The Accidental Bestseller (16 page)

The Liberty Laundromat was quiet in the early part of the afternoon. Wash-and-fold customers usually dropped off their dirty clothes in the morning on their way in to work then picked up around 5:00 or 6:00 P.M. on their way home. Do-it- yourselfers drifted in and out throughout the day but came in bigger numbers in the early evening after dinner. Tanya did the drop-off loads all afternoon and stayed until most everything had been picked up at 6:30 P.M.

During the afternoons Tanya worked on her manuscript between loads. The steady tumble of the dryers and swish of the washing machines served as a gentle sort of background noise to her forays into her own fictional worlds. The buzz that signaled the end of a drying cycle or the bell that jangled when the front door opened pulled her back to reality as needed.

At the moment she was struggling over how to keep her heroine, Doreen, out of bed with her older brother’s friend for at least another twenty pages. She’d built their sexual tension to a point where it was going to have to happen soon, though she didn’t know exactly how or where. At this point of her life, the sex, just like everything else in the story, would be a product of her imagination; she had absolutely nothing in recent memory to draw from. Three jobs, two children, and a difficult mother didn’t leave much time to look for a relationship. Or the energy to do anything physical if she had one.

The cursor blinked at the start of a new page and she closed her eyes, trying to insert herself into the scene. The front doorbell jangled when she was almost there.

“Hey, sweet thing.” There was a louder ding, this time of the bell that sat in front of her on the counter. “Belle told me you worked here, and I have to say you’re a mite easier on the eyes than old Juan Carlo over at the Washaroo. You got some quarters for these dollar bills?”

Her eyelids sprang open at the bell and the familiar voice. Sure enough there stood Brett Adams, aspiring speed cooker, with a shit-eating grin on his face and a bulging duffel bag in his hand.

“Sorry to wake you. I’ve never actually seen anyone type and sleep at the same time before.” He nodded down to the laptop keyboard where her fingers still rested.

“I wasn’t sleeping, I was just thinking with my eyes closed.” Not to be confused with the times she was so tired her head actually fell onto the keyboard. “How many do you need?” She purposely ignored the warmth of his gaze, the muscles straining against his white T-shirt, and the impudent curve of his lips.

He slid three dollar bills across the counter. “Watcha doin’?”

“I’ve got a book due. These are my only daylight working hours.”

He nodded sagely, but the smile stayed in place. “I heard you were a writer. Romance novels, right?”

“Yeah.” She braced herself for the usual joke or ignorant comment. At the very least, most men felt compelled to offer to help her research the love scenes.

“That’s cool. My mother used to be a Masque junkie; she bought a whole new batch every month. We had stacks of them all over the house. She never could bear to throw one away. I used to sneak ’em into my room and look for the racy parts.” His grin broadened. “I’m more of a fan of Nelson De-Mille and Stuart Woods these days, but, hell, I think the world can use as many happy endings as it can get.”

She closed her mouth on the automatic acid response she’d been about to deliver as she digested what he’d said. Brett Adams was not only a reader but a supporter of romance? Perhaps the world was about to go on ahead and freeze right over.

Brett shot her a wink then took the quarters she held in her hand. “I told you not to judge this book by its cover. Don’t want to fall into those easy stereotypes, now do we?”

He whistled merrily as he walked over to a nearby folding table, dumped out the dirty laundry, and started sorting, which was pretty unusual in and of itself. In Tanya’s experience, most men who came in here weren’t anywhere close to whistling. And they were more likely to throw everything that would fit into one machine and hope for the best. Colorfastness and water temperature were not a part of their known universe.

Tanya wanted to ignore Brett and get back to her manuscript, but she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from him. He’d yanked her right back into the here and now and even when she turned away, she caught herself watching him out of the corner of her eye.

He slipped the quarters into the slots of a nearby machine, set the knobs like a pro, and emptied a packet of detergent into the water. Then he began to drop clothes into the sudsy water, making quick work of the chore until he paused and groaned aloud. Unable to stop herself, Tanya turned to see the item dangling from his finger. It was a black silk thong, a mere scrap of fabric, clearly designed to titillate rather than cover.

Why was she not surprised?

“This is not good,” he said as he considered the triangle of fabric.

Tanya crossed her arms over her chest and gave him the look she normally reserved for diner customers who crossed the line and touched or pinched. “Most men would say just the opposite,” she replied, not even trying to hide her disapproval.

He met her gaze. “Most men wouldn’t be forced to discover that their teenaged daughter was wearing something this skimpy.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s what I thought when I saw it.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

Tanya let that one sink in for a minute. “And you’re doing her laundry.” It was a statement rather than a question.

He dropped the thong into the washing machine and closed the lid then began to sort through the whites still sitting on the table. Now that she was blatantly looking, she noticed other girl clothes go by, some that probably belonged to the teenaged daughter, others that looked more appropriate to Loretta’s and Crystal’s ages.

“Yep. I surely am.”

He turned to put the quarters into the second washing machine slot without offering any more detail and Tanya’s interest was piqued. Nothing about Brett Adams would have made her peg him as a single father, nothing. But she knew if there was a wife and/or mother in the picture, he wouldn’t be here measuring and pouring detergent with that air of competence.

He started whistling again as he stowed the empty duffel bag under the folding table and checked the clock on the wall. “The washers go about thirty minutes?” he asked.

She nodded, pretty much floored by the afternoon’s revelations.

“I’m gonna run over to the Publix then to pick up some groceries. I’ll be back in time to put them in the dryer.”

