The Cinderella Deal

by Jennifer Crusie

  “What happened to Etain?” he asked, knowing it was going to be horrible.

  “A jealous witch turned her into a butterfly, and she got blown into a wineglass and a beautiful queen drank her.”

  Linc nodded, trying to be supportive. “Drank her.”

  “Yes. And then nine months later the queen gave birth to a baby girl, and Etain’s lover waited for her to grow up again so he could marry her. Then they lived happily ever after. Something horrible happened to the witch, but I can’t remember what. Her name was Fuamach; you’d think that would be enough of a punishment.”

  “Are all your paintings about horrible things?”

  Daisy pulled away, surprised. “These aren’t horrible. These have happy endings. Lizzie was never convicted, and Etain lived happily ever after forever with Mider. I can’t do the really unhappy ones. I tried to paint Deirdre once, but I ended up burning the canvas.”

  The memory of it clouded her face, and Linc found himself wanting to know all about her paintings because it was telling him so much about her. “What happened to Deirdre?”

  “A man she didn’t like forced her to marry him, and she killed herself.”

  Linc looked down at her, startled, but she was gazing serenely at Lizzie, apparently without ulterior motive. “The peach dress is nice, isn’t it? It looks like Victorian passion.”

  He looked back at the painting. “Was Lizzie passionate?”

  “You’d have to be pretty passionate to hack up your father and stepmother, wouldn’t you?”

  “I thought she wasn’t convicted.”

  “She wasn’t, but I still think she did it.” Daisy gave her alter ego one last look and then turned to survey the living room. “I covered up the holes and the cracks in the furniture. You really can’t tell, can you?”

  “It looks great,” he said sincerely, and then shot one last nervous glance over his shoulder at Lizzie.

  Daisy was moving on, like a blur of brightness through the pastel room. “I’m buying flowers this afternoon. And I’m making stew in case anyone wants to eat when they get here.”

  Linc tensed. Stew. That was bad; these people didn’t eat stew, they ate coq au vin. “They won’t want to eat. Forget the stew and we’ll just have drinks.”

  Daisy looked apologetic, and he kicked himself for being so blatant, but all she said was “We’d better set up a bar on the buffet, then.”

  “Make a note to pick up liquor,” he told her, and went into the dining room to see how much space there was on the buffet. Over it was a primitive still life of a table covered with blue and white checks. The table held a vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit, and a glass of pink wine. He leaned closer. There was definitely a butterfly in the wine.

  He sighed, and then he started to laugh. Lizzie Borden in the living room and a drowned butterfly in the dining room. The place looked like Better Homes & Gardens, but it was really Charles Addams. He looked over at the flower garlands that graced the hall, wondering what details they hid. “This is really great,” he told her when she’d followed him. He patted her shoulder. “Cute. You did a good job. Uh, did you hide anything in the flowers and stuff on the walls?”

  “No.” Daisy stopped, clearly intrigued. “That’s a good idea. This place is too boring. I could …”

  “No, no.” Linc waved his hand at her. “It’s great just as it is. Really.” He looked around again and was surprised to realize he was telling the truth. “It really is. Nice going, Daize.”

  Linc’s praise meant more to Daisy than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t easy being Daisy Blaise. She slaved over the party, making lists of things that had to be done and leaving reminders for herself all over the house on multicolored sticky notes, and then made sure that every line on every list was crossed off and every note was followed, finished, and thrown away before anyone arrived. It wasn’t her style, and it made her crazy and tense and tired, but she was Linc’s wife, throwing Linc’s party, and she was terrified she’d screw it up, so she watched him for clues. She’d almost served stew until she’d seen Linc’s face when she mentioned it. They’d need cloth napkins and wine sauce, and it wasn’t much consolation that she always threw some wine in her stew. She didn’t think that uncorking the bottle and slopping some in counted as wine sauce, so she left the Crock-Pot on low in case she and Linc were hungry after everyone left and concentrated on getting the house as clean and polished as possible.

