Free Immediate Family by Eileen Goudge Page A

then to the Cinerama Dome to see Notorious, one of her favorite old films, which turned out to be one of his, too. Afterward they’d gone for a drive up Highway 1, stopping in Malibu for a moonlit walk on the beach. As they’d strolled along the sand, the incoming tide lapping at their toes, Stevie had felt a sense of possibility she hadn’t known with other men. And when he’d paused to kiss her, a kindling, not just in her loins, but in her soul.
    “There’s something I’ve always wondered about,” she’d said, as they’d strolled back they way they’d come. “Why, in all those old movies, the men are such shits.” She was thinking about the character Cary Grant had played in Notorious, who’d treated Ingrid Bergman badly throughout most of the film.
    “A better question would be why the women put up with it,” Ryan had replied.
    “Obviously they’re gluttons for punishment.”
    “Or maybe they didn’t see an alternative.”
    “Such as?”
    “A nice guy who knows how to treat a woman right.”
    Looking into his long, angular face, with its intelligent gray eyes and sensitive poet’s mouth—not the kind of guy she normally fell for, but attractive in an Adrien Brody kind of way—she sensed it wasn’t just talk. He would be good to her, not just until he’d gotten her into bed, but always. Until now, she’d always gravitated toward the bad boys who were good at starting fires but didn’t stick around to watch them burn. Maybe because, lacking any blueprint for what a man should be, she’d adopted hers from old movies like the one they’d just seen. But here was one, she suddenly knew without a doubt, who wouldn’t be just another footnote in her long, inglorious history with men.
    In the weeks and months that followed, her instincts proved correct. He was as good a friend as he was a lover. Even their differences complemented each other’s. He was the ballast to her occasional flights of fancy, and she provided insight into some of the more angst-ridden subjects of his films who hadn’t enjoyed the normal upbringing he had. He was also romantic where she tended to be practical, often surprising her with thoughtful, quirky gifts, like a pair of vintage platform shoes she’d admired in a thrift shop or tickets to a classic-car show.
    Now, as she exited off the freeway onto Pico, she felt as nervous as she had before their first date. By the time she pulled into the parking lot behind the café, her heart was doing a drum riff against her rib cage and her stomach was where her throat should have been. Joe’s was where they’d often met after work and where she’d occasionally picked up coffee for Ryan and his crew when he was crashing on an all-nighter, and the familiar place brought a host of memories. She was almost relieved when she walked in to find she’d arrived ahead of him; it would give her a chance to collect herself. While she was waiting, she ordered for them both. She knew how he liked his coffee, black with no sugar.
    She was seated at a table by the window, sipping her coffee, when he walked in. Her heart took flight. He’d lost some weight, she noted, which only accentuated his soulful eyes and angular frame—he looked like a starving Eastern European poet.
    “I can’t stay long,” he said, sinking into the chair opposite hers.
    They might have been any couple, except for the catch in her throat and his smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
    “I know.” She drank in the sight of him, storing it up for later on.
    He blew on his coffee, taking a careful sip. “You look good,” he said.
    “So do you.”
    It was all she could do to keep from reaching for his hand. A hand he was now forking through his hair, a nervous habit of his. His hair had grown out since she’d last seen him, enough to curl over the collar of his faded chambray shirt. He was in need of a shave, too, but she thought it made him look sexy and a little bit dangerous.
    “So tell me. What’s he