Staying Single

by Millie Criswell

  "You're no Julia Roberts, but you have given her a bit of competition as the Runaway Bride."

  "Second, Mom is never going to change, so you need to stand up to her or accept that she's going to meddle. And you wear a size ten, so I'm not at all sorry for you."

  Easy to say from someone who wore a six, Francie thought.

  "And finally, I hope you do get married one of these days because then Mom will get off my back."

  "Don't count on it."

  "Isn't that the truth? I was looking through her dresser drawer for a scarf the other day and found a list of prospective grooms she'd been making for me." Lisa made a face, then a gagging noise. "Alan Swarski was on the list. Can you imagine? Alan Swarski! The man is almost sixty and has grandchildren. What can she be thinking? He has nose hair, not to mention a gut, for chrissake! What am I, desperate? I do have some pride, after all."

  "If he's breathing, he's an eligible candidate."

  The front door opened and Leo strolled in carrying a white bakery bag. He smiled widely when he spotted Lisa. "Hey, girl! You're looking good. I bought bagels and cream cheese, if you're hungry." He held up the bag and the enticing aroma of freshly baked bagels clouded the room.

  Francie's stomach rumbled. "I am. Hand them over."

  "Bagels." Lisa's face fell. "I was hoping for a ham sandwich."

  "On Sunday morning? I always buy bagels for Francie and me on Sunday. It's tradition. And since she just got home late last night I figured she'd need refueling before facing your mother."

  He turned to Francie, a worried look on his face— though not as worried as Francie's—and handed her the bag. "Has Josephine called?"

  Francie shook her head. "Not yet. Ma's got a bar mitzvah this afternoon that's been on her schedule for weeks. That'll keep her busy for a while. She'll be mentally calculating all the money the Goldstein kid receives, then comparing it to the other bar mitzvahs she's attended to see how the Goldsteins stack up in popularity."

  Popularity in her parents' neighborhood was often gauged by the amount of money that was taken in at religious events such as weddings, christenings and bar mitzvahs. And God forbid if small flower arrangements or a poor showing at a viewing occurred during a funeral. You might as well pack up and leave town in that case, for it meant you were persona non grata.

  Francie didn't fully understand the hierarchy, rules and social strata that comprised an ethnic neighborhood, but she knew they existed.

  "You're only postponing the inevitable, Francie. You know that, don't you?" Leo leveled a disappointed look at her. "At some point you've got to face your mother. Now is as good a time as any."

  Lisa, having noted Francie's horrified expression, quickly changed the subject, much to Francie's great relief.

  "So, who's your latest love interest, Leo?" Lisa asked in her usual tactless manner.

  Francie knew her sister was not known for her finesse. In fact, Lisa was enough like Josephine to be scary.

  "I saw you at Club Zero last night," she went on. "The guy you were with was cute. To tell you the truth, it made me rather jealous. There aren't enough men out there, as it is. Damn shame all the good ones are either married or gay."

  The blond man, who resembled a young Elton John, grinned. "I'm taking that as a compliment, sweetie. Phillip's his name and he's an architect. We exchanged phone numbers. Nothing more."

  "Well, that's better than I did. Molly and I struck out. No wonder they call the place Club Zero."

  "Consider yourself lucky," Francie said. "Men, present company excepted, are more trouble than they're worth. You're better off alone."

  Lisa rolled her eyes. "I don't want to get married. I just want to get laid. It's been so long I'm going to forget how to do it. And don't tell me it's like riding a bike. Even bike parts rust."

  "Why didn't you just ask some guy for his phone number?" Leo took a seat on an overstuffed chair. "This is the new millennium. You're entitled."

  "Quit trying to lead my baby sister astray, Leo. I don't want her hooking up with a serial rapist."

  "Ha!" Francie's sister rolled her eyes. "Fat chance of that happening. I usually attract serial geeks, not rapists."

  The phone rang and everyone froze, staring at it as if it were an evil entity out to do them harm.

  "It's Mom," Lisa said.

