Dates And Other Nuts (7 page)

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Authors: Lori Copeland

BOOK: Dates And Other Nuts
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“Temple's the best.” Gabrielle rubbed the ears of the yellow cat who'd unwrapped itself from the leg of the coffee table. “I don't understand why she hasn't married. Guys are crazy about her. How old is she now? Thirty-two?”
“Thirty-one. Her birthday's in December.”
“Oh, yeah. Christmas baby. Is she still dating that guy?”
“Guy?” He frowned. “She's never mentioned a ‘Guy.'”
“You know, that guy, Steve. She thought he'd be the one, you know. I mean ‘the one'?” she said with emphasis. “Maybe you didn't meet him. That was a while back. She was irritated with herself for being so gullible she probably never talked about it.”
Following her conversation was like keeping up with a bouncing rubber ball.
She grinned. “Steve worked in a fish restaurant. Told her he owned it. Then she found out he was feeding her a line.” Gabrielle giggled. “Line. Feeding her? Get it?”
Craig smiled obligingly. “Oh ...
that
Steve.”
It bothered him that he hadn't known about Steve. He thought Temple told him everything. Apparently not.
“Actually, I guess I'd be surprised if she did talk about him. She was screaming mad about the whole thing. You ever lie to a woman?”
“Excuse me?”
“Lie, like Steve did to Temple.”
“I try not to.” Unless, of course, they ask about something like did he notice an eye-watering odor in the apartment.
“Not even a white lie?”
“No.”
“Well, then here's to the first honest man I've ever met.
Salut
. ” She lifted her beer to him.
He lifted his can to her, ready to sip a salute when three more felines entered from the kitchen, tails in the air, marching along behind one another like cartoon figures.
Leaping onto the arm of the couch, they moved in silent rhythm, trailing along behind him on the back of the sofa.
Lying down, they stretched out, nose to tail. The paws of the middle one slipped around his neck, forming a collar just beneath his ears.
He brushed a hand over his hair, hoping to discourage the animal. It didn't work. The cat leaned forward to smell his hair, then nudged Craig with its nose. Its hot breath on his scalp made his skin crawl. He suppressed a shiver as well as the desire to scratch his nose.
“Nice cats.”
“Aren't they?”
“And you've got two dogs?” His skin was beginning to itch.
“Yes, Harry and David. I just love their products, don't you?”
He ducked the amorous cat again. “Excuse me?”
“You know, Harry and David? I get these wonderful catalogs through the mail? They make sinfully delicious cheesecakes. That's where I got the idea for the dogs' names. Harry and David.”
“Oh.” The woman was nuts.
He was rescued from further comment when the front door opened and a large red chow straining against a heavy leash leaped in, followed by a more sedate rottweiler whose challenging gaze locked on Craig. The teenage girl who'd walked the dogs unsnapped their leashes and disappeared into the kitchen.
The chow zeroed in on Craig, sniffing at his pants cuff, then rubbed against his leg, leaving a thick layer of red hair from knee to hem. Craig moved over slightly.
Gabrielle grabbed the chow's collar as it began sniffing Craig's shoe with more determination. “No, no, Harry.”
She smiled apologetically. “He's very proprietary. Sometimes he marks his territory.” So far, the rottweiler had contented itself with standing guard at the corner of the coffee table.
Pulling from Gabrielle's grasp, the chow leaped up and planted its paws on Craig's shirtfront.
Gabrielle relaxed back into her chair, beaming like a proud parent. “Harry likes you.”
Any response Craig might have made was wiped away by the dog's tongue as it washed his face. Trying to avoid the animal's wet licks, Craig's head smacked against the back of the sofa, sending up a cloud of cat hair.
Gabrielle continued to smile. “You're wonderful with animals. You really should get a pet.”
Craig was fending off the aggressive dog with his forearm, when the teenager slouched out of the kitchen with a sandwich in one hand and a can of soda in the other. “Later, dude.”
The door had hardly closed behind her when the doorbell rang.
Gabrielle popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “That must be the ribs. Hope you don't mind that I didn't cook. I'm not very good at it.”
She went to the door while Craig elbowed away the chow and moved to the edge of the couch in an attempt to keep the cats out of his hair. He wanted to leave, but he stayed because Gabrielle was Temple's friend. He couldn't see how they'd maintained any kind of friendship. Temple's apartment was always clean, fresh, smelling faintly of vanilla. He felt comfortable there. So what was he doing here?
A gangly teen in an embroidered ball cap stood angled in the doorway. “Smokey's Bar-B-Q.”
“Where have you been? I was beginning to think you weren't coming.”
“Sorry. Had trouble finding the address.”
Gabrielle flipped open the cardboard box. “Geez, they're cold!”
“Half price 'cause I was late. Traffic.”
Craig escaped the cats and took the box from Gabrielle. He didn't intend to have this turn into another Gina fiasco.
“How much?”
“Twelve-fifty.”
Craig handed him fifteen dollars, and shut the door.
Gabrielle took back the box.
“They're cold as ice. I'll reheat them.” She carried the food into the kitchen. “Want another beer?”
“Thanks, I'll finish the one I have.”
He tripped over a cat on his way back to the sofa. Stumbling, he caught himself, cracking his shin on the coffee table. He sank onto the edge of the couch, swallowing an expression his mother would have disapproved of. The rottweiler, looking unperturbed by his agony, licked its chops, cold black eyes observing him implacably. Gabrielle was in the kitchen. No help if the dog decided to go for his jugular vein.
“Mind if I wash my hands?”
