Mr. Fix-It (22 page)

“It’s okay,” Daphne said. “I thought he was faking, until I couldn’t wake him up.”

“Is he okay with it?”

“He’s really excited.” Daphne’s footsteps became heavier as she moved to a less populated section of the store.

“Why aren’t you?” Khela sat on a padded bench, patting the space beside her to encourage Daphne to sit.

Opting to stand, Daphne paced in front of the bench.

“I’m scared, Khela.”

“It’s natural to be—”

“No, I’m really terrified!” Daphne clapped her hands to her abdomen. “There’s a person in here! And it’s a tough person. Lew and I used protection every time, but somehow this baby got itself made. A little tough person is going to come out of me and expect me to do all kinds of stuff I’ve never done before. I have
never
changed a diaper. I’ve
never
stuck my breast in someone’s mouth!”

“Um,” Khela mused, “so Llewellyn’s not big on foreplay, is he?”

“You know what I mean! I’ve never had milk shoot outta my tits!”

A tall, thin sales associate in a butter-yellow sleeveless dress skittered into view, wringing her hands fretfully. “Ladies, I don’t suppose I could ask you to take your conversation outside? We try to maintain a happy atmosphere in I/Deux, and I’m afraid the substance of your conversation is upsetting some of our other customers.”

Daphne, her hormones swinging in yet another direction, turned on the saleslady.

“You want to get me outta here, lady?” she raged. “Bag that size four Junko Yoshioka, and I’ll be out of your store and out of your life forever!”

“Will that be cash or charge?” the saleslady asked with a big, bright smile.

Daphne got her credit card from her purse and handed it to the saleslady, who took it and vanished.

“I guess we can continue our tit talk now that Big Bird can count on a four-figure commission,” Khela said. “Are you sure you want that dress? You barely looked at it.”

“I’ve had my eye on that dress ever since Llewellyn proposed,” Daphne admitted.

“Then why the hell did you beg me to come dress shopping with you today?”

“It wasn’t about the dress,” Daphne said. “I wanted to tell you about the baby.” She slapped her hands to her face. “I can’t believe I’m having a baby.”

Daphne plopped down on the bench, sitting close to Khela. “I thought Lew and I would have a few years to spend together before we had children.”

Khela grinned. “In nine months, you’ll be welcoming a bouncing baby antiques expert into the world.”

“What will you be doing, Khela?” Daphne asked, her tone somber.

“I don’t understand.”

“What will you be doing? Will you still be having marathon sex with Carter? Or will you have built something more meaningful?”

“What is this?” Khela bristled. “It’s all very new between me and Carter. We’ve gone from three years of polite passes in the hallway to tickling and tumbling between the sheets. We put the whole two-week thing to rest, but—”

“You deserve more than a friend with bene—”

“Here you go, Miss Carr,” Big Bird interrupted, appearing with a credit slip for Daphne to sign and a freshly bagged wedding gown.

Daphne scrawled her signature, took the customer copy and the dress, and gave Big Bird the merchant copy and her silver I/Deux pen.

“Enjoy the dress, my dear, and have a lovely, lovely wedding day!” Big Bird called after Daphne as she and Khela exited the store.

“Carter and I aren’t just friends with benefits,” Khela said. “We genuinely care for each other. Everything we do together, we do out of—”

“Love?”

“Yes,” Khela said defiantly, yet knowing in every part of her brain and heart that her answer was true. On her end, at any rate.

“Have you told him?” Daphne stepped closer to the curb to hail a taxi.

“Told who what?” Khela asked evasively.

“Have you told Carter that you love him?”

“Yes.” Khela stared at her feet as she answered. “Not so much in words, but in other ways.”

“Oh, yeah? Words are your specialty. If you haven’t told him in words, how did you do it?”

“Liberal amounts of Prixy Dust,” Khela answered as a Yellow Cab eased to a stop in front of Daphne.

* * *

The same Yellow Cab that delivered Daphne and her new wedding gown to her near-empty apartment in Cambridge then took Khela to her brownstone, where Carter was waiting for her in the lobby.

Dressed in pleated khaki trousers, a crisp white shirt and black Hugo Boss wing tips, Carter looked dashing yet casual—exactly as he should to accompany Khela to her reading and signing at the Dorian S. Fielder House in Brookline.