  Shaking her head, Francie took several steps back, wishing she had a string of garlic around her neck, or at the very least, a gold crucifix. "I'm not taking her call. Tell Mom I died, that I fell over the falls. Tell her anything, but don't tell her I'm here."

  "Coward," Leo said, reaching for the portable phone. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Morelli. Yes, Francie's right here. Hold on. I'll get her for you."

  "Bastard!" Francie took the phone from Leo's hand, none too gently, and shook it at him. "I'll get you for this."

  Lisa popped more nuts into her mouth and, like any good sibling, enjoyed watching her sister squirm.

  Francie prayed that the floor beneath her feet would open up and swallow her whole. A trip straight to hell would be preferable to explaining to Josephine why wedding number three had been a no go.

  3

  Two weeks after what Mark always thought of as the "wedding from hell," he stood outside the offices of Ted Baxter Promotions and adjusted his red silk tie.

  Normally he didn't wear suits and ties—he didn't need to dress up in his profession—preferring jeans and T-shirts or sweatshirts.

  But today was special.

  Today he intended to put his plan into motion for seducing Francesca Morelli.

  With a nod of thanks to the young, dewy-eyed blond receptionist, he entered the inner office to find the surroundings not nearly as attractive as the woman seated behind the massive oak desk.

  She was wearing a red cashmere sweater set that hugged her firm breasts. On the ring finger of her left hand his brother's diamond-and-ruby engagement ring was noticeably absent, bringing his mind back to the matter at hand.

  "May I help you?" she asked, looking up from the papers spread out in front of her and gathering them up into a neat little pile before pushing them to one side.

  Gazing into the warmest, most beautiful brown eyes he'd ever seen, Mark's jaw nearly dropped to his chest. Long lashes, full lips, high cheekbones and a pert little nose made up a very arresting, exotic face.

  Damn! His brother's ex-fiancée was a knockout. He had thought that from a distance the day of the wedding, and the photos he'd taken had certainly proven that out, but seeing Francesca Morelli up close and personal cemented his earlier opinion.

  And it was something he hadn't planned on.

  "I'm Mark Fielding. I was hoping to see Mr. Baxter. I'd like to arrange a publicity campaign to promote my first book, but I haven't a clue how to go about it. I was hoping he might be able to help me out."

  She smiled sweetly at him and he sucked in air. "I'm sorry, Mr. Fielding, but Ted… Mr. Baxter isn't here at the moment. Is there something I can help you with? Perhaps answer some questions? I often assist with clients when Mr. Baxter's out of the office."

  Yeah, you can tell me why you dumped my brother.

  And why you're so damned attractive.

  Pasting on his most charming smile, he heard her sharp intake of breath. Her reaction pleased him, on more than one level, for it made what he had to do a whole lot easier. For some reason, women had always found him attractive. They just didn't want to have long-term relationships with him.

  "I'm a photo-journalist. My first book of photographs will be published next spring, and I thought it might be wise to do some pre-publicity and promotion for it. My publishing house isn't likely to shell out any money, since I'm new a new author. I figured if I want the book to succeed I'd better do it myself."

  "That's very wise, Mr. Fielding. May I ask what made you choose Baxter Promotions? We're not a very large company and not widely known outside of the local area."

  Mark had rehearsed what he intended to say, and the lie rolled easily off
his tongue. "A friend of mine recommended it several months back. I believe you handled some public relations matters for his law firm."

  She nodded. "That's entirely possible. We have many satisfied clients. Baxter Promotions is proud of its reputation in the community."

  "Good to hear. There's nothing worse than bad word of mouth for a business such as yours."

  Her eyes widened momentarily, then the phone buzzed and she excused herself to answer it. Apparently, Ms. Morelli was the only employee in the small firm, aside from the receptionist out front.

  Francesca Morelli grinned at something the person on the other end of the line was saying and two charming dimples appeared; Mark's gut responded with nine bars of "Hot! Hot! Hot!"

