Smart vs. Pretty (15 page)

“Why?”

She wasn’t sure. She’d felt an attack—that was the word for it—of disgust only a few minutes earlier, and now she couldn’t seem to remember what had turned her off.

“You probably think I’m arrogant and vain,” he said. “Frivolous, too. Right?”

She nodded. Yes, that was it.

Walter mirrored her nod. “But despite all that, you’re still attracted to me.” He put his hand on her shoulder. The contact sent blood gushing to her cheeks. He asked, “So are your doubts and fears really about me, or about you?”

Usually defensive, Frank felt herself reacting to his question, ready to reject it out of hand. But she stopped herself. She didn’t know if it was because of the dress, her hair, the stress of the last week, the last year. It could be Amanda’s influence to be more open, less aggressive. Frank found herself thinking first before putting up her dukes. She allowed for the possibility that Walter was on to something.

After a minute, Frank said, “I think I scared myself.” When Walter hadn’t recognized her, Frank’s stab of insecurity had been breathtaking. What had come bubbling up from the wound was a flash of déjà vu: she’d been walloped by Eric when he’d swiftly dismissed her and their three-year relationship. That morning Eric had looked at Frank as if he’d never seen her before, too.

Walter’s hand rested on her shoulder. The contact felt painful: a part of her had been asleep for so long and, as if on pins and needles, her passion hurt waking up.

She looked at him, his sideburns and pug nose, and said, “Would you like to get some dinner?”

Walter said, “You bet,” and put on his wool overcoat. Frank put on her puffy down coat and together they walked outside, ignoring Amanda and Clarissa as they watched from the cookie display. Frank knew she’d have a mess to clean up later, having insulted both women. But she pushed her guilt aside. Walter suggested the Heights Cafe for dinner. Frank agreed. She took hold of his arm. He patted her hand reassuringly, like the suitor of a Victorian virgin. What had Amanda told her a while back? If you didn’t have sex for an entire year, you were, theoretically, a virgin again.

As they walked past the Bossert Hotel, the national headquarters of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Frank tugged on Walter’s coat sleeve. He looked down the six inches of space separating the tip of his nose and the tip of hers. With bravery unparalleled, Frank said, “I’d like to make out.”

Walter surrendered the six inches of air between them in a flash, brushing his lips against Frank’s with cool softness. Then he cupped her cranium with his hands and fed off her lips and mouth as if he were a starving island castaway. Frank’s legs turned to string and Walter gripped her around the waist to steady her. He pulled her hair out of the twist and fanned it over the puffy shoulder of her coat. He said, “There’s the girl I want.” Moisture collected in Frank’s panties. A pack of Jehovah’s came out of the hotel and said in unison, “Get a room.”

With superhuman strength, Frank detached her lips from Walter’s. His eyes were glowing. She said, “To be continued.” He smiled. They linked arms and walked on.

As soon as they crossed the threshold into the Heights Cafe, Frank felt colder than she had outside. The waiters and waitresses didn’t return her smile. Walter led Frank to the reservation stand. Todd Phearson was standing as tall as he could. Frank nodded politely at him. She said, “Hello, Todd. Business is good.”

“Francesca,” he said with frost on his tongue. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any tables.” He seemed irritated.

“There are two empty tables right there,” Walter said, pointing.

Todd shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. Why don’t you try coming back in a few hours? I might have something then.”

“Like a conscience?” Frank asked.

Todd said, “Francesca, don’t start.”

“Like you might have a conscience when we get back? How many years have I known you? You cried at my parents’ funeral. And now that Amanda and I are having some trouble, you won’t give me the worst table in the house?”

“This isn’t the time,” he hissed, eyeing the backup of people behind them. He leaned close to Frank. “Blame your sister for dragging my restaurant into her sordid life.”

“You selfish, tiny prick,” Frank said loudly. “I demand a table, and I also demand a complimentary dinner and bottle of champagne.”

She could have demanded the moon. Two burly waiters threw them out. Walter was handsome and sexy, but he wasn’t brawny. It must have been embarrassing for him to be manhandled like that in front of his date. Feeling responsible, Frank said, “Let’s go up to my place. I’ll make you some linguine.”

