Strapless (12 page)

“No, I think you're having a few ‘conflicted' feelings.”

“Maybe, but I don't know
why.
I'm healed, I'm healthy. Samantha's even sleeping through the night—now and then.”

“Is she?” Darcie perked up at the mention of her goddaughter. “I need to see her again. I brought her a present from Australia.”

“Another gift? She loves the cross-eyed zebra.”

Buster. Memories of FAO Schwarz danced in Darcie's brain and she frowned.

“I'm glad. I should have taken it back, though. After Merrick—”

“The son of a bitch.”

“So true,” Darcie said. “Did I tell you I saw him?”

“You
didn't.
”

Remembering Gran's similar reaction, Darcie took a breath then related their impromptu meeting in the Wunderthings lobby, plus Merrick's new single state, assuming he told the truth.

“And he had the nerve to ask you out? I hope you said no. I hope you screamed loud enough for the security guard to hear—and pitch him out the door at gunpoint.”

“Gran's suggestion.” Darcie swirled her spoon through her cooling coffee. “He looked so forlorn, Claire. I think he's really sorry about what happened.”

“I'll bet his wife is, too.” Claire eyed her. “He could be lying. He's good at it.”

“And I'm so naive I'd probably fall for him all over again?” Taking a sip of coffee, Darcie made a face. “What if Merrick
is
telling the truth?”

“I'm not happy that I was right about him before. But what are you saying?” Claire leaned closer to look into her eyes.

“That Australia's a long way off. There's no sense thinking about Dylan.”

“How could you help it?” Claire raised an eyebrow. “You weren't just making up all that stuff about the Akubra hat, the man's endurance, were you?” She shook her head. “No, you couldn't have invented making out among the reef fish and manta rays.”

“I'm a very creative person,” Darcie said with a smile. “But not that creative. Claire—” she sighed “—I'll never see him again. I didn't leave my business card, didn't give
him my home number. And he hasn't tried to call me at Wunderthings, which would be easy enough to find.”

“You must have really ticked him off.”

“Gran thinks so, too.” She paused again. “Besides, he's a dweeb about women.”

“Maybe he was teasing. Maybe that's his way of avoiding commitment.”

Darcie didn't think so. “It works then,” she said. “Really well.”

“Most men are at least halfway into the cave.” Claire grimaced. “Even Peter. His pressure to have sex…his refusal to change Sam's dirty diapers. He picks and chooses how to help, you know. I don't have the same choices.”

“The nanny's not working out?”

Claire shivered. “Don't get me started. Yesterday Tildy wheeled Samantha to the grocery store—and left her in the carriage outside ‘for just a minute.'”

Darcie frowned. “That's dangerous. Anyone could snatch the baby.”

“My point exactly. Why Peter can't see that is beyond me.”

“I must admit, I'm disappointed in Peter the Great,” Darcie murmured, patting Claire's hand.

“I'm disappointed in me.” Claire waved a hand, her eyes too bright. “I mean, I should be able to handle the baby, my job, the apartment, my marriage. Tildy.” She shuddered again. “I think I'm losing my mind. I know for sure I've lost my libido. I may as well give up—apply for Social Security. I'm no good at my career or raising a child.”

“Claire, Claire.”

She blinked. “Excuse me. I am such a…
mess.
At first I worried that Peter wouldn't find me attractive anymore. Now that I know he does, I worry I won't want to do the deed. Ever.”

“Your hormones are probably out of whack. It happens.”

“What are you, the voice of experience?” Claire rolled her eyes. “I am a raving lunatic. With leaky breasts. I smell
like an old baby bottle all the time. It takes half a dram of Passion every morning to make me presentable for work. Ha,” she said. “Passion. That's a laugh.”

Darcie gave her a moment to collect herself. Their conversations tended to circle around, as female conversations do, covering a lot of territory. Now they were back to Peter and Claire and motherhood. Darcie didn't know what to tell her; she had no experience in such matters. And with men in general…well, Claire already knew her track record there.

