Designer Genes

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  The compliment warmed Buffy. In Los Angeles, men didn’t pay compliments unless they wanted something. “He’d been gone for several months on business.”

  “That’s no excuse.” Carter rested one hand on her waist, as if he didn’t know where else to put it. “Wherever he goes, a man takes his character with him. If he’s got any.”

  “I knew when I married Roger that he’d been divorced twice before. I thought I could change him,” she admitted. “Chalk it up to youthful stupidity.”

  “If you want to.”

  “Suits me.”

  They might have stood there a while longer babbling nonsense if the little girl hadn’t started squirming. The man handed her the baby and went to put his tow truck away.

  When he was done, he closed the garage, although he didn’t lock it. Exiting through the back door, they entered a yard that connected to a small house.

  Carter Murchison had obviously decided to let Buffy stay at his place. She counted that as an important victory.

  Chapter Three

  Something was walking on Buffy’s head.

  She awoke already grouchy in her usual caffeine-starved daze. At her shriek of “Get off!,” the thing on her head sprang away, yanking painfully on a strand of hair.

  “Ow!” She sat up, ready to pummel someone. Caffeine or no, Buffy had the finely honed fighting instincts of a blonde who’s spent her life fending off would-be Romeos.

  On the floor, a tan cat regarded her warily. This, Buffy realized, must be the imposter who shared her name and who’d also apparently shared her pillow.

  “Buzz off,” said Buffy. Even though she collected money for Save the Animals and had signed a form in which she vowed never to own a fur coat, she wasn’t fond of four-legged creatures that took their morning stroll on her head.

  The cat refused to budge.

  Deciding to ignore her, Buffy catalogued her surroundings. Carter’s spare room had a lumpy couch, on which she’d spread her sleeping bag, and a ramshackle bureau into which she’d emptied her suitcase. Across from it stood Allie’s portable crib.

  Considering that a bachelor lived here, the room was in decent shape. The off-white paint wasn’t peeling, and the carpet must have been vacuumed recently or there would have been animal dander everywhere.

  The owner received no points for fashion sense, though. The shapeless curtains were a pale grapefruit yellow, the carpet was lime-green and someone had painted the ceiling—shudder—bright lemon. Buffy felt as if she’d fallen into a citrus spritzer and drowned.

  A thunk from the crib drew her attention. The baby had sat up and begun throwing her toys on the floor. It was Allie’s version of ringing a gong to summon breakfast.

  After rolling up the sleeping bag, Buffy carried the child to the couch. The cat, which remained glued to its position on the floor, groomed its fur complacently.

  “Let’s get something straight,” Buffy told it as the baby latched on to her breast. “We can’t share a name. Imagine the confusion this could create in a town that labels everything unmistakably.”

  The cat licked a paw and swiped at its face. Another lick, and it smoothed down its ears.

  “Maybe we could agree on some other name for you,” she said. “How about Carter’s Cat?”

  The cat’s tail twitched in what seemed to be annoyance.

  “I know I’m only here for a week,” Buffy explained, “but if things go as planned, Allie and I will be visiting. We can’t have misunderstandings about our names.”

  The cat uttered a questioning meow.

  Buffy burped the baby and resumed feeding her. “There are lots of attractive cat names available, even if you don’t have distinguishing marks. How about Chairman Meow? No, you’re a girl. Madame Meow?”

  The cat bit the pad on its paw.

  Annoyed, Buffy rattled off names at random. “Fur Butt. Clawless. Clueless. Monkey Brains. Splat. Cheese Ball. Ugly.”

  There must have been a burr in the cat’s paw, because the biting intensified.

  “You made your point,” Buffy said. “You’d like something more suited to your coloring.” The cat was a classic orange tabby, a rather pretty shade. “How about Goldie? Or Fawn, except that’s another kind of animal. We wouldn’t want anyone shooting you in hunting season.”

  A low growl greeted this remark. Buffy pushed on. “Sunny, Brownie, Copper, Bronze,” she rattled off. Then she remembered the condition of her car. “That’s it—Toast!”

