My Deja Vu Lover (29 page)

  
Tom slid his arm around me, turned me so our faces were close, narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

  
“I’m through with him.”

  
“Oh good, is this one of those rebound times? Revenge sex and all that?”

  
“I’d sock you,” I said pleasantly, “but I might cause another bruise. And then I would have to explain to your mother why I was beating up her darling boy.”

  
He grinned, leaned toward me, did a quick kiss that lasted just long enough for him to run his tongue across my lower lip. He said, “My parents love you.”

  
“Since when?” His mother and father were always nice to me, but loved me?

  
“Since I finished college and am still living at home, my parents love every woman I date.”

  
“Why is that?”

  
He pulled me close, nuzzled my ear. “Because they are developing split personalities. One half loves my company and the other half wishes I’d move out.”

  
“So why don’t you?”

  
“On my salary? Anyway, I don’t like to be alone.”

  
“You’re never alone. You’re always on our couch. With your tongue in my ear. Tommy, get your tongue out of my ear,” I said, sort of firmly.

  
From the kitchen we heard Cyd say clearly, “Really?
 
That’s a bummer. Maybe I can help you. Hang on.” Cyd appeared in the doorway, cell phone pressed to her ear, a large kitchen knife gripped in the other hand. Her neat gray sweater and wool slacks were protected by a white apron which was spotless, of course. She said, “April, what are you doing for the next week?’

  
I stared at the knife. “Anything you say.”

  
“What?”

  
“What’s the knife for? Chopping veggies, I hope, because I don’t do violence.”

  
She glanced at her upraised hand, the one holding the knife, looked slightly surprised to see it there, dropped her hand to her side. “No, we’re fine out here but Elinor’s on the line.”

  
Took me a few seconds and then I remembered meeting Elinor, Cyd’s friend who managed a sporting goods store in Ballard.

  
“With the late ski season this year, they’re swamped,” Cyd continued, “and she’s got two clerks out with flu. Would you like to work for her for a few days?”

  
Although I liked working retail, my experience was limited to anything wildly expensive that a woman could wear. “I don’t know anything about ski equipment.”

  
“Don’t need to. They sell clothing and mostly what you’ll do is find people their sizes and ring up sales.”

  
“I can do that,” I agreed.

  
Cyd held the phone against her chest to muffle the sound and said, “Give me an hourly wage. She’s desperate. She’ll pay what you ask.” Cyd knew I’d worked at some exclusive dress shops and earned high commissions.

  
I shook my head. “She’s a friend, right?
 
Whatever she usually pays is fine.”

  
“You’re sure?”

  
When I nodded, Cyd turned back into the kitchen to continue the conversation and check out whatever was bubbling on the stove. Tomatoes, onions, garlic, the aroma spread through the apartment. Very mellow making. I could be kind, thoughtful, maybe even make good decisions in that atmosphere.

  
To Tom I said, “I hope the shop really is busy because I need busy.” Anything to dull
 
the memory of today.

  
“So what did you do with your day?” he asked, reading my mind.

  
I glanced at the kitchen, decided Macbeth and Cyd were out of hearing range, then told him about meeting Graham’s wife.

  
“She’s a nice lady. I felt like crap.”

  
“Are you going to tell him you met his wife?”

  
That’s what I had been asking myself over and over, from the moment the Berkold front door closed and I walked to the bus stop until right now. “I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

  
“Kind of depends on whether you want to keep seeing him.”

  
“I guess so. I mean, I guess that’s what it depends on. And no, I don’t think I should see him any more. It’s time to decide, isn’t it?”

  
“You’re asking me how to handle your affair? Like I’d know? Okay, dump the bum. And then go tell Sandra you’re going to marry me, so she should back off.”

  
Sandra was still leaving messages on his machine.

  
I giggled. “The hotel clerk kept referring to you as my hubby.”

  
He hugged me, pulling me close until my head pressed again the side of his chest. “Call me anything you like. Just don’t overload my answering machine.”
  

  
“Sounds like a temporary solution,” I agreed.

  
“I’ve got my life all figured out now. I’m going to take up skiing. Then every winter I can pull a tendon and spend the next couple months getting waited on by everyone.”

  
From the doorway, Macbeth said, “Supper’s ready. Need a hand, Tom?”

  
Tom winked at me. “See what I mean?”

CHAPTER 32

  
The bus connection to Ballard was a bit longer than to downtown. The buses were much less crowded. So that balanced out.

  
I liked the Ballard district, in the northwest corner of the city, its main street a few blocks north of the canal.
 
