She named a few which had branches in the area and filled him in on which were currently offering the lowest rates. “I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment with another client tomorrow morning, so I may not be in the office. I’ll leave a copy of your contract with Margaret,” she told him.
“Running off with another client, are you?” he muttered with pretended dismay. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em, huh. Now that you’ve found me a house, you don’t want to waste any more of your time on me.”
Daphne smiled, refusing to take his griping seriously. “If it were just any client, I’d give you priority, Brad. But the appointment’s with somebody who wants to look at the estate in Upper Saddle Brook.”
“Ah,” he said, properly impressed. “Sell that house, and you’ll be able to use your commission to pay for your partnership.”
“Just about,” Daphne confirmed.
A cloud passed across the sun, causing the temperature in the kitchen to drop a few degrees. Daphne pondered how appropriate the abruptly gray light seemed to her mood.
Perhaps that cloud had done her a favor. If the kitchen were too bright, she’d be forced to see Brad more clearly than she’d care to. As it was, she couldn’t resist the temptation to let her gaze linger on his strong, symmetrical features, his jaw shadowed by an overnight growth of beard, his eyes clear and lively despite his interrupted sleep last night, his dark hair haphazardly arranged around a crooked part. He’d borrowed Daphne’s hairbrush to groom it, but he’d rushed the job as if he didn’t want to spend too much time with her bristles in his hair—as if sharing her brush were too intimate an act.
Shoving those troublesome thoughts from her mind, she faked a smile for Brad and said, “Can I get you some more orange juice?”
An hour later, he took off. He departed with chipper words about how great it was going to be to have Daphne as his neighbor, how much he was looking forward to returning east and spending more time with Eric, how eager he was to tackle his new job and how fervently he hoped his parents would have worked out their differences by the time he was settled in his new home.
Daphne smiled, nodded, interjected words of agreement at the right times, and waved him off. Then she shut her door and released a mournful sigh.
She should have grown smarter over the last eight years. But if she was so damned smart, how could she have managed to make a mistake at least as catastrophic as the last one she’d made with Brad?
She loved him. He was gone, and she didn’t have to hide her feelings anymore. Last night had proven to her that she loved him.
And to him, last night had represented nothing more than an opportunity for him and Daphne to tie up loose ends and free themselves from the past. As far as he was concerned, they could now go their own ways, without having to worry about any unfinished business between them. He could find himself the beautiful wife of his dreams, and beget some beautiful children.
As for Daphne’s dreams...well, world peace was beyond reality’s grasp. A cure for cancer seemed nearly as elusive, as did one for myopia. She’d undoubtedly have to live the rest of her life in eyeglasses.
And Mr. Right...Mr. Right was planning to move to Verona and be her pal. If Daphne hadn’t missed her bet, he was probably already thinking of her as a sister.
Ten
“JIM AND I are through,” said Phyllis.
She was standing on Daphne’s front porch, dressed in a blasted denim jacket, skinny jeans, a pink-and-white checked shirt and white calfskin boots. Her hair was artistically windblown and her eyes were adorned with a subtle frosted shadow. At her feet stood a soft-sided leather valise. Daphne found it truly amazing that, even during what was evidently a domestic upheaval of critical proportions, Phyllis managed to look chic.
Daphne was thankful for the distraction offered by Phyllis’s unexpected appearance. She ushered Phyllis inside and closed the door.
“I know I should have telephoned you first,” Phyllis apologized. She dropped her valise onto a chair, then paced the length of the living room in agitation, trying to burn off her nervous energy. “But by the time I thought about calling you I had already reached the exit off the interstate, and I figured I might as well just come. You can throw me out if you want.”
“Why would I want to throw you out?” Daphne asked. “Give me your jacket, and sit down and tell me what happened.”
“What happened?” Phyllis railed, marching frenetically to the picture window and then spinning around to face Daphne. “I told him I’d had it up to here,” she said, indicating the top of her head. “I told him to get the hell out. That’s what happened.”