“You don’t need to change or anything, do you?” he asked, hurrying down the stairs in front of the building to meet Khela at the curb. “We’re cutting it awfully close.”

“No, I’m wearing what I have on.” Charmed by his concern for her schedule, Khela executed a quick pirouette to give him a full view of her white sundress and Espadrilles.

Carter’s approving smile earned him a kiss on the cheek.

“Calm down,” she told him. “I’ve done this hundreds of times.”

“Well, this is my first time, and I don’t want to be late.” He opened the door of the cab for her and helped her into it. He scooted in beside her and gave the driver the address in Brookline.

Khela found herself enjoying the luxury of having someone manage things for her. She settled back in what seemed to be the cleanest cab in Boston, resting her head on Carter’s shoulder. Preoccupied with making sure the driver took the most expeditious route rather than a more time-consuming scenic route, Carter wasn’t the best travel companion. Khela was glad when they finally arrived at the Fielder House.

“You don’t have to stay,” she offered as they walked the long stone path leading to the house. The tree-lined driveway leading up to the burnt yellow Federal-era home was filled with cars, a clear indication that Khela’s publicist had done a good job in getting the word out about Khela’s appearance. “This probably won’t be much fun. It’s not like the convention. This is an event for readers, not industry folk. It’s a very different crowd.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, of course not. It’s just…It won’t be like the convention.”

“I Googled this place,” he told her. “Dorian Fielder was one of the first women in America to publish a book under her own name. Of course, it helped that her name was also a man’s name.”

“You’re quite the researcher,” Khela said.

At the door, Carter offered his arm. “Ready, darlin’?”

Smiling, she looped her arm through his and let him ring the doorbell.

A short, stout woman in a sky-blue twinset, a white twill skirt that matched her white hair and white Keds opened the door. She had eyes only for Khela, and her bright-red painted lips pulled into a huge smile.

“Khela Halliday, we’re so excited to have you here this afternoon!” the woman said, taking Khela’s free arm. Snatching her free of Carter, she pulled her into the entrance hall. “We’ve got a full house, standing room only. Your publisher sent us twice as many books as we requested, and doggone if we didn’t go and sell them all!”

“It’s all for a good cause,” Khela said, “so it works out well for everyone.”

“We can begin whenever you’re ready,” the woman said. “Can I get you a beverage, or something to snack on, or—”

“If you could just show me where I can put my handbag, that would be great,” Khela said.

“I can hold that for you,” Carter offered, taking her purse and her hand.

The older woman flinched, as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh, are you Mr. Halliday?” she greeted. “I’m sorry; I didn’t greet you properly at the door. I was too caught up in the excitement of meeting Khela.”

“He’s not Mr. Halliday,” Khela said. “We’re not married.”

“Oh.” The woman looked from Khela to Carter, then offered another wide smile. “Well, you sure look as if you should be. Your adoring fans await, Miss Halliday. Let’s not disappoint them.”

Khela gave Carter an apologetic smile, which he didn’t have time to acknowledge, before Khela’s guide opened a pair of heavy wooden doors. Exuberant applause welcomed Khela to her reading. Her guide once more pulled her free of Carter and dragged her into the center of the noise.

* * *

This event wasn’t a thing like the convention or the lecture at Crispus Attucks High.

The Fielder House was on a street lined with big, Federal-era homes situated at the end of long driveways or behind enormous, well-tended lawns. While Carter took a tour of the historic house, admiring its post-and-beam construction, the decorative mantels and woodwork, and the Sheraton and Hepplewhite furnishings, Khela held court as though she had been recently coronated. In a manner of speaking, she had. In winning the Torchbearer Award, she had become a hot commodity in romance reading circles.

She read a lengthy passage from her upcoming release,
A Runaway Romance
, and then signed copies of her books for two hours.

Carter had “heard” all of her books in her voice as he’d read them, but this was the first time he’d actually listened to her read her work. Her words, wrapped in the seductive rasp of her voice, captivated the audience. Her listeners had fallen so far into her tale that they remained still for a long moment at the end of her reading. Then applause erupted and shook the rafters.

