Mr. Fix-It

by Crystal Hubbard

  “I knew what I was doing because my dad is a plumber,” Daphne said. “With a snake, that clog would have taken no more than ten minutes to break up. Carter spent half the day on it so he could spend the time with you, and you kept yourself hidden in your loft the whole time.”

  “That’s asinine,” Khela said. “If he wanted to spend time with me, there are better ways to go about it than playing in the toilet.”

  “Are there?” Daphne asked skeptically. “You close yourself off so much, Khela.”

  Khela started to protest, but Daphne spoke over her. “No, you do. You’ve always had one foot in the real world and the other in the worlds you create. You live in a great apartment in a great city filled with fascinating people, yet you haven’t done any entertaining since your divorce. Sometimes I think you prefer your fictional characters to real people.”

  “Fictional characters don’t sit in Starbucks pointing out my social deficiencies. So yes, from time to time, I do prefer the people I create to my real friends.”

  “I’m not trying to insult you, Khela.”

  “This is you not trying? You’re very good at it just the same.”

  “Stop trying to pick a fight with me. I’m going to say what I have to say.”

  Khela gnawed her lower lip, dreading what Daphne would tell her.

  “He’s in—”

  “Love with me?” Khela squeaked. “No, he’s not. He’s in it for the same reason I am—to have a little frisky fun.”

  “I was going to say that he’s infatuated with you,” Daphne said. “I think two weeks is more than enough time for him to fall in love with you. If you’ll let him.”

  “I’m not the boss of him, Daphne. I can’t control his feelings.”

  “But you can control how much of yourself you give to him. You know how it works, Khela, better than most people. I’m just asking you to be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

  “You just said that Carter’s the one who might fall in love, not me.”

  Daphne gave Khela a somber smile. “Honey,” she said slowly, softly, “you’re already in love with him.”

  Khela opened her mouth, sucking in a big breath of air to power her denial. But the words wouldn’t come. She sat there, mouth open, ignoring every version of “No, I’m not” running through her head.

  “Yes, you are,” Daphne said simply. “You gave it away during your keynote address at the luncheon. When he came into the room, you came to life. Everything about you seemed lighter and brighter. That doesn’t happen when you look at a man if you don’t love him.”

  Khela stared out at the pedestrians and cars moving past the coffee shop. All different shapes, sizes and colors, the twin rivers of machinery and humanity moved in opposite directions in a silent dance with a very unique rhythm.

  Khela studied the moving panorama, picking faces to zoom in on. A dark-haired man in a business suit, a blond man in a track suit, a bearded man in a UPS uniform, a redheaded man carrying a backpack, a bald man swinging a briefcase…they each caught Khela’s eye, but in the flat, disinterested way fish in an aquarium might catch her eye. They moved in her line of vision, but their appearance meant nothing to her.

  It was so different with Carter. He entered a room and his presence seemed to charge the air. Every part of her would come to life in a way that made her realize how truly numb to the rest of the world she had become. None of the passing faces compared with Carter’s, and not just because he was freakishly handsome. No other man’s eyes sparkled as Carter’s did; she knew no other man who had his unhurried yet powerful walk. And no other man’s voice, when shaped into its native Southern drawl, could curl her toes just by uttering her name.

  Khela propped her elbows on the table and clapped her hands to her face. “Oh, God,” she whimpered. “I think I do. I think I really, really do.”

  Daphne patted her forearm. “What’s the problem? This is a good thing!”

  Khela’s hands fell heavily to the tabletop. “There’s nothing good about being in love with Carter Radcliffe!” she said, her voice breaking as tears trickled over her lower eyelids. “I’m not good at love.”

  “How do you know?” Daphne laughed, handing her a few coarse brown paper napkins. “You’ve never been in love, not really. Until you find it, you don’t know what real love is. Most people settle for thinking they’re in love, or hoping they’re in love. Then they go and get married, and they’re all surprised when it falls apart.”

