Mr. Fix-It

by Crystal Hubbard

  Khela unconsciously held her breath and the bells jingled to life again in a pattern roughly matching their silhouettes.

  “There’s vanilla, too,” he said. “And…” His breath caressed her neck as he breathed her in. “Sandalwood?”

  “Very good,” she sighed.

  The bells nearest Khela’s chest quivered so rapidly, their clappers seemed to ring in one single long note.

  “Do they do scents for men?” Carter asked, taking a half step back.

  Khela swallowed hard, at first unsure of what he’d said. Too conscious of the pressure suddenly mounting deep within her, she cleared her throat once more and asked him to repeat himself.

  “Does this store create scents for men?”

  “I imagine so. Yes.” Khela touched the heel of her hand to her forehead, the bells playing a faint accompaniment to the elegant movement of her arm. “It’s getting a little warm in here.”

  “Is it in Boston?” He returned his soiled handkerchief to its home.

  “No, uh, Paris,” Khela said. “On the Champs-Elysees.”

  “You went all the way to Paris just to cook up some perfume? It must have cost a fortune.”

  “Some people spend too much money on perfume, others spend too much on cake,” she remarked, her voice cooling along with the activity of the bells as she cupped her right elbow in her left hand.

  “Hey, my money’s going to a good cause,” Carter said. “The cake is just a bonus. So how often do you zip off to ol’ Paree?”

  Khela’s bells lost a bit of life. “I’ve only been once, and I went there for work, to research a book.”

  “The guy I brought with me, Detrick Francis, he flies to Europe frequently for business.” Without touching its surface, Carter slowly waved his hand across a section of the artwork. The bells released their notes as their movement followed that of Carter’s hand. It was not unlike that of grass shaped by a gentle breeze. “Custom cologne is right up his alley.”

  “What does he do?” Khela asked.

  “He’s in real estate. What was your book about?” he asked, still watching the magical waving of the bells. “A French pirate who marries the disgraced daughter of a wealthy plantation owner in order to hide from a rival bent on killing him?”

  Khela forced her face and body language to reveal none of the exhilaration she felt at Carter’s excellent summary of one of her books.

  “Actually, it’s about one of the femmes tondues, a woman accused of being a ‘horizontal collaborator’ during the Nazi occupation of France in World War II,” Khela said with a touch of defiance. “She traded her body for food, and ended up with a baby sired by the enemy. At war’s end, she and many women like her were punished by having their heads shaven publicly, and then, often with their babies in their arms, they were paraded through town so everyone could participate in their humiliation.”

  “What about the men?”

  “They were the ones who did the shaving.”

  “No, I mean the male collaborators. What happened to them?”

  Khela blinked. “Some were executed, some were beaten.”

  “None of them got sheared?”

  “I’ve found no record of that in the course of my research.”

  “Seems like they would’ve wanted to execute the women, too.”

  “ ‘C’est par le ventre des femmes que la nation prospère, les femmes doivent être pures et préserver leur corps des étrangers afin d’éviter la détérioration de la nation,’ ” Khela said. “It means—”

  “ ‘It is in the belly of women that the nation prospers, women must be pure and preserve their bodies of foreigners to avoid the deterioration of the nation,’ ” Carter translated. “I guess it was better to humiliate them for not keeping themselves pure but keep them alive to make more French people just the same.”

  This time, Khela’s shock and delight registered in the form of a big smile.

  “What?” Carter shrugged. The tips of his ears turned pink. “I took French in school. Some of it stuck.”

  “It’s just that…you surprise me,” she said.

  Khela stared at the last quarter inch of champagne in her glass, but she looked up when the bells signaled Carter’s movement toward her. “Surprise you how?”

  His scent again invaded her senses when she inhaled before speaking. “Did you read it?”

  His gaze traveled slowly over her hair before moving to her face. “Read what?”

  “The Pirate’s Princess.”

  Another casual shrug. “I had some time in the weeks you’ve been avoiding me.”