  Damn her for being so attractive!

  And damn you for noticing, Fielding.

  Francie Morelli was a tight little package. Nice boobs—not too big, yet not small, either. Her legs, he recalled, were quite shapely, and he supposed that if she stood, he'd find that her ass was equally as appealing as the rest of her.

  Taking Ms. Morelli to bed and making love to her wasn't going to be much of a chore, that was for damn certain. Mark intended to enjoy every minute of it, before dumping Little Miss Fickle on that cute little ass and saying, "Hasta la vista, baby!"

  "You break a mother's heart, Francie. I don't know how you can treat me this way. Three times you have been to the altar in front of God, not to mention all of our relatives and friends, and three times you have disgraced me and your father." Josephine crossed herself and then murmured a little prayer, clearly hoping for a little intervention from on high.

  Seating herself at the ancient red Formica table in her parents' kitchen, Francie sighed at the hurt flickering in her mother's dark eyes, then filled both of their cups with strong, hot coffee.

  Josephine's coffee was so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. And coffee did seem to make bad news digest better, though chocolate was better, of course. But this morning wasn't a good time for chocolate. It wasn't a good time for conversation, either. But like Leo said, now was as good a time as any. Francie couldn't run from the truth indefinitely. She'd already tried that these past two weeks.

  "Ma, I never wanted to hurt you or Dad. But you keep harping on me to get married and have babies, and I'm just not ready to take that step." Not that she'd ever be ready, but there was no sense in dashing all of Josephine's hopes in one fell swoop.

  "What do you mean, you're not ready? You're twenty-nine, Francesca, practically an old maid."

  Francie did her best not to wince.

  "Your aunts talk behind my back about how you're never going to have a husband and children. And your sister is no better. She doesn't even date nice men. Soon they'll be saying that both of my daughters are lesbians." Josephine crossed herself again, on the off chance that it might be true.

  Her mother tolerated Leo, but Francie didn't think for a minute that tolerance would extend to any of her children or family members should they choose an alternative lifestyle.

  Francie was a tried and true—not to mention, proven—heterosexual woman, but she thought there was a lot to be said for the lesbian lifestyle.

  First, if you were lucky enough to find another woman who wore the same size, you could expand your wardrobe. That couldn't happen with a man, unless you were built like a fullback. A woman didn't care about another woman's lack of makeup or weight gain. And they had oodles more experience when it came to knowing what women wanted in the sex department.

  Some of the men Francie had dated hadn't known which end was up and could have benefited from a sex education class. Lesson One: Orgasms We Have Known and Loved.

  "My heart is breaking from this, Francesca. I want to see you married and settled before I die. Is this too much to ask? I'm not getting any younger and neither are you."

  "Before I die" was one of Josephine's favorite expressions. It was conjured up whenever guilt was needed to make her children toe the line. No matter that she was as healthy as the proverbial horse, in Josephine's mind death was imminent if she didn't get her way.

  "Stop it, Ma! You're not going to die." In the immortal words of Billy Joel, "Only the good die young." Francie left that unsaid, however. Her mother had never been a Billy Joel fan, preferring Placido Domingo instead.

  "You can't keep trying to run—" make that, ruin "—my life. Yes, I'm twenty-nine years old. But I'm very happy being single. I don't need a man to complete me, and I'm not a lesbian."

  Josephine seemed inordinately relieved by that admission.

  "Someday maybe I'll meet someone." Mark Fielding's face flashed before her eyes, but Francie blinked it away, wondering why she suddenly thought of the handsome photographer, a man she hardly knew—a man who set her toes to tingling.

  Sipping her coffee, she wished fervently for chocolate and issued a cease and desist order for her toes to stop misbehaving.

  "But I'm not ready now. There are things I want to do with my life—travel, meet interesting people—" men who worked for the Associated Press were definitely interesting "—achieve success in my career. I'm just not ready to settle down."