If Andrea were present, she would be smothering Phyllis in a congratulatory hug right now. But Daphne was too emotionally drained to hug anybody. She was running on only five hours of sleep—and a lot of erotic memories. She scarcely had enough strength to acknowledge Phyllis’s announcement with a nod. “If you told him to get out, how come you’re here?” she asked, staring pointedly at the valise.
“I would have gone to Andrea’s, Daff. I mean, who in their right mind would want to spend the night in Jersey? No offense intended, Daffy, but, I mean, really. But Andrea’s already got a house guest. She hasn’t got room to put me up, too. Unless she put me and Brad in the guest room together, which...believe me, the idea has enormous appeal, but—”
“Phyllis,” Daphne cut her off, “what I was asking was, if you kicked Jim out, shouldn’t you be home and he be on some friend’s doorstep with a suitcase in his hand? Why did you leave the house instead of him?”
Phyllis sighed. “Well, I’ve got to give him a chance to pack his things, don’t I? I mean, the house is in my name, so I’m going to end up with it. But I had to let him collect his stuff and cart it someplace else.”
“Uh-huh. And how long do you suppose that’s going to take?” Daphne had visions of Phyllis camping out in the spare bedroom for weeks while Jim moved his belongings out of her house one sock at a time.
Phyllis bristled. “Look, it’s a problem, I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”
“It’s not a problem,” Daphne said, crossing to Phyllis and tugging her jacket off her shoulders, an act of nearly aggressive hospitality. “You can stay with me as long as you like. I’ve got the space. I was only thinking about Jim. As long as he still has access to your house, he can stall. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all that.”
“Is this what they taught you in real estate school?” Phyllis asked, her expression a mixture of irritation and fear. “If he isn’t gone by tomorrow, I’ll go back with a policeman and have him evicted.”
“You can’t have him evicted,” Daphne explained patiently. “He’s not your tenant. But don’t worry about it,” she added hastily as she read the panic in Phyllis’s eyes. “I’m sure he’ll clear out as soon as he can.” She hung the jacket in the closet and scrutinized her friend. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“I need a drink,” Phyllis declared, plopping herself onto the sofa with such force the cushions bounced around her. “I’m sorry, Daff, but I’m really a wreck. Have you got any booze? I’m not picky—anything will do.”
“I have some Bordeaux,” Daphne said, remembering the unopened bottle of wine Brad had brought her, which was currently sitting in a trash bag in her garage. She had no other alcoholic beverages in her house, but after having kept her teetotaling a secret from her friends for so many years, Daphne didn’t think that now was the proper time to reveal to Phyllis that she never drank liquor.
“Thanks. That sounds great.”
“Have a seat,” Daphne ordered her. “I’ll be right back.” She didn’t want Phyllis following her to the garage and learning that the closest thing Daphne had to a wine rack was a three-ply Hefty bag full of overcooked pasta.
It took her several minutes to exhume the bottle from the trash bag, and several minutes more to rinse off the clam sauce that clung to the smooth green glass, gluing a few limp lilac petals to the label. Drying th
e bottle with a paper towel, she gazed through the kitchen window at the late-evening sky. It was still overcast. Even though she was wearing her eyeglasses, the moon looked murky and dim to her, a blurred semi-circle of gray struggling futilely to shed its light through the layers of clouds and mist.
Daphne didn’t believe that the heavens exerted any mystical powers over the earth, but she found it apt that such a dismal, gloomy sky was doming her corner of the planet on this dismal, gloomy night.
All day she had tried to keep herself busy. She’d done a little gardening, swept the back porch, read assorted sections of the Sunday newspaper, ironed a few blouses. It had been a Sunday like any other, except for the fact that it had followed a Saturday night that didn’t resemble any other night in Daphne’s life.
It didn’t matter how many blouses she ironed, or how many weeds she yanked out of the flower beds, or how many times she brushed a broom over the back porch. It didn’t matter that she and Brad were mature and sensible, as he’d claimed they were when he’d proposed that they spend a night in each other’s arms, or that he believed setting the past to rights was going to make them both feel so much better afterwards. Daphne didn’t feel better. What she felt was a deep, implacable love for Brad—along with the painful understanding that her love wasn’t reciprocated.
