Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (20 page)

“Heather!” Patty leans over from the passenger seat. “There you are! Sorry, we didn’t see you, we’re listening to a book on tape. One about parenting that the new nanny recommended.”

“The nanny who terrifies you?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s the one. God, you should have seen her face when we told her we were coming here. She nearly…Well, never mind. Get in, you must be freezing!”

I hop into the backseat. The interior is warm and smells faintly of Indian food. That’s because Frank and Patty had been enjoying some samosas as they waited for me.

“How’d you know where I was?” I ask, as they pass me one, loaded with tamarind sauce. Yum.

“Cooper called,” Frank explains. “Said he had to run and could we pick you up. Off on one of his cases, I guess. What’s he working on, anyway?”

“How should I know?” I ask, with my mouth full. “Like he’s going to tell me.”

“Did you really see someone get stabbed?” Patty asks, turning around in her seat. “Weren’t you scared?

What is that all over your jeans?”

“I didn’t have time to be scared,” I say, chewing. “And that’s blood.”

“Oh, God!” Patty turns quickly around to face the windshield again. “Heather!”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I can just get new ones.” Although, with my luck, I’ll have gone up a size, thanks to all the holiday cheer in which I imbibed.

Size 14 is still average for an American woman. Still, you don’t want to have to buy all new jeans to accommodate your new size. That can be hard on the wallet. What you want to do instead is maybe reduce intake on the bodega fried chicken. Maybe.

Although it depends on how you look in the new jeans.

“It’s really coming down hard,” Frank observes, as he pulls out of his primo parking space. In ordinary circumstances, that space would be instantly taken by some waiting vehicle. But it’s a blizzard, and no one is out on the streets. The flakes are falling thick and fast, already coating the street and sidewalks with an inch of fluffy white stuff. “I can’t imagine Cooper’s going to be able to do any real detecting in this weather.”

Frank is just slightly obsessed with the fact that Cooper is a private detective. Most people fantasize about being rock stars. Well, it turns out rock stars fantasize about being private detectives. Or, in my case, being a nonvanity size 8 and still able to eat anything I want again.

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Although I’m not actually a rock star. Anymore.

“Heather, I hope you’re being careful this time,” Patty frets, from the front seat. “I mean, about this dead girl. You aren’t getting involved in the investigation, are you? Not like last time?”

“Oh, heck, no,” I say. Patty doesn’t need to know about my trip to the Tau Phi House. She has enough to worry about, being a former model and rocker’s wife, not to mention the mother of a toddler who, at last reportage, ate an entire H & H everything bagel—almost as big as his own head—in one sitting.

The nanny hadn’t been too happy about that one.

“Good,” Patty says. “Because they don’t pay you enough to get yourself nearly killed, like last time.”

When Frank pulls up in front of Cooper’s house, I see that a few of the lights are on…which surprises me, since it means Cooper must be home.

But before I can get out of the car, Frank says, “Oh, Heather, about the gig at Joe’s—”

I freeze with my hand on the door handle. I can’t believe—what with all the blood and everything—I’d forgotten about Frank’s invitation to jam with him and his band.

“Oh,” I say, frantically trying to think up an excuse. “Yeah. About that. Can I get back to you? ’Cause I’m really tired right now, and can’t really think straight—”

“Nothing to think about,” Frank says cheerfully. “It’s just gonna be me and the guys and a hundred and sixty or so of our friends and family. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Frank,” Patty says, apparently having caught a glimpse of my face. “Maybe now’s not the best time to ask about that.”

“Come on, Heather,” Frank says, ignoring his wife. “You’re never gonna get over your stage fright if you don’t get back up there. Why not do it among friends?”

Stage fright? Is that my problem? Funny, I thought it was just fear of having people boo and throw things at me. Or, worse…snicker, the way Jordan and Cooper’s dad did, when I played them my own songs that fateful day in the Cartwright Records offices….

“I’ll think about it,” I say to Frank. “Thanks for the ride. See ya.”

I plunge from the car before either Patty or her husband can say anything, then run to the front door, ducking my head against the onslaught of flakes.

