Strapless (15 page)

“Here.” She handed one to Darcie. “Talk.”

Darcie's sigh told her half the story. It was a man, of course. Claire wondered when it wasn't a man—and thanked the institution of marriage. It had its downside, but for the first time since Samantha's birth, Claire could appreciate being well out of the singles scene.

Only she was wrong. It wasn't Merrick, or the Australian.

“Come here, sweetie.” When Darcie had related her quarrel with Eden, Claire tightened her arms around her friend on the living room sofa.

Darcie sniffed. “Maybe I should reconsider—before I make another mistake. I mean, I could apologize to Gran, stay with her, keep the status quo. Why not?”

Claire disagreed. Darcie's tone sounded brave, the emotion Claire had felt when she fired Tildy at last, but her own problems weren't resolved with that one action, and neither were Darcie's. She couldn't take a step forward, then three steps back.

“No. You can't. On second thought, you need to move into the city. Get closer to other people like yourself—men, that is—single, certifiably
unattached,
looking for Ms. Right. No kooks. There must be some.”

Claire wanted her to find someone other than Merrick Lowell and his self-centered approach to their “relationship.” It was taking its toll on Darcie's self-image. Which wasn't that solid to begin with.

“I'm conflicted,” Darcie said, reaching for the merlot again. She took a healthy swig, holding the glass with both hands.

“Conflict?” Claire thought of Tildy, her own job, Peter, the baby… “I could write a book.”

Darcie brightened. “Hey. Why don't we?” She forced a grin, obviously glad to change the subject no matter how silly it proved. “You know that new self-help book that just came out?
The Give-In Wife
or
Woman,
something like that? I wonder if she heard of that geek years ago—Gran
told me—who thought women should meet their husbands at the door wrapped in see-through plastic every night.” Darcie paused. “Barbie dolls,” she added. “Real ones.”

“
The Stepford Wives II,
” Claire said with a laugh.

“We could do the realistic take—not the fantasy—on women's lives today. The turmoil, the demands…the whole dating scene. I mean, who
dates?
I am a perfect example, even with Merrick.” She sat straighter, clearly in control again. “And what about marriage? The ticking clock. Kids. Add a career—could we focus this?”

“We'll deal with it.”

“How?”

Darcie's eyes looked less shadowed.
But deal indeed, and how?
Claire wondered. They spoke at the same time and Claire's smile grew.

“I don't have a clue.”

Darcie threw up her hands. “I don't have a freaking clue.”

O
n a bright Saturday afternoon Darcie marched along East Seventy-Third Street, a newspaper clipping clutched in one tight fist. Behind her, Claire pushed Samantha in her fancy stroller—which must have cost as much as a low-end Jaguar—and every third step advised Darcie to relax.

“Don't get discouraged. We've been through this before.” Claire leaned down to slip Sam's pacifier back into her mouth. “In SoHo, NoHo, Chelsea, Gramercy Park, Central Park West and South, Yorkville…”

Apartment after apartment over the past two weeks had disappointed them, but in those same weeks Claire hadn't let Darcie out of her sight. If she wanted to see a possible rental, Claire went with her, and more often than not Samantha rode shotgun.

“No, I have a good feeling today.”

Darcie glanced left, then right. How could she not feel good on this quiet, tree-lined street on the Upper East side, flanked by rows of exquisite town houses. Some had been gutted, then renovated, and looked ultracontemporary with huge windows and chrome doors, but still, they blended with their older, brick-faced neighbors. Fingers
crossed behind her back, Darcie hoped the address she was looking for would turn out to be perfect.

Her spirits instantly sank. In front of the brownstone—yes, a classic original—stood a small crowd of what appeared to be other house hunters. Well, what did she expect? Real estate was at a premium.

“You have as good a chance as anyone else,” Claire whispered in her ear.

They hung off to one side, near the curb, and Claire rolled Samantha's carriage back and forth to keep her happy.

When she fussed, Darcie handed the baby a bright rattle from the small collection of toys tucked in around her. Sam's fingers tightened then fell open. She didn't get the concept of holding on yet. Distracted, Darcie held out the blue lion face again. She adored Samantha, but the milling group of would-be renters all looked more financially stable than Darcie.

Claire squeezed her shoulder.

“You're becoming a mother hen,” Darcie said. “If you get any closer to being like Janet, I won't be responsible for my actions.” She grinned but Claire's encouragement had made her eyes mist. “And I love Samantha, but don't you think she's getting a little bored? We've dragged her to every rental in Manhattan.”

“Maybe she'll become a real estate agent when she grows up.”

“If you're set on being part of this miserable process, you could leave her with Peter on Saturdays.”

“Peter had to work. I should, too,” Claire added, then hastily, “I don't mean I'm making some great sacrifice here.”

“But you're behind in your job.”

“Who isn't?”

