Kitabı oku: «What Phoebe Wants», sayfa 3
“He’s that good, huh? So, are you gonna go out with him?”
“I’m not going out with him. He’s just a kid.” I swiveled the chair around so suddenly Darla missed my head altogether and a big blob of the fake-blood-looking hair color landed on my shoulder and dripped down the front of the cape.
Darla wiped at the spilled color with an old towel. “Twenty-six is not a kid. And he’s only six years younger than you. Just because you married an old man when you were nineteen doesn’t make you old. Besides, haven’t you heard that younger men and older women are more compatible sexually? There was a therapist on Oprah last week talking about it.”
Maybe six years didn’t sound like much to most people, but it felt like more than six years to me. I was mature for my age. Though come to think of it, that doesn’t sound like the compliment now that it did when I was nineteen. “Darla, he’s installing some computer equipment in my office. There isn’t anything sexual about that.”
“Sure there’s not.” Her expression told me she didn’t buy it. “He’s just a hot young stud who is interested enough in you to notice a love bite from another man on your neck and comment on it. And you’ve just spent ten minutes protesting how impossible it would be for you to have the slightest interest in him. That’s longer than you’ve talked about any man other than Steve the sleaze.”
I glared at her in the mirror. She laughed. “All right, I’ll drop the subject if you tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?” I was still suspicious. Darla had a way of getting confessions out of me that I didn’t want to give.
“Did this Jeff guy have anything to do with your sudden decision to become a redhead?” She pointed at my reflection in the mirror. “And be honest.”
“It didn’t have anything to do with Jeff.” I smoothed the cape across my lap. “I’ve thought about this for years.”
“Then why didn’t you do it before?”
“Steve wouldn’t let me.” Even as I said the words, I knew they sounded pathetic.
“What did he do, lock you in the house and threaten to take away your car keys?” She shook her head and made clucking noises under her tongue. “Sorry. I just can’t stand it when men try to tell their wives what they can’t do with their hair or their clothes or anything like that. It’s like they think women are children who need to be kept in line.”
“Steve always told me he liked my hair just the way it was,” I said wistfully. In fact, the first thing he ever said to me was “Hey beautiful, do blondes really have more fun?”
Okay, so it wasn’t a great pickup line. I was nineteen at the time. Steve was thirty and I thought he was suave and sophisticated. I didn’t care what he said to me as long as he said something.
“Well, I’m glad you decided to do this.” Darla set her minute timer and grinned at me. “It’s going to look great. So why now? What happened to make you decide to do it today?
I managed a smile in return. “You might say I owe it all to some samples of Viagra.”
“Viagra? The sex pill? Are they giving it to women now?”
“Nope. And a certain troublemaking man won’t be taking it, either.” I told her about swiping the doctor’s samples and dumping them down the toilet. “It was sneaky,” I concluded. “But it sure felt good.”
“Sneaky? It was brilliant. And it serves him right, the old lecher.”
“I’m sure he’ll just get more samples, but it makes me feel like I have a little power over him now. I know his big secret.”
“Speaking of secrets, I have some more news about your ex and Just-a-waitress.”
I squirmed in the chair, remembering the last “news” Darla had told me. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
“You’re going to know soon enough, anyhow. When she was in here she also told Henry that she and Steve-o are getting married.”
My stomach clenched and I locked my jaw, freezing my face into what I hoped was an indifferent expression. I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering that they were going to have a baby, but the information hit me like a punch. “Oh, hon.” Darla put her hand on my shoulder. “You didn’t really want him back, did you?”
I shook my head so hard little drops of color spattered across the front of Darla’s smock. “No. Never.” I didn’t want him back. But Steve marrying someone else was the final evidence that a chapter in my life was over. He was moving on, but what was I doing? I lived in the same house, held the same job, did the same things and I was still alone.
“Come on over here to the shampoo bowl.” Darla nudged me toward the back of the shop. “If you like, I do a pretty good rendition of ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair.”’
A bit of a smile broke through my gloom. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
She patted my shoulder. “You’ll feel better once you see the new you. I guarantee a certain younger man is going to be hot for you once he sees you in red.”
“It’s been a long time since anyone was even lukewarm,” I said. “I don’t see why Jeff should be any different.”