  Meeting her gaze, the cat uttered a soft but unquestionably pleased meow. “That’s settled. What a relief.” Her name secure against misuse, Buffy reached for the diaper bag and set to work changing Allie.

  A tap at the door was followed by the sound of Carter clearing his throat. “Is it safe to come in?”

  “I’m wearing my nightgown,” Buffy said. “Will that make the tongues wag around here?”

  “I’d better keep my distance, just in case.”

  He remained half in and half out of the doorway, a large muscular figure with only the side of his face visible as he tried not to stare at her. Buffy noticed the firm line of his jaw and the prominence of his cheekbone beneath the tanned skin.

  He must have just showered, because his hair was so wet that even the cowlick behaved itself. As for his jeans and plaid shirt, they were honest enough to put phony Western fashions to shame.

  “I’m fixing to start work,” he said. “Help yourself to breakfast. If you need baby food or anything, turn left on Cross Street and walk three blocks.”

  “I saw Gigi’s Grocery Store last night,” Buffy reminded him. “By the way, your cat and I have agreed to change her name to Toast.”

  “She agreed?” On his face, disbelief warred with amusement.

  “We negotiated,” she said. “She’s got nonverbal communication down cold.”

  “Most cats do.” He studied Allie, who gave him a smile. “That sure is a friendly child.”

  “She likes you,” Buffy said. “She needs a man in her life.”

  “She’s got a daddy,” he pointed out.

  “That is a term that never, under any circumstances, fit my ex. But we’ll discuss this later.”

  “We’ll discuss what later?” Carter asked.

  “Things.” Buffy wasn’t ready to broach the sensitive topic that had brought her from California. Plus, she needed coffee. “When will you know more about my car?”

  “In a while.” He vanished from the doorway, only to reappear a moment later. “By the way, if a woman named Mazeppa shows up, tell her you’re occupying the spare room and the only place left is the back porch. The roof over it leaks when it rains.”

  “Who’s Mazeppa?”

  He’d left already. Buffy hoped she wasn’t creating problems, but if Carter had planned on renting this room, he should have told her.

  *

  Carter nearly tripped over Rover as he strode out of the house. The dog was digging in the yard, burying a mouse that the cat must have dispatched.

  Rover never killed anything. The dog had such a reverence for life that it felt compelled to provide Buffy’s victims with a decent burial.

  Not Buffy, he reminded himself. Toast. What other changes was that woman intending to make? As for the threatened discussion, in his experience women didn’t so much discuss things as lay down the law.

  He wished she weren’t so pretty. Those green eyes practically leaped out of her face when she smiled at him. And when she frowned, they grew so sharp, he feared she might draw blood.

  In point of fact, Lilibeth Anderson had more classical beauty, and she was taller, too. The town’s homecoming queen lacked a certain verve, though, that Buffy had in abundance.

  As Carter opened the garage, switched on his computer and checked his equipment, he wondered why none of the town’s eligible females stirred his interest. Life would be a lot simpler if they did.

  He and Mimsy Miles had been friends since first grade, but he couldn’t get past thinking of her as a b
uddy. Then there was Brigid Wernicke, whose mother, Gigi, owned the market. Brigid had been a grade behind Carter and was a nice enough girl. But he hadn’t minded a bit when she’d moved to Groundhog Station two years ago.

  The only other woman around here who hadn’t married young was Bobette Moriarty. She and her twin brother, Bob, the town’s part-time sheriff, had taken over their father’s ranch when he and his new wife moved to Detroit. Bobette was like a tractor, straightforward and plain.

  All the women in town reminded him of tractors or maybe family-style sedans. Buffy Arden, on the other hand, was like her sports car, sleek and dazzling.

  Carter knew he had a weakness for what his father would call fast women. If he weren’t careful, he might ruin his life over one of them, the way he’d nearly done years ago.

  He was smarter now. And he meant to stay smarter.

  *

  Buffy had only seen a coffee percolator once before, and that was in a museum exhibit about household items of the Fifties. As for what came out of the spout, did Carter consider this stuff drinkable?

