Hot Spot (3 page)

"Not more than ten times. You should be nice to him."

"And you should go back to sleep." Megan was always telling her she should go out more. "I'm done enthusing."

"Maybe he could be the exception to your rule."

"Nah. We'd go on a date and then what? I have a business to run. I can't afford to piss off a customer."

"What makes you think you'd piss him off?"

"You didn't see him in person—he had that look… you know the one. He's used to ladies chasing him. And he doesn't chase them back. Charming, but detached. We've both met a few of those."

Stella and Megan had grown up next door to each other, roomed together in college, then shared an apartment their first year of teaching. In general, they could finish each other's sentences. Megan had married seven years ago, had two kids, then discovered her husband in a motel room with his secretary by accident. Which didn't say much for Chad's cleverness. The motel was right next door to his insurance office.

"One learns," Megan pointedly said.

"About good lawyers, too," Stella noted, amusement in her voice.

"True. Did I tell you Mike asked me out for dinner?"

"I don't think so, because I would have
remembered
incredibly fantastic news like that. I
hope
you said yes."

"I said I'd think about it."

"What the hell's wrong with you? Mike is great!"

"I refused him real nicely. He understood. Christ, he's a divorce lawyer. Why wouldn't he? He said he'd ask me again next week."

"That's sweet. A real Hallmark moment. We'll have to go shopping and find you a new dress. You can't wear sweats out to dinner." Megan taught phys ed, and although she looked great in sweats, because anyone who could pump a hundred pounds and run the mile in five minutes was trim and toned, there were times when even Juicy Couture sweats wouldn't do.

"Back at you, babe. Think about going out with your hunk if he promises to wear a more PC T-shirt. You've been home alone way too long. I mean it. You're too damned fussy. They're not tall enough or in tune with your world enough or God forbid, don't like the same sports teams as you. You're not going to find that perfect man. Take it from me. I know. You'll have to seriously consider the concept of casual dating."

"I don't think so. If I have to pass the evening with some stranger talking about topics I don't want to talk about just to be polite, I'd rather weed the garden. I mean it. I hate to waste my time."

"Picky, picky, picky. What's wrong with a drink and dinner and some idle chitchat?"

"I'll wait for you to set the example. You let me know how it goes with Mike."

"I'm done nagging. I don't suppose you want to go to the beach today with the kids and me? You could get Amy to come in and mind the store."

"Some other time, but thanks. I'm busy with Marky B's newest story line. Deadline's Friday."

"Damn, there goes the dog barking, which is sure to wake up the kids—oh, yeah, right on cue. I hear Lily singing her good morning song to Bob, the bunny rabbit. Gotta go, the dog just jumped on my bed."

The phone line went dead.

After her very good morning, sales-wise, Stella was tempted to go to the beach with Megan. But she wouldn't. She was pretty compulsive about her business. Not that it was a burden in any way. She really
liked
her store and comic book creation, work and pleasure overlapping with almost a zenlike perfection. She might, however, want to think about going upstairs and dressing. The store would officially open in an hour. And in the summer, with kids on vacation, she had a mob scene just about every day.

Not that she was complaining. Kids were her best customers. They religiously bought their favorite comics every week. So she kept her store kid-friendly with board games set up on tables and old comics on racks for reading. Her only stipulation in terms of decorum was no gum. She hated scraping it off the carpet and furniture.

THE MORNING OF LUMBERJACK DAYS DAWNED sunny and bright.

Which meant there was no way a deluge or thunderstorm was going to cancel the parade.

Stella gazed out the window with a squinty frown and cursed the weatherman for actually being right in his predictions of sunny skies, light breezes, and temperatures in the eighties.

Lying in bed in her airy second-floor bedroom that overlooked the river, the birds singing outside her window apparently immune to her grumpy mood, she understood biting the bullet was her only recourse. With a small sigh, she threw back the light quilt and rolled out of bed.

By the time Megan called to be sure she was on schedule, Stella was dressed, caffeinated, and resigned to her fate.

"Do you have the leaflets?"

She was tempted to say no. "They're on the front porch," she said instead, because she knew she wasn't going to break Megan of her habit of saying the obvious after twentysome years.

"What are you wearing?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. We have to look conservative or senatorial or professional at least. I'm wearing my blue linen pantsuit."

"Oops. I guess I'd better change my bikini top."

