by Leigh Riker
“Dinner, Darcie?” Eden bounded off the sofa. “You must be starving.”
With her usual radar, she had sensed immediately that a) she and Julio were no longer alone and b) something was wrong. Eden put Darcie’s coat and attaché case in the closet.
“I’m not hungry, Gran.”
“I made pot roast.” Eden’s tone tempted her, as it was meant to. “Dark, sweet carrots. Crusted golden potatoes. Onions cooked just the way you like them.”
“You never make pot roast for me.” She waved toward the sofa. “Evening, Julio. Your night off?”
“Sí.”
“Gran’s a good cook. Isn’t she?”
“Muy bueno, Señorita Darcie.” The petite doorman wore skinny jeans and a green polo shirt that screamed Latin Lover. His black hair lay sleeked against his skull like an otter’s pelt. “You are well, yes?”
“No.”
“What’s the matter, dear?” Gran rushed to feel her forehead.
“I don’t have a fever.” Darcie ducked away but made her habitual quick check of the room. Sweet Baby Jane was nowhere in sight. Thank God for small favors.
Julio sipped his drink, which appeared to be a gin and tonic from its clear liquid and the slice of lime hanging over the edge of the glass. He angled his head around the fruit to drink. Darcie thought she might like one herself.
“I ran into Merrick tonight.”
Gran’s face registered quick alarm. “That man had better not be in my building,” she said, shooting a look at Julio. “I’ll have him thrown into the street. With luck, a cab will run over him.”
“He is a bad man?” Julio inquired.
“Yes.” Gran smiled at him. “Not at all a gentleman like you, mi corazón.” She patted her hair, which still looked apricot to Darcie. Hmm. Maybe Julio kept her too busy these days to take time for the hairdresser. “Merrick Lowell broke my poor Darcie’s heart,” Eden explained. “And now he has the nerve to show his face again? And he wanted…what?”
Darcie sighed. “Reconciliation.”
“That’s why you were late. I was beginning to worry.” But not too much, Darcie thought, to prevent her tryst with Julio and the wedding glasses. Eden frowned. “I hope you didn’t—”
“No, I came home. He wanted to take me to dinner, have a drink.”
“He wanted to lure you into his bed again. I have half a mind to call his wife.”
Darcie smiled a little. “He tells me they’re separated. I’m not sure whether to believe him.”
“He’s a liar and a cheat. In my day your grandfather Harold would have taken a shotgun to him. Or at the very least, manipulated his clients’ stock and run him right out of Wall Street. Come to think, some buckshot in his ass would be a nice finishing touch.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Gran, thanks. I appreciate your support.”
“Now that Harold’s not around, I can offer you Julio.”
“I will do whatever you wish,” he said.
Gran gave him a grateful—or was that lascivious?—smile.
“And later, we’ll see about that,” she murmured. “In the meantime help me twist Darcie’s arm to eat some of this pot roast. What will I do with the leftovers?”
“Serve them again, like you always do,” Darcie said with a smile.
“I’d prefer you finish them tonight. You look thin. All that jet lag, no sleep—and now, Merrick Lowell. Not to mention Dylan Rafferty.”
Ouch. “No woman is ever too thin.”
“Nonsense. I won’t have eating disorders in my house.” She gestured at the dining room table. “Sit. I’ll get you a plate.”
“Gran…”
“I didn’t hear you.” Eden bustled into the kitchen, letting her hips sway, probably for Julio’s benefit, beneath her tight stretch pants. She still had a good butt, Darcie admitted. But she and Perez certainly made another Odd Couple. No, the Odder Couple. “Do you want gin and tonic or wine?”
“Both. Just mix ’em.”
She didn’t mean it, but the combination sounded almost appealing.
Darcie kept seeing the obvious pain in Merrick’s deep-blue eyes. That boyish lock of silky blond hair that always fell over his forehead when he looked down—as he always had in bed, lying over her. Until his betrayal.