  An hour before they left for the faculty club, she sat on her bed in her white dress and shook from the tension. It was going to be awful. She’d be on display, just as she used to be with her father. Chickie would be nice no matter what, and Booker and Lacey and Evan would be too, but they’d know she wasn’t right, wasn’t their kind of people, and that would be terrible for Linc. And Crawford was such a snob, he’d say something. And Caroline …

  I should never have done this, she thought. I can’t be like these people. I’ll never fit in and I’ll embarrass Linc and—

  “Daisy?” Linc called, and she took deep breaths, the way he’d taught her, and went out to join him.

  She stayed quiet and polite all evening, terrified she’d do the wrong thing, and Chickie and Lacey both asked her if she was all right. “Just fine,” she said brightly, and Evan said, “You probably have something catching,” and wandered off to the buffet more from momentum than fear of disease. By the end of the evening Daisy had relaxed a little, but she clutched again when they got back from the club, and they all came into the house.

  Evan came to her rescue in the living room without really meaning to. “This painting is really excellent.” Evan peered closely at Lizzie’s house. “Of course, the artist will never receive the recognition he’s due since it’s a primitive, but it’s excellent. Who did it?”

  “I did,” Daisy said.

  Evan’s eyebrows rose above his glasses. “Did you do the collages in the hall too?”

  “Yes.” Daisy relaxed again, but she kept an eye on Caroline while she talked. Linc might be determined to say no, but Caroline looked pretty determined too, drawing Linc down onto the flowered couch with her. Speaking of determined … she turned back to Evan. “Julia gave me the idea for the collages.”

  “Then you should invite her to see them,” Evan said with uncharacteristic firmness. “Invite her soon.”

  “All right.” Julia and Evan. Daisy shook her head.

  Evan seemed a little taken aback by his own audacity and changed the subject. “Do you sell your work?”

  “I try, but not since I’ve come to Prescott.”

  “It’s quite good. You should take it to the gallery and show it to Bill. I’d like to see your other things sometime, if I may.” Then, as if he realized he was sounding optimistic, he added, “Although you probably won’t want to show them to me.”

  “Of course I want to show them to you.” Daisy put her arm around him. There was something about Evan that made you want to comfort him, something beyond his rampant gloom. “Are you hungry?” she asked without thinking. “I made stew.”

  “Yes.” Evan turned toward the kitchen bravely. “It will probably give me heartburn, but I am hungry, and I would like some stew.”

  The Bookers followed them into the kitchen.

  “Daisy, this house is darling,” Lacey said.

  “Something smells really good in here,” her husband said pointedly.

  “I made stew,” Daisy said, and forgot about Linc and gourmet cooking. “Would you like some?”

  Crawford had trailed along after them. “Nothing like a little woman who can cook,” he said, and when Chickie stuck her head in the door to see what they were doing, she agreed.

  “You’re just going to have to give me that recipe, honey.”

  “Better taste it first.” Daisy handed Chickie a stack of bowls, Lacey the silverware, and Booker the paper napkins. “We’re not formal here,” she told them. She handed Evan the Crock-Pot and shooed them all into the dining room.

  She went back fo
r a pitcher of milk and a basket of bread and came out in time to hear Booker say, “There are whole mushrooms in here.” He speared one with his fork. “Real, whole mushrooms.”

  Linc and Caroline joined them, and Daisy watched with her fingers crossed as they sat crowded around the big oak table and talked about the paintings and the house and the food.

  Caroline sat next to Linc. “This is really wonderful.” She looked over at Daisy, her head almost touching Linc’s shoulder. “It must be terrific to be a housewife and do all these little decorating and cooking things. My apartment is just wall-to-wall books and a microwave.”

  “Thank you,” Daisy said. Drop dead, Caroline.

  “Daisy’s a painter,” Linc said. “She’s not a housewife; she’s an artist.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a housewife,” Daisy said over her bowl. “It’s an art too. I just don’t have the concentration to sustain it. Linc gets food when I remember to cook it and feeds himself when I don’t.”

