Mr. Fix-It (21 page)

He had pushed the depressed state of the neighborhood to a deeper part of his mind once Khela had taken the stage in the auditorium. Just as she had inspired the authors at the convention, she encouraged the new seniors of Crispus Attucks to put pen to paper and record their innermost thoughts, wishes, prayers and dreams. She demanded that they record their histories in stories, songs, drawings—anything. The form of the record didn’t matter, only that the record was kept.

Carter didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count off the number of guest speakers he’d been forced to sit through in Dearborn special assemblies—politicians, professional athletes, CEOs—there was always some parent eager to blow balloon juice about their career to a captive audience of fourteen-to-eighteen-year-olds.

Glancing at the purple print-out of the high school’s lecture calendar, Carter saw that a reverend had spoken the previous Saturday and a parole officer was on deck for next week. Carter wondered if other speakers drew the same turnout as Khela.

The lecture was the only reason Khela had left his apartment after their lunch interlude to go home, shower and change before meeting Carter in front of the brownstone, where they hailed a cab that took them into Dorchester.

Students milling outside the school prior to the lecture had given him long looks as he accompanied Khela into the building. Dorchester was racially diverse, but as Carter walked Khela through the packed auditorium to the stage, he saw few faces with his complexion.

Sitting between a bright-eyed young Latina, who flashed her braces at him in a dreamy smile every five minutes, and a scrawny Asian with tufts of purple hair and the X-Men character Wolverine tattooed on the back of his right hand, Carter felt completely out of place now that Khela’s talk was over and she was fielding questions from her young audience.

He regretted his decision to sit in the center of the back row, a position he had wanted for its perfect view of Khela. His location made it impossible to make a smooth exit without having to squeeze past ten students in either direction. Hugging her huge Cape Cod leather handbag to his chest, he swallowed his discomfort and tried to enjoy the question-and-answer session. It was easy with Khela down on the stage in an elegant white silk blouse, a tan linen pencil skirt and tan heels.

That hundreds of students had given up a sunny August Saturday afternoon to listen to Khela impressed Carter. What impressed him even more was her ease in front of such a diverse crowd of young people. She had been so uncomfortable addressing her peers at the East Coast Writer’s Association convention, but she radiated self-assurance while speaking to this audience.

A three-minute standing ovation followed Khela’s remarks, after which the principal took the stage. In her smart brown pantsuit, she looked like a shorter, younger Ruby Dee.

“I would like to thank the senior class for coming out today,” the principal said, “and for being so attentive and respectful of Miss Halliday. As you know, our budget for speakers is limited. I met Miss Halliday at one of her signings last year, and when I asked her to come to my school and speak to my children, she didn’t have her people call my people. She accepted right there on the spot.”

More applause interrupted the principal, who raised her hands to quiet the auditorium before continuing. “Not only did Miss Halliday forgo her usual speaking fee to talk to you today, she made a donation to our Library Improvement Fund. Miss Halliday has made it possible for us to purchase the new computer stations we need!”

A last round of applause drowned out the principal’s final thanks to Khela. Even from the back row, Carter could see a blush tinting Khela’s cheeks as the principal gave her a warm handshake. When the students and guests began to file out of the auditorium, Carter made his way down the center aisle to the stage, where quite a few students had hung back to speak further with Khela or to get books signed.

Taking his place in line behind them, Carter smiled and gave Khela a small wave. She responded with a quick wink without interrupting what she was saying to a student.

The young man immediately in front of Carter, his slight form drowning in baggy black jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt with
cortez
in gold gothic-bold lettering across the front, turned to look at Carter. “Nice purse,” he said, a smirk forming beneath the twenty black hairs forming what appeared to be a mustache.

“Thanks,” Carter said brightly. “But it’s not mine.”

“Why you gonna go an’ start makin’ trouble, Cortez?” came the high-pitched, heavily-accented voice of the girl in front of Cortez, the color high in her caramel-colored cheeks. “You know that’s Mr. Halliday, ’cause you saw him come in with her!” she chastised, punctuating it with a sharp smack to the young man’s upper arm.

“I told you not to hit me, girl!” he said, his tone menacing but his body language meek and mild. “Dude is standing up here holdin’ onto his woman’s purse, so why you on me?”

The gold bamboo hoops in the girl’s ears swung heavily when she spun to point a finger in Cortez’s face. “Khela Halliday is my favorite writer and I’m not havin’ you embarrassin’ me! Act like you got some sense!”

