"Is he?"
"He's in my advanced English class, but he's having trouble keeping up."
"Maybe you could offer to help him out."
"He doesn't even know who I am." Molly shoved a sack out of the way, her face clouding. "Nobody likes me. All the girls are bitches. If you're not a Pom Pom and you don't have the right clothes, they won't even talk to you."
Now Phoebe understood what had motivated the shopping spree. "I'm sure all the girls aren't that way. You just have to find the right group. It'll take time."
"I don't care about them! You told me that I only had to stay a semester, and then I'm leaving."
Defeated, Phoebe rose from the side of the bed. "Enjoy your new clothes. I wish we could have gone shopping together. I would have liked that."
Maybe she imagined it, but she thought she saw a flash of uncertainty cross her sister's face.
Just before bedtime that night, Phoebe clipped Pooh's fuchsia leash to her collar and led her outside for a walk. After the danger of Manhattan's streets, she loved this quiet residential area where she had the freedom to walk at night without worrying about becoming a statistic.
The town houses butted up against an area of wooded parkland. A paved bicycle path lit by an occasional streetlamp ran along the fringe. She loved the dense quiet, the loamy smell of the woods, and the crispness in the night air that announced the end of summer.
Pooh trotted ahead, sometimes stopping to poke her nose at a pile of acorns or beneath a clump of dry leaves, occasionally squatting to leave her mark on a particularly blissful spot. Phoebe's sneakers squeaked on the sidewalk, and the fleecy sweatshirt she wore was warm and cozy. For a few moments she let everything unpleasant slip away and enjoyed the night quiet.
Her sense of well-being was broken by the sound of a car turning into her court. She watched it slow down in front of her condo, then begin to pull into her driveway only to come to a stop as the headlights caught her. The driver immediately backed the car and drove toward her. Even before the vehicle stopped at the curb, she saw that it was a red Ferrari.
She tensed as Dan unfolded from the car and came toward her. He was wearing his glasses, and he'd thrown a Stars' windbreaker over a plum-colored shirt and jeans. Pooh began barking and straining at the end of her leash to get to him.
She tried to brace herself for what was certain to be another painful encounter, but it had been a difficult, exhausting day, and she didn't have many resources left.
He looked down at the fluffy white poodle trying to lasso his ankles with her leash. "Hey there, dawg."
"Her name is Pooh."
"Uh-huh. I guess it's just one of those words I don't like to use too often. Like 'snookums'." The breeze rumpled his dark blond hair as he took her in from sweatshirt to sneakers. "You look different. Cute."
She'd been called many things, but never cute. "What do you want?"
"How about a little meaningless chitchat for starters? Nice evening, isn't it?"
She couldn't let herself be pulled into whatever game he was playing, so she tugged on Pooh's leash and began walking. He fell into step next to her, adjusting his long stride to accommodate her shorter one.
"Weather's real nice. It's still hot during the day, but at night, you can tell fall's coming."
She said nothing.
"This is a real pretty area."
She continued walking.
"You know, you might think about contributing a little something to this conversation."
"We bimbos don't think."
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and said quietly, "Phoebe, I'm sorry. My temper got the best of me. That's no excuse, I know, but it's the truth. If anybody's a bimbo, it's me."
She had expected anger, not regret, but his attack that morning had wounded her too deeply, and she said nothing.
"It seems I'm always apologizing to you for something. It's been like that from the beginning, hasn't it?"
"I guess we're oil and water."
He ducked beneath a tree branch that dipped too low over the path. "I'd say we're more like gasoline and a blowtorch."
"Either way, I think we should try to avoid each other as much as possible." She stopped near one of the streetlamps. "I can't do anything about the suspension, you know. Ron refuses to lift it, and I won't countermand his orders."
"You know you're violating my contract."
"I know."
"The last thing you need right now is a lawsuit."
"I know that, too."
"How about we make a deal?"
"What kind of deal?"
"You keep me company next Saturday afternoon, and I keep my lawyers away from you."
