“For what?” the woman asked, then winked and waggled her eyebrows in the same bad Groucho Marx imitation that Tracie did. Jon froze for a moment, not expecting the response. Then, when he was idiotically silent, she shrugged and walked away.
On the other side of the marketplace, Tracie, Laura, and Phil wandered into the crowd around the seafood section. “This place is a caterer’s dream!” Laura exclaimed.
“Yeah, but it’s a tired musician’s nightmare. It’s a tourist trap. If you know any schmuck with a straight job, you’ll meet him here on a weekend morning,” Phil said.
“Pay no attention to him,” Tracie told Laura. “Just look at this food. Maybe you’ll set up business in Seattle instead of going back.” She giggled. “Wait till you see the fish.”
“Oh God. Not the fish,” Phil moaned. “Next it’ll be the fountain.”
“What fountain?” Laura asked.
“The one at the Seattle Center. The water is choreographed to music,” Tracie explained. Just to punish Phil, she added, “We’ll go there after the Underground Tour but before the Experience Music Project.”
“Oh, goody, goody, Mom,” Laura said. “But what’s so great about the fish? Good selection?”
“It’s all in the delivery,” Tracie told her, taking Laura by the arm and moving her toward the center of the seafood stands.
Laura looked up at a sign that read WATCH OUT FOR LOW-FLYING FISH. “They’re kidding, right?” Laura asked. Just then, a screaming vendor whipped a flounder across to the cashier at the center of the stall. It almost whapped Laura in the head. “Oh my God!” she cried out.
“Okay, she’s seen the fish. Can we go home now?” Phil asked. “Let’s go back to bed.” He yawned.
Tracie could see that Laura was embarrassed. Tracie could have kicked Phil.
“Hey, listen,” Laura said. “I don’t want to be in the way. I can just wander around by myself and you two can have the apartment to yourselves for the afternoon.”
“Don’t be silly. I love doing this. If I need privacy, I can go to Phil’s.”
“No you can’t.” Phil yawned again. “Bobby brought a band over. They’ve crashed at my place.”
“That’s not the point,” Tracie said. “The point is, we’re showing you Pike Market and we’re thrilled to have you here.” Tracie emphasized the plural and shot Phil a warning look.
“Oh, yeah,” Laura said. “A thrill for Phil. Look, I’m going to take a look at that candle shop again. Some dork tried to pick me up there. Maybe I’ll get lucky twice.”
“Fine. We’ll see you in a minute,” Tracie replied as Phil pulled her in the opposite direction.
“That was really rude,” Tracie told him angrily.
“What?” Phil asked. “Yawning?”
“Saying you wanted to go home.” How could she explain that acting romantic in front of Laura was unkind? God, it might make Laura miss Peter.
“Hey, I worked late last night,” he reminded her, as if she didn’t know it.
“Yeah, but she’s my friend. And it’s my apartment.”
He put his arm around her and lowered his voice. “And it’s your bed, but let’s both get into it.” She felt a shiver down her back. Then, as if he felt her weakening, he leaned in and nuzzled her ear.
“Phil, I have to work this afternoon. I really have to come up with a couple of original ideas.”
Phil put his hands on either side of her face. She loved it when he did that. “I have some original ideas.”
“Not ones I can write about for the Seattle Times,” she said, and laughed. She couldn’t help it.
Leading her by her shoulders, he maneuvered her into a doorway next to a lobster tank. Just then, Tracie looked up and, through the lobsters, spotted a Micro/Con jacket. She peered through the glass. Jon. She’d forgotten that she’d told him to “troll” for a date. He looked lonely and glum. She pulled out of the doorway. Jon saw her and brightened, coming up beside her and Phil. “Hey, guys!”
“Hi there!” Tracie exclaimed.
“Hi!” Jon repeated. Phil didn’t bother with a greeting.
“Didn’t I tell you to forget this Micro/Con stuff?”
“The jacket, too?” Jon asked. “But I love my Micro jacket!”
“Jon, honey, you got to make them believe that nothing about you is Micro,” Tracie said in her Mae West voice. “Anyway, what are you? A man or a billboard?” she asked.
