On Any Given Sundae

by Marilyn Brant

  “No, not yet.” He relayed Tony’s message about her mom and the canceled appointments while studying with new eyes the absolutely, falling-over-drunk Elizabeth Daniels.

  “Goody!” Maria-Louisa shouted. “I just hate getting my hair cut!”

  This inspired a chorus of “Me, Too”s from the women and an “I especially hate it” from Elizabeth.

  Which led to a moment of hushed sympathy before a burst of:

  “Oh, it must be really, really hard to find someone who can cut long, curly hair.”

  “But it’s so beautiful. What do you do to tame the waves?”

  “My sister in Minneapolis uses one of those special conditioners that reduce frizziness while still strengthening the roots and stopping split ends…”

  He watched Elizabeth glance around the group and grin.

  “Gotta try that stuff then,” she said before chugging the rest of her margarita.

  “More all around!” Maria-Louisa proclaimed, batting her eyelashes in appreciation at the waiter’s arrival, a fresh pitcher on his tray.

  “How are you all getting home?” Rob asked.

  “Stevie’s picking us up in his minivan,” one of the neighbor ladies said of her husband. “He wanted that tank. He got it. Now he has to use it for something worthwhile.”

  They all started laughing again for no good reason.

  “Wait,” Sandy said. They paused.

  “Another Garth Brooks song!” four of the ladies shouted at once. The whole group rose and began wiggling and jiggling. Elizabeth’s moves were even wilder and freer than the rest.

  His supposedly reserved sister-in-law spun into him. “Dance with us, Roberto. Shake that booty.”

  Additional hoots and hollers followed. He stood motionless.

  Elizabeth grabbed his hand. “Oh, come on, Rob. We’ve all got the beat.” And she pulled him toward her, raised his arm above her head and twirled underneath it.

  “I think that was the Go-Go’s, not Garth,” one of them said, swinging her hair in a full 360°.

  “Who cares?” said another.

  Elizabeth twirled again, lost her balance and lunged right for his chest. He caught her and pulled her close to steady her. She gave him a death squeeze and he automatically hugged her tighter. Then her grip relaxed and her soft body wilted in his arms. She buried her face in the Brewers jersey he’d snitched from Tony’s closet, snuggled up to him like a baby bunny and sighed.

  “I’m really tired,” she whispered.

  He smoothed her luscious hair with his fingertips. “I can drive you to your apartment,” he said, fighting the image of those beautiful reddish-brown curls fanned out on a white silk pillow.

  “Hmm. Okay.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “It was going to be too late before Ivan got off his shift anyway.”

  “What?” Who the hell was Ivan?

  She pointed vaguely in the direction of one of the waiters. “I’ll pick him up next time,” she said, turning to say her goodbyes to the group as he stared at her dumbfounded. She was going to pick up some other guy? Not a chance! He shot Ivan a death stare and the laughing waiter took a few worried strides back toward the bar. That’s right, bucko. Stay away if you know what’s good for you.

  Meanwhile, Elizabeth thanked the women for the fun time and forced his sister-in-law into taking some money for her share of the margaritas. Then she leaned into him again, slipped her little arm around his waist and stumbled a few steps forward.

  “Off we go,” she said. She ran her free palm against his abs. “Mmmmm.”

  “Mmm, what?” He took one final glance around the room and caught Tara Welles’s stunned gaze and dropped jaw a few feet from them. He looked away.

  “You’ve got one hot body, Rob Gabinarri,” Elizabeth said. Loudly. The ladies’ group wolf-whistled. “Now, take me home.”

  Holy Cannoli.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Elizabeth felt strange. Lightheaded. Her feet rocked under her as if she were standing in a kayak. The world looked fuzzier around the edges, like an old-fashioned photograph, although the colors weren’t variants of gray. They were more a muted pastel, airbrushed with powdered sugar.

  And, for the first time ever, it seemed, she couldn’t take time to focus on her stuttering, couldn’t take mental energy away from more pressing matters, like walking upright and in a straight line. Weird.

