My Fair Gentleman (4 page)

“No.”

“You don’t sound too sure of that.”

“No,” she said more forcefully. “In fact, the management loves children.”

He searched her face, reassured by the honest conviction he saw there. “I must be crazy,” he muttered to himself.

“You mean you’ll do it?”

“I have to tie up some loose ends in the next couple of days, and I can’t commit before then, but if everything falls into place—”

The impact of her lithe body hitting his chest whooshed the air from his lungs. Slim arms circled his
neck and squeezed. He registered soft skin, silky hair, a flowery scent—and then Catherine drew back.

“Thank you, Joe! I promise you won’t regret your decision.”

Watching her smile light up the dingy pool hall, Joe had a sick feeling he already did.

“I
WONT GO
!” Allie slammed the door hard enough to rattle her row of softball trophies.

Stalking to her dresser, she moved the tallest trophy a fraction to the left and rubbed the brass-plate inscription: Allison Tucker, Most Valuable Player. Instead of feeling her usual burst of pride, she blinked back the horrible sting of tears.

The doorknob rattled. “C’mon Allie, it’s only for a month. It’ll be fun.”

Fun. Joe’s solution to everything from her earliest memory, from the time she’d actually believed in magic. She glared at the door. “You go on, then. I’ll stay here with Norman.”

“You can’t, honey. Norman needs time alone since Doris kicked him out. Besides, I’d miss you too much. You’re my best pal, remember?” His deep voice was sentimental, wheedling.

She closed her eyes against the images crowding her mind. Making ice-cream sundaes for dinner on Gram’s bingo night, playing hooky from school to share popcorn at a movie—saving a place at her team awards banquet for a father who never showed up.

“Allie, please open the door.”

The ache in her chest moved higher, swelling her throat. Her stomach churned worse than before a big game. She wanted to fling the door open and throw herself into Joe’s strong arms. She wanted to fling the
door open and scream the bitter words clogging her windpipe.

“Allie?”

She wanted to be a little kid again, too dumb to know anything about anything.

The silence stretched. Joe sighed, then walked away.

Released, Allie dove for the top of her bed and buried her face in a pillow. The tears she’d been holding back burst free. Why had Gram married that snowbird and moved to Minnesota? Didn’t she know her granddaughter needed her? Depended on her, if not for love and approval, at least for adult common sense?

Now Joe wanted to pack up and move to some place Allie’d never heard of, away from her friends, away from Tommy Burton in apartment 34C. And for what? Some stupid plan some stupid lady’d made that might help Joe get some stupid job. He wasn’t a Houston Astros player anymore, he’d told her, and she would bet her MVP trophy Gram didn’t know. If she did, she never would’ve left two days ago. Allie clenched her soaked pillowcase and gave in to a fresh surge of tears. Why couldn’t things stay the same?

Stretching out her arm, she groped blindly, connected with a soft shape and dragged it close. The stuffed monkey was the closest she’d come to having a pet. Joe had won it for her last year at her softball team’s annual carnival.

Yesterday, when she’d practiced face painting on his arm, he’d promised to win her another animal at this year’s fund-raiser. It was one promise she believed. After all, hadn’t he wiped out the tower of bottles on his first throw last year? Her friends had
said later what a cool father he was. And they were half-right. He was strong and cute and a super athlete and way cool about blowing off rules and making people laugh.

But he was no father. At least, not like her friends had.

Flipping onto her back, Allie sniffed hard and gritted her teeth. She
hated
crying. Only wusses cried. But lately she was out of control. A real loser.

Like when Tommy’d smiled at her by the pool twenty-six hours and forty minutes ago, and she’d giggled like a demented hyena. If he hadn’t already thought she wasn’t worth his super-fine smile, he sure did now. Sarah Sokol had whispered something to him behind her hand, and they’d both laughed. Allie wanted to die just thinking about it.

Lifting the hem of her T-shirt, she scrubbed her face and frowned at the Boyz II Men poster on her wall. Joe’d said his teacher lady friend was real classy. That she’d show him how to act like he’d grown up in a mansion, instead of a run-down shack behind Big Joe’s filling station. Anyone who could teach a guy all that fancy stuff probably knew a lot about girl stuff, too.