That was the last thing she'd expected.
"I'm going to fly south for a couple of days to Gulf Shores. We call it the Redneck Riviera, and I have a place on the beach there. When I get back, I'll have some spare time on my hands. That big old house. Nothing to do. There's a local art show on Saturday, and since I know how much you like art, I thought we might check it out."
She stared at him. "Are you telling me you're not going to fight this suspension?"
"That's what I'm telling you."
"Why?"
"I've got my reasons, and they're private."
"I won't tell."
"Don't push it, Phoebe."
"Please. I want to know."
He sighed and she thought she saw something that looked very much like guilt flash across his features. "If you repeat this, I'll call you ten different kinds of a liar."
"I won't repeat, it."
"The suspension is going to hurt the team, and I don't like that. It'll take a miracle for us to win this Sunday, and it'll be tough to recover from one and four. But I'm not fighting it because Ron finally did the right thing. I was way out of line. I just never expected him to call me on it."
She finally smiled. "I don't believe it. You actually called him Ron."
"It slipped out, so don't count on it happening again." He began walking. "And don't think I've changed my opinion about him just because he finally showed some gumption. The jury's still out as far as I'm concerned. Now what about Saturday?"
She hesitated. "Why, Dan? We've already agreed that we don't mix well."
"I'm not siccing my lawyers on you. Isn't that a good enough reason?"
They had reached the end of the cul-de-sac. As they came around the curve, she gathered her courage. "I'm not a toy. You can't use me to amuse yourself and then toss me away when you're done."
His voice was surprisingly soft. "Then why do you act like one?"
Although he sounded more puzzled than accusatory, the hurt came back, and she picked up her stride.
He stayed with her. "You can't have it both ways. You can't flirt with everything in pants, wear clothes that look like they've been shrink-wrapped on your body, then expect people to treat you like you're Mother Teresa."
Because she knew there was truth in what he was saying, she stopped walking and turned to confront him. "I don't need a lecture from you. And since you're into personal assessment, maybe you should consider looking in the mirror and figuring out why you can't control your temper."
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I already know the answer to that one. And I'm not talking to you about it, so don't even let yourself get warmed up to ask."
"Then you shouldn't ask me why I act like a—The way I do."
He gave her a long, searching look. "I don't understand you. You're not like any woman I've ever met, except I keep thinking you're exactly like so many of the women I've met, and that's when I get into trouble."
Even as she gazed at him standing in a pool of golden light with the wind rustling his hair, she could hear the creak of the paddle wheel fan overhead. "I'm not going to bed with you again." She spoke softly. "That was a terrible mistake."
"I know."
She wished he hadn't agreed so quickly. "I don't think Saturday is a good idea."
He refused to be
brushed off. "It's a great idea. You like art, and we'll be out in public, so we won't be able to paw each other."
"That's not what I meant!"
He grinned and chucked her under the chin, looking much too pleased with himself. "Pick you up at noon, hot stuff."
As he walked away from her toward his car, she raised her voice. "Don't you call me hot stuff!"
"Sorry." He opened the door and slid inside. "Hot stuff, ma 'am."
She stood beneath the streetlamp and watched him drive away. It was only an art show, she thought. What harm could there be?
Ray Hardesty could see Phoebe's blond hair shining in the streetlight from his vantage point on the hillside that ran behind the luxury condos. He had parked his van on a narrow road that led to a small residential development, and now he set the binoculars down on the seat. The rumors were true, he thought. Calebow had something personal going with the Stars' new owner.
He was storing up information about Dan Calebow like nuts for winter, ready to be drawn out if he had to use it, but so far Calebow was screwing himself over. The Stars had won only a single game since the season opener, and all their turnovers made them look like a college team. With each loss, Ray felt a little better. Maybe Calebow was going to get himself fired for incompetence.
He waited until the Stars' coach had driven away before he drove home himself. Ellen met him at the door and right away started fussing over him. He walked past her without a word, heading into the den, where he locked the door, slumped down in his favorite chair, and lit a cigarette.