  Glumly she set her cup on the table and took a hard look at the rest of the kitchen. The refrigerator belonged in that exhibit, too. Judging by the size of the freezer section, it would hold at most two low-fat dinners and a pint of frozen yogurt.

  A box of matches beside the gas stove testified to the absence of a pilot light. No microwave oven greeted the eye, either.

  Worst of all, most unforgivable, most deplorable, was the fact that this kitchen had no dishwasher. Buffy’s plan called for regular visits to Carter’s with Allie, but Carter was going to have to come visit them once she found a job in Dallas. She couldn’t be expected to spend time here.

  Eventually, of course, she would earn enough money to return to the West Coast and open a dress shop in Beverly Hills. That had been her dream since she was a star-struck teenager.

  She wasn’t naïve enough to think she could land major stars as clients, because they patronized big name designers. But there were plenty of other fascinating people—publicists and personal assistants, film editors and character actors—who would appreciate quality and zest on a budget. Plus tourists with a taste for fashion and an appreciation of personal service.

  However long it took, Buffy intended to find the glamorous niche she knew was waiting for her. She was only putting her dream on hold temporarily for her daughter’s sake.

  Taking another survey of the room, she noted that the counters, although chipped, had been scrubbed and dishes arranged neatly in the drainer. There was a cheerful, easy quality about the kitchen that matched the man. This wasn’t a bad place to land for a short time, she concluded. As for dirty dishes, one could always use paper plates.

  A trace of Carter’s aftershave lotion lingered in the air. It was heady, masculine stuff. Everything about the Texan seemed solid and old fashioned, in a reassuring way.

  Buffy wished she didn’t keep remembering how good it had felt to lean against him last night. A weaker woman, or a less experienced one, might be tempted to trust her heart to a man like that.

  But she’d finally learned the lessons that life had kept teaching her since childhood. About men and their failings. About not being a sucker. Just because Carter wasn’t a self-absorbed cheater like Roger, that didn’t mean she couldn’t get hurt.

  After settling the baby on a blanket with some toys, Buffy fixed herself a bowl of cereal. Since there wasn’t likely to be a Starbucks hiding anywhere in town, she resigned herself to doctoring her boiled coffee with milk and sugar.

  She should treat Carter to a new coffeemaker, Buffy mused. Popsworthy’s Dry Goods Store must carry one.

  It would give her a sense of satisfaction to charge it to Roger. While it might be true that he’d expanded his fashion factories too rapidly into China and Japan, she suspected that his company’s problems would be miraculously resolved once their divorce—with its microscopic financial settlement—became final.

  She couldn’t prove he was cheating her financially just as he’d cheated her in other areas. But as long as he was paying her credit card bills, she intended to wave that plastic to the max. The few trinkets she purchased would be the only material things she had to show for five years of marriage. Except, in a way, her daughter.

  The kitchen’s screen door creaked open. “What is that baby doing on the floor?” demanded a dry female voice.

  The seventy-something woman who entered had gray-streaked dark hair, a thin face and a pursed mouth. She wore a shirtwaist dress expertly tailored of fine, soft material that had faded to a pinkish gray. She used to have money, or whoever gave her that dress did.

  “Babies need to explore,” Buffy returned. “And she isn’t on the floor, she’s on a blanket. You wouldn’t be the housekeeper, by any chance?”

  “The what?” The newcomer snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I came here to meet the new baby in town. I’m a mite tired of the ones over at Billy and Willie’s. You’d think folks would stop producing kids before they have to kick an old lady out of the laundry room, wouldn’t you?”

  “You must be Mazeppa,” Buffy guessed.

  “That’s what some people call me,” came the reply. “And variations thereon. It’s kind of a mouthful. You may call me Zeppa.”

  Since the woman was staring at her cereal, Buffy added, “Would you like breakfast?”

  “Done! You’re not a bad sort, for a newcomer.” In no time the visitor had cracked eggs into a pan, found some bacon and fried herself a cholesterol special. She didn’t even seem to mind the boiled coffee.

  “I’m afraid I’ve taken the spare room,” Buffy said as Zeppa plowed into her food.

