“I hope you’re in good voice.”
Something in his tone clued her that the remark was not idle chitchat. “What’s up?”
“Dondi Cramer got called out of town. Family problems.”
Cecilia’s pulse raced. “Too bad. Hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Serious enough to keep her in Michigan for a week or two.”
Muted bells binged as they passed one floor after the other in silence. Mitch was doing her a big favor by letting her know about Dondi’s absence. Dondi was one of the elite, one of the dozen or so singers in Dallas who got the majority of radio-jingle work in the city—no small feat, as Dallas was known in the industry as the “commercial jingle capital” of the nation. Cecilia had filled in on rare occasions when one or another of the female singers was unavailable. But if Dondi was going to be out for over a week... Her palms itched just thinking about it. Dondi’s absence might give Cecilia a chance at more jobs, more money, and boy, did she need it.
The doors opened, and Cecilia and Mitch stepped into the swank waiting room of Ad-Com, Inc. Cecilia passed through the mauve-and-gray room with scarcely a glance, her mind racing. Should she play it dumb and just sing her heart out, or take the bull by the horns and ask up front for Dondi’s work?
She was about to turn into the hallway to the studio, when Mitch called to her.
“Cecilia, has Uncle Stan talked to you about the April 1 gig yet?”
She halted in midstride. April 1. She turned slowly. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“The podiatrists’ convention.”
She shook her head. “What’s up?”
Mitch’s face crinkled into a double-chinned grin. “Uncle Stan and Aunt Marge are going out of town that weekend for their thirtieth anniversary. I’m leading the band for him so he won’t have to back out of the convention. I’ll get back with you later about a few ideas I have.”
“Sure, sure.” Cecilia nodded impatiently, then pushed through the double doors to the studio.
To her chagrin, Karla was waiting for her, clipboard and frown in place. The large clock on the wall behind the producer read an accusing 9:07.
Cecilia grabbed a set of headphones and headed for the mike. No time for bullfighting, she decided quickly. Karla handed her a sheet of music and headed for the control booth. The taped background, a gentle twang of country guitar, played into her ears, and Cecilia hummed along as she read the music. Two takes later she felt the appropriate huskiness in her voice, the right “catch” when she slid into the upper register. “’K-Shine on my shoulder makes me happy..” Karla nodded her approval and put on another spot.
Cecilia sailed through the morning in record time, completing several variations of three different spots, one country, one upbeat pop and one “plain vanilla” for an all-news station in Eugene, Oregon. The different spots were sent to customer stations all over the U.S. The voice-overs were added later by one of the client stations’ deejays.
She was reapplying her lipstick, using the glass window of the control booth as a mirror, when Karla stepped out and approached her. “How are you for Friday morning and all next Tuesday and Wednesday? Wednesday may be a late session. I have a hole to fill, and I think you might work.”
Cecilia made a show of pulling her agenda out of her shoulder bag, an act that probably didn’t fool Karla one bit. She flipped it open, studied it a minute, then her face fell. “Friday’s fine, and so is Tuesday—” She forced a smile. “I can make it Wednesday, too.”
“Be on time,” Karla warned, and headed back to the control booth.
Cecilia wrote the new sessions on the small calendar, but her hand paused at the 6:00 soccer game penciled in for Wednesday. Then, squelching her guilt, she marked Wednesday for Ad-Com and snapped the book shut. Somehow she’d figure something out.
In the meantime, she’d see if Dondi Cramer had also left holes at RPM that Cecilia Evans might conveniently fill.
~o0o~
The alarm pulsed relentlessly until Jeff hit the right button and shut it off. He squinted up at the ceiling, his eyes aching from too many long hours staring at spreadsheets on a computer screen. He stretched, yawned, rubbed his eyes and breathed a contented sigh. The last thing he wanted to do on this Saturday morning was drag himself out of bed, much less spend the day in the glaring Texas sun.
He sure as hell didn’t want to go to that blasted soccer game. He rolled over, pulled the pillow over his head and prepared to dig back into some serious sleep time.
