Fiancé at Her Fingertips (8 page)

“Why, you’ve been dating Logan for over two months!” her mother continued. “You’ve sung his praises. You’ve regaled us with accounts of your dates. You play golf. See movies. Ride motorcycles. Share romantic dinners. You dance. Look at yourself. You’ve spruced yourself up. You even wear dresses! You exercise. You eat healthy food. Why, this Logan accomplished more in two months than we were able to accomplish in years. He’s a miracle worker!”

“He’s not real, Mother!”

Her mother got to her feet. “I hope for your sake you’re wrong, Debra. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but I do know one thing: That young man genuinely cares about you. Take off your blinders and take a good, hard look at him. Then tell me that flesh-and-blood
hunk isn’t the real thing. Now, I’ve got work to do. You’re welcome to stay and help.”

Debra’s mother got to her feet and began stacking dishes in the dishwasher. Debra propped her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. And prayed for divine guidance. Or a traumatic head injury. Either would do. After all, she wasn’t picky.

Suzi and Debra’s mothers had been comparing notes.

“Let me get this straight,” Suzi said when the two friends met for lunch the next day. “You found Lawyer Logan on the shelf. You purchased him for twenty dollars. You took him home and brought him to life. You made yourself the envy of coworkers and friends. You went through a radical transformation, a three-sixty in attitude, mood, appearance, and general demeanor, and you’re saying you owe it all to a man who came in a do-it-yourself kit? Have I pretty much got it right?”

Debra shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “When you put it that way—”

“What about the candy and lunch dates? What about the flowers, gifts, and cards? What about the walks in the country and the romps in the park? What about the romantic weekends?” Debra’s friend paused and she raised her eyebrows. “What about the sex?”

Debra’s mouth flew open. “I never said anything about sex!”

“You implied it.”

“How did I imply it?”

Suzi crossed her arms. “You got a ThighMaster,” she said, and paused to cock a brunette eyebrow. “For firming and toning.”

Debra blinked. “A ThighMaster?”

“Your mother saw it at your house. She described it to me. I think she thought it was some kind of sex toy.”

“What was my mother doing at my house?”

“What all mothers of unmarried daughters do: snooping,
of course. She wanted to check out your closets to see if any of Logan’s clothing was there.”

Debra groaned. “Who does she think she is? Sherlock Holmes?”

“More like Miss Marple.”

“Well, she’s lost her marbles if she thinks she saw a Thigh-Master at my house.”

“Deb, listen to reason. You’ve spent the last two months painting me a rather unflattering shade of jealous jade about the adoring Adonis coloring your world. You enthrall me with stories of his sense of humor and old-world charm. You make very noticeable, very major changes in response to this new man in your life. Now you sit there and tell me he never existed, he was bogus from the get-go, the brainstorm of modern marketing. Come on, Deb. I know for a fact he survived lunch at your mother’s table less than twenty-four hours ago, a testimony to his hardiness. Are you sure those aren’t
your
marbles rolling around on the floor?”

“When he first showed up—I thought it was all a joke, Suzi. One of those TV shows where people set their friends up. I thought you were mad that I didn’t let you in on the box joke. But I had to fool you as well, because Mom would know otherwise. Still, I thought when I confronted you, you’d confess.” Debra put her head on the table. “Oh, god. I feel like I’m stuck in some awful, second-rate production of Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
, and any minute I’ll be a hysterical, blithering idiot screaming, ‘It’s alive! It’s alive!’” She beat her forehead against the table. “What am I going to do? How do I convince everyone that I’m not going mad?” She gave the table one final thump with her noggin. “How do I convince myself?”

Suzi patted her shoulder. “Not to fear, my dear. Not to fear. In my business, I know more than a few good therapists.”

Debra stood on a stool and pulled everything off the closet shelf in her bedroom—a collection of items that included
sweaters that needed defuzzing, scrapbooks, last year’s leftover Christmas cards. An unfinished cross-stitch she’d started in college of a black Labrador with a pheasant in its mouth tumbled down. Debra rummaged through the junk littering the already messy floor of her closet, sifting through the debris in search of her ultimate goal. She was positive she’d put that Fiancé at Your Fingertips box on the top shelf of her closet, yet there was no sign of it anywhere. How else could she convince her parents and friends that the infamous Lawyer Logan Alexander was conceived from a prepackaged, one-hundred-percent-satisfaction-guaranteed gift-shop gag?