“Take my advice, Darcie,” Eden called from the kitchen where Darcie heard cabinet doors slamming, dishes banging onto the counter, silverware rattling in the drawer. “The next time you see that poor little rich boy, kick him where it counts.”
Instead, Darcie kept remembering Dylan and the silent telephone in her room.
And her grandmother who, as soon as Darcie vanished into that too-quiet bed to try to sleep, would undoubtedly crawl over Julio’s fragile frame like a marine hitting the beach at Iwo Jima.
Latin lover?
The world wasn’t perfect.
Maybe Merrick wasn’t that big a bastard.
“Maybe I should give him another chance.”
“Give her another chance? Even Eden’s vicious cat has only nine lives.”
Claire Spencer strode from the nursery into the bedroom, keeping her voice low not to wake the baby. Samantha had slept through the night last night, and Claire had high hopes for a repeat. Claire might survive after all. She had less confidence in Tildy Lewis, the new nanny.
“She’s just getting the feel of the job,” Peter argued, lying in their bed with his hands stacked behind his head. He looked thoroughly relaxed. “She’s young.”
“So is Samantha. We need quality care for her, Peter.” It infuriated her how relaxed he could be with their daughter’s welfare at stake. “The first day Tildy was here, she let Samantha sit in a poopy diaper for hours.”
“Yeah. I know. The next day she boiled the supplemental formula—but she didn’t hurt Sam, sweetheart. She had the sense to let the milk cool first.”
“It probably had no nutritional value left.”
Today Claire had come home early to find the girl watching “Oprah,” sobbing over Oprah’s latest fiction pick for her book club. Another depressing, sordid account of someone’s dysfunctional behavior, she supposed. Claire didn’t need that in her own home.
“I’m tempted to call the agency.”
“And go through all that interviewing again? Samantha is too young herself to be seriously traumatized by her baby-sitter’s tears over a maudlin piece of fiction. Give Tildy a break, Claire.”
Suspicion reared its ugly head.
“Why do you like her so much?”
“Samantha?”
“No. Tildy.” Claire had to admit, she was attractive in her own way. A few pounds heavier than she might be—with terrible taste in clothes—but Tildy had thick reddish hair and gorgeous green eyes and Claire wasn’t sure she wanted her around. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
Claire waggled a hand. “Her…looks.”
“She’s cute enough, I guess. In a kind of Disneyland way.”
Wishing for Mary Poppins or Mrs. Doubtfire—did such paragons of child care really exist?—Claire tried to relax. The apartment was quiet. She and Peter had managed a civilized dinner for the first time in weeks. Samantha lay tucked into her crib in the dream nursery Claire had designed, surrounded by stuffed animals, her dolphin mobile chiming softly in the distance.
“Is that what this is all about?”
Claire gave him a baffled look.
“My presumed attraction to Tildy,” he said. “What’s the matter, Claire? Too much work at the office, too soon after maternity leave?”
She could have groaned. Not even a week, and Claire had a pile of folders on her desk, a screen full of e-mail, a full tape of voice messages that she might never wade through. Every night she came home to another of Tildy Lewis’s disasters.
Claire bit her lip.
“I worry,” she confessed. “I worry about everything these days.”
“Tell me. You’re a professional brooder.” Pe
ter motioned her over to the bed. “Come here, sweetheart. Let me refresh your memory about our marriage….”
“What part?”
He grinned. “The sex part.”
Mild panic skittered through her. “Peter, tonight’s not a good time.”
His mouth tightened. “What now? You don’t have your period, do you? I thought as long as you nurse—”
“That’s not always the case, but no. No period.” Her milk wasn’t that plentiful either. Her body remained all messed up. So did her life. And Claire didn’t know how to make it the way she wanted it to be. What had happened to her careful schedule, her neat apartment, her sex drive? “I’m just tired.”
“Headache?”
“I never get headaches.”
He kept his tone casual. “I just wondered because women who don’t want to have sex with their husbands usually claim a headache. When you get one, then I’ll know that you’ve really moved into some new phase of existence—in which I am no longer required.”
