That's (Not Exactly) Amore (2 page)

“Don’t assign divinity to me,” I say with a laugh. “I bought the cheesecake at Nick’s.”

“Well, you can’t beat Nick’s anyway. Anything I can do to help?”

I shake my head. “Just keep me company while I work. I miss you guys like crazy.”

She gives me a look akin to pity and I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. “Your time will come, Laini.”

I hate it when people say that to me! Dancy should know better, considering a mere two months ago she was in the same boat. I look at her as evenly as I can, determined not to play into the pity. I find it’s always easier to pretend it’s not an issue.

“Hey, I’m not complaining. My rent is paid up for another month. I have the money I make baking goodies for Nick’s to tide me over, and I have all the peace and quiet I could ever want.” Much, much more than I want. But I’d die before admitting that to my dear friend.

I finish unloading the groceries while Dancy chatters on about the man in her life, as though he hung the moon and stars. Jack Quinn this and Jack Quinn that. “He’s actually sewn up a deal for me at Lane Publishing. My book comes out in about a year. Isn’t that great?”

I stop what I’m doing right then and there and grab her in a hug. “That’s fantastic, Dancy! I can’t wait to read it.”

“That’s not all,” she says with a wide grin.

I gasp. “Did he propose?”

A frown puckers the skin above her nose. “Not yet.”

“Oh.” Oops. “What’s the great news, then?”

“Jack landed a book deal with his real name.”

“You mean he’s truly hanging up the Cate Able hat?”

“Completely.” She gives a proud smile. “He’s good enough to write under Jack Quinn. And they’ll be promoting his new book with the full disclosure that Cate Able was nothing more than a pen name for Jack Quinn. He’s also going to keep writing thrillers.”

“But not the same series?”

“Well, no. I’m still mad at him for killing off my favorite character of all time. But I see why he needed to start over completely with his own name.”

Dancy grabs a slice of cucumber from my cutting board and plops down on the barstool as she nibbles, elbows resting on the counter. “So. Your turn. Tell me how it went at Nick’s today.”

Weird how I’m both happy and hesitant at the same time. Happy for the opportunity, hesitant because I’m experiencing a sense of impending doom about the whole thing. Plus, Joe isn’t thrilled.

I share all of this with my friend. Normally, we’d wait for Tabby before diving into heart-to-heart stuff, but our soap-actress friend just got married, so she’s probably having trouble tearing herself away from her husband, David, and her step-twins, Jenn and Jeffy.

“Well, you’ll just have to prove Joe wrong.”

“I guess.” I hear the doubt in my own voice and it doesn’t sound pretty.

“Who’s in charge of the colors?” Dancy’s gaze is averted to the gray countertop.

“Jazz.”

She seems relieved, which sets off my warning bells.

“Why?”

“Well, you know. I just wondered.”

Tabby and Dancy know I have some slight trouble with colors. But it’s not
that
bad. I mean, I can do bright colors okay. Besides, I heard an eye doctor say once that women can’t actually be color blind—or it’s only a percent of a percent chance or something like that. So, while I might have issues distinguishing certain close colors, I’m certainly not afflicted.

“Hey, I could do the colors if I had to!” I say, grabbing a Roma tomato and starting to slice. “For instance, don’t you think this shade of gray would be terrific for a base color on the back wall at Nick’s?”

“Um, sure.” Dancy’s hesitation doesn’t thrill me at all. I look up from the cutting board.

“What?”

“Well, it’s nothing, really.” She swallows hard, like she does when she’s trying not to hurt somebody’s feelings.

“Come on, Dancy. Spit it out. What?”

“The countertop is green.”

I stare down at the granite, which is clearly gray. I jerk my chin and stick out my tongue. “Maybe
you’re
the one who’s color blind.”

Her chin dimples as she tries to keep from laughing. Hopping from the stool, she comes around and gives my shoulders a squeeze.

“Don’t worry about it. You have great decorating ideas. Just leave the colors to someone else and you’ll get a passing grade.”

I know she’s trying to be encouraging. But my goodness. I’m not going to have Jazz, the color-coordinated genius, stand over my shoulder after graduation—provided I do, in fact, graduate.