Phew. Talk about narrow escapes.

Inside, Lucy meets me in the foyer, excited to see me, but not in anI gotta go out right this minute kind of way. Someone’s already let her out.

“Hello?” I call, shedding my coat and scarf.

No one answers. But I smell something unusual. It takes me a minute to place the scent. Then I realize
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why: it’s a candle. Cooper and I are not candle people—Cooper because, well, he’s a guy, and me because I’ve seen them cause so many fires in Fischer Hall that I’m paranoid I, too, will forget and leave one burning unattended.

So why is someone burning a candle in the house?

The smell is coming from upstairs…not the living room or kitchen, and not Cooper’s office. It’s coming from upstairs, where Cooper sleeps.

Then it hits me. Cooper must be home, and entertaining.

In his room.

With candles.

Which can only mean one thing: He’s got a date.

Of course. That’s why he couldn’t wait for me down at the precinct, and had to call Frank and Patty!

He’s got a date.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, trying to sort out why this realization has made me suddenly so upset.

I mean, it’s not like Cooper KNOWS about the enormous crush I have on him. Why SHOULDN’T he see other people? Just because he HASN’T seen anyone (that I know of…he certainly hasn’t brought anybody back to the house) since I moved in doesn’t mean he SHOULDN’T or CAN’T. Now that I think of it, we never really did discuss the issue of overnight guests. It’s just not something that ever came up.

Until now.

Well, so what? He’s having a sleepover. It doesn’t have anything to do with me. I’ll just creep up to the third floor and go to bed. No reason to stop and knock and ask him how he’s doing. Even though I’m dying to see what she looks like. Cooper has a reputation in his family for always dating superintelligent, incredibly beautiful, even exotic women. Like brain surgeons who are also former models. That kind of thing.

Even if I thought I ever had a chance with Cooper romantically, one look at his many exes would cure me. I mean, what guy would want a washed-up ex-pop star who now works as an assistant residence hall director and wears vanity size 8 jeans (or possibly 10s) when he could have a physicist who was once Miss Delaware?

Yeah. Right. No one. I mean, unless the physicist happens to be really boring. And maybe doesn’t like Ella Fitzgerald (I’ve got all her songs memorized, including the scat). And maybe isn’t the warm, funny human being I just happen to believe I am….

Stop. STOP IT.

I’m creeping up the stairs to the second floor as quietly as I can—Lucy panting at my side—when I notice something strange. The door to Cooper’s bedroom is open…but there’s no light on. Whereas the door to the guest room down the hall from Cooper’s bedroom is open,and there’s a light on,and the light is flickering. Like a candle flame.

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Who on earth would be in our guest room with a candle?

“Hello?” I say again. Because if Cooper’s entertaining lady friends in our guest room, well, that’s just his tough luck if I come busting in. His room is his inner sanctum—I’ve never dared venture into it…if only because he’s so rarely to be found in it. Also because thousand-dollar sheets scare me.

But the guest room?

The door is really only slightly ajar. Still, it’s technically open. Which is why I push on it to open it a little farther, and say, “Hello?” for a third time….

…then shriek at the sight of my father doing the downward-facing dog.

16

Love is a line in a bad movie

Heartbreak an old song on the radio

And you, you’re nothing but trouble

But trouble knows the way to my heart.

Untitled

Written by Heather Wells

“I find yoga extremely relaxing,” Dad explains. “Back at camp, I did it every morning and every night.

It’s really rejuvenated me.”

I stare at him from across the room. It’s strange to hear your father call jail camp. Especially while he’s doing yoga.

“Dad,” I say. “Could you quit that for a minute and talk to me?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Dad says. And comes back to his feet.

I can’t believe this. He’s clearly moved in. His suitcase is open—and empty—on the window seat. His shoes sit by the dresser, lined up as neatly as if he were in the military. There’s a typewriter—a typewriter!—on the antique desk, along with a tidy stack of stationery. He’s wearing a set of blue pajamas with darker blue piping, and there’s a fat green tea candle burning on his nightstand, along with a copy of a Lincoln biography.