“But you want him to be, don’t you?” She put her face close to mine, staring into my eyes. “Don’t lie, Phoebe Elaine Frame.”
I shrugged. “Sure, I’d be flattered if some gorgeous young stud thought I was all that. But it’s not going to happen.”
“It could.”
“Even if it does, I don’t think it would be smart to get involved with him.”
She turned on the water and tested the temperature against her wrist. “Who said anything about smart? What you want at this point in your life is fun. You haven’t had nearly enough of that lately. Sounds like young Jeff could be just the ticket.”
One way or round trip? I wondered as warm water cascaded over my scalp. Or did it really matter? If I was only going along for a pleasure cruise, did it really matter where it took me or how long it lasted?
4
I HAD A HARD TIME KEEPING my eyes on the road on the way home that evening. I kept tilting my head to look in the rear-view mirror at the stranger who stared back at me. Oh, she had the eyes, mouth and nose I was used to seeing when I looked at my reflection, but she also had a gorgeous head of shiny, copper-colored hair. I smiled every time I saw this “other” me. Suddenly, my eyes were bluer, my skin looked creamier. And all because of a change in hair color. “Who would have thought?” I murmured, and forced my gaze back to the road. I couldn’t wait to show off my new look at work tomorrow. What would Jeff say?
I smiled, imagining his reaction. I was still smiling when an ominous clunk sounded from beneath the hood, followed by a horrifying grinding noise. I put on my blinker and steered onto the shoulder. The grinding grew louder and I shut off the engine and stared out the front windshield. A bitter odor wafted up through the air-conditioning vents.
A string of choice curses fought to climb up my throat, but what came out of my mouth was “OhGodohGodohGod.” I bailed out of the car and hurried to pop the hood. The acrid odor was stronger. Was it my imagination, or did the whole engine appear to be leaning to one side?
I backed away, eyeing the car warily. The urge to kick something was strong, but I’m superstitious about cars. I think they can sense when you’re upset with them, and mechanical failure is their chief way to get back at you.
Yeah, I know people say cars can’t think, but who says they don’t have intuition? The minute you begin to hate one, they know it and will make your life miserable.
I stomped to the shoulder and looked out at the traffic flying past. Someone would stop soon and maybe they’d have a phone I could use to call a wrecker.
A pickup sped by so close its tires slung gravel at me. A chorus of catcalls and whistles sailed toward me.
Cars honked. Men whistled. One made an obscene gesture. Another man yelled that he was in love with me. Women looked the other way. Some even changed lanes so they wouldn’t have to drive on my side of the road. But no one stopped.
So much for chivalry or Good Samaritans. I searched the shoulder for a good-size rock. The next idiot who made a rude suggestion was going to get it in the windshield.
I’d found what I thought was a good weapon when a black pickup slowed and pulled in behind me. “Thank God,” I said, walking toward the truck. “I thought no one was going to st—”
The door opened and a pair of long legs in tan slacks emerged, followed by a pair of broad shoulders and strong arms. I swallowed and grinned weakly. “Hello, Jeff. Imagine meeting you here.”
He took a long time looking at me, his gaze traveling from the tips of my pink-painted toenails to the top of my coppery hair. “I like it,” he said at last. “Very sexy.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant my new hair color or me in general, but I didn’t dare ask. “What do you know about cars?”
“A little.”
I followed him around to my upraised hood. He looked at it for a moment, then leaned in and wiggled something. Then he slammed the hood. “Broken motor mount,” he said.
“Is that expensive to fix?” Who was I kidding? Everything about cars is expensive to fix.
“Shouldn’t be too bad. How long have you had the car?”
“I just got it yesterday.”
“Then it should be under some kind of dealer warranty. I’d take it back to where you bought it.” He slipped a phone from his shirt pocket. “We’ll call a wrecker to tow it to the dealer.”
“Won’t they be closed?” It was almost seven.
“If it is, the wrecker driver can leave it in the yard and you can stop by tomorrow to arrange everything.” He punched in a number. “What’s the name of the dealer?”
“Easy Motors. Over on Alameda.”
He made a face, then spoke to someone on the line. “Ben? This is Jeff Fischer. I’ve got a friend here who has a Mustang with a broken motor mount. Can you tow it for her to an Easy Motors, over on Alameda?”
