Kurt was setting the table, while Rachel put the finishing touches to her vegetarian spaghetti sauce that even dedicated omnivores like her roommates loved, and Santana prepared the salad.
"So, when's Warren arriving?" Santana actually looked eager to see him.
"He's on his way. He had to wait until his roommate's classes were over and had time to stop by the liquor store for us, since Toby's twenty-one. Tom wanted us to try an Italian wine that he loves."
"I thought he was half-French, or something." Santana looked puzzled.
"Well, the French do eat Italian food," Kurt sighed.
"And adore wine." Rachel put down her spoon to check her phone. "He's downstairs!"
Kurt and Santana winked at each other as Rachel raced to the door. She flung it open and immediately kissed him.
"Mmm…is this my appetizer?" She flashed him a sexy grin.
"Hey guys," Tom waved and dropped his backpack on the couch as Rachel took his tan corduroy coat. He was wearing his trademark white shirt and jeans; Rachel insisted it be casual (she was wearing a blue t-shirt and black yoga pants).
Santana and Kurt came in to welcome him.
"Congratulations!" Kurt said, shaking his hand.
"Thanks." Santana hugged him, raising Rachel's and Kurt's eyebrows.
"So, where's this fancy wine?" she asked.
Tom looked puzzled. "Fancy? No. It's good, but not fancy." He pulled two bottles of chianti from the pack and handed them to Santana.
"Hmmm… Frescobaldi Nipozzano Chianti Rufina Riserva. Sounds fancy to me."
He shrugged and grinned. "At only fifteen bucks a bottle it's a bargain, then."
Santana laughed. "I like you, Warren."
Kurt noticed how Tom enthusiastically delved into the meal, even though he knew for a fact that Tom ate meat—he saw him in the lounge once tearing into a huge pastrami sandwich.
"You have no idea how famished I am. I skipped lunch to polish the music for my song for the showcase." Rachel looked at him, and he just smiled. "Don't worry, you'll like it."
"It was great as is."
Kurt poured the wine, and raised a glass.
"To Tom Foley— congratulations again on the Showcase." They clinked glasses and sipped.
"Damn, Warren! You weren't kidding about this wine. Fifteen bucks a bottle? Seriously? "
"I'll have Toby buy some more, and I'll bring it by."
They ate heartily, and talked about the showcase. Kurt didn't want to dwell on Tom's insistence that Rachel sing his music. Santana, of course, had no such inhibitions.
"You can't tell me you go to NYADA, Warren. From the kids I've seen from there, you'd harvest and sell your own mother's organs to the Mob to win the Winter Showcase." She looked over at Rachel. "No offence, Berry. You're special."
Tom looked down, blushing. Kurt thought for a moment he'd been offended. But Rachel was completely cool, and then Tom looked up, shyly.
"As a composer, I'm very picky about how my songs are presented. The choice of artist to interpret my work is critical, since I'm not much of a vocalist."
("He's great" Rachel mouthed, pretending to shield her lips from him with her hand).
"In the case of my song, the bridge is the emotional key. Rachel," he turned to her, "You recognized that when you emphasized certain words over others when you sang it, without any prompting from me, remember?"
"I did?" She looked surprised.
He slapped his hand on the table, then looked around. "There! You see? Rachel doesn't even remember doing it. It was instinctual. " He paused for a sip of wine. "What's more important for me than winning the showcase is the impression on the audience. None of the other singers in NYADA can interpret it better."
"How do you know that?" Rachel looked skeptical. He blushed again.
"I didn't tell you yet—in songwriting class they actually brought a few singers in to try it (for other student's songs as well). You were the only one that got it right-." He stopped. Rachel was giving him a not-so-happy look. "What?"
"You let some song sluts touch your song?"
"What?" He looked confused; Santana and Kurt's wine glasses had stopped halfway to their lips.
"Was that bitch Anne Neilson one of them?"
"What?"
"What country are you from?" The temperature in the room had just dropped. Rachel looked furious. Tom looked thoroughly lost.
"Country? What?" He began to stutter nervously.
"'What' isn't any country I've ever heard of. Do they speak English in What?"
Kurt was about to rise in his chair to mediate, when Tom and Rachel couldn't keep straight faces, and began howling with laughter. Santana, who had seen Pulp Fiction and caught on half-way through, fell over in her chair. She put her arm around Kurt.
"Kurt, baby, they're pulling our legs."
"Actually," Tom said, "How did you know I've even seen that movie?"
"It's in your DVD collection at your place. I snooped when you excused yourself to the bathroom." Rachel smiled triumphantly. "It was one of Finn's favorite movies. We probably watched it as much as we watched Funny Girl. " A pointed look at Santana. "Didn't I say you'd be shocked at what I did in those knee socks?"
"Yes, you did, Berry. Salud!" The women clinked glasses.
Kurt, relieved, watched Tom closely. He still showed no discomfort when Rachel talked about Finn. Maybe, just maybe, this guy was a true keeper. It was strange thinking back on Rachel and Finn, and their rich private life that nobody knew about: the intimate conversations and private jokes they shared, the secrets and the whispered promises. The sweetness. The ache in his chest over them began to ease somewhat, seeing something similar developing between Rachel and Tom.
