche she hadn’t yet probed herself.

  What was your greatest expectation when you got married?

  How did your husband fail you?

  What’s your first memory from childhood?

  It was both disconcerting and exciting to be studied so intently, to be the object of someone’s total interest. That’s how Jack looked at her — like there was no one else in the world, like he wanted to know everything, to excavate all the secrets she didn’t even know she’d buried.

  There was no time to be coy. No time even to be deliberate. Not with his dark eyes piercing her armor, an urgency in his questions that made it clear he didn’t want her to think.

  Maybe for Jack thinking, like comfort, was overrated.

  She tried steering the conversation toward him several times without avail, asking about his work, where he lived, whether he traveled a lot. His answers were short, a necessary pit stop on the way back to his dig in the sandpit of her consciousness.

  All the while an electric charge ran between them. He was careful not to touch her, not to let his fingers so much as graze hers when he took her empty champagne glass, when he returned it, full, to her hand.

  It only exacerbated the physical tension between them. They were somewhere on the Manhattan bridge when she realized she was damp with arousal in spite of the fact that he hadn’t so much as touched her.

  At some point he grew quiet, his expression unreadable. She turned her face to the window of the limo and watched the city pass by on the other side of the glass
. They were in the financial district, stopped in a line of traffic that had grown increasingly thick with limos, when he spoke again.

  “Don’t mind the paparazzi.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The paparazzi. They’ll take your picture and shout questions at you. Just keep walking,” he said.

  She barely had time to get her head around what he’d said when the car inched to to a stop at the curb in front of Cipriani. Beyond Jack’s window, flashbulbs lit a red carpet with bursts of light, the murmur of the crowd gathered around the restaurant overruled by shouted statements and questions.

  She reached out and clutched his arm, the barrier between them falling in her panic.

  His hand came down over hers. “Ignore them.” For once she could define what she saw in his eyes: sympathy, and maybe even concern. His presence was a force field. She had the sense that nothing could hurt her, that he could — that he would — shield her from the rest of the world. “We’ll be inside before you know it.”

  The thought gave her no comfort. She had a feeling the situation would be no less surreal inside Cipriani’s.

  “Take off your coat,” he commanded, shedding his own.

  “What?”

  “They’ll want to see your dress,” he said.

  In this new world, the world where Nina attended a red carpet event with Jack Morgan, where she was wearing a dress worth thousands of dollars, where photographers were waiting for her to step out of a limo, this somehow made sense.

  She worked the buttons and swiveled in the seat. He slid the coat from her shoulders and tossed it onto the seat next to her along with his own overcoat. Then the door opened — Nina hadn’t even noticed Reggie getting out of the car — and a burst of flashing bulbs and murmuring voices invaded the formerly quiet interior.

  Jack stepped out of the car and turned back to reach for her hand. It was the first time they’d touched since leaving the apartment, and for a split second, the crowd disappeared, leaving her in a universe with no one but the enigmatic man holding her hand.

  She swiveled her legs onto the pavement and rose to her feet, trying not to stare in shock at the spectacle of photographers and reporters and celebrity watchers clamoring behind the velvet ropes holding them back from the red carpet.