He gave the driver directions, then disconnected. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“Thanks.” Now that the car was taken care of, it felt awkward standing here with him. Cars raced past, stirring up dust that blew back at us in a hot wind.
He took my arm and steered me toward his truck. “Let’s wait inside.”
The truck was clean and relatively new. It smelled of leather and Jeff’s cologne. I sat on the edge of the seat, next to the door and found myself imagining what it would feel like to lie back in that cool leather seat, with Jeff slowly undressing me….
See what kind of trouble hormones will get you into? I crossed my arms and my legs and wondered if Jeff would think I was strange if I asked him to turn up the air conditioner. The air in that cab was definitely too warm.
“So, Red.” He turned toward me, grinning. “Did I ever tell you I have a thing for redheads?”
My heart pounded. “Uh…what kind of thing?”
He slid his hand along the back of the seat, toward me. “I think they’re very…exciting.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not an exciting person.” But I was definitely getting excited. I squeezed my legs together and tucked my hair behind my ears. “So, did you finish installing the transcription system?”
His grin never faltered. “Don’t think you’re going to get rid of me that easily. I’m under contract to stick around and teach you how to use the new software.”
I swallowed hard, imagining hours spent in my little cubicle with Mr. Testosterone. “I’ve been a transcriptionist for years. What’s to learn?”
His eyes darkened and his voice lowered. “Oh, I’m betting I could teach you a lot.”
He moved a little closer. I couldn’t decide whether to scream or throw myself at him. Throwing myself at him was definitely winning out when a horn sounded behind us and a purple-and-black wrecker pulled alongside.
We climbed out of the truck and met the wrecker driver beside my car. He was a whip-thin man with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, his denim work shirt rolled up to reveal arms corded with muscle. “Hey, Jeff. How’s your old man?”
“Doing great, Ben. Thanks for coming out. This is Phoebe Frame.”
Ben nodded, then turned to the car. “You bought this from Easy Motors?”
I nodded. “I’ve only had it since yesterday, so it’s still under warranty—isn’t it?”
Ben made a noise that might have been laughter. “Good luck getting anything out of that bunch.”
I retrieved my purse and Ben hooked the car up to the wrecker. I started to climb in beside him, but Jeff pulled me back. “Ben can take care of it. I’ll drive you home.”
I didn’t think that was a good idea, but before I could say anything, I heard clanking chains and tires on gravel and Ben pulled out into traffic, my Mustang hoisted behind him like the catch of the day.
“Okay. Thanks.” At least driving, he’d have to keep his hands to himself. As for me, I could always sit on my hands.
“I’m starved. Let’s get something to eat.”
Eating was too much like a date. I was not going to date Jeff. “I really need to get home,” I said.
“You have kids?”
The question jolted me. “Uh…no.”
“Good.”
Good? “Why is that good?” Was the world infested with men who didn’t like children?
“It means you don’t need to get home. And everybody has to eat, don’t they?”
We ended up at a place called Pizza Junction, which combined Old West decor with Italian food in a sort of spaghetti Western theme. “You’ve eaten here before?” I asked as we made our way past bales of hay festooned with braids of garlic.
“It’s very good.” He slid into a booth and I sat across from him. “I recommend the Lariat Special.”
I ordered a Diet Coke and agreed to split the Lariat Special with Jeff. He apparently wasn’t a man who believed in small talk. As soon as the waitress brought our drinks, he looked me over and asked, “How long have you been divorced?”
I stripped the paper from a straw and wadded it into a knot, avoiding his gaze. “Six months. We were separated six months before that.” Anticipating the next question, and wanting to get it over with, I added. “We were married twelve years.”
“Was it your idea, or his?”
I had to hand it to Jeff; he had nerve. I imagined him tackling computer problems this way: find out everything you can so that you approach the problem armed with information. I could have told him these things were none of his business, but why bother? It wasn’t as if I had any real secrets to hide. “It was his idea. He said he didn’t want to be married anymore.” I swished my straw around in my Diet Coke. “He has a young girlfriend now.”
He took a long pull on his beer. “He’s crazy.”
“Because he left, or because he took up with a younger woman?”
“Both. What could a younger woman offer that you couldn’t?”
He sounded so certain of right and wrong here. So naive. “You don’t understand now, but one day you will. Of course, right now, younger women for you are in high school.”
