Fool for Love: Fooling Around\Nobody's Fool\Fools Rush In (19 page)

P
ATSY SET A SMALL BOX
on the desk and beamed like a proud parent. “It's taken a while, but finally, here are your new business cards to go along with your new office.”

Kate lifted the lid of the box and withdrew one of the crisp white cards.

 

Kate Randall

President and Chief Executive Officer

Handley Toys

Birmingham, AL

Handley Toys—Fun for life.

 

Her first undertaking as CEO had been to change the company slogan to one she thought reflected the ageless appeal of their products.

“Thank you, Patsy.”

“Oh, and Mr. McDaniels—I mean,
Eric
—is waiting outside.”

Kate bit back a smile at her assistant's formality. “Did he say if this was a business matter or personal?”

“Considering his arms are full of baby paraphernalia,” Patsy said with a wry smile, “I'd say it's personal.”

Kate unconsciously touched her growing stomach and grinned. “Send him in.”

Suddenly her door burst open and all she could see was Eric's legs—a mountain of toys obscured him from the waist up. “Sorry,” he mumbled from behind the armload. “My arms were getting ready to give out.” He walked unsteadily over to the table in the corner of Kate's office and dumped the goods there, a mind-boggling array of stuffed animals, mobiles, balls, rattles and who knew what else. Eric grinned, dimples deep, eyes flashing, so obviously proud of himself he could scarcely stand it. He held up a fuzzy pink giraffe. “What do you think?”

Patsy scooted out and Kate stood and came around her desk, shaking her head. “I think we're going to have to buy a bigger house if you keep buying toys.” She was also thinking, for the hundredth time, that she was glad they were having a girl because she wasn't sure she could survive two male McDaniels in one house.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure her office door was closed, then asked, “Can we break our ‘no kissing at the office' rule just this once?”

She smiled and nodded, then went into his arms for a long, sensual kiss. When his kiss began to stir her senses to life, she pulled away, wagging her finger. “Don't you think I'm pregnant enough for now?”

Eric laughed and touched her stomach. “I can't
wait,
Kate—I can't wait until our baby is here.”

She nodded and smiled up at him. “Me, too.”

“I love you,” he murmured, then squeezed her.

Her heart welled. “I love you, too.”

Then his eyes widened, and he turned back to the jumble of toys on the table. “I almost forgot. I was told explicitly by one of your former coworkers in production that you were to have the first one of these to roll off the assembly line.” He rummaged, then came up with a box and extended it to her.

Kate took the cardboard and cellophane box, and bit into her lip to keep her hormonal tears at bay. “Bernadette.” Same cropped red hair and freckles, but with a spiffy new teen ensemble, complete with baggy jeans and graffiti'd skateboard. She looked up. “What's your expert opinion on our new product, Mr. VP of Sales?”

His dark eyebrows went up. “Well, considering you were able to secure licensing for Bernadette books and there's a TV series in the works, I'd say you've struck gold, Kate…again.”

She smiled, thinking she and Bernadette had come full circle together, and how wonderful that her own daughter would be able to enjoy the next generation of Bernadette dolls.

She set the box aside and looped her arms around her husband's neck. “How did life get so perfect?”

He pulled her against him. “I don't know. All I know is that in a couple of months, I'm going to be an absolute fool for
two
women.”

Kate tilted her face up. “Would you mind if we broke our ‘no kissing at the office' rule again?”

“Would I mind?” Eric grinned, then lowered his mouth to hers, and murmured, “Are you joking?”

Judith Arnold

To Ted, who still makes me laugh
after all these years

M
OST PEOPLE
would have been annoyed to find themselves stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic during morning rush hour on the Fitzgerald Expressway. But Mark Lavin wasn't most people.

For him, being stuck in traffic meant being stuck in his SLK Roadster, which was not exactly a hardship. Six weeks old, the car still smelled new. The seat cradled his back, the steering wheel curved sweetly against his palms, and even though the engine had been built for zipping around hairpin turns at high speeds, it tolerated gridlock with grace.

