Drop Dead Gorgeous (8 page)

The phone clicked in her ear. “Wait a minute, I've got another call.” She switched over.

“Are you home? Are you safe?”

“T. Larry, how could I be answering the phone if I wasn't?”

“Just checking.”

“I'm on the other line. Hold on a minute.”

She switched back over to Richard without asking herself why she wasn't just hanging up on T. Larry. “I have to go.”

His frown came through in the silence.

“So Monday then?” she checked.

“Yes. Six o'clock. Is that okay? We can meet somewhere if that makes you feel more comfortable.”

Madison smiled and burrowed deeper into the covers. “You're really so considerate, Richard.” A fact which would make T. Larry puke if she told him. “Six is fine. Where shall I meet you?”

“Golden Gate Park. Outside the arboretum.”

“The park?” The Japanese tea garden was near there. Oh, how fun.

“I'll bring the food. We're going to have a picnic.”

Better than fun, a picnic was oh-so-romantic. “Oh, Richard,” she said on a breath.

A beat of silence, then, “Sweet dreams, Madison.”

With a click, he was gone, and T. Larry's snort sounded in her ear.

“Was that him?”

“Him who?”

“Dick the—I mean, Richard.”

“Yes.” She sighed with just a hint of the music she felt singing through her body. “Wasn't he wonderful?”

T. Larry said nothing, his answer in his harshly expelled breath.

“Richard said that exact same thing about you.” She rolled to her side, tucking the phone between her ear and the pillow. “He's taking me on a picnic. In Golden Gate Park. Monday night. Isn't that romantic?”

His sigh indicated he didn't see the same romance in it that she did. “Madison, you're driving me crazy with this.”

She lived in a second-floor apartment just off University Avenue in the heart of Palo Alto, only minutes from Stanford University. The relative quiet in her room suddenly enveloped her, the soft almost melodic shush of tires on the road outside her window, the gentle laughter of a couple walking in the night and T. Larry's whisper.

She'd never heard quite that quality in his voice, perhaps because it was the first time she'd listened without the accompaniment of phones ringing, cell phone static, traffic, voices, horns, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum.

“Why am I driving you crazy?”

“Is he the one?”

The quiet was thick, the low hum of his voice new and almost tantalizing with her bedclothes pulled to her chin and her nightie riding her thighs.

“Is he?” His tone lowered, deepened, became a touch more intimate.

Madison didn't dare analyze how his timbre made her feel. “I don't know yet.”

“I don't trust him.”

“You don't trust anyone.”

“I'm only looking out for you.”

“And I really appreciate it.”

The silence was long. Her toes tingled with the sound of his breath so close to her ear.

“What are you wear—” He cut himself off. “I mean, what are you doing tomorrow?”

The oddest question. “You need me to work, on a Saturday?”

“No.”

“Then why are you asking what I'm doing?”

“I thought we could have lunch.”

“To talk about Richard and how I'm driving you crazy?”

“Just to have lunch.”

“Whatever for?”

The soft, quiet, intimate T. Larry disappeared. “Do I have to have a reason?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don't. I just want…lunch.”

Stretching out on her back, she held the phone away, looked at it, brow furrowed, then put it back to her ear. “Are you asking me for a date, T. Larry?”

“I'm trying to show you I can be just as impulsive as you.”

“I like the word spontaneous better. Impulsive has a negative connotation.”

“Then I'm spontaneous.”

She sat up and switched on the bedside lamp, as if that would somehow shed light on T. Larry's brain. “I can't. I have a birthday party to go to.”

“Why didn't you tell me that in the first place and save me fifteen minutes of irritation?”

“It wasn't fifteen minutes.” She hugged her knees to her chest. She kind of felt bad for him when he was only trying to break out of his prudent, well-thought-out plans—something she'd always wanted him to do. “Would you like to go to the birthday party with me? It's for my nephew, Thomas.”

A thoughtful pause. “How old is he?”

“Five.”

“Too young. I don't do well with children.”

“You'd better start unless you're giving up the Family Plan.”

“All right, I'll go.”

Easy capitulation. It robbed her of a pithy response. “You will?”

“Yes. What time?”

“The party's at one. Can you pick me up at a quarter to?”

“I can do that.”

She gave him directions after which he seemed ready to hang up. For some inexplicable reason, she wasn't ready to let him go. “Why'd you laugh tonight?”

“Laugh?”

“With that woman. Before she smacked you.”

Music tinkled faintly. He'd turned on the radio. She held her breath waiting for his answer.

“She said I had an amazing sense of humor.”

Madison's eyes widened involuntarily. “She did?”

“After I asked her if she cheated on her taxes.”

She gasped. “You didn't.”

“She thought I was joking.”

“You weren't?”

His voice dipped, melting her. “Do you think I have an amazing sense of humor, Madison?”

Amazing? She couldn't exactly lie about it. He'd know. But she didn't want to spoil his strange mood. Mostly, she couldn't believe she was having this conversation with T. Larry at all.

“Do you think I have an amazing
anything?
”

There
was
something she'd wondered about. “Well, you do wear a very small watch, T. Larry, and they say the size of a man's…you know…” She cleared her throat. “Well, the size of
that
is inversely proportional to the size of his watch. So I'm being led to believe that you have an amazing…you know.”

He sputtered, coughed, then started to laugh. He was still laughing when he hung up on her. He certainly did amaze her.

