That's (Not Exactly) Amore

by Tracey Bateman

  No one is going to hire a color-blind interior designer. And that’s all there is to it.

  I turn back to my preparations for dinner. “At least I can cook,” I say flatly.

  Dancy grins. “Better than anyone I know!”

  Great. So I won’t starve. Are tomatoes orange? Please tell me I haven’t had that wrong all my life? Apples are red, bananas are yellow. Yes?

  And Joe Pantalone’s eyes are the color of a mocha latte—without whipped cream.

  2

  Three hours later, I walk up the steps to my empty apartment. Depressing, really. I think back to six weeks ago, when it was all abuzz day and night. Tabby was preparing for her wedding in the midst of the big Christmas rush, and Dancy was working on her book or editing around the clock. Now there’s this silence that makes me want to cry.

  I’ve even had fleeting thoughts of moving back home with my mom. Which is what she’s always wanted. But I would never actually do it—I don’t think. Not because I don’t love my mother. She’s awesome in so many ways. But she has this desperate need. Not for anything in particular. Just need. She’s never quite content. And that can get exhausting, especially for the person futilely trying to provide contentment.

  I can imagine us in twenty years . . . I’m still there (unmarried), attending to her every whim, and she’s taking full advantage of the situation.

  Poor Mom. Daddy died twelve years ago, and it’s been so hard on her. He was her light and truly catered to her every whim. Which is great. I mean, any time a woman finds a man who loves her so completely he wants to cater to her, she should definitely keep him. But now Mom still wants someone to do what he did. And as the only child, guess who that whim-catering falls to?

  I can take it in small doses, like every weekend when I’m expected to come home for a “visit,” but that’s about it. I guess that answers the question of whether or not I should move back permanently.

  I reach the top of the steps and something is . . . wrong. Fear lumps in my throat as I realize the door has been jimmied and is cracked open just so.

  Oh no, oh no, oh no. My strong sense of self-preservation kicks in full force and whips my body around like a rag doll. I drop the container with the leftover shrimp linguini and rush back down the steps and out the door. At breakneck speed, I sprint full force down the city street, which is filled with passersby. But I can’t stop and ask for help from just anyone. Who knows if the thief is still lurking about waiting for me, the unsuspecting victim, to ask for help? Although I never actually looked inside my apartment. (What if it’s not a thief but a stalker?) I see a blue-uniformed guy walking out of a little Chinese joint up ahead, and I feel like God has smiled upon me. “Officer!” I holler through the crowd. “Officer, wait! Please.”

  He doesn’t appear to have heard me as he saunters toward a waiting squad car. I’m gasping for air by the time I reach him, but thankfully I make it before he even opens the door.

  I make a grab for his arm.

  He jerks back.“Whoa. Take it easy, lady.” He eyes me in an I-could-Taser-you motion, and I swallow hard, hand on my chest to slow the rapid beating of my heart.

  “I need—”(gasp for air)“—help, Officer,” I gulp out.

  “Calm down, ma’am.” He takes my shoulders in his iron grip, and I look up into a dashing face with blue eyes and a bewildered smile. But I don’t have time to think about what a great-looking cop he is. My apartment has been violated! The entire world has been violated! I don’t have time to be attracted to this guy!

  “I need you to come with me!” I try to turn, but he’s not letting me go.

  “Wait a second.” He gives me a wary don’t-make-me-cuff-you look. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Around us, people stop and stare, most likely taking bets on how long before the police officer arrests the crazy woman accosting him in full view of a crowd of witnesses.

  I feel my face crumple as tears spring to my eyes. He frowns, and I’m gratified to see that it’s a concerned frown and not one of those oh-good-grief-another-emotional-woman frowns. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

  “No! I am not. I think I might have been robbed.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “What do you call this?” I wave my arms like a maniac. “You’re a cop, right? I’m reporting it to you. Aren’t you supposed to protect and serve? My apartment is just a block from here, and there might still be someone inside stealing all my things.”

