All I Want Is You Page 2

  They both stayed quiet for a moment, perhaps letting the observation sink in.

  But then Bethany added another big dose of pragmatism. “I still say you need to seriously start looking for a rich man. The ideas of love and romance are great—­but there are other good things in life that are just as important, Christy. And a lot more practical.”

  LATER that night, Christy sat on the couch, a felt-­lined jewelry tray in her lap, incorporating an old brooch into a heavy, draping, multi-­strand necklace of fake pearls and a few delicate pale pink ceramic rose-­shaped beads. Curled up in an adjacent easy chair, Bethany perused local gallery websites, dreaming of getting her first showing. A reality dating show droned on their old TV as if to remind Christy how manufactured and plastic relationships could be—­whether or not she wanted to believe that.

  When Christy’s cell phone rang, Bethany grabbed the remote to reduce the volume. And Christy glanced down to see her grandpa Charlie’s smiling face come up on the screen. Although he’d resided in a rest home in Florida since her high school days, he was her only remaining relative with whom she stayed in contact—­he’d still lived in Destiny with her late grandmother during Christy’s growing up years and she’d been close to both.

  “Hi, Grandpa,” she said merrily.

  “How’s my sweet grandbaby tonight?” he asked.

  “Doing just great,” she said, telling herself it wasn’t really a lie since hearing from him definitely lifted her spirits. “How’s life in the land of sunshine? Have you been out picking up chicks in bikinis on your surfboard?”

  “No, afraid not,” he said plainly. Which meant something was wrong. Normally, a little banter about bikini chicks or surfing would make him laugh and then he’d concoct a wild tale about gallivanting up and down the beach attracting girls with his fine physique.

  So she didn’t bother beating around the bush. “What’s up, Grandpa?”

  And his answering sigh worried her even more. This just wasn’t like him. “Well, damn the luck—­called you up just to chat, thinkin’ it would cheer me up, but you saw straight through me. I must be losin’ my touch.”

  “So what’s wrong? What do you need cheered up about?”

  “Oh, I don’t wanna trouble you, darlin’. Let’s just talk about your day.”

  “My day wasn’t particularly cheerful, either,” she admitted, deciding to be more honest now. “And it’s going to get even worse if you don’t come clean and tell me what’s bothering you.”

  When he didn’t reply, Christy’s throat tightened. This was starting to seem serious.

  “Grandpa Charlie? What’s wrong? Tell me,” she demanded.

  “You might end up sorry you asked.”

  “No, I won’t,” she insisted. “In fact, I won’t sleep tonight if I don’t know. So spill.”

  “Well, my grandgirl, it’s like this,” he began—­and then her grandpa proceeded to tell her he was out of money. All the air left Christy’s lungs as he explained that if he didn’t come up with a hefty amount in the next six months, he’d be shipped out of the pleasant, friendly place he now thought of as home and shoved into a state run facility not of his choosing.

  And while his health was not as bad as that of some of the residents where he lived, he did require daily medical care. He was diabetic. He moved slowly with the aid of a walker or scooter. He often required oxygen, and he’d had enough minor “heart episodes” that the nurses kept a close eye on him. Christy knew he’d always been happy with the care he received, that it was a top-­notch facility. “But you see now why I didn’t want to dump that on you,” he concluded.

  Yes, she definitely did. Her heart sank as she absorbed the almost paralyzing news. “But I’m still glad you told me,” she said, trying to sound as if she had some control—­over anything. “It’s better that I at least know the situation. And you have no idea how badly I wish I could help. If I had the money, I’d give it to you in a heartbeat, but as it is, I can barely . . .”

  Oh crap. She was tired and, that quickly, had said more than she’d meant to. Her grandfather was among the masses to whom she’d never confessed her money woes. Since he was a thousand miles away and living on a fixed income himself, it had seemed pointless to give him something extra to fret about, especially when he’d been mourning the death of her father, his only child.