Allie lay quietly, feeling more like herself by the minute. She would quit being a baby and face facts. Joe was Joe. She was old enough to take care of herself—and him, too. He needed her.

Swinging her legs to the stained beige carpet, she walked to the door and stood finger-combing her snarled hair, instead of brushing it. Gram would’ve thrown a hissy fit, but Joe wouldn’t notice. Pulling her door open, she moved down the hall and stopped short of the den entrance.

Just like every morning, Joe sat reading the sports page in his old recliner, his bare feet sticking out well past the footrest. He’d dragged his favorite cutoffs and tank top out of the dirty clothes hamper. Again. She’d have to sneak them into the wash before the neighbors complained.

From the looks of the teddy bears on his arm, he hadn’t showered after getting home last night. A bowl of soggy cereal sat on one chair arm. The other supported his tightly clutched beer. He looked scruffy, tired and…sad.

She’d hurt him, Allie realized with a start.
Both
of him. The playmate she adored and the man who’d disappointed her so many times over the years. Her wonderful impossible dad.

He glanced up and noticed her in the doorway. “Hi there.”

“Hi.”

“Feeling a little better?”

She nodded, hating this awkward politeness.

“Good.” His gaze sharpened. “Then who was named most valuable player for the 1974 World Series? There’s a hamburger in it for the winner.”

It was a game they’d played for years, familiar and safe. She crossed her arms and waited for him to up the ante.

He sighed. “Okay,
with
fries.”

“Finley with the Oakland A’s. Piece’a cake.”

“I’ll get you one of these days,” he promised, ruining the threat by grinning proudly.

“In your dreams. Can I have a milk shake, too?”

“Not for that no-brainer. Now go do something with that rat’s nest on your head while I get my
shoes.” He pushed down on the footrest and sat straight.

Allie slowly touched her head. He’d noticed her hair? “Joe?”

He finished a huge yawn and rolled his shoulders. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry I slammed the door in your face.”

His eyes met hers, all trace of grogginess gone. “That’s okay. I know you miss Gram, and you’re kind of scared about the two of us getting along without her. I know I haven’t always been there for you. But now I won’t be on the road half the year. Things’ll be different.”

He’d known how she felt? Staring into his anxious eyes, she couldn’t breathe for the love filling her heart.

“We can do this, pal,” he said with forced heartiness. “Together.”

This time Allie didn’t hesitate. Running forward, she threw herself into Joe’s strong arms and held on tight. After a long moment she lifted her head and smiled.

“Course we can, Joe. It’ll be fun.”

C
ATHERINE STOOD
behind father and daughter while they studied the “apartment” she’d promised Joe three nights ago. Heat radiated up from the driveway in brutal waves. How could they look so fresh in this Amazonian hell?

Allie’s cap of short dark hair reached just above Joe’s elbow. Wearing shorts and a ribbed knit shirt, she revealed the compact body of a young gymnast. Yet her budding curves promised future havoc for adolescent male hormones—and Joe’s peace of mind.

When had Joe’s wife died? Catherine wondered briefly. She knew only too well how rough the next few years could be for the girl without a mother’s guidance. Ignoring the odd catch in her heart, she focused on Joe.

He’d shaved recently, a definite improvement over the last time she’d seen him. His khaki slacks and hunter green shirt flattered his broad shoulders and lean hips. Or maybe it was the other way around. She had a feeling he’d look good wearing anything. Especially his bare skin. She glanced away. Then looked slowly back.

Something about his quietness made her nervous. Possibly the fists hanging by his sides like small hams.

“This is it?” Allie finally asked her father, her uptilted face a delicate version of his—yet not like his at all. “This is what we’ll be living in for a month? It’s a
garage
apartment, Joe.”

“I can see that.” His tone matched his fists.

Okay, Catherine admitted silently, maybe she’d been a wee bit hasty describing it as she had.

“This sucks big-time,” Allie said, grabbing Joe’s arm. “Let’s go call Norman and tell him he can’t lease our apartment.”

“Too late, pal. He’s halfway here from Dallas by now.”

They turned to Catherine in unison, their identical brown glares prodding her guilty conscience. Her sweeten-the-pot offer didn’t seem nearly as brilliant today as it had in The Pig’s Gut.

“Where is my fully furnished apartment with a very large bedroom?” Joe asked carefully.

