Page 95 of Only Lovers in the Building

“Oh, thank God!”

“Thank God? What do you mean by that?” he asked, laughing again.

“I’d feel bad for that poor woman, that’s all,” she said jokingly to better hide the truth. “Marrying a regular guy is hard enough, let alone an artist and certified genius.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever marry,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’d take it seriously,” he said.

“You’d be the only one ever,” she teased. All at once, she recalled the conversation they’d had the night he’d showed her his father’s journals. “Does this have anything to do with your father?”

A tic pulled at his jaw. “I swear I’ve never had to talk about the man as much as I’ve had to since he died, and I’m sick of it.”

“It’s a blow you can’t ignore,” Lily said. “The feelings won’t magically go away. If you push them down, their roots will grow deeper. You should talk to someone, and it might as well be me. You’ve helped me so much this summer, you have no idea. I want to help you, too.”

“Lily,” he said, lightly tracing the knuckles of her hand, “why are you so easy to be with?”

“Easy?” she choked out. “Wait until I bombard you with free and unsolicited advice. You’ll be sick of me soon.”

“I don’t think I could ever be sick of you. I don’t think that’s possible,” he said. “Which is why I want to protect this.”

Her throat tightened. Ben’s father was the flaky artist no sensible woman ought to marry. Ben was the hero with the heart of gold.

“Tell me,” she said. “Why has your father turned you off marriage?”

Ben went on running a finger along the back of her hand, following the patterns of her veins. “He married three or four times,” he began. “It’s an approximate guess because one of those wives might’ve just been a live-in girlfriend. She wasn’t quite divorced, at least that’s what the research shows. In one of his many obituaries, he’s described as a ladies’ man, feeding into the Latin lover nonsense. What they don’t realize is that he married for money. Poets are poor. Unless they’re born rich or marry rich, they’re poor. There’s no way around it. No prize money will keep you living at the Biltmore Hotel, which he did for a time. He seduced aging heiresses, widows, and not-quite-divorced women who funded his lifestyle. He might have loved my mother, but she had nothing to offer. They were never married. He abandoned her for wife number four. The free ride ended when he got old and sick. He died penniless.”

“Your father was quite a character.”

“He was.”

“Are you researching his life for a project? A memoir or biography?”

“Maybe.”

“It would make for an interesting project, you know, for the grant. People are fascinated with him and would welcome your perspective.”

“Maybe,” he repeated.

“Just one thing, though,” she said. “The whole Latin lover thing, it’s not nonsense.”

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a stereotype.”

“Even stereotypes have a kernel of truth.”

He smirked. “Oh, yeah? You know this from experience?”

“Let’s say I’m researching the topic.”

“Tell me more.”

“Ben! There you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

The man making his way to their table was the groom, no doubt about it. The runaway groom. Looking clean-shaven and well-groomed, wearing a stark-white linen suit with a purple orchid pinned to his lapel, and taking long, nervous strides. He was bald, tan, and of muscular build, the type who frequented the gym, not the cozy local bookstores.

“Rick,” Ben said in greeting. “Big day for you. Congratulations.”