Elizabeth made a face. "What have you done?" she repeated. "I'll tell you what you did. You taught Walt to play golf."
"Not another tournament?"
She skipped down the stairs that led to the boat level of the dock and came over to The Promise. "Both Saturday and Sunday this time."
Eric reached for her hand to help her on board. "Shouldn't you be in the gallery cheering him on?"
"Walt said he'd hit the ball in my direction if I dared show up today. The last time I attended one of his tournaments, I wound up in hysterics when one of the men in his foursome split his pants squatting down to line up his ball." She snorted. "Those people take themselves so seriously. They didn't see the humor at all."
"Unlike we sailor types."
She flashed him a smile. "Or we artist types."
Though Elizabeth earned her living in interior design, her first love was painting. Walt had added a small studio to the back of their house, where she would disappear for hours, lost in her quest for perfection on canvas. "You and Walt should find a mutual hobby,"' Eric said.
"We already have one—you." Eric laughed. "I'm honored." He slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. "How about some coffee?"
"Is it that Turkish stuff you make that I have to scrape out of the pot?"
"If you'd rather have tea, just say so." He led her down the steps and into the galley, where he put a pot of water on to boil and then took a mug and a tea bag from the cupboard.
"How's the merger coming?" she asked, perching on a bar stool.
"Don't ask."
"That bad, huh?"
"Worse. It looks like I'll be going to Detroit next week, after all."
"Do you want me to see if I can find someone to use your ticket?"
"Damn—I forgot all about the play." Last Christmas Elizabeth had given Walt and Eric a pair of season's tickets to an improvisational theater she had helped redesign, saying it was the only way she could assure herself companionship after both of them had flatly refused to go with her. The productions had turned out to be surprisingly good, and Elizabeth had gloried in giving both of them a resounding "I told you so."
"Is there something else besides the merger that's bothering you?" She took the cover from her tea bag and reached for the mug Eric slid across the counter.
"Why do you ask?"
"There are times lately when you only seem to be half there. And it's not like you to forget dates."
Because they had been such close friends for so many years, he knew it would be useless for him to try to deny that he had something on his mind. What he had to decide at this point was whether he wanted to talk to Elizabeth about Janet. He told himself his primary reason for hesitating was his lack of anything concrete to talk about. It sounded disproportionately monumental to say he'd finally met someone who interested him, especially when he would have to add that his feelings weren't reciprocated and that he'd received no encouragement to think they ever might be.
While he had never purposely looked for someone to love, he'd never closed the door to the possibility, either. But not once had he considered it even remotely possible that he would find the woman who piqued his interest under such bizarre circumstances. Perhaps that was why he doubted his feelings and found the warm glow and stupid grin that unfailingly accompanied thoughts of her slightly suspect.
Elizabeth leaned over the counter to poke Eric's arm. "It's also not like you to get that glassy look in your eyes and silly grin on your face and drift off into another world. Now are you going to tell me what's going on?"
"I met someone who—"
"You've met a woman?" she gasped. "Are you telling me you've finally met a woman?"
Eric tilted his cup and gazed at the dark liquid at the bottom. "My God, Elizabeth, the way you're carrying on, anyone overhearing our conversation would come away thinking I'm a little strange."
"In San Francisco, who's going to care?" She wiggled back in her stool and crossed her arms over her chest. "So tell me—who is this wondrous creature?"
"Janet Franklin." He hesitated a moment, giving Elizabeth time to make the connection.
Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes grew wide. "The woman who stole your car?" she said, her tone incredulous.
"The same."
"You mean you've been seeing her all this time, and you haven't said a word? How could you?"
"Calm down." He smiled at her indignation. "If you recall, it's only been about three weeks since the car thing. During that time I've only seen her twice."
"Well, I'll be… What a sly devil you are. Here you've been dating someone, and Walt and I never suspected a thing."
He poured himself another cup of coffee and came around the counter to join her, sitting on the other bar stool. "'Dating' isn't exactly the word I would use."
"Oh?"
"I asked her out, but she put me off."
"And you accepted that? Could this be the Eric Stewart I know and love? The man who once said 'no' wasn't an answer he recognized?"
"Oh, I haven't given up. I'm just giving her some time to realize what she's missing by not going out with me."
"Uh-huh. Let's remember who you're talking to here. So tell me about her. What does she look like? Where does she work?"
"She has shoulder-length black hair and eyes that are so blue they're almost translucent. I'd guess she's probably around five-eight or so, and I'm not sure about this, but I think she's on the thin side." He took a drink of coffee. "But then I don't know why I'm telling you all this; you've seen her yourself."
Elizabeth swung the stool around so that she faced him. "I have? When?"
"She was our limousine driver the last time we went to the opera together."
She took a moment to absorb the information. "You knew that, and you still let Sandra say the things she did?"
"At that point I was only suspicious that it was Janet. Besides, since when do I have any control over what Sandra says?"
Elizabeth thoughtfully sipped her tea. "What do you mean you think she's thin?"
"The three times I've seen her, she's either been in a baggy sweat suit, a chauffeur's uniform or a…" Eric decided he would rather not try to explain the third item of apparel. "Anyway, I haven't had the opportunity to really see how she's built."