  “I haven’t been—”

  “Then you must be cheating on me.”

  “What?” The bells accentuated Khela’s outcry.

  “This has been the longest you’ve ever gone without calling me for a repair, so either everything is running smooth as chicken spit in unit A, or you got yourself a new Mr. Fix-It.”

  “You’re deflecting,” Khela said. “You don’t want to admit that you read one of my books.”

  Carter wrinkled his nose as he scratched it. The tips of his ears practically glowed, even though he crossed his arms over his chest and took a more imposing stance. “So what if I did?”

  “Did you like it?”

  “It held my attention.”

  More than appreciating his forced indifference, Khela liked the fact that his ears looked as though they were on fire. “What was your favorite part?”

  Carter exhaled, blowing his cheeks out, and fixed his eyes on the exposed pipes in the ceiling. “I don’t know, let me think.” He took his chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing Khela’s attention again to his mouth. “There were lots of good parts. I mean, you’re a very good writer.”

  “I guess I surprise you, too.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Carter agreed. “That you do.”

  “Did you like the scene in the captain’s quarters aboard the pirate ship?”

  Carter visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple slowly rising before settling into its normal position. The bells nearest him seemed to be laughing at him. “Which, uh,” he coughed a little, “which scene was that?”

  Khela’s bells began to buzz when she leaned in closer toward Carter to say, in a lowered voice, “It’s the scene when the pirate figures out that his marriage of convenience and his bride actually mean far more to him than he’d been willing to admit. When he realizes that he wants his bride more than any other woman he’s ever met. And he has to satisfy that hunger or go mad.”

  “That was a good scene,” Carter said, studying her lips. “Wasn’t my favorite part, though.”

  “Oh?” Khela said, cocking an eyebrow and tilting her head slightly. She moved to brush a tendril of hair off her face just as Carter reached forward to do the same. Their hands met, and the artwork next to them seemed to shudder, the bells level with their point of contact leaping forward with such force their clappers stood out straight like tiny little tongues, their connection to the board the only thing keeping them moored in place. The bells in the vicinity of the area where Carter’s hand covered Khela’s started a quivery reaction that stirred every bell all the way out to the borders of the box.

  Taking a firmer grip on Khela’s hand, Carter pulled her farther away from the piece.

  A short, bald man in an iridescent turquoise suit hastened toward them. “It’s perfectly safe; nothing to worry about,” he said. “It’s just my Hot Box.”

  “I’m sorry?” Carter said.

  “The bells are attached to a very sensitive panel that reacts to electrothermal emissions,” the man said. “It literally responds to your body heat. This is the most activity my work has ever generated.” A proud grin bloomed beneath his hooked nose. “Apparently, you two make beautiful music together.”

  The loose knot of Khela’s and Carter’s hands tightened. They looked sideways at each other and saw that they both were wearing the same sappy smile. They jerked their hands apart and struggled to find a respo
nse to the man’s innocent but dead-on observation.

  “I’ll bet you’ve been waiting all day to say that,” Khela scoffed as Carter drawled, “Man, you call that music? Sounds like a batch of alley cats bein’ deep-fried.”

  “I should find Daphne before she flies off to Wales with the auctioneer,” Khela said quickly.

  “Yeah, I better find my wingman, too,” Carter said, backing away. “I, uh, should probably go and settle the bill for my cake.”

  “Sure,” Khela said, moving away. “Bye.”

  Carter and Khela went their separate ways, the distance between them increasing. No longer powered by Carter’s and Khela’s body heat, the bells ceased their otherworldly movement and faded into cold silence.

  * * *

  Carter and Detrick eased their way through a noisy crowd of Red Sox fans packed shoulder to shoulder in Boston Beer Works.

  Nearby Fenway Park was dark on Yawkey Way while its beloved team scrapped with the Yankees in New York, but a Red Sox home run elicited cheers from the Beer Works patrons that surely carried all the way to the Bronx.

  “Maybe we should have gone to Jillian’s,” Detrick shouted.