  Eyes raised heavenward, Josephine clenched her hands and shook them. "All meaningless things. Without a husband and children, a woman's life is nothing. Why would you want to work when you can find a good man to take care of you? You women of today don't make any sense at all."

  "These are different times, Ma. Women don't need to be married to feel fulfilled. You're happy doing for Dad, and that's great. But it's not what I want."

  "Didn't you ever just want things for yourself, without thinking about how it would affect other people? I know it sounds selfish, and maybe it is, but so what? Since when did it become a crime to want independence? It's what this country was founded on."

  Josephine stirred more sugar into her cup. The spoon hit the sides, clanking and clanking as she formed her answer. "I would not have done anything to disappoint my mother and father. It was expected that I marry, and I did. In my day children were dutiful."

  In your day women were orgasm-less.

  "But what about falling head over heels in love?"

  Looking somewhat insulted, her mother sat back in her chair, her mouth opening and closing like a floundering fish. "I love your father. Don't talk crazy. You young people have too many romantic notions in your head. You watch movies, read those romance books, and you think that is what real life is supposed to be. But it's not."

  "Real life, a good life, is taking care of others, making sure your husband has clean underwear in his drawer and hot food on the table when he gets home tired from work. It's taking pride in your children's accomplishments, like when you made your first communion, or when Jackie pitched the no-hitter in Little League, remember?"

  Francie did, and she smiled at the memory of how thrilled her parents were for her little brother. Her mother celebrated the event with a cake and a party for all of Jackie's friends. "You're the best, Ma. We kids couldn't have asked for a better, more caring mother. But you shouldn't expect any of us to lead the same life as you. That's not fair."

  Josephine grunted her disapproval. "What's fair— growing old alone?"

  "I've tried to be the daughter you want. I've gone along with these weddings, to make you happy. But it's making me very unhappy. Not to mention the poor grooms in question. I'm sure Matt Carson will never speak to me again. And I truly liked Matt, as a friend."

  "His mother said there were no hard feelings. She's a lovely woman, that Mrs. Fielding. She would have made you a good mother-in-law."

  A good mother-in-law! Now there was an oxymoron if ever she heard one.

  "I agree. Laura is a lovely woman, and a very gracious one to have said that. I know the Fieldings spent a lot of money on the reception and I feel terrible about it. And that's just what I'm talking about. These weddings have hurt a lot of people, including you and Dad. Your savings account has got to be suffering. And you need that money for your retire
ment. Dad can't sell appliances forever."

  In fact, her dad had been talking retirement for the past two years, but had never gotten around to it. She wondered now if it was because he couldn't afford to.

  Francie's guilt multiplied.

  "I have money put aside for such things, Francie, you know that. And I will make you another wed-ding when you come to your senses. An even nicer one. We'll pick out a new dress, make our own arrangements for the reception, hire a better caterer…"

  Francie knew that her mother hadn't heard a word she'd said, and probably never would. It was useless arguing with the headstrong woman. But she could be just as stubborn as Josephine, now that her mind was made up to remain single.

  Francie would not be coerced into another wedding. And nothing or no one would convince her otherwise.

  "It was nice of you to have lunch with me today, Ms. Morelli, especially on such short notice. I found after returning to my hotel yesterday afternoon that I still had a lot of questions that needed answering, being new, as I am, to the publishing and promotions game."

  "That's understandable, Mr. Fielding."

  Francie and Mark were seated at the City Tavern, the oldest dining establishment in Philadelphia, located down by the waterfront, and Francie wondered at her acceptance of the luncheon appointment.

  Of course, it was a business lunch. And she wanted Mr. Fielding's business for the company. But still… She didn't like mixing business with pleasure, especially when that business was over six feet tall, had deep blue eyes and a face that could rival Pierce Brosnan's.

  Mark Fielding was definitely eye candy.

  Francie was definitely addicted to candy.

  Francie needs candy like a hole in the head!

  "I was happy to oblige," she went on. "Baxter Promotions prides itself on being a very hands-on company."

  His right brow shot up and she felt her face heat at what her words implied.