Rita Hayworth's Shoes (8 page)

She held him close and nuzzled into his luscious neck and breathed him in. David seemed as remote to her now as the Congo. If only Brendan had been a mute.

“Baby, driving you is like driving a Beemer,” he, well, beamed.

Feeling the best defense would be a quick offense, Amy mounted him again, pressing her lips firmly against his to silence him.

Later that night, he turned to her and said, “I gotta get going. I hope we can do this again,” he said, and kissed her.

She smiled. “I don't see why not.” Although she could see all the many reasons swirling around them like a swarm of mosquitoes.

He got up and she watched his incredible body as he dressed himself. All the taut muscles and perfect skin glistening in the moonlight. A Calvin Klein underwear ad right there in her bedroom. A gorgeous specimen of physical perfection.

He took up an eyeliner pencil and piece of paper from her dresser and scribbled something down. He handed it to her. “Here you go,” he smiled. “I hope you'll use this. A lot.”

She grabbed it from him and smiled. She read what he had written and was puzzled. “I didn't know you spelled your name with an ‘i',” she said.

“Huh,” he said, as he grabbed the paper back from her and shook his head. “Why do I always do that?”

“So what if he can't spell his own name. Sounds like it was a miracle of a night. Just what you needed,” Jane said on the other end of the phone.

“He's very sweet. Really. But he's kind of a pinhead.”

“Is he small where it counts?”

“Well. No. But he hasn't read a book since high school. Even then—”

“Look kiddo, not everyone's going to satisfy you on all levels. David read all the time but he was deadwood in bed—your assessment, not mine.”

“Still. I have to believe it's possible to have both.”

“Sex and Sophocles.”

“Something like that.”

“You don't have to
love
him, Amy. Sheesh. Just
enjoy
him.”

“I do enjoy him. I guess I do.”

“So, are you going to see him again?”

Amy looked up to see Hannah hovering again. “Gotta go. Hannah's here. Call you later.”

“What?” Amy snapped at Hannah, and actually felt bad about how harshly.

“I came to say good-bye,” Hannah said. “Well, I mean not now. But soon.”

“You have a new job?”

“Not exactly. An expedition,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Did I ever tell you that there are more than forty tribes in Amazonia that have never had any contact whatsoever with the civilized world? At all? I mean, who knows what kinds of peoples are hanging out down there in the jungle, just waiting to be discovered! It's…” Hannah gushed, then sensing her enthusiasm was one-sided, she shook her head dismissively. “Boring, really. You wouldn't care.”

“No. Probably not,” Amy said distractedly, not looking up. “So, when you do leave?”

“A couple of weeks.”

Just then, Deck came out of his office. “Wow,” he said. “What happened to you?” he asked Amy.

She blushed. “Just a little makeover,” she said, a little embarrassed.

“Huh,” he said, looking her up and down. “Nice shoes,” he said, and then turned to Hannah, who was glaring at him. “Have we met?”

“You remember Hannah?” said Amy. “From the wake?”

“Sure,” he said, now sizing up Hannah. “How are you?”

Hannah responded coolly. “Just fine. Thanks.”

Hannah continued to glare at Deck as he eyed her guardedly.

“I guess I should go,” said Hannah, not willing to break the stare-down. “Lots of arrangements. Shots and stuff.”

“Me too,” said Deck, finally looking away. He headed down the hall and stopped after a few steps. He turned to Amy. “By the way, I read your dissertation. This weekend.”

“You did what?” Amy asked.

“It's on file here,” he said. “What? You didn't know that? And here I thought you were too smart for this job.”

“I know it's on file. What would make you look for it?”

“Heimlich's files. The ones you missed. His notes intrigued me so I had to see for myself.”

“Creepy,” Hannah whispered.

“Why didn't you finish?” he asked. “Why didn't you do your defense?”

“I don't know. Too busy, I guess.”

“Really?” he asked, a twinge of sarcasm in his voice. “Too busy?”

“Sure.”

A strange darkness came over his face as he marched determinedly toward her and stared right into her eyes. “I guess you didn't really want it then,” he accused, the volume of his voice shockingly elevated. “Because I fought like hell for mine,” he barked and walked off.

“There's something wrong with that guy,” said Hannah. “I don't trust him.”

