Shine Your Love on Me (9 page)

“There must be something you can do,” Bess
said.

“Call a lawyer,” Miranda offered.

“My cousin’s a lawyer.”

“Call him,” Rory said, putting her arm around
Brooke.

That one touch did it. Brooke dissolved into
tears the moment Rory squeezed her shoulders. Frustration,
loneliness, and fear overwhelmed her. Bess set out a platter of
shrimp salad, potato salad, sliced avocado, and fresh veggies.
Miranda refilled wine glasses.

“Don’t let that bastard win!” Miranda
said.

“Show him he can’t mess with you,” Rory piped
up.

Brooke grabbed a handful of tissues and
cleaned up her eyes and nose. “You’re right. I’ll call my cousin
tomorrow. But I don’t know what he can do.”

“He can threaten that son-of-a-bitch,” Rory
said.

“Right!”

“But how can you take back a rumor?” Brooke
chewed on a nail.

“Come, eat. You can’t think on an empty
stomach.” Bess made a plate for Brooke and set it on the table.
Rory walked her over. Miranda pulled out a chair.

“If I can’t work in advertising, I don’t know
what I’m going to do. I can’t do anything else.”

“That can’t be true,” Miranda said between
bites of succulent, cold shrimp.

“My mother could do everything—cook, sew,
garden. I haven’t inherited any of her skills.”

“You haven’t tried. It’ll come to you. Maybe
you can be an assistant on my show…just until you find something
better,” Bess said.

Brooke turned grateful eyes on her. “Thanks,
Bess. We’ll see.” She didn’t want to take advantage of her friends.
I’m not their problem or responsibility.

“We could turn our pugs loose on that
bastard,” Miranda said.

“Yeah, make sure he doesn’t have the balls to
do that again,” Rory snickered.

The women made jokes about what they’d like
to do to Pete Walters. They threw in a few for Lloyd as well.
Brooke laughed along with them.

“You need a new man,” Bess said.

“What about that guy that’s always hanging
around your grandma’s place?” Rory asked.

“You mean Pres?”

“Yeah, Pres,” Miranda said.

“I’m going out with him tomorrow night.”

At this news, everyone talked at once. The
women delved deep into what Brooke should wear, what she should
say, whether or not she should sleep with him. They wanted a
detailed report. Brooke blushed as she talked about his body. The
ladies
oohed
and
aahed
in all the right places.

“We’re only friends. I don’t think he’s going
to proposition me,” Brooke said.

“Hah! That’s what they all say,” Miranda
sniffed. “I’d put money on the fact he’s going to make a pass. They
all do. If they strike out, hell, nothing lost. But if they
don’t—hey! Home run!”

“Absolutely! The secure ones aren’t afraid to
get turned down. They get the benefit of succeeding versus the risk
of the turndown,” Rory said, licking homemade mocha pudding off her
spoon.

“You can have more, Rory. Really,” Bess said.
Then to Brooke, “You’re vulnerable right now. If he does make a
pass, it’s gonna be hard to say ‘no’.”

“Who says she wants to say ‘no’? Getting laid
might be the best thing for her right now.”

“Miranda’s right. Nothing like sex with a
great partner to help heal,” Rory said.

“Who says he’s a great partner?” Brooke
asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Hell, the way you described him, you’re
already hot for him. That’s half the game.”

Brooke looked at Rory and laughed. “You know
me too well.”

After killing another bottle of wine, the
women decided to form an
a cappella
group. They tried to
harmonize, but ended up laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.

“Maybe we can do River Dancing instead,”
Miranda said, holding her side.

“Maybe sex instruction?” Rory offered.

That set them off. Lewd comments and jokes,
interspersed with laughter, had the women struggling to suck in
air. They were all cross-legged on the floor, giggling, when
Whitfield Bass, Bess’s man, returned to the apartment.

He stopped at the entryway. “Am I in the
right place?”

“A man! Good. Let’s ask him,” Brooke
said.

“Ask me what?” Whit entered cautiously.

“No, no. Don’t. Go, Whit,” Bess said, making
shooing gestures.

“Now, now. When a woman says she wants to ask
me a question, it would be rude to simply leave the room.”