Until this car, he'd always owned old clunkers. But he was past thirty now, he had a big title and a salary to match—and then he'd gotten that recognition from
Boston's Best
magazine. A silly honor, but definitely worth celebrating. So he'd ventured into a Mercedes-Benz showroom and found true love in the form of a pewter-silver metallic dream machine with charcoal-leather interior, a retractable roof, a six-speed manual transmission and power everything. He'd earned this car, it was his, and if he had to be crawling along the expressway at two miles an hour, surrounded by thousands of other morning commuters, well, there were far worse ways to do it than in a Benz.

Besides, he could actually do his job while he stared through the windshield at the glowing red rows of brake lights ahead of him. His stereo was tuned to WBKX, “Boston Kool X-treme,” and his quadraphonic door-mounted speakers were pumping Rex in the Morning's drive-time show.

Mark was Rex's boss. And it hadn't always been smooth sailing. One year ago, on April Fool's Day, he'd nearly fired Rex because the deejay had issued a news report on a devastating earthquake in Los Angeles. No earthquake had occurred; the news story had been Rex's idea of an April Fool's Day prank. But it had ignited panic all over Boston. People had tied up the city's phone lines trying to reach friends and relatives in southern California. The mayor had issued a statement proclaiming the news report a hoax, and Mark had received a phone call from City Hall asking him to shut his shock jock up.

Mark had ultimately let Rex keep his job. The guy ranked number one in his time slot—mostly because his show veered so close to the line of tastelessness. The earthquake report, complete with damage estimates and casualty figures, had crossed that line, however. Mark had reamed Rex out, suspended him without pay for a week and warned him never, ever to pull a stunt like that again.

Now it was one year later, another April Fool's Day. The sky was a springtime mix of sun and clouds, the traffic crept toward downtown Boston, and Rex was playing Warren Zevon's “Werewolves of London.” A good choice, Mark decided, trying to let the ergonomic splendor of his car soothe his anx
iety over what might pop out of Rex's mouth in the remaining two hours of his show.

He reached the Mass Pike exit just as Zevon issued his last musical howl. “That was Celine Dion,” Rex announced, “doing her cover of ‘Dirty Water.' In her version, of course, Leonardo diCaprio dies. I don't know about you, but it makes me tear up a little.” He sniffled dramatically.

Mark rolled his eyes. As long as Rex's jokes continued in that vein—no false alarms about natural disasters—Mark would be happy.

“And now for the news,” Rex announced in his trademark baritone. Mark sat a little straighter and tightened his hands around the steering wheel, bracing himself. “In this morning's top story, the mayor of Runyon Poke, Vermont, has issued a proclamation declaring cows within its borders sacred. ‘If they can worship cows in India, I don't see why we can't worship them here in Runyon Poke,' Mayor Crouton was quoted as saying. Runyon Poke boasts a population of two hundred thirty-seven, not counting the cows. Its chief export is cottage cheese.”

Mark let out a long breath.

“Down in Washington,” Rex continued, “both houses of Congress have passed a bill requiring all newly elected senators and representatives to wear propeller beanies for their first three months in office. ‘People take Congress much too seriously,' the Speaker of the House said in defense of the bill. ‘We want to introduce a little levity.' The President is expected to sign the bill into law.”

Mark smiled.

“Closer to home, Boston's mayor has declared a
moratorium on snow. ‘I know we get snow in April sometimes,' the mayor explained, ‘but we don't want it. Enough is enough. Snow will be illegal until next November fifteenth.”'

Mark chuckled.

“Time to pay some bills, and then I'll be back with more music and noise,” Rex said, segueing into an advertisement for a muffler repair company.

Okay. Mark wasn't going to have to fire Rex this year. He exited the expressway and cruised down the street to the garage under the skyscraper that housed WBKX's broadcast studio. At the bottom of the ramp, he inserted his card into the slot at the entry gate and entered the gloom of the garage. Even though the station's broadcast antenna was positioned at the top of the building, the reception was lousy amid all the concrete. His car filled with hissing static and he turned the radio off.

