Ex and the Single Girl (8 page)

She grinned. “
Do tell.”

“
He said we were a barmy lot.”

“
Barmy.”
She tucked her purse under the co
unter. “
What does that mean, exactly?”

“
It means we
’
re all crazy.”

“
Honey, there
’
s no such thing as crazy. There
’
s just degrees of interesting.”
The phone rang in the back office, and Vera sighed. “
I
’
m gonna go answer that, but don
’
t you think I
’
m done wit
h you yet. I won
’
t rest until I know how a British Flyer kisses.”

I shooed her away, stepping around the mismatched easy chairs and simple swivel-topped barstools that huddled around the coffee bar. I went into autopilot, scooping the coffee into the filte
red basket, filling up the hot water carafe for tea. My mind drifted elsewhere, back to my room the night before and to Ian Beckett
’
s lightly dimpled smile.

I stepped out from behind the coffee bar and listened. Vera was still on the phone. I could tell by
the tone of her voice that it wasn
’
t anyone from Truly. That probably gave me about five more minutes; someone from Truly would have taken a good twenty. I stepped out from behind the bar and made a beeline for the fiction section. My finger ran quickly
a
long the B
’
s, my eyes popping up to the office door to make sure Vera wasn
’
t going to catch me.

Barnes. Baxter. Beals. Bebey. Bederman.

No Ian Beckett, which was fine by me. The Page was a small bookstore, which meant we could afford shelf space only for t
he stuff that was selling well, and literary fiction wasn
’
t always on that list. I smiled again. Maybe I
’
d look up his books later and special order them. Set up a book signing for later that summer. After all, it was the neighborly thing to do, and the M
i
z Fallons were nothing if not neighborly.

The bell jingled, followed by an excited wail. I turned around and saw a pregnant belly waddling toward me, arms outstretched, followed by the round, freckled face that had smiled at me through many guilty trips to
the principal
’
s office.

“
Portia, baby!”
Beauji
’
s belly hit me in the gut, bending me into her embrace. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and we wagged from side to side as a single, excited unit.

“
What did you do to your hair?”
I said, running my fin
gers over the half-inch or so of red that puffed out of her head. It was shocking to see, as Beauji had always kept her hair in long, fiery locks. Well. At least something in Truly had changed.

She pulled away and swept one hand on her scalp. “
I
’
m gonna be
bald during every pregnancy,”
she said. “
Even hair irritates me now. Pearl almost cried when I made her take out the clippers.”

“
I don
’
t know why. You
’
re gorgeous. As always.”
I stepped back, holding her arms out, staring at her smiling face, her bright b
lue eyes, her ruddy cheeks. Beauji had always been what you
’
d call a natural beauty, the one the boys notice in the sixth grade but then pass over for the made-up Barbie types in the ninth grade. Somehow, it never fazed her. She was the only woman Id ever
known who really never gave a rat
’
s ass how she looked.

“
Yeah, yeah, yeah, well, I need to sit my gorgeous self down,”
she said, turning from me and waddling over to the comfy chairs surrounding the bar. “
I hope motherhood is pleasant, because pregnancy is a right pain in the ass.”

I followed her, tucking myself behind the bar to make some herbal tea. In Truly, there was always a pregnant woman in the general populace requiring entertainment at the Page. We
had a special store of teas set aside, organized by touted effects: peppermint tea to mitigate nausea, red raspberry leaf to encourage labor.

“
How far along are you?”
I asked, poking my fingers through the sweet-smelling box.

“
Thirty-four weeks and counti
ng,”
she said.

“
I just can
’
t believe
—”

“
Ow!”

I looked up, my eyes wide and my heart beating like a jack- hammer. “
Beau? You okay?”

She winced and pushed at the top of her big lump of a belly, shouting downward. “
I told you! Get your damn foot out of my rib
s!”
She shifted in her seat, sighed, and leaned her head back, talking to the ceiling. “
I hate my life!”

I tucked my finger behind an index card marked “
irritability”
and pulled out a bag, then stood up and set the full teakettle on the hot plate.

Beauji w
histled out a breath of air and shifted again, her legs and arms splaying out so that she looked like a spider squashed by a tremendous, spherical rock. “
I
’
m not very good at being pregnant,”
she said after a moment.

I smiled. “
I think you
’
re doing fine.”

“
You
’
re a big fat liar, but I love you for it.”
She shifted in her seat again. “
By the way, I would have come to your party last night but the idea of standing around with everyone feeling my stomach all night long…”
She rolled her eyes. I smiled and drop
p
ed the tea bag in a mug.

