Playing Dirty (34 page)

“I didn’t flake out, see,” he protested. “I knew I
would
flake out. When I was a kid, I didn’t know my limits. Or I didn’t want to know them. I went out for high school football with Owen one year.
That
was interesting.”

He waved to a group of Japanese tourists on the sidewalk, and several of them waved back. Sarah turned around and watched through the back window as they gestured excitedly to each other, realizing who Quentin was, and started chasing the car. She was about to give the driver a twenty to lose them when a hole opened in traffic and he sped ahead.

“Other things trigger my asthma, too,” Quentin went on. “Cigarette smoke is the main one. And once
you’re triggered, getting upset can make asthma worse, but that’s only happened to me twice, thank God. The second time was yesterday, when you threatened to shiv me.”

“Again, I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. It actually wasn’t as bad as the first time. I was mortified.”

“You, mortified?”

“It does happen.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “Was it when Vonnie Conner turned you down?”

“If I’d had an asthma attack because Vonnie Conner turned me down, I would never have shown my face at high school again,” he said. “No, it was at my granddad’s funeral.”

“Oh.” She covered her lips with two fingers and said through them, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. The whole spectacle is pretty funny in retrospect.”

She cut her eyes sideways at him, unable to imagine what was so funny about having an asthma attack at his grandfather’s funeral. “This was pretty recently, right?”

“A little over two years ago,” he confirmed, “right before we signed with the record company. I was a pallbearer, which was somebody else’s mistake, because I was pretty devastated when he died . . . ”

As he trailed off, she nodded sympathetically. She knew how he’d felt.

“After we got our shoulders under the casket, the
closer we got to the church, the more upset I got. I guess I could pretend it wasn’t happening before that, and I was at just another family reunion, but this was final.

“Well, somebody was smoking outside the church, and as we were crossing the threshold, I got a lungful. I couldn’t reach for my inhaler in my pocket because, hello, I was carrying a casket. Normally I could have made it all the way down the aisle without it, but I was so upset already. On top of that, I was terrified of passing out in front of all those people. A lot of them were friends of my granddad’s from Nashville, country music insiders. None of them could have gotten the Cheatin’ Hearts a contract, but I didn’t know that at the time. I was as tense as I’ve ever been, and that’s when I”—he clapped his hands, one on top of the other—“hit the aisle.”

“Oh!” Sarah gasped.

“And then the casket”—he clapped his hands again—“hit the aisle, tumbled end over end, and landed upside down.”

“Oh my God!” Sarah squealed. “Why couldn’t the other five guys hold it up?”

“That’s what
I
said at the emergency room later!” Quentin exclaimed. “They’re all like, ‘Give a dude a nudge when you’re about to faint like a girl, Q,’ and I’m like, ‘There are
six pallbearers
. I was holding up the whole thing myself? You can’t hold it up yourselves if a guy has to pass out? Jesus.’ ” He paused. “My granddad would have loved it, though.”

“No!” Sarah covered her mouth again to hold her laughter in.

“Oh yes. The casket was closed, and they did
not
open it after that to see what had happened to him. But he would have said, ‘You should have left it open, and I would have gone flying!
That’s
showmanship.’ ” As Sarah fought to stop giggling, Quentin reached across the car and poked her gently in the ribs. “All this can be yours now that you know you have allergies, too. You’re just joining the club. Did they tell you in the emergency room that you need venom therapy?”

“Something sinister like that was mentioned, yes.”

“It’s not bad,” he said. “They just give you a shot with a tiny bit of bee venom every few weeks, and increase the dose a little each time. Before long, you’re not allergic to bees anymore. That is, not fatally allergic. That is, if you don’t have an adverse reaction—”

“
That is
, spare me,” she said. “I saw your adrenaline shot with your asthma inhaler in my bag. So I’m covered for now. I’ll just stay out of Central Park.”

She stole another look at him, so handsome and relaxed, friendly green eyes taking everything in. She asked him, “Do you ever think about upping the profile of the foundation? Coming out of the asthma and allergy closet, so to speak? You could do a lot of good. Celebrities are always raising awareness by admitting that they have medical conditions.”