She looked up and squinted at the redbrick structure shimmering over the garage. “Technically
speaking, it’s right in front of you. Just because the one bedroom happens to be the living and dining room, too, doesn’t mean it’s not large.” If her peripheral vision could be trusted, Joe wasn’t amused. “Now calm down. Once you see the inside, you’ll feel much—”

“You lied to me,” he interrupted.

She met his gaze at that. “I never lie.”

“Oh, excuse me. You messed with my head. Psychotherapy, I believe you couch doctors call it.”

This man was no amoeba. “Actually we prefer to think of it as creative ego management.” Her feeble smile died in the face of his deepening scowl. “That was a joke.”

A bad joke, but then, she doubted David Letterman could’ve cracked Joe’s contempt. Someone in his past had really done her profession a disservice.

He lowered his brows. “Where are the tennis courts you promised?”

Relieved, she turned and pointed toward the east. “See those big trees? The courts are right behind them. An indoor lap pool, also. The neighbors love pairing up for a tennis match, if you’re interested. We’re very friendly around here.” Didn’t she always wave at the sweating fools when she walked by on her way to swim laps in cool indoor comfort?

“And I suppose you’ll tell me the management that ‘loves children’ isn’t a lie, either.”

At last, firm ground. “I love children,” she stated unequivocally, frowning when he continued to look skeptical. “You certainly are being unreasonable for someone who’s expecting a Norman from Dallas any minute.”

“Gimme a break, doll. Am I supposed to be happy I gave up my big apartment for a doghouse in your backyard?”

She narrowed her eyes.

The makeup she’d carefully applied after his unexpected phone call was no doubt melting with her sweat. The wraparound denim skirt she’d anxiously selected clung, hot and itchy, to her hose. She’d worked every spare minute for the last month on the haven he’d just called a doghouse, hoping to use it as her summer office. Enough was enough.

“You called
me,
remember? You were the one who made plans to move into an apartment without seeing it first. I’ve been standing out here without the benefit of air-conditioning for fifteen minutes—ten minutes past my previous record—and I have nothing to show for it but sunburn and your verbal abuse.” She lifted her stinging nose high enough to do her Hamilton ancestors proud. “Considering you have the manners of a mongrel, a doghouse is exactly what you deserve. However, I’m offering you a charming efficiency apartment any number of people would be thrilled to lease. I decorated it myself. Now, do you want it or not?”

Joe looked as if he were choking on his answer.

“No?” Catherine inclined her head regally. “Well, then, perhaps I’ll call
Norman
when he arrives and see if he’s interested. Can you give me the telephone number, Allie?”

The wide-eyed girl nodded.

“Leave my daughter out of this,” Joe practically snarled. “Show me the damn apartment.” Spinning around, he glared ahead.

Catherine almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“How can I refuse such a gracious request?” Pulling the keys from her skirt pocket, she brushed by Joe and mouthed “ego management” to his daughter in passing. After a startled second, Allie’s brown eyes sparked with feminine comprehension and amusement.

A warm glow spread through Catherine as she headed for the stairs leading up to the efficiency. Hearing footsteps behind her, she grinned in triumph.

“What are you smiling at?” Joe snapped.

Catherine started to turn.

“Would you chill?” Allie said to her dad, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “First you want me to be happy about moving. Now you don’t want me to smile. Make up your mind.”

His grumbled “Sorry” restored Catherine’s grin. She’d felt an instant rapport with Allie and looked forward to gaining the girl’s friendship.

Reaching the unshaded staircase, Catherine began climbing the steps, the biting smell of hot cedar reminding her not to touch the railing. At the small landing she stopped and inserted her key into the cherry red door.

“Well, here we are,” she stated the obvious, turning the knob and pushing forward with a sudden feeling of doom.

Maybe she’d been a wee bit hasty not telling Joe about his roommates.

H
ALFWAY UP THE STEPS
Joe paused to rest. He’d come a long way since his surgery two months ago, but climbing reminded him why his contract hadn’t been renewed. Rubbing his left knee, he watched Allie tentatively follow their new landlord into the apartment. He should take his daughter’s advice and “chill.” But it was damn hard to do with Catherine’s little speech ringing in his ears.