Her folks and Suzi already thought she was well on her way to the hospital for the seriously whacked. However, if she could present them with concrete evidence that Logan Alexander had made an appearance on a mass-market product, she would be able to convince them of his perfidy and her sanity. But now that her evidence had disappeared, how would she ever begin to explain her bizarre behavior?

Unless…

She thought of the old fellow who’d sold her the Fiancé at Your Fingertips novelty in the first place. If she could get her mother and Suzi to accompany her to the shop, she could have the salesclerk verify that the store did, in fact, carry such an item. He might even remember selling her the gift. That would clear everything up. It would validate her sorely bruised credibility and send Lawyer Logan to the gag-gift hereafter!

Two hours later, her mother manacled with one hand and Suzi with the other, Debra dragged the dubious duo into the gift shop where she’d first laid eyes on Lawyer Logan. She hurried to the checkout, pulling her annoyed friend and rattled mother along.

“Excuse me,” Debra said, anxious to get her life back, and addressing the harried-looking middle-aged man behind the counter. “I wonder if you could help me.”

The man looked up. He stuck a pencil above his right ear. “Of course,” he said. “What can I help you with?”

“I was in here several months back,” Debra explained. “Another clerk waited on me that day. An older gentleman.”

The clerk pursed his lips. “Older gentleman?”

Debra nodded. “Yes. He was about, oh, sixty-ish, thinning white hair, about this tall.” She held up a hand at chest level. “Short and kind of, well, you know…dumpy. Oh, and he had this weird laugh. Not even a laugh. More like a cackle. But a wheezing cackle.”

The man behind the counter scratched his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t have any employees that fit that description. My wife and I own the store, and we both work full-time. We do employ one woman and a couple of high school kids who help us out part-time, but no older gentlemen, I’m afraid.”

Debra chewed her lip. This was not going as planned.

“This was over two months back. Perhaps you employed someone else at that time?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said again. “Are you certain it was this store?”

Debra’s good mood began to evaporate. “Of course I’m sure it was this store. Do you think I can’t remember what store I purchased a specialty item in not two months back? An item that turned my life upside down? Do you think I’m some airheaded blonde—”

“Debra!” Her mother jabbed her in the ribs.

“Okay, okay. Listen,” Debra said, taking a long breath. “I purchased a novelty gift here two months ago. It was called Fiancé at Your Fingertips. There was one left. All I need is for you to tell these two ladies here that such an item actually does exist, and that your store did indeed stock such an item at one time. That’s all.” Debra fixed the store owner with an expectant look, convinced that her nightmare was about to come to an end. At the owner’s continued perplexed look, Debra’s enthusiasm began to wane. “Well, go ahead,” she urged. “Tell them. Tell them all about Fiancé at Your Fingertips. Go on.”

The man behind the counter looked from Debra to her mother to Suzi, then back to Debra.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said for the umpteenth time. “But I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Debra’s smile faded. “I’m talking about a product your store sold,” she told the store owner. “I’m talking about Fiancé at Your Fingertips—the single woman’s most effective weapon against meddling parents and rampant workplace speculation. A product guaranteed to make you the envy of your office mates—”

“Meddling parents!” her mother interrupted. “I resent that, Debra!”

“Not now, Mother,” Debra hissed. “Now look here, sir!” she continued. “I bought a fiancé in your store. I purchased Lawyer Logan right in this very spot!”

The owner began to appear concerned.

“I am sorry,” he said, “but I’ve never heard of that particular product. You must have the wrong store. We’ve never stocked such an item, and I would know, because I do all the ordering.”

Debra couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She leaned toward him and placed her hands, palms down, on the counter between them.