  “We’ve already got a table here,” Carter called back, following the pretty young waitress as she forged a path through a sea of fans in red.

  She led them up a ramp to the small square tables lining the front of the restaurant. A brass railing separated the dining area from the various bars, where Sox fans sat on stools or stood, their eyes glued to the television sets mounted throughout the restaurant.

  “Is this okay?” the waitress asked, placing two plastic-encased menus on a small, square table. “It’s the best I could do,” she said, her loud, nervous chortle sounding just like Scooby-Doo’s. “Those Northeastern guys look like they want to kill me for bumping you ahead of them.” She mimed an exaggerated slashing gesture across her throat. “Oh, well, anything for one of my regulars.”

  “I’m not a regular here,” Carter told her.

  “You could be,” she said with a wink. “I know how to treat my regulars.”

  “The table is great, thanks.” Carter took the chair; Detrick slid onto the leather-covered bench seat against the plate-glass window.

  “Can I get you a drink to start?” the waitress asked, her big brown eyes fixed on Carter. “Name your brew. It’s on me.”

  “I’ll have a Sam Adams—whatever’s on draft,” Carter said.

  “I’d like to take a look at the drinks menu, if—” Detrick managed to get out but the waitress was already moving away with a bubbly, “I’ll get that for you right away.”

  Carter caught her by her apron. “My friend wants to look at the drinks menu.”

  The waitress noticed Detrick for the first time. Her cheeks reddened, she apologized for ignoring him, then hurried off to give him time to decide which specialty beer would best suit his palate.

  “Sorry about that, Detrick,” Carter said.

  “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” Detrick shook his head, his shaved dome catching the bright gleam of the overhead lights. “I don’t know what it is the ladies see in a ’Bama-fried cracker like you. That little minx is ready to curl up in your lap and lick cream from your chin.”

  Carter chuckled lightly. “Whatever it is, it don’t work on all of ’em,” he said, emitting a long sigh as he stared at the television set propped high in one corner.

  Detrick leaned back, draping an arm over the padded back of the bench seat.

  “Your honorary blackness has finally kicked in.”

  “What gives you that idea?”

  “The writer. She’s the reason you spent a fortune on that cake,” Detrick snorted. “A funny-lookin’ cake, at that.”

  “Literacy is a cause near and dear to my heart,” Carter deadpanned.

  “I know what you want near your heart, and it ain’t literacy.” Detrick scanned the custom beers on the back of the menu. “I think I’ll have the Bunker Hill Bluebeery Ale.”

  “Didn’t you have enough girlie drinks back at the auction?” Carter taunted. He opened his menu and looked over the appetizers and entrees. “If you’re gonna drink beer, drink a real beer.”

  “Unlike yours, my palate is somewhat refined,” Detrick retorted. “If I’m forced to drink beer, I don’t want one that tastes like beer.”

  Carter chuckled. “Your palate wasn’t so refined in school when we’d sneak out after lights out to choke down your Aunt Sukie’s corn whiskey.”

  “That corn whiskey put hair on your chest, boy,” Detrick said, lapsing into the Alabama accent he ordinarily took pains to hide. “Put hair on Aunt Sukie’s, too, come to think of it.” His gaze shifted beyond Carter’s shoulder. “Your little admirer is coming back, and she’s bearing gifts.”

  Carter glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t know how Detrick had seen their waitress amidst the throng of baseball fans. But then he spotted a circular tray laden with baskets of food, a bottle of wine and two long-stemmed goblets seeming to surf the shoulders of the crowd. Then, as Detrick had, he recognized their waitress’s bangled and braceleted wrists beneath the tray.

  “Whew!” she exclaimed, emerging from the crowd at the bottom of the ramp. “The Sox better win tonight after all this. I hope you guys are hungry.” She set the tray on the table and began serving them, placing a giant platter of nachos in front of Carter and a basket of calamari before Detrick. “The ladies are a little on the wild side tonight.”

  “We didn’t order this,” Carter told her.

