Carry Me Home (25 page)

“I’ve got to say, you give it right on back to Cal,” Rochelle said.

Zoe had said a reluctant good-bye to Cal and gone back inside, and she and Rochelle were in their pajamas now—well, Zoe’s pajamas and Rochelle’s much more elegant version of nightwear. Drinking wine and half-watching a movie on the couch, with Zoe doing her best not to think about the work she wasn’t doing.

“Mmm. Because it’s so much fun,” Zoe agreed, smiling a little at the memory.

“And he’s loving it,” Rochelle said. “If you’re trying to whet his appetite, I’d say you’re doing a good job of it. I don’t know how the heck you’re holding out, but it’s working. I know I’d hit that. Of course,” she acknowledged, “I’m getting a little desperate here.”

“Oh, yeah?” Zoe turned down the volume on the TV. “I thought maybe you and Deke would go out.”

“Well, not
that
desperate. He’s all right, but I just can’t bring myself to break my long drought with somebody who mostly stands out for wetting his pants in the second grade.”

Zoe laughed. “I guess that’s the downside of small towns. Knowing all their history.”

Rochelle sighed. “All I want is tall, dark, and handsome. Plus strong and sweet, of course. And somebody who wants to settle down and have lots of sex and babies with me. That too much to ask?”

“And a good job,” Zoe suggested.

“Well, yeah. A job, too. Not working on his carburetor on the coffee table would be a plus, and not living in a shack. I’m prepared to be flexible on the handsome. I can even be flexible on the tall and dark. But I’m not going to compromise on the strong and sweet.”

“Or the sex and babies,” Zoe said.

“Well, that goes without saying. How about you? What do you want?”

“Well . . . nothing. I mean, I’ve never wanted anything.”

“You telling me you don’t have standards? Girl, I don’t believe that for a minute. You’ve got standards out the wazoo. Either that or you’re nuts. You’re holding out on
Cal
.”

“I mean,” Zoe tried to explain, “I can’t do the settling down and babies, not now. And the problem is, I’ve always been attracted to the wrong guys. What you said. The strong, take-charge guys like Cal.”

“And that guy’s the wrong guy,” Rochelle said dubiously.

“For me. Because is that kind of guy attracted to a woman like me, long-term? No. He isn’t. He wants somebody younger, and less educated, and less career-oriented. Somebody to put her career second and his first. Somebody to put
herself
second and him first.”

She had Rochelle’s full attention now. “And you know this how?” the other woman demanded.

Zoe gestured impatiently with the remote. “Everywhere. Anywhere. Some Hollywood actor makes it, what does he do? Dumps his wife, the one who’s his equal, maybe the one who supported him when he was starting out, and marries somebody younger who’ll worship him. Doctors marrying their receptionists.
Everyone
marrying their receptionists, or their assistants, or their . . . whoever. Because that’s what that kind of guy wants.”

“Uh-huh.” Rochelle still didn’t look convinced. “Never seemed that way to me. Always seemed like a good, strong man would want a good, strong woman.”

“All right,” Zoe said. “My parents. My dad’s a research fellow at USC, right?”

“I don’t know,” Rochelle said. “Is he?”

“Yes. He is. And my mom’s main job—until they were divorced, that is, because he found somebody younger—was to take care of my dad. She was happy to do it, too. She was crazy about him, and she still is, and even that wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted somebody to take care of him
and
be young and hot. And he got it, too. Anyway, I work in a male-dominated field. They might talk about work/life balance, but nobody’s
living
work/life balance. You get ahead because you put in the hours. You
focus
. I have all these strikes against me anyway as a woman, not being part of the group. I can’t afford any more.”

“And that’s all right with you,” Rochelle said.

“It has to be, doesn’t it? Because A, the guys I want have never been the guys I get.”

“Except Cal.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, maybe. But that’s . . . that’s an anomaly.”

“Uh-
huh
,” Rochelle said. “An anomaly.”

“And B,” Zoe went on, “the guy I would want, even if by some miracle he wanted me? I probably couldn’t have him anyway. Not and do what I’ve spent the last ten years of my life preparing to do. So it has to be all right with me.”

“And does Cal know this?”

Zoe shifted her gaze to her wineglass. “I was just talking to him about it tonight. Telling him how hard I have to work right now.”

“Well,” Rochelle said, “he works pretty hard, too. So this is just for . . . what? Fun?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I’m not good at relationships. They’re like clothes. They confuse me. But I just can’t help it, you know?”

“Yep,” Rochelle said. “The heart wants what it wants.”

“
Le coeur a ses raisons
,” Zoe said.

“What?”

“
Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît point.
The heart has its reasons, that reason knows not of.”

