“By color,” he said. “Doesn’t everyone?”
She flung open her closet. From where Barry sat, he could see clothes jammed in willy-nilly, some of them dangling partway off the hanger. “I don’t organize mine at all. See? We’re incompatible.”
“I could help you sort them out.”
“You try it and I’ll sic Myrtle on you,” Chelsea said. “She bites.”
Reluctant to accept this abrupt end to their affair, Barry swung out of bed. Usually, he thought better on his feet. This time, he just got dizzy.
It made him realize that he must not be thinking clearly, about the two of them. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Where are my clothes?”
“You’re standing on them.”
“So I am.” He bent and picked them up.
It was a good thing she was pushing him away, Barry told himself as he dressed. In addition to being co-workers, they would only make each other miserable if they got involved romantically.
When he married, he wanted harmony. Two people who had the same values, enjoyed the same movies and…bored each other to death? Well, he didn’t have to go quite that far.
“All right, I agree to your terms,” Barry said.
“What terms?”
“Total surrender,” he said wistfully. “Strangers when we meet.” He finished dressing and straightened his jacket in the mirror. “I hope we can get along at the office.”
“We’ll do fine.” Chelsea didn’t seem to notice that her wrap had fallen open at the neck, baring a lot of cleavage.
“You have a right to be angry.” He was a little angry at himself, in fact. “I’m the one who…” He couldn’t bring himself to say “took advantage of you,” because it seemed ridiculous. “Got carried away.”
“I knew you were under the influence. I’m the one who should have said no.” Chelsea regarded him from beneath a tangle of colorful hair. “We’re grown-ups. We’ll get over it.”
“Thanks for being such a good sport,” he said. “Is there some coffee? I need a stiff dose of caffeine before I head home.”
“In the coffeemaker. I’ll reheat it.”
Barry waved her back to bed. “I’ll drink it cold.” That ought to sober him up. “See you Monday,” he managed, and went out to the kitchen.
A DOCTOR! Could she have picked anyone worse? Chelsea asked herself a short time later on her way to the shower. She’d waited until she heard his car start on the street.
If she did get pregnant, Hank—make that Barry—would probably try to regulate every bite she put into her mouth. The last thing she needed was some overbearing guy organizing her life like a prison routine.
It wasn’t true what she’d said, though, about it being the wrong time of the month. There was no wrong time because Chelsea’s periods were spectacularly irregular.
She didn’t intend to worry. According to her New Age philosophy, when body and mind were in sync, they supported each other. Since Chelsea’s mind rejected the prospect of parenthood, she expected her body to follow suit.
In the bathroom, she removed the robe, which her parents had sent her recently from Singapore. They were fulfilling a longtime dream by sailing around the world for a year, crewing on a movie star’s yacht.
As she stepped into the aging shower stall, water streamed over her and spattered against the cracked plastic curtain. Her feet detected a chipped tile and some loosened grout.
It was a good thing Barry hadn’t stuck around long enough to get his patrician feet insulted. Still, Chelsea doubted the plumbing was any better on Prego Prego.
The guy really did have possibilities, if only he weren’t about to become one of her bosses. She pictured his dark hair, melting brown eyes and straight eyebrows.
He looked so honest, like the cowboy-type she’d mistaken him for. He was built like an outdoorsman, too.
At close quarters in the shower stall, he would dwarf her. Nearly six feet, she guessed.
Chelsea wished he’d stuck around long enough to take a shower with her. Maybe for breakfast, too, and another roll in the sheets.
Who could understand the man? One minute he was fresh and appealing; the next, stuffy and conventional. Great in bed, but certain to drive her crazy everywhere else.
He certainly wouldn’t approve of the mess in her checkbook. Or of the white mouse peeking around the curtain and regarding her warily.
“Gotcha!” She made a dive for it, slipped, and carried the shower curtain with her into a pile on the floor. “Ouch!”
