The Ground Rules Part 27

She sends me e-mail after e-mail, inquiring about our schedule openings and informing us Weston and Bridget have made alternate plans for the Friday and Sat.u.r.day, asking if a weeknight might be more manageable. I ignore most of her messages. I'm sure she isn't offended-she's just the go-between.

I'm trying to hurt him.

But I'm also trying to hold on to Gabe.

Each day I don't see Weston is another day closer to sanity, to a simpler life. Gone are the feelings of insecurity and guilt, the petty jealousies. I feel lighter, free. Maybe if I never get back to him, he'll get the picture and we will have said good-bye without actually saying good-bye.

But the thought of actually letting go seems impossible to me.

I lie poolside at Gwen's place. The girls are splashing around in the pool. Chloe's a decent swimmer but Claire isn't-she's wearing her water wings, and I keep an eye on her while sipping an appletini. Gwen sure knows how to entertain-it's relatively easy with a fully stocked bar and pool. Pushing thirty, Gwen has yet to have kids-she and Greg are enjoying their freedom too much-traveling often and playing golf almost every day. Today is one of those rare summer days I get her all to myself.

She lies back on the blue lounge chair, black braids falling to the side, her large sungla.s.ses pointing to the sky. She says she's working on her tan, and I laugh-her dark skin is in no need of a tan. My freckly, Irish white skin, on the other hand, is another story. I slather on more sunscreen at the thought. And I look over at the girls, wondering if I should touch them up a little too. But I don't worry too much about it-they've inherited Gabe's beautiful olive skin-every summer, I thank the Lord for that.

"So," Gwen says. "You and Weston haven't seen each other for a while."

"Nope." I simply say. Gwen knows the rules. She knows I'm not supposed to say too much about our dates. And it is just killing her.

"I'm making him sweat a little," I add, giving her a mischievous look.

"I bet he doesn't like that."

"No, I don't think he does," I say, quite satisfied with myself.

I hear the old familiar Beyonce tune on my phone, and reach into my beach bag. I throw in a casual h.e.l.lo, not bothering to look who's on the other end of the line.

"Mirella," he says.

My breath catches. I recognize his soft-spoken voice instantly. "Hi," is all I manage to say.

"How are you?" he asks, his words sound strained.

"Uh...good," I stammer a little.

"I've missed you." My heart does another flip flop, but still, I don't tell him I've missed him too. Even if I have.

"Where are we at, Mirella?" he asks. "Why haven't you contacted us?"

"Well, you know," I say casually. "We've been busy."

"Too busy to send one e-mail?"

"Why are you calling me anyway?" I say. "I thought this was against the rules."

At these words, Gwen perks up and takes off her sungla.s.ses, her mouth in the shape of an O.

"You've left me no choice," he points out. "I've missed you."

"How was your trip?" I ask, my words clipped.

"It was quite nice, but I couldn't stop thinking about you."

He's getting to me.

"Weston," I say. "You're breaking a few rules right now," I remind him, still keeping an eye on Claire. Gwen is too engrossed in our conversation to pay any attention to the girls.

"I know," he says. "I miss you. I miss your touch."

Now he's starting to arouse me. I should really end this conversation.

"Please, I need to see you," he adds, his voice soft.

"Listen," I start, my words business-like, "I'll contact Kathryn shortly and maybe we can set up something for next weekend."

"I'd like that," he says, his words barely a whisper.

"Bye, Weston," I say before hanging up.

"Holy cow," Gwen squeals.

"I can't believe he called me," I tell her, not able to restrain the smile on my face.

"Well, sweetie, it looks like you broke him," she says, her toothy smile as wide as I've ever seen it. "He begged, didn't he?"

A smile stretches across my face. "He sure did."

Chapter Fifteen.

I wanted you to suffer a little...

KATHRYN'S E-MAIL IS A LITTLE CRYPTIC.

Dear Mirella, All plans have been arranged for your date with Weston this next Sat.u.r.day. Edward will pick you up at 4:00 p.m. Dress however you would like, but please ensure you are wearing a white or beige strapless bra and very high heels (five inch minimum).

When you get to your destination, a girl in a red polka-dot dress will meet you.

Weston looks forward to seeing you.

Best, Kathryn P.S. Please forward your measurements: bust, waist, inseam (from waist to floor) and shoe size.

What the...?

I don't even want to ask.

I do as I'm told, curiosity filling every cell of me. I settle on tight white capris and a black breezy polka-dot blouse, with a strapless bra, as requested, and five-inch black pumps. I've styled my hair in a retro do and dabbed on some red lipstick. I'm quite happy with the results-I look cla.s.sy, very "Audrey Hepburn." The shoes are not the most comfortable ones I own, but if history is any indication, there won't be much walking tonight.