“What difference does it make?” he asked her in return. “The new clothes are too confusing. I’m still not sure what goes with what. And I saw Samantha at work yesterday, but in spite of my new outfit, she blew me off.”
“Don’t worry,” Tracie said in a voice she probably meant to reassure him with. “In two weeks, she’ll be begging to be seen with you. You’ll have to . . .” There was a pause, as if even she—his fan and guru—actually couldn’t imagine the scenario herself. But she was a true friend. “You’ll have to get a restraining order to keep her away,” Tracie predicted.
“Yeah. Just call me Tommy Lee Delano,” Jon joked.
Phil laughed. “As if you could land a babe like Pamela Anderson. Look, I’m gonna bum a cigarette.” Without waiting for a response, Phil wandered down the aisle. Tracie allowed herself a tiny withheld sigh as she watched Phil’s receding back. So, she noticed, did another woman.
“He’s a pain in the ass, but doesn’t he have a cute butt?” she asked Jon.
“I’m not an expert, but that redhead seems to think so.”
Tracie glared at Jon, shrugged as if she didn’t care, and stopped at the produce in front of her and, with exaggerated concern, began to select tomatoes carefully.
Jon watched Phil, who’d begun effortlessly talking to the redhead who’d been eyeing him. Jon wondered whether Phil’s butt looked a lot better than his own or if it was something else that attracted women’s attention.
“How do people do it? It’s hard for me, but for some people it’s so easy,” he said, still watching Phil.
“I wonder the same thing. But Laura’s been cooking since she was a kid.” Jon realized he’d been talking about Phil but that she was talking about Laura. Love was blind. “It isn’t just an instinct; it’s a learned skill. Her dad taught her. And she’s willing to teach me. You want a ripe tomato but a firm one.” Jon watched as the redhead took a cigarette out of her mouth and handed it to Phil. He took it and put it to his own lips. The redhead looked like a ripe tomato all right. “It’s got to be really red, too. Because you want it sweet.”
Jon came back from his reverie. “I didn’t know there was so much to a tomato. What are you making?” he asked, not that he was interested in that.
“Spaghetti sauce. Phil doesn’t like to eat anything canned.”
Oh God. Couldn’t she get it? “Phil! Forget Phil. Tracie, you’re such an idiot. You deserve someone . . . well, someone so much better.” Jon raised his voice and called out to Phil, who was just leaving the redhead, apparently to come back to Tracie. “Do you know what the bass player got on his IQ test?” he asked.
“Uh-uh,” Phil grunted.
“Drool,” Jon replied, and looked at Tracie for a reaction. She giggled but then covered it by putting the bag of tomatoes in the basket. “What do you call a bass player with half a brain?”
“Gifted,” Phil snapped. “I’ve already heard all of these from the band.”
“You haven’t heard this one. I just made it up. What’s the difference between a bass player and a pig?” Tracie gave Jon a raised eyebrow, but he wouldn’t stop. He turned to Phil. “A pig won’t stay up all night trying to fuck a bass player.” Then he glanced at Tracie. “Present company excluded,” he said, as if that would make everything all right.
Phil flipped Jon the bird. “I’m getting those smokes,” he said, and walked away.
“Okay,” Tracie said, and watched him stride down the aisle. Then she turned to Jon. “Please. Don’t antagonize him,” she begged. She paused for a moment. “You k
now, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about an idea that Marcus shot down. But I’m actually thinking of writing it freelance and sending it around.”
“That’s great,” he said. “Anything I can do to help? I’ll proofread it, edit it, or—”
“That’s not exactly what I was thinking about,” Tracie said. “It’s more like I wanted to put you in it.”
“What? Another one of those profiles? I’m not interesting enough . . . unless the Parsifal project comes together. Then I’ll be on the front page of every tech section in the country. Don’t worry, I’ll give the exclusive to you.”
His morning wasn’t going well. Jon believed in facing reality, no matter how unpleasant. So first he’d gotten blown off by three women, his jacket had been dissed, he’d had to watch a jerk succeed where he’d failed, and now he’d pissed his best friend off. As if that wasn’t enough, there was a new embarrassment in the making.
