Drop Dead Gorgeous (9 page)

“Harriet, I—”

She cut him off. “You're a pig. Get out.” She didn't slam the door, merely closed it in deference to Mrs. Murphy, who might have fallen asleep.

Harriet was proud of herself. She hadn't screamed, hadn't even raised her voice. Albeit, she wasn't very nice, but if she hadn't said those things, she might have asked him why he ignored her. She might have invited him inside. She might have cried in front of him, begged him to touch her again, sweetly, gently, devoutly, the way he had that night.

And none of that would do.

 

Z
ACH HAD BLOWN IT AGAIN
. As always, when it came to Harriet.

Slunk down in his seat, he stared up at her window. Street light beat down on the hood of his car. Cool night air breezed over his face through the open window. A dog barked, and a van drove by in the otherwise quiet neighborhood. His long legs hit the steering wheel, and he shoved the seat back for extra room.

Sometimes Zach wished he'd never touched her. That had been the start of all his troubles. They used to be able to talk. He'd even made Harriet laugh. She'd helped him out on that AMI account, given him the credit and stood back while T. Larry slapped him on the back for a job well done. Then later, Zach had kissed her the way he'd been thinking about doing for months.

And life went to hell.

He'd tried to tell her that he wasn't ashamed of what they'd done. He just wanted to keep it private. He didn't want it dissected over the watercooler in the copy room. He didn't want to fend off the guy jokes.

Harriet deliberately misinterpreted everything he said and did. Like that comment about her dress. Then again, maybe she'd seen right through it. Puke green best described the color. The harsh fluorescent lights turned her skin a shade to match. But he'd seen the tilt of her chin, and he'd felt her pain. Was it really such a bad thing to want to stand up for her?

But no one defended Harriet except Harriet.

She'd boss a man to an early grave. She'd abrade the skin off an armadillo. She'd stick her head in the sand until her ass turned blue and never acknowledge a word he said. But she could be so damn sweet when she wasn't worried someone had demeaned her.

Why didn't he admit the truth? He'd once again picked a woman just like dear old mom, and he was dear old dad, destined to be henpecked to death. And he didn't want it. Harriet wouldn't listen to him because she knew he
did
regret their one fantastic, unforgettable night. No matter what he said, no matter how he pleaded, she saw right through to that layer of self-reproach.

She saw him wishing she was more like Madison, a woman he could never aspire to date and Harriet could never aspire to be.

H
OW HAD HE GOTTEN
himself into this? Laurence wondered.

He'd been seduced with his own fantasies.

He clung to the corner chair on Dorie O'Donnell's huge covered back porch. The house itself was two-story with white shutters against a blue exterior. Madison's mother plied him with iced tea; her two cats did figure eights around his legs; and Thomas, the birthday boy, had taken ownership of his lap.

Madison sat to his left, rocking the youngest O'Donnell against her shoulder. Pudgy fingers kneaded the swell of her breast like a newborn kitten, bubbles popping from its mouth as it slept—a boy or a girl, Laurence couldn't decide. The breeze wafting gently over Madison carried the scent of formula and baby powder. She managed to talk and eat without disturbing the baby as naturally as if she were its mother.

The other six children—Laurence's critical accounting mind calculated frantically—splashed in a hopelessly small plastic pool in the center of a plush green lawn trimmed with late blooming camellia bushes all around. All under the age of ten, their aggregate vocal cords created a cacophony loud enough to wake the dead. On another continent. Or another planet.

No one seemed to notice but Laurence.

“Have another cupcake.”

Dorie, as she insisted he call her, offered him a chocolate confection topped with two inches of cream icing. With the last one she'd given him, all that icing had found its way up his nose. Every aroma drifting his way now came laced with the syrupy sugar.

“No, thank you, wonderful as they are.”

She tut-tutted like a grandmother of seventy, though she could only have been in her midfifties with a smattering of gray in her dark hair. Obviously Madison's red hair didn't come from her mother, though Laurence suspected Madison's trim figure was from Dorie's gene pool. She was a handsome lady with a well-kept shape. The woman had been feeding him constantly since he'd arrived two hours ago. The center table overflowed with chips, salsa, crackers, cheese, spinach dip, and the “boys” hadn't even started the barbecue yet. Laurence issued a soundless groan.

“I want one, Gramma.” The cake disappeared into Thomas's mouth, frosting splattering his cheeks and chocolate crumbs sprinkling Laurence's khaki slacks.

“Thomas,” someone admonished.