  “Tell Carter to fix the roof on that sun porch. Everybody knows he’s been putting it off just to spite me.” The woman ate rapidly, as if afraid someone might snatch the plate away. “I’m moving in as soon as possible.” Zeppa eyed Allie. “You need someone to watch that baby.”

  “I can watch my own baby,” Buffy said. “Besides, I’m only here till my car engine gets rebuilt.”

  “You should stick around,” Zeppa said. “It’s a nice enough town, if you can tolerate a few fools.”

  A knock on the screen door was followed by the entrance of yet another woman. Fortyish, with her dark locks held back by two barrettes, the latest arrival sported a hand-knit vest over a puff-sleeved blouse and a dirndl skirt. The ensemble appeared itchy but well constructed, probably by the wearer, Buffy decided.

  The woman edged into the room, balancing a plastic tray topped with yellow gelatin. Inside it floated some reddish strands, perhaps beets or rhubarb.

  “I’m Finella Weinbucket.” The woman smiled at Buffy, frowned at Mazeppa and set the tray on the counter. “It’s a good thing I made an extra Spring Salad yesterday, isn’t it? I want to welcome Carter’s guest to Nowhere Junction.”

  “Thank you.” Buffy hated to discourage such hospitality, but she had to correct the woman’s mistaken impression. “However, I’m not Carter’s guest. I’m a customer whose car broke down.”

  “I know.” Opening the refrigerator door, the woman surveyed the contents. “We heard all about you at the school board meeting. Buffy, is it? You aren’t named after that vampire-killer on television, are you? We don’t have vampires around here.”

  “My mom named me after a folk singer,” she said.

  “I never heard of any such person. What’s wrong with a name like Loretta or Patsy? Now, those women knew how to sing.” The peasant skirt swished. “No offense but Buffy’s not a proper sort of name unless you’re a cat.”

  “She changed her name to Toast.” Might as well get that out in the open.

  “Besides, Buffy’s no worse a name than Finella,” flared Zeppa, defending her new friend.

  “You’re a fine one to talk. Mazeppa sounds like a witch.” A jar of pickles, two cans of root beer and a margarine tub got switched to a lower shelf, and in went the gelatin mold. “Now, dear, that’s corned beef in the sal
ad, so you can make a main meal out of it if you like.”

  “If you don’t barf first,” snipped the older woman. “I’ll have you know that `Mazeppa’ is the title of an opera.”

  “Just as I figured—lots of shrieking involved.” Finella closed the refrigerator.

  “Thank you for the, uh, salad,” Buffy said. “What an unusual recipe.”

  “Two years ago, when lemon gelatin and corned beef went on sale at Gigi’s, I invented this recipe so nothing would go to waste. It’s tasty and it’s thrifty.”

  “Thrifty?” roared Mazeppa. “Let me tell you, Buffy, you’ve never seen anything as cheap as the people in this town. Too cheap to build themselves a new school, even though the old one’s falling down around their heads.”

  Finella faced her tormentor squarely. “I voted in favor of a bond issue, you’ll recall. And I proposed we hold a rodeo to raise money.”

  “Five million dollars? More likely we’d lose money.” Zeppa appeared to be working herself into a snit. “Not to mention torturing a few animals in the process.”

  “Rodeos are part of the Western tradition,” Finella retorted.

  “Bullfights are part of the Spanish tradition. That doesn’t mean we have to stage one in the center of town.”

  Buffy decided she’d better intervene before this argument got out of hand. “That’s an interesting outfit you’re wearing, Finella,” she said. “Did you create that yourself, too?”

  “No, she flew to the Swiss Alps and stole it off Heidi,” Mazeppa said.

  Finella ignored her. “Thank you, my dear. I make all my own clothes. Not that they compare with what you can get in California.” The woman indicated Buffy’s high-waisted slacks and silk blouse.

  They weren’t Roger’s designs. She’d picked these out herself in the Los Angeles garment district. Buffy had years of experience in shopping for expensive-looking bargains.

  How did Finella know where she came from, anyway? Had she stopped in the garage to check out the license plates? Buffy wondered if the woman had opened the glove compartment and read her registration and proof of insurance, too.