“Listen to me. I was in your store not two months ago. At that time I purchased a novelty gift called Fiancé at Your Fingertips. I found it between the novelty poop and the Chihuahua T-shirts in the aisle with the bogus barf and whoopee cushions. To my immense disappointment, however, the only fiancé left was Lawyer Logan. I asked your quirky little sales clerk with the irritating laugh if you had Pediatrician Paul or Teacher Thomas—I would even have been happy with Farmer Frank—but he said Lawyer Logan was all you had left. And that, sir, is how I got stuck with my slick shyster in the first place!”

Debra’s hopes for vindication faded when she caught the “send mall security” look in the store owner’s eyes. Debra’s
mother’s face was freeze-framed in a “she didn’t get this from my side of the family” look. Suzi simply stared.

Debra strove for calm amidst the stormy swells of her confused and chaotic thoughts. “I’m positive I bought that item here.” She marched to the aisle where she’d found the box in the first place. “It was sitting right there.” She pointed to a shelf that now held clearance calendars and grab bags at five bucks each.

“Perhaps if you had a receipt?” the owner suggested.

Suzi snickered. Debra’s mother groaned. Debra looked at the handbag dangling from her shoulder. She’d been carrying this very handbag that fateful day. It was a long shot, but worth a try.

She walked back to the checkout and upended the contents of her purse on the counter. Billfold, checkbook, five pens, three pencils, numerous receipts, movie ticket stubs, stamps, ChapStick, aspirin, Midol, one glove, a pack of gum, several plastic-wrapped peppermints, three large paper clips, and a super-absorbency tampon that had escaped its plastic wrapping tumbled to the counter. The tampon rolled toward the horrified proprietor.

“Debra, really!” Her mother grabbed the tampon and stuck it in her pocket. “You’re making a scene. We’ve taken up enough of this man’s time.”

“Please. Give me a minute to look through these receipts,” Debra said, unfolding one crumpled slip of paper after another. “This will only take a second.” She tossed another receipt aside.

“Debra, please. Let’s go.”

“Maybe your mother is right, Deb,” Suzi suggested.

That got Debra’s attention. “You’re agreeing with my mother?” she asked.

Suzi shrugged. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“You could be of some help here, you know,” Debra told her, and pointed to the mess on the counter. “The amount I’m looking for is nineteen ninety-five.”

Suzi picked up a receipt and looked at it. “Nineteen ninety-five, you say? Here.” She held out the wrinkled slip of paper.

Debra looked at it. “Oh, my gosh! That’s it!” she screamed, and snatched it from her friend. “May twenty-third. All-occasion Gifts and Novelties. Nineteen ninety-five!” She held the receipt out to the frazzled salesclerk. “See?” she told him. “I told you.”

He glanced at the receipt. “That’s one of our receipts, yes,” he said.

“And what does the date say?”

“May twenty-third, ma’am.”

“Right. And what did I buy on May twenty-third?”

The salesclerk’s cheeks colored. “You really want me to say, ma’am?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

“But surely such a personal item—”

“For the love of God, go ahead and tell them what I bought!”

The exasperated clerk cleared his throat.

“Very well. On May twenty-third you purchased Big Bertha’s Bust and Butt Enhancer,” he announced in an unnecessarily loud voice. “In black.”

“I purchased…what?”

“Debra!” Her mother put a hand to her throat. “The very idea!”

“You been holding out on me, Daniels?” Suzi asked, and cast a quizzical look at Debra’s behind.

“Let me see that!” Debra snatched the receipt back from the store owner. “I bought no such thing. There has to be some mistake.”

The weary entrepreneur sniffed and cast a pointed look in the area of Debra’s chest. “Next you’ll want your money back, I suppose,” he said. “Sorry, no refunds on intimate apparel.”

“What!”

“Let’s go, Deb.” Suzi nudged her.

“I don’t understand this!”

“Come along, Debra,” her mother said in that no-nonsense voice that brooked no argument. “You’ve embarrassed me enough for one day.” Her mother moved toward the exit with her nose in the air, leaving a dumbfounded Debra to scoop up her belongings and follow in her wake.

“Wait! This is a mistake. A big mistake! What woman in her right mind would buy something that makes her butt look bigger?” She blanched at her own words. “Wait! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded! I am not a nut! Wait!”