She had known going in that Brad didn’t love her. She had known that he didn’t love her the last time they’d gone to bed together, too—only this time, she’d gotten tripped up on her own emotions. This time, she’d made love to Brad because he was Brad, not because he was a good-looking, congenial acquaintance who happened to have wandered away from a fraternity party at the same time she did.
The only corkscrew she owned was attached to a bottle opener, and she nearly cut her finger on the point when she snapped open the hinge. She reproached herself for allowing her thoughts to drift to last night instead of remaining in the present. Phyllis needed someone to talk to right now, and Daphne needed someone to distract her from her heartache and her anger with herself over her stupidity. As sympathetic as she was to Phyllis’s travails, she was almost a little bit relieved by the thought that someone else’s life was in an even bigger mess than her own.
Poor Phyllis—one more woman trapped within the spell of this dismal, gloomy night sky. Daphne poured some wine into a glass and carried it into the living room. She considered asking Phyllis whether she believed in the power of weather to influence people’s moods, but that might arouse Phyllis’s curiosity about Daphne’s dismal mood, so she refrained.
“This wine is delicious,” Phyllis said after taking a long sip. “What is it?”
“It’s a Bordeaux,” Daphne told her.
“I know that. I meant what vintner, what year...”
Stumped, Daphne shrugged. “The bottle’s in the kitchen if you want me to check.” At Phyllis’s puzzled look, she added, “To tell you the truth, Phyllis, it was a gift. I don’t drink red wine, and I don’t pay attention to the vintages.”
“So you’re foisting your unwanted gifts on me. That’s okay, Daffy. I don’t mind. As I said, it’s delicious.” Phyllis took another sip, then lowered the glass to the coffee table and sighed. “So. I finally did it.”
She no longer seemed terribly upset—or even particularly frazzled. Perhaps a few sips of wine were all it took to put her feelings into perspective.
Perhaps a few sips of wine would have a similar effect on Daphne, enabling her to view her night with Brad for what it was: a sexual romp, mutually satisfying on a physical level and utterly devoid of commitment. She contemplated jumping off the wagon for about ten seconds, then came to her senses.”What made you decide to call it quits with Jim?” she asked, slouching in one of the easy chairs and slinging one leg over the arm of the chair.
“Brad,” Phyllis said simply.
Hoping her face didn’t betray her discomfort at hearing his name mentioned—let alone mentioned as a co-respondent in Phyllis’s break-up with Jim—Daphne waited for her friend to elaborate.
Phyllis drank a bit more wine first. Then she settled deeper into the sofa’s upholstery and tossed a wavy lock of her ash-blond hair back from her face with a graceful flick of her head. “Jim hasn’t shut up about Brad, ever since the party at Andrea’s.”
“Because of the way you looked at Brad?”
“Well...I admit I did more than look,” Phyllis whispered with a coy smile.
Daphne took a moment to collect herself. Were Phyllis and Brad having an affair? Why hadn’t Brad said something about it? How could he have been fooling around with Daphne’s close friend behind Daphne’s back? Not that he owed her any explanations for his behavior, not that he was obligated to her in any way, but... She trusted him. She trusted him, and he was apparently doing something more with Phyllis than merely letting her look at him.
Daphne should have expected as much. When a woman as ravishing as Phyllis looked at a man, he would have to be comatose not to notice, and not to want to return the compliment. Maybe Brad had been lusting after Phyllis as hungrily as she’d been lusting after him. Maybe after Daphne and Paul had made their early departure from Andrea’s party a couple of weeks ago, Phyllis had found some willing soul to take Jim for a stroll around the block, and then she’d cornered Brad and propositioned him.
“And he was eavesdropping on me, Daff,” Phyllis complained, effecting her adorable little-girl pout. “That’s what hurt so much.”
“Huh?” Daphne scrambled through the thicket of suppositions that had sprung up around her, trying to find her way back to her conversation with Phyllis. “Brad eavesdropped?”
