I winced.
She added, "Not that long. Two weeks, maybe three. Until her new meds kick in.”
There was more shouting from the bedroom, and James emerged, rubbing his shoulder. We left. And I prayed that Music Man was just having a bad week. Even this place, with all the appearance of the warmth of home, was really a town of drugged up zombies who took every opportunity to escape to freedom. As we reached the curb, a dark blue van with a round NKC logo on the side pulled into the driveway.
"Oh, my sister," James said. "Hey, Nadja. Aren't you off to the doctor?"
Nadja was tall and strong like James, but ten years older and plump. Where James had striking, square-jawed good looks, she had a long, oval face with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. And James's cornflower blue eyes beckoned while her shy gray ones hid behind big-rimmed glasses. In her wide red T-shirt and blue jeans, she reminded me of someone.
"Had to come back. Ilona's gotta go. Why are you here? Isn't this Saturday?" Then she noticed me. "Good grief. You didn't bring your date here, did you?"
She hurried to help a tiny woman with white hair and an eye patch out of the van. The woman said, "Get me my Seven-Up. I need my Seven-Up. Get me my Seven-Up, Nadja."
Nadja shook my hand warmly. "Hello, I'm the idiot's half-sister, Nadja Crosner."
My God. That was it. She was the spitting image of my second grade teacher, Miss Cantrell, right down to her primary-colored clothes, her soft hands with paint smudges, and her tone of voice when she chided James. I'd always liked Miss Cantrell. She let me read higher-level books in class and help in the library.
James said, "Nadja, this is Rhonda. I was just—"
"Good-bye, James!" Nadja ushered Ilona toward the walkway. "Go have fun! And Rhonda, please forgive my brother. Our parents were circus people, and he spent his early life on a high wire.”
My Spidey sense saw Nadja's big glasses and determined expression on the cover of TIME magazine. Like my mother. Except, of course, Mom wanted her own magazine—Ethel Hamilton Living.
CHAPTER 18
Back in the Lexus, I was quiet. My wonderful day had somehow turned brown around the edges. I'd expected fun, but so far I'd realized only a desperate, growing fear of my parents turning into Betty or Claire or Bernice. Hell, by now, I felt like I could turn into one of them. I looked down at my hands and was relieved to see them still strong and smooth. But they wanted to strangle my sister Monica for leaving me alone with the OLD AGE ISSUE.
James put a hand over mine in my lap. "Hey, about your dad, I'm just trying to help. Memory issues respond so well to timely treatment with the right meds.”
"Actually, Dad's memory's not so bad," I said, wishing we could discuss anything else. "It's more his behavior—mood swings and illogical acts. Could it just be hormonal?"
He shook his head. "Doubtful. He needs timely placement. The earlier you place a person in a facility, the better in the long run, for everyone concerned. It's so stressful to keep them at home."
We rode on in silence, and after a while, he started playing with my hand, stroking the palm with his thumb. He let a finger slide up my forearm. Then up to my shoulder.
Yes! If there had ever been a date when I wanted to just skip the food and entertainment and go straight to the sex, this was it. I needed an antidote for all those fresh pictures and smells of old people and insanity.
We parked in the mall parking structure and walked, swinging linked hands, toward the huge megaplex movie theater and sprawling outdoor mall.
He gestured toward the food court. "What's your pleasure?"
You on a plate naked with a squirt of whipped cream on your chest. And another one on your—"Uh, maybe the Banana Factory."
The adorable forehead wrinkled. "Oh. You mean Barney's Pickle Factory?" He grinned.
I got beet red. "Tell me. Were your parents really circus people?"
He just smiled.
Lunch in the crowded deli was a chef's salad for him and a giant Dagwood sandwich for me. Too late, I realized there were onions on it.
"Have you decided what to do about your book?" he asked, pushing my favorite hair lock back with his hand.
I scowled. My straw made a loud bubbly noise, sucking air at the bottom of my root beer.
He slugged some Coke. "Oh, sorry. Sore subject?"
What wasn't? "No, no. I looked Jackson up on the Internet, but I didn't find anything. I wrote to the publisher, but that's like yelling down a rat hole. All the books in the county are sold out. I can't even find one online. I'm not sure what else to do." On a first date, I was not going to reveal Harley's and my recent, rather embarrassing adventures.