  “Exactly how much thought have you given this?”

  “Lots.” Daphne dropped her eyes. “Lots and lots,” she said somberly.

  “Is there something going on with the auctioneer that you’d like to talk about?”

  “No.” Daphne stirred her lukewarm coffee. “Yes.” She sat up straighter, leaning closer to Khela. “He wants me to go back to the United Kingdom with him.”

  Khela’s eyes widened in alarm. “For a visit?”

  “Forever.” Daphne gazed absently at the world outside Starbucks, twirling the end of a lock of her fiery hair around her fingertip. “He’s asked me to marry him. It’s sudden, but we know it’s right for us.”

  The iced lemon pound cake Khela had scarfed down earlier suddenly felt like lead in her stomach. Her skin felt cold and hot at the same time as she asked the first question that popped into her head. “You’re leaving me?”

  “Why am I not surprised that you would somehow turn the most amazing, surprising, wonderful thing to happen to me into something about you?”

  Stung, Khela’s stomach clenched around the leaden cake. “What?”

  “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve turned everything about me into something about you.”

  Khela sat back in her chair, distancing herself a bit from the ice in Daphne’s stare. “I don’t know what’s brought this on, but—”

  “The romance conference in Chicago, for starters,” Daphne interrupted. “I wanted you to go there and be my moral support, not outshine me.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “I know you didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did.” Daphne’s nostrils quivered, a tell-tale sign that tears would soon follow. “Ever since then, you’ve been the one with all the fame and fans and—”

  “You’ve been harboring this jealousy for ten years?” Khela cried, her apprehension growing.

  “Men!” Daphne continued, a touch of hurt in her anger. “As soon as guys find out you’re a romance novelist, all they care about is getting me to introduce them to you. Llewellyn is the only man I’ve ever dated who never asks me about my ‘writer friend Khela.’ He thinks I’m funny and beautiful and talented—”

  “I’ve told everyone who would listen that it was luck and timing, not talent, that got me my first contract. I know how gifted you are, Daphne. You’re a crackerjack editor and an even better writer. Your background in comparative literature gives your writing an intellectual edge that mine won’t ever have.”

  Still staring out the window, Daphne finally let her sobs burst free. Khela could hardly understand her as she sputtered, “Talent doesn’t always translate into success, does it? Lew thinks I’m beautiful and smart and fun, but I don’t bring anything more than window dressing to the table. I edit books for a living. I put the polish on diamonds that belong to other people. I get a decent paycheck for it, but I don’t get any credit.” Daphne used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe her nose. “Lew’s one of the most respected antiquarians in Britain, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Khela took Daphne’s hand and held it tight. “You haven’t told me much about him. I haven’t even seen him since the cake auction. Now I know why I haven’t seen much of you, either.”

  Daphne turned her wounded gaze on Khela. “I didn’t want him to meet you. The minute he met you would be the minute I lost him.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Khela, you have those big, soft brown eyes that take in everything around you, yet you can’t seem to
see the effect you have on men when you walk into a room,” Daphne wept quietly. “And you’re smart. On the fly, in front of an editor from the biggest publishing house in the world, you pitched a book that you hadn’t even conceived of before you sat in that chair. You turned a hobby into a successful career, and you don’t just rest on your laurels. Your crazy cake raised five grand for the Literacy Fund. The donation you made to Wednesday’s Child will provide scholarships to ten kids who age out of the child welfare system.” Daphne gave her eyes another swipe with her sleeve. “You’re smart, sophisticated and polished, and every man who meets you, wants you.”

  “Okay, even if that were true, which it isn’t, you have to look at why they want me,” Khela argued. “Exhibit A: J-Fred.”

  “You were young when you married him. You didn’t know any better.”

  “You were the same age I was and you saw right through him. You warned me about him, but I didn’t listen. It was those big, straight teeth that did it. You knew that he was looking for a payday.” Khela paused until she could go on without shedding tears of her own. “You knew that he didn’t love me.”