Carter, perhaps, clapped loudest of all. He kept his distance, nursing a tall iced tea while Khela signed books and chatted with readers. Her female fans generally opened with a compliment, telling her their names or the name of the person to whom they wanted the book signed. They made small talk while Khela personalized the signing, and upon receiving the book, they thanked her and moved on.

As the afternoon wore on and Khela began mingling with her readers, Carter noticed that her male fans had a very different approach. They stalked her, waiting to catch her alone, at which point they would move in to offer a drink, a morsel to eat, or a business card. Khela was polite and charming, but in a way that left Carter wondering how she had managed to turn off the full force of her personality.

He was thankful that she didn’t have it on full force when he entered the formal parlor, where Khela stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows talking to a man in a suit. Recognizing him as Fielder House executive director Bradford Sullivan from the photo prominently displayed opposite Khela’s in the program, Carter detested him on sight.

His hair was so dark and neat, Carter was convinced that it probably snapped on and off like that of a Ken doll. His suit was tailored better than those Detrick owned, and Detrick never bought less than the best. Sullivan was very tan, and Carter guessed that it was from hours spent on a golf course or tennis court, perhaps even a yacht.

The worst thing about him, though, was his laugh. His booming guffaw carried through the house, and Carter seethed as he watched him laugh outrageously at everything Khela said.

“I believe in honesty,” Sullivan said, his enunciation slick with the polish of his overpriced Ivy League education, “and I’m going to tell you right now that I’ve never read one of your books.”

“Neither has Mahatma Ghandi,” Khela retorted, clutching a glass of iced tea close to her chest. The gesture served to keep more distance between herself and the executive director, who was doing his best to press in on her personal space.

Sullivan laughed, and his amplitude blew Khela back a foot or so. “You’re quite an intriguing young lady, Miss Halliday,” he announced. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”

“Miss,” Khela confirmed, stepping back as he took a half step forward. “Or Ms., I’m not picky.”

“As executive director of the Fielder House, I’m rather well connected in Boston’s more elite literary circles,” he said. “I’ve boosted the careers of many a New England pen friend. Lark Johannes, Peggy Cannondale, Selena Juarez and Orinda Kolo have all placed themselves in my capable hands.”

“They’re all good writers,” Khela said. “I actually read Orinda’s biography. It was quite moving. She put a human face on the situation so many thousands of children face in war-torn African nations.”

“Orinda is really quite special to me,” Sullivan said. “She came to this country having suffered brutalities in her homeland that I know I couldn’t have survived.” He moved closer to Khela, brushing her bare arm with the sleeve of his pricey sports jacket. “Orinda’s strength and heart blew me away. She’s the reason I started the Children’s Relief Agency.”

Khela stood a bit taller. “You’re behind CRA?”

“I don’t publicize it, but yes.” Bradford took a step closer to her. “The proceeds from today’s book sales will fund travel, healthcare and educational expenses for some of the child soldiers we’ve relocated from Uganda.
A Runaway Romance
will help a dozen children reclaim their lives.”

“That’s one of the advantages to writing,” Khela said. She caught Carter’s eye around Bradford’s shoulder and waved him over. “My work on its own can’t change the world, but the revenues it generates can.”

“Hey,” Carter said, standing beside Khela and slipping his arm around her waist.

“Mr. Sullivan,” Khela said, “this is Carter Radcliffe.”

Bradford spent another moment gazing at Khela before his eyes shifted to Carter’s shoulder. Where Khela’s handbag dangled at his side.

“Pleasure,” Bradford said, giving Carter’s hand a polite shake. “Are you an author, too?”

“No, I actually own a couple of properties in Boston,” Carter said.

“That’s how we met,” Khela told Bradford. “I moved into one of Carter’s buildings on Comm Ave.”

“Commonwealth Avenue?” Bradford said, his interest in Carter now piqued. “Fine real estate in that part of Boston.”

“It’s not so bad around here, either,” Carter said. “I imagine half the homes on this block are in the National Register of Historic Places. My brownstone was nominated for the register last year.”

“It’s a beautiful building, and Carter takes very good care of it.” Khela placed her hand over his, which was on her right hip.

“We organize a house tour every fall to raise money for the Children’s Relief Agency,” Bradford said, speaking more to Khela than Carter. “We’re scouting locations now. Would you be interested in having strangers parade through your building at a hundred dollars a head? The proceeds go to a very good cause.”