by Joyce Armor
“Sigh. I suppose, but I hate to leave anything to chance.”
Roger was another what-you-see-is-not-exactly-what-you-get person. By all outward appearances, he was a hippie down to his hairy legs and very broken-in Birkenstocks. But he was also a computer guru, able to build complex systems from scratch as well as program them. He had created a clever invoicing and ordering system for the company as well as reading and other apps for his grandchildren. He was also as well informed and as politically savvy as they come, probably thanks to the upbringing by his Berkeley professor parents.
Ellie gave him a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “Have faith. I know it’ll work out.”
Roger bent down and picked up a dust ball from the floor and tossed it in a trash can, then studied Ellie thoughtfully.
“You’re always happy and smiling, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a criticism exactly.
This from Mr. Mellow, the guy who never raised his voice. She remembered him telling her that even though he thought of himself as a hippie, he never could get into smoking dope because he was already so low-key.
“No,” Ellie said a little too snarky, and then she felt guilty. “I’m sorry.”
Wesley looked up from his packing. “We love you just the way you are,” he said. “You’re the cheerful elf.”
“Okay, now I am depressed.”
“Don’t be. It’s a good thing. Have a great lunch,” Roger said. “Dove Bars.”
“Got it.”
She trudged out, back through the offices, picking up a small red cooler under Roger’s desk and smiling at the giant cut-out of Muskman before heading out the door. You know you’re in trouble when a cardboard cutout starts looking good to you, especially a hairy one.
As expected, her friend Toni Russo, as fashionably dressed and exquisitely accessorized as always, waved from her blue Beamer in the parking lot. It would never in a million years occur to Ellie to dress in a periwinkle blue suit, colorfully striped scarf and silver bangled bracelets. Once again, the outfit matched her vehicle. Maybe Toni hadn’t done it on purpose, but it always seemed that she matched the car. Toni popped the trunk, where Ellie placed the cooler before jumping into the passenger seat. Early on, she had felt underdressed in her jeans and jersey tops when going out in public with her fashionista friend, but she had long since gotten over it. Apparently she had more things to get over than the average bear, but so what? She was highly skilled at getting over them. And you obviously think too much, don’t you? Put a sock in it.
“As Popeye would say, I yam what I yam,” she chuckled.
“If you’re going to start quoting cartoon characters, I’m not going to let you work there anymore.” Toni started the car and began driving.
“Believe me, there are no Popeye comics at Full Court Press.”
“So you’ve said. You’ll have to take me on a tour sometime. I’ve only been in the outer office.”
“I’m not sure you could handle it.”
“In your dreams.” She hit the brakes and pulled out the wide band that was reining in her thick black tresses. After finger combing her hair and retying it, she hit the gas again. Ellie would have been surprised, perhaps shocked, to know that Toni had worked as hard as she had to overcome her insecurities, particularly about her looks. She was 32, Italian, dark—almost able to grow a mustache—and had spent years perfecting her stylish look that she hoped came across as effortless as she intended. Why did women think their appearance was so damn important and men were judged much more on their accomplishments? She wished she could look as good and be as comfortable as Ellie did in a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She smiled at her friend, who had no pretense about her whatsoever. She for sure was what she was. “Are you up for Mort’s Deli today?”
“Sure. They have the best French bread. I want to take it all home with me. I want to live on a bed made of French bread and eat it in my sleep.”
Toni chuckled. As she drove through the parking lot, passing the Full Court Press door, she glanced in her rearview mirror. “Uh…Ellie? I think a giant rodent just came out of your office.”
Ellie looked over her shoulder. “Oh, Roger’s desperately trying to find someone to play Muskman at the convention.”
“Why? He didn’t take Muskman to the comic convention last year, did he?”
“No. But this year he and Bonnie are planning to sell the original ‘Muskman’ Volume One, Number One.”
“No way. Even I know how much they love that issue. Didn’t you say it’s the only one in existence?”
