Switched, Bothered and Bewildered (13 page)

"No, thank you, this iced tea is great. My, isn't

this lovely, right by the window, you can see the bay." She skirted herself into the chair and let him adjust her position. "Oh my gosh, I'm starv-
tag."

As if she'd never seen this office before. Weird.

She went right for her napkin, spread it over her lap, picked up a fork and dove in, spearing a hunk of chicken before he could get his own self to the table. He poured himself a glass of chilled chardonnay out of the ice bucket. He liked his wine cold, but not his women. Maybe it was him that needed to loosen up. Or give up.

"It occurs to me, Ms. Tompkins, that we've been out on a dinner date and I haven't really heard much of your life story. Would you care to fill me in? Where did you grow up?"

"That was just a business dinner."

He decided not to argue. "Nevertheless, your hometown?"

"I grew up partly in
Hollywood,
California
, partly in a small town in western
Washington
."

"
Hollywood?" He perked up. What an odd place to grow up.

"My sister and I were on a children's television show for about three years. Before that we did some advertising. Baby products, that sort of thing. Which reminds me, I was looking through the Pitman Toy history, as I mentioned—"

"Oh, yes." He was still stuck on thinking of her as a baby model and children's television show

star. He recalled that from somewhere, just not the details.

"And I remembered playing with many of the toys from the seventies. Holly Dolly Dream House, and the old dress-up series with different career costumes for girls, like doctors and astronauts, those kinds of things. Why doesn't Pitman produce these items anymore?"

"I suppose we're trying to compete in this modern marketplace and don't see the value. Hey, I used to play with the Neil Armstrong rocket set. Did you see that one in there? It had an authentic moonscape and lunar module, and a little flag to stick on a blob of gray clay. I spent hours with Neil and Buzz reenacting the landing. It also had these funny little moon men. I'd watched a special documentary on the landing and gotten hooked."

"See? The whole video-obsessed generation is losing the ability to imagine."

"I have read some marketing reports about a movement by parents to get back to simpler items."

"And Pitman was really good at that at one time. Look at this page." She handed him the book she'd propped by her chair and pointed to a flagged sticky marker. "The yellow one." She went back to attacking her lunch.

Jackson
flipped through the book and found her marker. "Oh yeah, that was a great ad campaign.
'You can be anything.'
Great slogan."

"What do you think about adding a retro sort of toy to the December lineup instead of, oh, vampires?"

"I think you might be on to something. After lunch I'll look into it further."
Jackson put the book down beside his chair and stared at his lunch, not really in the mood for salad anymore. He stabbed at it aimlessly. He'd have to go for a nice steak after work. "Would you like to discuss this more over dinner?"

Without even a pause, she answered him. "No."

Jackson
was actually startled. He searched for a comeback. "Hey, what happened to your sore throat?"

"I gargled with salt water."

"Oh, really? Sounds nasty." He looked at her across the table with disbelief undoubtedly written on his face. She stared right back. He felt himself swimming in her sea-blue eyes. Her eyebrow arched up at him; her pretty, dark, expressive eyebrow. It made him crazy. She was challenging him. He smiled and raised his wineglass to her. "Here's to saltwater."

"Cheers," she said flatly and resumed eating her lunch.

After lunch Jana Lee all but ran back to her own office. She breezed past Oliver and closed the door behind her. She wanted to check on some things. This whole idea was exciting. Maybe she could

just write up a suggestion and they could take it from there. It wouldn't be the first time an employee had come up with an idea, and it certainly wouldn't upset the balance of things, would it? She sat back down at Jillian's desk and buzzed Oliver.

"Ollie, can you come in here, please?" He answered. "I only let you call me that because you are very nice, you know."

"I know. Bring your notepad, please." She flipped off the button and scrambled around for a blank piece of printer paper. She took one of Jillian's fancy black pencils and started sketching her ideas. She could hardly draw fast enough to catch the wave of her thought process. She didn't look up when Oliver came in. He leaned over the desk and looked at her sketches.

"My, you are a very good artist, Mrs. Stivers." "Thank you, Ollie," she looked up and smiled at him. She was trying to remember the last time anyone had sincerely complimented her on anything. She and her daughter had fallen into a phase of taking each other for granted. Or worse, just existing together. The walking wounded.

"I wonder if you would mind looking some things up for me. I want to do a little research on the retro toy market and what kind of response that's getting. I'm not putting this very well, but I'd like to see some kind of charts on how toys that

encourage imagination and creative play compare to interactive electronic-type toys. Also who else is producing reproduction-type toys? Retro toys, you know?" She made a few notes to herself on the side of the drawing. "And one more thing. Let's do a for-instance on, say, the
I Can Be Anything
dress-up box. What would a production run cost today? Am I making any sense? I don't know if these are the right words."

"You are explaining things very well, but I'm not sure I was signed up to actually work this week." Oliver peered at her over his leatherbound notepad.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry."

"I'm
kidding.
I've been working my tail off doing your sister's reports. She called this morning after you spoke and promised me a new car or a yacht or whatever my heart desires if I'd help you out. There's a lull in the storm, so I'd be happy to do this. I love research and like your idea, too. Simple designs are the best in my book."

"Thanks, Ollie, you're a prince. How did my sister ever find you?"

"I found her," he smiled. "How was your lunch?"

"Oh, fine. Very delicious. I'm afraid I yammered on about toy ideas."

"Oh, dear."

"What, was that bad?"

