Glitter Baby (28 page)

“I can’t. My knees are shot, and I can’t jump anymore, so I usually get pulled from the game before the third quarter is over. They only put up with me because I bought the uniforms.”

As they slipped around a delivery truck blocking the sidewalk, Fleur thought about how much she liked Jake’s self-deprecating sense of humor. Next to his body, it was the best thing about him. His body and his no-nonsense masculinity. And his face. She loved his face. What she didn’t love was his manipulative behavior and two-bit morality. He’d taken her to the mountaintop, then shoved her off. But she couldn’t keep rehashing the past. She had a job to do, and she’d left him alone long enough. “I haven’t noticed a typewriter banging away over my head since you moved in.”

“Don’t push me, okay?” His face closed up.

She thought for a moment and decided to take a risk. “I’m having a dinner party on Saturday night. Why don’t you come?” She’d was just getting around to throwing the party she and Kissy had discussed at the open house, the one that would allow Michel and Simon to get to know each other. Being among congenial people might be a good first step toward loosening Jake up. And the others would entertain him so she wouldn’t have to.

“Sorry, Flower, but formal dinner parties aren’t my thing.”

“It’s not exactly formal. The guests cook. It’ll just be Michel, Simon Kale, and Kissy. I invited Charlie Kincannon, but he’s going to be out of town.”

“Do you really know somebody named Kissy?”

“I guess you didn’t meet her at Charlie’s beach party. She’s my best friend. Although…” She hesitated. “It might be best not to walk into any dark rooms with her.”

“An interesting comment to make about a friend. Care to explain?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” They shot past a woman walking a pair of Chihuahuas. “Pick up the pace. One of us has to work today.”

They ran for a while without talking. Finally Jake looked over at her. “My publicist sent me some press clippings I just got around to reading. You and I were a pretty hot item in the New York gossip columns at the end of the summer.”

“Really?” Those columns had appeared more than two months ago. She’d wondered when he’d get around to mentioning them.

“You’re not a good enough actress to pull off the innocent act.”

“Sure I am.”

He reached out and caught her arm, pulling her to a stop. “You planted those stories.”

“I needed the publicity.”

His chest rose and fell under his T-shirt as he steadied his breathing. “You know how I feel about my privacy.”

“Technically I didn’t violate your privacy since none of the stories were true.”

He didn’t crack a smile. “I don’t like cheap tricks.”

“That’s funny. I thought you invented them.”

His mouth tightened in an unfriendly line. “Keep my name out of the newspapers, Fleur. Consider this your only warning.” He turned away and took off across the street.

“I’m not your publicist, remember?” she called out after him. “All I represent is your pathetic literary career.”

He picked up his pace and didn’t look back.

To Fleur’s surprise,
Jake was the first to arrive for her Saturday night dinner party, knocking on the door at precisely eight o’clock. Although she’d taken the precaution of tucking a few bottles of Mexican beer in the refrigerator, she hadn’t really expected him to show up. He wore semirespectable dark gray slacks and a lighter gray long-sleeved dress shirt that made his eyes seem bluer. He thrust a gift-wrapped package into her hands as he took in her ivory wool trousers and copper silk blouse. “Don’t you ever look bad?”

She frowned at the package. “Should I call the bomb squad?”

“Stop being a wise-ass and open it.”

She pulled off the gift wrap to reveal a fresh new copy of
The Joy of Cooking.
“Just what I’ve always not wanted.”

“I knew you’d love it.”

He followed her into the kitchen, and she put the cookbook on the counter. Considering her limited personal resources, she loved how welcoming everything looked. She’d waxed the old harvest table until the dark wood shone. At a secondhand store, she’d found a chipped bean pot that she’d filled with chrysanthemums to use as a centerpiece. The
store had also yielded up a charming set of faded tan and olive checked tea towels for placemats. She smelled Jake’s clean shirt and toothpaste as he came up behind her. She started as his hands lifted the back of her hair and touched her neck just beneath the collar of her blouse.