The alarm sounded again. He had hit the Snooze instead of the Off button. He slammed his hand down, hitting several buttons at once, and pulled the pillow tighter over his head. Sleep. Pure and simple, it was all he wanted, all he needed.
A muffled screech came down the hall. Too damn bad, he thought rebelliously. Let the bird wait for his food; it wouldn’t kill him. He sank deeper into the covers. No luxury compared to stealing extra sleep in the middle of the busiest tax season in memory.
Whatever had Cecil done about hers? Visions of Cecilia Greene Evans hauled into tax court and then to jail ricocheted through his mind. And she deserved it, too, the way she and that obnoxious kid of hers thought they could handle the current year’s credits and boondoggles and other amendments since the last tax overhaul.
Toulouse squawked, Jeff clenched his teeth, and sleep slid from his grasp. He rolled over and kicked the covers off his legs. Old habits break hard, and he’d gotten up early too many days for too many consecutive weeks.
With Toulouse perched on his shoulder, smelling of banana and chattering meaninglessly, Jeff downed a quick glass of juice.
“Bang, bang!” the bird squawked.
Jeff tried to ignore him as he pulled a pair of khaki shorts out of his drawer.
“Bang, bang!” Toulouse tightened his talons, and Jeff winced and cursed, and gave in.
After pulling on his shorts he took the parrot to his perch in the living room, paced five steps away, whirled, aimed a forefinger and shouted, “Bang!”
Toulouse screamed and fell backward, wings outspread and hung suspended upside down, a “death” worthy of an Emmy at the very least. Jeff laughed in spite of himself. “You mangy old bird,” he grumbled.
Toulouse righted himself on the perch and edged back and forth in excitement. “Bang, bang! Bang, bang!”
Jeff “killed him” four more times to assuage his own guilt. Toulouse wasn’t going to be happy when he put him back in the cage. But after all, Jeff had promised the kid he’d take pictures, and he remembered all too well how broken promises hurt an eight-year-old boy.
For ten minutes Jeff wandered aimlessly between the soccer fields, his tripod in one hand, his photo equipment still in his shoulder bag. The sheer numbers of bouncing, dribbling, squealing, screaming, racing, colliding children left him awestruck. He was about to turn tail and run when he saw Cecilia.
She saw him at the same time. Her face lit up, first in surprise, then pleasure, then quickly slid into a frown.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” she said irritably.
The frown didn’t fool him; he chose to dwell on the pleasure. “But you were hoping?”
Her flush told him he was right on target. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” The fib didn’t bother him as he fell into step beside her. “How many fields are there?”
“Twelve,” she responded.
“Looks like a thousand kids out here.”
“This must be a real cultural shock for you since you’re not around kids much.”
“Try 'never,’” he said, laughing. “And I’ve never seen a soccer game before, either.” He shifted his camera case to his other shoulder and edged closer to her.
When Cecilia sidestepped and widened the distance between them again, he smiled. Playing games with her was going to be more fun than soccer.
“Where are the kids?”
“Already at Brad’s field. They ran on ahead. I’m too old to run.”
; “I guess I missed Peter’s game,” Jeff said, attempting to sound regretful.
He could tell by her sniff that she wasn’t fooled. “It was a good game. They’re the team everyone else tries to beat. Peter loves it, of course. Loves being superior, I mean.” “That doesn’t surprise me,” Jeff said. “How about Brad and his team?” She always seemed at ease when they talked about her kids. And if he had to discuss the little barbarians to improve her attitude, at least let it be about the one that was halfway human. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying, rather than the way the sun brightened her eyes and bounced glints of fire and gold off of her wind-tangled hair.
“Is the pits. We’re talking major-league lousy. Hey, are you listening to me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Well, like I was saying, no matter what happens, you can be sure the Bandits will flub it.” She swept a spray of hair out of her eyes, then reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out an oversize pair of dark sunglasses.
No, he begged silently. Don’t cover up your eyes.
But she perched them on her nose, half hiding her face from his eyes. “It’s nobody’s fault,” she continued, scuffing the toes of her dingy yellow sneakers through the rough grass. “Individually they have some pretty good players.” She flashed him a smile. “Brad’s the best.”