“That’s silly.”
“So is this obsession about Tildy and leaving Samantha all day with someone else and how the hell to get your work done.” He didn’t look relaxed now. Peter had taken his hands down and folded them over his bare chest. His mouth turned grim. “I’ve tried to help, Claire. But we’re coming apart here and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Pulse thumping, she eased into bed beside him. Claire tried to clear her mind, her guilt. It was her turn now to reassure Peter. It wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped, adding another little human being to their household. Not as easy as she’d expected to return to work. Not as easy to…make love again when she felt like a sow. “We’ll be fine, Peter.”
If a woman had ever needed a mantra, Claire decided, this was it.
She also needed to talk to Darcie. She hadn’t seen her since Australia.
“Twist my arm,” Darcie murmured, “and I’ll tell you more,” enjoying herself that Saturday for the first time since she’d come back to New York.
“You can be so cruel.”
Claire gazed at her across the table at Phantasmagoria, their favorite luncheon spot. In the mid-sixties off Lexington not far from Bloomingdale’s, the basement-level restaurant served crunchy salads drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette, and the trendy paninis Darcie adored. She tried not to grin around her ham-and-cheese-stuffed, grilled sandwich.
What could be better than a chat over lunch with a friend who understood you?
“There’s really nothing more to tell,” she said.
“I take one look at that sparkle in your eye—you hussy—and I know better. He sounds yummy. So he has dark hair, dark eyes…and looks like a cowboy?”
“Australian-style. Sheepboy.”
Claire laughed.
“Tall, broad-shouldered.”
“Umm.” Claire took a bite of her BLT. “And you spent most of your time in Sydney in bed with him at the Westin?”
“My free time.” The distinction seemed important to Darcie. She didn’t want Claire to think she was a slut. “Just good old, healthy recreational sex.”
“You make me pine for the ‘good old’ days before Peter and I were married. Before the baby came.”
Darcie’s panini stopped halfway to her mouth.
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
Claire studied a piece of bacon hanging from her sandwich. “You don’t want to know. Motherhood is a far more complex event than I anticipated.”
Darcie thoughtfully stirred her coffee. “I read once—in Glamour, or was it Cosmo?—that sex after childbirth can be a traumatic notion for a new mother. Do you find that to be the case?”
“We don’t have sex.”
Darcie’s mouth dropped. “You and Peter the Great? Give me a break. That man—like Dylan—has double his share of testosterone. You told me he loves your new figure, your breasts….”
Claire shushed her, although she knew there was usually a younger crowd here, too intent like Claire and Darcie upon their personal problems, including men, to eavesdrop.
“He’s not obsessed?”
Claire admitted, “He wanted to make love the other night, but Darcie, I just can’t. It doesn’t seem sexy. It would be clinical.” She set her sandwich aside. “My God, six weeks ago I was in the delivery room—all that mess, all the blood—and now I’m supposed to think Peter sticking his cock in me is the best idea since Adam and Eve?” She shuddered.
“You should talk to your doctor about this, Claire.”
Her gaze snapped up. “You think I’m neurotic?”
“No, I think you’re having a few ‘conflicted’ feelings.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know why. I’m healed, I’m healthy. Samantha’s even sleeping through the night—now and then.”
“Is she?” Darcie perked up at the mention of her goddaughter. “I need to see her again. I brought her a present from Australia.”
“Another gift? She loves the cross-eyed zebra.”
Buster. Memories of FAO Schwarz danced in Darcie’s brain and she frowned.
“I’m glad. I should have taken it back, though. After Merrick—”
“The son of a bitch.”
“So true,” Darcie said. “Did I tell you I saw him?”
“You didn’t.”
Remembering Gran’s similar reaction, Darcie took a breath then related their impromptu meeting in the Wunderthings lobby, plus Merrick’s new single state, assuming he told the truth.
“And he had the nerve to ask you out? I hope you said no. I hope you screamed loud enough for the security guard to hear—and pitch him out the door at gunpoint.”