She had the presence of mind to clamp one hand over the fleeing ball of white fluff. Lying there with hot water splashing around her and welts forming on her thighs, Chelsea was glad she didn’t have to account to anyone else for her impulsive behavior.
She even liked the bruises. They took her mind off the squeezing in her heart.
In no time at all, it would vanish entirely.
ON SATURDAY MORNING, it rained. Barry spent the day puttering around his new condo, organizing his meager possessions and trying to get used to living with Scandinavian blond furniture instead of drift-wood chairs and a tabletop propped on cut-down barrels.
The culture of Prego Prego had been a unique mix of Polynesian and Italian. The national dish, Pesce Con Cose Pazze, or Fish With Crazy Things, consisted of fish cooked with coconut and yams, served over spaghetti.
The national anthem was the aria “Nessun Dorma,” which translated as “No One’s Sleeping.” Perhaps it had been chosen because, after eating Pesce Con Cose Pazze, no one’s stomach allowed him to sleep very well. At least, Barry’s hadn’t.
Now he was back to the real world. Last night, though, didn’t seem very real, more like a hazy dream. He couldn’t recall the details, although the overall situation remained painfully clear.
It was hard to believe he’d been so foolish, even in a drugged state, as to sleep with a woman he didn’t know. He winced every time he thought about it.
Not that he held anything against Chelsea. As far as he was concerned, this was a case of live and let live. Or, rather, forget and let forget.
Barry forced his thoughts back to his condo. This was the beginning of a new life. He intended to enjoy it.
He’d bought the place based on Internet photographs. It had been expensive, due to its location half a mile from the beach. Thanks to an inheritance left from his mother’s trust fund, however, Barry could afford it.
Two stories high and located on a small canal in the Los Angeles suburb of Venice, the place was newly remodeled in shiny white with accents of sea-green and pink. Thick carpets and well-constructed walls kept him from hearing his neighbors on either side in the four-unit building.
Only a few times did Barry yield to the impulse to yank open a closet door and check for scorpions, a habit formed in Prego Prego after he nearly stepped on one while fixing breakfast. He had to admit that he missed, ever so slightly, the drumming of rain on his old tin roof that had turned the daily rainshowers into Caribbean concerts.
The decor was a bit bland, he supposed as he sat in the dining room downing a bagel and watching a beer can float down the canal below his window. Now if Chelsea lived here, she’d throw in some splashes of color.
Barry shuddered. If he lived with a woman as strong-willed and argumentative as she was, the only splashes of color would be blood spatters on the wall.
Better to think about the angelic Ms. Right he’d been visualizing for so long. Sooner or later, he was going to find her. Not at a nightclub, though, he decided.
The ringing of the phone shattered the quiet afternoon. He grabbed the white instrument from its perch on the sideboard.
“Hello, son,” came a gravelly voice.
“Hi, Dad.” Barry tried to figure out whether today was his birthday or his father’s birthday or some other special occasion he’d overlooked. They hadn’t talked in months because Dr. Lewis Cantrell hated chitchat. “What’s up?”
“I thought I might pay you a visit, now
that you’re back in the States,” said his father. That was quite an offer, since there was no airport in the town of Blink, Colorado, and it was a three-hour drive to Denver.
After the divorce, Lew had departed Austin, declaring that it was becoming too liberal for his tastes. He’d found his new home in a tiny town in the Rockies that was in desperate need of a resident doctor.
“Great. I’ll make up the spare bedroom.” Barry would enjoy seeing his dad, even though they never knew what to say to each other. Their political views were vastly different and, with Lew Cantrell, almost everything took on a political slant.
Clinging to his sixties idealism, Lew objected to whatever the government did. He opposed spending taxpayers’ money for Fourth of July fireworks on the Mall in Washington; he’d thrown so many cream pies at his local city councilmen that, he’d proudly informed Barry, the supermarket had stopped carrying them; he even objected to the Peace Corps, although he hadn’t held that against his son.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you. Besides, I haven’t been to California since my student days.” Lew had studied at UC Berkley, where he’d met Barry’s mother.