No one is going to hire a color-blind interior designer. And that’s all there is to it.

I turn back to my preparations for dinner. “At least I can cook,” I say flatly.

Dancy grins. “Better than anyone I know!”

Great. So I won’t starve. Are tomatoes orange? Please tell me I haven’t had that wrong all my life? Apples are red, bananas are yellow. Yes?

And Joe Pantalone’s eyes are the color of a mocha latte—without whipped cream.

2

T
hree hours later, I walk up the steps to my empty apartment. Depressing, really. I think back to six weeks ago, when it was all abuzz day and night. Tabby was preparing for her wedding in the midst of the big Christmas rush, and Dancy was working on her book or editing around the clock. Now there’s this silence that makes me want to cry.

I’ve even had fleeting thoughts of moving back home with my mom. Which is what she’s always wanted. But I would never actually do it—I don’t think. Not because I don’t love my mother. She’s awesome in so many ways. But she has this desperate need. Not for anything in particular. Just need. She’s never quite content. And that can get exhausting, especially for the person futilely trying to provide contentment.

I can imagine us in twenty years . . . I’m still there (unmarried), attending to her every whim, and she’s taking full advantage of the situation.

Poor Mom. Daddy died twelve years ago, and it’s been so hard on her. He was her light and truly catered to her every whim. Which is great. I mean, any time a woman finds a man who loves her so completely he wants to cater to her, she should definitely keep him. But now Mom still wants someone to do what he did. And as the only child, guess who that whim-catering falls to?

I can take it in small doses, like every weekend when I’m expected to come home for a “visit,” but that’s about it. I guess that answers the question of whether or not I should move back permanently.

I reach the top of the steps and something is . . . wrong. Fear lumps in my throat as I realize the door has been jimmied and is cracked open just so.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.
My strong sense of self-preservation kicks in full force and whips my body around like a rag doll. I drop the container with the leftover shrimp linguini and rush back down the steps and out the door. At breakneck speed, I sprint full force down the city street, which is filled with passersby. But I can’t stop and ask for help from just anyone. Who knows if the thief is still lurking about waiting for me, the unsuspecting victim, to ask for help? Although I never actually looked inside my apartment. (What if it’s not a thief but a stalker?) I see a blue-uniformed guy walking out of a little Chinese joint up ahead, and I feel like God has smiled upon me. “Officer!” I holler through the crowd. “Officer, wait! Please.”

He doesn’t appear to have heard me as he saunters toward a waiting squad car. I’m gasping for air by the time I reach him, but thankfully I make it before he even opens the door.

I make a grab for his arm.

He jerks back.“Whoa. Take it easy, lady.” He eyes me in an I-could-Taser-you motion, and I swallow hard, hand on my chest to slow the rapid beating of my heart.

“I need—”(gasp for air)“—help, Officer,” I gulp out.

“Calm down, ma’am.” He takes my shoulders in his iron grip, and I look up into a dashing face with blue eyes and a bewildered smile. But I don’t have time to think about what a great-looking cop he is. My apartment has been violated! The entire world has been violated! I don’t have time to be attracted to this guy!

“I need you to come with me!” I try to turn, but he’s not letting me go.

“Wait a second.” He gives me a wary don’t-make-me-cuff-you look. “What seems to be the problem?”

Around us, people stop and stare, most likely taking bets on how long before the police officer arrests the crazy woman accosting him in full view of a crowd of witnesses.

I feel my face crumple as tears spring to my eyes. He frowns, and I’m gratified to see that it’s a concerned frown and not one of those oh-good-grief-another-emotional-woman frowns. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

“No! I am not. I think I might have been robbed.”

“Did you report it?”

“What do you call this?” I wave my arms like a maniac. “You’re a cop, right? I’m reporting it to you. Aren’t you supposed to protect and serve? My apartment is just a block from here, and there might still be someone inside stealing all my things.”

“All right, ma’am. I’ll call it in while we walk.”

“Okay, but . . .”

“But what?” He looks at me through narrowed eyes.

“Don’t you need to call for backup or something? On
NYPD Blue
they always make sure there are two of them before going into an uncertain situation.” I know because I watch reruns every night. Besides, I’d think the actual NYPD would use that as a textbook or something.