“OK.” Tanya couldn’t think of a thing to add so she just watched him stroll out the door and climb into his beat-up Jeep Cherokee. As he peeled out of the parking lot, she found herself trying to imagine what the girls over at the diner would say if they knew what kind of baggage Brett Adams carried with him. And how many of them would still be competing to be the first one to sleep with him.

13

—ANTHONY TROLLOPE

 

 

 

“Mallory, here, will you read me the directions as we go?” Kendall held out the
Home Improvement 1-2-3
book, which was already looking somewhat dog-eared.

“You want me to . . . what?” Mallory made a face as the tome filled her hands.

“Come on, it won’t take long if you help,” Kendall promised. “It slows me down when I have to read while I do the repair.”

“Kendall,” Mallory said, “this is ridiculous. You’ve already fixed the flipper—”

“That’s flapper.”

“Whatever. The porch railing, the back step.” She ticked the projects off on the cover of the manual. “Cleaned out the showerhead, and if I’m not mistaken, spent a good part of the morning memorizing the anatomy of a toilet.”

“And your point is?” Kendall asked, though it sounded somewhat bizarre even to her.

“My point is, it’s Tuesday afternoon and we’ve already been back to the Home Depot twice. Your friend James undoubtedly thinks we’ve got the hots for him.”

“Do you really think so?” Kendall both hated and loved the idea. Just having a male look at her and really see her was worth the trip into Clayton, though that wasn’t the reason she’d been going.

“Good grief!” Mallory snapped the do-it-yourself book shut and slapped it down on the kitchen counter. “I think the larger concern is that no matter how often I bring up
Sticks and Stones
, you find a way to put me off. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but I haven’t written a word yet, either!”

“Ah,” Kendall said, as understanding dawned. “Now I think we’ve gotten to the crux of the matter.”

Mallory closed her eyes and blew out a breath.

“Look, Mal,” Kendall said to her friend. “I really appreciate that you’re here. Really. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up on my doorstep. I can’t even let myself think about it.”

“Kendall, I didn’t mean to complain. I just—”

“No, no, you’re right. I don’t want to keep you from working. For some reason that I don’t understand, I just feel sort of compelled to fix things here. It feels good. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a need for immediate gratification. Fit part ‘a’ into part ‘b,’ turn on switch. Voila!” She reached for the bright orange book and picked it up, hugging it to her chest. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be working. You don’t have to hold my book for me. Or my hand. You go ahead and get to work. I’ll keep the noise down, no hammering, I promise. Do you want me to set you up on the deck?” She nodded to the sliding doors, which had been left open to the afternoon breeze.

“Kendall, I only meant . . .”

“No, no, don’t apologize.” She could only imagine how fragile she must appear if outspoken Mallory was afraid to criticize. “I’m glad you were honest with me. I can always count on that from you.”

Mallory winced as the phone rang. But Kendall was intent on getting Mallory to work. “Come on.” She reached for Mallory’s arm. “I’ll get you set up.”

“Aren’t you going to answer the phone?”

“No,” Kendall said. “We don’t have caller ID on this phone. The last times I answered a phone without knowing who was on the other end, it was bad news. I can’t handle any more of that right now.”

“But Kendall, it could be—”

“Whoever it is can leave a message on the machine.” She nodded toward an oversized metal box that belonged on the shelves of an antique store. There was a mechanical beep and then, “Kendall, it’s Calvin. Pick up.”

Kendall and Mallory looked at each other. Kendall shook her head slightly, oddly afraid that if she moved too noticeably Calvin might somehow hear her.

“Jesus, Kendall. You can’t just run away from everything. My attorney wants to know who’s representing you.”

Kendall continued to imitate a statue, but her heart was beating so loudly she was afraid Calvin would hear it.

“Shit, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a machine.” A pause. “I know you have to be up there, Kendall. Although why you ever liked that place, I’ll never know.”

He waited and she wondered if he actually thought he could goad her into picking up. Clearly he was unaware of their new family motto.
Avoidus, avatas, avant
.

“All right, so maybe you’re not there. I don’t know. I left a message on your cell phone, too. You need to have your attorney call Josh Lieberman at . . .” He recited an Atlanta phone number area code first.

Kendall didn’t move; she couldn’t. Even the breathing thing was becoming more difficult.

“I need to know whether you’ve spoken to the kids. I didn’t really want to surprise them with Laura. I thought maybe you’d already let them know?”

Kendall blanched as his girlfriend’s name left Calvin’s lips and echoed menacingly in the kitchen. Her husband had apparently shed her and their life together as easily as any snake might shed its skin, and still he expected her to pave his way with the children, to run interference so that he didn’t have to confess to his bad behavior.

Kendall snuck a look at Mallory, who looked every bit as horrified as Kendall felt. Without breaking the silence, Mallory mouthed the word “Asshole,” overenunciating each syllable.

Evidently out of bombs to drop, Calvin finally hung up.

Kendall stared at Mallory. Mallory stared back.

Kendall opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, searching for the words that would allow her to vent the Vesuvius of emotion boiling up inside her. But no matter how hard she tried, how deep she dug, she couldn’t seem to come up with a single sentence scathing enough to offer the slightest bit of relief.

Certain that she would erupt—or possibly implode—if she didn’t take action of some kind, Kendall reached over and pulled the answering machine plug out of the wall socket. Then she lifted the offending instrument off the counter and dropped it into the garbage can, wishing with all her heart that there was a trash compactor handy so that she could flatten the metal to the size of a Frisbee and hurl it off the side of the mountain.