"Don't tease, okay? I'm too nervous."

"I'm suitably attired. Everything's good. Everything's on track. Rest easy."

"I'll try. But when my polling numbers went up again last week and I began to realize I might actually have a chance of winning this election, my anxiety levels escalated."

"Everything will go smoothly, kiddo. You're on a roll. Relax."

"Thanks. I mean it, Stella. You're my rock."

Being a rock probably meant not complaining, Stella thought. "When you win this election, I will expect some suitable pork thrown in my direction. The potholes fixed on my street or something. Don't forget. Are you bringing the kids?"

"Would they miss a chance to be in a parade?"

"Duh. Stupid question. I'll bring a bag of Fizzies along."

"And a couple of those everything-but-the-kitchen-sink cookies from your store."

THE PLEASANT TEMPERATURES of morning had risen to a humid eighty-four by the time the parade began, and the crowds massed along the street were drenched in sweat despite their straw hats and sun umbrellas and various alcoholic and nonalcoholic beverages supplied by the bars and restaurants lining the historic Main Street.

Lumberjack Days always drew an enormous crowd. Stillwa-ter's location on the river was an ideal weekend getaway, and the weather had really cooperated this year. The marching bands and floats with queens from every nearby small town, the local Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, the troops of sundry VFW and Legions— some mounted, some marching—the motorcycle police and freshly washed fire trucks, and the clowns and mimes of every description began their progression at the north end of town, slowly moved down the eight blocks of Main Street that were literally packed to overflowing with watchers, before dispersing in a milling throng at the riverfront park. Megan and Stella ran out of leaflets a block short of the end, but by and large, people had politely accepted the campaign literature. All Stella's concerns about rude remarks or disinterest had been negated by Minnesota nice. In fact, there were enough viewers who recognized Megan from her TV interviews and gave her the high sign to make the entire long, sweaty walk worth the angst and effort.

"You're going to be the next senator from the tenth district," Stella declared, sitting down under the shade of a tree and pulling out a Fizzie. "They can stop polling now. I have a vision."

Plopping down beside her, Megan smiled. "You think? Although it did look pretty good out there, didn't it?"

Stella lifted the Fizzie bottle in salute. "To a winner."

"Gimme the Fizzie," little Ruthie exclaimed.

"Please, may I have the Fizzie, sweetie," her mother corrected.

"Here, Ruthie, you deserve it." Stella handed over the bottle. "That was a long walk for a five-year-old."

The breeze off the river was cool, and the crowds were slowly moving north in the direction of the carnival and food booths set up near the high bridge.

"Can I have a grape one?" Joey looked sweaty and hopeful.

"Let me check." Stella turned over the remaining Fizzie in her insulated bag. "This is your lucky day." She handed him a grape Fizzie.

Megan lifted her eyebrows. "I don't suppose you have a pomegranate martini in your little satchel?"

"There's martinis over there." Joey pointed to a sleek yacht docked at the riverside. The quay was lined with boats of various sizes, the slips bordering the park reserved a year in advance for Lumberjack Days weekend. On the particular yacht Joey indicated, the decks were awash with swimsuited people, several of whom had martini glasses in hand.

"Now that's the way to travel," Megan murmured. "First class all the way. Not an ounce of cellulite as far as the eye can see."

Stella smiled. "It's not allowed when you own a yacht. No cellulite is in the contract."

"That guy's waving at us."

Joey had excellent eyesight. A man wearing a captain's hat with his swimsuit stood at the rail on the highest deck, waving frantically.

"Small world," Stella murmured. "That's Buddy Morton, one of my customers. He never said he had a yacht. Although he did talk about his race horses, so I suppose I should have suspected."

Megan's gaze narrowed slightly. "I get the impression he'd like us to come over."

"No kidding," Joey said. "He's waving like crazy and screaming Stella's name. Can we ride on his big boat? Can we? Please, please, pleeeese?"

"We can at least go over and stand on it," Stella said, rising from the grass. "He may not want to lose his spot on the quay." The river was alive with boats, most waiting to dock.

"Ask him to take us for a ride!" Joey was hopping from foot to foot. "Could ya, huh, huh, could ya?"

"Remember your manners," Megan cautioned. "We can't just ask this man to take his boat out for us."

"Come on, let's go and take a look anyway," Stella said. "We'll get a chance to see how the rich and famous live."