Drop Dead Gorgeous (23 page)

She paused a moment to admire the view. Eager beaver Richard waited by the espresso bar, which was doing as brisk a business in the late afternoon as it did in the morning. Hand in his pocket, jacket pushed aside to reveal a crisp white shirt and fashionable suspenders, Richard nursed a coffee and surveyed the throng buzzing about the faux marble floor. His head slightly down, a lock of dark hair fell agreeably across his forehead.

He watched shoes, women's high-heeled shoes especially, his gaze following the wearer, ear tilted slightly to the tap-tap on the tile. When the door revolved them out, he found another. Watch-watch, tap-tap.

He turned at the sound of her heels on marble and said her name before his eyes rose the length of her body to her face.

“You're early,” he said, face bland, eyes remote. Did he know what she was going to tell him? Then the look vanished, replaced with an expectant gleam. He switched his coffee from his left to his right and held out his hand. She took it, finding his skin still warm from the cup.

“You had your hair done.”

“Yes.” She didn't ask if he liked it.

He complimented her anyway. “It's gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” She was starting to feel lower than low.

“Ready for your surprise?”

Was he ready for hers? She didn't know how to bring it up.

Richard didn't let go of her hand as he threw his coffee away and tucked her hand through his arm.

“You didn't have to toss it. I'd have waited for you to finish.”

“I was done.”

He'd been drinking a large, which meant he'd been waiting longer than five minutes. Her heart sank at his enthusiasm. He didn't have any idea. She hated hurting people. She hated scenes. Maybe there was a little white lie she could tell that would save them both. She had pancreatic cancer with less than a month to live. Sort of close to the truth.

No, she had to be honest. Well, honest while preserving his feelings as best she could.

He dragged her into the revolving door. She stepped on his heel, tripped, but picked herself up before the door mowed her down. When they exited onto the sidewalk, her breath came in little pants.

“You okay, Madison?”

“I'm fine.” She put her sunglasses on against the glare of the overcast sky.
Tell him.
The right words just wouldn't come. She opted for buttering him up first. “Richard, I really can't let you go to such an expense like you did with your last wonderful surprise.”

Her heels click-clacked as he pulled her along. “Is this some feminist thing?”

“No.” It was the lower-than-dirt-because-I'm-dumping-you thing. “I like my doors opened for me. I like flowers on my desk. I like four-inch spiked pumps, too.” She paused for a breath and a reaction, then rushed on. “But sometimes I like to treat a man the way he deserves to be treated.”

Richard stopped smack-dab in the middle of the sidewalk, grumpy businesspeople buffeting Madison from left to right. “That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

About the shoes or the treat? Richard hadn't specified. She patted his cheek. “You're a nice man.”

His face beamed. A golden flame danced in each of his beautiful browns. He squeezed her hand. And she couldn't wait, not another minute. It was too cruel.

“Richard, we have to talk.” She tugged him through the danger zone of rushing commuters into a sheltered doorway.

A flicker of fear doused the flames in his eyes. “About what?”

She clutched his hand in hers. Be firm, be straight, be unequivocal. “I can't see you anymore.”

A taxi driver laid on his horn and shook his fist in the air, screaming obscenities no one bothered to listen to.

Richard leaned closer. “What? I didn't hear you.”

She sucked in a breath carrying his very ordinary scent, which was nothing like T. Larry's musky, heady, mesmerizing aroma. “I said I can't see you anymore.”

He stiffened, squeezed her fingers almost painfully and pinned his very puppylike eyes on her. “Why?”

Time for the little white lie. She didn't go for the cancer thing. “Remember when I called you Matthew on the phone.”

“No.”

Shoot. She'd been going for the least amount of explanation. “He was the guy I used to date?”

His head tilted like that selfsame puppy. “Yeah?”

“I realized I'm not over him.” She bit her lip and decided to lay it on a little thicker for the sake of Richard's feelings. “If only I'd met you first…” She cut herself off almost wistfully. “But I didn't.”

He stared at her a moment, something brimming in the depths of his gaze. “It's your boss, isn't it?”

Busted. “Of course not.”

He dropped her hand to grip her shoulders. “I can take care of you better than he can. I know I can if you'll let me.”

“I don't need to be taken care of, Richard.”

“But I can be there for you, Madison, whenever you need me. I can massage your feet when you're tired. I can cook for you. I'm a great cook, did I tell you that? I can clean house and I do yard work. I even retiled my own bathroom.”

“I'm not looking for a maid or a handyman, Richard.”

“Please.”

She almost broke down, he looked so desperate, so lost.

But T. Larry had touched her, and when he did, he seemed to touch far more than her body. She needed to know why, what it meant, what
he
meant. And how she felt about it. She sacrificed Richard to her need to know.

