Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (10 page)

Like clockwork, I flung myself out of bed at seven thirty and barely made it to the bathroom for my usual hour of gut-spraining retches. Afterward, I climbed over the nearly insurmountable side of the bathtub and soaked my aching muscles for half an hour. Feeling somewhat more alive after that, I slipped into a faded satin robe I'd purchased years ago at my favorite vintage-clothing store in Paris. It was a little too big, but cut like a Victorian evening gown and beautifully hand-stitched, so I always felt pampered when I wore it. Still nauseated, but pampered.

I went downstairs to find Mr. Twinkles standing by the back porch, waiting for a handout. He was overjoyed to see me and nuzzled my robe with more familiarity than I should have allowed. To distract him, I produced some wilted celery stalks. When I went back inside, he wistfully kicked the door with one forehoof.

Back in the kitchen, I pulled a Jiffy Pop from the pantry. With the stove heating up, I picked up the phone to call the plumber only to discover my answering machine blinking again. Someone must have called while I was in the tub. I touched the button.

“Nora?” Delilah's voice sounded shaky. “Honey, I could use your advice. Could you give me a call? It's—look, it's pretty important.”

I immediately punched in her cell number, but I was put through to her voice mail. Either she had turned off her phone or she was speaking with someone else. Frustrated, I said, “Delilah, sorry I missed your call. I'm at home. Give me a buzz when you can.”

Concerned, I disconnected and stood staring out my kitchen window while I shook my Jiffy Pop. “Maybe she just wants to talk about Saturday's party,” I said aloud.

Mr. Twinkles looked back at me through the window and gave a conversational nicker.

“I'm not talking to a horse,” I said to him.

Instead, I brewed myself some tea and called the plumber. By the time I ate enough popcorn to keep down the prenatal vitamins, Emma arrived, ominously lugging a duffel bag. She demanded, “What's Twinkles doing on the porch?”

“I threw him out of bed,” I said.

While Emma went to put Mr. Twinkles back in his paddock, Libby came into the kitchen carrying a gadget in one arm.

“What in the world is that?” I asked.

“It's a food scale!” She plunked it triumphantly on my kitchen table. “You can weigh everything you eat and calculate the calories, see?”

“I thought you weren't on a diet.”

“I'm not! It's for you! I've decided I'll be your diet coach! I think it could be a new career for me. I've been on every diet known to mankind, so I'm an expert. I'll take care of everything for you. Aren't you relieved?”

“That's not the first word that comes to mind.”

She took a large Macy's shopping bag from over her arm and put it on the table. “I brought the Atkins book, too, see? For quick results, you can't beat it. Weight Watchers is best for the long haul, but Atkins is it for fast weight loss.” From the paper bag, she pulled out a variety of books. Diet books, all with covers depicting slim women with big Stepford smiles.

“Libby—”

“And I've got my old Thighmaster in the car with a few other exercise enhancers. You'll love using it!”

“I—”

“And I brought breakfast, too! Two fresh bagels for Emma because she could use a few curves, and a lovely cup of fat-free yogurt for you, Nora. Of course, I've already had a grapefruit and a long walk this morning, so I don't need—”

“You met the photographer already, didn't you?”

“You mean Jean Claude?” Libby pinkened. “Nora, he's a genius! And so in tune with women's attitudes about their bodies! You're going to love him! And I—good Lord.” She stared at the foil pan in my hand. “Why are you having popcorn for breakfast?”

Caught, I said, “It's my lunch. I've been up for hours.”

While Libby consulted her watch, Emma came back inside. She rolled her eyes.

Tartly, I asked, “How are your knuckles this morning?”

She grinned, pleased with herself for decking Michael's companion. “Did you see her lights go out?”

“Yes. I assume you have a good lawyer in mind?”

“She was asking for it.” Em tossed her duffel on the table and then looked down. “Do you know you have a puddle on the floor?”

“Gee, I hadn't noticed.” Only a blind person would miss the lake that was creeping in all directions despite my attempts at repairs. “What's in the bag? More exercise equipment?”