He leaned back against the booth. “I’ve always been partial to older women.”
“Then go visit the nursing home.”
He grinned. “Touchy, touchy. You know what I mean.”
The arrival of our pizza saved me from having to find an answer to that. Jeff was telling me he was interested in me and I couldn’t deny the powerful physical attraction I felt for him.
As we worked our way around the pizza, I turned the conversation to safer topics. I found out Jeff owned the company that distributed the software I was going to be using, as well as a number of other medical and dental programs. He had a small office with a few employees and spent most of his time in medical offices, selling or setting up new systems.
“Is every office as much of a soap opera as ours?” I asked.
“Pretty much.” He looked thoughtful. “They’re mostly women, you know, so it’s always interesting for a new man to enter in to the mix.”
“I’d think you’d enjoy the attention.”
His grin returned. “Oh, I do. I certainly do.”
He managed to eat most of the large pizza, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him that I could see. I’d confined myself to two pieces and hoped all that cheese wouldn’t translate itself into an extra inch on my hips by Friday.
It was almost nine o’clock by the time Jeff drove me home. I sat against the passenger door, staring out at the dark streets and thought of all the times some boy had driven me home from a date in high school. I had the same feeling now, that sort of jittery, sick-to-my-stomach sensation, anticipating whether or not he would kiss me, and what I would do if he tried. You’d think, at my age, I’d be over that kind of nervousness, but apparently it had come back to haunt me, like post-adolescent acne.
I had my door open seconds after the truck turned into my drive, but Jeff was almost as quick. “I’ll walk you to your door,” he said.
He came around the truck and tried to take my arm, but I shied away. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” I fumbled in my purse, looking for my keys.
“You’ve been jumpy all evening. What’s your problem? What is it about me that you especially don’t like?”
“It’s not you in particular,” I said, and headed up the walk. “It’s just…I haven’t had the best of luck with men lately.”
“Not all men are jerks like your husband.”
I thought of Dr. Patterson and the man who groped me in the elevator. “Just most of the ones I know.”
I started to unlock the door, but he covered my hand with his own. “I’m not like them.”
I sighed. “You say that, but your mind works like theirs.”
“How can you say that? You don’t even know me that well.”
He was leaning very close, and his eyes were dark with a desire that both frightened and thrilled me. “I know you’re probably going to try to kiss me right now,” I whispered, any intention I’d ever had of refusing him vanished from my mind.
He took a step back and shook his head. “I don’t think so. The mood you’re in, you’d probably bite my lips off.”
He turned away and I sagged against the door. “Good night, Phoebe,” he called when he reached his truck.
When he was gone, I let myself inside. I told myself I’d talked my way out of a tight spot. After all, I really didn’t want to start anything with Jeff.
But the part of me that never lied wished I’d let him kiss me.
5
THE NEXT MORNING, I was waiting at Easy Motors when they opened the doors. A teenage receptionist with allergies greeted me with a smile that soon faltered when I told her I’d bought a car there a few days before and now it needed a repair.
“You’ll have to talk to Frank,” she said, reaching for the phone. “He’s in charge of that.”
In charge of what? I wondered.
“Mr. A-dams,” the receptionist whined into the phone. “We have a customer out here with a prob-lem.”
A few moments later, a man in a rumpled brown suit came into the room, hand extended. His grin was too large for his face, wrapping around his cheeks toward his ears. “You’re the owner of that little Mustang they towed in last night, aren’t you?” he gushed. “Darling car. I can tell by looking it suits you to a tee. Come into my office and we’ll fix you right up.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and steered me toward a glass-fronted cubicle that reeked of stale cigars and onions. Sweeping aside a stack of dog-eared repair manuals, he pushed me into a folding chair and took his own seat behind a green metal desk. “Now, how can we help you?”
I tried a smile of my own. “It’s simple, really. I bought my car here two days ago and last night it broke down. A friend told me it looked like a broken motor mount. So I had it towed here to be fixed.”
Friendly Frank nodded and plucked a multipart form from a stack on his desk. “We can do that. We can do that. Fix you right up.” He began writing furiously on the form, pausing twice to punch numbers into an ancient adding machine at his side. The machine whirred and clacked and unreeled a stream of yellowed paper. Frank added a final figure and pushed the form toward me. “Sign at the bottom and we’ll get right to work.”
