Mr. Fix-It (19 page)

Khela began pacing. “Well, he did it, and I just don’t understand why!”

“Oh, honey,” Daphne soothed. “You have to talk to him. That’s the only way you’ll find out what’s going on.”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Khela said sadly. “I’m scared of what he’ll say. Maybe—” She stopped before she could voice the worst thought she’d had since Carter walked out.

“Maybe what?” Daphne asked gently.

“Maybe I was right all along,” Khela said softly. “Maybe he was interested in me only because of what I do, not because of who I am. You know how it’s been for me, Daphne. Men want me because I’m a romance novelist and they think I know all sorts of thrilling sex secrets, or because I’ve got a little money in the bank.”

“I’m not wrong about Carter,” Daphne insisted. “I was more sure of it during dinner. He really loves you.”

“Then why did he leave?” Khela whispered, Daphne’s image blurred by the tears welling in her eyes.

Daphne pulled Khela into her arms. “You have to talk to him, sweetie.”

“No, I don’t,” Khela said stubbornly, using her fist to grind away her tears.

“Yes, you do,” Daphne said emphatically. “I can’t run off with my prince until I know that you’ve patched things up with yours.”

“Why am I not surprised that you would somehow turn the most horrible, devastating, awful thing to happen to me into something about you?”

Khela’s question had an achingly familiar ring, and it took Daphne a moment to recall when she’d heard it. Once she figured it out, she playfully pushed Khela away with an affectionate, “Bitch.”

* * *

Carter ducked under his opponent’s wild, roundhouse right cross and landed a left uppercut to the man’s flabby right jowl. Grunting and growling like a wounded wildebeest, the heavy man huffed and puffed furiously, hooking his fingers into claws to lunge at Carter.

Shorter, faster and in far better shape than his opponent, Carter dodged left. The bigger man’s momentum carried him into the rusty dumpster resting against the back of the nightclub, adding another big dent to its pocked side.

Standing a good fifteen feet away, Detrick gave his watch a sleepy-eyed glance.

“Carter, boy, would you hurry this up?” he urged.

Detrick’s articulated words cut through the cheers of encouragement the bigger man’s friends were giving him as he picked himself up off the grimy cement of the alley behind the Purple Shamrock in Faneuil Hall.

“I can’t take you anyplace,” Detrick sighed, flicking a speck of dirt off the sleeve of his white summer suit. “Especially after you break up with a woman.”

The big man lumbered to his feet, a fresh rip in the knee of his blue jeans. He had landed one good blow, his first, which Carter had invited him to throw when they had retreated into the alley to settle their differences over who had been next in line for service at the bar.

That first blow was the only one Carter had allowed his opponent to land. It had connected sharply with his right cheekbone, leaving a deep gash that would likely require the attention of a plastic surgeon. For now, the bright, hot pain flaring from his cheekbone was a refreshing change from the sharp agony of three weeks without Khela.

Carter poured all of his toxic emotions into his battle with the big collegian—his distrust of Khela’s motives in granting him two weeks of intimacy, his emptiness without her, his disappointment with her failure to call him since he had walked out on her and his own stubbornness in refusing to contact her.

Carter’s tanned biceps flexed against the cuffs of his short-sleeved Polo. He bounced a bit on the balls of his feet, his fists clenched, waiting for the big man’s attack. When it came, Carter met him with a left jab that landed squarely on its mark.

Like an overripe tomato, the big man’s nose exploded. Droplets of spittle and blood spattered Carter and the man’s friends. The friends laughed good-naturedly as they paid off the wagers they’d made on the fight. They collected their friend and hauled him back into the nightclub.

“That was disgusting,” Detrick said. He started to offer his handkerchief to Carter to dab up the blood on his knuckles, but he reconsidered and tucked it back into his pocket. “When you get home tonight, you’d better call that woman.”

“It’ll be too late to call when I get home,” Carter said, knuckling away a trickle of blood on his cheek.

“Not if we go home right now.” Detrick then started for Congress Street, where he had been lucky enough to park his Jag at a meter.

Swaggering with pride, Carter fell into step alongside Detrick. “That fella had to be two-fifty easy,” he laughed. “That’ll teach him to tangle with a ’Bama boy.”