“Nope. I decided to move out of my apartment.”

“How interesting.” I put down my breakfast and girded my loins for battle by tightening the belt of my robe. “And what does that have to do with your bag in my kitchen?”

“You need a roommate. My first paycheck doesn't kick in for another three weeks, so I'm moving in here.”

“Do I get a vote in this decision?” I asked.

Libby said, “What I want to know is what kind of business doesn't pay its employees for three weeks?”

Emma ignored her. “What's to decide? I need a place to live, and you need,” she said with a menacing pause, “some help around the house. This way I'll be closer to look after . . . Twinkles.”

I could see she was threatening to spill the beans to Libby.

Libby's decision to become my diet coach was a cakewalk compared with the ordeal she would launch when she learned I was pregnant. In a grumble, I said, “Keeping that animal off my porch would be a good start.”

“I'll do my best.”

Libby said, “If you move in here to save money, Em, you can quit that job, right?”

“Don't start,” Emma warned.

“Okay, that's it!” I threw caution to the wind. “Just what kind of job is this, anyway? Is it disgusting?”

“No,” said Emma. “I'm a hostess. I greet people at the door. I'm using my people skills.”

“A hostess?” I couldn't get my head around the mental picture. “At the Dungeon of Darkness? Why does a store that sells games need a hostess?”

“Games?” Libby laughed. “Nora, you innocent lamb, it's a
dungeon
! It has nothing to do with the troll and dragon games Rawlins used to play with his nerdy friends. It's a sex club!”

“It's not a sex club!” Emma exploded. “It's a safe environment for people who have common interests.”

“Wait, you mean—?”

“Domination is the common interest,” Libby said. “Women in leather, men in hoods.”

“There are no hoods!”

“I saw your costume, Emma. It's a leather bathing suit with pirate boots.”

“Oh, Em,” I said. “What's next, for heaven's sake?”

“Nobody touches me! The first person who does gets a broken arm, which I've made very clear. And since when,” she snapped, swinging on Libby, “did you start thinking like Queen Victoria?”

“I'm as open-minded as the next person, but there are limits!”

“Look,” Emma said to me, “I've got a heap of vet bills. Either I find a way to pay, or I have to sell Twinkles. But I can't sell a horse until he's fit again, can I? So I took the job, and I'll move in here for a few months. Everything will work out fine.”

“You can live here for free,” I said, “and quit that job immediately.”

“I've got to pay the vet.”

“Emma,” I began.

“You don't have a vote in this. Besides,” she continued with a malevolent gleam entering her eye, “you need somebody here to look after you.”

Libby took the bait.

“Why does Nora need looking after?” she demanded. “I'm the one who needs support while the Erotic Yoga Society is on hiatus. Besides, you don't want to be a third wheel, do you, Emma? Nora and her lover should be alone to explore the intimacies of their new relationship. Where is he, by the way?”

She paused in the act of unpacking one bagel, three cups of coffee, a tub of cream cheese and the smallest container of yogurt I had ever seen. Libby had come outfitted in a snug exercise ensemble—lavender stretch pants and a lavender zip warm-up sweater over nothing but a peep of pink bra that quivered with enough tension to launch a javelin. Her auburn hair was caught up in an artfully disheveled do complete with wispy bangs and curls at the crown of her head. Her makeup was perfect; her earrings were tasteful. As usual, she looked as if she'd just rolled out of bed after a luxurious bout of lovemaking.

“She means Richard.” Emma took one of the coffees and pried off the plastic lid.

“Is he upstairs?” Libby asked.

“No.”

“Why not? Are you having bedroom trouble already? Because I'm thinking if the whole diet coach idea doesn't work, I could become a sex therapist. It's my dream actually. Maybe I should work with the two of you. It could be like an internship for me.”

As Libby opened a plastic container of tomato-basil cream cheese, my stomach executed a quick barrel roll. Taking care not to draw attention to myself, I took up a position by the refrigerator—just a quick dash to the downstairs powder room if nausea struck. Emma noted my strategy with a smirk.