Whether it was the fiery warning in her eyes, the tone of her voice, or the gold fingernail aimed perilously close to the tip of his nose, Cortez was cowed. When the girl turned back around, Cortez gave Carter a sheepish smile. “You know how it is,” he snickered with a self-conscious tug at the diamond stud in his right ear. “You gotta let ’em feel like they’re the boss once in a while.”

Carter peered at the young man’s neck, half expecting to see a collar.

The line moved forward slower than Carter would have liked as Khela signed books and autographs and patiently answered question after question. The principal moved people along when they tried to park at Khela’s table, but she was no match for Cortez’s girl.

Khela almost jumped off her chair when the girl dropped a heavy black backpack on her table. “Miss Halliday, I got all your books!” the girl said, rummaging through the backpack. “My favorite is
An Angel’s Prayer
.” She took it from the backpack and hugged it briefly before presenting it to Khela. “Would you sign this, ‘To Luisa, my crazy, cool biggest fan?’ You can sign all of them like that.”

Luisa was pulling hardback copies of each of Khela’s books from the backpack, stacking them neatly in front of her.

“Luisa, really,” the principal began, “Miss Halliday doesn’t have the time to—”

“I think I’m okay for time,” Khela said, glancing at Carter.

He and Cortez were the last two in line, although several people continued to mill about in the auditorium. Carter gave Khela a subtle nod of assent.

Khela opened
An Angel’s Prayer
and began writing the requested dedication. She was handing the book back to Luisa, who traded it for
Satin Whispers
, when Khela noticed Cortez. He had put on his hood, pulled the drawstring tight, and stood partially behind Luisa, who used her shoulder to impatiently push him back a step.

Khela stood and tapped Cortez on the shoulder. “I know you,” she said.

Surprised, Carter and Luisa looked from Cortez to Khela.

“You were in one of my spring workshops at RoCoCo,” Khela elaborated, referring to Roxbury Community College by one of its nicknames.

“What writing workshop?” Luisa asked, although it sounded more like an accusation. She thrust out a denim-clad hip and propped a fist on it.

“Man,” Cortez whined under his breath. “I can’t believe you ratted me out,” he directed at Khela.

“Attending one of my workshops is a dirty secret?” Khela asked.

Cortez, his head down, scrubbed a spot on the stage with the toe of his Ecko sneaker.

“It must be,” Luisa said testily, “because he didn’t never tell me that he was writin’ in workshops at Roxbury Community.”

“He’s a very talented writer,” Khela said.

Luisa’s eyes and mouth opened wide. With a flip of her wavy dark hair, she faced Cortez to really give it to him. “You let her read what you’re always writin’ in those composition books and you won’t let me? I’m supposed to be your girl!”

Khela studied the sibilant movement of Luisa’s elegant neck as she spoke, hoping to give the distinctive mannerism to one of her future characters.

“I don’t let nobody read my notebooks,” Cortez said, striking a defensive posture that made Luisa cross her arms over her chest. “It was professional between me and her.”

“If by ‘her’ you mean me, it really was just for the workshop,” Khela said. “Although you’ll have to let someone read your work at some point, Cortez, if you hope to get it published.”

“You think he’s good enough to get published?” Luisa asked, now more proud than perturbed.

“Cortez knows what I think,” Khela said.

Luisa, and Carter, too, waited for someone to elaborate. Khela returned to signing Luisa’s books while Cortez renewed his efforts to scuff a hole in the floor of the stage. Her head bowed to a copy of
A Proper Princess
, Khela smiled when Cortez finally said, “I have a lot of raw talent.” He spoke so softly with his face aimed at the floor that Carter had to step closer to hear him. “I should apply to colleges with good writing programs.”

“Boo-Boo!” Luisa squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re gonna be a writer, just like Khela Halliday!”

“Cortez and I have a lot in common, but our writing styles are very different,” Khela said, looking up from the book she had finished signing.

Luisa released Cortez and asked the question that Carter would have asked. “You and Miss Halliday have something in common?” she laughed.

“Her father’s doing time,” he retorted. “Same as mine. She was adopted, too.”

Luisa’s merriment faded, and she looked at Cortez and Khela with renewed admiration.

“I think Miss Halliday proves that talent and hard work is the recipe for success,” the principal said. “You have the same pedigree as Miss Halliday, Cortez. Do you have her same drive to succeed?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, standing taller before she could order him to straighten his spine.

“Then I’ll be expecting to one day invite you back to Crispus Attucks to deliver a lecture to another senior class,” the principal said.

Blushing around a tiny smile, Cortez said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Khela finished signing Luisa’s books—and a few belonging to her mother and sisters—just as the principal told her that her cab had arrived. Khela spent another moment thanking the principal and saying goodbye before she joined Carter.