“
You
’
re forgiven,”
I said. I leaned my elbows on the counter and grinned at her. “
How
’
s Davey doing?”

“
He
’
s fine,”
she said. “
Of course, he
’
s not carrying seven pounds of wriggling baby on his bladder.”

“
I still can
’
t believe he
’
s
a cop.”

“
Yeah, well, if he wasn
’
t, I
’
d still be a size six.”
I raised my eyebrows at her. She patted her stomach. “
First night with the new uniform. He can
’
t wait to see you, by the way. You
’
re coming over for dinner Friday, I suppose I should tell you.”

“
Good to know,”
I said, laughing. “
Should I bring anything?”
She grinned. “
A British Flyer, perhaps?”

“
Good God,”
I said.
‘
You heard about that already?”

“
You kidding me?”
she said. The
teakettle
began to whistle and I grabbed it off the hot plate. “
You
’
re
back in Truly now, darlin
’
. You fart in the tub in this town and the news will be marching down Main Street within the hour.”
I brought her mug over and she watched me with interest as I sat down in a sinfully comfortable but inarguably hideous orange eas
y
chair next to her.

“
Anyway, word has it you paraded that Brit straight out of the back lawn and up to your bedroom in front of half the town. You
’
re a Miz Fallon and he
’
s a famous writer. Don
’
t even pretend to be surprised that people are talkin
’.”

“
He
’
s
hardly famous,”
I said.

“
You don
’
t consider Alistair Barnes famous?”
she said, now raising an eyebrow at me and taking in my blank expression. The other eyebrow went up, and she laughed. “
You did know you were sleeping with Alistair Barnes, didn
’
t you?”

I
leaned closer to her, and spoke in a low voice. “
Look, first of all, I didn
’
t
actually
sleep with him…”

Beauji waved her hand at me. “
Oh, please.”

“
...and second of all, his name is Ian Beckett.”

I paused, and a memory from the night before
flashed through my head.

So, you really don
’
t know me?

I
’
m sorry. Should I?

If death is your prerequisite for reading someone, I
’
m quite happy to be off that list.

“
Alistair Barnes?”
I asked. “
The guy who writes the Tan Carpenter spy novels?”

“
They say Bra
d Pitt is gonna play Tan in the movie. Pearl and the girls are hoping he
’
ll drop in for a visit this summer, but I doubt it. And while we
’
re on the subject, what kind of name is Pitt for a man who looks like that?”

“
Drink your tea,”
I said. Beauji took a s
ip. I sat back in my chair and gave an incredulous huff, then sat forward again almost immediately. “
He can
’
t be Alistair Barnes.”

“
Go look at his picture on the books if you don
’
t believe me,”
she said, shooing me away with one hand. “
I
’
ll be right here t
o pick your chin up off the floor when you get back.”

I stood up and headed back to the B
’
s.

“
He can
’
t be Alistair Barnes,”
I repeated. It was running through my head like a mantra.

“
You keep telling yourself that, girl.”

I flicked my fingers over the B
’
s
and pulled out the latest Barnes hardcover.

“
I know you
’
re all into the classics and everything,”
Beauji called from her chair, “
but he
’
s not bad. You should read one. I recommend
Clean Sweep,
to start.”

I flipped the book over. Ian Beckett
’
s lopsided smil
e jumped out at me from a full-size color picture. I looked at the front cover, running my fingers over “
Nonstop action!”
and “
High- Octane Excitement!”
embossed above the “
#1
New York Times
Bestselling Author”
at the top. I tucked the book back onto the s
helf and returned to Beauji, who was smiling from ear to ear. “
You look like you need to sit down.”

“
I can
’
t believe he didn
’
t tell me he
’
s Alistair Barnes.”

“
I can
’
t believe you didn
’
t know. What kind of rock have you been living under, anyway?”

The rock
of Peter Miller. The rock of the Syracuse English Department. Shakespeare. Austen. Marlowe. Take your pick. Lots of rocks. I sank down into the hideous orange chair and pushed the heels of my hands into my eyes.

“
Poor baby,”
she said. “
You
’
ve been dallying
between the sheets with a famous millionaire and you didn
’
t even know it.”

“
Dallying between the sheets?”

She grinned and took a sip of her tea. “
How was he?”

I smiled. Her grin widened.

“
That good, huh?”