“I can't.”

His fingers flexed, tightened, then he whispered, “Madison.”

“I'm sorry.”

His Adam's apple shot up and down. His lips thinned to a white line, and his eyes glossed. Then he let go. The sound of street traffic, voices and the steady cascade of feet against concrete separated them. “If it doesn't work out, call me.”

“Thank you.” She wouldn't. For a lot of reasons, the least of which was fairness.

He took three steps back, pushing against the stream of passers-by. They flowed around him, grabbed him and dragged him away in their midst.

Gee, that hadn't felt good. In fact, it felt kind of crappy. Tears pricked her eyes. While she wouldn't take back what she'd done, not any of it from the moment Richard called, she wished she could recall the hurt. She even wished she could erase that dazed look from T. Larry's face.

He would still be up there, still secreted in his office. She wanted to run back up there, tell him what she'd done and ask him to hold her.

What kept her from doing it was the fear he'd tell her he'd changed his mind.

This afternoon's elation died a nasty death in the fading light. Harriet had ripped her to pieces with her knife-sharp words. While her own instrument of destruction had been blunt, Madison had nevertheless dealt Richard's heart a blow. And T. Larry? He hadn't popped his head out of his office to say good-night. It
sounded
silly to be bothered by the omission, but this was T. Larry, creature of habit. She knew, just
knew,
if she went to him now, he'd tell her he'd made a big mistake.

She melted back into the tide of walking traffic, her heels tap-tap-tapping on the concrete as she returned to her car in the garage to head home.

 

L
AURENCE IMAGINED
Madison down there on the street, one of the dots, scurrying to meet her Richard. He hadn't asked her not to, after that first outburst which really didn't count. She hadn't offered not to, even the two times he'd opened his door and stood waiting for her to state her intentions.

Dusk was falling, muted oranges and reds streaking across the sky above the building opposite. Lights now on in many of the offices clearly delineated tables, computers, chairs, people, even individual books on shelves, though certainly not their titles.

He'd exposed Madison to that, prying eyes, a voyeuristic populace. True, he'd turned his lights off when he'd left for lunch, and Madison hadn't turned them back on except in the bathroom where BeeBee had done her hair. Visibility in the other offices had grown exponentially only with the waning sun in the over three hours he'd been staring at them through his window.

It didn't matter. He'd lost control. He'd taken advantage of her. He hadn't thought. He'd only wanted. That wasn't like him.

Until Madison.

He was in over his head.

He'd lost sight of the goal, couldn't remember what it had been in the first place. He still trembled with the memory of her going off in his arms. More, he wanted more. Where would it end?

She didn't want love, she wanted fantasy. She didn't want a man, she wanted an emotion, an illusion, a delusion. She thought of the moment, not the future. She was like a tornado he couldn't avert. She'd pick him up in her whirlwind, toss him around, then spit him out like a broken bit of furniture.

What he'd thought was a mere case of Secretary Lust was turning out to be life-threatening.

Laurence had fallen in love.

H
ARRIET SORTED
her basket of laundry into two piles, one light, one dark. She'd survived another day in that hellhole. Harry Dump had called to say in his overexerted voice that he was enthusiastic about the results of the case. When she'd pressed him for those results, he'd tsk-tsked and said he wanted all his ducks in a row before he shot them.

The muted scents of fresh detergent and dryer sheets tickled her nose. She usually did her laundry on Friday and Saturday nights when the machines were the least in demand. Still, it was Wednesday dinnertime for most, and she was quite happily alone in the laundry room. Pumping in quarters, she poured liquid soap, let the water run three inches deep, then loaded her whites.

Harriet was proud of herself. She'd done her work. She'd taken the stares, the whispers and the muffled laughter with little more emotion than she would an IRS seminar on 1031 exchanges. She'd made herself a fluffy omelet with red peppers, diced tomato and spinach. She'd savored it, every bite, every swallow.

Perhaps her mellow mood stemmed from her ability to make Madison cry. The girl had closeted herself in T. Larry's office during lunch. When he'd arrived back, he'd sequestered himself in there with her. Hand raised ready to knock, Harriet was sure she heard Madison crying on the other side of the door.

Harriet knew she shouldn't feel happy about it. It was a low-down, dirty rotten thing to feel. She smiled to herself anyway as the bubbles in the washer rose to the top and she closed the lid, the swish-swish of the agitator soothing. Madison's tears afforded her a small measure of vindication. The girl had given her an apology, Harriet had given her tears.

Harriet didn't like to give in easily. She was used to fighting. But maybe Madison's misery could be enough to appease her. Maybe it was time to forgive and forget.

Footsteps sounded on the linoleum along the hall outside. Quiet time was over. Putting the pile of darks in her basket, she hefted it to her hip.