“Hmm. Yeah,” Rochelle decided. “I suppose that just about covers it. Do you know any more about it than how to say it?”

“No,” Zoe said. “I sure don’t.”

“But then,” Rochelle said, “who does?”

CLOTHING CHALLENGES

Zoe had showered, was in her underwear when the knock came at the front door on Friday night.

She jumped and stared at Rochelle, who stared back at her.

“The guy wouldn’t knock,” Rochelle said. “He doesn’t strike me as the knocking type.”

“No,” Zoe said with relief, feeling foolish. “Of course not.” She pulled on her robe and followed Rochelle out through the minuscule kitchen into the living room all the same, and stood with her beside the door. Safety in numbers, and if she and Rochelle didn’t like the answer they got, well, they had a response for that.

“Who is it?” Rochelle called.

“Cal,” they heard. “And Luke.”

Rochelle’s hand dropped from her chest, and she flipped the deadbolt and swung the door open. “Well, damn, boys. That’s what the phone’s for, you know?”

“What?” Cal asked, stepping inside with Luke right beside him. He shrugged off his jacket, hung it on the brass tree beside the door while Luke did the same, and Rochelle watched them do it and raised her eyebrows comically at Zoe.

“We supposed to call you instead of knocking on your door when we’re standing outside it?” Cal continued. “This some New Age social media rule I haven’t heard yet?”

“Well, yeah,” Rochelle said. “If one of us might have a crazy stalker after her, and you’re here this early, I’d say you
are
supposed to do that.”

He looked taken aback, shot a look at Zoe. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” Zoe asked, pulling the belt of her robe a little tighter around herself. “You said eight. It’s not even seven thirty.”

“Aw, honey,” Cal complained. “What a welcome.”

Rochelle had her hands on her hips. “It’s true that you’re not supposed to mind waiting on a woman,” she said, “but this is ridiculous. Zoe’s in her
robe
.”

Cal cast a glance over the white fleece robe patterned with blue snowflakes. “Yeah,” he drawled, “and that’s pretty much setting me on fire.”

“Hey,” Zoe objected. “It’s
cold
. It’s
winter
. Excuse me for not being in some . . . satin negligee with marabou slippers. Sorry to burst your bubble. I didn’t know you’d be showing up to criticize my lingerie.”

“Honey, that’s not lingerie,” Cal said. “I’m pretty sure my mom has a robe just like that.”

“So why are you here?” Rochelle asked, her toe tapping dangerously in its red cowboy boot. “Our hair isn’t done. Our makeup isn’t done. Unless you’re going for candid before-and-after shots, which wouldn’t win you one single point with me, what’s the deal? I thought you were trying to get somewhere. This is you trying?” She looked at Luke. “Do you have absolutely no influence? I mean, all right, Cal hasn’t gotten out much lately. But seems to me you could’ve set him straight, a tomcat like you.”

Luke’s mouth opened in shock. “I am not a tomcat.
When
am I a tomcat?”

“Right,” Rochelle scoffed. “You think you can just cross the state line and that’s going to keep the gossip from getting back here? I’ve got news for you, big boy. The gossip gets back. We all know.”

Luke was spluttering a little, and Cal was laughing. “Man,” he said. “I love it when the heat’s falling on somebody else. But to answer your question, we’re here to make sure the professor gets dressed right. I had a dream last night that she showed up in that black suit and I had to blow my brains out from sheer despair.”

“You came over to help me get dressed,” Zoe said slowly. “Both of you. Now I have heard everything.”

“Yep,” he said. “We sure did. Closet back here?” he asked Rochelle, already heading farther into the apartment.

She raised both arms from her sides, dropped them in surrender. “Well, go right ahead,” she told his back. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” Cal led the way into her bedroom, lit by the two lamps draped with pink silk scarves, one on either side of the canopied brass bed.

“Nice place,” Luke said, looking around.

“It isn’t,” Rochelle said, “but I do my best. I always wanted a bed like this. Of course, I used to want Cal in it, too, but I’ve changed my mind on that one.”

“Good,” Cal said absently. He had her closet door open, was sorting through it. “You’ve got your clothes color-coded.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she said. “Because I get to be organized, now that I’m not married to the biggest slob in the Western Hemisphere.”

“This it?” Cal asked Luke, pulling out a dress. A red dress. A
dark
red dress.

“Yep,” Luke said. “That’s the one.”

Cal took it off the hanger, tossed it to Zoe, and she reached out reflexively to catch it. Some kind of soft material that draped easily over her arm. She was sure it had a name. All she knew was, it felt nice.

“There you go, darlin’,” he said. “That’s your color. And that’s your dress.”

She held it in front of her, looked down at it, then back at Cal.