“You’re giving ’Bama boys a bad name, pal,” Detrick said derisively. “We need to get your face cleaned up before you get an infection.”

“Nah, I’m fine,” Carter insisted. He spat on the sidewalk, and had no discernible reaction when he saw that the spit was laced with blood. “Let’s go to the Squire.”

“I am not driving all the way out to Revere,” Detrick said. “If I want to watch a naked lady dance, all I need to do is go back into the Purple Shamrock and invite home that lovely waitress I was talking up before you decided to come out here and play Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots.”

“Then let’s go to Chinatown,” Carter suggested. “We can get some dumplings and split a scorpion bowl.”

Detrick stopped beneath the orange-gold glow of a streetlight. “One, you have already had more than enough to drink. And two, the only reason you want to go someplace new is to fight someone new. And if we go to Chinatown, chances are pretty good you’re gonna get your ass handed to you. Some Asian man is gonna run across the air and Matrix you in the head, or he’s gonna come out of the kitchen with a Ginsu knife and cut you into six pieces before you know what happened.”

Detrick took two more steps, then turned back.

“And you’re crazy if you think I’m going to collect your bloody body parts and put them in my Jag. You’re lucky I’m taking you home with Big Boy’s blood all over you.”

“C’mon, Detrick,” Carter pleaded. “It’s early.”

Detrick started walking again.

“Lightweight!” Carter called after him.

Slowly, deliberately, Detrick turned and walked back to Carter, and fired the weapon he’d been holding back.

“I’m going home now, and if you’re smart, you’ll let me take you home, too,” Detrick said with practiced calm. “I’m not going to another club or bar with you tonight, or any other night, as long as you’re hellbent on fighting the world because you’re too afraid or too stupid to fight for the woman you love.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carter spat at Detrick’s back when he again started for his car. Detrick kept walking, and Carter trotted to catch up to him. “You think I love Khela Halliday?”

“I know you love Khela Halliday,” Detrick said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“You didn’t step out with a regular-sized cat tonight,” Detrick explained. “You provoked a brawl with King Kong. If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is.”

“I didn’t pick that fight,” Carter said.

“No, but you didn’t try to avoid it, either. If you need to let off some emotional steam, go to Sam’s Club and get yourself a
real
punching bag. I haven’t seen you scrap like that since we were in Florida for spring break.”

“Yeah, and I remember you gettin’ down and dirty back then to show those Quincy frauds which way was up,” Carter said.

“We were seventeen,” Detrick said, exasperated. “I’ve matured in the past fifteen years. I’d rather walk away from a fight than get some lummox’s blood on my suit.”

“I was just lettin’ off some steam, Trick,” Carter said, managing to sound a little contrite.

“There’s better ways of doing that. Like picking up the phone and calling the person you really want to spend all that emotion on.”

“You’re right,” Carter agreed, a bit defiant at Detrick’s reference to Khela. “The next time some young bulldog wants to step outside with me, I’ll just be mature and keep my dukes to myself.”

Narrowing his eyes, Detrick peered suspiciously at Carter. “Good,” he said warily. “It’s about time you started acting your age, although I have a feeling that the operative word here is
acting
.”

Chapter 11

“Forgiveness is the only antidote for disappointment.”

—from
Every Tomorrow
by Khela Halliday

“I’m really not in the mood for this.” Khela made no move to exit Daphne’s VW bug. “I have a deadline. I should be at home working on my manuscript.”

“Your book isn’t due until November,” Daphne said, engaging the emergency brake of the lime-green five-speed. “One night out isn’t going to kill you. You need a distraction.”

“Not from work,” Khela said. She stared at the stately brick Colonial Daphne had driven them to in Lexington.

“I’m not trying to distract you from work,” Daphne said.

“I don’t need a distraction from Carter, either. I haven’t thought about him in…a while now.”
As long as five minutes can be counted as a while.

“Look,” Daphne said, opening Khela’s door and tugging her out by her arm. “This is the last time I’m going to see most of the women in my writing critique group. I could use a party, and I know you could, too. Can you just push Carter out of your mind for an hour or two and have a good time? Can you just try, for me?”