  “That’s sweet, my girl,” he said after she trailed off, “but you can barely what?”

  And now she was the one sighing and not answering. Finally, she said, “You have enough to worry about without me adding to it, so let’s just focus on—”

  He interrupted her. “You can barely what, darlin’?”

  Christy struggled to take a breath. Stark concern had thickened his voice. And while she’d never wanted to trouble him with this—­ugh—­she supposed she had no choice now but to be honest, even if the timing seemed beyond rotten. “Well, Grandpa, the truth is . . .”

  And then she told him. All of it. The lapsed homeowner’s insurance policy—­she’d gotten nothing for the house and belongings, all of which had been reduced to black rubble and ash. The lapsed life insurance policy—­she’d still not paid for her parents’ funerals, though she sent the funeral home in Destiny a few dollars as often as she could and the owners were kind about it. And then there were the student loans and other bills she struggled to pay each month. “But . . . we’ll figure something out,” she concluded, trying to stay positive. “For both of us.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, darlin’,” Grandpa Charlie said then, his tone admonishing her. “My predicament isn’t your problem to take on. And now that I hear what you’ve been goin’ through, I regret dumpin’ this on you even more. Shouldn’t have called when I was in a low mood—­and I shoulda kept my big trap shut.”

  But she protested. “No, your predicament is my problem, I’m making it my problem, and I’m going to find a way to fix it.” Though even as the words left her mouth, she had no idea how. She only knew that she loved her Grandpa, and that they’d both suffered enough the past few years, and that she wasn’t going to let him suffer further. It was one thing for her own security to be at risk—­but when it was her Grandpa’s health and comfort at stake . . . it instilled in her an instant resolve to somehow—­somehow—­repair the situation.

  When she disconnected with him a few stressful minutes later, her heart pounded too hard in her chest. The last time she’d gotten a phone call that brought bad family news, she’d found out her parents were dead. This wasn’t that—­far from it, thank God—­and yet as she tried to slow her breathing, she found herself yanked back in time, reliving the devastation.

  “Um, everything okay?” Bethany asked doubtfully.

  “No,” Christy said. “In fact, right when I thought things couldn’t get much worse, they did. In a huge way.” And maybe offering to take on her grandpa’s money problem at the same time she had plenty of her own was crazy, but how could she do anything else?

  With the TV still on mute, both girls stayed silent and Christy realized the house had begun to shake slightly—­from a train passing by on the tracks at the end of the street. She mostly didn’t even notice the subtle vibrations anymore, or the sound, but right now it felt like a tiny little earthquake rocking her already delicate world. She’d experienced such a lack of control ever since her parents’ deaths, a sense of not being able to save anyone, including herself—­and if she could just find a way to help her grandpa keep his life the way he wanted it, she already knew it would help her life make some kind of sense again.

  And that’s when the old frosted glass light fixture suspended from the ceiling above came crashing down onto the coffee table, exploding into a million slivers of glass. Neither girl jumped or screamed—­they both simply flinched, stayed still, then looked at each other. Christy supposed it took a lot to shock either of them now.

  “From
the vibrations,” Christy said. “From the trains. It must have been working its way loose little by little, every time a train went by, all this time, for who knows how many years.”

  “And tonight it reached its breaking point,” Bethany said.

  “It could have seriously injured one of us,” Christy observed.

  “It still could,” Bethany replied, surveying the bits of glass all around them. “But we’ll just move slowly, be careful. It’ll be fine.”

  Christy nodded. Yes, it would be fine. It was only a broken light.

  But some things wouldn’t be fine. Some things weren’t so easy to fix or clean up.

  “Maybe that was a sign,” she murmured.

  “What kind of a sign?”

  “Maybe I’ve reached a breaking point, too,” Christy said.

  Bethany just blinked. “What do you mean?”