  “These are courtesy of those ladies right over there.” The waitress pointed to one of the bars, where several women in business suits raised their glasses to Carter. He politely waved back. “And the drinks came from that lady in the leather skirt over there, under the Red Sox Parking Only sign.”

  Carter took a quick peek at a tall blonde in a leather miniskirt so short it looked more like an extension of her black top. She lowered her chin and kept her eyes fixed on him.

  “Ooh, that one’s giving you the hard look,” Detrick said in a low voice. “I give it five minutes before she comes over here and starts throwing her hair and laughing at everything you say.”

  The waitress leaned in close to Carter, her hands on her knees. “You know what they say—the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “Excuse me,” Detrick interrupted. “I’d like to try the wine.”

  The waitress seemed transfixed by Carter’s face, staring at him with a dreamy smile.

  “Miss?” Carter prompted.

  “Hmm?” she cooed.

  “Just take it back, please,” Carter said quietly.

  “The wine?” the waitress asked.

  “The wine, the food, all of it.” Carter stood, drawing his wallet from his back pocket. He lifted out two five-dollar bills and dropped them on the table. “I’m not staying.”

  As Carter started for the exit, the waitress shared a look of confusion with Detrick, who cast a final longing look at the wine before scooting off the bench. He dropped a bill of his own atop the two fives before hurrying after Carter.

  “What gives, man?” he asked, catching up to Carter halfway to the lot where they had parked.

  “I’m not hungry,” Carter said.

  “Since when do you pass on free food?” Detrick fairly trotted to keep up with Carter’s long, fast strides. “You haven’t paid for a meal in years.”

  Carter halted in front of another bar, this one so full its patrons had spilled out and were milling in front of the neon-illuminated front window. Every drinking and dining establishment on Brookline Street was full of Red Sox fans reveling in the hometown team’s three-run lead over the Yankees.

  Three women in pink and white Red Sox jerseys did a long double-take after passing Carter on the sidewalk, one of them even stumbling over her feet. His oldest and closest friend stood there staring curiously at him, but Carter had never felt more alone.

  “I want more,” he finally said.<
br />
  “Okay, then let’s go back and get more,” Detrick said. “That waitress would have given you steaks and lobster on the house. She looked as though she would have cooked up a small child for you, if that was what you wanted.”

  “That’s just it, Trick,” Carter said, clenching his fists in frustration. “I don’t want that. Not anymore.”

  “Don’t want what?” Detrick said, speaking around a large group of Northeastern students that ambled between them. “I’m not following you.”

  Carter started walking again. “I don’t want to be adored. At least not without earning it.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Carter kept silent until he could work out an explanation other than the truth: that he had just quoted a line from one of Khela’s books. The line perfectly summed up the frustrations that had been niggling at him since his weekend with Khela. “Women look at me and decide who and what I am based on this,” he said, jabbing a finger at his face. “I want someone who looks in here.” He slapped a hand against his chest.

  Detrick smiled uncomfortably. “Uh, I’m not sure what’s goin’ on with you, man, but I do know you need to stop watching Oprah.”

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Carter continued to the parking lot.

  “I’m sorry, Carter, I didn’t mean any disrespect.” Detrick hurried after him. “You gotta admit, you’re behaving a little strangely tonight.”

  “I’ve just got some things on my mind, that’s all,” Carter responded tersely. Head down, he moved steadily forward through a rush of rowdy Sox fans going in the opposite direction. Carter’s shoulder collided hard with an oncomer, spinning the solidly built man around.

  “Watch it, douche bag!” the man shouted over his shoulder.

  “You have a good night, too, pal,” Carter called back grimly.

  The man pushed up the sleeves of his red sweatshirt, revealing forearms the approximate width of a fire hydrant. “What did you say to me, hick?”

  “C’mon, let it go,” Detrick urged, taking Carter, who had stopped, by the arm. “You’re not in college anymore. Leave the brawling to the kiddies.”

  Carter shrugged him off. Foot traffic around him and the man in red slowed.