“Deck? Come on. He's mostly harmless,” she said, and then giggled at her own joke.

Hannah looked at her, puzzled. “Mostly harmless. Like Earth?”

“Huh?”

“Douglas Adams?
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
? The blip of an assessment of the planet Earth? Two words in a guidebook tens of thousands of pages long?”

Hannah just shook her head and Amy rolled her eyes. She imagined her assessment of Deck was accurate, that his size probably made him seem more terrifying than he actually meant to be. But after that peculiar outburst, she didn't fully believe it herself.

“I don't think so. I can't quite put my finger on it,” said Hannah, shaking her head. “But there's something… I don't know. Missing.”

“What? As in his hair? Give me a break.”

“Oh, my God,” said Hannah, a realization dawning. “You like him, don't you?”

“I don't.”

“Yes, you do. I thought so at the wake but now it's totally obvious.”

“I don't
like
him. Not like that. And for your information, I just had the most sensational weekend of my life with this amazing-looking guy who—”

“You mean the one that can't spell his own name?”

“How did you…”

“Thin walls,” Hannah laughed. “See you later,” she said and walked off.

Minutes later, Deck returned with two coffees and placed one on her desk.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Amy said in an exaggerated tone, looking toward her back wall. “How thoughtful of you.”

Deck smirked at her and looked in the same direction. “Why are you shouting?”

“What? Oh, nothing” she said.

“Were you able to pull that file I asked you about yesterday?”

“Oh, that. No sorry,” she looked away. “I guess I forgot.”

“You forget a lot of things.”

“That's not true,” she squeaked, defensively. “Just what are you trying to say?”

“The minutes of the last department meeting?”

She looked at him blankly.

“You were supposed to transcribe them? And email them to everyone?”

“Oh, right,” she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth a few times as she looked around—anywhere but at him. “Sorry.”

He laughed. “Don't worry, I know it's total mind-numbing minutiae. Why don't we do them together. Are you free now?”

She relaxed. “Let me finish up this other email and I'll be right in.”

A few minutes later, Amy entered Deck's barely unpacked office to find him stooped over his desk, where a Scrabble board and tiles were set for two. “What are you doing?” she asked.

He looked up to give her a quick smile. “Scrabble. You familiar with it?”

“Duh.”

“I'm in the middle of a pretty heated match.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she said, feeling awkward. “I didn't realize you had someone here.”

“I don't.”

“I'm confused. Then your friend just left?”

“I play myself.”

She scrunched up her face. “Why? Are you that good?”

He laughed and moved to the other side of the board. “No, actually. It's because I'm that bad.” He looked at her. “No one will play with me.”

“But you have a doctorate in English.”

“And I'm remedial at best at Scrabble. I really love this game. And I practice all the time. But alas,” he shrugged, “I'm terrible.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Is that a challenge? Because I assure you, if you ever need a boost to your intellect, just come in and challenge me to a game of Scrabble.” He folded the board and swept the tiles back into the small silver bag. “Wanna see?”

“Aren't these supposed to be
work
hours?”

“It won't take hours. It will barely take minutes.”

“Okay, let's go.”

Deck let Amy choose her letters first, explaining that really, it wouldn't matter. She quickly played her move. “Twenty-two points. Not a bad start,” she smiled.

“So, why the change?” Deck asked bluntly.

“It was just time, I guess,” she replied casually, and he placed down his tiles: NADIR.

“Now why would you do that?” she asked. “You just set me up for a triple word score! I mean, thank you. But, come on.”

“You have to admit it's a pretty good word.”

“But that's not the point of the game. Who cares if it's a twenty-dollar word if it only buys you six points?”

“I guess I do.”

“And this is why you're no good,” she teased. She laid down a Q a U and a T, using his triple word set up.

“Now that's an idiotic word.”

“That's a forty point word.”

He considered this. “Did I mention I was terrible at Scrabble?”

She laughed. As he played his next turn, she glanced around his office. “It looks like you're making some progress settling in.”

“I'll get there eventually,” he said. “Right now there are more pressing matters. Your turn.”

She looked back at the board, disgusted. “How can you lay down an X and a Z and only get nineteen points for it?”