  “All right, ma’am. I’ll call it in while we walk.”

  “Okay, but . . .”

  “But what?” He looks at me through narrowed eyes.

  “Don’t you need to call for backup or something? On NYPD Blue they always make sure there are two of them before going into an uncertain situation.” I know because I watch reruns every night. Besides, I’d think the actual NYPD would use that as a textbook or something.

  “You’re talking about TV?” His lips twitch.

  He’s mocking me. I can’t believe I’ve come to this man for help. This man whose salary, by the way, my taxes pay. “Okay, fine. It’s your decision. Live dangerously, for all I care. I was just trying to help.”

  “Trust me, ma’am. I’ll ask for backup when I call this in.”

  We take quick steps toward the apartment as he walkie-talkies the robbery in to the station. “Wait here,” he says when we reach the building and I open the bottom door.

  “You mean by myself?” I practically whimper. Good grief.

  He nods and puts his finger to his lips. Up the steps he goes, stealthily (without that backup, I might add), one hand on the pistol at his side. I’m mesmerized.

  When he slowly nudges the apartment door open, my heart slips to my throat and I have a disturbing urge to scream. But knowing the officer might be in danger and my scream might be the difference between his living or dying, I keep my trap shut.

  I nibble my lower lip and wait. And wait. And wait. After what seems like hours, he pokes his head out. “It’s okay, ma’am. All clear.”

  Relief floods over me as I hurry up the steps. “Thank goodness,” I breathe. “I was so worried.”

  He takes my arm. “You might want to . . .”

  “What?”

  “Prepare yourself.”

  The look of compassion in his eyes (did I mention that they’re blue?) tips me off and I push past him to find an empty room. Well, not completely empty. Whoever violated my personal space didn’t bother with my old TV Guides or crossword puzzles. But that’s about all . . . my TV, my DVD player, my couch, for crying out loud. The new one Dancy’s dad bought for us and she left here for me. All gone.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Stop calling me ma’am,” I snap as I continue looking for items that should be there but aren’t.

  “I’m sorry. Just trying to be polite.”

  “For goodness’ sake, you’re polite enough.” Okay, maybe that’s a little prickly coming from someone who desperately needs his help and support right now, but his overuse of that word is making me feel way too old.

  He takes a slow, manly breath. The kind I miss so much since Dad died. “I apologize.” The look he gives me is sort of helpless, and my heart goes out to him.

  “Just call me Laini, okay?” I mumble.

  The living room is pretty much picked clean. “How the heck did they get a couch out of here without anyone noticing?” We desperately need a neighborhood watch or something.

  The officer shrugs his broad shoulders. “Maybe they posed as moving people. It’s not a new concept.”

  That actually makes sense. “Probably,” I admit. “We’ve had a lot of moving going on. First my friend Tabby got married and moved out; then Dancy’s parents gave her a fantastic condo with a view of Central Park. So maybe my neighbors just thought I was moving out too.” Nerves always make me ramble. I’d sit down if there were anywhere to sit. And I probably should find somewhere. My legs are shaking pretty badly.

  “Ar
e you going to be okay?” the officer asks.

  “I guess. For someone who is probably going to have to move back in with her mother.”

  He gives me a great smile, and a little sunshine breaks through the cloud of my life for just a second.

  “If it’s any consolation, they didn’t take the kitchen table and chairs.”

  The kitchen!

  Without another word I shoot across the living room and enter my favorite room in the apartment. Relief floods me as I stand in the middle of the outdated, slightly torn gold linoleum that hasn’t been changed since the eighties, most likely. I want to weep with joy as I look at my stove and refrigerator. I start flinging open counters and drawers. “It’s all here,” I say happily and teary-eyed.

  A curious frown creases his brow. But I don’t see any reason to elaborate on my elation. Can’t a girl be happy to find her kitchen intact when the rest of her life is going down the tubes?

  “You’ll need to go through the rest of the house and make a list of all the stolen items, then take it down to the station to file a report.”