The small room was paneled in knotty pine, although hardly any of it was visible because every foot of wall space was covered with memorabilia: action photographs of Ray Junior, trophies, jerseys tacked up with pushpins, framed certificates, and newspaper stories. When he was in here, Ray sometimes pretended all these honors belonged to him. For the past few months he'd even been sleeping on the old couch under the room's only window.
He sucked on his cigarette and coughed. The spasms were lasting longer all the time and his heart had been kicking up again, but he wasn't going to die yet. Not until he'd made Calebow pay. He wanted the Stars to lose every game. He wanted the whole world to know that bastard had made the biggest mistake of his life when he'd cut Ray Junior. Then maybe Ray could go back to some of his old hangouts and have a few drinks with his buddies. Just once before he died, he wanted to feel like a big shot again.
Ray got up from his chair and walked over to the built-in cupboards, where he pulled out the whiskey bottle he kept behind some boxes. He unscrewed the top and took a swig, then he carried the bottle over to the couch. As he sat, he picked up the gun he'd left on the end table when he'd gotten home from working the auto show at the Midwest Sports Dome yesterday.
The Dome's empty tonight, he thought, but tomorrow night they had a religious crusade coming in. The next night, it was some nigger rap group. He hated working concerts, but other than that, he liked being a security guard at the dome. Especially on Sunday afternoons when the Stars were losing.
Taking another swig, he stroked the gun in his lap and listened to the crowd call out his name.
Hardesty!
Hardesty!
Hardesty!
Chapter 15
« ^ »
Phoebe slid back the curtain she had been peering through as Dan pulled his Ferrari into the drive at precisely noon on Saturday. Her stomach quivered like a teenager's on her first date. She went to the bottom of the stairs and called up to Molly. "Dan's here. Let's go."
"I don't want to."
"I understand that, but you're coming with us anyway. I need a dog sitter."
"That's just an excuse, and you know it. You could leave Pooh here with me."
"She needs some exercise. Stop stalling, Molly. Just give it a chance. It's a beautiful day, and we'll have fun." She wanted her words to come true, but she knew it was more likely that she and Dan would have an argument. She was hoping Molly's presence would act as a buffer.
The story of Dan's suspension had broken in Tuesday morning's papers, and both she and Ron had been hounded by reporters all week. Some of the press had even managed to locate Dan at his vacation home in Alabama. Dan and Ron had issued separate statements, neither of them substantive, and she had finally been forced to take the NFL commissioner's phone call. Needless to say, he wasn't happy with her. On the positive side, the suspension had squashed rumors about her affair with Dan.
Molly appeared at the top of the stairs wearing one of her new pairs of jeans, a plaid, oxford collar blouse, and a scowl. Phoebe had thought about calling Dan to let him know she was bringing Molly along, but something had held her back, maybe the intensity of her desire to hear his voice.
Molly had pulled her hair back to show off the small gold studs in her newly pierced earlobes. Phoebe was delighted that she had also somehow managed to talk Molly into a shorter, breezier cut, so that her hair no longer overpowered her small features. She thought Molly looked darling, but her sister refused to accept any of Phoebe's compliments.
"It's not fair," Molly complained. "I don't know why you're making me do this."
"Because I'm mean and heartless."
The day was warm, and Phoebe was wearing a pair of pleated khaki shorts with a daffodil yellow blouse, matching socks, and white canvas Keds. Just before she picked up Pooh, she plunked a floppy-brimmed straw hat on her head, positioning the sassy pink silk rose that held up the brim exactly in the center.
"That hat's stupid."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Molly. A lady always likes to know she's looking her best."
Molly's eyes dropped. "I just think you should look your age, that's all."