  Oh, and Rob was with her. Holding her.

  What a night. It seemed as if it should be unforgettable and, yet, she was already losing track of some of the details. Like how she’d ended up with Maria-Louisa’s group, or talking with that waiter Ivan, or at Hauser’s in the first place, and how much alcohol she’d consumed. And why Rob looked so very tense.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him.

  He laughed.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “That’s just funny.”

  She didn’t see why it should be so hilarious but, then again, who understood the minds of men?

  When they got to her apartment complex, Rob walked her up the stairs, riffled through her purse to locate her keys (because she just couldn’t find them but she was sure they were in there) and swept her into the place and onto the sofa.

  His face was really, really, unbelievably close to hers as he pulled off her shoes and laid her down on the cushions. She could see the dark shadow on his chin, the tiny whiskers bursting out of his tanned skin. His pores looked so huge—but they were a sexy huge. His eyelashes were maybe half a mile long. His hazel eyes had these little black speckles in them if you looked extra close. Kind of like staring at two very small double-chocolate chocolate chip cookies. Mmm.

  This whole drinking thing had a definite cool side. She could really see things that she would’ve missed before.

  Her gaze traveled to his lips. They were moving, talking, asking her something. She motioned him even closer, so as to get a super-magnified view of that amazing mouth. And, while he was up there, her lips thought they should connect with his. It wasn’t her idea. Really. Her lips were working with their own irrepressible logic.

  It was a warm, magical, delicious kiss. Like hot bread pudding with a dash of rum. She didn’t want to stop her lips from tasting more.

  Only, Rob stopped her.

  “What’re you doing?” he whispered, pulling away and breathing in this odd, almost winded manner.

  “I don’t know.”

  This was a pretty truthful answer because she didn’t know why her lips did the things they did tonight. She raised her head, her lips trying to touch his again. He leaned down and then, at the last second, snapped his head away. Huh.

  “I can’t kiss you, Elizabeth…or do anything else with you tonight.”

  His voice came out kind of strangled, she thought, but maybe her hearing had been affected by the margaritas right along with her eyesight.

  “Why not?” This was a reasonable question, right?

  But he sighed like it wasn’t reasonable. “Because you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

  She struggled with this logic but, try as she might, she couldn’t see the connection. How did drinking a couple of…three or four margaritas have anything to do with kissing? No relation that she could figure.

  “So?” she said.

  “So, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  He said this in that gentle voice parents used to try to get their boisterous darlings to go to bed when they should’ve really been in bed an hour before, but they just wouldn’t go and ended up being overtired and sort of hysterical. She always hated that voice when she was a kid.

  She tried being indignant. It wasn’t difficult and she kind of liked it. “I do too know what I’m doing.”

  He kissed her forehead. A feathery brush, but that was it. “Do not,” he countered. “Goodnight, Elizabeth. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. And you might want to take a couple of aspirins tonight with water, and drink lots and lots of coffee tomorrow morning. The strong, c
affeinated kind. See you at five-thirty for dinner.”

  Then he stepped back and regarded her with that very, very, exceptionally tense look again. His eyes squinty. His full, kissable lips pulled tight. A moment later, he turned and all but raced out the door.

  Huh.

  ***

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Elizabeth cradled her head in both hands, but the migraine-like aching was impressive in its intensity. It would stop for no woman. No aspirins. No caffeinated beverages either.

  The morning light shined unmercifully through her blinds, even when closed, and the sounds of the Father’s Day brunch bustle on the street clanged like enormous gongs, their voices like the rumble of deep bassoons in her ears.

  “Oh, my God,” she said aloud again.

  Her first hangover. So this was what one felt like. Not a repeater experience and, if she had any brain cells left, she’d try to remember that.