“Is this a sentimental journey?” Barry asked.
“More or less.”
The “less” part bothered him. If Lew wasn’t coming West for exclusively sentimental reasons, that meant he was up to something. “What’s the government doing now?”
“The city council is trying to tax cats,” growled his father.
“Tax cats?” Maybe his father had said “taxi cabs.” Barry didn’t think Blink was big enough to have cabs, though.
“Anybody that feeds a stray cat in this town is declared to own it, and they’re supposed to fork over twenty bucks for a license,” he said. “It’s rotten.”
Barry couldn’t agree with his father. “Lots of cities require dog licenses.”
“It’s not that simple. They’re up to their old tricks.” Judging by the indignation in his tone, his father was gathering steam. “You know my friend Norman McBride who runs the junkyard?”
Lew had mentioned him before. “He calls the place Best Rust in the West, right?”
“That’s him. Well, the place is crawling with cats. They keep the vermin down, and besides, there’s no animal shelter in Blink so he takes pity on them,” Lew said. “The jerks on the council are always trying to drive him out of business and they’ve found a new way to do it.”
“By taxing his cats,” Barry said, seeing the point at last. “That is rotten, but what’s it got to do with your visiting me?”
“Nothing,” said his father. “You’re the one who asked me what the government was doing.”
“I meant out here,” Barry said. “It occurred to me that you might be combining business with pleasure.”
The pause that followed was beginning to concern him when Lew said, “I assure you, there are no government officials in my sightlines.”
That was a relief. “When can I expect you?”
“Around the second week in May. I haven’t booked a flight yet.”
“It’ll be great, Dad,” Barry said. Knowing his father’s dislike of small talk, he figured they might spend the whole time sitting in front of the TV passing the potato chips, but heck, that was quality time of a sort.
“Super,” said his father. “By the way, have you had time to check out the local supermarket?”
“No. There’s a service that delivers,” Barry said. “Why?”
“I was wondering if they carry cream pies,” Lew said. “Look forward to seeing you, son.” Click.
Cream pies? As he hung up, Barry wished he knew what his father was planning. Not that anything he could say was likely to deter the unstoppable Lewis Cantrell.
Barry decided it was best not to mention his father when he had dinner at his aunt Grace’s house tomorrow night. She and her former brother-in-law saw eye-to-eye on almost nothing.
With luck, the two wouldn’t run into each other while Lew was in town.
Outside, the rain had stopped and the sun came out. Inspired to explore his new hometown, Barry headed for the beach area.
Bicyclists and skateboarders zoomed past as he walked. Although the palm trees and the smell of salt water stirred pleasant memories of Prego Prego, the neatly organized system of sidewalks, curbs, traffic lights and buildings was a far cry from the island’s sprawling chaos.
Everywhere Barry looked, he saw women. Old, middle-aged and, mostly, young. They didn’t wear many more clothes here than in the tropics and sometimes, in the case of string bikinis, less.
Women drifted through his line of sight and instantly vanished from his awareness. He found himself watching, subliminally, for a certain lady with audacious hair and plenty of attitude. He didn’t see her, of course.
At last, Barry settled at an outdoor café close to the beach and ordered a latte. From here, he could watch the surfers and content himself with the knowledge that, far off, his friends on Prego Prego might be swimming in the same storm-darkened ocean.
He wouldn’t see Chelsea again until Monday, he mused. Then they’d have to pretend to be strangers. How was he going to manage?
When he flew home yesterday, Barry had believed he was returning to a land where he knew all the rules. Boy, had he been wrong.
4
“CHELSEA, I’M DESPERATE.” Those were strong words, coming from that epitome of societal rectitude, Grace Menton.
Holding the phone to her ear, Chelsea shoved over a pile of her roommate’s dirty clothes and flopped onto the lumpy couch. She had to strain to hear over the splashing noises emanating from the kitchen sink. Starshine, who was too cheap to patronize a coin laundry, was spending Sunday afternoon doing her wash, beginning with a week’s worth of underwear.
