Betsy nodded and twisted her mouth into another friendly smile. Since she wasn’t the target of their wrath…not yet, anyway…she figured the least this trio deserved was a little friendly mouth twisting. “Well, all right. Let me have a look.”
She turned to the wall to see what was causing such apoplexy among the estimable members of the tenants’ association. Bending to get a child’s-eye view of the wall, Betsy scanned the dull cream-colored plaster that could certainly use a little mess to give it some excitement. Finally she saw it and had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at the sweet tableau—several blossoms of color on spindly stems, a human figure who seemed to be admiring them, and a single tiny fingerprint smudge over at one side.
It had to be the work of the little girl, Betsy decided. Guys, even under-aged, undersized ones, weren’t usually into flowers sporting smiley faces or stick figures wearing skirts.
Great colors, was her first thought, especially the burst of neon red that reminded her of Matt Pollard’s condom. But she didn’t think that kind of comment would go over too well with the leaders of the tenants’ association, who were exchanging frowns as they stood there waiting for her reaction.
“They’re on the twelfth floor too, and in the elevator,” the austere, male third of the leadership announced from behind her.
His tone dripped so much ice it was almost enough to break her happy concentration on Matt Pollard’s condom. Almost.
“Uh-huh.” Betsy turned around to look at him. But the man was so stiff and self-righteous that she wished she was back staring at the stick figure. “So they’re in the elevator, twelfth floor, and down here.”
Which didn’t seem to constitute all over the building, only the relatively small part of it the kids traversed on their way in and out. But she didn’t think the committee would appreciate her mentioning that either, so she just nodded and said, “But Diego’s been taking care of it, hasn’t he?”
Mrs. Lattimer sniffed at that. “Well, of course he’s taking care of it.” She shrugged. “After I nag him to do it a few times. I mean, in general he’s a good super, but it’s still not his job to clean up after every thoughtless tenant. Even a thoughtless child tenant with an even more thoughtless mother.” She sighed and shook her head, long-suffering to the core. “I talked to Mrs. Donnelly about it last week and thought I’d managed to convey the seriousness of the situation to her. But apparently not, because yesterday I found that new monstrosity on the wall. So obviously the woman doesn’t care, and stronger action is required.”
Betsy didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of stronger action?”
The phrase set off warning alarms in her brain, and she was almost afraid to hear the answer. Stoning at dawn? Flogging in the town square? Putting the artistic, five-year-old miscreant up for auction online?
“Eviction.”
Lorena Lattimer’s tone was firm, decisive, and frighteningly determined, and Betsy snapped to attention and stared at the woman. Not as dire as what she’d been imagining, but still plenty bad.
Mrs. Lattimer brandished the pile of flyers at Betsy. “That’s what the meeting is for—to put together a petition asking management to take decisive action on the problem, up to and including eviction. For the good of the building as a whole, we feel it’s imperative. You will be there, won’t you?”
Wednesday. Eight o’clock. The day and time of her next lesson with Matt.
Betsy cleared her throat, stalling to come up with a reason why she wouldn’t be there. “Um, well, I do have a previous—” She broke off and looked from one of their implacable faces to the next and the next, and she knew one thing for sure. She didn’t want to be on the wrong side of any of these people. Well, with the possible exception of Mrs. Keegan, who was giving her a small smile, expectant and…yes, of course…fluttery.
“Right.” She suppressed a sigh as her cautious, self-protective instincts came out to beat her basic fairness into submission. “No doubt about it. I’ll be there.”
Mrs. Lattimer nodded smugly as though she’d known all along that the hall-screamer from Six-A wouldn’t have the gumption to refuse. “Good.” She stabbed an imperious finger at the announcement Betsy still clutched in her unsteady hand. “It will be held in my apartment. We’ll be expecting you.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Betsy mumbled numbly as she twisted another smile at the group.
If I did, they’d probably lead the rest of the tenants to my door, armed with torches and pitchforks.