  She vaguely recalled being bored last night. At loose ends and in need of some adventure. Going out to Hauser’s. Seeing Tara, the nasty witch. Seeing Maria-Louisa, the friendly angel. Meeting a bunch of really nice, really funny strangers who were wild about Garth Brooks and who danced whenever one of his songs played in the bar. Having a laugh or two with that cute waiter. And then Rob taking her home…

  Did she really kiss Rob?

  No, she couldn’t have. She must’ve imagined it.

  Hard to keep straight what was merely a remnant of high-school fantasy and what was the current reality. She’d been slipping into daydreams about him again. Never a good sign.

  The phone across the room rang like a school bell. She clapped her hands over her ears, but it wouldn’t stop.

  “I know you’re there,” Gretchen’s obnoxiously cheery voice said on her answering machine. “Pick up, pick up.”

  Elizabeth struggled to get over to the phone, strained to pick it up. Damn. What a Good Girl she was. Always doing what she was told. Well, she didn’t last night.

  “Hi, Gretch.”

  A pause greeted her on the line. Then, “Do you have the flu or something?”

  “No.” Elizabeth explained her hangover in as few syllables as humanly possible.

  “You got drunk last night?” Gretchen roared.

  She moved the phone away from her ear and curled into a ball on the floor, but Gretchen kept talking and exclaiming.

  “You, the woman who considers drinking New Year’s Eve punch and eating English trifle with sherry on the same night ‘over-imbibing’?”

  Elizabeth groaned. “What’s your point in calling me on a day when you should be annoying your immediate family members instead? You have a father in good health. Go jabber at him.”

  “Already did that,” Gretchen said. “I’m an early riser. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Hmm—”

  “Nothing, right? So let’s have a Treat Swap. Jacques and I were talking about it yesterday. He said Nick was up for it after his closing shift. We could ask Rob if he wants to join us. I mean, if you want him to join us.”

  She groaned again and clutched her stomach. Rob… She’d talked with him about this not so long ago. About him tagging along for one. Snippets of that conversation were still in her long-term memory.

  “I guess he could come,” she said.

  “Okay. I switched shifts with Jacques for today, so I’ll be at Tutti-Frutti in an hour. I’ll tell Rob. Maybe we can put up the ‘Closed’ sign, shut all the blinds, light some candles and have our little party right there in the shop.”

  “Fine.” Oh, God, she was going to throw up.

  “Hey, can’t wait.” Gretchen’s delighted voice was too much for her to take. “I’ve been dying for an excuse to try these amazing little jam tartlets I saw in Feasting magazine—”

  Oh, cripes. Don’t talk about food. Please.

  “—and maybe some chocolate-covered Brazil nut clusters or strawberry-flavored truffles drizzled with a creamy—”

  NOT strawberries!

  “Bye, Gretchen.”

  She hung up and raced to the bathroom.

  ***

  Five-thirty and Rob’s nerves jangled like ice cubes in one of The Playbook’s crystal goblets. Five-thirty and the rain just transitioned from a light sprinkle to a downpour. Five-thirty and she wasn’t here yet.

  Damn.

  Five-thirty-five and Elizabeth’s stocky little Toyota pulled up in front of the shop.

  “Sorry. R-Running late,” she said, sprinting up to the sidewalk, her hair more frizzly than usual, cascading down her shoulders like rainwater off the awnings.

  Other than looking a bit paler than normal, though, she acted completely, frighteningly as if nothing had happened last night. As if she hadn’t gotten drunk, told him to his face (and without even stuttering) that she’d pick up Ivan another time but that he had a hot body. So she lured him into her apartment (well, okay, that part’s an exaggeration—he went in willingly) and then kissed the air out of him until he was forced, for honor’s sake, to put a halt to it.

  “Ready to go t-to your mom’s house?” she asked, holding out a fruit salad to take along and smiling at him pleasantly but with her typical aura of competent detachment.

  Oh, hell. Now he understood. She didn’t remember.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Man, had she been that drunk that she couldn’t recall the charge zipping through their bodies when their lips met? Or, maybe, hers didn’t feel that charge. Maybe this was a one-sided thing. Maybe…

  He needed to be more careful. Something was happening here. With him. She was beginning to get to him. And he didn’t like it.