"You know, Rachel," Tom said, helping himself to some more of her spaghetti, "You've talked about the way you used to dress, but I've never actually seen it."
She looked away for a second, then said, "I'll be right back."
Santana poured him some more wine. "You'll need this."
She returned a few minutes later and sat, not saying anything. Picking up her glass she swallowed some wine.
"I was going to bring out my photo album and show you how I used to look. Is it okay if I don't do that right now?" She looked fragile.
Santana and Kurt exchanged worried glances, but Tom just tenderly placed his hand on hers.
"No problem." She smiled immediately, and after a few more bites of food, recovered her composure.
They drew lots to see who would clear the dishes. Strangely, both Santana and Kurt lost, so Rachel and Tom went into the living room area with their wine.
"Hurry up, you guys! Tom brought a movie!"
"Which one?" Kurt asked.
"To Have and Have Not. Rachel says she's never seen it."
Kurt looked ecstatic. "The movie where Bogart met Bacall. Normally, I'd love to. But Santana and I are heading out."
Rachel looked back over the couch. "You are? You're not going to watch with us?"
"Sorry, Warren, Berry. You're on your own. Kurt says Isabel is having a late night party and says she has 'people' for both of us to meet." Kurt grinned.
"Is that okay, Tom?" Kurt asked, being polite.
"Sure, I guess. Though I do enjoy your company," he called out, and winked out of Rachel's view.
Santana went into her room and emerged in a great red sheath dress, and grabbed her coat. She followed Kurt through the door, ruffling Tom's hair along the way.
"Behave!" she sang out as the door closed.
Rachel got up and put a DVD in the player, then took their glasses back and refilled them.
"I'm so excited about the showcase. I'll do your song justice, I promise."
He clinked glasses ,swallowed some wine, then gathered her close to him as she tucked her legs in.
"I know."
"And I'm sorry about the photo album."
"No apologies, remember?"
Rachel raised up and kissed him, long and sweet. "Thank you."
She clicked the remote.
She loved the chemistry between Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, and Walter Brennan's sensitive portrayal of the rummy Eddie. But when Bacall sings in the hotel bar with the piano player, Cricket, Tom kissed her cheek and said, "Do you know who the piano player is?" Rachel shook her head. "Hoagy Carmichael!"
"He's my favorite character," he enthused.
"I wonder why." She giggled.
"Did you know Ian Fleming said that James Bond looked like Hoagy Carmichael?"
"Hey! You're supposed to be my fanboy, remember?"
"I remember." He clicked the television off, and they began kissing in earnest.
She untucked her legs, stretching out, facing him, as Tom kissed her hair, then each of her eyes softly, slowly, moving down her face, to her lips. He remained there for some time, her tasting the wine on his tongue, as his teeth nibbled her lips. Then to her jaw, trailing down her neck, while she played in his hair, moaning slightly. Tom propped himself on one elbow, and his free hand rubbed her back in circles. Her hands moved down to cradle his face, and she kissed his lips, moaning in his mouth when his hand moved down her back, slipping under her waistband, this time under the lacy panties as well, over her buttocks, and caressed the damp space between her thighs.
"I've been that way since you texted me you were downstairs" she murmured.
Her free hand trailed down to the front of his jeans. She hesitated, just for a moment, then touched him, marveling at what she knew was a silky hardness beneath the soft denim, remembering. His breathing quickened.
"I'm this way all of the time around you."
She chuckled throatily, enjoying her woman's power to arouse him. Rachel wanted him, wanted him now, knowing she could trust him with her body, wondering how he would feel inside her. And she felt Finn's love for her then, and her love for him, intact, protected, even as her feelings grew for Tom. You're alive, she felt Finn telling her, please go and live that life, please make my love for you mean something more than just a memory. I will, Rachel promised him. I will.
"I haven't been with a man for a long time," she whispered, resting her cheek against his.
"Neither have I," Tom whispered back, and her anxiety fled as they laughed together. He made her feel safe and wanted.
"Stay with me tonight."
She arose from the couch, took his hand, and led him to her room, where he mysteriously, wonderfully, defied her expectations.
Tom was slow and deliberate, carefully managing to touch, with fingers and lips, almost every inch of her body, wringing electricity to her surface, but not explosive, empty fireworks, like Brody, or blinding passion, as with Finn. Tom was more like the Moon to her ocean, slowly gathering her to him, body and soul, like a patient tide, then entering her quietly, exquisitely, almost as if he wanted her to suddenly realize he had filled her. He whispered words she didn't know, yet innately understood, as she brought him close to her as well, and, almost without knowing it, found herself moving perfectly in sync. And when her moment came, clutching him to her, there was no shattering climax, no immense release of tension, only peace, warm and gentle, diffusing throughout her body, as if she had dissolved, mixing with him and everything. And her sorrow dissipated with it for a blessed while, as she lay afterwards in his arms, wondering how she had carried it so long by herself.
Neither of them said a word. Words were simply poor substitutes for thoughts, now; Tom and Rachel lay in each other's thoughts as well as each other's arms, unfettered by this world.
The curtain-filtered street light fell on them from her window as he stroked her hair slowly, bringing on the kind of sleep she had almost given up ever having again. Peacefully entwined with this lovely man, she felt safe and delivered.
And when she prayed, Tom kissed the top of her head.