Zachary appeared in the door as if her thoughts had conjured him. His appearance wasn't unexpected. T. Larry was bound to send him on another mission. “Harriet, we're going to talk whether you like it or not.”

Such a commanding tone. His suit jacket lay open, the knot of his tie loosened. Her pulse tripped over itself. “How did you know I was down here?”

“Your neighbor came out when I was banging on your door.”

Mrs. Murphy had smiled at her in the hall on her way down. “You'll get me evicted if you keep bothering me like this.”

But he was here, for the third time in less than a week, with or without T. Larry's intervention. That fact sang through her heart. Madison. And now this.

“Hear me out. Then I'll go away.”

She didn't like that, the going away part. For a moment, she'd hoped…but he was simply here for another bribe or a threat. “Tell it to my lawyer.”

She tried to push past. He blocked her. “I'll say it to
you.
”

She dropped her basket and childishly stuck her fingers in her ears.

“Stop it.”

She started humming. His mouth moved. She missed the words. Then he shouted. Switching to a cadence of la-la-la, she closed her eyes. Then, in her chest, she felt the slam of the door. His hands clapped over hers and pulled them from her ears.

“Damn, Harriet, I'm tired of this. You will listen to me.”

The domination in his voice sent a thrill through her. “Nothing you say will change a thing.” Unless it was what she wanted him to say.

“I didn't tell anyone about what happened that night because it was too special to let them—”

She cut him off, couldn't bear to hear him say what he'd been afraid of, easier to say it all herself. “To what? To let them make fun of you? You could have just told them to go fuck themselves. Or maybe it was just me you fucked.”

He shook her by the shoulders. “I did not fuck you.”

She wanted to curl up in the corner and die, wished to God she'd never brought the damn suit because she couldn't go through this again. Her mouth wouldn't shut up. “Then what did you do?”

“I made love to you.”

She rolled her eyes, part sarcasm, part desperate attempt to stem the tears. “Oh right, that's why you never asked me out, why you didn't tell anyone, and why you didn't try to do it again. Because we made love.” She twisted the words with her voice.

“I tried, Harriet. I took you out to lunch, I—”

“Those were work lunches, not dates.”

“I asked you to the Christmas party.”

“You offered to drive me along with Madison and Rhonda.”

His jaw worked. “I didn't tell anyone about what happened that night because it wasn't any of their business.”

That was as bad as his other reasons. “You were ashamed.”

He stopped, cocked his head, then looked deep, deeper than she thought he ever could. “I'm tired of shouldering all the blame. It wasn't my shame, Harriet, it was yours.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“It was yours, Harriet. Remember what you called me? A gutless, pathetic wonder. You didn't want them all to think you had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to get laid.”

His words squeezed her chest. “That's not true. I only called you that because I was mad.”

“So you never said I was the runt of the litter in the office?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why did Rhonda tell me you said it to her?”

That big mouth. “That was before I got to know you.”

He didn't seem to care. “I have no guts, no backbone, I'm a nothing who'll always be a nothing, isn't that what you said?”

“I told her all that before I knew you better.”

“But it's still why
you
didn't want anyone to know.”

She put her hands to his chest and pushed. He didn't budge. “If that were true, why would I use a lawsuit to tell them what we did?”

“You tell me, Harriet. Maybe you're getting lonely. Maybe you're starting to think the bottom of the barrel isn't so bad.”

“You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know what I'm feeling.” Confused and scared. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”

“You want to get laid, Harriet, I'll lay you. I'm a glutton for punishment. I thrive on it. Is that what you want, Harriet? I can come over here every night and fuck you senseless, and it can be our little secret. What do you say?”

She slapped him full across the face, the imprint of her hand turning his skin crimson. She wanted to cry. She wanted to deny. She could do neither. He might be right in everything he'd said.

He turned around and walked away from her.

 

Z
ACH STOPPED DRIVING
when he reached the beach. The sidewalks teemed with flocks of teenagers, skateboarders, guitar players, dope smokers and beggars.

Threading through the crowd, he headed into the Boardwalk along the beach. The day had been hot with little humidity, a last lingering breath of still warm air forcing him to take his jacket off. He kept the sunglasses despite the fact that dark had fallen over an hour ago.

Zach liked the flashing lights of the Boardwalk, the grind of the roller coaster, its timbers creaking, the screaming and laughter, the scents of mustard, popcorn, chicken poppers, commingled with the salty aroma of the ocean. A child pulled cotton candy from a stick. His mouth watered. A couple of teens shared an ice-cream cone, licking and kissing each other clean like animals.

He hadn't wanted Harriet that way tonight, not with innocence or gentleness. He'd wanted to throw her on the washing machine.