“I’m sorry that took so long,” she apologized, juggling her briefcase and the leftover handouts she tried to stuff into it as she walked up the aisle with Carter.

Oblivious to her struggle, he held her handbag out to her.

“Could you hang on a second?” she asked.

A short jet of air from Carter’s nostrils prefaced his response. “Sure. Take your time.”

“Are you mad at me or something?” Khela asked, balancing her briefcase on the back of a seat.

“Nope. You warned me that the meet and greet after the lecture could take a while.”

She put her papers away, snapped shut the briefcase, and then took her handbag from Carter. He stuck his hands in his pockets as they continued toward the exit at the rear of the auditorium.

Carter kept his silence until they were settled in the back of the cab, and Khela asked, “Are you okay? You seem funny.”

He sank deeper into the bench seat, draping his arm along the back of it. Khela turned slightly to face him, her big handbag sitting on her knees. “I’m fine,” Carter said. His eyes darted to her lap. “That’s a real nice purse you got there.”

Chapter 13

“Jealousy, not hate, is Love’s true foe.”

—from
Captured by a Captain
by Khela Halliday

Lying on his stomach in the middle of his bed Sunday morning, Carter leafed through the catalog Khela had brought back from the Aphrodite’s Feather party Friday night. Khela sat on his back, reading over his shoulder.

“Maybe I should have bought the Prixy Dust,” she said. “We could have had it for dessert last night.”

“
You
could have had it for dessert if we used it the way it’s shown in the picture.” His forehead furrowed, Carter spun the catalog upside down. “What’s she doin’ to him there?”

Khela lightly bit his shoulder. “The same thing I did to you a little while ago. Only hers was grape, strawberry or green-apple flavored.”

“Hmm,” he grunted. “Should I circle it?”

“Sure.”

Carter plucked the party favor pencil from behind his left ear and circled the Prixy Dust. So far, he had circled every item in the first five pages of the Aphrodite’s Feather fall catalog.

“I already bought the feather,” Khela told him. “I think I left it in Daphne’s car, though.”

“I can’t believe some of this stuff.” He turned the page and whistled as he eyeballed a B.O.B. named, appropriately enough, Big Bob. “What the—?” He peered closer at the page. “Is that thing in the shape of a man?”

“Yep,” Khela laughed. “See that? Around his waist?” She pointed to the midsection of the purple silicon figure. “That’s his tool belt. Get it? A tool wearing a tool belt?”

“That thing is the perfect little Mr. Fix-It, ain’t he?” Carter snickered.

“He’s got a lot of power, too. He takes eight AA batteries.”

“You go, boy!” Carter cheered.

“Carter?”

“Mmm?”

“How did you come into all your real estate?”

Using the pencil as a bookmark, Carter closed the catalog and tossed it onto his nightstand. He carefully rolled onto his back so as not to pitch Khela onto the floor, leaving her sitting on his hard abdomen. He caressed her knees and thighs as he pondered his response.

“Well, the short version of the story is that I won it,” he said.

“Then tell me the long version,” she said.

“I graduated BU with a degree in finance and business management, and I got my first job at Babcock Management Corporation in Mobile. A recruiter came to campus one day right before graduation. She took a shine to me, and next thing I knew, she had offered me a full-time, paid training gig.”

“
She
, huh,” Khela said woodenly. “It’s always a she.”

“I was a natural,” Carter continued. “I seemed to recruit new clients everywhere I went. I’d go to Turner Field to catch the Braves from the Henry Aaron seats, and I’d leave Atlanta with ten new clients. I would go to my ex-fiancée’s tennis club and come back to the firm with six or seven new accounts. It was amazing. I didn’t think I was all that good a pitchman.”

“How many of your clients were women?”

A lazy grin prefaced his response. “About eighty-nine percent. What can I say? I had a way with ladies with money to invest.”

“What you have is a symmetrical caveman face,” Khela said.

“Is that good?”

“It’s fortunate. People with more symmetrical faces are seen as more attractive, and that can translate into seeming more trustworthy. In the animal kingdom, asymmetry, even the most minute differences in the eyes or mouth, can indicate genetic flaws. Symmetrical creatures get more sex.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“Romance novelists are like sponges,” Khela said. “We absorb everything because we can build a romance around anything.”

“So you think that I was a successful broker because I’m symmetrical? Four years of college and two years of training didn’t have anything to do with it?”

“Your symmetry gave the other stuff a big boost,” Khela said. “You have great overall symmetry. Your arms, legs, feet, ankles, hands, ears, eyes are all equal. Your symmetry benefits me, too, you know.”