The nerve of her, implying he’d been gullible, or worse—foolish—to act decisively and quickly. How many opportunities, how many good times would’ve passed him by in the past year alone if he’d waited to plan every detail in advance? More than she’d experienced in her entire uptight life, he’d be willing to bet.

His mosquito of a conscience buzzed out of nowhere and bit deep.

If he’d planned the off-season vacation his daughter”d begged him for, instead of flying off to Vail on impulse, maybe he’d still be on the Astros roster. Maybe Allie wouldn’t have cried her heart out when his mother left. Maybe—

“C’mon, poky,” Allie called down from the doorway,

Joe straightened and blinked. She had the filled-to-bursting look of someone hiding a good secret. Thank
God. The apartment must meet with her approval. He waved and she ducked back inside.

Climbing the remaining steps without much enthusiasm, he reached the landing. The place would be sophisticated of course. And probably as sterile as the woman who’d decorated it. He hoped like hell the carpet wasn’t white. Assuming a carefully bland expression, he drew in a breath and crossed the threshold.

A riot of colors assaulted him.

Green. Purple. Red. Orange. Some others he’d seen on paint chips that never got taken home. Closing his eyes, he gave his pupils a minute to adjust from sunlight to lamplight, then risked another peek. He hadn’t hallucinated.

Lord have mercy, he’d just committed to living in a crayon box for a month.

“So what d’ya think?” His daughter’s eyes, soothing pools of familiar brown, had never seemed more beautiful. She gestured widely and grinned. “Does this place rule or what?”

Rule? It conquered. Overwhelmed.

“Catherine did everything herself. The kitchen curtains. The wallpaper. Even that painting over the sofa. Can you believe it?”

He turned and studied the rectangular canvas of purple and orange flowers, saved from dime-a-dozen blandness by rich texture and disturbing boldness. His mind stumbled. The artist of this painting was no uptight sterile woman. Even his untrained eye detected passion in the vibrant brush strokes.

Catherine laughed uneasily from somewhere behind him. “I’m sure your father’s more interested in
the practical features of the apartment. For example, the sofa folds out to a bed.”

He heard the swish of her long denim skirt. Felt the fabric brush the back of his slacks. Inhaled the scent of lush summer blooms and heated female skin.
She smells like the painting looks,
he thought, spinning around to confront this unforeseen threat to his plans.

She took half a step back. “It’s…it’s a brand-new mattress. Top of the line.”

Noting Allie had wandered to the kitchen, he gave Catherine a thorough inspection. Mascara smudged her left eyelid. Her nose glowed with sunburn. A tight low ponytail did nothing to flatter her narrow face. Hardly a femme fatale. Hardly a threat.

Relaxing, he slid one hand into his pocket. “Where’s Allie going to sleep?”

“There’s a roll-away bed in the closet. I’m told it’s fairly comfortable.”

“What about this thing?” He measured the sofa with a doubtful eye. “I’m not exactly petite.”

“Oh, that mattress is big enough for two and quite comfortable—” She broke off with a frown and glanced away.

Oh-ho! So that’s how it is!
He jiggled his pocket change irritably. “Big enough for two, is it?” he said for her ears alone.

Her cheeks pinkened to match her lifting nose. “Three, if everyone cooperates.” She held his gaze long enough for him to feel like a fool, then walked toward the kitchen. “There’s a trick to unfolding the roll-away bed, Allie. And the pilot light sometimes goes out on the stove. How about taking the ten-cent guided tour?”

Allie’s enthusiastic nod made Joe stare. Whatever happened to “This sucks big-time“?

Ignoring him completely, Catherine glided around the apartment touching features with the grace of Vanna White turning letters of the alphabet. He’d never seen a woman move like that. So erect, yet so fluid a book on her head wouldn’t have wobbled.

They spent a long time in the walk-in closet talking about bed latches, linens and storage space. The bathroom tour drew Allie’s appreciative, “Cool.” After that Joe quit paying attention and sat on the sofa with a sigh.

For a man who supposedly understood women, he couldn’t seem to get a handle on Catherine. Take this apartment, for instance.

In his living-room experience acceptable colors ranged from beige to dark brown. Fabrics matched. Walls were covered with family photographs or framed prints. The only purple in sight was grapejuice stains on the carpet. But
this
…

He stretched out his legs and gazed around. This place was as foreign to him as a subtitled movie.