"Well, let's just say your sister never ventured there. She had enough on her hands with recalls and unit pricing and sales data."

"I'm sure I didn't do much harm. I was mostly pointing out things from the Pitman history book."

"I'm sure." Oliver nodded kindly, excused himself and returned to his desk outside the huge eight-foot mahogany door that separated their spaces.

Oh brother, what had she done now? Jana Lee thought about her lunch with
Jackson. Turning it over in her head, however, she didn't see anything unusual about their conversation. She shifted her focus back to her ideas and resumed sketching.

Jackson
sat at his bistro table alone, picking at the lumps of chicken and wilted lettuce left on his plate. He was deep in thought. He thought of the lively conversation he'd had with Ms. Tompkins and how she'd made him remember things— things about his childhood.

The year he'd gotten that moon-landing toy had been the last Christmas his parents were together. He was hitting a pocket of painful memories remembering their announcement to him and his brother just after New Year's.

They'd tried to be civilized about the whole thing, but the truth was he'd heard them fighting in the middle of the night behind the closed doors of their bedroom. He'd heard his mother's voice

raised in anger. He was very sure his father had been having an affair. To him it was like his father had abandoned his two sons as well as his wife.

He should call Marcus and see how things were going. At least his brother had his wife,
Nan. She was a great gal, and their two boys were great. Maybe it was time for uncle Jackson to visit again. Their house in
Mill
Valley
was pleasant and had a great backyard. They could have a barbeque. Perhaps he'd invite Ms. Tompkins to come along.

He washed that thought down with the rest of his chardonnay. What the hell was he thinking, inviting a girl over to meet his family? It must be the wine. He was getting sentimental and sappy. On the other hand, it was just the type of thing she might say yes to.
Jackson noticed he was extremely compelled to get Ms. Tompkins back in the game. She couldn't turn him down every time, could she?

Identity Crisis

Dean Wakefield liked a woman who could take charge of things. He watched his boss, the cute lady with the red thong underwear, run around with her clipboard, checking things off her list. He was getting seriously hot for her. He wondered when he might make his move.

On the other hand she was extremely bossy and kept him so busy he hardly had time to make a move. It was obvious the way to her heart was to complete this project in record time, in a skillful manner.

It was always rewarding for him to see something dull and uninspiring shape itself into something bright and beautiful. He smiled to himself. He meant the house, not the woman, but he did

remember that she had been rather invisible the first time he'd ever seen her. Now she was anything but.

They'd been blessed by a few breaks—wood floors in almost perfect condition under the ugly carpet, no inside dry rot so far, sound structural elements. The layout was completely whacked, but that would require a major remodel.

He had to say, she had excellent taste; she just didn't trust it. Her first instincts were often more modern and amazing, but every time it came to choosing a finish she would take it down a notch and go with something less risky, more. . . pedestrian.

It made him wonder two things: how the house had remained in its less tasteful format for so long, and why she didn't just
go for it
now that she'd gotten the nerve up.

"Mrs. S, last chance on the stone kitchen floor. I'd just need to reinforce the floor joists if we want to go there." He'd taken to calling her Mrs. S upon her request, although after having a great dinner with her, it was weird.

"No, Dean, let's stick with the beige tile. It's more mainstream."

He scratched his head. "Are you planning on selling this place? It's hard to find a piece this big next to the sound anymore. I'm sure I could set you up with a buyer if you really wanted to part with it."

"No, I'm just. . . tired of it the way it was." "So why hold back? How about the black tile?" "This is sort of a family house. I have to keep my sister and her tastes in mind." Mrs. S looked out the dining area window toward the sea. Her arms were crossed, and she looked thoughtful.

Dean chewed that over, but it didn't make sense. She lived here, so why shouldn't it be her own taste? Oh well, the lady with the checkbook knew her mind. Although right now she seemed confused. He put down his measuring tape and square carpenter's pencil and came up behind her very close. "Can I help?"

She could feel the heat from Dean's breath on her neck. Actually she could feel the heat from his entire body down every inch of
her
body. A feeling she hadn't felt for a very, very long time crept from the base of her spine slowly, slowly to the top of her head, and it made her dizzy. She closed her eyes and breathed it in.

Dean put his hands on her shoulders and gently massaged her tight muscles.

"Ahhhhhhh." A long, low sound escaped her. She could tell right away it sounded like way more than shoulder rub delight. More like
touch me more
delight.

Apparently Dean felt that way too. He gently turned her around and took her in his arms. She had never felt so enveloped with desire for a man

as she did at that moment. She wanted to melt into him like a pat of butter into hot popcorn. It surprised her. She'd known she was attracted to him, but the lust factor was a real kick in the pants.

He tipped her chin up with his fingers and looked into her eyes long enough to erase her popcorn thoughts. Then he tilted his head and kissed her.

Having already lost her power of speech, her ability to think and her footing, Dean's kiss took away whatever was left of her resolve to keep that kiss from happening.

It was slow and sexy and hard and soft all at the same time. His kiss swelled with intensity, then slid into a lustful thing that intoxicated her more than any kiss she had ever had, or any vintage wine she'd indulged in. She forgot to breathe. Time spun on its elbow. More kisses. Or was it one, long, never-ending kiss?

Monty Python took this opportunity to bark at them. Or was he barking at someone else? She jolted out of his kiss.

"No kissing!" she said loudly. Now this was really meant to remind herself that she wasn't supposed to kiss the set-up guy she was leaving for her sister. But it sure made his eyebrows rise up.