Hysterical Blondeness (16 page)

He scribbled one word: “sex.”

Patricia read the notepad. Then she smiled and shook her head. “So sorry, but no sex for
you, your ribs wouldn’t set properly. You’re supposed to hold still.” She pointed to his well-placed pillows. “No moving around.”

As if she’d let their first time be with him in a cast with his body taped and wired together. She had a different idea of that, and it involved a hotel in the Bahamas on a honeymoon. She hadn’t held out this long for no reason.

Brett grinned and shrugged. He motioned for the pad.

“I’ll take a rain check,” he wrote, then held it where she could see.

Gee, that was decent of him. “Thanks.” She smiled.

His awkward request gave her some boldness. “Have you’ve heard whether Lizbeth and Eric have set a date for the wedding yet?”

Brett flopped back against his pillows slightly and a pain crossed his face. She couldn’t tell if it was his ribs or his distress about his brother getting Lizbeth on the rebound. He nodded his head yes.

The rebound.
That phrase sort of echoed in her head.

“They seem well suited to each other, Brett, and I’m sure things will smooth out between all
of you eventually. After all, she’s going to be in the family now.”

She didn’t say in the family
way
now. A little smile crossed Patricia’s lips. It didn’t seem as if Brett knew about that whole pregnancy part of the deal. But she wasn’t too sure. She
was
sure that Lizbeth and Brett were just not right for each other. Because she would take such better care of Brett than Lizbeth would have. You can’t have two spoiled needy people marry each other. One of them has to be a giver if one is a taker.

Once she and Brett were married she’d teach him what a joy it was to give to someone else. He’d just never been taught properly.

Brett looked like he was in some mild sort of agony.

“Do you need your medication, Brett?” she asked. She pressed her hand on his forehead.

He pulled her over to him so she lay on the sofa beside him. It was a wide sofa, and, her being less wide these days, she didn’t feel like she was going to fall off the edge.

“Ill ooo airy ee?” he squeezed syllables through his tightly wired-together teeth.

Patricia had her arm delicately around the front of his waist a bit lower than the offending
cracked rib. She looked up at him and stared into his painfully blue eyes.

“Did you just ask me to marry you, Brett? Because that’s sort of what it sounded like. Either that or you’re ill and need air,” she joked.

“Yeth,” he managed to say.

She could go on with it, asking him—
Yes, you’re ill, or yes, you’re asking me?
but she couldn’t stand it anymore. She snuggled up close to him. As close as she could without hurting him. His broken leg was against the sofa back, so she had his good side to her.

“Yes, I will marry you, Brett,” she sighed. This was her moment. Her dream come true. Her sun-rises-over-the-mountain glowing victory moment. She lay there next to him and reveled in every little sensation.

He held her with his good arm and she kissed him on the cheek. He heaved a great rattling sigh under her ear, which she felt shudder through his entire body. There was probably no physical pain that could top a dedicated playboy bachelor surrendering to marriage.

She’d just have to keep him alive long enough to get him down the aisle. Well, she meant longer than that, of course.

More like for a lifetime of happiness with him and the family—sort of a Kennedy clan thing, with Brett playing football on the expansive lawn of the estate with his three towheaded children, or should they have four?

“Would you like three children or four?” she asked.

He laughed a short laugh. That obviously hurt, which made his eyes water, so he was laughing with tears streaming down his cheeks into the pillows.

“Okay, four it is. Two girls, two boys.”

Brett looked more like he was crying at this point. A great groan came out of him.

Patricia decided to get the nurse and give him his nine o’clock dose of Vicodin early.

Paul heaved his heavy suitcase up on his bedroom chair and zipped it open. The girls were going to love their spring handbag samples, most particularly two slightly flawed Birken bags he’d scored from his pal at the Hermes showroom. All those years of buying the snotty French sales rep dinner in New York after the show closed finally paid off.

Paul took the new handbags—the two Birkens,
two wild-looking Spencer & Rutherford leather, silk and canvas bags, then four of the less expensive jelly bags in great spring colors by Helen Welsh—and sat them in a row on his bed.

He couldn’t decide whether the dove gray suited Patricia or Pinky better and which one would like the red Birken bag. Oh well, it didn’t matter. Usually, the girls happily shared anyway.

The house was so quiet without either of them. He’d limo’d home from the airport and come home to a dark and quiet place.

Asta, of course, was all over him. He purred and tried to climb into the suitcase. Paul removed him twice.