Realizing she was waiting for him to respond, Jeff gestured toward the smaller field where the little boys were warming up in their red-white-and-blue uniforms. “Isn’t losing so often tough on them?”
She straightened her shoulders almost imperceptibly and lifted her chin. “We parents don’t let it. As long as they’re having fun and learning the game, they’re winners.” Sheepishly she added, “Even if they have lost every game for the past two and a half seasons.”
“Well, at least they have bright uniforms.” Jeff raised his camera to catch Brad in action, but as he snapped the shutter, the boy saw him and stopped to wave. “I always did like red, white and blue,” Jeff said as Brad scampered toward his team. “Kind of makes you want to salute.”
Cecilia laughed with a huskiness that made him stop and look at her, but her full attention was trained on the boys. “Believe it or not, at this age the uniform is almost the most important thing to those kids.”
“And what’s the most important?”
“The cold drinks at the end of the game.” She laughed again. If she’d take off those god-awful sunglasses so he could see her eyes... If he could snap a picture of her like this, relaxed and laughing, instead of bristling. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t mind having a picture of her bristling, either. Or pensive. Or sleeping—
Whoa, he thought. Better snap out of it before he forgot who he’d come to photograph. He trotted down the field to get a better view of the game.
Time enough to deal with Cecil later. And deal with her he would. With pleasure.
When the the game ended, the Bandits lined up to shake hands with their winning opponents, then stampeded off the field toward the cold drinks with more speed than they’d shown during the game.
“I still say if we put the ice chest behind the net, they’d score a lot more goals,” Cecilia announced to general laughter. She gathered up her bag and Brad’s discarded jersey while the coach announced the next practice.
“Didja get a picture of me headin’ the ball?” Brad asked as they started toward the parking lot. “I did it twice.”
“’Heading’?” Jeff queried.
“Yeah, you know.” Brad tossed his soccer ball in the air, ran under it and let it bounce off his head before catching it. “Headin’ it.”
“Oh, sure.” Jeff nodded. “I think I may have gotten one. Here, want to carry this for me?”
Brad ducked under the camera strap and fell into step beside Jeff. The camera bounced off the boy’s thighs with each step.
“When’s that jerk goin’ home, Mom?” Peter demanded.
“Yeah, he’s a jerk,” Anne-Elizabeth echoed her elder brother.
“Both of you cut it out right now,” Cecilia said sharply. “I don’t want to hear any more of this 'jerk’ business. Is that clear?”
Anne-Elizabeth looked to Peter for her response. Peter didn’t answer at all, just kicked the soccer ball meticulously down the sideline of the field, his head ducked.
By the time they reached the cars, Brad and Jeff had already loaded the equipment into the convertible and had put the top down. “Mom,” Brad called. “Jeff said I can ride in his car. You let Peter the other day, so now it’s my turn, right?”
“Are you sure it’s all right, Jeff?” Cecilia asked, her key poised at the door lock.
“Certainly.”
With that, they climbed into the convertible and zoomed away, Brad waving just before they rounded the corner out of sight.
“Mom, can we get hamburgers to take home?” Peter asked as they passed a drive-through hamburger restaurant. “Please?”
“I don’t wanna hamburger,” Anne-Elizabeth chimed in from the back seat. “I wanna jerk-burger!” she squealed.
When they pulled into the driveway, loaded down with malts, burgers and fries, they found Jeff and Brad already eating hamburgers on the porch swing. “You could at least have waited for us,” Cecilia called out.
“What? And let our food get cold?” Jeff answered, washing down his burger with a gulp of his drink.
“I hope everybody’s hungry, because we bought lunch, too.” Cecilia plopped down on the top porch step and began digging for Anne-Elizabeth’s junior burger. “If I had known you wanted a picnic, we could have at least gone to the park.”
“Oh, I kind of like eating on your porch swing. Want to join me?”
“No, thank you,” she responded demurely, passing hamburgers out to grabbing hands.