“You’re talking about TV?” His lips twitch.

He’s mocking me. I can’t believe I’ve come to this man for help. This man whose salary, by the way, my taxes pay. “Okay, fine. It’s your decision. Live dangerously, for all I care. I was just trying to help.”

“Trust me, ma’am. I’ll ask for backup when I call this in.”

We take quick steps toward the apartment as he walkie-talkies the robbery in to the station. “Wait here,” he says when we reach the building and I open the bottom door.

“You mean by myself?” I practically whimper. Good grief.

He nods and puts his finger to his lips. Up the steps he goes, stealthily (without that backup, I might add), one hand on the pistol at his side. I’m mesmerized.

When he slowly nudges the apartment door open, my heart slips to my throat and I have a disturbing urge to scream. But knowing the officer might be in danger and my scream might be the difference between his living or dying, I keep my trap shut.

I nibble my lower lip and wait. And wait. And wait. After what seems like hours, he pokes his head out. “It’s okay, ma’am. All clear.”

Relief floods over me as I hurry up the steps. “Thank goodness,” I breathe. “I was so worried.”

He takes my arm. “You might want to . . .”

“What?”

“Prepare yourself.”

The look of compassion in his eyes (did I mention that they’re blue?) tips me off and I push past him to find an empty room. Well, not completely empty. Whoever violated my personal space didn’t bother with my old
TV Guides
or crossword puzzles. But that’s about all . . . my TV, my DVD player, my
couch,
for crying out loud. The new one Dancy’s dad bought for us and she left here for me. All gone.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Stop calling me ma’am,” I snap as I continue looking for items that should be there but aren’t.

“I’m sorry. Just trying to be polite.”

“For goodness’ sake, you’re polite enough.” Okay, maybe that’s a little prickly coming from someone who desperately needs his help and support right now, but his overuse of that word is making me feel way too old.

He takes a slow, manly breath. The kind I miss so much since Dad died. “I apologize.” The look he gives me is sort of helpless, and my heart goes out to him.

“Just call me Laini, okay?” I mumble.

The living room is pretty much picked clean. “How the heck did they get a couch out of here without anyone noticing?” We desperately need a neighborhood watch or something.

The officer shrugs his broad shoulders. “Maybe they posed as moving people. It’s not a new concept.”

That actually makes sense. “Probably,” I admit. “We’ve had a lot of moving going on. First my friend Tabby got married and moved out; then Dancy’s parents gave her a fantastic condo with a view of Central Park. So maybe my neighbors just thought I was moving out too.” Nerves always make me ramble. I’d sit down if there were anywhere to sit. And I probably should find somewhere. My legs are shaking pretty badly.

“Are you going to be okay?” the officer asks.

“I guess. For someone who is probably going to have to move back in with her mother.”

He gives me a great smile, and a little sunshine breaks through the cloud of my life for just a second.

“If it’s any consolation, they didn’t take the kitchen table and chairs.”

The kitchen!

Without another word I shoot across the living room and enter my favorite room in the apartment. Relief floods me as I stand in the middle of the outdated, slightly torn gold linoleum that hasn’t been changed since the eighties, most likely. I want to weep with joy as I look at my stove and refrigerator. I start flinging open counters and drawers. “It’s all here,” I say happily and teary-eyed.

A curious frown creases his brow. But I don’t see any reason to elaborate on my elation. Can’t a girl be happy to find her kitchen intact when the rest of her life is going down the tubes?

“You’ll need to go through the rest of the house and make a list of all the stolen items, then take it down to the station to file a report.”

I nod automatically. “I will, Officer . . . I didn’t catch your name.”

“Hall.”

“Officer Hall. Thank you for everything.” My face is warm and I’m feeling a little breathless being this close to him. He’s staring down from a lofty height and by the look on his face, I think he might actually be attracted to me too.

Before he can confirm or deny my suspicion, the buzzer goes off, alerting me to someone downstairs, and I nearly go through the roof.

“You want me to get that?” Officer Hall asks like a gallant knight.

I shake my head. I’m not a total weenie. “Will you walk with me, though?” I walk back through the living room and press the intercom button.

“NYPD. There’s been a report of a robbery?”