He took his last bite and shrugged. Where a mouth full of food on another guy could be downright disgusting, on James, chewing showed the strength and power of his jaw muscles, allowing one to imagine just how those muscles might work on certain parts of me. I licked my lips.
"Didn't you go to several writers’ conferences recently?" he said.
I nodded.
"And you gave out a bunch of full manuscripts to agents and editors, right? Tracking those down, remembering them all—" He looked sad and reached for my hand. "Rhonda, you know we'll probably never find out who did this. I'm really sorry."
I put a napkin to my mouth. He wasn't going to like this. "Um. Actually, I gave some early drafts to friends. And a lot of packets went out, with synopses plus first three chapters, but until last week, I only gave a full manuscript to our group members." Then I remembered something and hit my forehead with my palm. "And one agent, Marcella Anderson, at the Fresno Romance in Novels Gathering in April. But it wasn't her thing. And that was an early draft."
He looked horrified. "You must have sent out other early drafts?"
"Just to our writing group. My folks. And Harley, who would never sell me out."
"So who else might have access to your work?"
"No one. Well, my cleaning lady." I laughed.
"Your cleaning lady? Can she write?"
"She can’t even speak English." I rolled my eyes. "Come on. You and Harley are both paranoid."
A large wrinkle invaded his forehead. "Fine. But Rhonda. I can’t believe—well, this is lucky actually, but after all I told you about my cousin's success, you didn't give out full manuscripts to anyone in Palm Springs or Los Angeles? Geez!" He thunked his drink cup on the table, and brown liquid splashed everywhere.
This scowl was such a rare look for him. Damn. This date wasn't going as I'd planned at all.
"Look, the agents at Writing Romance as Chick Kulture in Palm Springs weren’t biting. And as far as Los Angeles Babes In Arms," I bit my lip. "The best female speakers at LABIA got replaced at the last minute by a couple of young male scriptwriters who specialize in tough girl action flicks. Their idea of writing romance is to give the blonde a strip scene and make her wrangle alligators nude. I had a migraine, so I skipped it.”
James wheedled. "But you know you can send out full manuscripts whether agents and editors say they want them or not. They have to read something in bed at night. That's the way a lot of people get published—by breaking the rules!"
I could choose defensiveness here or I could keep it light. "Well, you know how at writers' conferences, agents make new writers cower, like overworked, hairy ogres with their serfs? Well, the ogres also make it clear that they shred any unsolicited work in great paroxysms of delight.”
His frown was giving me a headache.
I stood up. "Look, the truth is, full manuscripts are cumbersome and cost a fortune to mail. I just didn't bother." I headed for the door. "I need some air."
James followed me outside, brightening. "Okay. Could someone have taken your idea from your synopsis and first three chapters and given it or sold it to this bestselling guy, who ran with it? Maybe he didn't even know it was a stolen idea. Plus, you should call Marcella and ask questions, just to be safe."
"But Marcella wouldn’t—" I fel
t icky at the thought of confronting sweet Marcella.
"I'll do it for you if you like. She doesn't know me, so she'll be off her guard. Okay?"
The bright, sunny Southern California day felt drab, even as we passed colorful mall stores. "James. She's been a respected literary agent for years. And besides, after that conference, I completely revised my book's sagging middle, and then I reworked it again in July after the Palm Springs debacle in June. The agents there wanted the whole story summarized on the first page, so I shifted the first chapter info dump to chapter two."
He patted my shoulder. "Trust me. I'll be tactful when I call her. I just wish I could help you more."
"I'm tired. Maybe I’ll just go home." I walked head down, feeling the lead weight of all my problems. No one could help me with my novel. I'd have to start from scratch. No, I'd have to put my writing on hold while I worked double shifts or two jobs to pay off my credit cards. And with Dad and Mom to juggle now, I’d be writing my next book in twenty years. By then, I'd be a stooped, gray librarian in stout walking shoes like Marla, swinging my cane at people who returned books late, telling them to mind their own beeswax. I wiped away a big, fat tear.