“So.” Claire straightened in her wicker chair. She traced a finger over the paisley tablecloth. She moved the salt and pepper shakers around. “What are you going to do about Dylan Rafferty?”

“Nothing.”

“Merrick Lowell?”

“I'm thinking that over.”

“I'm warning you, girlfriend. He's still a snake.”

“The one-eyed trouser snake.” They both snickered, then Darcie added, “I heard that with Gran in a Monty Python movie.”

“It's a good one,” Claire agreed.

 

True to form, the snake himself was waiting for Darcie again on Monday when she left her office. This time she didn't feel quite surprised to find him leaning against the wall by the elevators. But this time he gave her that rueful smile from the sixth-floor lobby, not on the main level. Interception with no chance of escape. Darcie saw this as an escalation of intent. He didn't want her slipping past in the five o'clock rush.

“Did we make an appointment?” she asked him.

Merrick straightened from the marble wall. His smile faded.

“I'm taking you to dinner.”

People brushed by them. A secretary from Marketing gave Merrick a quick once-over, then winked at Darcie in approval. If she only knew.

“A woman likes to be asked, not shanghaied.”

He leaned close, lowering his voice. “Don't tell me to take a hike.”

She smiled, too sweetly.

“Bad day, Darce?”

“Please don't ask.” In the past few days Greta Hinckley had changed tactics. She had attached herself to Darcie like a malevolent shadow.

“Come on, you know you're hungry.”

Merrick took her elbow, guiding her onto the elevator when the car doors opened. It was empty and they stepped inside, and Darcie remembered the elevator in the Westin, with Dylan Rafferty. His Akubra. His hands, and his kisses. When Merrick tried the same tactic, without the hat, she pushed him away.

With a hurt look, he propped his shoulder against the chrome-faced wall.

“So. How long is this going to last?”

“Merrick, you can't possibly think that we'll just pick up where we left off. You lied to me. How am I supposed to overlook that?”

“You're a kind woman.”

Darcie stared at him. “You really think I'm easy, don't you?”

He smiled, winningly. “I think you're hot. I'd say that's reason enough to share a few drinks. Zoe's has sea bass on the menu this week….” He lifted his eyebrows.

“All the way down in SoHo?”

“Your favorite recipe.”

“Evil.” Her stomach growled. Her tongue tingled at the thought of succulent tomatoes, basil, garlic and sour cream with just a hint of lemon. He sweetened the pot.

“We'll catch a cab.”

“All right. Feed me. Then I'll decide whether to put a curse on your head.”

With a broadened smile, he must think he had her. Darcie could feel confidence fairly oozing from Merrick's pores. Nothing unusual about that, but the last time she'd seen him—and in FAO Schwarz—he'd looked chastened. An appealing quality he might consider permanently in
corporating into his character, because it softened Darcie toward him in spite of her resolve to hate his guts forever.

Be careful,
she silently ordered herself.

Change was not Merrick Lowell's middle name. Any man's, perhaps.

She kept quiet until her second glass of Chardonnay at their corner table in Zoe's. Merrick's favorite restaurant, of course, not hers. Darcie liked the food, loved the pleasant service, but tonight its trendy, open kitchen and tin ceilings created too much din for her shattered nerves. The day with Greta had been too much for any sane person. Worried, too, about Claire, Darcie toyed with the stem of her glass. But she had enough of a buzz now to at least make conversation with Merrick.

“Tell me about your separation.”

He winced. A good touch, Darcie thought.

“I went home the Saturday I saw you at FAO. Sara—my daughter—piped up to Jacqueline that she'd met this nice lady in the store. I would have told her myself, Darce—” he shrugged “—but Jackie picked up on it first. It was time. I'd told you that. We've had problems for a while now.”

“Because of me?”

“I never mentioned you.”

“Gee, I don't know whether to feel flattered by your discretion…or cheap because I was a hole-in-the-corner affair.”

“Is that what you think we are?”

“Were.”

