The Book of Someday Part 3

"When are you leaving?"

"Not for a while," Micah says. She suspects that locating the people she needs to find will require a lot of time and effort.

"Once you go, how long you gonna stay gone?" Jillian asks.

"I'm not sure...as long as it takes."

"Well, if you're gonna be gone for a long time, there's something you and me need to discuss-just in case. Something that's got nothing to do with business, or the galleries." The steel has disappeared from Jillian's voice; she's suddenly nervous. "Miss Lesser, if something unexpected happens, and you're not here, you better tell me what you want to do about the woman-"

The Woman. The most important person in Micah's life. The one who once looked so spectacularly beautiful in a silver dress and pearl-b.u.t.ton shoes. At the mention of her, Micah has flinched. As if she's been stung by a scorpion.

An inordinate amount of time pa.s.ses before Micah responds, in a whisper. "Leave her alone. Let her stay where she is. For as long as possible."

It is a devastated whisper. Full of regret.

AnnaLee.

Glen Cove, Long Island ~ 1986.

"You not going to regret? You sure?"

The tone of this question, delivered in Mrs. w.a.n.g's clipped English, is both sincere and ambivalent. The excited reverence with which Mrs. w.a.n.g is holding the blue-and-white porcelain vase is making it evident that she wants a swift, profitable close to this transaction. While the way she's looking at AnnaLee suggests a sort of reluctant empathy.

In reply to Mrs. w.a.n.g's inquiry about regrets, AnnaLee gives only a quick shake of her head. She's overwhelmed. By loss. By the vacant place on the mantle. Where up until a few seconds ago, the porcelain vase had always been.

"I know this hard for you." Mrs. w.a.n.g is cradling the vase in a way that's apologetic and slightly awkward.

She's standing behind AnnaLee, their images reflected in the beveled mirror above the fireplace. Diminutive, delicate Mrs. w.a.n.g who at age sixty retains only a trace of the magnificence that once made her the raven-haired toast of Shanghai. And tall American-born AnnaLee, who has hair the color of wheat and a quiet prettiness that, at age thirty-three, is in full bloom.

AnnaLee is thinking how very different they are, she and Mrs. w.a.n.g. But when AnnaLee looks more closely, when her eyes and Mrs. w.a.n.g's meet, she's startled to see how much they share-the staggering amount of disappointments, and sorrow, that is in each of them.

"We all on same journey, only riding different horses." Mrs. w.a.n.g's voice is gentle with compa.s.sion.

It fills AnnaLee with longing. For her mother. For the comfort of being, even for a little while, someone's child again.

In that same moment Mrs. w.a.n.g is discreetly glancing back toward the mantle-looking at a second blue-and-white porcelain, a perfect match to the one she has in her hands. "More money if you sell both," she's saying. "Much more valuable to people coming in my shop, to collectors, if they can have pair, not just single one."

There's an ache in AnnaLee as she asks: "How much more?"

"I could give you more than double. Three maybe four times as much. Very desirable as pair. Very valuable."

AnnaLee reaches for the vase, then pulls back and softly says: "These porcelains were my mother's wedding present from my father. He carved this mantle himself so she could have the perfect place to display them."

Mrs. w.a.n.g nods curtly and says: "This a very fine home. Full of story. Full of history. It should be kept just so."

And AnnaLee is thinking, You have no idea what a rare place this is, Mrs. w.a.n.g. My parents built it when they were newlyweds, it's where they planted their roots and conceived their only child. It's where I was born. Where I was loved so well when I was growing up. Where, now, I'm raising a baby of my own. This is the home my parents entrusted to me when they pa.s.sed away. It's a sacred s.p.a.ce. And I've begun to loot it. Because I don't know what else to do. And every time I sell you even the smallest piece of it, Mrs. w.a.n.g, I'm selling off a part of my soul.

Every detail of this stately house in Glen Cove, on Long Island, is a treasure to AnnaLee. The wide staircase and the rolling lawns. The gracious fireplace and the slender French doors opening onto the moss-covered terrace. There isn't an inch of her birthplace that she would willingly trade or change.

And now as she's watching Mrs. w.a.n.g counting out the money for the porcelain vase-piling wrinkled, neatly stacked bills onto a table near the front door-the sight of it is making AnnaLee sick.

"Your husband should be ashamed." Mrs. w.a.n.g's voice is harsh and annoyed. "I don't care it is now brave new world. I don't care there are equal rights. To me...no honor in a man who look at a woman for his support."

AnnaLee's face is burning with embarra.s.sment.

There have been a number of these transactions in recent months; she and Mrs. w.a.n.g have never discussed the reason for them. It hasn't occurred to AnnaLee, until now, that Mrs. w.a.n.g is fully aware of why AnnaLee has begun to sell off irreplaceable pieces of her history and inheritance.