  I nod automatically. “I will, Officer . . . I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Hall.”

  “Officer Hall. Thank you for everything.” My face is warm and I’m feeling a little breathless being this close to him. He’s staring down from a lofty height and by the look on his face, I think he might actually be attracted to me too.

  Before he can confirm or deny my suspicion, the buzzer goes off, alerting me to someone downstairs, and I nearly go through the roof.

  “You want me to get that?” Officer Hall asks like a gallant knight.

  I shake my head. I’m not a total weenie. “Will you walk with me, though?” I walk back through the living room and press the intercom button.

  “NYPD. There’s been a report of a robbery?”

  I buzz him in.

  When the other officer reaches my apartment, he takes one look at my cop and scowls. “Mark. You didn’t wait for backup?”

  Officer Hall tenses at the slap on the wrist. “I ascertained that the situation was safe and moved forward.”

  “That’s not the point. I’m your partner. You should have waited for me. How do you think I felt coming out of Mr. Wang’s to find you gone?”

  “Okay, McNealy. It won’t happen again.”

  The frowny officer turns to me. “Do you have somewhere to go until you get that lock fixed?”

  I shrug, unwilling to be friendly to this guy. He’s not very nice to Mark. “Lots of places.”

  He nods. “Then I suggest you pack a bag.”

  “I-I haven’t been in the bedroom yet.”

  The first officer—Mark, as it turns out—gives me a reassuring smile. “I have. Do you want me to go with you?”

  The thought of walking down the hallway to that room alone is a little more than I’m prepared to deal with right now. I nod. “I’d appreciate it.”

  I start walking that way and he follows. I’m almost sure I hear the other officer mumble something about a “nursemaid.” Whatever!

  Later, curled up in my old bedroom at my mother’s house on Long Island, I try to make sense of where my life is going. It’s weird. I’m an accountant by degree, but I don’t want to live that boring calculator life. I’ve done it. For eight years I worked with other people’s numbers. I truly wanted to do what would finally make me happy. I mean, I’m thirty years old with no marital prospects on the horizon, and I just decided, life is too short to be an accountant if one doesn’t love accounting. And darn it, I don’t. What I love is design—at least I think I do. Like in college. We all did tent theater, Tabby, Dancy, and me. Tabby was the great lead actress and got all the best roles—and now she’s an Emmy-nominated soap-opera star. Dancy wrote scripts—and now she’s a writer after a few years as an editor. And me? I designed sets. Where did accounting come from? It only makes sense that I should become an interior designer, right? If my two best friends can follow their passions, why can’t I?

  My parents were both accountants before Dad passed away and Mom retired. Before Daddy died, I was trying to screw up the nerve to break it to my parents that I didn’t want to major in accounting. But then he died from a sudden heart attack and my mom just knew his last request in life would have been for me to follow in his footsteps and be an ace accountant. I got close. Finished school, graduated near the top of my class at NYU, and went to work for Ace Accounting for a number of years. I almost wept with relief when one of the brothers embezzled from the company and I was laid off due to bankruptcy.

  You’d think as hard as I’m fighting to become an interior designer, I must have an actual aptitude for the whole thing. More than one instructor has gently mentioned that perhaps I should pursue a different field, but I can’t give up on my passion. Right? I can’t fail!

  Besides, I owe my aunt for the tuition plus some living expenses that she graciously offered to pay—after I buttered her up by dragging Tabby (her favorite soap star) to lunch at her house.

  At midnight I’m still pretty wide awake, so it doesn’t really bother me when my cell phone rings. I figure it’s one of the girls. Who else would be calling this late? And I did leave messages on their voice mails about the break-in. It’s a number I don’t recognize, so I almost don’t answer. But at the last second, I click the button. “Hello?”

  “Miss Sullivan?”

  Vaguely familiar male voice.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to call you so late, but I thought you’d like to know we apprehended the man who broke into your apartment.”