He said, “With meat sauce?”

“And garlic bread.”

Hand in hand, they strolled back to her apartment. They made a game of sneaking past the Romancing the Bean storefront window so Amanda and Clarissa wouldn’t see them. Once upstairs, they went to the kitchen. Walter sat down at the table and watched Frank take out a large pot to fill with water.

“You and your sister live here alone?” he asked.

Frank put a bottle of red wine on the table and handed him a corkscrew and a glass. “We inherited the place from my parents. They died almost a year ago.”

He said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, it was pretty awful.”

“Did they die in an accident?” Walter asked.

Frank nodded. Most people assumed that if two relatively young people (they were in their late fifties) died together, it was in a car wreck. She said, “A train wreck of sorts.” She watched him pour wine slowly and carefully into his glass. Walter put it to his lips. He didn’t swish the wine in the glass to check the balance. He didn’t sniff the vintage or gargle the wine in his mouth. He just drank. After a swallow, he smiled and took another sip. This was a nonpretentious, honest man, Frank thought. She hardly ever talked about her parents, but he could be trusted.

“They died right here,” she said. “In this room. They’d put on a pot of water to boil, just like this one—I think it was this one—but the pilot light didn’t ignite. They got distracted somehow—Amanda thinks they had sex—and forgot to check the pot. I don’t really understand how anyone could put on a pot of water and forget about it. I was supposed to come over for dinner that night—a Friday. I canceled out of tiredness. Not even a good excuse. But I promised to come the next night to make up for it. That’s when I found them sitting together in these chairs, tax forms and receipts piled on the table between them. It looked like a normal family scene, except for the overwhelming smell of gas and the way their heads hung. They’d been dead for a day by then. If I hadn’t canceled the night before, I’d have saved them. No, no. Don’t start. It’s a fact. I’m to blame. I’ve had a year to get used to it.”

Walter got up from his chair. He took Frank in his arms and said, “I’m so sorry, Francesca.” Her name sounded sad and soulful when he said it. She hugged him back, and let herself fade into his body. He started kissing her. They progressed to the bedroom before Frank had a chance to turn on the stove.

And then it was over.

Before it was over, the couple toppled onto Frank’s bed. Still fully dressed, they groped and ground. Frank shocked herself by acting like an animal. He rolled off her and said, “Strip.”

Frank nearly died of self-consciousness. “I can’t.”

“I want you to.” Could he be a control freak? “But if you don’t feel comfortable, forget it.”

She was no expert, but taking the dress off first would be a mistake. He’d see the stretched elastic waistband of her tights—a sight no man should see. Frank sat on the edge of the bed and peeled off her stockings, showing her skinny legs as much as possible in that awkward position. Thank God she was shaved and was wearing nice underwear—an ordinary cotton bikini, but pink. Impressed with her own confidence, she stood up, faced Walter, and lifted the hem of her dress. Her arms got caught a bit as she pulled the frock over her head. While she was blinded by her dress, Walter reached out and clasped her waist with his long fingers. He drew her toward him—the shift still tangled in Frank’s elbows—and started kissing and licking her belly.

Frank freed herself and flung the dress across the room. Goose bumps covered her body. She let Walter pull her down on top of him. His belt buckle dug into her hip.

Frank said, “Ouch.”

Walter breathed an apology and squirmed out of his clothes. His back and chest were covered in light, fine hair. Frank liked that. He wore boxers. They kissed in their skivvies for what seemed like hours, finally removing those last garments when they reached a point of keen frustration. Frank buried her nose in his chest, inhaling his flavor, his smell, his skin. For the first time in her sexual life, she’d become a tiny woodland animal, driven by hunger, searching for a warm place to rest.

They did it, like, five times. As her new sexual self, the Squirrel, Frank worked through her storage of orgasms for the winter. Afterward, she slept a hard sleep.

A
manda heard the knocking, but pretended she didn’t. Who could possibly be banging on their door at 6:00
A.M
.? Matt would answer. He was sleeping on the living room couch, ten feet from the front door.

The banging didn’t stop, so Amanda got out of bed, slipped her feet into fuzzy slippers, and dragged herself down the hallway. Matt was sitting up on the couch, examining his nails.