  “I like it that way.” Linc smiled at her.

  She smiled back at him. Put that in your pipe, Caroline. And then get out of my house.

  Jupiter came down to see everyone as they were leaving.

  “My God, what is that?” Caroline shrieked.

  “That’s Jupiter.” Daisy glared at her. “My dog.”

  Caroline smirked and looked over at Linc to exchange mutual glances of contempt, but he wasn’t playing.

  “Jupiter’s an original.” Linc looked down at the dog with pride. “He’s not one of those soulless pure-breds.”

  Jupiter lurched on his bad hip and fell over sideways.

  “No, that he isn’t,” Booker agreed. “What is he anyway?”

  “Part beagle,” Daisy said. “And part a few other things.”

  “He looks like he’s been recycled,” Evan said. “A very practical dog.”

  “A dog with personality.” Lacey Booker bent down to pet him. Jupiter rolled over on his back in ecstasy.

  “What a sweet baby,” Chickie said.

  “We’ve got to be going.” Crawford hugged Daisy, letting his hand slide down to her rear end.

  After their good-byes, Daisy closed the door behind them with a sigh. “If we could lose Crawford and Caroline, we’d have a very nice group of people there.”

  Linc loosened his tie and started up the stairs. “Well, we can’t.”

  Daisy folded her arms and called after him. “She keeps undressing you with her eyes, and he keeps groping my rear.”

  Linc turned back. “In that case, I’m a lot more worried about him. I’ll say something to him tomorrow.”

  “No.” Daisy let her arms drop. “Forget it. I was just kidding. How was it, do you think? Was it all right, the stew and all?”

  “It was great.” Linc started back up the stairs. “You really pulled it off. Good going, Daize.”

  “Thanks,” she said a little sadly to his retreating back. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear from him, but somehow, what he’d said wasn’t enough. Maybe a pat on the back. Maybe a big hug. Maybe …

  Forget it, she told herself. He’s cold, cold, cold.

  She washed the dishes and checked to make sure she’d finished her list of things to do for the day before she went up to bed. She felt very organized and very adult and very alone, and she missed Daisy Flattery more than she could say.

  Daisy’s life after the party fell into an easy rhythm, and she began to lose her Daisy Flattery regrets.

  At six they’d jog, Daisy eventually building up enough stamina to keep running for the whole hour. Then they’d have breakfast, and Linc would work on his book, and Daisy would go back to bed, crawling into the rumpled sheets with a pleasure that was almost sexual. Linc left for the college every day at nine, and Daisy got up again every day at noon and worked on the house, painting secret things in the garlands on the walls and furniture that first appalled and then amused Linc. They had dinner together at six, talking about her paintings of driven women and his book of rebellious women. It was Daisy’s favorite part of the day, and she thought it might be Linc’s too, because he was never late and he never tried to hurry her through the meal or took his food upstairs on a tray. She was learning so much from him, not just about his book but about her own work. He brought her home pictures of Rosa Parks so she could finish the painting, and he talked with her about the ideas she wanted to use, what they meant to him, which helped her figure out what they meant to her. They talked about his book too, about birth control and what it meant to women, and he asked her questions and listened to her answers, even once saying, “Wait a minute, I want to write that down,” and leaving the table for pencil and paper while she went dizzy with pride and pleasure. She’d never known conversation could be so intense and so satisfying and so ultimately frustrating, because making conversation with him told her what making love with him would be like, just as intimate and intense.

  After dinner Linc worked on his book until eleven, and Daisy took her frustration upstairs and painted until three or four in the morning, first Rosa Parks and then, inspired by Linc, Margaret Sanger. The Sanger painting was different somehow, angrier in the reds and blacks she found herself using and the sharp forms with which she surrounded the intense central figure draped in gray, her tiny black eyes like tiny black holes in the canvas.

  “That’s amazing,” Linc said when she showed it to him in November. “That’s my book. If I sell this book, maybe we could use it for the cover design. Would you mind?”