The child swallowed, belched loudly, smiled and wiped his icing-covered fingers on Laurence's shirt.

Dorie handed him a napkin to wipe off the mess.

“You wanna see my Yu-Go cards?” Thomas held a grimy stack aloft, the stack Laurence had already been through. Four times.

“Sure.”

“Children seem to love you.” That came from Carol, blond, late twenties, a pretty smile in a round face, Sean's wife. Or did she belong to Patrick? All redhaired, with the developed muscles and tanned faces of hardworking outdoor men, the brothers were James, Patrick and Sean. That much Laurence had gleaned during the time Madison had worked for him, though he had to admit he'd never memorized the relationships, and thus today he'd lost track of which man, woman and child went with whom.

Except Madison. She was with him.

“They do like him, don't they?” Madison winked at him over the baby-soft hair nestled beneath her chin. The tip of her sandaled foot swung lazily, brushing his shoe. He'd been watching that bare, tanned leg until he was afraid he'd start to drool.

What was she saying? Something about children. She'd explained it all on the short walk over from her apartment. He needed to be around children, large groups and small, needed to talk with them, read to them and cuddle them on his lap. Hence, the placement of Thomas. Laurence thought children couldn't sit still, especially under the age of five. But Thomas had been content on his lap for well over forty-five minutes. Laurence's left leg had numbed as the boy chattered, scattered his playing cards, waited patiently while his mother picked them up, then started all over again.

“He's going to make a perfect Daddy.” Madison beamed.

Sean—or was that James—choked momentarily on a cherry pit, then spat it out in his hand. Somewhere in his midthirties, lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes as if he laughed a lot. He wasn't laughing now.

“What the hell are you saying, Madison?”

“James, don't swear.” Carol and Madison's mom spoke concurrently.

Ah, James was the husband, not Sean or Patrick. James and Carol, parents of the birthday boy. Laurence cataloged the relationship.

“I asked her what she was saying, Ma. I think we deserve an answer.” James spoke to his mother about his sister, while his eyes bored two holes right through Laurence's forehead.

“I'm not pregnant,” Madison said, “if that's what you mean.”

“Then what? Are you planning to marry him?” This from…Sean, who had lighter colored hair than the rest, but no fewer laugh lines though he was the youngest son. James being the oldest. Patrick, the middle one. Three sets of male eyes fixed on him. They were all hopping mad.

Per Madison, the only things Dorie O'Donnell had intended to keep of her children's Irish-Catholic heritage were their names and the red hair on each of their four heads. But Irish-Catholic genes couldn't be buried, not even under the Protestant mantle she'd foisted on them, as evidenced by the protectiveness of Madison's three brothers and the number of young redheads dotting the yard—something to do with the rhythm method, he was sure.

Laurence should have been horrified by the marriage comment and the ecstatic glow in Dorie's eyes, not to mention the fight on the faces of Madison's brothers. But two hours of O'Donnells had polished the edges of his nerves until he felt absolutely nothing.

Except the caress of Madison's arm against his as she rocked the little one, or her pinkie against his chest when she straightened Thomas's cards, her foot along his calf…

Did she know what she was doing to him?

“What about Yu-Go?”

“Yu-Gi-Oh! has to wait until your aunt answers the question.” Patrick, the largest of the three brothers in height and breadth but by no means fat, narrowed his eyes on his nephew, and Thomas's lips clamped. Discipline in this family was meted out by whatever adult was closest.

The only sound was the screeching laughter of children, and below that, the insistent buzz of summertime flies.

Laurence decided to rescue them all. “What Madison means is that though I plan on having a family someday, I've never been around children, and she wanted to help me get my feet wet.”

A multitude of eyes turned to Laurence. He hadn't explained well enough. Electricity crackled in the two inches that separated Madison's shoulder from his.

“We're not talking about our children
together.
Just children in general.”

It still wasn't enough. Sweat gathered in his armpits. He was out of his depth. He had been from the moment Madison dragged him through the front screen door. He was an only child from an orderly household run by a very sweet June Cleaver look-alike who'd insisted on spotless clothing at all times.

This was bedlam.

“Stop embarrassing T. Larry.” Madison patted his arm. “I'm never getting married, and we aren't having children, so shut up.”

Just like that, they did. Miracle of miracles. Or maybe it was that everyone thought suddenly of
why
she believed she'd never get married. Yet, he didn't get the hint that her family held the same fatalistic view of her life. For long moments there, Dorie's eyes had definitely glazed over with matrimonial hope, and her brothers had defended her virtue—or something. Those were not the actions of a family who thought they were going to bury her in less than a month.