“You can’t open the door?” Amanda asked testily.

“I’m just a guest,” he said.

“You’re an employee,” she snapped. “Oh, God. I’m sorry I said that.” It happened again, she thought. How could she let stinging comments fly from her mouth like bees?

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I like this side of you.”

“What side is that?” she asked, reaching for the doorknob.

“The one with an edge,” said Matt.

Amanda didn’t like the implication: In her normal state, she was soft and shapeless? She pulled open the front door.

Clarissa stood on the other side, clutching a copy of the
New York Post
. She looked divine as always in a chocolate brown twin set, black jeans, stiletto heels, and a fur-lined overcoat. Amanda searched her face for signs that she’d forgiven Frank. Amanda had spent a good part of the night before soothing Clarissa’s prickly feelings. When Frank had mentioned Clarissa’s “plastic life,” she’d been right on target.

“Your life isn’t plastic,” Amanda told Clarissa after Frank and Walter had left the night before.

“She thinks I’m a Barbie doll,” said Clarissa.

“No, she doesn’t. She really wants to be your friend.”

“She doesn’t want to be
my
friend. She wants any friend. Just because she’s had more problems in her life doesn’t mean her feelings count more than mine. How could she say I don’t care about Romancing the Bean? I care. I care a lot. I care about a lot of things, profoundly.”

Amanda said, “I think you care.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Clarissa. “Because I do. And even if I didn’t, does that make me a bad person? I’m doing a job here. For you and for me. The last thing I need is to be insulted by Francesca, who I could insult right back.”

“I’m sure you could.” Amanda didn’t like where the conversation was going.

“Her fashion sense is absolutely nowhere.”

“Clarissa…”

“And she’s pathetic with men. She can barely talk to them. She can barely talk to women. She’s just plain strange. And paranoid. And she’s not as smart as she thinks she is.”

Amanda didn’t want to hear this. She said, “You know, Clarissa, Frank doesn’t have a lot of control over her emotions. She fights to suppress them but she can’t, and when they erupt, everyone nearby gets splattered. If you could try to understand her for a minute, I’m sure you’d be able to forgive her and forget everything she said.”

The blond woman looked at Amanda, her lips pursed slightly. Then she smiled, as if she’d made a decision. “You’re really so nice, Amanda. Sticking up for your sister, trying to make me feel better. I’m glad we met. It’s nearly impossible to start up a new, close friendship with someone as an adult, don’t you think?”

“Completely,” said Amanda. Especially if your new best friend is someone you’ve known for your entire life, thought the younger sister.

“Amanda? Hello? Anyone in there?” asked Matt from his perch on the couch.

Amanda looked up to see that she’d been holding the door open to Clarissa without inviting her in or making room for her to enter. She said, “I must have drifted back to sleep. Come in.”

Clarissa stepped inside and Amanda gestured for her to sit down on the couch. Clarissa looked at the spot next to Matt and remained standing. Amanda said, “Can I take your coat?”

“Look at this.” Clarissa handed Amanda her copy of the
Post
. Under a not-so-flattering photo of Frank read the headline:
BORGIA SISTER BLAMES HERSELF FOR PARENTS’ DEATHS
.

Amanda felt her stomach flip. “No,” she whispered.

Clarissa quickly said, “I had nothing to do with placing this story.”

“Who’s to blame for it isn’t my main concern,” said Amanda. When Frank saw this she’d freak. The invasion was full-scale. This wasn’t a questionable publicity stunt. This was cruel.

“I don’t think it’s worse than the
Post
alleging you killed Chick,” said Clarissa.

Amanda felt tears spring to her eyes. “It’s much, much worse, Clarissa,” she said. Frank had told Amanda once, the day of the funeral, that if she’d come home earlier she might have been able to save their parents. The police didn’t agree, but Frank refused to believe them. Frank hadn’t said anything to Amanda—or anyone, as far as she knew—about her misplaced guilt since that day.

Clarissa took a deep breath (in), and said, “There’s something else, Amanda. Piper Zorn didn’t write this one.”