Peeling rubber and squealing brakes accompanied Debra’s arrival at the Oaks Golf and Country Club on the outskirts of Springfield. She popped the trunk latch, catapulted out of her car, and hauled her clubs out, muttering to herself the whole time. How had her nice, mundane, unexciting existence been transformed into something so totally foreign, so surreal and unrecognizable, and by someone who didn’t even exist? A fraudulent fiancé? A sham sweetheart? A man
not
in her life? And what pernicious twist of fate had brought her here in an absurd attempt to intercept her father and that very same paper-doll by-product of her skullduggery?

Maybe this was one of those made-for-TV movie moments. Maybe there was still a chance she would awaken to find that the last several months of her life had been nothing more than a bad dream caused by tainted meat. Or the result of coma-induced dementia from severe head-banging.

She shook her head. Maybe she really did need her brain examined. Here she was praying she’d suffered a traumatic head injury over having a great-looking guy in her life who appeared crazy (pun intended) about her. Like, how psycho was that?

She flung the strap of her golf bag over her shoulder and hoofed it to the club house. It was pure dumb luck that she’d found out about her father’s golf date with the infamous Logan at all. Okay. Pure dumb luck in the form of her
loose-lips-sink-ships mother. Debra couldn’t miss the added irony of an occasion that actually found her thanking her lucky stars her mother was a confirmed blabbermouth.

Hearing that her father planned to tee off with Logan Alexander that afternoon, Debra had frantically phoned the club and asked the manager to advise her father that she would be joining the twosome, and they should wait for her. Unfortunately, she was running late.

Lloyd Thompkins, long-time course manager, greeted her at the counter.

“Well, hello, there, Debra. Gonna be another scorcher out there today.” Lloyd pointed this out unnecessarily, Debra decided, mopping the sweat from her brow. “You’re too late. Your dad and your boyfriend have already taken off.”

Debra resisted a curse. “He is not my boyfriend,” she hissed.

Lloyd’s brows did a meet-in-the-middle number. “Oh? Well, your dad and the fellow he introduced as your boyfriend already left.”

Debra groaned. “How long ago?”

Lloyd checked his watch. “Oh, a good thirty minutes ago now, I’d say.”

“Didn’t you tell them to wait for me?” Debra asked, concerned that her father could be at risk in the clutches of the mysterious life crasher.

“I gave ’em your message, Debra, but they didn’t want to wait.”

Debra sniffed. “I imagine it was that Logan character who didn’t want to wait.”

Lloyd’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down twice.

“As a matter of fact, the young fella wanted to wait for you, but your dad said it wasn’t safe.”

Debra’s eyes widened. “My dad said it wasn’t safe to wait for me? What on earth did he mean by that?”

The course manager swallowed again. “Uh, well, uh, he said something like…now, how did that go again? Oh, yeah: ‘With the way she’s been acting, it isn’t safe to be around
her when she has a golf club in her hands.’ Something like that.”

Debra’s face grew warm. “It appears my father has already been out in the sun too long,” she muttered. “Lloyd, I need to catch up with them right away. Give me a cart key.” When he didn’t comply, she pounded on the counter. “Now, Lloyd! I need a cart! Now!”

He gave her a startled look, the kind she was getting used to seeing, and handed her a key. “Sure, Deb. Sure. You playing nine or eighteen?”

Debra snatched the key from him. “What are they playing?”

“You know your dad and golf. Always eighteen holes. I asked him if he was sure he wanted to go that many, because it was so warm out there and he was looking kind of peaked. Said his indigestion was acting up again.”

Debra hit the door running. Indigestion? Again? No way. What was he thinking, playing golf in this heat? And what about that flagrant fraud, Logan Alexander? What was he up to? Did he have no conscience?

Debra snagged the golf bag she’d left propped by the door and rushed to the parking area reserved for rental carts. She checked the cart number on the cart card. Thirteen.
Terrific
. She raced through the rows of carts, scouring the lot for her assigned vehicle, becoming more and more frustrated with each cart she passed. She came to a puffing stop at thirteen. Last row. Last cart. What were the odds?