“Not Brad, Jim,” Phyllis explained, too caught up in her self-righteousness to mind that Daphne wasn’t paying full attention to her. “I mean, the guy had the nerve to listen in on an extension when I called Brad. Not that he had anything especially juicy to listen to. All I did was ask Brad to meet me in the city for lunch. It’s not as if I’d asked him to run off to Tahiti with me. But the way Jim was carrying on, well, you’d think—”
“When did you and Brad have lunch?” Daphne asked, hoping she didn’t sound too anxious. “Where did you go?”
“We didn’t go anywhere,” Phyllis said. “Brad said that his schedule was really jammed, but that maybe once he was moved into his new house and working at his new office in the city, we could work something out and get together. So, when Jim started hurling his filthy insinuations at me, I figured it was time to throw the bastard out.”
Despite Phyllis’s tough talk, despite the courage the wine seemed to give her, Daphne noticed a faint haze of tears collecting along her eyelashes. If Daphne could feel so mournful about saying goodbye to Brad after spending all of one night with him, how must Phyllis feel about saying goodbye to a man she’d lived with for more than a year?
“I’m really sorry,” Daphne told her.
“So am I,” Phyllis said. “It kills me to think how much time and energy I wasted on that idiot.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Daphne wasn’t fooled by Phyllis’s stoicism. “Ending a relationship like yours and Jim’s must hurt, even if it’s the right thing to do. You did love him, after all. It always hurts to realize that a love affair is over.”
Phyllis’s gaze narrowed suspiciously on Daphne. “Oh, Daff,” she said, suddenly compassionate. “You sound like you’re speaking from personal experience.”
Daphne hadn’t meant to be so transparent. But Phyllis had known her a long time, and Daphne couldn’t hide her feelings completely from her old friend. However, she couldn’t very well tell Phyllis that she was grieving over her ill-fated fling with Brad, not when Phyllis herself had designs on him.
“Tell me about it,” Phyllis demanded sympathetically. “I feel so much better after getting everything off my chest about Jim. You’ll feel better if you get everything off your chest, too.” When Daphne didn’t speak, Phyllis added, “I’m your friend, Daff. Talk to me. Tell me about it.”
Daphne exhaled.
Phyllis was her friend, and she was undoubtedly right in claiming that Daphne would feel better if she didn’t keep her emotions locked up. “All right,” she said carefully. “I’m...it’s no big deal. I’m just...a little broken-hearted, that’s all.”
“A little?” Phyllis snorted. “Broken-heartedness is an absolute. Either you’re broken-hearted or you aren’t.”
“Okay,” Daphne conceded, unwilling to get into a debate about semantics with Phyllis. “I’m broken-hearted.”
“Who’s the son of a bitch?” Phyllis asked, automatically taking Daphne’s side. “That red-headed guy, Paul?”
Daphne appreciated her friend’s loyalty. “No, it isn’t Paul,” she replied. “It’s...nobody you know.” She hated having to lie, but there was a limit to how much she could confide in Phyllis.
“And what did he do to you?”
He made me fall in love with him, Daphne almost said. He stole my heart, and he thinks of me as a sister. “Nothing, really,” she hedged. “It’s just one of those things. I love him, and he doesn’t love me.”
“Why doesn’t he love you?” Phyllis asked indignantly.
“He never has. He was always up front about it, Phyllis. It’s my fault, really.” She forced a weak smile. “There isn’t a whole lot to say. I wouldn’t have even brought it up, except—”
“I’m glad you did,” Phyllis said. “You always keep your social life such a deep, dark secret, Daff. You ought to open up more, and let your friends help you through the rough spots. I know you and Andrea have helped me through more rough spots than I can count, and I appreciate it.”
By Daphne’s estimation, Phyllis’s love life underwent more rough spots in any given month than Daphne’s love life had undergone since she’d first become aware of the opposite sex. But Phyllis had a valid point. It did feel good to vent some of her misery, to share her pain with a friend. Even though Daphne could never divulge the specifics, the basics were true: she loved a man who didn’t love her, and it hurt.
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