“Well, fine, if you’re gonna put it like that,” Khela said.

She closed the car door and, heavily dragging her feet, she followed Daphne to the front door. Daphne rang the doorbell. Ten seconds later, she was greeted with an ear-splitting scream from an earthy Italian woman whose wild mane of long, wavy hair was the brunette version of Daphne’s.

“Hey, babe!” she said, smiling wide and sloshing an aromatic pink concoction from a pink plastic cup as she hugged Daphne. “How’s my little affianced friend?”

“I’m good, Sofia,” Daphne said, kissing each of her cheeks. “How are things out here in the ’burbs?”

“It’s only nine o’clock and this whole town is dead,” Sofia answered disdainfully, ushering Daphne and Khela inside. “It’s too dark and quiet out here. I miss the lights and the noise of the North End. I even miss that old bum who used to pee under my stoop every day.” She tilted her head and looked upward. “Actually, I don’t miss the bum too much. But I do miss being able to just hop the T and meet you for lunch at Gagliardi’s. Ohmigod, I haven’t had good chicken parm since Eugenio moved us out here.”

Khela closely listened to Sofia’s thick and unmistakable Tewksbury dialect. Her vowels were heavily exaggerated, the consonants almost nonexistent. Where Khela’s Midwestern tongue would have clearly stated, “chicken parm since Eugenio moved us out here,” the same words fell from Sofia’s tongue as, “chicken pahm sints ‘genio movt tuss ow hyah.”

Finally recognizing Khela, Sofia screamed again. “You brought her!” she cried, shoving past Daphne to gather Khela into her arms.

Crushed against Sofia’s hefty bosom, Khela couldn’t breathe. Sofia drew back and took her by the shoulders. She looked her up and down, then hugged her again, forcing a loud groan from Khela.

“Ladies!” Sofia squawked, leading Khela and Daphne through the foyer and living room, which shocked Khela with its hot pink, white and zebra fur design palette. “Daphne brought her! We’ve got a real author in residence tonight!”

Help!
Khela mouthed over her shoulder, her eyes pleading with Daphne for rescue.

* * *

Khela had been to numerous parties with Daphne: Longaberger baskets, Pampered Chef, Yankee Candle. Khela drew the line at Tupperware, being perfectly happy with the disposable storage ware she bought at Calareso’s, but she’d spent nearly an entire royalty check at a Tastefully Simple party.

Any gathering that involved sampling delicious breads, chips, dips, soups and entrees that could be made in minutes with ingredients stocked in the average kitchen was just the party for Khela. Tastefully Simple’s Bountiful Beer bread was a staple in her kitchen, and the ten seconds she spent mixing it up made her feel as though she was actually cooking.

No ordinary food, cookware or basket party for Daphne’s last hurrah with her critique group. Sofia had gone the extra mile and organized something different—an Aphrodite’s Feather party.

The other partygoers, at least twenty of them, had been settled in Sofia’s animal-print themed sitting room long enough to have consumed a pitcher or two of apple, mango and watermelon martinis. Khela faintly heard the blender whirring in the kitchen, convincing her that the gregarious and hospitable Sofia was determined to work her way through every fruit in the horn of plenty before the night was over.

“Eugenio’s manning the bar tonight,” Sofia said, flicking a hand adorned with rhinestone-studded fake fingernails toward the kitchen. “He gets his Super Bowl party in February and I get my B.O.B. party tonight.”

“Who’s Bob?” Khela wondered aloud.

“Battery-operated boyfriend!” Sofia’s guests raucously chorused.

Khela would have fled if Daphne hadn’t grabbed the white Peter Pan collar of her smart little black dress.

“Don’t leave,” Daphne said in voice so low only Khela heard her. “You’ll hurt Sofia’s feelings.”

“Ladies,” Sofia began, her glossy red lips in a smile so big it distorted her words even further, “we have a special surprise guest here tonight.” She breathed hard, and seemed on the verge of hyperventilating. “I want you all to give a warm welcome to Miss Khela Halliday!”

Sofia screamed her name as though she were introducing the halftime act at Gillette Stadium.