“This should be interesting,” Carter laughed.

“Women with symmetrical partners report having more orgasms than women with average-looking men,” Khela said.

“I guess I’m symmetrical down there, too,” Carter gloated, gyrating his hips and giving Khela a little ride.

“Your schlong has nothing to do with it,” Khela said.

“My what?”

“Your Johnson. Your schvance. Your doodle. Your…you don’t know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean.” His pretty eyes twinkled. “I just like hearing all the nicknames you have for it.”

“Your
ding-a-ling
doesn’t have anything to do with why you please a woman,” Khela said. “It’s the total package. Symmetrical men typically have taller, more fit bodies. Women like a total package, not just a big ol’ ding-dong.”

“But a big ol’ ding-dong is nothin’ to complain about, right?”

“It is if its owner doesn’t know how to use it,” Khela said.

“What about women? Does it apply to them?”

“Women know exactly how to use a big ol’ ding-dong. That’s how places like Aphrodite’s Feather stay in business, and why women don’t go around shooting up malls and office buildings. We know how to channel our need for release in more pleasurable, private ways, whether it’s gorging ourselves on HoHos once in a while or hibernating under the covers with a B.O.B.”

“I don’t mean that,” Carter said, rolling his eyes. “Does symmetry help women?”

“Of course. The really neat thing is that a woman’s symmetry changes through her menstrual cycle.”

Carter’s lip curled. “Ew.”

“Stop, I’m trying to teach you something.” Khela gave him a light thump on his chest.

“I’m listening,” he said. “I just don’t go for all that girlie talk.”

“During that time of the month,” she said pointedly, “a woman’s fingers, ears, breasts—”

“Breasts are good,” Carter cut in.

“—all become more symmetrical when she ovulates. She becomes more attractive when she’s most likely to conceive. Nature is amazing, isn’t she?”

Carter’s eyes were glued to the open front of Khela’s shirt. “Your breasts are symmetrical.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m on the pill. Chemistry trumps symmetry when it comes to conception in my case.”

“Are your breasts so beautiful because they’re symmetrical?” He framed them in his hands.

“Why are you so fascinated with my breasts?”

“Because I’m just a caveman. You said so yourself.”

“I said you had a caveman
face
,” she clarified. “So does Will Smith. And Brad Pitt. Men with ‘bulldog’ faces have gotten the most girls through evolutionary history. There’s a paleontologist at the Natural History Museum in London, who—”

“What’s her name? Maybe I know her.”

Khela swatted at Carter. Laughing, he caught her hands and laced her fingers through his.

“She proposed that the distance between the lip and brow line was crucial to what we perceive as attractive. Researchers found that male chimps with shorter, broader faces get more play than other male chimps. You’re in good company.”

“You think I’m a caveman who looks like a chimp,” he scoffed.

“Justin Timberlake, Thierry Henry, Johnny Depp, David Beckham and Kanye West are some of the most attractive men in the world, and they have ‘bulldog’ faces,” Khela said. “That’s the company I meant.” She stretched out on top of him, resting her chin on her hands on top of his chest. “You don’t look like a chimp. You act like one sometimes, but you definitely don’t look like one.”

“Thanks.” He stared down his nose to gaze at her. “I think.”

“So finish telling me how you got not one, but two, big ol’ brownstones on Comm Ave.”

“That tale isn’t as good as your symmetrical caveman bulldog story.”

“Tell me anyway,” she said.

“As I said, I was a natural. I played the market as if it were my favorite baby toy. I had good instincts, and I could sniff out trends. I couldn’t pick winners in college football games for crap, but I knew when to buy and sell stocks for other folks. I wasn’t into the job the way some of the other kids were, but I definitely threw myself a little more into it after my bust-up with Savannah.”

“Your pageant girl,” Khela teased.

“Ex-pageant girl,” Carter corrected.

“I think a lot of people devote their lives to their work after a bad break-up.”

“It was a livelihood, not my life. Thinking that way made it easier for me to take big risks. One of my biggest paid off.”

“What, you bought into Microsoft on the ground floor?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he chuckled, which made Khela’s head bob up and down with the movement of his torso. “Basically, I specialized in long-term holding of focused portfolios of between five and ten solid stocks chosen based on two criteria: high-earning yield and high return on asset. You follow me?”

“Yes,” Khela lied.

“A couple of my portfolios hit the jackpot,” he said. “I retired at twenty-six.”

Khela rose on her elbows. Her mouth fell open. “How much did you make?”

“Are you asking me how much I’m worth?”

“I already know how much you’re worth,” she said. “You’re priceless. I wanna know how much you retired on.”