Pinky must be out with Dr. Bender. But who knew where Patricia was? He didn’t want to think about it. All her wandering ways would end soon when she saw his grandmother’s ring and heard his proposal.

He imagined slipping it on her finger. She might be so surprised she’d faint. He better propose sitting on the sofa of many colors just in case.

Paul thought about the kiss they’d shared on the balcony. That split second of her surrender
had been so exciting, so full of their continued passion. So reminiscent of their night together. That was a night neither of them would ever forget, as much as they’d tried to pretend it didn’t happen.

He couldn’t wait to take her in his arms tonight and erase all thoughts of Brett from her pretty blonde head.

I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I’ll weep.

Shakespeare

Pinky never pictured herself as a
prude, but she was really enjoying this long, lingering pre-sex dance she and James Bender were doing. In her entire life she’d never driven a man so crazy. He’d kissed her goodnight madly and passionately at the front door and then she’d demurely slipped away from him, knowing he was enjoying this just as much as she was and that he’d be calling her on the phone the minute he got back to his house.

Not that she’d ever been considered shy. She
wasn’t exactly a virgin after her college days, but this was just delicious. She’d never been a girl men pursued much. Most of her boyfriends had been like Morris Klein, a man with similar passions. They’d met at a Sierra Club meeting and Morris had won her virginity along with the environmental prize for best mass transit concept.

Pinky hung up her brown plaid wool jacket and threw her gloves in the wicker basket in the closet. She walked toward her downstairs bedroom thinking about Dr. Jimmy.

She was surprised to hear the sound of the shower in Paul’s bathroom. Paul was back!

It was always Christmas when Paul came home. She could hardly stand the suspense. She couldn’t. She opened his door a crack and heard him singing gospel music in the shower, his deep bass voice booming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

She felt like a kid peeking at her presents before Santa got them under the tree.

On his bed sat a virtual rainbow of new handbags. She squealed, then pressed her fist over her mouth to quiet herself. The scarlet Birken bag was to
die for
. And the silky fabric bags
looked like art. She was a sucker for textiles. She sneaked over quietly and picked up the pink floral back, snapping it open to see the lining. Inside rested a little white satin box. Did this come with the bag?

She set down the bag and opened the little box. Inside was a beautiful art-deco-style diamond ring. Pinky took in a quick gasping breath and shut the box with a snap. She hurried to replace it back into the purse, then got herself out of the room fast.

Holy Saint Patrick, was Paul going to propose to that Dani woman on the rebound? Not the Oreo-teeth girl. It couldn’t be. With the way he felt about Patricia? No, it had to be Patricia.

She steadied herself against the olive green stenciled arts and crafts designs of their hallway. Pinky got a really, really bad feeling in the depths of her Irish soul.

Paul didn’t know about Lizbeth and Eric yet, and Pinky was seriously worried about the potential boomerang results the whole fiasco might have regarding Brett and Patricia’s relationship.

Although, from what she’d seen of Brett, he’d rather die than marry at his tender age of twenty-nine. Unless he thought he could one-up
his brother. Her Dr. James called it a classic case of unresolved sibling rivalry.

Oh, man alive. Pinky went into her own room. Asta followed her, and when she flopped backward on the bed, Asta jumped up to purr all over her and snuggle in a neat pile of fur next to Pinky’s waist. Maybe it was time to tell Patricia what an idiot she was letting a man like Paul slip away.

It was strange how perfect they were for each other. Memories came like snapshots to Pinky—like the Scrabble tournament when she finally called “uncle” and went for more popcorn in the kitchen while those two went head to head and started using obscure words she’d never heard of.

They were hilariously funny, and she remembered just sitting by the kitchen counter watching them slap little letters on the board like maniacs. Or last Christmas when Paul had struggled to get the tree into the stand while Patricia was holding it up and Patricia’d had some fleeting thought and had run for an ornament or their stockings or something and the damn tree had fallen over on him. Instead of being mad he’d laughed at her when she came
back in the room and realized the error of her ways.

Pinky remembered the stockings they’d hung by the chimney with care, how they’d done all those rituals they’d all loved as kids, and how everyone had pretended to be Santa and stuffed the stockings full of really stupidly cute things—windup toys and miniature plastic animals.

Paul had set up a train around the tree just for fun, and they’d sat on the sofa in their pajamas drinking hot buttered rum in the dark, watching the lights twinkle, snuggling like kids.