Khela’s name, echoed by Sofia’s guests, traveled through the hot-pink room. The women, all aspiring romance novelists, were more than familiar with Khela’s books, and her presence had quite an effect on them. They set down their drinks and gave Khela a hearty round of applause.

“I loved your last book!” said a woman with a platinum-blonde bob.

“
Sybarite Seeks Same
is my favorite romance of all time,” said a younger woman wearing overall shorts and green Doc Marten boots.

“Thank you,” Khela said graciously, eager for them to move on to another topic.

“Why don’t you two take a seat over there,” Sofia suggested, directing Khela and Daphne to an unoccupied loveseat covered in faux leopard fur.

While they picked their way past women on the sectional sofa snaking along two walls and the ones sitting on cheetah-print beanbags on the tiger-striped area rug, Sofia introduced the party consultant.

“Ladies, this is Friend Oceanwater, and she will be conducting tonight’s party,” Sofia announced.

Khela bit the inside of her lip and kept her face forward, certain that she would bust out laughing if she looked at Daphne.

Friend was a short, somewhat barrel-shaped woman in a skin-tight black tank top and a muddy brown dirndl skirt. At first glance, Khela thought that Friend was crazy to be wearing matching tights in June. But peering closer, she realized that Friend wasn’t wearing tights at all, that in all likelihood, Friend hadn’t shaved her legs since…ever.

“I think she’s part Wookie,” Daphne whispered.

Khela thought she might pop a kidney from the effort it took not to laugh.

“Hello, everyone,” Friend said, clasping her hands as she took Sofia’s place beside a long table covered by a black satin cloth. “I’m so, so glad the Goddess has allowed us to come together this way tonight.” She closed her eyes and aimed her nose at the blindingly white ceiling, breathing sharply through her nose. “Praise be to the Goddess.”

“Is this voodoo?” a heavy-set, older, African-American woman in gold-rimmed glasses asked loudly. “I didn’t come here for no voodoo.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Willmore,” Sofia soothed. “Friend is a Wiccan.”

“A what?” Mrs. Willmore demanded.

“She’s a witch,” volunteered the woman in the green Doc Martens.

Mrs. Willmore set her martini glass on a low table sculpted to look like the disembodied foot of an elephant. “I’m gettin’ up on outta here. I’ll see you at work on Monday, Sofia. Thank you so much for the hooch, but I don’t truck with no witches.”

“May the Goddess bless and be with you as you travel through the dark heart of night,” Friend said, her benevolent smile unchanging as she bid her unique farewell to Mrs. Willmore.

“You can take your God-S,” Mrs. Willmore responded, pronouncing the word the way Friend had, “and get on somewhere.”

“Wiccans aren’t witches,” Khela said. “They’re more like…herbalists.”

“Is that right?” Mrs. Willmore asked, stopping in her tracks.

“Sure,” Sofia said, nodding at Mrs. Willmore and the other women, who took the hint and seconded Khela’s assessment.

“Don’t leave, Edith,” urged an older redhead, who appeared to be Mrs. Willmore’s geriatric Daphne. “You’ll miss out on the free samples.”

Mrs. Willmore’s eyes seemed to glint behind her glasses. “Free samples? You didn’t say anything about free samples at the salon this afternoon, Sofia. I guess I could hang around a little longer, find out what all this feather stuff is all about.”

“Great, great,” Friend said, her Laura Ingalls braids swinging as she slightly swayed from side to side as if listening to music that only she could hear. “Now that we’re all at ease, I’d like to help each of you get in touch with your inner goddess.”

With the skill and panache of a master magician, Friend snatched the satin cloth from the table.

Mrs. Willmore screamed.

Her redheaded friend sprayed a mouthful of cranberry martini across the room.

The woman in the Docs laughed so hard, she rolled off her beanbag.

Khela and Daphne leaned forward, to get a better look at the items displayed on the table as Friend, an earth-child Vanna White, used her right arm to introduce an eye-popping array of B.O.B.s.

There were colorful bottles, tubes and jars of various substances, but it was the B.O.B.s that captivated, frightened or amused the ladies.