  Dinner started. Dinner ended. Rob sat through it with the jarring disbelief he’d felt the first time he watched a movie through 3-D glasses. Everything was too overwhelming to see, to concentrate on, so he blanked out into a kind of hazy non-awareness.

  Mama talked nonstop about the Summerfest concert. Conversation from him was not required, even though Tony, Maria-Louisa and the kids weren’t there. (She was fixing him a special Father’s Day dinner at home.) How his five-foot-two, 110-pound sister-in-law could even stand straight today was the big mystery, but she’d been bright-eyed and cheery when he’d last seen her this morning.

  Women.

  He glanced at Elizabeth, hugging his mother goodbye. Strange, incomprehensible creatures. Who knew how their minds worked?

  His kissed Mama his thanks, too, and they hopped into his car.

  “Can we drop by m-my apartment for a minute?” she said.

  An icy fear ran through his fingers as he remembered the feel of her beneath him on the sofa last night. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Why?”

  “I n-need to pick up my dessert for the Treat Swap. You can wait in the car. I’ll be quick.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He’d been excited about this thing when Gretchen mentioned it this morning. He had his sweets stashed and ready to share at the shop already. Now his gut was churning a little, though, making him wish he hadn’t eaten that second helping of fettuccini primavera at Mama’s.

  When they walked into Tutti-Frutti, Gretchen and Nick were filling orders for nine teenagers, a family of five and an older couple. They looked swamped, so he grabbed an apron and an ice cream scoop and dug in.

  “Thanks, Rob,” Gretchen said. “But I’ve got another five minutes left on the clock.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I want to help.” Well, he wanted to have something productive to do with his hands or he might grab Elizabeth and pin her against the wall.

  He stole a long glance at her as she swung open the refrigerator to store whatever dessert she’d brought over. She caught him looking at her legs and sent him a mystified but kind of distracted smile.

  He still couldn’t believe it. Not a single meaningful reaction in over two freaking hours. She remembered nothing. Nothing!

  He attacked the Mocha Madness, giving the five-year-old kid a scoop so large the little guy’s
eyes crossed. A couple of teens saw this, left Nick’s line and crossed over into his.

  Jacques walked in carrying an aluminum-foil-covered tray.

  “Hello, everyone,” the Frenchman said. “Looks like the party’s starting early.”

  And, to Rob’s amazement, this appeared to be true. Jacques came early, Gretchen didn’t run out when the clock struck eight and Elizabeth didn’t hightail it home to write. They all just hung around with him and Nick during their shift, pitching in with orders, chatting in a lighthearted, neutral way when the customers were there and in a baser, more personal manner when they weren’t. Nick, especially, had a mouth on him, talking and digging up stuff like a Roto Rooter.

  At about ten minutes before closing, when things were winding down, Nick said to the group, “I gotta tell you all, when this guy first came back to town—” He gestured at Rob. “I thought for sure he’d be some arrogant, hotshot ex-Wilmington Bay dude, a quarterback legend and all, but too far into his own super-cool world that he wouldn’t stick around to see this gig through for the month. But—”

  “What?” Rob said, having already been good-naturedly attacked six times in the past hour about his choice of pricey casual wear, his taste in gourmet coffee and haute cuisine, his quick departure from the rarified environment of southeastern Wisconsin when he was eighteen and whatever else Nick wanted to rib him about.

  Nick held up his palm. “Wait, wait. But, I was just going to say, that you surprised me, man. I think you surprised all of us. Hanging out here for the past few weeks, working so hard, getting into town life. You done us proud.”

  “Well, uh, thanks,” he said. What else could he say? Nice of you to mention my sense of duty, but no way am I hanging around here for twenty-four hours longer than I have to. Yep. That’d go over well.

  Nick pointed at Elizabeth and laughed. “And she was so nervous about you coming here. Now aren’t you glad it all worked out this way?” he said to her.