Now that the shock had worn off, he could tell there was a weird sort of order to everything. Somehow the green-checked sofa blended with the floralpatterned armchair. The glossy green patio table and chairs looked good against the purple back wall. Even the Mardi Gras masks hanging like pictures didn’t spook him the way they had at first. The black iron doorstop, though, would definitely have to go.

Joe examined the thing with a shudder. He
hated
cats. All cats. Even fake ones. He leaned forward and squinted. Stood up and moved closer. Bent down and reached out.

The doorstop opened slitted green eyes and hissed. Something gray streaked up close and bit Joe’s outstretched hand.

“Son of a
bitch!
”

“Romeo!” Catherine rushed forward and scooped the gray cat from the floor.

Clutching his injured hand, Joe glared at the scruffiest, ugliest, meanest-looking excuse for a famous lover he’d ever seen. Satanic yellow eyes glared back from the cradle of Catherine’s arms. At her feet, the black doorstop yowled plaintively.

She looked down, her expression softening. “It’s okay, Juliet, he’s not hurt. See?” Catherine lowered the huge gray tomcat to the floor, where he began grooming himself as if soiled irreparably by the incident.

Joe pointed a wounded finger. “
He’s
not hurt? I need a rabies shot, for cryin’ out loud.”

Frowning, she reached for Joe’s hand, examined his punctured skin with a small sound of dismay, then twisted toward Allie. “Honey, would you get antiseptic and bandages from the medicine cabinet please?

Crouched on the floor stroking the black cat, Allie looked up and met Joe’s stare.
Traitor,
he accused silently.

Her golden skin flushed. “Sure thing,” she mumbled, loping off to the bathroom.

“Romeo’s had all his vaccinations. You won’t need a rabies shot,” Catherine assured him.

“Where the hell was he hiding all that time?”

“Under the couch. He probably thought you were going to hurt Juliet. He doesn’t like men.”

“No kidding,” Joe muttered.

Bending her head, Catherine probed his wound. “Does it hurt much?”

Like he’d been stabbed with hot pokers. “Nah.”

“Such a manly man,” she said, amusement lacing her voice. “Is this my cue to swoon?”

“You wouldn’t be the first one, doll.”

Her green gaze lifted. The air hummed between them. Her shift in mood from skeptical to speculative didn’t surprise him. His fierce desire to satisfy her curiosity did.

Allie ran up, breaking their locked gazes. “Here’s the stuff you wanted,” she said breathlessly.

Catherine released his hand and reached for the supplies.

“Does it hurt real bad, Joe?” Allie’s expression offered an apology for not asking him earlier.

“Nah.” He grinned and deepened his voice. “I’m a manly ma—
Ow-w-w!’

“It’s only a little iodine,” Catherine said sternly, dabbing his fingers with the stinging liquid. “Quit fussing. Manly men don’t whine.”

He dropped his chin to his chest and thrust out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout. Allie giggled. Catherine glanced up and snorted. Reclaiming his hand with a shake of her head, she set to work.

Absurdly pleased, he nodded toward the two cats now vying for Allie’s attention. “What the bell are they doing here?”

She froze, then continued bandaging his fingers. “They live here.”

His good humor fled. “Excuse me?”

“They live here,” she said louder, as if the problem were his hearing, not the cats.

“Don’t you mean they
lived
here?”

“No.” She finished wrapping his last puncture wound and offered a bright smile. “There you are. Good as new.”

He caught her wrist as she stepped back. “Cats weren’t part of our deal.”

“Didn’t I mention them?” She shrugged elegantly. “Oh, well, they’re so little trouble it must have slipped my mind.”

“Catherine…” he warned.

Her expression sobered, all flippancy gone. “I can’t keep them at the house, Joe. My father is allergic to cats.”

“So have the house cleaned before he comes back from England.”

“I tried that after his book tour. It nearly put him in the hospital.
He’s severely
allergic.”

“So keep ‘em outside. This neighborhood is a friggin’ cat paradise. All those trees to climb, birds to chase—”

“Dogs to chase them,” Catherine finished, her tone grim. “Juliet’s declawed. She couldn’t defend herself or even climb a tree for safety. I have to keep her inside. And Romeo is devoted to her. He’d die if I separated them.”