“True,” Darcie murmured, still feeling guilty that she'd kept Claire from her own duties, responsibilities, obligations. Hadn't they talked about the pressures on women recently? Neither of them had time to write the book. “What about a new nanny?”

Claire hesitated. “I've been thinking…my job's high enough on the food chain that I could take Samantha to work with me…oh, hell, like that would allow me to catch up. I'd just stay up all night at home—when Sam's finally sleeping through—and piss off Peter.”

“Walt's a little impatient with my apartment search,” Darcie put in.

“Men,” Claire muttered. “They just don't get it.”

“To be honest, he's a lot impatient. I scrambled to meet my deadline on the Sydney store design yesterday.”

“Which must have thrilled Greta.”

Darcie winced. “She offered to do it for me.”

“Big of her.”

“Walt nearly agreed.” Darcie mused for a moment. “I've been wondering if I shouldn't try a different approach with her.”

“A snake in her desk? Or no, why not rifle her belongings the way she sifts through yours? No telling what you might learn.”

Darcie's frown quickly smoothed when Samantha peered up at her and started to pucker. “Don't cry. I'm fine, cupcake,” she said, offering the baby a soft-stuffed alphabet block to gnaw on.
I keep thinking how you'd look, swollen, ripe…

Claire grinned. “Sam's heard all about Greta Hinckley.”

“She sits right across the aisle from me. If only I could stop feeling like the KGB is watching.”

“The KGB
is
watching.”

Darcie's next comment got swallowed. A woman wearing a tweed suit pushed through the knot of waiting apartment-hunters, and took her position on the stone steps leading to the front door.

“Sorry, people. Apartment's taken.”

Disgruntled comments rose into the afternoon air.

“But I've been waiting….”

“I called….”

A man in a Burberry trench coat swore under his breath.

A blond princess type in designer jeans and a leather
jacket, wearing high-heeled skintight boots, stalked off looking furious.

A young couple, disappointed like Darcie, shuffled off down the street.

When the crowd dispersed, the agent disappeared, and Claire looked at Darcie who said, “This calls for a late lunch at Phantasmagoria. My treat.”

“I can't, Darce. Peter wants to have dinner out tonight….”

“Then I'm your baby-sitter.”

She and Samantha could read the want ads together. Like there was a reasonable apartment in New York with her name on it.

“Thanks,” Clare said, “but we already have a sitter.”

They were halfway to their favorite restaurant when Darcie pulled up short. Claire ran into her heels with the Perego stroller but Darcie didn't even yelp. She was used to Sweet Baby Jane.

“Claire,” she said, pointing at a sign in a window.

The brownstone, two blocks farther east, didn't look as upscale as the false lead they'd just followed closer to Fifth Avenue, but Darcie stopped to stare. The building seemed decent. No garbage littered the scrap of iron-fenced concrete “yard” where a small wrought-iron table and two chairs held a flourishing green pothos plant. The windows on the basement and upper levels sparkled in the sunlight.

For Rent, the sign proclaimed.

Claire touched her arm. “Let's take a look.”

An elderly woman answered the doorbell. So promptly, Darcie thought, that she might have been looking out the front window.

She led Darcie, Claire and Samantha—in Darcie's arms—into a first-floor apartment. Darcie lifted her eyebrows at the cleanliness of the living room, the light that flooded every corner.

“I'm giving up the apartment,” the woman explained. “It's too much for me here in the city now. The noise, the traffic…my daughter convinced me to take a room in
her house—and I admit, giving up this responsibility is welcome.”

“You have a lovely place here.”

“Yes, until my husband died. Now it's not quite home.” Mrs. Lang studied Darcie who was carrying Samantha. “Are you married?”

“No.”

Pity,
the woman's expression said. “Let me show you the rest.”

By the time they came full circle from the cute kitchen—it even had a small window—and the
two
bedrooms, the one bath, Darcie was in love. Forget men. She'd just stay here, figuring out her life, getting her work done at Wunderthings, climbing the ladder, enjoying her own space until she too needed to move in with…well, she wouldn't have a daughter, but one day Annie might. Or Darcie would be like Gran, who just kept going, even have boyfriends in her eighties…

That was, assuming a Mr. Near-Right even existed.

“If you don't have offers already, I'll take the apartment.”

She liked its location, its layout, its space and light and ten-foot ceilings. Of course she'd repaint, but she spoke too soon.

Mrs. Lang named her price. And Darcie felt her spirits tumble down a hole.

When she and Claire stepped out again, in shared misery, onto the street, Claire's pricey stroller was missing.

Perfect.

Darcie couldn't afford this apartment. And now she owed Claire a carriage.

 

“Claire wouldn't hear of it,” Darcie told her mother on the phone that night. “Peter says their homeowners' insurance should cover the theft. But I still feel bad.”

“The city is no place for a young family. No place for
you,
” Janet Baxter insisted, making Darcie fervently wish she hadn't mentioned the subject. “Your father and I are willing to fly you home.”

