Changes by Judith Arnold

  ***

  “So, how did the move go?” Nick asked.

  They were seated in an elegant dining room at the inn, its glass walls offering a generous view of the ocean. The sky above it was a spread of colors, pink and purple, a few blue-gray clouds rippling across it like the swirls of fudge in the ice-cream he and Diana had devoured last night.

  No eating ice-cream out of a waxed-cardboard tub in this place, he thought. The tables were draped with linen; the silverware was sterling silver and weighed heavily in his hands. He’d traded his jeans for a pair of tailored slacks. His legs were used to denim, but this was where Diana had wanted to eat dinner.

  She’d insisted on paying, too. “I’m exorcising a demon,” she’d said. When he’d argued that that wasn’t much of an explanation, she’d elaborated. “I came here with Peter to see if we wanted to book our wedding here. And I came to realize I didn’t want to book a wedding with him, here or anywhere else. I just want to eat here like a normal person, not trying out the caterer’s tasting menu and bickering with him over whether the crab puffs are better here or at some other place we also looked at.”

  “Does that mean we should order the crab puffs or avoid them?” Nick asked.

  Diana laughed. “Order whatever you want. We’re celebrating.”

  Cheerful though she was, he sensed an undercurrent of…not quite tension in her, but something. Something gray, something down. “What are we celebrating?” he asked. Personally, he wouldn’t mind celebrating the hot sex they’d enjoyed last night—and the promise of more hot sex tonight, if she was willing. But he suspected she had something else in mind.

  “The big move today went perfectly,” she told him. “Nothing broke. Nothing was lost. Everything fit into the one truck, and it’s all in the warehouse now. My first major deal!”

  That was worthy of clinking his wine glass to hers. She’d ordered a bottle of some fancy red with a French name, and it tasted great. He just had to remember to be careful with the delicate glass. Pick it up the wrong way, and the thin stem might snap in two. He was used to handling basketballs, not crystal goblets.

  The waiter came to take their orders. Just to be safe, Nick skipped the crab puffs—they sounded too fussy for his tastes, anyway—and ordered a steak. Diana requested something a lot more elaborate, involving shrimp, asparagus and assorted other ingredients that were listed on the menu in elegant gold script.

  Once the waiter was gone, Nick gazed at her. A candle enclosed in glass sat at the center of the table, flickering amber light over her face. She’d worn a lacy white blouse and a dark skirt, and one of the several thoughts circulating through his mind was that he’d love to tear both the blouse and the skirt off her and do the naked tango with her, right here, on the plush carpet, with that panoramic view of the ocean beyond the glass wall.

  Another thought was that he still sensed a shadow of something in her eyes, an emotion that didn’t have anything to do with celebrating. Asking was probably a big mistake, but he asked anyway. “What went wrong?”

  She’d lifted her glass to drink—and the graceful goblet seemed to fit her hand a lot better than his. His question made her pause, the glass inches from her lips. She looked perplexed. “What do you mean, what went wrong?”

  “Sure, the liquidation went smoothly. Your first big score and all that. But…I don’t know. You don’t seem as happy as you should be.”

  The smile that curved her mouth was sweet and sad and almost helpless. “I had a difficult conversation with my mother, that’s all.”

  Nick smiled, too, suspecting his smile was just as helpless. “Mothers,” he muttered. “What did she say?”

  Diana sipped her wine, lowered her glass and sighed. “She found out that I’d ended things with Peter. I was going to tell her—in person. And really, it should have been up to me to tell her. But Peter told her, instead. She’s furious.”

  He imagined her mother would be even more furious if she knew Diana had broken her engagement because she’d heard a song at the Faulk Street Tavern. And more furious yet if she knew Diana had spent last night in Nick’s bed. “Any particular reason she’s upset, or just in general?”

  “Both, I think.” Another sad little smile. “My parents love Peter. Maybe more than they love me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. “They’ve been dreaming of this wedding since Peter and I were in diapers. Peter’s parents are their best friends. Peter and I grew up together. It was all so perfect. He was everything they could hope for in a son-in-law. The right blood lines, the right schools, the right income.”

  “Maybe they thought he’d make you happy.”

  “Who knows?” She took another sip of wine, then leaned back as the waiter appeared with their salads. “I don’t think my happiness was particularly high on their list of concerns. When I said I wouldn’t be happy with Peter, my mother seemed to think that was irrelevant. She acted as if I was selfish for not going through with the marriage. I was letting everyone down.”

  “That’s their problem, not yours,” Nick said.

  “They’ll make it my problem,” she muttered, looking disconsolate. “My sister had to move all the way to England to avoid their manipulations. I always tried to compensate for that, to be the best possible daughter. If I married Peter, I’d still qualify for that title. But that’s not a good reason to get married.”

  Nick nodded his agreement.

  “I want to be my own person,” she said. “For once in my life, I don’t want to have to worry about making everyone else happy.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me.” Of course, he hoped she’d make him happy later tonight, when he finally got to strip off her blouse and skirt. But he’d make her at least as happy.

  “Mothers,” she said glumly, echoing his earlier plaint. “If I ever have children, remind me not to meddle in their lives.”

  As if Nick would be available to issue that reminder when she became a mother. But he played along. “I’ll remind you.”

  “Your mother can’t be as bad as mine,” she said.

  He caught himself before swearing. “She’s worse.”

  “Does she meddle in your life?”

  Tell her. The nagging voice of conscience resonated in his head. The little angel on his shoulder. The voice of Gus, dispensing words of wisdom while she stood behind the bar at the Faulk Street Tavern, slicing lemons.

  He picked up the steak knife the waiter had brought for him, hefted its wooden handle, set it down. He gazed out at the water. He tried to find the courage to come clean. “I’m not…I’m not the guy you think I am,” he finally managed.

  Diana peered intently at him. Her eyebrows dipped slightly above the bridge of her nose. “What guy do I think you are?”

  He shrugged. “A social worker. A do-gooder. Someone who runs programs for kids.”

  “And you’re not that?”

  “I am.” Deep breath. Tell her. “I did time in the juvenile justice system.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, and her brows straightened, her frown fading. He watched her watching him. She didn’t look pleased, but she didn’t look horrified, either. He wondered how many people with criminal records traveled in her circle.

  “That’s it? Okay?”

  “If you were a juvenile…well, lots of kids screw up when they’re young. Then they grow up and put their past behind them.”

  Nick had grown up. At times he felt he’d skipped right past grown-up to old. But he doubted he could ever put his past behind him.

  Tell her.

  “I was convicted of attempted murder,” he said.