“In a minute,” he said. “I think I’ll set the table first.”
“Table?” Belle headed for the doorway. “Do you see a dining room? We’re eating buffet style.”
Darryl glided ahead of her, draped one arm across the door frame and leaned against it, his body looming over hers. “Oh, come on, we can improvise something. My mother would never have let us put her best china on our laps.”
“China?” She couldn’t believe the man’s naiveté.”A long time ago, shortly after the Middle Ages, mankind devised a great and wondrous invention. It’s called the paper plate.”
“For Thanksgiving?” Shock registered on his face.
“They have little turkeys printed on them,” Belle assured him. “Can I go now?”
“Not quite.” He bent down, gave her a crooked smile and kissed her.
She tried to protest, but what came out was an undignified mumble. Apparently afraid that she would scold if she ever got free, Darryl kissed her again.
“You taste like spun sugar,” he murmured.
“I had a few of the marshmallows,” she admitted. She had no intention of letting on how much she enjoyed the hard, probing feel of his mouth. She would have served her guests frozen turkey dinners before she would have admitted that the pressure of his chest against hers was sending fingers of desire stroking her most private recesses. “Are you finished?’’
“Not quite.” Grasping her waist, Darryl arched over her and deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the edges of her teeth while his hands explored upward.
The passion she’d been so studiously repressing raged through Belle like a forest fire. Forget Thanksgiving. Forget their friends. Hungrily, she seized his hips and began issuing a demand of her own.
That was when her phone rang. At the same time, Darryl’s flip phone began to buzz. And both their pagers went off.
They drew apart reluctantly, their eyes meeting in mutual dismay. “I have a bad feeling about this,” said Belle.
“How bad can it be?” said Darryl.
“I guess we’re about to find out,” she said.
8
THINGS WENT FROM BAD to worse as they answered and returned their calls.
Belle’s neighbor, Moira, had encountered car trouble and was stuck at a friend’s house twenty miles away, where she had no choice but to stay for dinner.
Anita Rios had contracted food poisoning from a new dish she’d whipped up that morning. She would be spending the day in bed.
Elva was “on a roll” in her studio and couldn’t tear herself away from creating the world’s next masterpiece.
Janie had decided it was courting disaster to attend the same meal as Greg, and bowed out. Greg had decided the same thing.
Unfortunately, Darryl and Belle didn’t discover that neither of the pair was coming until they were both off the phone. Darryl didn’t have Greg’s home number with him, and at Janie’s house a machine answered.
“Who does that leave?” Belle asked as they stood alone in the living room. “Anybody?”
“Just Mindy,” Darryl said.
Belle couldn’t place the name. “Who’s Mindy?”
“Miss March,” he said, folding away his flip phone.
“You invited your girlfriend?” she asked. “I can’t believe it.”
His jaw tightened. “She’s not my girlfriend. She keeps hanging around the office and she mentioned she didn’t have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving.”
Only a man would take such a hint at face value. “She was wangling for an invitation all right, but not to my house! She wanted to spend the holiday with you.”
He started to laugh. “I guess you’re right. Gee, this should be some party.”
“I don’t believe it.” Belle sank onto the couch. “Just the three of us for Thanksgiving dinner. You, me and a skinny model who’s got the hots for you. What fun!’’
The doorbell rang.
“The turkey should be nearly done.” Darryl fled toward the kitchen. “I’ll check.”
“Coward!” she yelled.
The woman who stood on the tiny porch sported a mass of dark hair and a formfitting pink pantsuit. “Hi!” she said, handing over the biggest potted chrysanthemum Belle had ever seen. “You must be Darryl’s sister.”
“He doesn’t have a sister.” She knew she shouldn’t yield to temptation, but she couldn’t help adding, “I’m just the mother of his child.”
Mindy’s eyes grew to the size of compact discs and her bright pink lips began to tremble. Then she smiled. “Oh! What a joker! You’re Belle Martens, aren’t you? You edit that wonderful magazine! But…is this your condo?”
The awe in her voice softened Belle’s resentment. It wasn’t Mindy’s fault that Darryl had invited her. “Yes. We’re having dinner for our friends. Smoking the peace pipe, so to speak.”
The model made no motion to enter. “I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do we, not literally,” Belle said.
“Who else is coming?” The woman regarded her dubiously. It struck Belle that Mindy, like everyone else, must know about the night she and Darryl might or might not have spent together. The last thing an ambitious model wanted was to risk antagonizing either of them.
She felt a wave of sympathy. “Actually, nobody. It’s been a comedy of errors. But—”
“I only dropped by to say I couldn’t come, either.” Mindy began edging away. “I’m so sorry.”
“Your flowers!” Belle held them out.
“Please accept them as a thank-you gift. For inviting me!” The model scuttled backward in a series of nervous hops.
“We’ve got plenty of food,” Belle said. “Really.”
“My family came to town unexpectedly. But thank you both so much!” Mindy pivoted on her high heels and fled down the walkway.
Belle wished the woman weren’t in such a hurry. They really did have a lot of food. And she hoped Mindy really did have another invitation so she wouldn’t go hungry on Thanksgiving, until she remembered that models never ate, anyway.