“As far as we know. Virtually the entire press run was destroyed in the ’70s in a warehouse fire before they could be shipped. They weren’t insured, so instead of reprinting Number One, they just went on to Number Two, adding an intro to explain what happened in the first issue. They reprinted Number One later, but that one has little value because it wasn’t the original printing.”
Toni thought about this as she drove across an intersection and headed toward an upscale shopping center with several restaurants and other retail establishments. It was a popular stomping ground for the business lunch crowd.
“Why are Roger and Bonnie selling the comic?” she asked. “Is business that bad?”
“No, actually business has been good. They want to buy a ranch in France.”
They were stopped at another light. Toni looked perplexed as she glanced at her friend. “They have ranches in France?”
“I think one person’s farm is another person’s ranch.”
“Ooh. Deep. We should embroider that on a pillow.”
Ellie chuckled. “Yeah, if we embroidered.”
At the deli, reminiscent of the old ‘50s mom-and-pop delis with hanging sausages, a variety of other meats and the most delicious-smelling bakery items, Ellie ordered a turkey sandwich on French bread with the works. Toni got some kind of exotic-looking wrap, the deli’s homage to the 21st century. Ellie watched her attractive pal make her purchase and fix her drink and thought how fortunate she was to have a friend like Toni. They had clicked immediately and felt like co-conspirators in the game of life. Toni was classy and sassy and didn’t have the tiniest compunction on telling Ellie when she was going off track. She had a heart as big as Montana.
“How much could one comic book bring?” Toni asked as they grabbed a table that a couple had just vacated in the crowded deli and sat.
“Well, I think the record was an Action Comic that went for about 3.2 million.”
Toni nearly choked. “Dollars? Are you kidding me? Surely you jest. I’m in the wrong business.” She took a drink of her sparkling water and set it on a napkin.
“I swear, but that was a mainstream comic, of course. For most rare underground comix, we’re probably talking in the mid to upper six figures.”
“Still. Dang. That’s incredible.” Toni studied Ellie for a few moments as she ate her sandwich, unaware of the scrutiny. She had to figure out a way to word her appeal so her friend would fall for it. Hm…“I hope Roger appreciates all that you bring to his business. You’re intelligent and hardworking, but you’re also enthusiastic and knowledgeable. And approachable. That’s important in a business. And you have a way of lighting up a room when you enter it.”
Ellie started to bask in the sunlight of those compliments until she thought about it for a moment. Oh, no! Alert! Batten down the hatches! She set her sandwich down and gave Toni her sternest look. “No. I mean it. No. Absolutely not.”
“What?” Toni put her hands up in a show of innocence.
Ellie wasn’t falling for it. You didn’t just get off the turnip truck. What does that mean, anyway? “Don’t ‘what’ me. I know what you’re doing.”
Toni took a bite of her wrap and fixed her gaze on Ellie as she began eating again. Finally, she said, “You have to admire Roger and Bonnie for going after their dreams, moving to France after all these years. Don’t you have dreams, Ellie? Don’t you want something more?”
“Well, of course I do.”
/>
“We’re not meant to go through life alone. It’s unnatural. Even Noah knew that when he filled up his ark with pairs. Rob knows this guy…”
Ellie set her sandwich down again. “No. Nix. Nyet. No, no, no. No more blind dates. Ever. Never. I mean it, Toni. Been there. Done that. Never again. I’m not doing it. It’s not happening. The last guy smelled my armpit, for god sakes.”
“Okay, that one might have been a mistake.”
“You think?”
Twenty minutes later, as the two friends stood on the sidewalk outside I Scream Ice Cream, finishing their double-decker cones, Ellie placed several Dove Bars in the cooler. Roger could stand to lose a few pounds, but she didn’t believe he would ever give up his Dove Bars. “Some things just make life worth living,” he had told her once as he savored one of the treats.
“He’s a corporate attorney, smart, decent-looking and available. I mean it, you should not be alone forever. It’s not right, especially for someone as intelligent and good and fun as you are. You’re a real treasure, Ellie. You should share your gift.”