“I’m bringing cookies and sponge cake,” Mae Keegan piped up. “That’s why it says ‘Refreshments Served’ at the bottom of the notice.”
She made it sound as if it was going to be a happy-go-lucky kaffeeklatsch instead of a public pillorying, but compared to the rest of the committee, she seemed like such a dimple-cheeked sweetie that Betsy didn’t have the heart, or the guts, to be sarcastic, so she nodded politely at the woman.
“Yum, love cookies and sponge cake.” But inside, her stomach roiled at the thought of stuffing her face with sugar while a family of five trudged the streets searching for shelter. “See you on Wednesday.”
Turning away from them, she headed to the front door as fast as she could, short of actually breaking into a run. Out on the street, she stopped and took a deep draught of the clean, fresh, nonjudgmental air to calm herself. The announcement was still in her hand, and she looked down at it. Wrong move. Seeing that thing just made her anxiety rise all over again.
With a groan, she opened her bag and stuffed the paper inside so she wouldn’t have to look at it. Or think about it.
But all the way to work she couldn’t keep from wondering how many lifetimes in hell your immortal soul earned for helping to force four little children and their widowed mother from their home.
****
Later that day at the office, she called Matt to tell him their lesson had to be cancelled.
“You’re choosing a tenants’ meeting over sex”—he cleared his throat—“uh, lessons?”
Betsy listened to his voice and remembered his hands and his mouth and his dumb, look-at-me condoms and quietly fumed. No, she didn’t choose the meeting. What she really wanted were the lessons. Given her choice, she preferred them by a country mile. Even though, being a city girl, she had no idea what a country mile was, except to know it sounded really, really long. But, unfortunately, she was stuck with the meeting. She’d been roped into it through the usual roping mechanism people used when they dealt with her. Guilt. Okay, guilt along with a little well-placed fear thrown into the mix for good measure. And there was nothing she could do about it now.
“Have to.” She looked down at the tenant announcement on her desk and frowned. “If I don’t, Mrs. Lattimer will be on my tail the way she’s on this other poor tenant’s tail.”
She heard him sigh and smiled. He sounded really frustrated about the cancellation. Probably because he was a good teacher, and good teachers always hated cancelling courses, especially when the student needed as much help as she obviously did. After all, how many people did you have to get really riled up before they made even a cursory attempt at engaging in hot, no-holds-barred sex? Probably not a lot. Which meant she counted among a sad minority of deficient folks who needed a ton of help. Betsy shook her head. The poor guy really had his work cut out for him. She considered that for a moment, and her smile widened into a grin. Lucky for her, he seemed up to the job and unselfishly willing to do it.
“Lattimer again. How that lady does invade our lives,” he muttered.
“Well, specifically my life.”
“Nope, take it from me, if your life is affected, so is mine.”
Betsy wasn’t sure why, but somehow she liked the sound of that—his feeling that their lives were entwined. Only in a teacher-student way, of course, but for some reason it still left a warm sensation in her heart, and a hotter than warm sensation in places far to the south of her heart. “Can we reschedule?”
Matt’s answer w
as fast and gratifyingly affirmative. “Definitely.” He paused for an instant, then added, “Look, I’ve got an idea. How long do you think this gang-up on the unsuspecting victim will take?”
She glanced at the announcement. “The notice they were handing out at the front door when I left this morning says eight to nine-thirty. So I guess the damage should be done in an hour and a half, with some time off to scarf down the cookies and sponge cake one of the tenant leaders is bringing.”
“Fine. If you think you’ll be up to it, we could have the lesson then.”
“At nine-thirty?”
“Why not? Throughout human history, I bet lots of people have had sex at nine-thirty.”
“You’ll have the energy for it?”
His laugh echoed in her ear, and Betsy closed her eyes, feeling like an utter fool. Of all the dumb things a person could say, she had picked the dumbest. “I mean, the energy to teach,” she amended.
“Yup, think I can swing it.” He still sounded amused, but at least he was politely keeping his laughter under control. “What about you?”