It was the anger that made him feel this way. Just like his old man. His parents would have a whopper of a fight, then his mother would drag his father into the bedroom, slam the door, and…well, he'd always thought the screams were the sounds of her frustration and the banging was her throwing things at his father's head.

He was fifteen when he opened the door to see if she'd killed the old man. He didn't need sex education after that.

Christ. He didn't know what he needed now. He'd always known there were two sides to every story. The number of sides Harriet displayed boggled him. His own behavior frightened him. Even odds that he'd screw her on the washer or he wouldn't. For a moment there, fingers flexing, he almost had.

He didn't want nice, quiet and sweet like Madison. He didn't want perpetual laughter, spontaneous gaiety or eternal optimism.

He wanted war. A flashing firefight, an exhilarating, heart-pumping skirmish. He wanted it in Harriet's bed. On her washing machine. In her car.

But first he had to put a stop to the battle Harriet waged with Madison in any way he could.

 

“M
A, DO YOU THINK
I'm going to die like Daddy did?”

The question had always been an avoided topic. At least since Madison decided that she might suffer her father's fate. She didn't like to upset Ma with the death-and-dying conversation, and she wouldn't if she hadn't started having all these scary, crappy feelings. First, Harriet, then Richard. Not to mention what she'd done in T. Larry's office. She suddenly felt so mixed up, even though what T. Larry had done was so very nice.

She didn't want him to be hurt. If something happened to her. If. When.

Her mother put another butter tart on Madison's plate, then poured two cups of tea. Finally, she said, “I pray every day that you won't die until I'm long gone. That's the way it should be.”

“Is that why you go to church?”

“I go to church because I believe in God.”

Madison loved the warmth and scents of her mother's kitchen at night, even on a warm June evening. The tart sweetened her mouth. The tea warmed her belly. There really was no place like home. Her mother had lived in the same house since the day she was married. The new couple had paid next to nothing for it in today's terms; it was now worth a fortune. Her mother would never sell. Every five years her brothers painted inside and out. They'd refinished the cabinets and retiled the bathrooms. They'd added the sunporch at the back, planted perennials and annuals, trimmed the bushes and topped the trees. It was everyone's home. None of them would ever truly leave.

“Do you believe you're going to die, Madison?”

Madison savored another bite in the same way she did everything, as if it were the last time. She knew her mother hated this kind of talk, and she hated to bring it up. Yet she didn't have anyone else she could turn to with this odd feeling bubbling up inside. “I don't feel like I'm going to go today.”

“Then I hope you feel that way every day.”

“But if I do die, you still promise to cremate me?”

“I rue the day your brothers started that worm thing.”

She hated the thought of worms eating her. “Promise?”

“I'll do whatever you ask.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Madison spooned a taste more sugar into her half-empty cup and stirred. “Do you think I'm selfish?”

They sipped their tea, took bites of the luscious tart, then her mother answered. “You're the most unselfish person I know.”

Madison flexed her fingers, the bad hand tighter than normal as if all her tension and indecision resided in that side of her body. “I don't like to hurt people. Especially you.”

Her mother patted her hand flat. “I know you don't. And I think you've done a super job so far.”

Madison swallowed her last bite of tart, got to her feet and bent to her mother, cheek to cheek, hands on her shoulders. “Thanks, Ma. That's why I like coming here. You always tell me exactly what I want to hear. You'd tell me I was the kindest person you ever met while I was ripping the head off the neighbor's cat. I appreciate that kind of unconditional love.”

Her mother held on to one of her hands when Madison would have straightened. “What's really bothering you, sweetheart?”

If she didn't die right after her twenty-eighth birthday, she'd have to live with the consequences of what she'd done today, both with Richard and T. Larry. Whatever those consequences might be. She was terribly afraid the consequences wouldn't be to her liking.

“Nothing's wrong, Ma. It'll all work out. It always does.” She'd lived by that philosophy since the day she came out of the coma after her stroke. No reason to doubt it now. Even if she'd never felt quite this confused. “I gotta run or I'll never be able to get up in the morning.” She kissed her mom's cheek. “Thanks for the tea, tarts and talk.”

“Say hello to that nice T. Larry for me,” Ma called as Madison headed out the door.

Her mother always had to have the last word.

When she reached her apartment, she saw that her porch light had burned out, leaving her stairs and stoop in the dark. Digging in the special purse pocket for her keys, she came up empty-handed. With no light on the scene, she'd never find them in the hodgepodge filling her bag. Bending, she pulled the mat back. The extra key was gone. Darn that Sean. He'd probably left it on her coffee table with an admonishing note. Very T. Larryish. Her brother, all her brothers, in fact, had been cut from the same mold. It took five minutes of finger-searching to locate her regular set of keys.