AnnaLee's embarra.s.sment is coming not only from the bluntness of what Mrs. w.a.n.g has said but also from the fact that, in a way, AnnaLee agrees with it. As much as she loves her husband, in some small chamber of her heart AnnaLee is furiously angry with him. I hate Jack's quietness, she's thinking, and the way he runs from any kind of confrontation-how he lets those things keep him from building a decent career.

But to AnnaLee's surprise it's not her anger, it's her most tender feelings toward her husband that answer Mrs. w.a.n.g. "Jack is a good man," she says, "a good father. He loves me, and our baby, very much."

Mrs. w.a.n.g stays quiet until she has put the porcelain vase into an excelsior-lined box and closed the lid. Then she tells AnnaLee: "Soon maybe your husband make more money. In meantime I can take painting too. Give you top dollar."

The painting, a landscape by an artist called Roger Medearis, is worth a good amount of money. In a single, sudden motion, AnnaLee takes it from the wall and gives it to Mrs. w.a.n.g. She does it with blinding speed, before she has any time for second thoughts.

When Mrs. w.a.n.g has left and AnnaLee is alone, there's no weeping, no tears. But there is a lingering melancholy.

In addition to the vacant place on the mantle, where the blue-and-white porcelain vase had always been, there is now a new vacancy. The blank s.p.a.ce marking AnnaLee's most recent loss. The large rectangle in which the b.u.t.tercup-colored paint is noticeably darker than the surrounding wall. A place that is painfully empty.

Several hours later, AnnaLee has remembered a gilt-framed canvas with dimensions almost identical to those of the Medearis, the painting she sold to Mrs. w.a.n.g.

AnnaLee is certain that this gilt-framed picture will make the perfect cover for the emptiness on the living room wall. And now she's hurrying to find it. It's upstairs, in a closet. A simple painting done in the 1920s, by an anonymous artist; something AnnaLee bought years ago, on an impulse, at a tag sale. The haunting portrait of a dark-haired woman in a shimmering silver gown and pearl-b.u.t.ton shoes. A woman who-AnnaLee has always thought-looks like something out of a dream.

Livvi.

Northern Dutchess County, New York ~ 2012.

"Andrew!"

For a second Livvi isn't sure if he's real-actually at the top of the bookstore stairs-or if he is a dream.

All at once he's coming closer, calling out again. "Olivia!"

Livvi seems to be the only thing Andrew is able to see. He isn't acknowledging David, isn't noticing that David is standing only a few inches away. Andrew is simply sweeping Livvi into his arms. And kissing her. With the same intensity he'd kissed her before-at the party, in Los Angeles. Settling his lips confidently against hers in a way that's possessive, and deliberate, and full of desire.

Livvi is continuing to constantly replay this moment, the sight of Andrew at the top of the stairs and his kiss, even though it happened hours ago. In the bookstore, in upstate New York. And now she's hundreds of miles away, in the St. Regis Hotel in Manhattan.

She is in an extravagant bed. Under a canopy of silky fabric flowing from a crown-shaped fixture in the ceiling. Surrounded by walls the color of sugared sand and furnishings upholstered in biscuit-brown, the dappled color of seash.e.l.ls.

And she's experiencing pa.s.sion that's almost beyond comprehension. She is having s.e.x with Andrew for the first time and tumbling into the cashmere-gloved grip of an irresistible narcotic.

The taste of it, the smell of it-is intoxicating. Exhilarating. The heart of it-is wild. And fiercely physical.

Andrew is, as a lover, what he is as a man. Powerful. And confident. He has a voice that's clear and low-effortlessly commanding. And a body beautiful beyond description. He's a deeply sensuous male with a devilishly boyish grin. He's a rogue. A charmer. Master at being both playmate and seducer.

And in his steel-gray eyes there is a fascinating, complicated mix of information. Intelligence, and infinite caring. And just beneath the caring, a hint of something darker. Something unpredictable. A little bit dangerous.

But the only things Livvi can see are the marvels and thrills of being in Andrew's presence.

From the moment they left the bookstore there hasn't been a single minute when Andrew's hands haven't been roving Livvi's body. Or a microsecond when her lips haven't been hungry for his.

Andrew and Livvi have come together in a magnetic, fevered heat. A physical chemistry that's spellbinding.

And for Livvi, this attraction, this connection, feels miraculous. For her, this is far more than s.e.x. It's the miracle of being welcomed, celebrated, and safe-the priceless gift given to someone who's been lost and has finally come home.

Her eyes are shining with happiness as they're searching Andrew's, and she's asking: "How did you find me? How did you know to look for me in that bookstore?" This is an experience Livvi has never had. Someone has missed her and come looking for her. She is eager to hear the story of how, and why, it happened.

Andrew seems to be aware that she's anxious to have this information; and yet he's saying nothing. Instead he is turning Livvi onto her stomach, sliding his hands along the length of her back, slowly bringing them to rest on the curve of her waist, and telling her: "If I was a sculptor I'd spend the rest of my life trying to do you justice."