“My God,” I say, shaking my head. “How did you get in here? Did youbreak in?”

“Of course not,” Dad says, looking indignant. “I learned a lot of things at camp, but I didn’t acquire any tips on picking a Medeco lock. Your young man invited me to stay.”

“My—” I feel my eyes roll back into my head. “Dad. I told you. He is not my young man. You didn’t say anything to him about how I lo—”

“Heather.” Dad looks sad. “Of course not. I would never betray a confidence like that. I merely
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expressed a dislike in front of Mr. Cartwright for my current living situation, and he offered me accommodation here—”

“Dad!” I groan. “You didn’t!”

“Well, the Chelsea Hotel was hardly a suitable place for a man in my position,” he says patiently. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Heather, but many people with criminal records have resided in the Chelsea Hotel. Actual murderers. That’s not the kind of environment a person who is trying to rehabilitate himself should be in. Besides which, it was quite noisy. All that loud music and honking horns.

No, this”—he looks around the pleasant white bedroom happily—“is much moreme .”

“Dad.” I can’t help it. I can’t stand up anymore. I sink down onto the side of the queen-sized bed. “Did Cooper say how long you could stay?”

“In fact,” Dad says, reaching out to ruffle Lucy’s ears, since she’s followed me inside, “he did. He said I could stay as long as it took in order for me to get back on my feet.”

“Dad.” I want to scream. “Seriously. You can’t do that. It’s not that I don’t want to work on our relationship—yours and mine, I mean. It’s just that…you can’t take advantage of Cooper’s generosity this way.”

“I’m not,” Dad says matter-of-factly. “I’m going to be working for him, in exchange for rent.”

I blink. “You’re…what?”

“He’s taking me on as an employee of Cartwright Investigations,” Dad says…a little proudly, I think.

“Just like you, I’m working for him. I’m going to help him tail people. He says I’ve got just the right looks for it…sort of unnoticeable. He says I blend.”

I blink some more. “Youblend ?”

“That’s right.” Dad opens up the drawer to his nightstand and takes out a small wooden flute. “I’m trying to take it as a compliment. The fact that I’m so unnoticeable, I mean. I know your mother often felt that way, but I wasn’t aware it was true of the world in general. Oh, well. Listen to this little tune I learned at camp. It’s quite restful. And after the night you’ve had, I’m sure you could use a little relaxation.” He proceeds to lift the flute to his lips and begins to play it.

I sit there for a minute more as the notes—plaintive and, as he’d mentioned, oddly restful—wash over me. Then I shake myself and say, “Dad.”

He immediately stops playing. “Yes, dear?”

It’s the endearments that are killing me. Or possibly making me want to kill HIM.

“I’m going to bed now. We’ll talk about this again in the morning.”

“Well, all right,” he says. “But I don’t see what there is to talk about. Cooper is obviously a man of good sense. If he wants to hire me, I don’t see why you should object.”

I can’t see why I should object, either. Except…how am I going to get Cooper to realize I’m the woman of his dreams if my DAD’s around? How am I ever going to make him that romantic steak dinner
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for two I’d been planning? There’s nothing romantic about steak forthree.

“I realize I haven’t been the best father to you, Heather,” Dad goes on. “Neither your mother nor I provided you with very good role models growing up. But I hope the damage isn’t so serious that you are incapable of forming loving relationships now. Because it’s my sincerest wish that that is what you and I can have with one another. Because everyone needs a family, Heather.”

Family? Is that what I need? Is that what’s wrong with me? I don’t have a family?

“You look tired,” Dad says. “Which is understandable, after the day you’ve had. Here, maybe this will help soothe you.” Then he starts playing the flute again.

Okay.This I don’t need.

I lean down, blow out Dad’s green tea candle, and snatch it from the nightstand.

“These are a fire hazard,” I snap, in my most assistant residence hall directory voice.

Then I stalk from the room and upstairs to my own apartment.

The snow doesn’t stop. When I wake up in the morning, I look out the window and see that it’s still coming down—slower now, and less of it. But still in big fluffy flakes.