18

Julia was nearly asleep when she heard her cell phone vibrating on the rickety wooden nightstand. She fumbled for it in the dark, and sighed when she saw the screen.

“Hey,” she said, sitting up in bed.

“Hey, baby,” Booker said softly. “You missing me?”

“Yeahhh,” she said slowly, smiling as she pictured him. He’d be sitting there in his favorite ratty gray high school gym shorts and a bleached-out T-shirt. His wiry gray-streaked hair would be standing on end, because he ran his fingers through it when he was bored, and the horn-rimmed glasses would have slid down on his nose. Most likely he’d be drinking his favorite late-night treat—Dr Pepper. “Come to think of it, I am.”

Julia Capelli had been a nineteen-year-old college dropout, bumming around Europe for a year, picking up modeling assignments wherever she could, when she met Booker Calloway in a grotty pub in Brighton.

He was a fashion photographer, and she’d been hired for a low-budget teenybopper catalog shoot. She’d been drinking with a couple of the other girls, and he’d stopped at their table to buy them all drinks and hit on Geenie, the busty redhead in their bunch. He was already thirty then, sexy as hell with his long, dark hair, gold-flecked hazel eyes, and ever-present Nikons slung bandolier-style across his chest. He was a confirmed expatriate who’d grown up in California and who swore he’d never go back.

Booker completely ignored Julia that night, but the next day, after the shoot, he’d pulled her aside to offer her some advice—“get yourself to a tanning bed, for Chrissake”—and to offer to take some better head shots for her book. They’d done a couple more shoots together, and after that, Booker was acting as her de facto agent, and then one day, she’d realized that they were essentially working—and living—together, full time.

It seemed to Julia that their couplehood had just gradually evolved. And why not? He was smart, successful, a thoughtful and kind lover, a levelheaded presence in the crazy world they both inhabited. Everybody loved Booker, even her mother, who’d been fully prepared to hate the totally inappropriate older man who’d seduced her daughter into staying in England instead of coming home to the States, college, her family, a normal life. Within five minutes of meeting him, Catherine Capelli was totally won over. The only thing her mother didn’t like about Booker was that her headstrong daughter steadfastly refused to marry him.

Booker never let her forget that one of the last things her mother told her before her death was that she should “marry that nice man, Sugar, before he gets away.”

“I could come down there Saturday morning,” he was saying now. “My meetings in DC are over Friday night. It’s not that long a drive, I could head back here Monday morning. What do you say?”

She sighed again. “Book, we’ve already been over this. This is a chick trip. No boys allowed. Anyway, it’s barely been a week. I need some time to sort things out. We have an agreement, remember?”

“You have an agreement,” he grumbled. “I didn’t have much choice in the matter, did I?”

She chuckled ruefully. “Not much. Now, can we talk about something else? How’s it going up there? Do you like the people you’re working with?”

“They’re all right, a pretty tight-knit bunch. I’d forgotten how bureaucratic a magazine can be. They’ve got policies and procedures for everything. And it’s gonna take a while to get up to speed with their software.”

“You can do it,” she reassured him. “And anyway, they’re making it worth your while, remember?”

“Damned straight they are. Hey, guess what? I think I found us a house today.”

She flopped back down onto her back. “Oh, Book. I don’t know. I told you…”

“Julia, just hear me out,” he said, his voice pleading. “You’ll love it. It’s in Alexandria. Right on the metro line. Built in 1918, what’s that style house you always talk about, the ones with all the built-in china cabinets and bookcases and stuff?”

“Craftsman?”

“Yeah, that’s it. The real estate agent said it’s the best example of Craftsman architecture in the whole neighborhood. It’s got a big, wide porch across the front, and these great windows that give the most amazing light. And hardwood floors. Three fireplaces. Living room, den, and master bedroom. Four bedrooms. Only two baths, but there’s this funny little trunk room just off the master that would make a great master bath. The kitchen needs a total redo, but the agent thinks we can get the house for way less than asking price, because the owner’s already taken a job in LA, and he’s desperate to unload the place. Hey, I took a bunch of shots with my cell phone. I’ll send ’em right now. Wait until you see this place, Julia.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. He was like a kid describing a new bike. And he hadn’t heard a damned thing she’d been telling him for the past six weeks.

“Oh, Book,” she said finally. “It sounds wonderful. Really. But I don’t need a house. I don’t need to live in DC. I don’t need to get married. I love you. I do. But I can’t do this.”

Silence. “I just … I mean, I guess I don’t get it. You say you love me. You know I love you. I thought the new job, moving back to the States, would be a good thing. I’ll have real security for the first time. No more crazy freelancing, running all over the globe, running down assignments. We can have our own house. A real home. No more shitty flats in London.”

“I love that shitty flat,” Julia put in, picturing it in her mind’s eye: the orange Arne Jacobsen Egg Chair she’d picked up at a car-boot sale in suburban London, the white leather Conran sofa she’d bought with her first earnings from a magazine job, the bits and bobs of silver and china picked up at the Bermondsey Market, all arranged against walls she’d painted and layered with pictures and photographs picked up at junk markets and antique stalls in every city she’d ever visited.

Now, faced with the possibility of giving up her home for the past ten years, she realized she’d been nesting without even realizing it.

“Ok, well, maybe we keep the flat for when you’re over there for modeling gigs.”

She cringed at the mention of her career. “Booker, denial is not just a river in Egypt. I’m not getting modeling gigs these days. Not the kind I used to get. I’m thirty-five. I’m not cover-girl material anymore, except for maybe Modern Maturity. Last month I did a catalog shoot for Lands’ End, for God’s sake. Next thing you know, I’ll be the spokesmodel for Depends.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Julia, that’s nuts. You forget how many years I was in the business. You’ve got more work than you can handle. Yeah, I realize it’s not Elle or Vogue, but you’re also not exactly ready for the glue factory just yet. You are still a sensational-looking girl, and you can have a career in modeling for as long as you want.”

“Maybe I don’t want a career in modeling anymore,” Julia said.

“All right,” Booker said wearily. “Do something else. Nobody said you had to model. I just thought that’s why you’ve been so mopey lately, because you hate the offers you’re getting.”

“That’s just it,” Julia said. “I don’t know how to do anything else. I quit college after one semester, remember?”

“And now’s your chance to go back to school, if that’s what you want,” Booker jumped in. “Or not. I don’t give a damn. I just want you with me. I want us to get married, have a kid—if I’ve still got any swimmers—and get old together. Is that so awful?”

“No,” Julia said. “Not awful. Sweet. You’re sweet, and I’m a mixed-up bitch.”

Now, she thought. Now was the time to tell him the truth. Maybe she couldn’t even have a baby. Telling the girls was such a relief. How had she walked around with this secret for so many years? What had she been afraid of?

She walked over to the bedroom window and looked idly out at the beach. There was a full moon, and now she could see a couple standing at the end of the boardwalk, on the little deck there. It was a man and a woman, and they were standing close, and now they were embracing. The girl pasted herself to the man’s chest, and the moment was so sensual, Julia almost turned away. Almost. A second later, the girl pulled away and began running back towards the house.