  And Christy could barely believe the words that were about to leave her lips—­but she said them anyway. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the time has come to give up and give in. Maybe I do need to find a rich man.”

  There were doors all round the hall,

  but they were all locked.

  Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

  Chapter 2

  “NOW, I don’t mean it could be just anyone,” she was quick to add. “And I wouldn’t ever marry someone I don’t care about. But . . . maybe it’s time to . . . narrow my dating pool to financially solvent men and start going to more upscale places.”

  She went on to explain about her grandpa’s situation. “He has six months, so maybe that’s enough time to find a guy who fits the bill and will be so crazy about me that he won’t mind bailing Grandpa Charlie out.”

  “And if it makes your own life a little easier in the bargain, that’s good, too,” Bethany pointed out.

  Christy let a tired sigh escape her as she admitted, “It would be a relief not to feel so on edge and worried all the time.” So even if she didn’t feel a hundred percent great about this change of heart . . . well, at least it brought with it the idea of hope, for her and her grandfather both.

  “Though . . . I think you might have to do more than just narrow your dating pool.” Bethany set her laptop aside. “If you’re serious about this, you’re going to have to be more aggressive about dating than you usually are.”

  Yet Christy rolled her eyes. “Who has time to be aggressive about dating? I barely have time to brush my teeth some days.” She purposely worked long shifts at the mall—­it was the only way to make enough to get by.

  “I’m saying you’ll have to make the time,” Bethany told her. “You might have to set your jewelry aside for a while. I know working on it makes you happy, but right now is about . . . survival.”

  Christy swallowed, practically gulping. She wanted to accuse her friend of being overly dramatic, but this was about survival. For Grandpa Charlie anyway.

  So they spent the rest of the evening brainstorming what Bethany started calling Operation: Rich Dude. They sat on the old couch, legs crossed, facing each other, and came up with plans for putting Christy’s quest into action. And to her surprise, as they talked and strategized, Christy even began to feel energized by the idea, the same way she felt energized by making jewelry and dreaming of becoming successful with it.

  And Bethany was a great cheerleader. “You can do this!” she said with the enthusiasm of a coach about to send her team out onto the field.

  So Christy nodded her agreement.

  But Bethany looked disappointed. “Repeat it,” she instructed. “Tell me you can do this.”

  “Oh—­okay,” Christy said, catching on. “I can do this!”

  Bethany smiled. “That’s better.”

  Yet then an old feeling of sentimentality crept into Christy’s bones—­along with the imagined bliss of how it would feel to find that real, perfect Mr. Right, that guy who so gets you, that guy who makes your heart flutter and turns everything inside you soft and warm. And this new plan was a pretty far cry from that, no matter how they tried to spin it.

  And as was so often the case, her feelings must have shown on her face because that’s when Bethany said, “What’s wrong?”

  Christy sighed. Met Bethany’s eyes with her own. And asked, “What about falling in love? Where is love in all this?”

  “Eh, love,” Bethany replied with a characteristic shrug of her thin shoulders. “Love is . . . a chemical reaction. It’s like a drug—­it makes you lose control. It doesn’t sound that great to me, frankly. And like I said earlier, I’m not sure falling in love is even real.”

  “Oh, it’s real,” Christy said quietly. “I’ve seen it. In my parents. And my friends in Destiny. My friend Amy is so in love with her husband, Logan. And my friend Anna nearly swoons when she talks about Duke.”

  “Duke?” Bethany balked.

  “He used to be a biker,” Christy explained.

  Bethany, for a moment, looked intrigued. Almost fascinated. But then she came back down to earth. “No money in being a biker. Unless it’s the illegal kind.”

  “No, he’s not rich,” Christy confirmed with a shake of her head. “But he’s hot. And he loves her. And he makes her crazy happy.”

  Yet again Bethany just shrugged it off. “Lotta different ways to be happy. And I’m guessing your friend didn’t start out broke or have a grandpa in need. And besides, I told you earlier, it’s not like you can’t love the guy. You just need to find an upwardly mobile one to be all gaga over, that’s all.”