“Through the bedroom,” Gabrielle called back. “First door on the right.”
Gingerly pushing open the bedroom door, he stopped short. Clothes were strung over the bed, draped from doorknobs and the backs of chairs. The tight quarters resembled a large, messy closet. How had Temple lived with this?
At least the bed was made, but depressions in the thick comforter made it clear that the cats considered it their bed.
He found the bathroom, more by smell than observation, and flipped on the light. A large inky-black cat, green eyes gleaming like coals, was curled in the sink. The feline did not appear inclined to move.
“Just push Satan out of the sink,” Gabrielle called from the living room. “He thinks it's his. The porcelain feels good against his tummy, I guess.”
Craig's eyes stung and his nose burned from the pungent odor in the room. He deposited the cat on the floor and turned on the water. After rinsing his hands, he picked up a fairly fresh towel and spotted the source of the smell. Three litter boxes sat on the floor of the closet.
As he left the bedroom, the smell of burning cardboard wafted to him, nearly overriding the stench of the litter boxes. When Craig entered the kitchen, Gabrielle was pouring cat food into five dishes lined up on newspaper in a corner.
“What's burning?”
“Oh, dam!”
Smoke was seeping out around the oven door.
Grabbing a hot pad, Craig jerked open the oven door, leaning back to evade the rolling cloud of black smoke that billowed out.
“Got an extinguisher?”
“No!” Her hands fluttered helplessly in the air, stirring the smoke.
“Damn,” he muttered.
Yanking out the oven rack, he grabbed a damp dishcloth that was draped over a burner and beat out the flaming box.
“Oh, geez-Louise, will you look at that,” Gabrielle wailed, peering over his shoulder.
“You're supposed to take the ribs out of the box before you heat them,” he told her.
Her eyebrows shot up as she surveyed the mess. “No kidding?”
Craig headed for the bathroom again.
Ten minutes and I'm out of here. Fifteen tops. And then, Burney, you're going to pay for this one. Big time.
Craig quickly washed his hands while Satan eyed him warily from the open closet door.
As he was drying off, he spotted Gabrielle's curling iron on the counter, the frayed cord plugged in, the barrel smoldering amid at least thirty bottles of cosmetics that littered the tiny counter.
“Did you know your curling iron's on?” he called. And obviously has been since early this morning?
“Again? Where is my brain! I forget to turn it off. Mind unplugging it for me?”
Fearing electrocution, Craig gingerly reached around the blistering hot barrel and knocked the hot plug out of the socket. The cord knocked over a bottle of perfume. Grabbing at it, he started a landslide of hair spray, styling gel, , deodorant and a bottle of mouthwash that fell in a domino effect, clattering noisily to the floor. A container of aspirin crashed to the floor where its contents spilled across the black and green tiles.
Damn.
Satan shot out of the closet like a bullet, smacking into the bathroom wall and ricocheting off it into the door frame, nearly shutting his own tail in the door as he finally shot through it. A harrowing screech from the other side signaled the sideswipe of at least one other feline.
“What was that?” Gabrielle called from the kitchen.
“Nothing. Be right there.”
The cockeyed yellow cat sauntered in to investigate the melee and immediately began eating the scattered aspirin.
“Stop that!” Craig muttered, grabbing it. He fished two pills out of the cat's mouth and flushed them down the toilet. Cockeyed wasn't at all happy about the operation and took a mean swipe at Craig before being pitched into the bedroom.
Dropping to his hands and knees, Craig scraped together the remainder of the aspirin, separating cat hairs from the tablets as best he could, and stuffed the pills back into the bottle. Retrieving the cosmetics, Craig piled perfume, hair spray, styling gel, deodorant and mouthwash back onto the counter. He doubted Gabrielle would notice the difference.
He returned to the living room, the telltale scent of Giorgio clinging to him. “Leaving your curling iron on is dangerous.”
She sniffed, looking at him with a slight frown.
Did she think he had been into her perfume?
He started to explain, but she interrupted. “You some kind of safety nut?”
“No, but that's a damn good way to set the place on fire.”
She flipped the last of the ribs from the scorched box onto a plate.
“You can buy curling irons that automatically shut themselves off,” he added.
“I've had that one since high school. I don't want to break in a new one.” She smiled reassuringly. “Don't worry. I leave it on all the time. Dinner's ready.”
His soda can had cat hair coating the sides.
Brushing away what he could without being obvious, he took a tentative sip. Gabrielle picked up a cat from the floor. She held it on her lap while she ate, feeding it and the four other felines tidbits from her plate.
“It's not bad, is it?” she tossed a piece of meat to the chow who caught it with practiced ease. “It hardly tastes burned at all.”
He'd had enough.
Pushing back from the table, he stood up. “I hate to cut this short, but I have an early flight in the morning.”
“Oh, you have to leave so soon? I thought we might play Uno.”
“Sorry.” He smiled. Uno? I don't think so.
Gabrielle followed him to the door. “Tell Temple I said hi.”
“I'll do that.”
She stood in the doorway waving as he stepped into the elevator.
“Au revoir, monsieur.”
She blew happy kisses at him.
He'd tell Temple hi, all right, he thought. Plus a few other things.
Craig headed straight for the shower when he got home and stood under the hottest water he could take until it ran cool.
His second act was to call Temple.
“I thought we had an agreement.” He stretched out on the couch and stared at the ceiling.

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