“I’ve been admitting it from the start,” he said.
“All I got for my trouble was rumors about a cocaine addiction. And a multimillion-dollar recording contract.” He chuckled. “I’m not ruling it out, but I’m not too sure how it would go over at this point. You’re the PR expert. Picture this.” He struck a pose as if speaking into a camera. “Hi, I’m Quentin Cox of the Cheatin’ Hearts. You may know me for hit songs like ‘I Want a Leia’ and ‘Honky-tonk Hell.’ What you may not know is that shellfish gives me hives.” He laughed again. “Maybe after the sixth album.”

“Maybe after the Nationally Televised Holiday Concert Event,” she suggested. “Your profile will be much higher. I’ll even get you on a late-night talk show.” She reached over and patted his thigh encouragingly.

He put his warm hand over her hand.

They continued to chat. She wondered whether he had a hard time concentrating on the conversation, as she did. Her whole body centered on her hand touching his hand.

Finally the taxi dropped them off in front of Wendy and Daniel’s restored high-rise. As they waited for the doorman to call upstairs, she exclaimed, “Oh, man, I forgot all about their cat. Are you allergic to cats?”

“No!” he said, pointing at her and beaming.

“Congratulations. How about turtles?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

In the ride up the elevator, she thought to warn him, “Wendy looked okay when I left, but she claims
she gained three hundred pounds in her last week of pregnancy. Expect the worst, Jabba the Hutt.” And by the time she knocked on the door of the loft, it had occurred to Sarah that she should have been warning Quentin about lots of things, a whole drive’s worth, but now she heard footsteps.

Daniel flung open the door and embraced her. Sarah was vaguely concerned about what Quentin might think, but Daniel’s muscles were tense. He needed this hug. She hugged him and rubbed his back.

Eventually, when he let her go, she examined him. He was handsome as ever, but he had dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved, and Daniel
never
skipped shaving. She thought his dark hair might even be a little mussed, but her eyes could have been playing tricks on her. Finally she laughed. “You look tired.”

“You look—” Daniel began in the sexy British accent he slipped into when he was stressed. He shook his head at Quentin. “You didn’t see the before photo, but this is
some
makeover.”

“Shut up,” Sarah said, whacking his arm.

A baby’s high wail sounded closer and closer, and Wendy appeared in the doorway. “Make it stop!” she exclaimed.

Sarah took the baby. The others introduced themselves and baby Asher and herded her out of the foyer to sit on the couch in the living room, but she hardly noticed, lost in the baby who shared her birthday.

She made some attempts at amusing faces, because
this was what she’d seen other people do with babies. Asher had his eyes squeezed shut to wail and couldn’t see her. Wendy and Daniel were talking to Sarah, telling her about Asher. She couldn’t hear anything they were saying over the wail.

Finally she said loudly, “At first I intended to tell you that he’s adorable and tiny, but the screaming is really what you notice.”

“He’s hungry,” Quentin said.

“Don’t even go there, cowboy,” Wendy said. “I just fed him. That’s pretty much all we do around here.”

“You look great,” Sarah told Wendy to draw her off Quentin. It was true. She looked puffy, for Wendy, but far from Jabba-sized.

“Tell me another,” Wendy said disdainfully. “This is Daniel’s shirt. I’m still in maternity pants. And if the grocery store has a rule against bedroom slippers, I’m in trouble.”

Sarah sympathetically examined Wendy’s swollen feet, then gasped in fear. “Where’s the baby?” She looked around frantically. Quentin was holding Asher and jiggling him in his arms. “Give me that!” she said. She took Asher back carefully. When he started wailing again, Sarah wondered whether Quentin was actually good at this.

“The baby’s hungry,” Quentin repeated.

“Stuff it,” Wendy said.

“Have you had help?” Sarah shouted. She didn’t want to yell and upset Asher further, but she wouldn’t be heard otherwise.

“I was sorry to see Daniel’s mother go,” Wendy said. “How sick is that?”

Sarah could barely hear Wendy over the screaming. She asked, “Isn’t this what pacifiers are for?”

“The Lactation League says you’re not supposed to use a pacifier or a bottle for the first month, because it results in
nipple confusion
.” Wendy relished the term. “The baby prefers the pacifier and the bottle and won’t go back to the breast. Personally, I think it is a front for a misogynist group making up terms like
nipple confusion
to thwart me.”

Sarah could tell that Quentin was about to have one of his laughing spells. He was holding his breath and turning red. He cast a wary glance at Daniel.