"You didn't finish."
"What do you mean?"
"The third outfit—what was it?" She gave him a wary look.
"Oh… that." He raised his mug to his lips. "She was wearing a clown suit," he said with a resigned sigh.
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. "I'm not even going to ask."
"She works for one of those outfits that delivers balloons."
"Along with her job as a chauffeur?"
"Along with carrying fifteen units at Stanford." Eric felt as if he'd just been hit over the head. Not until he had spoken it aloud had the enormity of Janet's workload really struck home. How could he have been so stupid? He reconstructed the scene in his office and could have kicked himself. A week from Friday had probably been the first free time she had. And he had turned her down thinking she was putting him off.
Elizabeth ran her finger around the lip of her cup. "Stanford, huh? So this woman you're interested in is a coed?"
Although she had kept her voice remarkably calm, Eric knew Elizabeth well enough to recognize when she was screaming inside. He considered letting her stew for a while but didn't have the heart. "Don't panic, Elizabeth. Janet's closer to thirty than twenty."
She cast her eyes heavenward. "Thank you, God. I'm not sure I could have kept my mouth shut if you'd sent him a teenybopper to fall in love with."
Eric reached over and playfully ruffled her hair. "Did you come over here this morning to nag or to help?"
"I can only pick one?"
Hands on hips, her chin sticking out, fury radiating from her eyes, Janet stared at Ralph Cummings, manager of the Anything Goes Agency. "You know I never do these jobs. Why on earth would you schedule
me to do one tonight?"
Ralph ran his hand over his bald pate and leaned forward, stubbornly planting his elbows on his desk as he stared up at her. "Let me refresh your memory, Janet . When you called to say you would be able to work tonight, you said—and I quote—'give me whatever pays the best.' In case you've forgotten, jumping out of cakes at bachelor parties commands our highest fee."
"Isn't there anyone else you could get to do it?"
"Believe me, if I could, I would. All the regulars are either out on jobs or home sick. The flu that's going around is killing us." He leaned back and patted his bulging belly. "And those guys at that party sure as hell ain't gonna put up with someone like me coming out of that cake."
Despite herself she smiled. She liked Ralph Cummings. He was a perfect boss, always willing to work around her schedule and arrange an extra job for her whenever she had a little free time. "I've never done anything like this before." She considered the whole idea demeaning. "I don't know the routine."
"What's to know? You wait for the cue, jump up and look sexy."
"Ugh!"
"Oh… there's also a little poem you're supposed to say, but it's not very long. You don't even have to memorize it, you can read it if you want to."
"Wonderful. Is this poetry something the agency provides, or does it come from the client?"
Ralph avoided her gaze by looking down at his desk. He cleared his throat. "This one comes from the client."
Janet's eyes narrowed. "I absolutely refuse to read anything that's obscene."
"It's not obscene—just slightly blue."
"You'll pardon me if I don't take your word on this. May I please see this poem?"
Ralph reached inside his desk, brought out a plain white envelope and handed it to her. "I've read worse," he said, a cajoling tone to his voice.
Janet took the neatly folded paper out of the envelope and began to read. As her gaze swept the page her eyes grew wide and her face turned a bright pink. When she had finished, she tossed the paper on the desk. "What does this guy do for a living—produce porno flicks?"
"All right, you don't have to read his poem. You can read the one we normally use at these things. If he complains, tell him his was lost somewhere." He got up and came around the desk. "You know I wouldn't ask you to do this if it weren't important, Janet. These people have been clients for a long time, and I would hate to lose their business."
Every ounce of her common sense told her not to take the job. "Are you sure there's no one else available?"
"If there were, do you think I would be down on my knees to you?"
Janet felt herself weakening. Though the agency contracted to do some crazy things, they were always in good taste. Even the men and women hired as strippers to go to offices and homes for birthday parties wound up wearing what were rather modest swimsuits once their strips were complete. Janet had already seen the outfit she would have to wear for the cake routine. Basically it was an old-fashioned black corset trimmed in red lace. She'd also be wearing black fishnet stockings and a red garter belt. But it wasn't the clothes she objected to. She had been wearing less that fateful day she'd caught pneumonia trying to pass out hors d'oeuvres to yacht customers. What she had trouble with was the idea. "How much do I get paid?" she said with a resigned sigh.
"A hundred plus tip."
"And you're sure they know we have a hands off policy at the agency?"
"It's in the agreement they signed. Plus I personally reminded them."
Janet chewed on her lower lip while she thought it over. She knew several of the women at the agency who usually took these kinds of jobs, and they had told her that though once in a while they ran into jerks who would try something, for the most part, the "honorees" were gracious and friendly. "How long do I have to stay?"
"Half hour, tops."
"Okay, Ralph, I'll do it this time—but don't you dare ever schedule me for something like this again. If you do, you'll lose the best clown you ever had." The instant the words were out of her mouth, she knew she was making a mistake.
Ralph gave her a bone-crushing hug. "Thanks, Janet. I won't forget this."
"Something tells me I won't, either."