She considered it and slid lower in her chair, remembering their last lesson…envisioning his hands again and his mouth and his…his everything. Could she swing another lesson like that one after enduring ninety minutes of Lorena Lattimer and friends? She grinned at the thought. Another lesson like the one they’d had on Monday—the kind of lesson that would wipe out all traces of what she knew was going to be a crappy meeting, so that on Thursday morning she could feel the same way she’d felt today before the tenants’ association ruined her mood. “Let’s do it. Nine-thirty, Wednesday. I’ll be expecting you.”
It’s the right decision, she told herself as she hung up the phone. On the positive side, she’d have something good waiting for her after suffering through that god-awful meeting. Sighing, she shoved the announcement back into her bag. Of course, on the negative side, she’d still have to suffer through the meeting before she got to the good stuff.
Chapter Nine
And suffer she did.
At eight-fifteen, on Wednesday, the meeting was called to order, and Betsy braced for disaster. Fortifying herself with handfuls of Mae Keegan’s cookies and a large slab of her sponge cake, she huddled in a corner of Lorena Lattimer’s living room as she listened to the tenant leadership announce the only item on the agenda—the need to evict a woman and her brood of kids.
The trio sat together holding court at the center of the room. Lorena Lattimer remained the imperious, in-charge diva, and Mae Keegan was still the cheery, bake-lady sidekick. Only Evan Huffnagle seemed to have changed. Or at least Betsy’s view of him had. He no longer reminded her of a funeral attendee. Now he seemed more like the corpse itself, rigor-mortissed up to the gills. Except, Betsy noticed, for his eyes. Occasionally they’d spark when he looked at one of the younger, hotter women in the room—a babe with killer legs and a skirt short enough to show them off to full advantage—meaning there was still life in the old guy after all.
By nine o’clock, the problem had been detailed and discussed and the leadership declared it was time to sign a petition demanding that management take action.
****
Twenty-five minutes later, the meeting was over, and Betsy officially hated herself. She staggered out of Lorena Lattimer’s apartment, thoroughly depressed at how quickly she’d caved. Even the fact that everyone else had done the same didn’t help her downer mood. Then she saw Matt at her front door and some of her depression lifted. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, one foot crossed over the other, looking like he was definitely energetic enough to teach a lesson.
When he saw her coming, he pushed away from the wall and smiled in greeting, then stopped smiling and studied her more closely. “Bad meeting?”
“Bad me. I caved.”
“And exactly what does that entail?”
Betsy clamped her mouth shut as several tenants left Mrs. Lattimer’s apartment and walked past on their way to the elevator. Throwing them a friendly, tenant-co-conspirator smile, she watched until they were out of sight, then turned back to Matt, gesturing for him to come closer. “Bend down.”
When he did, she whispered the awful truth in his ear. “I signed a petition asking management to evict a tenant.”
“Does the tenant deserve to be evicted?” he whispered back.
Betsy shrugged, stupidly distracted by how masculine he looked up-close with all that shadowy stubble on his jaw—not at all like smooth-skinned, stubble-less Tyler. “She’s young and was recently widowed. She’s got four kids, all under the age of seven, and so far she hasn’t done anything to stop her little girl from drawing pictures on the walls.”
“Recently widowed and with four kids to take care of, including a budding graffiti artist.” Matt was thoughtful for a minute, then shook his head. “No eviction. Just give the kid a wet sponge and make her clean up after herself.”
Betsy snorted and pushed by him to unlock the door. “Very funny. The kid is only five years old.”
“Hey, five-year-olds can wield a wet sponge as well as anybody else.”
Betsy jammed the key into the lock and turned it hard, trying to ignore him and his idiot suggestion and his damned enticing stubble, but he grasped her shoulders and turned her around, forcing her to face him.
“C’mon, Betsy, open the door and let’s go inside.” He flashed a cajoling, make-nice smile. “You need some diversion…and a good dose of friendly exercise.” Then he paused and gave her a closer look. “Unless you’re really not up to it.”