“Toni, those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. I don’t forget. I remember every agonizing, excruciating detail. No more blind dates. I’d rather meet somebody in a bar.” That was a big fat lie, but maybe it would work. “Hell, I’d rather meet somebody at a Bingothon.”
Chapter 2
You are a weak, spineless worm, a sniveling coward with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. For once, Ellie agreed with her alter ego as she sat at a cozy table in Em’s Hideaway. The kitschy part bookstore, part restaurant included a dozen tables adorned with lacey blue tablecloths and little vases of daisies. At the nearby piano bar, a tuxedoed entertainer was singing a sweet Michael Buble-type version of “I Remember You.” He appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s and was nice-looking, not in a Gentleman’s Quarterly way but in a real-guy kind of way. She thought of herself as a with-it, 21st-century kind of woman and was surprised to find she rather enjoyed his smooth singing. It certainly beat her date’s yammering by a mile.
And then she listened to the words of the song he was singing so beautifully. It was about recalling an ideal mate, someone who gave love and got it back in boatloads. Ha! Like that’ll ever happen to you. Ah, yes, she could always count on her evil head voice to set things straight. At least Head Voice had a sense of humor. Usually. It didn’t have to tell her the chances of her ever hearing bells and seeing stars and her heart going pitter-patter over anything other than a heart attack or a snake bite were slim to none. Oh, she’d had some really memorable boyfriends, but mostly not in a good way.
Ellie reluctantly tuned the singer out as she tried, really tried, to listen to her date, Gawayne Schmid (“No ‘t,’ he had told her half a dozen times).
“…and I had to take the corporate jet to Heathrow. And then they sent me on the corporate jet to Lima. Have you ever been on a corporate jet, Eleanor? May I call you Eleanor?”
Gawayne looked tall, even sitting down. He was reed thin and angular, but not a bad-looking guy, although he did kind of remind her of Ichabod Crane of headless horseman fame. Or at least how she pictured Ichabod Crane would look. His eyes were an odd shade of gray and kind of creepy in their intensity as he stared at her, ad nauseum, it seemed. In a way, he was a conglomeration of all the blind dates that had gone wrong for her. They had zippo connection, he annoyed her, she wasn’t attracted to him and couldn’t imagine what he could possibly see in her. He had not said one thing she was interested in, and barely gave her time to say anything that might have interested him. She was practically squirming in her seat in her discomfort. If he was looking for a challenge, she must be the answer to his prayers. So that’s probably what attracted him. She almost laughed. She was definitely that. The impossible dream, in fact. He had no idea how challenging she could be.
“I prefer Ellie,” she said, a little too primly. She turned her attention back to the singer, who kind of reminded her of a slightly hairier version of Bradley Cooper. Attractive but not devilishly handsome, although his eyes were a startling shade of dark ocean blue. God, was he the male equivalent of her—the boy next door? All right, now your mind is really wandering. Buck up. It’s just a date. You’re not being nice.
Concentrating, she got out of her head but couldn’t help watching the singer. He was winding up to a big finish, and she was somehow mesmerized by his lips. They were not too fat and not too flat. They were somehow just perfect. Kissable. What?
“Ellie?”
“Huh?”
Gawayne was looking rather annoyed. “I was asking you if you’ve ever been on a corporate jet.”
How could this guy win any legal cases when he was so…so…Now you’re not being fair. You’re not even giving him a chance.
“Uh, no, I don’t think I have.”
He leaned over and gave her a smarmy, leering look, at least that’s what it looked like to her. Icky poo. “Would you like to go to St. Louis with me on Sunday on the corporate jet? I could make it happen. I think you’d really enjoy it.” He patted her hand.
She shifted uncomfortably, feeling like she had a wedgie, and slid her hand from beneath his. “Oh, gee, we don’t really know each other that well, Gawayne. Schmid without the t.” Yeah, that joke went over real big.
“What are you afraid of?”
Stultifying conversation. Terminal boredom. Regretting one more minute of my life. Running amok on a corporate jet. “Um…Missouri. It’s so…so landlocked.” And you’re so pathetic, Ellie Lambert. Please, just shoot me now.