“Jeez, you’re jumpy.” Something small and cool settled between her breasts. She looked down and saw a trumpet-shaped blue and green enamel flower hanging on a thin gold chain. Tiny diamonds sparkled on the blossoms like dew. As she turned to him, she glimpsed something soft and unguarded in his expression. The present slipped away, and for a moment it seemed as if they’d returned to the time when things were easy between them. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “You didn’t have to—”

“No big deal. It’s a morning glory. I’ve noticed that’s not your best time of day.” He turned away, ending the moment.

The morning glory charm slipped from her fingers. Just for a moment, she’d let down her guard. She wouldn’t let it happen again.

“How’s come I don’t smell food?” he said. “Should I be worried?”

“The cook hasn’t arrived yet,” she replied lightly.

Right on cue, the front buzzer rang, and she hurried to open it.

“I’ve brought my own knives,” Michel said. Tonight he wore khakis and a long-sleeved blue T-shirt with a narrow piece of what had once been a man’s striped necktie sewn diagonally across the chest. He headed for the kitchen. “I found these wonderful grapes at this little hole-in-the-wall off Canal Street. Did you go to the fish market I told you about for the halibut?”

“Aye, aye, sir.” As he set the grocery bag on the counter, she saw how tired he looked, and she was glad she’d planned this evening for him. He spotted Jake.

“Michel, you remember Jake Koranda. I disarmed him at the door, so feel free to insult him as much as you want.”

Jake smiled and shook hands with Michel.

Simon arrived five minutes later. As luck would have it, he’d seen every Caliber picture and barely noticed Michel in his eagerness to talk with Jake. Michel, in the meantime, was getting ready to cook and treating Fleur to a long list of mishaps he was absolutely convinced would ruin his collection. In terms of matchmaking, the evening wasn’t getting off to a promising start.

Kissy appeared and headed for the kitchen. “Sorry I’m late, but Charlie called me from Chicago just as I was leaving.”

“Things must be improving,” Fleur said. “At least you’re talking again.”

Kissy looked glum. “I think I’ve lost my touch. No matter what I do, he—” She broke off as she saw Jake leaning against the counter. “Ohmygod.”

Fleur rescued a spoon Michel had dropped. “Kissy, meet Jake Koranda. Jake, Kissy Sue Christie.”

Kissy was all gumdrop eyes and candy apple mouth as she stared up at Jake. An oil slick of a grin spread over his face. Kissy looked like a kindergarten snack. “My pleasure.” She smiled her dippy what’s-your-name-sailor-boy smile, and Jake puffed up like a rooster.

Fleur should have been amused. Instead she felt as if she were thirteen again, taller than the other girls, gawky and awkward with bruised elbows, bandaged knees, and a face too big for her body. Kissy, on the other hand, looked like a teenage boy’s wet dream, and, before long, she and Jake were making the salad together while Simon acted as bartender. Fleur fought her jealousy as she helped Michel fix one of his signature dishes, fish with grapes in a vermouth butter sauce.

When Jake and Simon started talking about horses, Kissy slipped to Fleur’s side. “He’s even hotter in person than he is on the screen. That man belongs in the Hunk Hall of Fame.”

“His tooth is crooked,” Fleur retorted.

“I’ll bet nothing else is.”

Everyone except Fleur had a wonderful time. Michel and Simon finally began to talk over Michel’s spectacular halibut dish, and as the breadbasket made its second pass, they were listing their favorite restaurants. Before long, they’d begun a casual discussion about checking out a trendy place in the East Village. Kissy tried to catch Fleur’s eye for a congratulatory salute, but Fleur pretended not to notice.

Kissy and Jake were trading jokes as if they’d known each other for years. Then they began comparing notes about a new singer they both liked. Why didn’t they just go to bed and get it over with?