Odd that they let her fantasy—or whatever the hell it was—continue. Then again, Madison herself was odd, so what else did he expect?

The conversation turned elsewhere, people broke into groups of two or three, while Madison's mother rose to bring out yet another tray of food. Laurence couldn't stand to look at it.

“Yu-Go,” Thomas whispered.

“Yu-Gi-Oh!” Laurence whispered back, aware of Madison's knowing smile and the scent of her flowery perfume somewhere beneath the sugary icing in his nose.

With remarkable comprehension for a child of five, Thomas explained each card, delighting in describing the different monsters. Of course, since Thomas had a problem getting the name of the game correct, Laurence was dubious that the rules he outlined were the actual rules of the game. He had a feeling the child made them up as he went along. Laurence leaned back in his chair, one hand securely on Thomas's bottom so the boy didn't fall, and his arm on the rest, next to Madison's, close enough to feel the vibration of her laughter.

“How big is your penis?”

His heart stopped right in his chest. Heat burned in his cheeks. Blood vessels popped in his head. How could one little boy have that much volume?

Laurence did the only thing a sane man could do.

Making sure Thomas was securely balanced, Laurence held up his hands, spaced them a little more than twelve inches apart and said, “About this big.” Then added, to accommodate Thomas's saucerlike gaze that moved from Laurence's face down to the crotch of his own denim pants, “Don't worry. You've got plenty of time to grow.”

 

“W
ELL, YOU SAID
you wanted to know.” T. Larry spread his hands in a what-gives gesture.

“Know what?” Madison pretended she didn't understand.

“If the size of a man's…you know…is inversely proportional to the size of his watch.” T. Larry held out his thin, plain, unassuming watch for her perusal.

“I never said I
wanted
to know the size of your…you know. I merely said a watch could be an indication.”

T. Larry had only made his outrageous comment in front of her family because she'd impugned his spontaneity. And boy, had he come back with a whopper, so to speak. She'd never challenge him again, at least not on that issue. Once again, she was proud of him. She'd make him spontaneous if it killed her.

As he walked her the six blocks back to her apartment through her mother's well-tended neighborhood, T. Larry commandeered her hand, tucking it through his arm and pulling her close, their bodies touching as they moved. Strange. Pleasant. Safe. Her fingers tingled with the sensation of masculine skin against hers. Tall, leafy trees covered the sidewalk and street like an arbor. Huge, trimmed hedgerows separated green, immaculate lawns. The last of the spring flowers faded on the shrubs. The setting sun had cooled off the early summer day, but the mouthwatering bouquet of steaks on barbecues hung in the air like fog.

Next to her, T. Larry smelled sugar-frosted.

She didn't really want to know the size of his “you know.” At least she
shouldn't.
But…She needed something to take her mind off it. “Do you sunburn on the top of your head?”

His muscles tensed beneath her hand, his eyes lost their twinkle, and the teasing smile on his lips got stomped by a frown.

“It was just a question, T. Larry. Nobody cares about your hair but you.”

“You mean my lack of hair.”

She pulled on his arm to stop him. Street light reflected on his glasses, obscuring his eyes, but she knew he needed a verbal stroke. “Women think bald is sexy.”

“That's if the man is completely bald.” He was referring to the fringe of hair on the sides.

“No. Skinner on the
X-Files
is—”

“I never watched the
X-Files.
”

“Well, you should. They play reruns all the time on the cable channels. But anyway—”

“Do you think it's sexy?”

“This isn't about me, T. Larry.”

Not a muscle of his face moved, then he started off again in the direction of her apartment. “I didn't think it was.”

Crickets chirped in the silence that fell. Madison tugged on the hem of her skirt where it had ridden up to within an inch of her butt. A breeze blew through the street, kicking up the few leaves that had died in the summer sun, whisking them across the pavement and leaving in its wake the echo of footsteps behind them. She turned, her cheek to T. Larry's shoulder. They were the only ones on the street.

It reminded her of the train. That sensation of being watched, eyes on her back, but when she looked, no one paid her the least attention.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” No one was following them. She'd merely felt footsteps walking over her grave, suggesting how close her birthday was, whispering to her not to waste a moment, not a single moment. She left the niggling fear behind and hugged close to T. Larry's arm. “And I do love your bald head.”

“Will you drop the bald references? Let's talk about your brothers instead.”

“Let's talk about Thomas. He adores you.”