  “Same as I know that Carter’s half in love with you,” Daphne said softly. “Be good to him, Khela. Don’t hold the offenses of other men against him.”

  “I’m not punishing him for what J-Fred and the other prospectors I’ve dated have done,” Khela said. “But I won’t be fooled again. I won’t get burned again. I’m just not sure how to go about avoiding it.”

  “Don’t hold him to the two weeks.”

  “You think I should break it off with him? Already?”

  Daphne grinned sadly. “I think you should give him more than two weeks. Give him a real shot, Khela.”

  “Like you’re giving Llewellyn a shot? Is that what this is about?”

  “I’m going to marry him,” Daphne said, her smile finally radiating true happiness.

  Khela nearly fell off her chair. “You’ve known him for four weeks!”

  “Four weeks and five days,” Daphne calculated. “He proposed last night, and I accepted. We’ve decided on a Labor Day ceremony here in Massachusetts, and then I’m going to live in a manor in the English countryside. I’ve got a little over two months to organize a wedding and pack up my apartment.”

  “So you are leaving me,” Khela whispered.

  “And I don’t feel guilty about it at all, so don’t try and make me. But I don’t want you to be alone. Even more than that, I don’t want you to be afraid to love a really good man.”

  “How can you be so sure that Carter’s so good for me?”

  “Because I see how happy he’s made you. When you talk about Carter, you look the way I feel about Llewellyn.”

  Khela gripped the sides of her head. “I don’t get this. I just don’t get it!”

  “You don’t have to,” Daphne said softly. “From the first time we met, Lew and I felt connected, as though we’d found something we’d been longing for and missing. Since we met, we’ve spent almost every day together. Sometimes, he makes phone calls and works on the Internet while I sit across from him, editing my latest assignment. We’re so comfortable with each other, whether we’re working or playing. He took me on a buying trip to New York City, and I took him to Richmond Heights to meet my parents last weekend.”

  “How do your mom and dad feel about you moving so fast with this guy?”

  “They respect my judgment, even if they don’t agree with it,” Daphne said. “I hope you will, too. I know Lew is right for me. Same as I know Carter is right for you.”

  * * *

  Calareso’s was Khela’s favorite neighborhood market. Her adoptive parents had lived on modest means, but they had instilled in her the adventurous palate of the serious foodie. Khela was the only kindergartner in the small suburb of Rock Hill, Missouri who took feta cheese and black olives to school for lunch and had red pepper hummus with rice and sunflower chips for an after-school snack.

  Calareso’s was the one store in downtown Boston that reminded her of Grandma Belle’s pantry while at the same time giving her access to many of the exotic foods she’d come to enjoy in the course of her travels as an author.

  The tiny store, no bigger than the average corner market, was chock full of the most delicious and unique offerings imaginable. Dried herbs, homegrown by the Calaresos themselves on their farm in Billerica, adorned the front windows. Each section of the store had its own unique aromas. Fresh herbs and cut flowers competed for prominence in the produce section while hand-packed spices from the Far East, West Africa and the Mediterranean dominated the ethnic foods aisle.

  The seafood section smelled of brine and the ocean, but not of fish, despite the presence of low barrels of ice piled high with live clams, mussels and oysters. Lobsters in a glass tank seemed to sense their eventual fate, scrambling over one another, reaching for the top of the tank as though knowing escape lay there. The glass display case housed still more fruits of the sea, with sea and bay scallops stacked high next to more exotic fare, such as mako shark and mahi mahi.

  Khela had once spent an hour browsing the canned meats and sauces aisle, admiring the fanciful or just plain fancy bottles and jars and other packaging, imagining how she could use them in her stories. She’d once purchased a pricey bottle of imported balsamic vinegar because the bottle came with a security band sealed with purple wax and stamped with an ornate letter “V.” That stamp had inspired one of her most popular books, The Pirate’s Princess.