She hefted her bag on the back of the cart, threw the strap around it, and jumped behind the wheel, jamming the key in. She tromped on the foot pedal, rocketing forward and sending gravel flying. The cart hit the blacktopped path on two wheels, startling several golfers with a hankering for heatstroke who’d opted to hoof it rather than use a cart, and sending them scrambling in every direction.

“Hey, watch it!” A tall, thin fellow with long, scrawny chicken legs shook a fist at her. “Crazy woman driver!”

“Health nut!” Debra yelled back. From there she proceeded to tick off a chubby fellow teeing off at number
one when she shot by him, a blur of white and blue, causing the surprised golfer to hook his drive so far to the left it ended up in a dense grove of pines. She ignored the cacophony of curses, oaths, and threats of bodily harm directed her way and tore past the man, who clearly took the game of golf much too seriously. After all, what was one lost ball or extra stroke compared to the peril her father was in? She was on an errand of mercy here!

She sped along the fairway of hole one, a long par four, oblivious to the shouts of, “Fore!” directed her way. She bounced through the rough around the perimeter of the green, startling a poor unsuspecting fellow attempting a twelve-foot putt. He ended up jettisoning the ball clear across the green and back down the hill and into the tall grass. He threw his club down and started toward her.

She gunned the cart and performed a spastic U-turn, almost rolling the cart in the process, then hit the path to the second hole. If luck was with her, she’d catch her father and his partner before they had a chance to tee off.

Lady Luck, as usual, was smiling down on someone else. The twosome had already teed off on the short par three, and were on the green preparing to putt. Debra tromped the foot pedal and bounced down the bumpy fairway. Both golfers looked up from contemplating their respective putts to watch her approach.

Debra eased up on the gas.
Shoot
. Now that she was here, how did she explain her sudden presence, her sudden desire to be in the company of the very man she’d been assuring everyone couldn’t even exist? Her father already thought she was prime guest material for
The Jerry Springer Show
. What plausible reason could she give for being here? Not, “I couldn’t let this glorious heat index of one hundred and five in the shade pass me by.” “I’m here to rescue you from the clutches of a madman” probably wouldn’t work either. She parked her cart along the path and headed for the duo.

“Debra.” Her father greeted her first. “Lloyd said you
called and would be joining us. I thought that had to be a mistake, but here you are.” He gave her his stern “behave or else” look. What was she? Some two-year-old who had to be threatened with a time-out?

“I spoke with Mom. She mentioned you hadn’t been feeling well.” Her father’s face was ashen and gray tinged.

“She also must have mentioned my golf date,” her father responded. “That woman never could keep a secret. And I’m fine. Your mother worries too much. You too, for that matter.”

“When women stop stewing over their menfolk, time will have ended,” Debra replied.

“Well, I don’t want you wasting your time worrying about me. On the other hand, if you want to spend your time worrying about Logan here…well, then, I’m all for it. It’ll give me a break from being the focus of all that feminine concern,” her father told her.

Logan walked up to Debra’s father and put an arm around his shoulder. “Haven’t you realized yet that a daughter never stops fretting over the first fella in her life? Like you’ll never get over worrying about your little girl there. It’s biological. And it comes with the territory. So sit back and enjoy the attention, Stu.”

Her father laughed, and a lump caught in Debra’s throat at the closeness evident between the two men. In an amazingly short amount of time they had somehow established a bond of friendship and camaraderie, despite their age difference.

“So, to what do we owe the honor of your presence, Debra?” Lawyer Logan walked toward her. “You ready to kiss and make up?”

Debra found herself staring at the bronze, corded neck visible from the open collar of his white Izod shirt. Her gaze moved to his tanned, well-defined jaw, and the incredible white teeth displayed between sensual, sculpted lips. She fought the daft compulsion to cup his face in her hands and
bring those oh-so-fine lips to hers. She closed her eyes and leaned toward him, but caught herself in midsway and opened her eyes. She blinked. What was she thinking?
Get a
grip
, she told herself.

“I am not here to kiss and make up,” she snapped. “I’m here because I am concerned about my father. End of story.”

Logan took a lock of her hair and twirled it around one finger, then gave a little tug. “Ah, just when I thought you were ready to forgive and forget,” he said.