“Was that her?” Darryl appeared from the kitchen, holding a meat thermometer.
“She couldn’t stay,” Belle said. “Actually, when she saw me, she ran out of here like the hounds of hell were after her.”
They exchanged glances, and then they both started to laugh. “We’ll be eating this food until Christmas,” he said.
“That’s okay. I like turkey leftovers.”
Darryl grinned. “Me, too. And that reminds me of something we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted.”
That was one advantage of being alone together, Belle thought. What could be better than a feast à deux, with a little cuddling thrown in for good measure? “Okay, but I’m starved. Is the turkey nearly done?”
He glanced at the thermometer in his hand. “I’m not sure. This thing is broken. It hasn’t moved.”
“That doesn’t mean the thermometer’s broken, Darryl.”
“It doesn’t?”
“It means the turkey isn’t cooked.”
He frowned. “Of course it’s cooked. It’s been roasting for six hours.”
That sounded long enough, all right, but thermometers rarely lied. “You did defrost it, didn’t you?”
“Of course.” He flexed his shoulders. “I put it in the fridge yesterday morning.”
Belle hated to spoil his cheerful mood, but sooner or later the truth would come out. “It takes three or four days to defrost a turkey in the refrigerator.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Really?”
Something else occurred to her. “If the turkey was still frozen, how did you remove the giblets?”
“The what?” he said.
Belle wondered if there were any institutions that took terminally befuddled males, then realized that if there were, they would already be full. “We could go out to eat,” she said.
“Out?” He still hadn’t grasped the magnitude of his mistake. “Frozen or not, the thing
’s got to get done sometime.”
“Midnight?” she hazarded. “In any case, by the time the center is cooked, the outside will be dry as leather.”
“You’re making this up,” he said.
“Go stick your hand in the middle of the turkey,”she suggested.
His lips pressed together, Darryl retreated into the kitchen. Banging noises indicated that he was removing the turkey from the oven and, presumably, checking the cavity.
“Gee, there’s stuff in here,” he called. “Why is it wrapped in paper?”
“Because those are the giblets and you’re supposed to take them out before you cook the turkey.” Belle strolled in and stood behind him. “People make gravy out of them.”
“It’s ice cold in the middle.” He eyed the turkey as if it had committed a personal affront.
On the outside, the bird had turned an alluring brown and was issuing a mouth-watering aroma. “Let’s hack off some pieces and broil them,’ Belle suggested.
“Can we do that?” he asked.
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
DARRYL WAS SURPRISED to find that Thanksgiving dinner tasted just as good on a paper plate as on a china one. Belle had been right about a lot of things tonight, he supposed.
It hurt to admit it, but he’d made some bonehead mistakes. He should have researched turkey cooking more thoroughly and not merely gotten verbal instructions from Elva.
Darryl was embarrassed to realize he’d assumed that fixing a turkey must be a simple matter because women did it all the time. Recognizing that he’d drawn a false conclusion didn’t invalidate the theme of his article, though. He still felt men got a raw deal when it came to parenting, particularly in custody disputes.
Attending a fathers’ meeting with Jim last week had provided more than enough anecdotes for his story. Some of the men had told horror stories about ex-wives who used the children to punish them for imagined wrongs. Most of them had sounded desperately lonely for their kids, and had made sacrifices in their lives to ensure continuing contact.
In a few cases, he suspected the men hadn’t been telling the whole story, and he supposed that women in a similar group would have equally miserable tales to tell. But Darryl had noticed that TV shows and books usually told the women’s side, while hardly anyone spoke up for the men.
He was no longer writing the article merely to make a point, nor to draw attention to his magazine. These guys had bared their souls, and Darryl owed them the fair hearing some of them hadn’t received in divorce court.
He hoped Belle would understand that the article wasn’t directed at her, even though he might weave in a few funny anecdotes about her pregnancy. Surely she could understand the need to mix humor with pathos.
Across the kitchen table, the object of his musings sat consuming her dinner with gusto. He admired her restraint in not continuing to twit him about the turkey.
The broiled chunks were delicious. And Belle had been right about the sweet-potato casserole. Empty calories or not, it was the star of the show.
A wave of well-being swept over Darryl. “This is great,” he said.
Belle eyed him warily. “You didn’t mind helping me with my half of the meal?”
“This is our meal,” he said. Seeing her dubious expression, he added, “Everything’s perfect. It may surprise you to know that, tonight, I have no criticisms of you whatsoever.”
Apparently she wasn’t about to take his declaration at face value. “What about the way I organize things? I heard you cussing earlier about trying to find a pan.”
“Well, I think that ‘organize things’ would be using the term loosely. But it’s better than the way you store your CDs,” he said.
“What’s wrong with them?” Her voice bristled with challenge.
“Oh, nothing.” Darryl knew he should stop there, but he couldn’t restrain a touch of sarcasm. “I like the way half of them are in the wrong cases. It makes picking music like a lottery. When I actually get the artist I want, I feel as if I’ve won a prize!”
After a moment’s glare, Belle broke into a grin. “All right, I’ll admit I can never find the CD I want, either. But if I keep shuffling them around, sooner or later they’ll end up in the right boxes.”