Ignoring that ego-booster, she opened the front door. Dan was coming up the walk in a pair of faded jeans and white T-shirt, with a black and red Chicago Bulls' hat on his head. She reminded herself that she had met any number of men more physically beautiful. His nose wasn't entirely straight, his jaw was too square, and he was too muscular. But everything about him touched a hidden source of warmth inside her. She felt a connection with him that she couldn't explain, and she didn't like to remember how many times she'd thought of him during the week.
He greeted her with that drop-dead grin of his and stepped inside, while she busied herself scolding a yipping Pooh, who was twitching ecstatically in her arms in an effort to get to him.
"Quiet, Pooh, you're being obnoxious. Molly, would you get her leash?"
Pooh's pink tongue lapped and her eyes filled with adoration as she regarded Dan. He contemplated her warily.
"Tell me this is a bad dream, and you're not planning on bringing that major embarrassment with us."
"I've invited Molly along to watch her. We can take my car. I hope you don't mind."
He smiled at Molly. "Not at all."
Relieved, she stepped outside.
Molly's mulish expression made it obvious she wasn't happy, but Dan acted as if he didn't notice. "It's a good thing you could come with us, Miz Molly. You'll be able to keep that Chinese hors d'oeuvre away from me."
Molly forgot to look sullen. "Don't you like Pooh?"
"Can't stand her." He began leading both of them to the Cadillac Phoebe'd left at the curb.
Molly was so shocked that she quickened her steps to pull abreast of him. "Why? Don't you like dogs?"
" 'Course I do. Shepherds, labs, collies. Real dogs."
"Pooh is a real dog."
"She's a sissy dog, is what she is. A man spends too much time with a dog like that, next thing you know he's eating quiche and singing soprano."
Molly regarded him uncertainly. "That's a joke, isn't it?"
Dan's eyes twinkled. "Of course it's not a joke. You think I'd joke about something so serious." He turned to Phoebe and held out his hand. "Pass over the keys, honey lamb. There are certain things a man still does better than a woman, and driving a car is one of them."
Phoebe rolled her eyes as she gave him the keys
to the Cadillac. "Today's going to be a living history lesson for you, Mol, on life in the fifties. You'll get to spend time with a man who's managed to miss an entire social movement."
Dan grinned as he unlocked the driver's door and reached inside to flip the automatic locks. "Climb in, ladies. I'd open the doors for you, but I don't want to be accused of holding back anybody's liberation."
Phoebe smiled as she passed Pooh to Molly, then slid beneath the wheel to the passenger side of the front seat. As they pulled away from the curb, she turned toward the back. "If he takes us out to eat, Molly, order the most expensive thing on the menu. In the fifties, the men always paid."
"Dang," Dan grumbled. "Now you're playin' hardball."
Naperville was an old Illinois farm town that had grown into the largest city in DuPage County, with a population over ninety thousand. Intelligent city planning had made it into a showplace. There was plenty of parkland and a well-maintained historic district of shady streets, lovely gardens, and old homes. The town's small crown jewel was its Riverwalk, a park built along the section of the DuPage River that wound through the downtown area. It featured brick pathways, a covered bridge, a small amphitheater for outdoor concerts, and a fishing pond. At one end an old gravel quarry had been converted into a large public beach.
Dan left the car in a small lot on the edge of the festivities, and the three of them followed the brick sidewalk toward the crowd that had gathered beneath the trees. Every September the Riverwalk served as a picturesque setting for area artisans, a place where painters, sculptors, jewelers, and glassblowers could exhibit their work. Brightly colored pennants snapped in the warm breeze, and the beautifully mounted exhibits of paintings, ceramics, and glassware made splashes of color along the riverbank.
It was an affluent crowd. Young couples pushed expensive strollers or carried well-fed babies in sturdy backpacks, while older adults in the brightly colored clothes they'd worn to the golf course that morning strolled between the exhibits. The teenagers' faces had been treated by expensive dermatologists, and thousands of dollars worth of orthodontics straightened their teeth. A sprinkling of African-Americans, Hispanics, and Asians, all well-dressed and prosperous looking, mingled with the crowd.
It Had to Be You Page 21