Two hours later, wearing a fleece-lined trench coat over her skimpy costume, Janet was wandering around the service entrance of the Beachwood Hotel, impatiently waiting for her cake to arrive. She stopped, stood as straight as possible and sucked in her breath, trying to relieve the pain in her chest caused by a plastic stay that had worked loose from the corset. When at last the delivery van pulled around the corner, she let out a sigh of relief. As soon as the men pulled up to the curb, she gave them hurried instructions on where to put the cake and excused herself to find someplace private where she could fix the stay.
The repair work turned out to be more complicated than she had anticipated, and when she returned, she discovered the delivery men were already gone. Oh, great! She had hoped to get them to stick around long enough to roll the cake into the banquet room—a minor detail she had neglected to work out with Ralph Cummings. She reached into her pocket to get the name of the man who had arranged the evening, then motioned for a bellboy. When he came over, she gave him the name and asked him to go into the banquet room and page him. Several minutes later a tuxedo-clad, middle-aged, balding man—his tie askew, his face flushed from alcohol—came up to her.
"What can I do for you, little lady?"
His breath and the strange way he leaned forward when he talked to her told Janet the party had been going on for quite some time already. "I'm Janet Franklin from the Anything Goes Agency." She stuck out her hand.
"Glad to meet you, Janet. I'm Bill Evans." He chortled. "But I guess you already knew that, didn't you, honey?" He took her hand and brought it to his lips to press a loud, moist kiss on the back. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you."
Janet felt a familiar stab of certainty. "Mr. Evans, I'm going to need some help with the cake." Perhaps if she remained scrupulously professional he would respond in kind. "The men I had hoped to get to handle it have disappeared. Now if you could get a couple of your friends—preferably sober ones—out here, I can explain what I need done, and we can get on with the surprise."
"How about a little preview first?" He tried to wink but blinked instead.
"I beg your pardon."
"You know—how about letting me see what you're wearing under that coat of yours? Wouldn't want old Rick to be disappointed with the merchandise we ordered for him."
Ralph Cummings, you're a dead man, Janet vowed. She gave Bill her best withering stare. "Since 'old Rick' isn't getting any merchandise, there's not much chance he'll be disappointed, is there? Now I would suggest you get those men out here before I change my mind about doing this and go home."
He responded to her anger by giggling. "I can get you the men, but I can't get them sober," he said in a singsong voice.
Janet thought a moment. While the cake wasn't fragile, if improperly handled, it could easily be damaged. It would be very expensive to replace. "Never mind. I'll find someone myself. You go back to the party." She would just have to commandeer someone who worked for the hotel.
"Splendid idea. Why don't you walk back with me while you tell me your plans?" He started to reach out to put his arm around her, but Janet easily sidestepped him.
"All we need to do is coordinate our times for the entrance, and then you can walk back by yourself." They settled on fifteen minutes from then. She considered telling him he wouldn't be hearing his poem but doubted that, at the stage he was at, he would even notice it was missing. After he'd gone, Janet closed her eyes and tried to come up with five good excuses why she shouldn't simply walk out the front door and forget all about the party, the cake and her job.
Reason won out. It was only a half hour; she would never have to do it again; the pay was good; and though she loathed, abominated and despised the whole idea, it wasn't life threatening, illegal or immoral. Realizing it was possible for her
to stand in the middle of the lobby arguing with herself all night, she cleared her mind of everything but getting the job done and headed over to the desk.
The bell captain begrudgingly loaned her two of his people after she promised the job wouldn't take more than ten minutes. She gave the two young men their instructions, took off her coat and gingerly climbed into the cake, pulling the lid down on top of her. The cavity where she waited had been built for someone considerably smaller. The fishnet stockings dug into her knees and toes, and the corset fit so tightly that she found it almost impossible to breathe. Resorting to her usual method for passing time when it seemed to go on forever, she counted the seconds, figuring that by the time she reached three hundred she should feel the cake begin to move.
Eric stood at the back of the banquet room, nursing a drink and trying to look as if he were a legitimate part of the crowd. Crashing the party had been ridiculously easy. By the time he had arrived an hour before, there were few people in the hall who were sober enough to recognize their own mothers, let alone someone who didn't belong at the party.
Coming here had been a dumb idea; but after a week in Detroit, where he had spent more time thinking about Janet than about the merger he'd gone there to work on, his need to see her again had superseded common sense.
Because he'd arrived in San Francisco so late, he had called the Coachman Limousine Service from the airport instead of waiting until he got home to find out if Janet was working that night. When they told him she wasn't due to come to work again until Tuesday, he had tried to get them to give him her home telephone number, but they had adamantly refused.
Not ready to give up so easily, he then called the Anything Goes Agency. By taking a different approach and turning on his most persuasive charm, he managed to convince the receptionist that, though naturally she couldn't give out any information about where Janet lived, she would not be releasing confidential information by giving him the address where Janet would be working that night. In the flush of success, he had forgotten to ask precisely what job Janet was doing. Consequently, he had been wandering around the room, watching grown men make fools of themselves and trying to figure out what Janet could possibly be doing at a party like this one.
A Week from Friday Page 7