Numbers danced down the page in cramped script. My gaze fixed on the figure at the bottom. “Four hundred and seventy-two dollars!” I shoved the paper back toward him, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry. I must not have made myself clear. This repair should be covered under the dealer’s warranty.”
Frank’s smile vanished. “Your car is seven years old, and there’s no such thing as a warranty on a car that old.”
“But I’ve only had it two days.”
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t make the rules, lady. I just enforce them. Now, do you want the repair or not?”
“Not!” I stood. “I’ll take the car somewhere else.”
“Fine.” He handed me a second form. “That’ll be eighty-nine, ninety-seven.”
“For what? You haven’t done anything.”
“Storage fees.”
“This is outrageous.”
“Don’t blame me because you bought an older car. You should have opted for one of our premium models.”
“This is not my fault,” I protested.
“What do you know about cars, Mrs. Frame?”
I glared at him, but didn’t answer.
He rose and patted me on the shoulder. “Do yourself a favor. Next time you go shopping for a car, bring a man along.”
I jerked open the door and stormed into the lobby once more. “I want to see the manager,” I told the receptionist.
Her eyes widened. “Mr. Adams is the manager.”
I turned and saw Frank smiling at me. Not the cheery grin with which he’d greeted me, but the look of a sly fox.
I wanted to rip that smile right off his face. I wanted to scream, to throw punches, to do something to make him quit looking at me as if I were a bug and he was about to squash me.
I didn’t have the strength to beat him up or the clout to make him afraid of me, so I did the only thing I knew to do. I gave him the haughtiest look I could manage. “This isn’t the end of this,” I announced, and stomped out the door.
I stalked down the sidewalk, my shoes slapping against the concrete, sending tremors up my legs. My stomach churned and my heart raced. I hated this feeling of helplessness. No matter what Frank said, Easy Motors had cheated me. But there was nothing I could do. They had my car. They had the six thousand dollars I had paid for the car. And unless I gave them more money, I wasn’t going to have the money or the car again.
“Aaaargh!” I yelled in frustration. A man on a bicycle stared at me and swerved across the street to avoid me. I didn’t care.
I took a deep breath and deliberately slowed my steps. “Don’t fall apart, Phoebe,” I muttered. “Think this through. There has to be something you can do.”
I started to feel a little better. I wasn’t going to let Frank Adams and Easy Motors get to me. If they were going to fight dirty, then I would fight dirty, too. I didn’t have much experience, but I was a fast learner.
MY MOOD HADN’T IMPROVED MUCH by the time I arrived at work, but my co-workers’ enthusiastic reaction to my new hair color made me feel a little better. Of course, there’s always a spoilsport in every bunch. Joan Lee made a face when she saw me. “I don’t think it suits you,” she said. “Too flamboyant.”
“I can be flamboyant,” I protested.
“Transcriptionists are not flamboyant,” Joan announced, as if this was a fact obvious to everyone but an idiot.
“Maybe red hair is just a start.” I tossed my head in what I hoped was a confident, flamboyant manner. “Maybe I’m thinking of changing careers.”
Joan shook her head and walked away. I could see my next job evaluation. Hair color not suited to job description.
I filled my coffee mug and headed toward my cubicle. Jeff met me in the hallway. He grinned. “I think there’s a flamboyant Phoebe underneath your mild-mannered guise as an ordinary transcriptionist,” he said.
The idea pleased me, but I wasn’t about to let him know it. I was still a little miffed about the way he’d walked away from me last night. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you eavesdropping will get you into trouble?”
He lifted one eyebrow in that sexy way of his. “Maybe I’m a man who likes trouble.”
I bit back a smile and hurried past him, to my office. He followed. “Did you get everything settled with your car?”
I tightened my grip on the coffee mug. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” He intercepted me in the doorway. “What do you mean, not exactly?”
“The manager at Easy Motors says I don’t have a warranty. They want almost five hundred dollars to fix the car, or ninety dollars to release it so I can take it somewhere else.”
Jeff frowned. “Want me to go talk to them?”
“No!” Just what I needed, a man getting me out of this fix. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
He shrugged. “Just thought I’d offer.”
I pushed past him and sat at my desk. I dug the phone book out of the drawer and flipped through it. “What are you looking for?” Jeff asked.