When it was time for dessert, Fleur brought out a French almond cake she’d bought that afternoon at her favorite bakery. Everyone loved it, but she could barely eat a bite. She suggested they take their Irish coffee into the living room. Kissy sat on the couch. Normally Fleur would have sat next to her, but now she grabbed one of the big floor pillows instead, leaving the rest of the couch free for Jake, who immediately claimed it.

Everyone except Fleur started arguing about the all-time best rock groups. Her unhappiness settled into a lump in the pit of her stomach that she didn’t want to examine too closely. Kissy sent her a sympathetic smile. Fleur looked away.

Kissy cleared her throat. “Fleurinda, you promised I could borrow your amber earrings. Show me where they are before I walk off without them.”

Fleur hadn’t promised Kissy any such thing, and she started to say so, only to find herself on the receiving end of one of Kissy’s steel magnolia glares. She wouldn’t put it past her former friend to stage a scene, so she rose reluctantly and followed Kissy to the bedroom.

When they got there, Kissy crossed her arms over her pillowy breasts. “You’d better get that whipped puppy look off your face right now, or I swear to God, I’m going back in that living room and French him right in front of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kissy looked at her with disgust. “I’m about ready to give up on you. You’re twenty-six. That’s too old not to know yourself better.”

“I know myself just fine.”

Instead of responding, Kissy started tapping the toe of one bright red ballet flat. Fleur felt herself wilt. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“You should be. You’re acting crazy.”

“You’re right. And I don’t even know why.”

“Because you’re green-eyed jealous, that’s why.”

“I’m not jealous! Not the way you mean anyway.”

Kissy wasn’t having it. “Since when have you ever known me not to flirt with a good-looking guy, let alone a man like that? Yummy. And what did you do? Not one thing, that’s what. You just slinked off into the corner. I’m ashamed of you.”

Fleur was ashamed of herself, too. “It wasn’t about Jake. I’m not that stupid. It was about feeling like an overgrown teenager again.”

“I’m not buying it,” Magnolia Blossom said. “Don’t you think it’s time you stop kidding yourself and take a hard look at your feelings for that gorgeous man sitting in your living room?”

“My feelings for him are made up of dollar signs. Really, Kissy. I’ve practically lost Olivia, and the only clients who want me to represent them are ones I don’t want to represent, like that cretin Shawn Howell. Jake’s not even pretending to write, and—” She stopped. “That’s no excuse. I’m sorry, Kissy. You’re right. I’ve been acting infantile. Forgive me.”

Kiss finally softened. “All right. But only because I feel the same way every time I see you and Charlie together.”

“Charlie and me? Why?”

Kissy sighed and refused to meet Fleur’s eyes. “He likes you so much, and I know I can’t compete with you when it comes to looks. Every time I see the two of you talking, I feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

Fleur didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “It seems like I’m not the only one who doesn’t know herself very well.” She gave Kissy a bear hug, then glanced at her watch. “
Butch Cassidy
is on television tonight. If I’m calculating right, we should be able to take a peek, then get back to the party before we’re missed. Do you want to indulge?”

“You bet.” Kissy flipped on the small television perched on a secondhand table in the corner of the bedroom. “Do you think we’re getting too old for this?”

“Probably. We should give it up for Lent.”

“Or not.”

The Hole-in-the-Wall Gang had just robbed the Overland Flyer, and Paul Newman’s Butch, along with Robert Redford’s mustachioed Sundance Kid, were drinking on the balcony of the whorehouse. Kissy and Fleur settled on the edge of the bed as the schoolteacher Etta Place climbed the steps to her small frame house, lit the lamp inside, and unfastened the top buttons of her shirtwaist. When she reached her bedroom, she pulled off the garment and hung it in the closet. Then she turned and screamed as she saw the chiseled features of the Sundance Kid staring menacingly at her from across the room.

“Keep going, Teacher Lady,” he said.

She stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. Slowly he picked up his gun and leveled it at her. “That’s okay. Don’t mind me. Keep on going.”

She hesitantly unfastened the long undergarment and then stepped out of it. Clasping it modestly in front of her, she tried to hide her eyelet-trimmed camisole from the outlaw’s eyes.

“Let down your hair,” he ordered.

She dropped the undergarment and pulled out the hairpins.

“Shake your head.”

No sensible woman was going to argue with the Sundance Kid when he had a pistol trained on her belly, and the schoolteacher did as she was told. All she had left was the camisole, and Sundance didn’t have to talk. He raised his pistol and cocked the hammer.

Etta slowly opened the low row of buttons until the camisole parted in a V. Sundance’s hands moved to his waist. He unfastened his gun belt and pushed it aside, then stood and approached her. He slipped his hands inside the open garment.

“Do you know what I wish?” Etta asked.

“What?”

“
That once you’d get here on time!
”

As Etta threw her arms around Redford’s neck, Fleur sighed and got up to turn off the set. “It’s hard to believe that scene was written by a man, isn’t it?”

Kissy gazed at the blank screen. “William Goldman’s a great screenwriter, but I’ll bet anything his wife wrote that scene while he was in the shower. What I wouldn’t give…”

“Uhmm. It’s the ultimate female sexual fantasy.”

“All that male sexual menace coming from a lover you know will never hurt you.” Kissy licked her lips.

Fleur touched her morning glory necklace. “Too bad they don’t make men like that anymore.”

Jake stood in the hallway outside the partially opened door and listened to the two women. He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but Fleur had looked funny all evening, and they were gone so long he’d decided to check up on her. Now he was sorry. This was exactly the kind of conversation a man should never hear. What did women want? In public the rhetoric was all about male sensitivity and equal
ity, but in private, here they were, two intelligent women having orgasms over caveman macho.

Maybe he was a little jealous. He was one of the biggest box office draws of the decade, and he was living right above Fleur Savagar’s head, but all she wanted to do was take verbal potshots at him. He wondered if Redford had to put up with this kind of crap. If there was any justice in the world, Redford was sitting in front of his television someplace in Sundance, Utah, watching his wife go melty-eyed over one of Bird Dog Caliber’s rough-’em-up love scenes. The thought gave him a small moment of satisfaction, but, as he slipped away, the emotion faded. No matter how you looked at it, this wasn’t the easiest time to be a man.

The next morning Jake showed up to run with her, but as they made their way around the Central Park Reservoir, he barely spoke. She had to find some way to motivate him to at least attempt to write. When they returned to the house, she impulsively invited him in for Sunday morning breakfast. Maybe he’d be more communicative with a full stomach. But he declined.

“That’s right,” she replied coolly. “Your schedule’s been a real killer lately with all that time you’re spending pounding away at your typewriter.”

He tugged open the zipper of his sweatshirt. “You don’t know anything.”

“Are you even trying to write?”

“For your information, I’ve already filled up a legal pad.”

Jake composed at the typewriter, and she didn’t believe him. “Show me.”

He scowled and brushed past her into the house.

She showered, then slipped into jeans and her favorite cable-knit sweater. She’d been so preoccupied with Michel’s collection, Olivia’s skittishness, and trying to anticipate Alexi’s next move that she hadn’t focused on the prob
lem over her head. Jake Koranda had made a deal with her to start writing again, and he wasn’t following through.

At ten o’clock, she went out into the front hallway and unlocked the door that led to the attic apartment. He didn’t answer when she knocked at the top of the stairs. She slipped her key in the lock.

The attic was a large, open space lit by both a skylight and smaller, rectangular windows on two sides. Fleur hadn’t been up here since Jake had moved in, and she saw that he’d furnished it sparsely with a few comfortable chairs, a bed, a long couch, and an L-shaped arrangement of desk and table that held a typewriter and a ream of paper still in its wrapper.