The singer began another song, “The Games People Play.” This one was all about people being false, not saying what they really mean. Ellie shot the entertainer an accusing look, and he looked back innocently, smiling, as he continued to sing. It was probably just a coincidence that his song choice made her feel guilty. She really looked at him this time, noticing his wavy brown hair that was a little too long—Don’t all attractive men have hair that’s a little too long?—those wideset deep blue eyes, square jaw and lips that said “come hither.” She closed her eyes and did her best to tune him out again, both musically and visually, really trying to concentrate on her date.
“Well, it’s not Missouri, exactly…it’s…I don’t want to go, Gawayne. At all.
Gawayne stared at her for a long moment before he spoke. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, “Eleanor, are you frigid?”
The singer laughed as he sang. He actually laughed. He couldn’t help it, she supposed. Now the song was talking about how people make each other cry and break one another’s hearts. Yep, she could identify, and she could swear the singer had her number.
Ellie shot him another suspicious look, but he didn’t make eye contact. Then she looked back at her date. She barely recognized her voice as she said, “Excuse me, Gawayne.” She got up with all the dignity she could muster, passed the piano and felt the singer’s eyes boring holes in the back of her head as she walked to the back of the establishment. She entered the ladies’ rest room, where she splashed some water on her face, breathed deeply a couple times to chase her nausea away and tried unsuccessfully to squeeze through the too-small window. She was going to kill Toni.
As he wrapped up the song, Russell Owens watched her go and figured she wouldn’t be back if she found the back door through the kitchen. It’s one of the things he most enjoyed about entertaining—people watching—and she didn’t disappoint. There was something about her that drew him. Oh, she was attractive, but he’d known lots of attractive and many more beautiful women. This one, however, amused him, too. And intrigued him.
Russell played at Em’s Hideaway on Fridays and Sundays, and he couldn’t help but overhear conversations at nearby tables, even as he sang. But he’d never enjoyed one more than the geeky guy and the pretty girl who was drinking coffee by the bucketful. Her dark blond hair rimmed her face perfectly, falling just below her chin. Her eyes were mesmerizing, kind of emerald green, and she had a sprinkling of freck
les that made her look like she should be running through a meadow in a flowy skirt. From what he could see while she was at the table, she had a killer figure, too, although he hadn’t seen her come in, so all he saw was her filmy red blouse through which he could see just the whisper of her bra. It seemed colorless. Could it be red?
Oh, crap. He needed to get a grip. For all he knew, she could be pear shaped and have a giant butt. Nobody was that perfect. He couldn’t really tell until she fled to the restroom. And then, to his delight, he saw that she had a fine derriere. Okay, enough fantasizing, Owens. Time to put a screeching halt to his thoughts right there. He didn’t do intriguing anymore. No exceptions.
Then again, what would it hurt to speculate? Speculation never hurt a soul. What was a good-looking, sexy woman who obviously had a sense of humor doing with such a dork, who obviously didn’t? Maybe he was rich and she was a gold-digger. Yet even gold-diggers had their standards, didn’t they? He just didn’t get it. He had to laugh, though, when she went to the ladies’ room and never came back. He was right about that. So apparently she wasn’t a gold-digger after all. Or she had her limits.
* * *
Two nights later, Ellie and Toni lounged in a bubbling spa with Toni’s husband, Rob Russo, a beautiful, big, quintessential Italian male. He had thick, dark hair and nearly black eyes and a five o’clock shadow at about noon each day. He was vice president of some kind of a business that calibrated the parts for machines that made aluminum foil—the kind of job Ellie hadn’t known even existed before meeting him.
Toni sold real estate and was spectacularly successful at it, even when the economy was down, but it always seemed she was looking for something else. She was definitely a people person, and Ellie thought she would shine in any kind of profession that would enable her to interact with others. Toni was one of the first people she had met when she came to town, stopping at her real estate office to check on rentals after their initial meeting at the gym. The Russos had a buoyant 12-year-old daughter, Maria, and a blatant, hand-grabby love for each other. If she didn’t like them so much, it would be downright annoying.