It wasn't until she'd turned off the light and snuggled back beneath the covers with a smile on her lips that she thought to wonder why she hadn't extended the birthday party invitation to Richard instead.

 

T
HE SCENT OF
P
INE
-S
O
l swept in from the bathroom, furniture polish lingered on the dusted tabletops, and her dishwasher swished in the kitchen. Harriet had scrubbed, scoured and washed from the moment she'd gotten home to her two-bedroom, one-bath apartment. Exhaustion rested pleasantly in her arms, her flannel pj's caressed her limbs, and Errol purred against her belly as she fed him fish-shaped treats. Fuzzy slippers warmed her feet. The 1938 movie
The Adventures of Robin Hood,
the only decent version of the story, starring Errol Flynn, seduced her on her thirty-two-inch TV.

Harriet mellowed with the gratifying fatigue and a movie she knew ended happily. As Robin kissed Maid Marion, Harriet began to consider if she'd been too harsh over Zachary's comment, maybe even overreacted. Zachary had actually offered the compliment in the wake of Bill's complaint that the color of her dress resembled puke after a two-kegger night.

Zachary said her dress was pretty. Then he'd smiled, his gaze roaming to her legs.

Maybe that's what bothered her. His smile. Was it your garden variety gee-you-have-sweet-thighs smile? Or was it the nasty damn-I-can't-believe-you'd-show-those-thighs smile?

That was the trouble. She could never tell with Zachary. He wasn't quick to smile, and when he did, one couldn't tell if someone had forced it out of him. If he even had emotions, he held them so tightly to his chest that he seemed little more than an automaton. Except when he was slinking over to Madison's desk, ostensibly for one of her Reese's. Then, he resembled Tarzan drooling over Jane.

Madison called Zachary shy. She always searched for the nicest word possible to cover a person's idiosyncrasies. She said Harriet herself was misunderstood. Misunderstood? That was the nicest thing Madison could come up with? The worst part was that Madison was right about Timothy. A ring, even an engagement ring, was a gift and nonrefundable. He'd asked for its return when he realized Harriet would forever remain the soot-covered chimney sweep in her pumpkin instead of miraculously blossoming into Cinderella, the beautiful princess with tiny glass-slippered feet and narrow waist. “See what I've done for her. See how great I am.” He wasn't a prince but a jerk with a bad case of Cinderella Syndrome. What was there about her that everyone seemed to think needed changing? At first, she'd found his suggestions charming. A man really
looked
at her and seemed to have her best interests at heart. Until Harriet recognized that his main concern had been about how her appearance reflected on him. She'd been nothing more than a pity project to him, too. And wham, bam, thank you ma'am, he'd dumped her when his pity didn't generate the desired alterations.

Errol nudged her hand for another salmon treat. She smoothed his silky fur, willing her tension to fade away. She shouldn't think of Timothy. Timothy made her think of pity projects, and pity projects made her think of Madison, and thoughts of Madison always upset her. Harriet wasn't jealous. Rather, she was defeated. Her expensive perm, highlight and cut had failed to resemble Madison's. Her more colorful attire had been met with derision. And if she offered a good-natured compliment, everyone asked if she'd been possessed by Casper the Friendly Ghost. She couldn't compete with Madison. Madison the perfect. Madison the Paragon. Madison the…

Her doorbell chimed.

Harriet looked down the length of her pajamas, the nap worn off with loving overuse. It was probably Mrs. Murphy from next door wanting a cup of sugar. The lady always baked when she couldn't sleep. The mouthwatering aroma of fresh chocolate chip cookies often followed Harriet into her dreams.

Bag of sugar in her hand, Harriet opened the door.

And dropped the five pounds on Zachary's foot.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry.”

He hopped on one foot. “When you get pissed, Harriet, you really get pissed.”

Funny that he could string together sentences extremely well when she was the only one around. Was that a good or a bad thing? “It was an accident.”

They didn't move for a moment, he on the outside, his face red, she on the inside, biting her lip.

Then she saw the way his gaze skimmed her pajamas. His eyes reflected the distorted image of Miss Piggy. Harriet wanted to cry. “What do you want?”

His Adam's apple bobbed. “I came to apologize.”

“Because T. Larry told you to?”

He straightened his shoulders, his polo shirt stretching over his chest. She gave him an A for effort. “I'm not sorry I said your dress was pretty, Harriet.”

“Then what do you want to apologize for?” She hated the nasty tone, wishing she could have asked him if he'd meant it, if he'd been trying to protect her from those three bullies at work. But she couldn't.

“Can I come in?”

Yes. Please. “No.”

He stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, then quickly pulled them out. “I wanted to say I'm sorry about what happened….” He faltered, started again. “I'm sorry that I…”

God, he couldn't even get the words out. This wasn't about her dress. “What, Zachary? Sorry that you dumped me after one night? Or sorry that you screwed me in the first place.”

“I…I…”

She really would like to cry. But not in front of him. “You never used to be a stutterer, Zachary. What's wrong now?” She took a step closer. “Afraid I'm going to tell everyone? Afraid they'll all find out you had sex with Harriet the Harridan?”

“No…” His mouth worked, but nothing else came out.

It was all so clear. It had been eight months since that night, since they'd worked late on the AMI account, when he kissed her, and she'd put her hand on him, and they'd made love.

Then the next morning he'd pretended as if it never happened. Pretended for eight long months.

“Bet you would have crowed like a rooster if it was Madison.” Why oh why did it seem Madison always stood in her way?