She and Patricia had curled up on either side of Paul in his fuzzy polar fleece robe and moose slippers. How come neither one of them—neither Paul nor Patricia—could feel the love growing between them?

Probably because they were such creatures of habit and didn’t want to change the great feelings they had together. Romance would have messed it all up.

But now it needed messing up—in the worst way. And she’d just have to be the person to start the mess rolling.

The screams of Patricia coming in the door shook Pinky out of her thoughts. Little screams.
Eek Eek Eek. Not screams of seeing some dead mouse Asta had left for them, but odd rapid-fire screams.

Pinky jumped off the bed and ran to see what the hell was going on.

“What in the name of heaven are you screaming like that for?” Pinky asked.

“Look at you in your cute brown skirt and browner sweater and that great scarf, you look so autumn,” Patricia said with excitement, which was strange.

“You haven’t been drinking, have you? Because I will kill you myself if you have been drinking and driving. I will take the car keys away from you forever and you’ll be grounded, do you hear me, young lady?” Pinky stood with her hands on her hips.

“Oh, Pinks, you are so funny. Look at you. You’re going to make such a great mother. I’m so glad you found Dr. James to play with before you hit the big three-oh. You know we don’t have our looks for long, so it’s a brief window of opportunity.”

“You
sound
like you’ve been drinking,” she said suspiciously.

“Not a drop. You know me better than that.
I would never do such a thing. I’m just deliriously giddy, my dear. Tomorrow at lunch we are going to put money down on your loco cocoa mocha dress and you are going to put brown velvet ribbons in your brown hair and we are going to have a Thanksgiving wedding.

“Funny how the colors will be great for a brunette. I would have much preferred a summer color scheme, what with my new look and all, but we can put vine maple in the flowers and use all sorts of candles and
oh my God
wait, look, look at this!” She held out her hand and, honestly, Pinky thought she had a miniature light rigged up to a battery for Halloween or something. A beam of light from the kitchen hit whatever was on her hand and made it glint. But it wasn’t a trick, it was a big fat diamond engagement ring.

“It was his mother’s. She gave it to him to give to me
tonight
. Brett asked me to marry him and she must have been passing in the hallway while I yammered about dates and all that and she was so thrilled she gave me this ring.

“You said yes to Brett?”

“You are looking at the future Mrs. Brett Nordquist.”

Pinky heard the smallest sound behind her
and turned just in time to see Paul standing in the hallway in nothing but his drawstring pajama bottoms.

She just wished she could cram a sock in Patricia’s mouth.

“Paul, Paul, I’m engaged!”

Paul did not answer. Paul didn’t say one word. He just stepped back into his room. The door shut hard behind him and echoed in the empty hall.

Now what was she going to do, tell Patricia that Paul was going to ask her to marry him? She wasn’t actually dead certain about that, and it could be a disaster if it weren’t true, but judging from his reaction, it probably was. Maybe the vintage deco ring was for some other purpose.

As if.

“Well, look at you. All your dreams are coming true. And so soon, too. Thanksgiving? Remember I was going to fly home to see my parents?”

“We’ll buy you a new ticket to go for Christmas. Won’t you change it to be in my wedding? Please?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You have to. You
are
my best friend. I can’t get married without you.”

Pinky thought that might be a great idea. She’d just run away to New Jersey for a year or so and stop Patricia from getting married by being permanently out of town.

“Why is Paul is upset?” Patricia asked.

Pinky just stared at her, unable to believe Patricia could be so blind. Blonde and blind.

“He can’t be. I need him to be there and give me his support and love, just like I need you. You two are my family.” Patricia finally moved from her spot of announcement to the sofa and sat down next to Asta, who had followed Pinky out to see what was happening.

She stroked the cat’s striped fur and scratched him under his chin on his white ruff. “You still love me, don’t you, cat of many colors?” She sniffed like she was going to cry and her lower lip quivered.

Pinky sat down next to her and pulled tissues out of her skirt pocket. “Why do you want to get married so fast? You and Lizbeth don’t have anything more in common than a Nordquist brother fettish, do you?”

“Not hardly. I’ve held Brett back with a bulldozer as far as sex goes. Of course, it made it easier after he dropped off the balcony and busted himself up.”

Patricia hadn’t exactly worked herself up into a full crying jag, so Pinky put the tissues back in her pocket.