He shifted his gaze to the window, and he watched the sun’s showy descent into the west as he said, “A few million.”

“Merry Christmas,” Khela gasped.

“It was about like that,” Carter sighed. “Like winning the lottery twice.”

“So what made you decide to go into real estate?”

“It was more like whom than what. Detrick convinced me to invest in the two Comm Ave properties. They were on the market, and they were good buys because they needed some work. I got my loans, got the work done, and started renting to chumps like you who pay three times more in rent than what most folks pay for a mortgage.”

“I’m not a chump just because I’m crazy about my apartment,” Khela said. “I seriously fell in love with the moldings and the fixtures and the deep, wide, tall windows. And I love living in the Back Bay. I’ve got the mall in front of me, the Charles River and MIT behind me, and I’m within walking distance of the Boston Public Library, the Public Gardens, the Common, the State House, Newbury Street—”

“With all those attractions and conveniences, maybe I should raise your rent,” Carter chuckled.

She lowered her head to bring her mouth closer to the tawny disk of sensitive flesh capping his left pectoral muscle. “Actually, I was wondering if I could negotiate a decrease in my rent.”

“Oh, yeah?” Carter intently watched her lips part and tracked the tip of her tongue as it moved toward his nipple. “What did you have in mind?”

“What do you want?” she asked, the heat of her breath sending tingles through him.

“Page six, nine and fifteen of that Aphrodite’s catalog,” he smiled. “And that’s just for starters.”

* * *

At least a dozen brides-to-be and their attendant maids of honor crowded the sales floor of I/Deux, one of Boston’s premier bridal shops. The chic boutique, located on Newbury Street near Exeter, was Daphne’s top choice for wedding gown shopping. Competing with Jessica McClintock, Bella, Flair, Aria and Priscilla of Boston, I/Deux featured one-of-a-kind designer originals that ordinarily could be acquired only in Paris or Milan.

Daphne’s fondness for edgy, contemporary designers and Llewellyn’s robust bank account guaranteed that she and Khela would end up no place other than I/Deux to purchase dresses for the wedding.

“I love this!” Daphne gasped, clutching the sleeve of a pale pink strapless silk chiffon. She lifted the skirt and draped it over her chest. “Does it bring out the rose undertones in my skin, or the yellow?”

“The rose,” Khela said, studying Daphne from several angles. “It makes your face glow.”

Under the shop’s cool white lighting, Daphne’s eyes began to shine like freshly polished emeralds.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Khela whined. “You’re not going to start crying again, are you?”

“I can’t help it!” Daphne said, dropping the filmy skirt and pressing her face into Khela’s shoulder. “Everything is happening so fast now. In two weeks, I’m going to be Mrs. Llewellyn Davies! I’ve finally got my dress, but I still have to find something old, something new—”

“I’ve got your something old,” Khela said, leaning back to keep Daphne’s tears from water-staining her silk tank top. “I can loan you Grandma Belle’s pearls.”

Daphne bobbed up. “Khela, no. You should save them for your own wedding.” The freckles dotting Daphne’s nose seemed to brighten when she smiled and said, “You and Carter will be dodging rice before you know it.”

“Maybe.” Khela smiled shyly. “I try not to think about it. In some ways, we’ve moved just as fast as you and Llewellyn, but in other ways…Well, I think it’s best if we go slower. Thinking about marriage falls in the latter category.”

Daphne’s eyes began to water, and she touched two fingers to her lips. “When I saw him kiss you goodbye this morning…” Overcome, she stopped and fanned herself with her hand. “It was just the most romantic thing.”

Khela stared at Daphne, her face severe. “Are you pregnant?”

A few other shoppers turned around, wide-eyed with anticipation.

“What?” Khela snapped at a particularly persistent rubbernecker. “Like pregnant women don’t buy wedding gowns?”

The woman quickly scurried to the other side of the store.

“Well, are you?” Khela asked, cornering Daphne between two mannequins dressed in heavily beaded gowns.

“How could you tell?” Daphne whispered. “I only just found out myself a little while ago.”

“How little a while?”

“This is nice,” Daphne said, moving past Khela to feel the capped sleeve of a silk gown with a ruched Empire bodice.

Khela grabbed her arm and swung her in a circle that landed her back in her original spot. “That dress is horrible, and answer my question.”

“Yesterday.” Daphne’s eyes swam again. She struck the tears away with the heel of her hand. “I took a stick test and it came up knocked up.”

“Does Llewellyn know?”

“He was right there with me, until he fainted.”

Khela giggled. “I’m sorry,” she said, quickly choking back any show of further amusement.