He sighed. “I'll try to explain. Jackie and I were a bad match. Our families are friends and our mothers…well, our wedding was your classic social event of the season. Did you ever see
A Wedding?
”

“I've seen dozens of them.” Darcie had a closet full of ugly bridesmaid dresses. Her cousins, if not her friends, kept getting married with depressing regularity.

“No, I meant the movie. Robert Altman. An all-star cast, and everything goes screwy at this big society bash.”

“Oh, yeah. The grandmother—I think—dies in bed.
No one wants to admit it and spoil the party.” Gran had made her watch that, too.

Darcie liked
Four Weddings and a Funeral
better, but Merrick had never opened up to her like this before. She couldn't help but be impressed by this new forthright side of him, assuming it could be trusted.

“It was a classic,” he went on. “Could have been Fellini, really. Jackie's gown cost ten thousand dollars. People all over Greenwich were stabbing each other in the back to get invited. I realized by the time we fed each other wedding cake and ran for the limousine to catch our plane for Aruba—”

“Poor babies,” Darcie murmured.

“—that we didn't love each other. Hell, we never liked each other that much. In bed it was okay at first—”

“With the lights out.”

“Jackie's a beautiful woman. A nice woman. She's just not for me.”

“You want something different.” Like Darcie Baxter. “Something Midwestern and gullible.” She gazed at him. “Some naive working girl—” she remembered Dylan in the Westin bar “—I mean that in the best sense—who will stare adoringly into your gorgeous blue eyes, tell you how wonderful you are in the sack—and never once question your commitment, or lack thereof.”

“You're determined to stay angry. Aren't you?”

“I'm determined not to get hurt again.”

Merrick sighed. “Darce, we never promised each other anything.”

“That is another problem.”

“What do you want from me?” He squirmed in his chair. He rolled his scotch glass between his palms. He stared at the white tablecloth.
“Marriage?”

“Not unless you're into bigamy.”

“We're getting a divorce. Jackie filed on Monday.” It was Monday now. Maybe Merrick had come from the courthouse, or a lawyer's office, to Darcie. “Last week,” he added when he glanced up and saw her suspicious look.

“I feel bad for your children, Merrick. But this has nothing to do with me.”

He took a swig of scotch. “You claim you're not ready for commitment, either.”

“But I like the possibility. Someday.” She pushed her wineglass away. “I think I should go. When you get your life straightened out, don't give me a call.”

He reached out to snatch her wrist. “Sit down. Please,” he said when she tugged at his hold. “Don't make a scene, Darcie. Have a heart, will you?”

“I had a heart. You smashed it.”

“All right,” he said. “All
right.
We won't talk about Jackie. But you started it.”

Darcie slid back into her chair. The waiter hustled over to the table, and plunked down two platters of sea bass, steaming and redolent of spices. Her stomach growled again. She was still easy.

“First, Greta Hinckley,” she murmured.

“She giving you trouble again?”

Ah, now he would become her father confessor. And reel Darcie back in like the fish on her plate. She stared down at it. Eat, or run?

She picked up her fork. “She's hounding me. I don't trust her.”

“A wise reaction.”

Merrick had heard—had he actually
heard?
—all about Greta during their time together of nonconnubial bliss. She could trust him at least not to repeat what she said. “I found Greta fleshing out a design, so to speak, just before five o'clock. That's why I left early.”

“I'm glad you did. I didn't relish waiting for you until seven.”

Darcie shrugged. “She's working on this…weird plan. Hose for thin legs.”

Merrick threw back his head and laughed aloud.

This seemed to set off a round of laughter in the restaurant, and guffaws could be heard from other tables. The sounds rose into the air, bounced off the tin ceiling, ricocheted into Darcie's ears. She had to smile.

“Ridiculous, isn't it?”

“Totally absurd. Will Walt go for it?”

“I doubt it, but I've been wrong before. As long as she doesn't stick my name on it, I guess I don't care.”

“Unless she has something else—her real plan—under wraps.”

She hadn't thought of that. “You're right. She could.” Darcie dug into her sea bass. She was starving. It felt good to laugh, good to share with Merrick the details of her life. Her work life, at least.

“Darcie, come back to me. I need you.”