Jon looked down the produce aisle in horror. There, coming at them with a full basket, was the brunette from the candle store, the one who had leered at him. Now she smiled with such a friendly smile that for a moment she was very pretty. Then he realized she wasn’t focusing on him. She was smiling at Tracie. God! She was a lesbian! That would explain—
“Hey, congratulations. You traded Phil in for a new model?” she asked Tracie.
Jon looked from her to Tracie. Tracie was looking back at the brunette attentively, but she certainly didn’t act surprised. They must know each other, he thought. The brunette gave him the once-over. “He looks familiar,” she said. “I think you once tried to play Twenty Questions with me.” She smiled at Jon. “Well, I guess Tracie gave you the right answers. Congratulations. She’s a great girl. Did you have to kill Phil to get her? Or just give him a buck?”
“What are you talking about?” Tracie asked, but Jon had a nauseated feeling that he knew. “Do you think he’s a—”
“I don’t think anything,” the brunette said smoothly. “I hardly think at all. You just look cute together. But are you mute?”
Jon was worse than mute. He was speechless, frozen in the kind of embarrassment he’d only experienced in that dream when you’re naked on-stage and you’ve forgotten your lines. Because, with growing horror, Jon realized he’d tried to pick up Tracie’s best friend.
“Laura, Jon. Jon, Laura,” Tracie said over the grocery carts.
“The famous Jon,” Laura cooed, almost laughing.
Tracie could swear that Jon blushed. God, he was impossible! He couldn’t even meet a friend of hers without acting as if it was a big deal. Tracie tried to remember if Jon had been so retarded back in college. “The infamous Laura. You’re the Sacramento cook, right?” Jon murmured, his face still red.
“Caterer,” Tracie corrected. She didn’t need these two not getting along.
‘I seem to have interrupted something again,” Laura said in the silence.
“We were just talking about Tracie’s writing. How great it could be.”
“Ha! Could is the operative word,” Tracie said, sighing.
“You can’t help it if your stories are cut till they bleed to death,” Jon said defensively.
“Well, I could quit.”
Tracie began to push her cart to the next aisle. Laura shot a grin at Phil as he rejoined them, with yet another bummed cigarette in his mouth. “You’d be a great columnist. Better than Anna Quindlen,” Jon said.
“Who’s Anna Quindlen? Do I know her?” Phil asked.
“Just a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist,” Laura said. “Now she’s moved on to novels.”
Phil shrugged. “I don’t read commercial stuff,” he said.
“Tracie, you really should write something independently, something you could be proud of,” Jon continued, as if the Phil/Laura interruption had never happened. “Your dad would write you fan letters and all the kids from journalism school would send you résumés.”
Tracie stared at him. No matter what, Jon always spoke up for her.
“Give it a rest!” Phil exclaimed. Tracie was dumbfounded by Phil’s anger, but she didn’t want to push his button. She knew that he was depressed over a rejection he had just gotten from some literary magazine. Of course, his work was so different from hers. It was dense and indirect. But it was best not to talk too much about her writing. It just antagonized him. He couldn’t take it seriously, and she couldn’t, either, because it was just commercial nonsense, after all.
“Laura, do you use white or Bermuda onions in your tomato sauce?” Tracie asked to change the subject.
“I prefer red.”
Phil wandered off again. Tracie couldn’t help but sigh out loud. She moved to the onions. Jon and Laura followed her in silence. Tracie tossed the onions into her basket and, with Laura, headed down another aisle. “Look, I’ve got to get a few things. I’ll see you later,” Jon said.
Tracie was surprised, because he usually stuck to her side like glue. Sometimes she actually had to whisper to him that he should go home so she could spend some time alone with Phil.
“Well, see you,” Jon said. “Nice to meet you, Laura.”
“Same here,” Laura called back over her shoulder. “Let me know what time it is sometime.”
“If you see Phil, tell him I’m ready to go,” Tracie called out to Jon’s back. She watched him walk away, and Laura watched, as well.
“So that’s Jon,” she said. “I think he’s kinda cute, in an R2D2 kind of way.”
“Jon? Cute? Yeah, I guess he is,” Tracie agreed. “But is he cute enough to get himself a date?”
“Well, he acts like a dork. How much work have you already done on him?”
“I’ve just made a start,” Tracie admitted.