  And Daisy had shook her head no because she was too dazzled to talk.

  “I like your other stuff too,” he told her before he went back to his room to write, “but this is something different. You’re really growing here.”

  I am, Daisy thought. Not enough yet, she still wasn’t where she should be, but the Sanger painting was stronger than her earlier work. The deal was working.

  Except I want it all, she told herself. I love the intellectual stuff we have, but I want the physical stuff too.

  Maybe one night when they were talking, arguing passionately about some idea, she could just lean over and kiss him. She tried to tell herself the story, how Linc would sweep her into his arms and say, “My God, how could I have been so blind?” but it wouldn’t come out true somehow. That wasn’t Linc. He’d be embarrassed and pull back and he’d take his meals on a tray and she’d lose the wonderful conversations she counted on. It was the first time she couldn’t make a story come out right, and it rattled her a little.

  You have more right now than most women have ever dreamed of, she told herself. Don’t get greedy.

  Linc wasn’t sure when he first realized he’d lost his grip on his story. The realization came gradually, built up in short encounters like the day he answered the front door to find a little old lady dressed in three different brightly colored cardigans and a lime green skirt. She handed him a pie and said, “This is for Daisy. You must be Linc. You have a lovely wife.” She peered up at him. “Reminds me of myself when I was young.”

  She dresses like you too, Linc thought, but all he said was “Thank you, Mrs.—uh …”

  “Armbruster. You tell Daisy I said thank you.”

  “I certainly will.”

  He took the pie into the kitchen and put it on the counter in front of Daisy. “Who’s Mrs. Armbruster?”

  “Our next door neighbor on the right. She’s very nice. I helped her with her lawn mower yesterday. She said she was going to make us a rhubarb pie.”

  This is not what I had in mind, Linc thought, but he didn’t say anything and Daisy went on. “Mr. Antonelli lives on our other side. He used to teach romance languages at the college before he retired. He said we needed to put potassium on our dogwood or it won’t bloom. And Dr. Banks lives across the street. He helped me catch Annie when she got out the other day. Next to him is …”

  “Daisy?” Linc gritted his teeth to keep from saying something tactless like Please don’t let people know how weird
you are, but Daisy read his mind anyway and flushed.

  “I know. I’m supposed to lie low. But these are our neighbors. We have to be neighborly.”

  He thought about saying, no, we don’t, but telling Daisy not to be neighborly was like telling Jupiter not to get fleas. They both meant well, but they just naturally attracted other living beings to them.

  Then Evan came to him at school and asked if it was all right that he was dropping by the yellow house three or four times a week in the afternoon. He assured Linc his attentions were honorable, and Linc nodded, bemused by the thought of Evan seducing Daisy. Crawford mentioned that Chickie sure enjoyed having lunch with Daisy every day, and shortly after that Booker told him that Lacey was coming over in the afternoons to help Daisy paint ivy leaves in the bathroom so she could learn to do them in her dining room. “Do I want ivy in my dining room?” Booker asked him, and Linc said, “If Lacey wants it there, do you have a choice?”

  He’d also lost his grip on keeping his professional and personal lives separate. Daisy argued with him about bringing his tutorial students home to work in the dining room like the other professors did, and he finally gave in just to end the argument. After that, students regularly stopped by and used the dining room as a study table, checking out the cookie jar to see if Daisy had felt like baking, baking themselves if she hadn’t. Linc worried that they’d bother her, cut into her painting time, but she told him that she liked them, and that they were very respectful of her work.

  Olivia, one of the students, told Linc, “You think they’re just pretty pictures, but they have whole lives in them, wonderful lives of weird women who do something strong and important and dangerous. And they’re always true.” She’d stopped for a moment and then said, “You’ve probably already noticed this, but they’re all like Daisy.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Linc had said a little stiffly. There was something so intimate about Daisy’s painting that discussing it with a student seemed wrong, invasive, personal, and Olivia had looked at him sadly before she went back to the study table.