The canal and locks fed into Lake Union and then Lake Washington, and were built to provide access from the Sound for boats but also the canal was adored by sea lions following migrating salmon.

  
Once upon a time Ballard was the Scandinavian neighborhood of Seattle and to old timers it still was, but the wonderful Swedish bakeries were gone and blocks of old houses torn down to make room for enormous condo complexes.

  
What had once been a family neighborhood was now home to professional couples who ate out at expensive restaurants. Small shops of inexpensive house wares and clothing had been replaced by stores featuring interior decorator needs, high end furnishings and accessories.

  
Elinor’s ski shop featured very pricey stuff, hand knit sweaters that were not made in China, were honestly made in Norway, and boasted five hundred dollar price tags. They were displayed in the wide front window along with boots and skis and poles and a lot of stuff I couldn’t identify.
 

  
I liked Elinor, had met her a couple of times. She was neat, compact, oh okay, she was flat as a board, and had carefully styled hair. A Cyd type, she ran a tight ship, knew her inventory and knew her customers. Her speech was a bit on the clipped side, none of the smarmy that we spread on the ladies at my last job. Smarm would have been fun. Her customers veered more toward rich males.

  
As she had requested, I arrived a half hour before opening. While straightening displays, she gave me a guided tour and explained the computerized register. And then she looked at me, dressed in a silk shirt and neat slacks at Cyd’s suggestion, and said, “Pick any sweater you like and wear it.”

  
“You want me to wear the merchandise?” If I had done that at the dress shop, the owner’s screeches would have loosened the fixtures.

  
“You bet. If you don’t mind. Here, try this one.” She handed me a butter soft cashmere. “Scotland’s best. I go over once a year to a little factory outside Glasgow and pick colors and sketch out styles I want. They do all their own work. No one else in Washington state carries their stuff.”

  
Oh yes. I could fall in love with those sweaters if I didn’t have to look at the price tag.

  
“I might get a spot on it or something.” I stroked it, still not sure I understood her correctly.

  
“Don’t worry about that,” she said and watched as I put it on.

  
And then the men started coming in. Pairs and singles. They drifted through the equipment area, running their hands over skies with a touch so gentle I wondered if they fondled their lovers with such care. The pairs flowed around me, always courteous, but it was the singles who did the straight shot, sort of hung back until I was free.

  
Not much break between customers, and with the shop so busy, I understood why Elinor was desperate for help, even unathletic help.

  
The unathletic became apparent with the first question.

  
“Where are the bindings?” this big hunky type asked and I stood wide eyed with closed mouth and thought up a whole lot of possibilities. Almost asked what he wanted to bind.

  
Very carefully, I leaned toward him, put on my most innocent expression, and asked, “Could you define bindings?”

  
After he stopped laughing, he explained in long complicated terms what bindings were, how they worked, which brands were best, and from there I got a verbal tour of his favorite ski runs.

  
“You’d love Whistler,” he said. “Have you got an updated passport?”

  
“Um, no, do I need one?”

  
“To cross the Canadian border. Never mind, there’s some good lodges here. A couple of great ones in Oregon. Or maybe you’d like to try Montana?”

  
Leaning close to him, I whispered, “Are you hitting on me?”

  
“Love to. But I bet you’re married. The beautiful women always are.”

  
“What about you?” I asked because he could definitely be described as beautiful.

  
“Oh yeah, there’s that.”

  
I laughed and sold him the most expensive windbreaker on the rack, something suede with deerskin trim, I guess, though I didn’t bother checking. All I checked was the price, yup, top price, and told him it was the finest available and he deserved it. He did, too, and Elinor deserved the sale.

  
Fortunately the next guy, also hunky, asked a question I could answer. “Is your sweater from here?”

  
“Scottish cashmere.” I was back on my own turf. “Double knit.”
 
I held out my arm and after a slight hesitation, he stroked the sleeve. “Nice, huh? Their dyes are amazing, hold up through hand washing, and don’t you love the fabric weight?”

  
He nodded, asked the price, nodded when I told him, and said, “My wife’s about your size, I think. Could you pick me out a color for her?
 
What color do you like?”

  
“Tell me two things,” I said, because I’d sold everything from coats to lingerie for wives and had few returns for any reason other than size. Men always think their wives are a size or two smaller than they actually are.

  
He nodded, and I said, “What color is her hair and what color are your bathroom towels?”

  
By the end of the day I had sold eleven cashmere sweaters, gift-wrapped, and Elinor was ecstatic. “That’s more than I’ve moved all week.”
 
She sighed and added, “Nobody looks at me and hopes the sweater I’m wearing will make his wife look like me.”