  “And I need to find him in the next six months,” Christy reminded her.

  Bethany nodded, her more resolute expression returning. “So you really can’t afford to be overly picky,” she pointed out, ever practical. “But we just won’t worry about that yet. Now back to the plan.”

  HAVING decided Christy should start hanging out in some classier places, the next night they dressed up and went to a ritzy bar downtown and ordered expensive Cokes—­because they were cheaper than expensive mixed drinks or expensive beer. The following night they drove to Hyde Park, a better suburb than the one where they lived, and repeated the process. When guys approached them, Bethany pretended to be shy and let Christy do most of the talking.

  Each night, Christy chatted with a few different contenders—­some handsome, others not so much, but all of whom gave the impression of being well off. And though she found herself generally uncomfortable flirting with guys for whom she felt no real zing or attraction, she did it anyway—­especially when Bethany’s kick under the table reminded her she had to.

  Before the second night came to a close, she’d given out her social media contact info to three guys—­deciding to keep her phone number to herself for now since they were, all, in fact, strangers “and could still be ax murderers for all we know,” she pointed out to Bethany. “You don’t have to be poor to be a serial killer.”

  Another part of their plan involved the mall where Christy worked. Before and after shifts, and on breaks, they’d decided she should hang out near jewelry stores. She was supposed to approach any wealthy-­looking male shoppers by asking them if they knew where Victoria’s Secret was.

  “What if that just makes them think I have a boyfriend?” she’d asked Bethany.

  “If they’re interested, they’ll ask. And you’ll say no.”

  “Then why I am buying something at Victoria’s Secret? That would make me appear to be a girl who plans on casual sex.”

  Bethany gave her typical shrug. “I’m not sure the average man would find that an undesirable trait, at least at the first-­meeting stage. But if you feel the need to explain, just . . . say you like the feel of nice things against your skin.”

  Christy had cringed slightly—­fearing that was pretty much synonymous with saying she liked casual sex—­but when the time came to enact the plan, none of the men she spoke to took
the bait. And she soon realized that men in nice jewelry stores were there shopping for their wives or girlfriends.

  Having discovered the big flaw in the plan, she then switched her attention to men’s suit departments and before her first break there had passed, she’d had a pleasant conversation with a guy who told her he’d just passed the bar exam. And she didn’t even have to bring up Victoria’s Secret—­instead he had asked her for an opinion on which suit to buy. His name was Jared and he was actually pretty cute, and it wasn’t difficult to flirt with him. And as she told him how to find her online, she began to think maybe this really was going to work out.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

  AFTER a week of friendly discussions and strategic online banter, Jared invited Christy to a company dinner for his law firm at a fancy restaurant the following Wednesday night. She got off work at five thirty and he was picking her up at seven. With rush hour traffic, that would cut it close, but she could make it. She also had plans to meet a guy named Tim for drinks on Friday. Bethany was proud of her, and she was pretty proud of herself, as well. I really can do this. I can save Grandpa Charlie—­and me, too. And there’s nothing wrong with it—­I will totally fall for one of these guys and that’ll make it all okay.

  When Wednesday rolled around, though, work was hectic. A co-­worker called in sick, they were uncharacteristically busy, her boss was in a snippy mood, and she cracked a heel on her only pair of black pumps, leaving her to spend the last few hours limping around lopsided.

  Worse yet, the shoes were an integral part of her dressy date outfit! So despite not having time, as soon as she clocked out, she limped speedily to a discount shoe store on the mall’s lower level, just praying they’d have a cheap, attractive pair she could replace hers with. The good news: They did. The bad: They hurt like hell to wear.

  Frazzled and running late, she bought them anyway. After all, what’s a little more suffering on top of the rest? Surely, after everything else she’d managed the last few years, she could handle a pair of uncomfortable shoes.