“Gran’s suggestion.” Darcie swirled her spoon through her cooling coffee. “He looked so forlorn, Claire. I think he’s really sorry about what happened.”
“I’ll bet his wife is, too.” Claire eyed her. “He could be lying. He’s good at it.”
“And I’m so naive I’d probably fall for him all over again?” Taking a sip of coffee, Darcie made a face. “What if Merrick is telling the truth?”
“I’m not happy that I was right about him before. But what are you saying?” Claire leaned closer to look into her eyes.
“That Australia’s a long way off. There’s no sense thinking about Dylan.”
“How could you help it?” Claire raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t just making up all that stuff about the Akubra hat, the man’s endurance, were you?” She shook her head. “No, you couldn’t have invented making out among the reef fish and manta rays.”
“I’m a very creative person,” Darcie said with a smile. “But not that creative. Claire—” she sighed “—I’ll never see him again. I didn’t leave my business card, didn’t give him my home number. And he hasn’t tried to call me at Wunderthings, which would be easy enough to find.”
“You must have really ticked him off.”
“Gran thinks so, too.” She paused again. “Besides, he’s a dweeb about women.”
“Maybe he was teasing. Maybe that’s his way of avoiding commitment.”
Darcie didn’t think so. “It works then,” she said. “Really well.”
“Most men are at least halfway into the cave.” Claire grimaced. “Even Peter. His pressure to have sex…his refusal to change Sam’s dirty diapers. He picks and chooses how to help, you know. I don’t have the same choices.”
“The nanny’s not working out?”
Claire shivered. “Don’t get me started. Yesterday Tildy wheeled Samantha to the grocery store—and left her in the carriage outside ‘for just a minute.’”
Darcie frowned. “That’s dangerous. Anyone could snatch the baby.”
“My point exactly. Why Peter can’t see that is beyond me.”
“I must admit, I’m disappointed in Peter the Great,” Darcie murmured, patting Claire’s hand.
“I’m disappointed in me.” Claire waved a hand, her eyes too bright. “I mean, I should be able to handle the baby, my job, the apartment, my
marriage. Tildy.” She shuddered again. “I think I’m losing my mind. I know for sure I’ve lost my libido. I may as well give up—apply for Social Security. I’m no good at my career or raising a child.”
“Claire, Claire.”
She blinked. “Excuse me. I am such a…mess. At first I worried that Peter wouldn’t find me attractive anymore. Now that I know he does, I worry I won’t want to do the deed. Ever.”
“Your hormones are probably out of whack. It happens.”
“What are you, the voice of experience?” Claire rolled her eyes. “I am a raving lunatic. With leaky breasts. I smell like an old baby bottle all the time. It takes half a dram of Passion every morning to make me presentable for work. Ha,” she said. “Passion. That’s a laugh.”
Darcie gave her a moment to collect herself. Their conversations tended to circle around, as female conversations do, covering a lot of territory. Now they were back to Peter and Claire and motherhood. Darcie didn’t know what to tell her; she had no experience in such matters. And with men in general…well, Claire already knew her track record there.
“So.” Claire straightened in her wicker chair. She traced a finger over the paisley tablecloth. She moved the salt and pepper shakers around. “What are you going to do about Dylan Rafferty?”
“Nothing.”
“Merrick Lowell?”
“I’m thinking that over.”
“I’m warning you, girlfriend. He’s still a snake.”
“The one-eyed trouser snake.” They both snickered, then Darcie added, “I heard that with Gran in a Monty Python movie.”
“It’s a good one,” Claire agreed.
True to form, the snake himself was waiting for Darcie again on Monday when she left her office. This time she didn’t feel quite surprised to find him leaning against the wall by the elevators. But this time he gave her that rueful smile from the sixth-floor lobby, not on the main level. Interception with no chance of escape. Darcie saw this as an escalation of intent. He didn’t want her slipping past in the five o’clock rush.