Friend picked up a stack of purplish-pink catalogs and began handing them out. “Aphrodite’s Feather is dedicated to pleasure,” she recited in her airy sing-song. “Pleasure is good. Pleasure is necessary. Pleasure is meant to be shared. Sometimes there’s no one to share it with, and Aphrodite’s Feather offers a complete line of high-quality, affordable personal solo fulfillment items.”

“Solo fulfillment,” Khela said. “I like the sound of that.”

“I’d like to start by introducing you to a few of our Partner Pleasures,” Friend said. She selected a thick, bright red tube that looked and moved like a glob of jelly. “This is one of the party favors you’ll all be taking home tonight, and—”

“Favors!” Sofia shrieked. “I forgot to hand out the favors.” She scurried from the room, and a few seconds later scurried back with a black shoebox. She handed out mechanical pencils, which at first glance looked like ordinary office pencils.

But then Khela looked at the eraser. The little rubber item topping the end of the pencil was a green glow-in-the-dark phallus.

“Maybe I should hand these out at my next book signing,” Khela murmured to Daphne.

“I dare you,” Daphne giggled.

“Use the pencils to fill out your order forms,” Sofia told them. “And remember, I get twenty-five Aphrodite dollars for every hundred dollars of merchandise you guys buy, so buy lots!”

“What’s that jelly thing for?” Mrs. Willmore asked Friend, who casually played with the peculiar red tube.

“This is a gift for the man whom you bless with favors from the goddess within,” Friend smiled.

“What the hell is she talking about?” Mrs. Willmore asked. “All I want to know is what that blood clot she’s playing with is for.”

“When you’re sharing oral pleasures with your partner, sometimes your jaw grows tired,” Friend explained further. “This unit, the Trouser Wowser, is filled with a biodegradable gel that holds temperatures for up to forty-five minutes. If your partner likes it cold, you can put it in the refrigerator for ten minutes. Don’t freeze it, because it could rupture.”

Friend paused her spiel to give Daphne the chance to stop giggling.

“Or, you can microwave it for forty-seconds. But no more than that,” Friend warned, wagging a prim finger. “You don’t want to burn your mister’s mister.”

Friend passed the gel tube around, allowing the ladies to get a feel for it. Literally.

Mrs. Willmore wrinkled her nose. “I hope this thing hasn’t been used,” she muttered.

Khela politely declined the chance to fondle the Trouser Wowser. Daphne took it, and after juggling it, playing catch with it, stretching it, sniffing it, and seeing if it would bounce, she rubbed it on Khela’s bare knee.

“Great,” Khela hissed. “Now I have to take a bath in hydrogen peroxide when I get home.”

“Can we skip all the For His Pleasure stuff?” requested the short-haired woman in the green Docs. “I have a her at home, not a him.”

“Yeah, let’s get to the good stuff,” Mrs. Willmore agreed. “I wanna see something with an engine.”

The other ladies laughed and clapped, but they quieted when Friend picked up a black box the size of a flute case.

“Now we’re talkin’,” Mrs. Willmore said, nudging her redheaded friend with her elbow.

“This is one of our most popular items,” Friend began as she removed the lid from the long box.

All the women, even Khela, leaned forward to better see what Friend would show them.

They all sat back, somewhat disappointed, when she displayed a long ostrich plume that had been dyed lilac.

“This is the Tickler,” Friend said. “And it’s unisex.” She paused for laughter that never came.

“We’re all romance writers here,” Sofia whispered loudly. “It’ll take more than a feather to stoke our imaginations, hon.”

“You’d be surprised at how the simplest tools can provide the biggest thrills,” Friend said.

“Cleopatra knew that,” Khela said.

“Pardon?” Friend replied.

“Cleopatra is credited for being among the earliest women known to own a B.O.B., only she did it literally, with a calabash filled with buzzing bees,” Khela explained.

“Bees or a feather,” another woman remarked, “I don’t know which is worse.”

“The toy is only as good as the person wielding it,” Friend said, waving the feather as she might a magic wand. “Could I have a volunteer?”

The women froze, afraid that the slightest twitch of muscle or wink of eye would draw Friend’s attention.