He was in no mood to argue the point. “What kind of pie did you get?”
“Apple, pumpkin and pecan.”
“All three?”
“I was expecting eight people,” she reminded him.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll have a piece of each.”
So did Belle, adding a big scoop of vanilla ice cream for each of them. Here was a woman after his own heart.
As they ate, Darryl found himself watching her. He had never seen a woman with such velvety skin. Maybe it was the effect of pregnancy, but everything about her appeared vibrant. Her eyes smoldered and her cheeks curved with such round firmness that he ached to cup her face in his hands.
In the soft light, her hair glinted like copper. She resembled a woman from a Rembrandt painting, he thought, timeless and rich in life.
“I’ll clean up,” Darryl said as she finished.
“Thanks,” she said. “I think I’ll stretch out on the couch.”
She sailed from the room, and he whisked the paper plates into the trash, then made foil packets of the leftovers and cleaned the pans. He even remembered to wash the floor, which had gotten dirty again.
In the back of his mind, Darryl had been contemplating a return to that passionate scene in the doorway, which had been so rudely interrupted by the phones. Now he discovered he was too stuffed to contemplate anything more than lazing around listening to music.
A quick review of the CDs led to the selection of one by Bonnie Raitt. Darryl dropped it into the machine, pressed Play and was halfway across the room before he discovered the disc featured a soprano singing Mozart.
“You like Kathleen Battle, too?” Belle asked.
“I do now.” There was no room for him on the couch, so Darryl sat on the floor. It was comfortable on the carpet, and he liked having Belle close by.
At this angle, his head rested lightly against her stomach. It felt good to make casual contact, even without any sexual overtones.
It occurred to Darryl that he ought to tell the truth about the article. He and Belle hadn’t exactly become friends, but they were no longer enemies, and he didn’t like tricking her.
Most likely, she would understand. On the other hand, she might blow up and kick him out. He decided to wait until a little later that evening rather than spoil their mood. Besides, with his stomach this full, he wasn’t sure he could pack a suitcase, let alone drive home.
“Isn’t this the most glorious music you’ve ever heard?” she murmured. “I can’t believe Mozart composed as fast as his hand could write. He never made rough drafts. He didn’t even need a piano. It was as though he were hearing celestial music.”
At that moment, Darryl felt a distinctly uncelestial thump in the vicinity of his temple. He couldn’t figure out how Belle had done that with her stomach.
“Next time you need to burp, could you please give me a warning?” he said.
“That wasn’t me!” She laughed, and dropped her hand to her abdomen. “It was the baby!”
“The baby?”
“It’s kicking.” Her face was radiant. “It’s the first time I’ve felt it kick!”
“The baby kicked me?” Darryl found it hard to absorb what had just happened. “It must have heard my voice.”
“You hadn’t said a thing.”
She was right, but he couldn’t shake the sense that the baby had known its father was close. “Still, I think it was trying to communicate.”
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard since…since…What was that band that played L.A. last year, the one that beat their shoes together and snorted through their noses?” she asked.
“I must have missed them,” he said. “But getting thumped by the baby—it was magical. Didn’t you
think so? Didn’t it feel magical to you, too?”
He felt a long shudder run through her body. “Absolutely.”
“Do you think he’ll do it again?”
“I don’t know. Usually I just feel faint rumblings. It’s the first time she’s kicked this hard.”
Darryl sat without moving for a long time, but the baby didn’t stir again. He remembered his intention of telling Belle about the article, but he no longer wanted to take the risk of being tossed out the door.
Maybe a fetus wouldn’t communicate in any formal sense, but Darryl couldn’t shake the feeling that it knew he was here. Finally, when he was sure the kid must have gone back to sleep and was on the verge of dozing off himself, he said good-night and staggered to his feet.
Belle didn’t answer. From her beatific expression, she might have been lost in thoughts about the child, too, or maybe she was simply absorbed in the music. He supposed the baby, now that it was big enough to interact with its parents, might be able to hear Mozart, too. Darryl made a mental note to play lots of classical composers, and then remembered that he would have a devil of a time finding the right CDs.
Alone in his room, he picked up his notebook and began to write. This time, though, he wasn’t recounting someone else’s bittersweet parenting experiences. He was describing how a father feels in the presence of a miracle.
BY THE MIDDLE of December, Belle had to admit that Darryl was earning his keep. On weekends, he brought her breakfast in bed, and once he indulged her craving for salty foods by going out to buy pretzels and pickles at 10:00 p.m.
And he obviously loved the baby. That aspect of him surprised her. He insisted that she let him know whenever the baby was moving, and would even abandon a televised football game to rush over and place his hand on her abdomen.
The problem was that she liked the stroking and fondling intended for the baby. She didn’t want to relish the feel of Darryl’s strong hands on her skin. She wished her imagination would quit tormenting her with fantasies about what might have happened that night they spent together.
But she didn’t really have to worry, because every time she thought about responding, a wave of indigestion or a kick in the ribs came along to distract her. Amazingly, Darryl seemed to accept the fact that mood swings went with hormonal changes, and hadn’t sought a replay of their close encounter in the kitchen.
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