Livvi raises her head and looks over her shoulder at him. She can't wait. She needs this information. "What were you doing at the bookstore? How did you know how to find me?" She wants to hear everything, wants to savor each detail.

Andrew is stroking his cheek across the back of her neck-his breath leisurely skimming her skin-feeling like a tease, like torture. She rolls over and sits up, gathering the sheet, wrapping it around herself, and begging: "Tell me, please!"

There's amus.e.m.e.nt in Andrew's tone. "It's pretty simple, really. I was in the area, over in Rhinebeck, visiting a friend. I saw a local paper next to the cash register when we were leaving a diner...and there was your picture, the information about your book signing-"

"-and then you came for me," Livvi marvels.

"Then I came for you," Andrew tells her.

With those words-I came for you-Andrew has gone, like a bolt of lightning, straight to the lonely core of Livvi's soul. He has burned himself into her and claimed her.

She can scarcely breathe as he's saying, "I was supposed to be on a flight back to Los Angeles yesterday," and she's replying, "But you came looking for me instead."

"Yes, Olivia," he smiles. "That seems to be how it turned out."

Suddenly, in the midst of Livvi's joy, there's a faint p.r.i.c.kle of unease. The feeling of being edged toward a place she doesn't want to go back to.

"I don't like that name, Olivia," she says. "No one calls me by it anymore."

Andrew is trailing kisses across Livvi's belly. With each kiss, he's murmuring, "Olivia." "Olivia." "Olivia." When he brings his mouth close to Livvi's, he's whispering: "Olivia is a glorious name. I'll never stop saying it."

While Andrew is nestling her into the cloud-soft pillows, a microscopic sadness is flickering through Livvi. The battle of Olivia has been lost.

But as Andrew is enticing her. Stroking her. Lowering his weight onto her-entering her. It seems like such a small defeat.

Insignificant. Compared to what she is being given.

Andrew-moving deeper and deeper into Livvi-is touching her in ways, and in places, that are sending a series of magnificent shudders through her body. A spectacular, visceral current of sensation.

Powerful pulses. From an exquisitely pleasurable earthquake.

Rippling uncontrolled rushes of pure, carnal, release.

This is Livvi's first o.r.g.a.s.m.

And it's Andrew who is here-inside her.

Livvi's night at the St. Regis in New York is followed by a morning flight home to California. The rea.s.suring weight of Andrew's shoulder, which has been resting against Livvi's since takeoff, suddenly isn't there anymore. The plane has just touched down in Los Angeles. Andrew has leaned away to check his phone.

This has sparked a memory, a twinge in Livvi. "Why did you leave without saying a word?" she's asking. "Why did you walk out on me?"

Andrew looks baffled. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about when we met. The first time I saw you. When you took me away to the butler's pantry and the caviar."

Andrew rests his head against his seat back. His tone is conversational, relaxed. "Something came up...a text I needed to take care of. You had to know I wasn't gone for good."

"But I didn't know." Livvi is worrying-just a little-that their new connection might turn out to be as tenuous, and as easily broken, as it was on that first night.

But Andrew is giving her a sweet grin, a.s.suring her: "This is crazy. You know I told you to wait, I said it right when I was going through the door."

"Then why didn't I hear you?" Livvi asks.

"The noise from the party must've been drowning me out."

Livvi is in the window seat: Andrew, sitting beside her. He has loosened his seat belt, and hers-and is swinging the armrest up.

He's turning toward Livvi. Leaning across her, shielding her from view-and kissing her. His kiss is slow and deep. All-encompa.s.sing. Erasing everything but the ferocious attraction they have for each other.

And just as it did on that first night, Livvi's hand is coming to rest on the cool smoothness of Andrew's shirtfront. Beneath the coolness, she can feel the heat of his skin-the heat of his desire.

Andrew is caressing the outline of Livvi's leg, just above her knee. His fingertips are resting on the fabric of her skirt, traveling steadily upward in lazy, insinuating circles. The movement is so subtle, and blatantly s.e.xual, that it's sending shock waves through Livvi-arching her spine, parting her lips, and leaving her eyes only barely open.

Andrew's breath is warm and urgent on Livvi's cheek. While his hand is purposefully gliding over the rise of her hip.

The teasing circles being made by Andrew's fingertips are now lingering at the waistband of Livvi's skirt. Exploring the side b.u.t.ton and the zipper. Tempting her. Exciting her. Making her shift and squirm. Building a l.u.s.t in her that is beyond her control. A need that's making Livvi frantic-for Andrew to peel her skirt away, and give her the feel of his skin on hers.

He is setting a fire in every fiber in Livvi's body.

With the deliberate, leisurely movements of his hand Andrew is generating a wantonness in Livvi. A blind, animal urge to have him strip her, and take her. Here. Now. In the middle of this crowded plane.