Was she up to it? She felt so crappy about what she’d just done, that maybe now wasn’t the right time for a lesson. Maybe she should just go to the nearest restaurant, order every dessert on the menu, and try to forget what a coward she was by eating herself into a sugar-induced stupor.
Then Mae Keegan exited Mrs. Lattimer’s apartment and came bouncing by, curls fluttering and arms filled with empty cake plates. Flashing a delighted smile at Betsy, she stopped to talk. “Well, that was a good meeting, wasn’t it?”
If you like gang-banging the neighbors. Biting her tongue, Betsy stifled the urge to really say the words. Instead, she behaved like the nice, accommodating young lady she was and nodded sweetly. “Unbelievable.” Let the woman take it any way she wanted and, of course, the way she wanted to take it was as a paean to public lynching.
“I thought so, too,” Mae gushed. “Almost everyone there with any taste at all was gobbling up the food I brought.” She held up the empty plates. “See, not a single crumb left. A lot of the tenants even asked for my recipes.”
Betsy smiled and nodded. The group had descended like vultures on the goodies.
Squeezing her shoulder, Mae leaned closer, just like two girlfriends dishing dirt. “I noticed you had more than one slice of cake yourself and at least a few handfuls of cookies.” She patted Betsy’s arm as her gaze did a quick survey of the rest of Betsy’s body. “I’ll give you the recipes, too. You look like you enjoy desserts as much as I do.”
Betsy’s smile froze, but Mae didn’t seem to notice. She just chirped a happy goodbye, then turned and bounced her way down the hall while Betsy stared at her substantial hips with a sense of cold foreboding. Okay, that settled it, no pigging out on sugar to ease her conscience. Which meant she’d have to find something non-caloric to pig out on instead.
Grasping Matt’s sleeve, she shoved her front door open. “The diversion and the exercise—I’m definitely up to it.” She pulled him into the apartment.
****
The lesson lasted two hours, and when it was over, Betsy lay in bed beside him, no longer the least bit depressed. But she did ache. Oh Lord, did she ache. Even worse than she’d ached after lesson one. Damn, she felt wonderful.
“How’d I do?” She hunkered down under the sheet he’d covered them with once the session had ended.
He was leaning on his elbow, looking down at her, his face half in shadow in the semi-darken
ed room. His teeth flashed in a smile. “Blew me away.”
She smiled back at him, somehow feeling inordinately proud. “Really?”
Another flash of teeth. “Totally.”
“Thank you. You were good, too.”
“Really?”
Betsy bit her lip to keep from sighing. “Totally.”
“Thank you. High praise, indeed.”
“You deserve it.” She shifted and winced. “Don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk the same way again.”
“Then don’t. Walk another way.”
She stared at him. His teeth were no longer flashing smiles at her. “What?”
With a sigh, he leaned across her to switch on the bedside table lamp.
Betsy blinked in the sudden glare, then regained her sight and went back to staring at his unsmiling face.
“Before I explain, promise you won’t take it the wrong way.”
“I won’t take it the wrong way.” She said it automatically as her hands clutched at the sheet that covered her.
“Okay,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat.
It was a definite delaying tactic. She continued staring, waiting for him to summon the courage to go on.
“Um, well,” he finally said. “I notice sometimes you walk like you’re apologizing. For what, I don’t know. Don’t walk like that anymore.”
Betsy struggled into a sitting position, pulling the sheet with her to hide the fact that, according to Mae Keegan, she was well on the road to runaway flab. “I walk like I’m apologizing?” she sputtered, getting right in his face so he was forced to ease back toward the edge of the bed. “That’s ridiculous. Are you insane?”
He frowned at her. “You said you wouldn’t take it the wrong way.”
She frowned right back. “I’m not taking it the wrong way. I’m taking it the way you meant it. I walk funny or strange or something.”
He groaned. “That’s not the way I meant it, and I never said funny or strange. And, more important, you weren’t being honest when you said you wouldn’t take it the wrong way.”
Operation Sizzle Page 11