Once he was parked, he lifted his leather bomber jacket from the seat next to him, tossed it over his shoulder and headed for the elevator, humming “Werewolves of London.” He couldn't hit Zevon's high-note howls, but he didn't care. Rex had kept things under control this year, and Mark was feeling great.

As soon as he entered WBKX's headquarters on the thirtieth floor, he was surrounded by Rex in the Morning again. Ceiling speakers in the reception area broadcast the station's programming nonstop. He smiled at the receptionist and ambled down the hall to the studio from which Rex was broadcasting. The jingle of a national hamburger chain chased “Were
wolves” from his mind. That jingle represented big bucks to the station. Mark's smile expanded.

Rex's voice returned when Mark was just steps from the door. “This news just in. Get out your hankies, ladies, because it's going to make you weep.”

Mark paused in the hallway and held his breath.

“It was just two and a half months ago, on Valentine's Day, that
Boston Best
magazine named Mark Lavin, our general manager here at WBKX, one of the five most desirable bachelors in Boston. Tragedy struck this morning when Lavin announced his engagement to comely Claire O'Connor. How's that for a word, folks?
Comely.
Think about it.” He paused, leaving five seconds—an eternity in radio time—of dead air. “So cross Mark off your lists, ladies. But don't forget, I'm still available. Give me a call here at the station if you want to explore the meaning of the word
comely
with me. And say good-bye and good luck to my boss, Mark Lavin, because Claire O'Connor is from this day forward the only
comely
he'll be experiencing.”

Mark swore under his breath. That was not funny. Not funny at all.

He yanked open the control booth door and glared through the soundproof glass that separated Rex from his producer. Rex's long mop of salt-and-pepper hair was partly restrained by his headset, and he kept his beard trimmed so it wouldn't interfere with the microphone, but he still gave the appearance of someone who'd hit adolescence in the late 1960s and never outgrown either that decade or that life stage. “Weather update,” he intoned into the mike. “No snow forecast for today. Looks like the mayor's word
is law in this town. In honor of my boss's engagement, let's spin a tune about the joys of marriage.” “Wedding Bell Blues” spilled through the speakers into the control booth. Eyeing Mark through the glass, Rex grinned and signaled with a thumbs-up.

Mark signaled back with a thumbs-down. “What the hell is he doing?” he asked Rex's producer, Gary, who sat at the controls, feeding Rex whatever he needed, from commercials to sound effects to questions and cues. “What was that crap about my being engaged?”

“April Fool's Day,” Gary answered calmly. He was as mellow as Rex was hyper. “You're supposed to laugh.”

“I'm not laughing. Tell him.” Mark gestured toward the microphone through which Gary communicated with Rex in the broadcast booth.

“Mark says he's not laughing,” Gary reported into the mike. Rex shrugged, his grin unflagging.

“Ask him who this person is—this woman he's announced to all of Boston that I'm marrying. I've never even heard of her!”

“He wants to know who his fiancée is,” Gary relayed to Rex. Rex winked, then swiveled around on his stool and busied himself with the CD racks along the back wall.

Mark gritted his teeth to keep from cursing. “Tell him his ass is toast,” he finally said.

Gary leaned toward his mike and said, “Mark would like to drink a toast to you.” Mark whacked Gary's arm, but Gary was too busy laughing to care.
And Rex was smart enough to keep his back to the window until Mark stormed out of the control booth.

 

C
LAIRE HAD
her coat off before she reached her office. A typical April day—not quite warm, not quite cold, almost sunny but the meteorologists were forecasting a chance of sprinkles. She'd dressed for every possibility, in a sweater set, lightweight wool slacks and her trench coat with its removable lining zipped in. She'd been too hot while riding the T, too cold while strolling across the plaza to City Hall. This must be what menopause was like: springtime in Boston.

“Hey, Claire!” Denise greeted her as she passed through the reception area. “Congratulations!”