“It's zax. It's brilliant!”

“It's infuriating,” she said. “I'm done.”

“And this is why I end up playing by myself,” he said, and folded the board.

“You are a big baby, aren't you?” she chided playfully and rose out of her chair.

“I guess I am.”

“So do you need help organizing any of this or putting it away?” she asked, glancing around at things already unpacked. Among them, she spotted a framed photo of a man smiling on the beach, toned and tall, with warm blue eyes and a thick mane of shaggy black hair. She did a double take.

“Yes, that's me,” he said, walking over to her. “That
was
me at least.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean…”

He took the photo from her hands. “She took that photo. Marny. My ex,” he said. “Our honeymoon.”

“Wow,” she said. “You looked
really
good,” she nearly gushed. Seeing his expression darken, she realized using the past tense had probably been a stupid thing to do.

He placed the photo back in a box. “I know what you want to ask, so ask already.”

“Ask what?”

“My, haven't you become the coy one with this fancy new look.”

“I don't know what you mean,” she said, evasively.

He grabbed up a marker and the Scrabble score pad from the desk, and began scribbling furiously on it. He held up the pad. It read: ASK ME.

She shrugged, nervously. “Ask you what? What are you talking about?”

He scribbled again: ABOUT MY HAIR.

Amy was mortified. “What hair?”

“Aha!” he said. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

“I didn't mean…”

“This is almost too easy.”

“It's not from chemo, is it?”

“That's just what you need. Two dead bosses in one year.”

“Cancer isn't funny.”

“No. I don't suppose it is.”

“So what is it?”

“I have something called alopecia,” he explained. “The latest thinking is that it's an autoimmune disease. Basically my white blood cells woke up one day all crazy and paranoid and decided my hair cells were out to get me. So they attacked them and killed them off—you know, like when you fight off an infection. Sometimes major stress can trigger it.”

“Your white blood cells attacked all your hair cells?”

“What can I say? Much like the rest of me, they're not that smart. And no, it isn't contagious, so if you ever feel the urge to kiss me, you'll probably keep your hair. Though I can't promise about your heart.”

“Seriously. Can you be
serious
for a minute?” He nodded. “Please tell me what happened. How did this happen to you?”

He opened his mouth to speak then shook his head. “Okay. This is seriously what happened. My wife left me.”

“Okay.”

“She was having an affair. I knew about it. We were supposed to be working things out. She said she'd call it off with the other person. And the next thing I know, she just disappeared. Did I tell you she was also my assistant?”

Amy blushed. “Uh, no.”

“Yes. Pretty stupid, right? Anyway, I guess I couldn't give her what she needed.” He paused once again. “So I filed a missing persons report and everything. This is how I know Ollie. Detective Franks. Funny story about the cops. They all felt pretty bad for me. Kind of adopted me after a while, I was at the station so much,” he spoke with a faraway look on his face, which turned serious. “I was really determined to find her. She tore my heart out, but I loved her desperately.”

“I think I understand that.”

“Turns out, her lover disappeared, too. I guess they ran off together or something,” he smirked. “Anyway, I never heard from her again.”

“And then your hair fell out? Overnight or something?”

“It's not really that simple, but I guess you could say it happened that way.”

“So will it grow back?”

“Nothing's grown back yet. Who knows? I'm used to it anyway. You can't imagine how much money I save on shampoo and shaving cream.”

“You really don't have a single hair anywhere on you?”

“Not a one,” he said. “But enough about me and my bare bum. What's your story? With the ex-fiancé, I mean. What happened there?”

“Oh, I'm not sure…”

“You now know that there isn't a single hair on me. And it's written all over your face that you've been scanning my entire body for hair in that twisted mind of yours. Now if that's not intimate, I don't know—”

“He jilted me,” she said. “On our wedding day. He left me at the altar.”

“Ouch.”

“Not really an altar. More like a deli counter. But still. It was pretty bad,” she fought back tears. “I'm surprised you don't already know about it because everyone here knows about it.”

“Wait a minute. This isn't the poor bastard who hooked up with Liz French?”

“Eliza
bitch
French. Yes. Why? Do you know her?”

“Alas, Liz French. I knew her, Horatio. And Elizabitch is a pretty apt moniker.”