  Calareso’s was the one place where Khela could find her favorite English condiments from Crosse & Blackwell, such as mint sauce for roasted potatoes and sweet peas, alongside her favorite American relishes and jellies from Stonewall Kitchens. Her cart already contained big jars of Stonewall’s red pepper jelly and roasted garlic and onion jam.

  Right next to the fresh artisan breads were tinned squab and venison, and an olive bar featuring savory morsels from as far away as Morocco and Sicily.

  Though Khela had no taste for squab or venison or imported olives, she liked knowing that she could get them if she ever needed to describe the taste for one of her characters.

  Their shopping cart was stacked high with a week’s supply of groceries. Fresh fruits and vegetables in green plastic bags rested atop the boxed and canned goods she and Carter had chosen. They were on their way to the bakery to select a loaf or two of Tuscan bread when Khela drew up short.

  “Great,” she muttered. “There’s only one check-out open and Mangela is manning it.”

  Carter glanced at the tall, thickly built cashier at register two and chuckled. “Mangela?”

  “His name is Angela,” Khela said, grasping Carter’s upper arm as she hid behind him. “But Daphne and I started calling her Mangela because she’s so masculine. He hates me. She’s the only thing I hate about this store.”

  “Why does she—he—that person hate you?” Carter asked, trying not to stare.

  “Why do snakes bite?” Khela said. “Because it’s just her nature. She was fine with me until he overheard Daphne and me talking in line one day, and she asked me if I was a writer. I said yes, and he’s been evil to me ever since. She read one of my books and really gave it to me one day. I came in to buy some monkey bread, and the next thing I knew, Mangela’s berating me about Teacher’s Pet.”

  While listening to Khela’s rant, Carter searched his memory for Teacher’s Pet. Then it came to him. Teacher’s Pet, Khela’s fifth novel and first Cameo Sizzler, was about a grad student who carried on a secret affair with her recently divorced English professor.

  The book’s sex scenes were so tantalizing, Carter imagined he saw steam rising from its pages every time he opened it. It had the wit, sassiness and humor that he had discovered in Khela, but it also had love scenes that left him so tense with pent-up desire that most nights he couldn’t sleep until he’d given himself some relief, usually while looking at Khela’s photo on the inside back cover of the book.

  “She said that it was
the most far-fetched, ridiculous book he’d ever read,” Khela went on. “She went through it almost page by page while she rang up my groceries, criticizing just about everything I’d written.”

  “You should be used to criticism,” Carter said. “You’ve been at this a long time.”

  They stepped up to the glass bakery case and studied the loaves of bread, cakes, pastries and cookies prettily lined up along the five shelves.

  “Mangela screamed at the top of her lungs how stupid she thought I was for giving my English professor—he was the male lead in the book—a Porsche. She said it was improbable that an English teacher would make enough money to own a Porsche. Shows what Mangela knows about the income of tenured professors.”

  “Why didn’t you explain that in the book?”

  “Because the kind of car he drove wasn’t integral to the plot. It was merely used to illustrate his character. He was a 40-year-old, graying, balding, recently divorced man who went out and bought himself a gunmetal grey Porsche. What he bought was more important than describing his financing for it.”

  “Sounds like she’s criticizing creative choices and not the actual writing,” Carter said. “Just because she doesn’t know any professors with Porsches, they must not exist.”

  Khela tossed up her hands in relief. “Exactly! I get that all the time, people questioning what I write as though I get my ideas from stone tablets handed down by God. I make stuff up—”

  “Hence the word fiction.”

  “—based on my own experiences and the ones I steal from people around me, and the news, and television. Almost all of my characters come from people in my life, although—”

  “I recognized Daphne and the concert pianist who lives under you in two of your books,” Carter interrupted again.

  “—I try to disguise them so I don’t get sued!” Khela went on. “You can’t complain about a character’s car when the book is about a professor’s erotic encounters with a much younger graduate student. That’s not a constructive critique, that’s just…just…I don’t know what it is!”