They had nearly finished eating when a black Mercedes pulled into the driveway. Cecilia paused, her hamburger suspended in transit to her mouth. Robert hadn’t said anything about coming today, and especially not with Monica.
Monica emerged from the car and took Robert’s arm. Her blond hair was sleeked back into a chignon, though a fluffy fringe of bangs flirted over her forehead, and her tailored wool slacks and silk blouse complemented her slender frame to perfection. In tan shorts and a green T-shirt, her hair windblown, her nose windburned to match her hair, Cecilia felt like a frump.
The couple walked toward them, hands entwined. “We just picked up our new car, and we thought the boys might like a joy ride,” Robert said, pushing his free hand through his hair in a nervous gesture Cecilia remembered well. His smooth forehead creased in hard lines as he nodded at Jeff.
Jeff rose, wiped his hand on the seat of his shorts and took Robert’s hand. Cecilia’s gaze swung from one man to the other. Jeff seemed unaffected by the awkwardness of the situation, while Robert’s eyes showed blue ice.
“This is really a surprise. It’s been a long time, Jeff.”
“Yeah, it has. Nice car you’ve got there.”
“That’s quite a beauty you have, too.” Robert glanced at the T-Bird. “Brad’s been telling me all about it.”
Cecilia gulped. What else had Brad been saying? She realized she should say something, but for the life of her couldn’t figure out what. She glanced from the two men towering over her to the half-eaten hamburger in her hand. “Y’all want a hamburger?” She lifted the sack of leftover burgers.
“No, honey. We’ve already eaten.” Monica answered in dulcet tones. She cast an appraising look in Jeff’s direction. “Isn’t anyone going to introduce us?”
Robert made the introduction, and Cecilia noticed his discomfort when Monica purred her greeting to Jeff. Jeff smiled openly in response, his dark eyes twinkling.
Robert’s hand closed possessively over Monica’s upper arm. “Well, kids, do you want to take a ride?”
The children turned in unison to their mother. She saw their lack of enthusiasm about his offer, and knew that Robert must have, too.
“Run along and have fu
n,” she said. As they took off for the Mercedes, she added, “And behave yourselves!”
They were piling into the back seat, when she leaped to her feet, scattering French fries everywhere. “Robert, Anne-Elizabeth is filthy! She’s been playing in the dirt all day. She’ll ruin your upholstery.”
“Don’t worry,” Monica cooed through her open window. “It’s leather. It’ll brush right off. You know how practical Robert is.”
“Oh, yes, I certainly do.” Cecilia smiled grimly and watched the “practical” Mercedes pull away from her eight-year-old minivan. Anne-Elizabeth’s bright, coppery head bobbed in the back window. “Buckle her up, you idiot,” she muttered. There was a dull ache gnawing at her, and she didn’t care to examine it.
“That guy sure knows how to pick ’em,” Jeff murmured.
“Cars or women?” she retorted, kicking French fries off the steps and into the flower bed.
“Lemons.” Jeff grinned and pulled her into his arms. “A connoisseur would never mistake flash and dazzle for real class.” He cupped her chin and his fingers traced a delicate pattern on her cheek. “The guy’s a jerk,” he muttered as he lowered his lips to hers.
Cecilia’s lips quivered beneath his, and she attempted to stifle the tiny whimpering sounds that escaped despite her best efforts.
He lifted his head. “That’s not exactly the response I’ve come to expect,” he complained.
“I spent my youth falling for jerks, didn’t I?” She collapsed against him as laughter overwhelmed her.
“You’re not going bonkers on me, are you?” Jeff asked Cecilia cautiously. “’Cause I really did have some ideas about how to spend an afternoon without the Marx Brothers.”
Cecilia was suddenly aware of his hard body against hers, aware of the too casual way she’d fallen into his arms. She broke away, both relieved and disappointed when he made no move to stop her. “Ideas? What kind of ideas?”
“Well, for starters, I think we should go inside. For a lady who is overly concerned about what the neighbors think, you sure do like to neck on the front porch.”
“Me?” Cecilia straightened to her full height. “I beg your pardon!”
Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy Page 8