“Trust me. You don’t want to answer this
question,” Miranda said, shaking her head and attempting to appear
serious.

“Come on. We all want to know!” Brooke tried
to push to her feet, but ended up falling on the sofa on her
tush.

Whit bowed. “What can I do to satisfy your
curiosity?”

All four women screamed with laughter. They
were almost rolling on the floor. Even Bess couldn’t catch her
breath.

“What did I say?”

“Satisfy,” Bess breathed out, holding her
stomach. When she uttered the word, the hysterical laughter was
refueled.

Whit got the message. He blushed and bowed
again, backing out of the room. “I think I’ll leave you ladies to
your…your…party.” He was gone before they could force him to answer
anything.

Once he left, the women quieted down. Brooke,
drunk with wine and laughter, smiled. The warmth of friendship
flowed through her. The support from her friends put her plight
into perspective.
I’ll find something. I’ll get that rat.
Frank’ll sue the pants off that cheating liar.
“I’m gonna do
it.” Brooke pushed up and grabbed the table to steady herself.

The others looked at her.

“I’m gonna find something else, and I’m gonna
have my cousin, Frank, sue that bastard. I’m gonna make him
pay.”

“Way to go!” Rory raised a fist in the
air.

“I’m gonna make him wish he was dickless,”
Brooke continued.

“Hell, he
is
dickless,” Miranda
said.

“Bring down the dickless wonder!” Bess
shouted.

The women pulled themselves together then
called their dogs. The pugs rose reluctantly from their comfortable
spots. Bess passed out treats. Everyone except Brooke was all right
to travel home alone.

Bess called to Whit. “I’ll take Dumpling and
walk Brooke home.”

“I’m going with you,” he said.

After hugs all around, the party broke up.
Brooke could barely see straight. She leaned on Whit, who guided
her and Bess down the street. She left them at her door as she
climbed the stairs, focusing intently on each step.

Inside her apartment, she stripped off her
clothes, wrapped herself in one of Rory’s afghans, and fell asleep
on the sofa.

Saturday morning, the sun poked Brooke in the
eye at seven. She pulled the blanket over her head, but that didn’t
stop the pounding.

“Shit. Hangover,” she muttered, forcing
herself up to go to the bathroom. She winced at the image she saw
in the mirror. Brown circles under her bloodshot eyes. Her
complexion was sallow, and her hair a greasy mess.

“I have a date tonight. Great,” she groaned.
All she wanted to do was crawl back in bed. And stay there for two
or three years. After medicating herself with coffee and a few
ibuprofen, she did go back to sleep, waking up at one in the
afternoon.

She remembered the conversation about suing
her former boss. Brooke called her cousin, Frank, and
explained.

“You know I love you, Brooke, but you want me
to handle another case with no pay.”

“Frank, how can I pay you? I’m out of work.”
Her head began to pound.

“A contingent case. Terrific. And these kind
are the hardest to prove. You have no evidence, and you want me to
drop everything and do this? I’m sorry, but I can’t. I feel for
you. This rotten bastard deserves the worst. But I can’t do it. I
can hardly keep up with my workload now. I’ve got Melanie and the
kids, Brooke. You’ve only got you. Find someplace else to work.
Another profession, job, something.”

“Yeah. Okay. I get it.” She closed her cell.
“Thanks for nothing, Frank,” she said to no one.

Trying to remember what had been discussed
the night before about her wardrobe, she opened the closet and
fished around until she spied a swatch of her favorite color
stuffed away in the back. Melon, peach, that perfect blend of pink
and orange. There it was.

She pulled out everything in the way until
she could close her fingers around the snippet. Then, she tugged,
and it slipped out from behind an old coat.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said, brushing
off the vintage dress, one of her favorites from her mom. It was
wrinkled, but hadn’t faded much. The color was still soft and
pretty. One sniff told her it was too musty to wear. She pulled
down the iron and put a towel on her tiny table, before she washed
the garment in the sink. Though her head no longer throbbed, she
kept music off, simply humming to herself a few songs by The Mamas
and the Papas as she scrubbed.

After hanging it in front of the window fan,
Brooke ate some yogurt. It was warm out, and the sundress would be
perfect for her date. Another cup of coffee and more yogurt
improved her outlook.
Best for me to be out with Pres instead of
home moping. No pity party tonight.

