Hot Spot (23 page)

After all, they both prided themselves on their independence.

And on a certain detachment from affairs of the heart.

Life wasn't about romance.

Life was about more important things.

WHEN BUDDY CALLED Megan to invite her to the river Saturday, he mentioned he was going to call Stella, too. He also mentioned as an aside that Danny wouldn't be there. He had family to entertain.

As best friends did, Megan immediately called Stella. "Buddy called and invited me on his boat Saturday. He's going to call you. You have to come."

"I don't think Amy can work on Saturday." It was only half a lie; Amy had asked to work, but not until noon.

"Ask Ryan. Danny won't be there—something about his sister coming to town—but you'll have fun anyway.
Pleeease—1
won't know anyone if you don't come."

Despite her previous disclaimers about being just friends, Stella suspected Megan liked Buddy more than she was admitting. With matchmaking intrinsic to the female gene pool, Stella considered doing her part for her gender imperative. "Okay. What time?"

"Not till one. You can always find someone to take over the store for half a day."

"Hey—Buddy's calling in. I'll call you back."

The women compared notes afterward, discussing possible wardrobes for Saturday, which sandbar to beach on, the best way to avoid Kirsty on a boat in the middle of the river.

"And she won't be the only swimsuit model onboard," Megan groused.

"Certainly not a problem for you with your two percent body fat and muscles to die for."

"But she has legs clear up to her armpits."

"She's not your competition. If Buddy wanted her, he wouldn't have asked you to join him Saturday."

"He asked you, too, and said I should bring along the kids."

"He's a nice guy. So bring the kids."

"I'd rather not, just in case… you know, he might be like… maybe a little interested?"

"You two will make a stunning couple," Stella teased. "I've got a good feeling. Wear your green suit with the cut outs, and don't worry about Kirsty or anyone else. You're going to look great, and we're going to enjoy ourselves. We'll swim, drink fruity drinks with paper umbrellas, and pig out on the buffet."

"Jeez, I forgot about the food. That's reason enough to go."

"And there'll be plenty for us, 'cuz swimsuit model types can only eat two soda crackers a day."

"I'm glad he asked us."

There was something in her tone Stella hadn't heard for a long time, not since Chad had done her dirt. Excitement. "I'm glad, too. Buddy's really nice."

"Maybe he invited someone you'll really hit it off with," Megan exclaimed. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

To which Stella replied with equal enthusiasm, "It would be fabulous." When what she really meant was, "Sorry, no one is as fabulous as Danny Rees." But she wasn't crazy enough to actually utter those words. And she'd enjoy herself Saturday—just not up to the level of superlatives.

* * *

IT WAS ONLY after she'd hung up the phone that Stella was faced with the somber thought that she would be more or less a third wheel. Not overtly, because Buddy always had a boat full of people, but there it was.

She hoped like hell there was some coconut ice cream left in the freezer. At times like this, it was the only solution to a rapidly disintegrating world.

WHEN SHE WOKE UP SATURDAY MORNING, STELLA looked out the window and offered up a small prayer of thanksgiving.

It was a downpour.

The kind that sluiced down the streets, clogged up the gutters, and turned the park by the river into a lake.

She was saved.

There wouldn't be any boating excursion today. She wouldn't have to pretend to be having fun. She could stay home and sulk and feel sorry for herself and in general wallow in the gloom of unrequited sex.

She called Megan early so she'd be free of her obligation and could relax. "It doesn't look like a day to be out on the river. We'll go some other time."

"Haven't you seen the forecast?" Megan asked, sounding so chipper she could have been one of the Keebler elves. "The rain's moving into Wisconsin as we speak. Clear skies and sun within the hour."

"Great." Stella needed a couple muffins pronto, and maybe some Krispy Kremes and a bear claw from Bread Loafers, too. This kind of news required major carbs, fat, and sugar.

"I'll pick you up at twelve-thirty. It's going to be
so-o-o
much fun! I've got to get the kids ready to go to my mom's. See you soon!"

The phone went dead on that frenzied exhilaration, and Stella knew she was screwed. Maybe she could bring a book and hide out. There must be a corner on a boat that large where she could disappear. She could fill up a plate with food and alleviate her sexual frustration by pigging out.
Aaagh
. If this frustration continued much longer, she'd be twenty pounds heavier. Damn, damn, damn—what was happening to her previously unsusceptible emotions? What had happened to her comfortable, complacent, I'm-too-busy-to-think-about-men philosophy?