“Come out here with me,” she told him. “I want to talk to you.”

“Uh-oh,” Luke muttered.

Zoe barely heard him. She was stalking into the living room, as much as a short woman in a snowflake-patterned bathrobe and slippers could be said to stalk. He’d better be following her. He’d
better
be.

She turned around when she got there to find he had been, because there he was. Levi’s, black T-shirt, cowboy boots and all. Hard muscle, hard man. And she wasn’t one bit intimidated.

“What school of charm did you go to,” she asked him, “that you think you can come over here, barge into my closet—well, Rochelle’s closet—and tell me what to wear? I thought we were all clear on this, that my body belongs to me. I’d think that would mean that what I put on it is my choice, too, but apparently not.”

He had his hands out in front of him. “Whoa. Hang on. Okay, I’m going to apologize. You ready?”

“Yeah.” She crossed her arms, still holding the dress, and scowled at him. “Waiting.”

“All right. I’m sorry. I just started thinking about it, and I . . . I wanted to see it, all right? I wanted to be sure you wore it.”

“Wore what?” She looked down at the dress, then back at Cal. Her eyes narrowed. “You are kidding me.”

“What?”

“Don’t give me that innocent face. You bought me a
dress
? And then you came over to make sure I
wore
it?” She held it up in front of herself, confirmed her suspicions. “You did. You totally did. This is way too short for Rochelle. It would be up to her butt. For that matter, it’s kind of short for me. You
bought
this?”

“Well, me and Luke,” he said. “Online. And it’s not too short. You’ve got real pretty legs. Can I help it if I wanted to see them?”

“You and Luke went online and picked out a dress for me?” The image was too funny, and despite her earlier annoyance, she was having a hard time not laughing.

“Luke said red, and I got to thinking about it, and it sounded so good, I wanted to see you in it,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “I was thinking about going dancing with you, and it just . . . one thing led to another, all right?”

She had to laugh then. She couldn’t help it. “You and Luke,” she managed, “sitting in front of the computer, clothes shopping. For
me
. The planet’s most clothing-challenged woman.”

“Well, yeah.” He was grinning now, then laughing himself. “I wanted you to like it. I wanted to buy the right thing. And he’s better at it than me. I’m a little clothing-challenged myself.”

“But I would have liked it anyway. Couldn’t you have trusted that Rochelle would have told me to wear it, and I’d have done it? She’s obviously in on this, because somebody told you guys my size, although I wouldn’t put it past Luke to be able to guess it. And then she hung that dress up in its color-coded spot so she could, what? Pull it out and say, ‘Hmm. How about this?’”

“Well . . .” he admitted.

“Uh-huh. And I would have said, ‘Fine,’ and worn it. I’m not the most confident person in my fashion choices. And then you could have just . . . acted all surprised at how beautiful I looked when you came to pick me up. At
eight
. A way better strategy. Just for your information.”

“Right,” he said, still grinning. “In future, I’ll be much sneakier with my clothing purchases for you. And are we good? Am I forgiven? Because, baby, I want to see you in that red dress. I hope I didn’t blow it so bad that you won’t wear it for me.”

She was still shaking her head. “Stay here,” she commanded. She headed for the kitchen again, then turned around as a thought struck her. “You may be thinking you get to pick out my underwear, too,” she informed him. “But you’re just going to have to be surprised on that one.”

She went back into the bedroom, where Luke was leaning against the door leading to the courtyard, watching Rochelle put on her makeup at the dressing table.

“Looks like I’m changing,” Zoe told him. “Go talk to your brother. Contemplate your sins.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Cal talked his way out of it, huh? I should never have doubted it.”

“You’ve both got way more charm than is good for you.” She put a hand on the doorknob, jerked her head at him. “Out.”

When he was gone, she shut the door again, looked at Rochelle. “You could have
told
me.”

Rochelle was looking a little guilty. “I thought it was kind of romantic, and sweet. I thought I’d let Cal tell you, and it could be a moment.”

“It was a moment, all right.” Zoe was shrugging off her robe, tossing it on the bed, and pulling the sleeveless dress over her head. She settled the mock-wrap waist around her, adjusted the V neckline, looked in the mirror, and sighed.

“It would be a whole lot easier to be mad at him,” she told Rochelle, “if it didn’t look good.”

“Try it with your boots,” Rochelle suggested.

Zoe pulled on her socks, then the cowboy boots, stood up, and posed again. The skirt fell just below midthigh, and the deep red brought out the brown tones of her skin and hair. She looked . . . well, no doubt about it. She looked sexy, even without makeup.

“Purple and red,” she said dubiously.

“Yep,” Rochelle said happily. “Dynamite.”