“Then who did?” Amanda asked, flipping the pages to find the story. “Walter!” She gasped. The byline in ten-point type:
Walter Robbins.

The floorboards in the hallway creaked. Frank walked into the living room, sleepy and content, rubbing her eyes like a child. “What about Walter?” she asked. “Good morning, by the way.” Frank smiled nervously at Clarissa. Amanda tried to hide the paper by sitting on it, but Frank caught a glimpse of the headline.

“What have the Borgia sisters done this time?” she asked, gesturing to Amanda to surrender the paper. The younger sister hesitated.

“Give it to her,” said Matt.

Amanda passed the inky tabloid to Frank. Matt, Clarissa, and Amanda watched in silence as she read the pages in stony silence. Frank’s eyes read down the length of one column and back to the top of the next. She showed nothing as she read, not even a flinch. Finally Frank said, “Excuse me.” Then she went back into her bedroom and quietly closed the door.

Amanda stage-whispered to Matt and Clarissa, “She took it worse than I thought she would.”

Clarissa sat on the edge of the coffee table. “How could you tell?” she asked.

“How could you not?” asked Matt. “That wasn’t a normal reaction. She’s crossed into no-man’s land.”

Amanda kicked Matt’s legs off the edge of the coffee table. “Don’t say that!” she demanded, frightened that he was right.

Clarissa said, “I can’t believe this has gotten so out of control.”

“Are you sorry?” asked Amanda.

“Of course I’m sorry,” said Clarissa. “I’m not a monster. If I had an idea that Walter would write something so personal, I never would have agreed to this.”

Amanda couldn’t have heard right. “Agreed to what?”

“Everyone’s guilty of something,” said Matt.

“I need coffee,” said Amanda. “Matt, would you mind? There’s a Venezuelan blend in the freezer. Use the French press.” It wasn’t that she wanted Matt out of the room, but Amanda knew something was coming—something big—between Clarissa and herself. Matt’s little comments wouldn’t help.

Once Matt had left the living room, Amanda said, “Tell me again, Clarissa. How do you know Walter?”

The blonde tried to hold it together, but then she lost her poise, slumping over and staring at her ankle boots. “I met Walter through Piper.”

“And how did you meet Piper?”

“At my print-media class last year,” said Clarissa. “I introduced myself and we had dinner a few times.”

Amanda assumed from the look on her face that they’d slept together. Clarissa confirmed it by saying, “My future livelihood depends on having contacts in the media.”

“Walter?” asked Amanda.

“I’m getting there,” snapped Clarissa, her eyes flashing.

Amanda said, “Don’t snap at me when you’re really angry at yourself.”

Clarissa nearly snorted. “I could walk out of here right now and never look back.”

“Could you?” asked Amanda pointedly. “I doubt that.”

Clarissa’s eyes softened. “Amanda, I feel terrible about this cover.” She touched the
Post
on the table. “I met Walter when I showed up at the paper to talk to Piper about the Mr. Coffee competition. I told him all about you guys, the shop, the concept. He loved the David and Goliath aspect to the story; he wanted to get Walter Robbins, his protégé at the paper, selected as Mr. Coffee. Walter would do a first-person account of the Moonburst rivalry from the inside.”

Amanda remembered how Clarissa had pushed for Walter to be a finalist. “Why didn’t you tell us about this?” she asked.

“Piper and Walter didn’t think that was a good idea.”

“Was part of the charade that you had a crush on Walter?” Amanda flashed back to her chatty conversation about double-dating with Clarissa.

“That solved a problem—having to explain why we were spending so much time together,” she said. “You can’t deny the fact that we got an avalanche of press from the
Post
. And that the press brought in tons of new business.”

Amanda said, “That day you came in with all those copies of the paper. I thought you bought them.”

“Walter gave them to me.”

“Claude the designer and Mabel the painter?”

“Piper gave me their names.”

“Not students, are they?” asked Amanda.

Clarissa shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

By now Amanda had concluded a few things: Clarissa was a pathological liar. Anything she’d said about their personal connection was meaningless. What was more, she’d purposely encouraged competition between the sisters so she could navigate a clear path between them.

Amanda said, “What I don’t understand is why you’ve done this.”