  My heart does a little loopy loop as I realize I’m speaking to Mark Hall. The hunky cop from earlier. “You did? That was fast.”

  “I had a hunch and it panned out,” he says nonchalantly, and I imagine him shrugging those wide muscly shoulders. “People like you make my job a lot easier.”

  “People like me?”

  “People who hang on to receipts and serial numbers.” He hesitates.

  “I come from a family of accountants. We never throw away receipts, paid bills, or bank statements.”

  He chuckles. “Lucky for you. We found your TV and DVD player. Your computer too.”

  “That’s wonderful.” A broad smile stretches my lips as I imagine this handsome, blond Norse-god type speaking into the phone.

  “The guy was an addict and lived in your building until a month ago. He knew you and still had a key to the downstairs door. Tomorrow, I’ll head to a few used-furniture stores in the area, and hopefully we’ll find the furniture you lost.”

  “Thank you, Officer Hall,” I say, because it really seems like the only thing left to say.

  “Well, I am here to protect and serve, after all.”

  How cute is that? He’s flirting.

  Oh, my stars! He’s flirting.

  “Well I definitely feel protected and . . .” Good grief.

  “Served?” His voice is rife with amusement.

  I really don’t know how to answer this man. Anything I say is going to sound so Magoo. While I try to think of something oh-so-clever, I finger the wedding-ring quilt my grandmother left me when she died. I’ll take it when I get married. If that ever happens.

  “Listen,” he says, maybe picking up on the fact that I have nothing to say. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in having coffee with me sometime?”

  Is he kidding?

  “Sure. Sounds good.” Real smooth.

  “Great. How does tomorrow strike you?”

  “Tomorrow?” I croak out, definitely no longer smooth.

  “Too soon?”

  You’re blowing this, Laini Sullivan! I think in my mother’s voice. Pull it together before he writes you off as a nutcase.

  I sit up straighter in my seat and pretend I’m dignified even though no one can see me. The action works because I feel better already. More confident.

  He clears his throat as though my long silence has made the poor guy uncomfortable. “
Well . . . sorry to have bothered you.”

  Say something. Quick.

  “No bother at all, Officer. I appreciate the call. And I’d love to have coffee with you.”

  “You would?” He seems genuinely surprised. I can’t say that I blame him. “I just thought . . .”

  “Sorry about the delay. I—uh—dropped the phone.”

  How terrible is that? Starting the relationship off on a fat lie. “Well, I mean, I didn’t exactly drop it.”

  Oh, bummer. I’m making it so much worse. Okay, either pony up completely, lie, or just shut up.

  This is a no-brainer. I decide to end the conversation.

  “So, Officer Hall,” I say, completely ignoring the fact that I have been rambling stupidly and lying to boot. “I know a great coffee shop just around the corner from my apartment. It’s called Nick’s Coffee Shop. You know the place?”

  “Sure I do. Everyone knows Nick’s. Tomorrow morning . . . say . . . ten?”

  “I was actually thinking maybe Monday? I’m on Long Island at my mom’s.”

  “Oh, okay. I guess that’s too far for coffee.”

  It wouldn’t have taken much for me to hop the train and meet the guy. It’s not that far. And with a little nudge I would have agreed, but he doesn’t nudge. As a matter of fact, he sounds a little down, like he thinks I’m not interested. Say something quick! “I’ll be back on Monday. I have a class that night, so maybe we could meet at eleven at Nick’s. Would that work for you?”

  “That’ll work out great. Only, I was hoping to see you over the weekend.”

  My stomach does a somersault. I’m not used to guys being open and honest.

  “That would have been fun.” Now might be the time to say something about meeting him after all, but a girl can’t start changing plans for a guy she just met. And Mom counts on me to spend my time with her when I visit. Every single weekend of my life. Okay, beside the point. “I spend weekends at my mom’s anyway, so I’m not usually around for dates.”

  “That’s admirable.”

  “You think? Most guys are afraid I’m still tied to my mother’s apron strings.”

  “Who isn’t?”