I looked up. We were in front of the bookstore. I sighed. "I better go in here and find my book."
But James suddenly pulled me toward him right on the sidewalk, took my face in his hands, and kissed me full on the mouth. Wahaa! Fire shot through me, and the dark movie theater beckoned, with its magical possibilities.
He breathed in my ear, "Special girl. You're better than any Foxy Jackson guy, and don't you forget it."
"How do you know he's a guy? Seen a picture?" I said, my spirits lifting fast.
He shrugged and raised perfect eyebrows. "Ah, who gives a shit?" He started running and pulled me toward the theater. But this showing of the movie, still in its first weekend, was sold out.
"Hey," James said, ever cheerful. "Let's buy tickets for the next show in two hours and walk around some. What's your pleasure?"
What could be better than two extra hours alone with James? Those extra hours in a dark theater with James and a whipped cream bottle. "Dessert," I said.
We bought our tickets, then turned down the long outside mall and walked past tasteful, colorful storefronts selling electronic equipment, tropical clothing, live pets, stupid gadgets, toys and games, pretentious cookies, and pretzels. I took his hand and felt rich in its warmth. A flower stall was right in our path, and I thought sure James would stop and get me some. Instead, he pulled me into a noisy pet store.
"Hey, look." He pointed out some large, colorful macaws who would outlive us both. "Want one?"
I shook my head. "They're gorgeous, but I kill living things, remember?"
"Hard to kill an iguana," he taunted, pointing at one.
"I'd feed it too much and it'd grow to twenty feet long and fill up the house like that dragon in the children's book."
James moved on to pet a tiny, fuzzy kitty in an enclosure. I reached in to do the same. "Soft, hmmm, Rhonda? Like—" He nudged me and wiggled his eyebrows.
I was thinking about the soft fur James probably had on his stomach, but he put his hand on the back of my neck. "This right here.”
Shivers went down to my toes. The munching guinea pigs nearby were even softer. Lordy, Lordy, Lordy. Where was a kitchen island when you needed one?
In the back of the store, behind glass, sleek green snakes encircled branches, all muscle and, and … I fanned myself as they evoked other imagined parts of James's body.
He touched my arm. "Want one of those? Ya can’t kill ‘em." His eyebrows waggled. "Ever.”
Something warm shot from his hand on my arm all the way to parts of me that hadn't tingled for ages. They woke up and saluted. Maybe this date was salvageable after all. "Sure," I said in a haze. "I'll take two."
James squeezed my arm. We passed a dozen darling designer puppies, alone in glass cages. It only took one shivering, sad puppy behind glass to kill my sexy mood and bring tears to my eyes again. Man, I was a regular water faucet lately. I wanted to break the glass and load those poor expensive pups into my shirt and skate off into the sunset with them. Instead, I dropped his hand and sprinted out of the store.
He caught up with me in front of the cookie store, where I'd wiped my eyes and was paying for three cookies.
"Fun pet store," he said. "That's where I bought the little shih tzu for my sister one Christmas. For a thousand bucks, I thought he'd be potty trained. Instead, he eats his poop.”
I barked, "I hate those places, isolating those poor puppies behind glass. They need petting and love and friends and running room!"
He looked defeated.
"You want one?" I held out a cookie, trying to make up for blasting his pet store.
"Nope. Too many carbs. Don't want to blow up like a blimp.”
Like me. Great. Some girls would've thrown the three chocolate chip cookies I'd just bought, well, two and a quarter at this point, straight into the trash. But not me. They were too expensive (and yummy) to toss. I wrapped them in a napkin and pretended to throw them away while secretly stowing them up my jacket sleeve for later. Of course, now I'd have to keep my arm bent until I could find a way to dump them in my pocket or purse. Looking around for a restroom to make the switch, I noticed a law office, open on Saturday in the mall. Only in Southern California.
I headed that way. "Just a sec. I need to go in there and find out how to get my plagiarism case going."