Fortunately, Libby didn't notice. She rooted around in a drawer to find a serrated knife and began to carefully slice a bagel. “Emma told me what happened last night, Nora. How exciting! She said you'd tell me everything else.”

“What happened to Zell wasn't exactly exciting.”

“I don't mean about Zell! I mean about Cupcakes! Was it very fun?”

“It was mostly gross, Libby. It's somebody cashing in by coercing young girls to act very foolishly because they don't know any better.”

“I've seen their television commercials. I love the little dances they do.” Libby gave a cowgirl shimmy. “And the pictures of cupcakes? With the single jelly bean on each one? So cute!”

“Two months ago you thought selling vibrators was cute,” I said. “Then the police arrested you.”

Libby stopped dancing and frowned. “If I had the money, I'd hire a lawyer to get my inventory back. I kept a few items for my personal collection—which is perfectly legal, by the way—but I wish I could get my hands on the Magic Wand again.”

“Libby!”

“What? I know I'm not allowed to sell them in public places. Although I don't understand why, except that most lawmakers are prudes.”

“Not all, I hope.” I sent Emma a meaningful glance.

“What does that mean?” Libby asked, on alert.

Despite the glare Emma sent me to keep my mouth shut, I said, “Boy Fitch made eyes at Em yesterday.”

“He did?”

“He did not!”

Libby stopped slathering cream cheese on the bagel. “I used to babysit him! Oh, he was such an adorable child!”

Emma slugged coffee. “You didn't touch him, did you, Lib? Because that's definitely illegal.”

“Of course I didn't touch him. He's at least five years younger than me. He was darling, though. Not very bright, but darling.”

“I wonder about that dim-bulb routine myself,” I murmured.

“He could be good for you, Emma. And it's time you had a normal relationship.”

“There isn't going to be a relationship,” Emma said. “The guy is dumb as dirt.”

“Maybe he has hidden depths,” Libby said. “All you have to do is give him a little sign, Em. Not your usual sign, of course. Don't grab his butt and drag him to the nearest Motel Six.”

“I have no intention of pursuing Boykin Fitch. He's not my type.”

Libby aimed the tip of her knife at Emma. “All men are your type. Especially those Dungeon ones, the submissive fellows who want to be ordered around.” She looked thoughtful. “Except they never like being ordered to fix the leaky toilet, do they? The woman who figures out how to make chores sexy is going to outearn Bill Gates.”

“Even Bill Gates has more sex appeal than Boy Fitch. Jeez, going to bed with him would be like hitting the sheets with—”

“It's not always about hitting the sheets!” I cried suddenly. “Is sex all anybody thinks about anymore? Whatever happened to having someone to challenge your mind? To understand you? To listen and make you feel loved and needed and appreciated? To do crossword puzzles with! Intimacy is what matters! Emotional and intellectual intimacy! Who cares about sex? It's meaningless!”

Emma and Libby blinked at me.

“Sermon over?” Emma asked.

“Is she talking about Richard?” Libby asked. “Are you saying he likes crossword puzzles more than sex? Because that's just not normal.”

“His conversation is always that egghead stuff,” Emma agreed. “Sometimes I think he's going to break out a pipe and start quoting Shakespeare.”

“I
like
Shakespeare!”

Libby looked concerned. “You're not sounding like yourself, Nora.”

“Yeah,” said Emma, evil grin starting again. “It's like your hormones are all messed up. Why don't you grab your fat-free yogurt and tell Libby the big news?”

Libby looked interested. “Big news?”

“Brace yourself,” Emma advised.

“What's going on?” Libby asked.

“Rat fink,” I said to Emma.

“Hey, you could have kept quiet about Boy.”

The bell at my front door chimed then. Perfect timing.

“An early visitor?” Emma asked. “Your crossword soul mate, maybe?”

“It's probably the plumber.” I checked the kitchen clock and wished I'd taken the time to get dressed. “I didn't expect him so soon.”

“He comes running because you're his best customer.” Emma headed out of the room. “I'll get the door. Don't tell Libby who the father is. Not until I get back, anyway.”