“What’s wrong?” Chelsea asked.
“It’s Angela.” That was Andrew’s twelve-year-old daughter, Grace’s granddaughter. The whole family lived together in a splendid old mansion in the Hollywood Hills, which Chelsea had visited once when Grace invited her to tea.
Although Chelsea and her boss’s mother came from different worlds, Grace’s generosity had brought them together. Her passion was the Friends of the Opera and Ballet, better known as FOB.
Eager to win new fans for the arts, she’d invited Chelsea to half a dozen events over the past couple of years. To her own surprise, Chelsea had become an opera and dance buff.
“Angela isn’t sick, is she?” Chelsea had attended the ballet with Grace’s granddaughter a few months ago and really liked her. The girl was a talented young dancer in her own right. She’d also been friendly and open, and obviously awed by Chelsea’s flamboyant style.
“She might as well be sick!” Grace cried. “It’s as if she’s caught some disease and we don’t know how to treat it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Angela wants to give up dancing. Her mother’s at her wit’s end and so am I.” Grace’s usually silken voice was frayed. “These last few months, she’s hit adolescence and changed so much you wouldn’t know her.”
“But she loves dancing,” Chelsea said. “She told me she wants to be a ballerina when she grows up.”
“Since she turned twelve, she hates everything her parents and I approve of,” Grace explained. “She cut her beautiful brown hair and spiked it. Now she wants to quit ballet! She’s scheduled to dance a solo at a press luncheon we’re holding in May to publicize our subscription drive. It’s a tremendous honor and she wants to throw it away.”
Chelsea would never try to pressure the girl into doing something she disliked. On the other hand, she suspected that if Angela gave up dancing merely to spite her family, she would regret it deeply.
“Maybe she feels stressed-out,” she said.
“I don’t know.” Grace sighed. “I don’t understand Angela these days. She used to be so sweet. Now she rolls her eyes at everything I say. But she might listen to you.”
“I don’t know anything about children,” C
helsea said. “Or preteens, either.”
“She thinks you’re cool,” Grace said. “Would you at least talk to her? Maybe you can find out why she’s quitting.”
“Sure.” Chelsea tried to ignore Starshine, who had begun bellowing out the words to the latest Ricky Martin song, off-key and off-tempo. While her roommate might be an aspiring actress, Chelsea hoped she had no delusions of becoming a singer.
“Please come to dinner tonight,” Grace said. “I’m afraid she’ll act badly in front of her cousin. He’s my nephew, Barry, the new doctor you’ll be working with. If you’re there, she’ll behave herself, and I’ll make sure you have a chance to talk to her alone.”
She sounded at the end of her tether. “Of course,” Chelsea said. She owed Grace this much, however uncomfortable it might be.
“Please come at six. Shall we send a car?” The Mentons employed a middle-aged couple who lived on the premises. The wife served as housekeeper and the husband doubled as gardener and chauffeur.
“No need,” Chelsea said. “I know the way.”
“We’ll see you then.” Grace cleared her throat. “And, Chelsea, thank you. I can’t tell you how much this means.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“If you can’t do it, no one can.”
The declaration of trust touched her. Chelsea knew, as they said good bye, that she couldn’t back out now.
Starshine wandered out of the kitchen, her long blond hair twisted into a chignon and her shimmery, figure-hugging dress clinging damply where it had been splashed. Even while washing clothes in the sink, she’d worn high heels.
How could anyone manage to look so glamorous while washing underwear? Especially when her room, as Chelsea knew, perpetually resembled one of those disaster scenes on the TV news? Then she noticed Starshine looking for a place to hang several wispy, black-and-scarlet bras and panties that were dripping water onto the worn carpet.
“Put them in the bathroom!” she said.
“I can’t go in there.” Starshine bit her lower lip.
“Why not?”
“On Friday, there was a mouse under the sink.” She shivered, her large gray eyes inviting sympathy.
The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva Page 4