Joe made a sound of disgust and released her wrist. “Gimme a break. They’re just
cats,
for God’s sake.”

Some emotion veiled her face, a vulnerability that said the animals, were much more than casual pets, much more than he could comprehend. The next instant her eyes narrowed, so like the doorstop’s it was eerie.

“The students who rent this apartment come and go, but Romeo and Juliet stay. This is their home. If
you can’t share it with them, I’m afraid our deal is off.”

Allie moved up and tugged on Joe’s arm. “They won’t be any trouble. I’ll take care of them myself. You won’t have to do a thing. Please, Joe, can we stay?”

He looked into doe brown eyes and remembered a little girl of six pleading for a kitten, a little girl of eight pleading for a puppy.

“You said yourself it was only for a month,” she persisted, turning his own words against him.

He’d vetoed the kitten and puppy. The subsequent rabbit and bird, too. His mother wouldn’t tolerate an animal in the house, and, as she’d told him,
he
wouldn’t be there to help care for them.

Before Allie’s imploring eyes grew disillusioned, before his gut could churn with guilt, he cupped her head and rumpled her silky hair. “Okay, pal, tomorrow we’ll bring a load of stuff over and get settled in. But when it comes to those two monsters, forget what I said about us sticking together. You’re on your own.”

Whether his sudden difficulty in breathing came from Allie’s crushing bear hug or the quiet thanks in Catherine’s eyes, he couldn’t have said.

F
IFTY MILES AWAY
, Mary Lou Denton eased behind the counter of Columbus Truck Stop’s diner and tied an apron over her slim black skirt. The luncheon special—chicken-fried steak as big as a hubcap—would keep things hopping for hours yet. She might run the place now, but she couldn’t sit on her duff in the manager’s office while the waitresses up front ran
themselves ragged. She’d walked too many years in their shoes.

Grabbing an order pad and pencil, she slipped into the stream of action without a ripple. Dishes clattered. Voices rumbled. Steam clouded or curled, spreading the smells of grease, coffee and fresh-baked bread. A waitress’s telltale perfume. She’d have to wash and rinse her hair twice tonight, but the thought didn’t annoy her as it used to. She pushed back a surge of uneasiness.

If there was an extra spring in her step, it wasn’t because today was Wednesday. She hadn’t worn her hair up in a French twist for any particular reason. Her heart didn’t leap each time the door jangled open. No, not hers. That would mean she cared who came in. And she was way too smart for that. Irene whizzed past balancing loaded plates on both arms. The harried waitress’s well-timed mumble found its mark and Mary Lou scanned the eating customers. Ah. So Grace had discovered the new driver for Valley Produce, had she?

When the pretty young woman tossed him a parting smile and headed toward the kitchen, Mary Lou stepped into her path. “The family in booth three finished five minutes ago.”

Grace blushed, knowing she’d been caught flirting. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mary Lou nodded and moved out of the way.
Yes, ma’am, old lady, ma’am.
As if she’d never experienced the thrill of a man’s appreciative gaze. As if she never would.

Without vanity, she knew her thick dark hair had very little gray, her skin few wrinkles, her body little excess flesh for a woman of fifty-two years. Men still
cast her second glances. She stared at the front door, realized what she was doing and turned back to the counter wearing a blush of her own.

Drivers sat hunched over their plates in a long row. Cattle at the trough, she’d called them once upon a time, when her dreams were big and her patience shrank in proportion to her swelling feet. She’d been so disdainful then. So…naive. Funny how tragedy changed a person’s outlook. She’d returned from the East a whole lot sadder but wiser.

These men had names. Families. Troubles and triumphs. Her feet swelled worse than ever, but thank God her head didn’t.

“Hey, beautiful, c’mere a minute,” a familiar voice boomed.

Irene, Grace and Mary Lou swiveled their heads at the same time. Nate Dawson grinned at all three but crooked his finger at Mary Lou. The younger women rolled their eyes fondly and returned to their duties.

Smiling, Mary Lou walked to the barrel-shaped trucker who’d become a true friend over the years. The birth of his two daughters, his problems with various employers, the glorious day he’d bought his own rig—she’d shared them all with Nate. Just as he’d cheered her promotion to manager two years ago. She suspected he’d put the original bug in the new owner’s ear that led to a serious interview.