She wished she'd never met Danny Rees.

If there were really fairy godmothers, she would have had that little lady snapping the hell out of her wand and making him disappear.

WHEN AMY ARRIVED to take over at noon, Stella said, "I

might be back early."

Amy shrugged her tattooed shoulder. "Whatever."

"I just meant in case you want to make plans."

"Everyone's out of town this weekend. I don't have any plans.

Take your time." The teenager ran her hand through her orange and green hair and smiled. "I might toke up in the back room after closing and read those new mangas."

Stella put up her hands. "I didn't hear that. I'm a law-abiding citizen."

"In case you come back and wonder what the smell is, it's me, that's all."

If she came back early, she might be inclined to indulge in some mind-altering substance, too. Although in her case, she was thinking about a glass of wine and a box of truffles. "Keep an eye on Chris Hines. He takes way too many comics. I'll go one or two, but that's it. He'll have to read the rest here."

"He doesn't try that stuff with me." Amy grinned. "You're a soft touch."

Chris couldn't afford many comics. His dad had been laid off six months ago after fifteen years as a mechanic at the airlines. Things were tough. "Give him a couple cookies when no one's around," Stella said. "He likes the oatmeal raisin ones."

"Will do. And Zeke, too, right?"

Amy knew who could afford what. "Melanie needs help with her journal. You're good at that. She likes chocolate-chip cookies."

"Okay, Mother Teresa. Go hang out on your yacht, and us common folks will scrap along here."

"Thanks, Amy. There's that pasta salad you like in the frig."

"Go already. You haven't even changed, and Megan's picking you up soon."

"How do you know that?"

"She called me and told me to be sure you're ready. She's hot for this guy on the yacht. Is it the Buddy who comes in here?"

"Yep."

"He collects manga."

"Right."

"He doesn't look like he has money."

"Apparently he does."

"Sweet. Megan needs a change of pace from the loser she was married to."

"At one time she didn't think he was a loser."

"He hit on Lisa once down by the river. She practically screamed. He's really old. Don't tell Megan though. What's the point?"

Amy was nineteen going on eighty. Nothing fazed her. She spoke in a quiet monotone and spent her spare time writing a novel about her dysfunctional family. The writing was good, too, the parts Stella had seen. With any luck, that book might take her away from her nine brothers and sisters, a mom who had given up coping, and a father who was a big-time lawyer but never home. Amy's dream was to live in Greenwich Village and write. Stella had to give her credit: her dream at nineteen was a better class schedule so she could sleep in. Maybe her problem was that her dream threshold was too low.

Not her current problem, when Danny Rees was the mega fantasy in her life and about as unattainable as Brad Pitt.

Think smaller. That was the way to go.

Less chance of disappointment.

"You're zoned out," Amy said, tapping Stella on the shoulder. "Go. Upstairs. And. Change." She pointed to her pricey wrist-watch. "Your pumpkin will be here in twenty minutes."

But Megan didn't come in. She parked at the curb and honked the car horn like a crazy person. Obviously she was in a hurry, Stella decided, glancing at the clock while shoving her feet into her sandals. Swimsuit or no swimsuit? Nah. The last thing she wanted to do was join the parade of swimsuit models who spent a helluva lot more hours in the gym than she did. She actually never spent any time in the gym, so any one of the leggy beauties, no matter how minimal their exercise routine, were hours ahead of her.

Megan exercised enough for both of them, anyway. She had so much equipment in her basement she could stock a store. Not that she didn't put it to good purpose. Her body was toned to perfection.

Stella had always considered her regimen as part of the balance of the universe—you know, the yin and yang of muscle power. Megan was one side of the equation, and she was the other. Diversity. That was her middle name.

"Mrs. Blythe is gonna call the cops if you don't get down to the car!" Amy shouted up the stairs. Or at least shouted as much as a monotone allowed. "Get a move on!"

Her uptight elderly next door neighbor had a close relationship with the local police dispatcher and felt it her duty to inform the local authorities about stray cats, loud noise levels, children hanging around on the sidewalk in front of her house, and skateboarders. Skateboarders were Mrs. Blythe's personal bete noire, right up there with the outrage of profanity on the airwaves.

The kids who hung out in Stella's store couldn't care less. The cops ignored Mrs. Blythe pretty much all the time. But Stella took a more politic stance and attempted to appease her neighbor when possible.

Mrs. Blythe was old. She drank a little too much of that medicinal wine she kept on her buffet. And if you were eighty and hung-over, loud noises could be painful.