Debra pulled her hair from his fingers. “There is nothing to forgive or forget. Nothing. Get that through your head!”

“So, you’re not still upset about Catrina?” He wrapped another curl around his finger. “I’m glad to hear that, Debra. Very glad.”

“This has nothing at all to do with Catrina, or what ever her name is.” She grabbed at his hand again, and he caught and held it.

“You’re right.” Logan brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “This is about us. Just you and me.” His lips brushed her knuckles again, and Debra felt a chill despite the oppressive heat of the day. She looked up at him, suddenly glad he couldn’t see her eyes through the dark lenses of her sunglasses. When he reached up and pulled off her tinted shades, she gasped. “I’ve missed those baby blues,” he said. “In fact, I’ve missed all of you, Debra. Very much.”

Stunned by the effect this encounter with the Marlboro Man, sans tobacco breath and mustache, was having on her, Debra stood quiet as a mime. Exquisite, never-before-experienced sensations ran the length of her body. Logan stepped closer and tucked her between the long inseam of his well-muscled legs. A perfect fit.

“Have you missed the man in your life, Debra?” he asked.

“Oh, just for the last, say, five years or so,” she muttered in response. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she’d said such a daft thing in the first place. Then it didn’t seem to matter, because Logan was bending over her and placing his lips on
hers, kissing her so tenderly, so reverently, that she felt a rush of intense completeness, of such perfect wholeness and belonging that she couldn’t seem to think of anything except the exquisite ecstasy of the moment.

“Ahem.
Ahem
. Uh, someone is ready to tee off on this par three. If you two lovebirds don’t move, you could get beaned.”

Debra’s eyes flew open. Lovebirds? Her eyes focused on Logan’s face, inches away. She took a step back and bumped into her golf cart. She put a hand to her kiss-swollen lips. “What have I done?” she asked.

Logan set her sunglasses back on the bridge of her nose and gave her a quick kiss on the tip. “I think that’s called kissing and making up, Snickers,” he said with a wink—then went to retrieve his ball.

Debra dropped into the seat of her golf cart and stared at the strange man who had just kissed her, quite thoroughly in fact, at hole number two at the Oaks Country Club. She shook her head. What was happening to her? Debra Daniels didn’t do things like that. Never. Ever. Debra Daniels was cautious by nature. Conservative.

Debra Daniels was completely losing it.

Zombielike, she followed her father and Logan’s golf cart to the next hole. She stepped out of her own vehicle and watched as her father took several practice swings on the tee at three. Lawyer Logan grinned at her as he cranked his ball through the washer.

“You planning to golf?” he asked, and wiped his ball off with the rag.

“No, I plunked down thirty-five bucks to follow you big, strong men around and gush. Of course I’m going to golf.”

“What are you planning to use as clubs?” he asked.

Debra crossed her arms. “A stick with a rock tied on the end, like Fred Flintstone,” she said. “I’m using my clubs, of course.”

“Your clubs. Which are…?”

Debra looked at him. “Golf clubs. You know, those long
metal rods with the black grips and funny-shaped ends on them.”

“I know what they are, Debra. The question is, Do you know
where
they are?” Logan asked.

“Of course I know where they are. They’re in the back of my golf cart.” She pointed at good old cart thirteen. “Right there.” She stared. Her nice navy blue bag with orange-and-blue Bears club covers was nowhere to be seen.

Debra ran over to the cart. “My clubs! They’re gone! I put them right here in the back of the cart!”

Logan walked over to her. “Did you take time to strap them in? You seemed in an awful big hurry to join us. I’m flattered, naturally.”

“You’re also due for a Rorschach test,” she commented. “And I’m sure I strapped my clubs in,” she added, loath to admit that, in her haste, she probably hadn’t taken the time to secure them, and somewhere in her wild cross-country trek they must have bounced out. She felt color seep into her cheeks.

“I’m sure someone will retrieve them for you and return them to the club house,” Logan said, and handed her his club. “Here. You can use mine.”

Debra stared at the exquisite titanium club that would keep McGruff in dog treats for a year. “It’s a beautiful club,” she said. “But it’s way too expensive for me to use. I can use Dad’s. Thanks anyway.”