“And they want you to
express
the milk,” Wendy said. “
Express
it, like it’s going to flow gently out. There is no gentle flow here. If I spun around in circles, I’d look like a lawn sprinkler.”

Quentin snorted. He was about to lose it. Even cool Daniel looked taken aback. Sarah stifled a laugh of her own. This was part of what made their marriage work. After two years, Daniel still wasn’t used to Wendy.

Wendy went on, “And if your boobs hurt from this—shocking!—the Lactation League suggests that you slice up some cucumber and put it on your tits, or should I say
teats
? Can you
believe
this? As far as I’m concerned, there is only one thing a cucumber is good for—”

Sarah and Daniel were both shaking their heads gravely.
Don’t make that joke.

Wendy finished, “—and that’s salad.”

Quentin exploded. He removed himself into the hallway, but his musical laugh rang out through the house.

Daniel, lips pressed together grimly, put his arm around Wendy, hugged her close, and put his hand over her mouth.

She looked up at him with pitiful blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled through his fingers.

“Really?” he asked.

“No.”

Quentin’s laughter only intensified as he reentered the room and witnessed this. Wiping his eyes, he said, “I don’t do this for just anybody, but I’m going to help y’all out. Give me the baby.”

Sarah shot Wendy a look of disbelief as Wendy motioned for her to give Quentin the baby.

“I don’t have a lot to lose at this point,” Wendy explained. “Child-rearing lessons from a childless bachelor? Sounds fine.”

Quentin took Asher. “When you’re trying to feed the baby,” he said, “you probably hold him across you, like this.”

Sarah protested again. “I can’t believe you’re going to take advice on breast-feeding from this—”

Wendy slapped Sarah’s knee and growled at her, “What the hell do you know, Pink? Go on, cowboy.”

“When there was nothing to do at the hospital, sometimes I hung out in the neonatal unit,” Quentin told Sarah self-righteously. She started forward and
suppressed a scream of alarm as he gestured easily to the three of them with the arm holding Asher. “But there’s going to be trouble if it gets out that the lead singer of the Cheatin’ Hearts came to your house and held your baby up to his man-boob.”

Sarah laughed. Daniel laughed. Wendy laughed uproariously, because this was her brand of humor.

“Try holding the baby like a football—okay, you’ve never played football. This doesn’t mean anything to you. Hold the baby like you’d hold your purse if you were downtown, tucked under your arm, like this.” He laid Asher down with Wendy again. Then he turned to Daniel and said, “Let’s go make some snacks.”

Daniel stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

Wendy patted Daniel’s knee. “Go with him, lovah, and you can have a man-chat while I nurse.”

“No, I really make snacks,” Quentin said at the same time Sarah said, “No, he really makes snacks.”

“Oh,” Daniel said, standing up slowly. “I thought it was some Southern term for takeout on speed dial.” He followed Quentin into the kitchen.

Wendy unbuttoned her shirt and held Asher as Quentin had suggested. Asher latched on, and the wailing stopped instantly. Sarah’s ears rang in the silence.

“I think the baby was hungry,” Wendy said. She caught Sarah staring. “I scoff at your cleavage. You and that Erin chick don’t have anything on me.”

In her amazement at Wendy, Asher, and Quentin, Sarah had forgotten all about Erin. She should never forget Erin, she scolded herself.

Wendy gazed down at Asher. “It’s bizarre, isn’t it?”

“Let’s just say I’m glad you’re going first.”

“This is so great,” Wendy said. “Quiet. Contentment. You don’t understand what I’ve been through. Well, yes you do. Picture that screaming nonstop for seventy-two hours. I would feed him and feed him and feed him and take him off and he’d be screaming again in fifteen minutes. Poor baby! It’s so much easier on him now. I can feel it working better. What’s up with your boyfriend the lactation consultant?”

“Hell if I know. He also plays bridge and speaks Hindi.”

“Nice piece of ass, too.”

Sarah grinned. “We shouldn’t curse around the baby.”

“Oh yeah, the baby,” Wendy said. She looked down at Asher again and smiled serenely. “Sometimes when I hold him, the most wonderful, peaceful feeling comes over me, like in a made-for-TV movie on the Lifetime channel. But then . . . I don’t know. I feel like I’m a milk machine and there’s nothing left of what I used to be.”