“Why doesn’t he have more confidence?” Laura asked. “He’s smart and he’s got nice shoulders.”
“He’s too smart,” Tracie said. “You know, in that too-smart-to-be-good-for-you kind of way. He didn’t have a father,” Tracie said. “I think that really screws guys up, being raised by their moms.”
Laura looked over at her and raised her eyebrows. “As much as being raised by their dads screws up girls?” she asked Tracie.
Tracie waggled her head the way they used to do back in high school. “Okay. Point taken,” she said. “I shouldn’t generalize, but you get the drift.”
“Oh yeah, I get the drift. But do you?”
Tracie shrugged. “What?” she asked.
Laura laughed, then shook her head. “You are a mystery unto yourself,” she told her best friend.
Chapter 14
Tracie sat across the table from Jon, observing him the way an artist might stare at a blank canvas. Well, she thought, it would actually be easier if he were a blank canvas. His clothes were a lot better—a black Armani T-shirt, the vintage leather jacket, and a pair of Levis 501s—but it wasn’t coming together. His dorky haircut, his glasses, even his posture still spelled doofus. She knew what he would order, the way he’d eat it. It definitely wasn’t sexy. Maybe Phil is right, she thought. I’ll never win the bet, let alone get a feature out of this project.
Well, she’d never been afraid of a challenge. It hadn’t been easy to get into the master’s program or to talk her way into a job at the Seattle Times. It wasn’t going to be easy to do this, either. Tracie sighed. “Okay,” she told Jon. “People dating go out to restaurants a lot, so you have to be prepared.”
“How?” he asked. “I’ve got my AmEx Card.”
“No, no. I mean prepared to be . . . appropriate. Women notice everything. You’ve got to be careful of what you eat.” She wrote a note to that effect on a Post-it pad.
“What I eat?” Jon echoed. “What do you mean?”
Tracie sighed once more, then began in earnest. “You’re never ordering poached eggs or a Cobb salad again. Poached eggs are not sexy.”
“Look, the truth is I don’t even like poached eggs,” Jon admitted. “I just love it when Molly yells, ‘Adam and Eve on a raft.
’ It sounds so romantic.”
“Only to you,” Tracie told him. “Poached eggs are for invalids or babies, not for men.”
Jon stared up at the ceiling, as if someone would have written permission for poaching across it. Exasperated, he asked, “Well, what’s wrong with Cobb salad? I don’t even eat the chicken. And I like Cobb salad.”
“But you’d like getting a second date better,” Tracie murmured, leaning across the table.
He had to agree. “No argument there.”
Tracie smiled. The guy was highly motivated, as well as respectful. Maybe with a strong dose of both the stick of her disapproval and the carrot of sex, she’d stop him from being such a donkey. “Okay, here’s what you have to understand: What women see you eat is important, especially when they’re first sizing you up.” She leaned back against the banquette. “Eating is like sex: You want to give the impression of both strength and restraint. Spontaneity, but with some health awareness.” Jon was staring at her; that all sounded good, but confusing. Tracie paused. She was as impressed with herself as Jon was. She jotted most of it down on another Post-it. Then she remembered who she was dealing with and looked up, a horrified look on her face. “And for God’s sake, don’t tell them you’re a vegan.”
“I’m not a vegan,” Jon whined. “I’ve told you. Vegans don’t eat dairy or eggs. I’m a vegetarian.”
Tracie rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Just don’t tell them.” Then, knowing him as well as she did, she continued. “And don’t point out the difference. Remember, you’re not an educator; you’re a sex machine.” She nodded to herself and wrote, “Educator—No. Sex machine—Yes” on yet another Post-it.
“So what exactly does a sex machine order to eat?” Jon asked. “Raw meat?”
From the corner of her eye, Molly, who up until then had been sitting over at her own dinner at a table in the back, stood up, noticed them, and came their way. Tracie braced herself for the usual hostility. “Bloody ’ell,” Molly said, raising her brows almost to her hairline. “You rock my world.” Then, and Tracie knew she did it just to annoy her, Molly bent over and gave Jon a kiss on the lips. He smiled up at her. When he smiled, Tracie had to admit he was kind of cute, even with the dumb glasses.
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