“Pinky, Pinky, look at it.” Patricia held her hand up to the light again. “As a newly educated fine jewelry ho, I can tell you it is a beauty of a ring; four whole carats and a very high clarity rating. Not to mention the sentimental value to the Nordquist family. Mrs. N said something about me taking Brett off her hands and I deserved it. Wasn’t that funny?” Patricia laughed

Pinky contemplated whether to slap her friend right now or just let her enjoy the moment of victory she thought she’d won. The prize, of course, being Brett. And a big fat diamond ring to go with him.

“Lizbeth was right.”

“What was Lizbeth right about?” Pinky asked.

“This was my window of opportunity.” Patricia stopped gazing at the huge round diamond on her finger and looked right at Pinky. “You know, Brett just needs a good woman to make
him settle down. That tumble off the balcony must have made him rethink his life.”

“Patricia, look at me.” Pinky turned her friend by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Brett only asked you to marry him because he’s on the rebound from Lizbeth, and because he wants to get even with his brother and steal the show. He wants to be even more outrageous, which is what he likes to do. Do you really want to marry him knowing all that?”

Patricia took a deep breath and looked like she was actually thinking about everything Pinky had just said. She gazed down at her ring. That wasn’t a good sign. Maybe she should just shake her till her teeth rattled or lock her in the attic like in
Jane Eyre
.

“I know this all seems crazy, Pinky, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve gone from a drab nobody to Brett Nordquist’s fiancée in one month. How can I just walk away from all that? I’ve been given a total life makeover. And I would be good for Brett. I’m a steady, sensible girl underneath all this blonde hair.”

“But will
Brett
be good for
you
?”

“I’ll make it work.”

Pinky flopped back on the sofa and groaned.
She just couldn’t find the key to Patricia’s sense. Shit, how a woman’s fantasy can take on a life of its own. Patricia had always seen the best in everyone—way more than herself. But Pinky’s East Coast upbringing had helped form a natural skepticism. Patricia was a cock-eyed optimist from the happy land of Seattle.

Maybe, just maybe, Patricia would somehow wake up before she actually went through with it. Maybe she was talking to the wrong person. Paul might be the only one who could bring Patricia back to earth.

“Okay, I have nothing more to offer, Patricia, but I want you to think hard about all this. You are a terrific woman and frankly you deserve better.”

“Better than what Brett can offer me? I’ll be Mrs. Society Matron. I’ll be Myrna Loy.”

“Myrna Loy was a brunette,” Pinky said sharply. She got up and headed for her room. “And so was Jacqueline Kennedy.” It made no sense, but she was too tired to think anymore. She just wanted her flannel pajamas and a glass of port. If she was going to be the bridesmaid from hell, she might as well start drinking early.

Paul heard a knock at his door. He considered ignoring it and pretending he was asleep. He’d been pacing the room and probably they’d heard that. “Who is it?”

“Pinky.”

“Come in.”

She came through the door with two glasses of port in her hand. “I want to talk to you.”

“Have a seat.” He motioned to the bed. Then he saw all the handbags and just swept them off onto the floor with a big angry sweep of his arm. They clunked like dull shoes on his bedside carpet.

“Those are beautiful, Paul, thank you.” Pinky didn’t comment on his actions. She just flopped herself on one side of his bed. “Come sit next to me.” She patted the bed.

For some reason he just did what she said. He couldn’t think straight anyhow. He grabbed a clean T-shirt to cover his bare chest, pulled it on, and threw himself on the bed next to Pinky. She handed him the glass of port and he took a stiff swig.

“I know, Paul. I saw the ring. I was being Suzy Snoopy while you were in the shower, and I opened the purse with the ring box in it.”

Paul stared at her hard with an angry-but-not-angry-with-
her
-exactly look.

“I assumed it was for Patricia, not Dani, or your Aunt Fanny or anything but what I think it was for, right?”

“You guessed it, snoopy.” He slammed his head against the headboard and swigged down the rest of his port. Now he had a headache, too.

“God, I’m so sorry, Paul. I swear that drug didn’t just change her hair, it gave her hysterical blondeness, you know? She’s gone completely bonkers. Brett is about as right for her as Gene Tierney was right for Cornel Wilde in
Leave Her to Heaven
.

“Don’t do film references right now, Pinky. I’m too upset. I’m more than just upset. I’m crazy. I’m just as bad as she is. What was I thinking, waiting all this time? I can’t believe the irony of it all. Here I finally figure out I love her, and she’s gotten herself engaged to Brett the Barbarian.” That’s as much as Paul could bring himself to say. He was completely disgusted with everything he knew and loved, or didn’t love and hardly knew, at the moment.