Claire smiled vaguely. She had no idea what Denise was congratulating her for, but she'd been raised to acknowledge kind words with a smile. Inside her own tiny office, she flipped the light switch, turned on her computer and hooked her coat over a limb of the coat tree in the corner. Her computer issued a predictable chorus of buzzes and clicks as it warmed up.

“Claire?” Steve LaPina, one of the department's staff engineers, peered into her office. His mouth spread into a huge grin as he spotted her behind her desk, on the verge of settling into her chair. “Get over here, you little sneak!”

“What?” She and Steve were certainly friendly enough to call each other names, but a little sneak? Claire was the least sneaky person she knew. And she was five-eight, hardly little. But Steve's smile was infectious and his arms were spread wide. She
circled her desk and accepted his hug. “What's this all about?”

“What's this all about?” he echoed, then laughed. “It's no secret anymore! Wonderful news! I'm so happy for you!”

Before she could ask him what wonderful news he was so happy about, he released her, gave her chin an affectionate nudge with his knuckles, murmured, “You comely thing, you!” and strolled away, an extra bounce in his step.

Frowning, she returned to her desk and sank into her chair. Her computer monitor displayed the usual array of icons. Her desk calendar lay open to April 1, with a notation about a demolition hearing scheduled for one-thirty that afternoon. Her pens and pencils stood neatly in her beloved Red Sox mug, her framed posters of Faneuil Hall and the Old North Church hung on the wall opposite her…Everything was exactly as she'd left it yesterday. She hadn't won the lottery, hadn't received a promotion, hadn't changed her hairstyle.

So why had Steve and Denise congratulated her?

She swiveled in her chair to reach her radio on the shelf behind her desk, and tuned the dial to WGBH, the public radio station. She needed the soothing strains of classical music to help her clear her thoughts. A Corelli concerto filled her office; she closed her eyes and let the music wash over her.

“Claire!”

She opened her eyes to find her doorway filled with a bouquet of silver helium balloons with “Congratulations!” printed on their shiny surfaces. The balloons entered the room and then she saw who was
carrying them: Meryl, Beryl and JoAnn from Human Resources, all of them grinning so brightly she had to shut her eyes again. Too much silver. Too much joy.

The three women swept into her office, chattering excitedly, pressing the knotted strings of the balloons into her hand. Meryl mentioned something about a shower. Beryl cooed that her mother must be so thrilled. JoAnn issued a lovesick sigh and admitted to being terribly jealous. Then they swept out of her office, leaving her alone, clinging to the balloons.

What?
she thought, panic creeping up her spine into her skull and down into her stomach, churning both her thoughts and the remnants of her breakfast. What was going on?

Maybe she was suffering from amnesia. Maybe she was dreaming this entire morning. Maybe she'd slipped through a wormhole and wound up in an alternate universe.
Why was everyone congratulating her?

“Claire!” yet another well-wisher bellowed through her open door. This visitor was Maggie, one of her closest friends at the Landmarks Commission. “Oh, look at those balloons! Aren't they cute?”

Claire gaped at the balloons, still in a queasy state of disbelief edged with panic. “What am I supposed to do with them?” she asked. “If I let go, they'll fly up to the ceiling.”

“Tie them onto something,” Maggie said helpfully. She eased the strings out of Claire's clenched fist and knotted them around the arm of her desk chair. “Where'd you get them?”

“The trio from Human Resources gave them to
me,” Claire said, shaking her head and lowering her voice. “Maggie, you've got to help me. I have no idea why everyone is congratulating me.”

Maggie finished securing the balloons, then straightened up and stared at Claire. A bit shorter than Claire, a bit older and blessedly grounded, Maggie looked bemused. “You haven't even made a formal announcement, and you've already forgotten?”

“Forgotten what? I don't know what I've forgotten!” Claire realized she was babbling and pressed her lips together. She also closed her door. She didn't want Denise or anyone else outside her office to eavesdrop and conclude that she was demented.