As Edward drives me to the city, I try to pry information out of him. But he knows nothing. At least he acts like he knows nothing. He drops me off on some random corner, by a health food store. I have no idea where I am. I hold my black clutch tightly, realizing I'm a little on edge.

I look for a woman in a red polka-dot dress, but I don't see one. There are a lot of people milling about, but no woman in a red polka-dot dress. What is going on? I turn back toward the car, but Edward has driven off.

I pace back and forth, and my feet are starting to hurt. Finally, I spot a bench and make the trek toward it.

I'm extremely happy to sit down, but still wondering what the h.e.l.l is going on.

I wait and wait, watching people go by, fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing my legs, my heeled foot dangling above the pavement. I look at my watch every two minutes, and finally it occurs to me-I've been waiting fifteen minutes.

That's when I see her.

She's wearing an adorable red polka-dot dress. She's not the woman I'd been looking for, but rather a cherubic little girl with adorable blond ringlets. Her mother holds her hand and seems to know who I am. I stand and practically sprint to them.

"Mirella?" says the mother.

"Yes," I reply, more relieved than I could have imagined.

"I'm Anika and this is Tasha," she says, tilting her gaze to the adorable girl, who's staring down shyly at her red Mary Janes. "We're friends of Weston's."

"Nice to meet you," I offer, extending my hand.

She digs into her chic black purse. "Weston has asked me to give you this note." Her gloved hand reaches to offer me the white envelope.

I take the envelope, still confused as ever. "Did Weston mention what this is all about?"

She laughs a little, looking down at my shoes. "Oh...he sort of did, but I can't tell you. He's a mystery, isn't he?"

The suspense builds as I tear the envelope open.

The note reads: Meet me at Ann Santhers.

I sigh and look up at the sky. I'm as puzzled as ever.

"I'm not sure where that is," I confess.

"It's just up there. Take a left on Belmont Avenue, and keep walking. It'll be on the south side."

"Okay," I say. "Thank you. It was nice meeting you."

"Likewise," she says with a mischievous smile. Tasha waves good-bye. She is very adorable-she looks a lot like Claire. I turn and I make my way toward Starbucks.

I round the corner, hobbling on my feet. My shoes are already killing me, and I hope this place isn't too far. There are lots of restaurants and quaint establishments-I can't help but think it would be a nice stroll if I weren't wearing these blasted five-inch heels.

I pa.s.s a martial arts center and decide to lean against the window and peek in-it's really just an excuse to step out of my pumps and give my feet a break.

I rub the heel of my foot.

Sucking in a long breath, I head toward my destination. I don't understand why Weston's driver wouldn't simply drive me to this place. I spot a blue overhang, and I'm sure that's the place. But when I get there, I realize it's not.

I can actually feel my body drag. Completely defeated, I keep walking.

And finally, I spot it-Ann Santhers's big blue sign. I start walking a little faster, plowing through the pain, anxious to get to my destination. I spot my reflection in the restaurant windows and I am quite a sight, hobbling like I've sprained an ankle. I figure Weston is probably sitting in there, waiting for me, and I decide to give him a piece of my mind as soon as I see him.

When I walk in, I am delighted-the place is the cutest, quaintest place I have ever seen-Swedish atmosphere, turquoises and reds, mosaic tiled floor. The adorable folksy ill.u.s.trations covering the walls beckon me to sit down on the cozy plump red leather chairs. I scan the place, but I don't see any sign of Weston. He must be running late.

A friendly brunette walks up to me. "Are you Mirella, by any chance?"

I perk up. I'm at the right place. "Yes. I'm supposed to meet someone...Weston Hanson."

"He actually couldn't make it," she explains, seemingly apologetic. "He asked me to give you this note."

Another note?

C'mon.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, willing myself to settle down-I feel I could dive into a tirade of expletives at this moment.

Please meet me at Anette's Vintage Wear,

up on Clark Street, north of Belmont.

What? I can't help but be livid. I was just up that way. Now, I have to backtrack. I can actually feel myself slouch.

"I'm sorry," says the friendly server.

"This place looks yummy. I wish I could stay and eat."

"Sit for a second. Rest your feet. I'll get you a gla.s.s of water."

I sit for a moment, cursing Weston. What is this? I'm really mad at him, but the more I sit there, staring at the adorable mural of a milkmaid dancing with a little girl, I can't help but relax a little.

I drink a few sips of water and thank the server. I leave and wave good-bye as I set out to find this place, my energy drained.

It seems my feet get achier with every step. I'm fuming. He better have a good explanation for this unfortunate turn of events, making me run around like a headless chicken.

I just can't take it anymore. I take off the heels and hold them by the strap, delighting in the sensation of my bare feet against the concrete. I look down, making sure there are no broken shards of gla.s.s. Thankfully, the streets are pretty clean.