“I'd rather discuss a loan.”

This being Darcie's original reason for calling, she held her breath. She liked to believe she was an independent woman. She had left a deposit on the brownstone apartment and she hated asking her parents for money, but this was an emergency.

Janet didn't seem as enthralled by Darcie's “find.”

“Two bedrooms—miniscule, I'm sure, compared to what we have here—one bath.
One
bath, Darcie?”

“There's only one of me.”

Her mother hesitated. “There can't be an adequate kitchen.”

“The Langs lived there for forty years. They had plenty of time to furnish the place. In fact, Mrs. L wants to sell me the living room set, some end tables, outdoor furniture…”

“Is there a refrigerator?”

“Yes, Mom. A stove, a dishwasher, too—it's one of those narrow ones, but just right for the space beneath the counter.”

Janet sighed into the receiver at the Cincinnati end of the call.

“Here in Symmes township you could rent a lovely place with three bedrooms, a dining area, even a garage. Or in Montgomery. Landen, too. What is the rent there again?”

She named Mrs. L's price—well into four figures—and Janet gasped.

“It's New York City, Mom. The cost of living isn't cheap. But it's exactly where I want to be.”

“And your father and I are supposed to fund this madcap adventure?”

“I have a job. I have friends here. Now I'm a small loan away—a few months' rent, Mom, that's all I need—from having a place of my own.” She paused for effect. With a partial rent subsidy, she could concentrate on Wunderthings, dazzle Walt with her creative input on the Sydney project and perhaps get a bigger raise.

“You want me to get away from Gran's influence, don't you?”

“Yes.” Janet paused. “Very well.”

Darcie's pulse stopped. “You'll send the money?” This seemed way too easy. “It doesn't have to be all at once. A monthly stipend would be great. Tell Daddy to add interest to the loan.”

“No loan, Darcie.”

“But you said…”

“Your father and I—” one of her favorite phrases “—are willing to spring for part of the rent, provided…”

Uh-oh. When Janet paused again, Darcie realized her comments had been leading to some condition she wouldn't want to consider. Lost in euphoria, she'd forgotten one thing. Filled with sudden dread, Darcie held her breath.

“…that you take Annie as a roommate.”

Darcie groaned. “Oh, Mom. No. Please.”

“We talked about this when I was in New York. Only last night your father concurred. Annie's job here is a dead-end. That boy she's been dating—Cliff—has nothing to offer her. He's still in grad school. Perhaps this change of scene is what she needs after all.” Janet lowered her voice. “Frankly, your sister has been driving me mad since I first spoke to you. She is absolutely the most persistent twenty-three-year old girl I know. She's obsessed with the notion of moving to that city.”

Darcie felt an unusual surge of empathy for her sister.

“Woman.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Annie's a woman, not a girl, Mom. So am I.”

Even when she needed a loan to float her boat. Her mother made a sound that could mean agreement, or disagreement.

“Annie has improved. She's really not as messy as you remember.”

This did not reassure Darcie. She had no doubt in her mind that Annie had been playing their parents like a
Stradivarius to get her way. Cleaning up her room once or twice wouldn't seem that much of a stretch.

 

Darcie's new apartment, or Annie, certainly didn't thrill Eden.

But Julio wasn't around—he was on duty in the lobby—and she had to do her own talking without an interpreter. Back stiff, hands laced together, she eyed Darcie with disfavor.

“You have a nice big room here. A small rent. No utilities. You don't need a loan from Hank and Janet. I can't understand why you need to move.”

It was the first time Gran had spoken to her in more than monosyllables since their quarrel (or through Julio) and Darcie hated to upset her again. But she'd called Mrs. L the instant her mother hung up and would sign the lease tomorrow. Her stomach fluttered. There was no going back.

“It's not a loan.”

“No, it's a pound of flesh. Janet does nothing without a motive—as you've discovered. Do you
want
Annie living with you?”

“Not really.” Still, flush with joy at her own first apartment, Darcie refused to face that yet. She flashed a look at Sweet Baby Jane, napping on the sofa. “But then, maybe it isn't such a bad idea.” Safety in numbers, Darcie thought. “We'll keep each other company.”

The cat would never again—except when Darcie visited—take swipes at her tender skin. Eden wouldn't want to hear that reason for her move, either. She pursed her lips then pressed a hand to her heart.

“I need my digitalis. Don't say I didn't warn you. I love Annie dearly but she'll drive you insane. I give it a month, tops.”

“If that happens, you can say ‘I told you so.'”

Eden only smiled, but with a sad edge.

“If you needed a loan, dear, why didn't you ask me?”

“That's what Claire said, too.”

“And you told her ‘no' because…?”

“Same reason I didn't ask you.” Darcie couldn't. She and Gran weren't on the best terms, even now, but at eighty-two Eden needed her nest egg. More than she needed a too-young boyfriend. “Keep your money,” she said gently. “I'll be fine.”