She ironed the dress dry, using spray starch
to make the full skirt crisp. There was a narrow band on the bottom
and across the bodice with tiny, white and green flowers. She
played Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” on her computer. The composition
soothed her as she fished out white sandals and white lace
underwear.

A lengthy shower followed, reviving her. She
fluffed her long, mahogany hair with a towel before glancing at the
clock.
Only two hours before Pres arrives
. Picking through
the hair accessories in her bureau drawer, she plucked out a
narrow, bright, grass-green ribbon.
Perfect! If Mr. Preston
Carpenter likes old-fashioned women, he’s getting one
tonight.

Giving herself a manicure and pedicure while
she watched TV finished her preparations. She slipped on the dress
and brushed her locks back from her face, capturing the sides and
pulling them up. She twisted them together for a moment while she
wound the green ribbon around and tied it in a bow. Her hair
trailed down her back, falling in loose curls.
Hair ribbon.
1950’s. Retro. He’ll love it.

She chuckled as she dabbed lilac perfume
behind her ears and in the cleft between her breasts.
Do I want
to sleep with Pres? Probably not. Not tonight, anyway.

She jumped when the buzzer sounded promptly
at six. She pressed the button, fluffed her gentle waves, smoothed
her eyebrows, and licked her lips.
Good makeup job. I don’t look
hung over.
The knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She
opened it and looked up.

There he stood, tall and gorgeous. He wore a
light blue, button-down shirt, open at the neck just enough for a
few strands of chest hair to peek out, khaki pants, perfectly
pressed, and a navy blue sports jacket. The shirt and jacket
intensified the blue of his eyes. His hair was combed and he was
clean-shaven. A pleasant, spicy scent of aftershave caressed her
nose.
Nice.

“Wow! You look…fantastic.” His gaze roamed
over her body, creating warmth where it touched, like a caress from
his hand.

“You smell good,” she said.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh, of course, of course. Sorry.” She opened
the door wider for him.

He moved in and looked around. “Nice,” he
said, nodding.

“Glad you approve.” He dwarfed the apartment
with his broad-shouldered, six-foot, two-inch frame. Brooke’s gaze
roved over him. She noted the good quality of his clothes and the
slight pull of the blazer’s fabric between his shoulder blades.
Shoulders just a hair too wide.
A tingle went up her spine
as she envisioned what he’d look like stripped to the waist.

“Shall we go?” She plucked a white shawl off
the back of the sofa.

Pres took it from her and draped it over her
shoulders. “I don’t see many dresses like that. It’s
beautiful.”

“It was my mother’s.”

“Wow. Is that considered antique?”

“It’s called vintage. Very chic. But when I
was younger, it was just plain old.” She chuckled.

“It’s stunning on you. Fits you like a
glove.”

She noticed his gaze resting on the swell of
her breasts, visible above the neckline.
Typical guy.
She
smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.” She descended slowly in her high
heels.

“What did I do?”

“Stared at my chest. Men. They all have
breast fetishes.”

“Pardon me. When I see something beautiful, I
stare.”

At the bottom of the stairs, she turned and
looked at him. “That’s some line.”

“Hell, I’m a writer. If I can’t come up with
a good line, who can? But, it’s true.”

“Sure, sure.” She nodded, waiting as he
opened the door. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

“I have a reservation for dinner at The
Boathouse. Then, maybe a walk through the park, look at the stars.
Grab a drink or two at an outdoor place on Columbus?”

“Sounds wonderful.” She threaded her arm
through his and leaned, resting her hand on his forearm. Pres slid
his hand over hers. She sighed.
Quiet evening. Perfect. Not up
to more.
“I wanted to get to know you.”

“I’m there.”

The warm, summer air caressed Brooke,
relaxing her. The scent of roses grew stronger as Pres guided them
into the park. It was still light as they walked along the bridal
path north. He steered them into the ramble where there were a few
people on benches, but mostly it was deserted.

“I love this part of the park. You can almost
forget you’re in New York City,” she said.

“It’s nice to get away sometimes.” He laced
his fingers with hers. She looked up to see a moon almost full.
“There are a few stars out.”