James grabbed my arm. "Oh, that can wait. Check this out." He whisked me into a chi-chi little tattoo parlor with mannequins in string bikinis on display. Their hard plastic body parts were covered with tattoos of flaming ships, waving flags, giant roses, and dripping knives. Also, Looney Tunes characters, flaming motorcycles, and Gothic words rimmed in spikes. Behind the counter, a muscular bald guy rang up a sale. He had geometric blue and green designs up one arm, skulls spewing snakes up the other, and blue barbed wire around his neck. Ugh.
I was fast collecting cookie crumbs around my elbow. I opened my purse to make the chocolate chip cookie transfer, but James turned to me, eyes bright like a kid in a candy shop. "You wanna get some ink done?"
"Well …" I held my cookie-filled sleeve and flipped through a small book of mini-hearts, flowers, and butterflies.
James said, "It's a rite of passage. Want a tiny red rose on your shoulder?" His voice lowered. "Or your breast? Or on a bun?"
I smiled. Three dates from now, I'd feel comfortable discussing this with James. Or later this evening, if I got lucky. My mouth twitched at the thought.
James took this for a sign of approval. "Great. I found a cool one, too. Do we have time?"
How long could it take to etch one of those little tiny hearts on a bicep? "Sure."
Then James raised his shirt and I jumped like an LA Laker. The colorful animals in the pet shop had been mere faint copies of the ones he'd actually let into his life—well, onto his torso. A whole vivid jungle menagerie lived and breathed on his well-built chest. There were bright green boas, red parrots, golden monkeys, orange orangutans, and blue tree frogs vying for the space between the lush, verdant trees depicted across his shoulders and chest. I could almost hear the screeches and caws echoing from one armpit to the other. A tight rope walker balanced precariously on a rope stretched between his nipples. Lower down, a wide, cerulean blue waterfall plunged into the Amazon River, on which pirate boats floated across his flat stomach.
He was right about that chocolate chip cookie. Too many of those, and the river boats would become barges, the tight rope would loosen and the walker would fall into the river full of purple piranhas that dove below his low waistband. I blushed at the thought of the deep river bottom down there—no doubt complete with eels.
"Wow," I finally squeaked out, trying to smile, that kind of smile you make when you really, really want to like something, but you just know it's going to make you queasy. Like eating s
quid, watching boxing, or sailing in the ocean.
But this was James. My hunk. Could it really bother me that much?
He rolled his shirt down. "Okay, look." James flipped through a catalog. "See, I'm not much into these Gothic or chain ones. I'm more like my sister. I love color and themes. Hers are elementary. Mine create whole worlds. And I've been looking for this one." He pointed at the Transamerica Pyramid from San Francisco, in three colors. "Isn't it great? I've been saving up for it." His body vibrated with excitement like I'd never seen him vibrate about anything, including me.
I said, "In the jungle?"
He turned around and pulled the shirt up high again, this time to reveal his back. I dropped my purse. The cookies came sliding out of my sleeve right onto the black and white tiled floor. Geometric Arm Guy laughed, showing a dark tooth.
James didn't notice any of this, his back bared to me. Let’s just say there was no fog on the Golden Gate Bridge, Chinatown, and Lombard Street stretching across his broad back muscles. But I could hear the cable cars and the bustle of Fisherman's Wharf above. And right by the Exploratorium, there was an oblong space of white skin by his left shoulder blade, perfect for the pyramid.
"After this, all I need is Alcatraz." He indicated a blank spot under his arm.
"James?" I croaked. "My God. Are those all real? Where's Ghirardelli Square?"
"See this orangutan?" He bared a shoulder. "She was my first one when I was sixteen. My sister said it was okay, as long as I put them where they'd be covered by a shirt. So I could get employed, you know. I must have ten thousand dollars' worth so far. You should see my butt.”
Well, I'd been hoping to. "Great white sharks or Silicon Valley?" I joked.
"Yosemite," he said, his eyes dancing. "El Capitan and Half Dome."
I'd never had time for tattoos or piercings. To me, ink belonged on pages, not on bodies. But I'd just been a soggy blanket about the pet store, so I opted to get a tiny little rhinestone post over my left nostril. This was done in a flash, although I sneezed for twenty minutes afterward, and bled for half an hour. Then I looked out the window and saw the lawyer's office was closed.
Roll with the Punches Page 16