Clarissa’s mouth formed a thin, straight line. “I just wanted to do my project for school.”

“From the moment you jingled in our door, you acted a bit too pushy. You set us up from the beginning.” Amanda made the accusation, not knowing for sure if it was true. “Are you really a grad student?”

“Of course I’m a grad student! Okay, the truth is that Piper asked me to come to your store and offer my services. I thought he was being generous. He said he knew Francesca from when she was a magazine editor, that he’d been keeping track of her and wanted to help her. I thought he was trying to do her an anonymous favor.”

“You must have realized that was the opposite of his plan,” said Amanda.

“I wanted to believe him. He promised me a job at the paper after graduation. For what it’s worth, my ideas and efforts to save the café were genuine. I love the pink walls. I really do.” The blonde stared at her boots again. “I’m a victim, too.”

“Bullshit,” said Matt. He was carrying a tray of mugs and a pot of coffee. He deposited his load on the table. “I know what you are,” he said to Clarissa. “And
victim
isn’t the word for it.”

“At this point it doesn’t matter what you think,” said Clarissa. “What’s done is done. Whether you believe me or not isn’t going to change that.”

On that somber note, Matt poured the coffee. He asked, “What do you think she’s doing in there?” He tilted his head in the direction of Frank’s room.

Amanda was wondering the same thing. They hadn’t heard a peep. She got off the couch and started down the hallway. Just as she put her hand around the knob, Frank’s door swung open. Her sister had gotten dressed in her usual non-body-conscious clothes—baggy jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and sneakers. Her face gave away nothing. The blankness was bad enough. It was the flatness of her eyes that terrified Amanda.

Matt said, “Frank, fresh brew?”

“I heard Clarissa’s whole story through the door,” Frank said as she walked into the living room and picked up one of the three untouched mugs of coffee. “Venezuelan with”—she inhaled deeply—“Mexican and”—she sipped—“a touch of Brazilian.” Of course, she was right. Amanda didn’t know how Frank would leave coffee behind if the store closed down. Amanda might be sensitive, but Frank had a sense of coffee.

“I’ve made a decision,” Frank announced.

Everyone looked at her. Amanda said, “Whatever it is, we support you.”

“Don’t be so quick to support me, Amanda,” Frank warned.

“Whatever you want, I’ll agree to it,” Amanda assured her.

Frank nodded absently and sat down next to her sister on the couch. As she spoke, she searched her mug, as if God were about to appear on the surface of her coffee. “If Clarissa hadn’t come into Barney Greenfield’s two weeks ago, we would have filed for bankruptcy. I have no regrets about the contest. I think it was worth a shot. I liked the idea of getting people together, that the café would become a place for strangers to feel less lonely in their lives. Unfortunately, we’ll never know if the original idea would have panned out because of all these…circumstances.

“And now our café has become a freak show. We’ve become freaks,” she said, and sipped some coffee. “No one is ever going to forget what’s happened. We’re stigmatized, Amanda. Everyone in the neighborhood hates us.” She paused. Her stone face was starting to crumble.

“I’ve decided to close the shop,” she said. “I’m not going to fight anymore. I’m giving up. I’ve already placed a call to our rep at Citibank to see what our options are. But this is it. We’re back where we were two weeks ago. At least we have all this humiliation and betrayal to show for it.”

Then Frank started to cry, quaking with sobs. Her face was pinched unrecognizably. Amanda couldn’t remember seeing her look that way—ever. She scootched closer to her shuddering sister and put her hand on Frank’s shoulder, tentatively. Amanda could feel Frank’s collarbone under her thin skin. Frank was so slight, so completely unprotected by a layer of thickness. Amanda pulled her sister into her arms. Frank sank into the plushness of her chest, making Amanda feel like a pigeon. Amanda smoothed Frank’s hair and held her tight. Amanda wondered if Frank had ever let their mother comfort her like this.

Amanda said, “It’s not like you to be so pessimistic, Frank.” Still sobbing, Frank shook her head against her sister’s bosom. Amanda continued, “Come on. I always count on you to look on the bright side of life.”

Frank blubbered, “Forget it, Amanda. It’s over.”