“Are you always so nosy?” I punched in a number and waited while it rang.
“Houston Banner. Bringing you the news first.”
“Hi. I’d like to speak to your consumer affairs reporter.”
“I’ll transfer you to editorial.”
An elevator-music version of “Livin’ La Vida Loca” filled my ear. I swiveled my chair around and saw Jeff still watching me. After a moment a man’s voice barked, “News desk. Sanborn.”
“I’d like to speak to your consumer affairs reporter.”
“No such animal.”
I blinked. “Pardon me? What happened to Simon Saler, the Consumer’s Friend?”
“He quit. Said he wanted to be a sports reporter.” I heard a chair squeak and the rustle of papers. “He got tired of people writing in wanting to know where they could buy the last bottle of Coty perfume or complaining they saw a roach run across their table at Casa Lupe.”
“My aunt gets her Coty from a specialty store in Dallas. And how would you like it if a roach shared your lunch?”
“Well, why didn’t you say something while Simon was still here? Maybe he wouldn’t have run off to write about the latest fight on the basketball court.”
“But what am I supposed to do about the car dealer who sold me a lemon car?”
“You’re on your own, dearie.”
Fat lot of help he was. I slammed down the phone. “What are you going to do now?” Jeff asked.
“I’ll think of something. Right now, I’d better get started on these charts or Joan will make me clean bedpans or file appeals with insurance companies.”
“Go ahead and use your old software to get caught up,” he said. “But then I want to start teaching you the new program.”
I sat and scowled at the tower of folders beside my monitor, then glanced at the idle computer down the counter from mine. “Joan’s going to have to hire someone to help me if she expects me to keep up,” I said, and reached for my headphones.
Jeff sat on a stool and rolled it over next to me. “So, are you really contemplating a new career?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.” Actually, before that morning, the thought had never occurred to me. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a more glamorous, better-paying job, but transcription was all I was trained for. “I think I’d better handle one life change at a time,” I said.
“I didn’t realize changing your hair color took that much out of you.”
I frowned at him. “I meant my divorce.”
“That was six months ago. Old news.”
“Which goes to show you’ve never been divorced.”
“I don’t intend to be, either.”
“What, you’re going to remain single all your life?” I slipped the headphones over my head and popped the first tape into the machine.
“No. But when I marry, it’s going to be for life.”
“That’s what I thought, too.” I switched on the tape and Dr. Patterson’s drawl filled my ears. I didn’t want to listen to Jeff’s naive pronouncements about the sanctity of marriage. I could have told him no one plans to bail out before “death do us part.” Sometimes you just don’t see it coming, like a headon collision. Most people survive, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t a more careful driver for a while.
He seemed to get the message and left me alone after that. He fiddled with the other computer for a while, then wandered off to some other part of the office. I worked faster once he’d left. There’s something disconcerting about listening to a description of an old Mr. Miller’s problems with impotence while a sexy stud sits three feet away.
Just before lunch, I finished up a stack of letters to referring physicians and set out to deliver them to the various offices in the building. I could have sent them out with the next batch of interoffice mail, but delivering them in person was one of the few legitimate excuses I had for escaping my cubbyhole.
The last of my letters went to the OB-GYN office on the second floor. Dozens of fruitful women in designer maternity wear kept three physicians and twice as many nurses and techs busy. I could never look at the “wall of fame” beside the reception desk, with its photos of smiling moms and dads with their newborns, without feeling a pang of sadness. I kept telling myself I still had plenty of time to have kids, but there was that pesky matter of needing someone to be the father. I wasn’t crazy about diving back into the whole relationship thing any time soon.
“Thanks, Phoebe,” the receptionist, Beverly, said when I handed her my letters. “I think I’ve got some for you, too.”
While Beverly went in search of the letters, I turned my back on the family photos and surveyed the waiting room. A trio of women in various stages of pregnancy sat reading copies of American Baby and Modern Maternity. The nurse came to the door and beckoned one woman and she levered herself out of the chair and waddled toward the exam room. There was something familiar about her long blond hair, her glowing skin….
I clutched the edge of the reception desk, overcome by the urge to scream or puke, I wasn’t sure which. The lovely Madonna waddling away from me was none other than Just-a-waitress Tami, the future Mrs. Steven Frame.
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