Punchline (6 page)

“I’ll interview other women and create a composite,” Darryl improvised. Why was he so determined to get her to agree to this?

She doubted he had been overwhelmed by paternal feelings when he’d seen the ultrasound. Her own reaction had been strong and deep. The instant she had seen the baby Belle had discovered that she would go to any lengths to protect it.

She would almost be willing to let Darryl hang around in case of emergency. Almost, but not quite. Besides, there wasn’t going to be an emergency.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

“Think about it now.”

“I’ve got work to do,” she retorted. “I’m hungry, my feet hurt, my stomach feels like an oil slick…”

“It does, huh?” Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled up Belle’s blouse and ran his hand across her tummy. “That doesn’t feel oily, it feels soft.”

“Only because your hand is covered with calluses,” she protested.

“That’s from playing volleyball.” He didn’t take his hand away, though. In fact, Darryl seemed to be enjoying probing underneath her blouse.

“What are you doing?” Belle demanded.

“Seeing if I can feel the baby.”

“It’s too small. Even I can’t feel it yet,” she said. “Besides, the baby isn’t up
there.
”

His hands had found the sports bra she’d worn, due to the fact that she had outgrown her regular ones. Through the soft fabric, his fingers probed her nipples. “Pregnancy really does make you larger, doesn’t it?”

She tried to pull back, but there was no room to retreat. She grabbed Darryl’s wrists, only to find he was too strong to push away. Besides, his persistent kneading was sending heat waves through her body. It made a nice change from nausea.

“They say women get very sensual during pregnancy,” he murmured, sliding his hands beneath the elastic waistband and down her hips. His body pressed into hers, taut and hungry and hard. Definitely hard.

She wanted to object. Maybe in a few minutes…

Darryl curved over her, his mouth descending toward hers. Then he stopped.

“What?” said Belle.

“Are you going to bite me?”

“I might.”

With a groan, he moved away. At least, he lifted his hands and retreated an inch or two, which was the most the storeroom would allow. His breathing was abnormally loud, and she was grateful that the sound masked her own sharp breaths.

“I guess we can forget that idea,” she said. “If you move in, there’ll be nothing but trouble.”

Darryl blinked as if emerging from a daze. “Don’t be ridiculous. Think of the massages I could give you. And my article—Belle, you’d be educating not only me but
men all over the country to be more sympathetic to women.”

“You really intend to write an educational article?” she asked.

He nodded.

“And not mention my name?”

He gave another, somewhat less vigorous nod.

Belle shook her head. “Nope. You couldn’t hack it.”

That brought his head up in defiance. “Excuse me?”

“Are you telling me you really want to know what pregnancy’s like?” she demanded. “Every minute of it? Well, you can’t. You might take time off work to go to the doctor’s appointments and you might even try swallowing those humongous vitamin pills. But you won’t wake up five times a night to go to the bathroom. And you certainly can’t experience labor.”

“I can cater to your every whim,” he offered.

Now, there was a fabulous idea. Her every whim. Well, not
every
whim. Belle had no intention of landing in bed with the man again.

Maybe that was what he had in mind. She couldn’t imagine why Darryl would be lusting after her, but it appeared to be the case. If so, he was in for a major disappointment.

He deserved it.

“You’ll rub my back?” she pressed.

“I will.”

“Whenever I like?”

“Within reason.”

That seemed fair enough. Besides, what if she
did
have some serious problem in the middle of the night? “We can give it a try,” she said. “Now will you let me out of the closet?”

“Certainly.” Darryl opened the door with a flourish and bowed as she swept outside.

As soon as she’d taken a few breaths of fresh air, Belle realized she’d made a very risky decision. But what was life without a few risks?

Already, she couldn’t wait until her first back rub.

A
DJUSTING COPY
to make it fit around ads was not Darryl’s favorite task, and today he’d had to do it with two stories that he particularly liked.

He couldn’t afford to cut the ads, so he had to trim the articles. One was the main piece on “New Sports and Old: How to Choose What’s Right for You.” The other was a wickedly funny item called “Which Babe Tonight? Coordinate Your Date with Your Activity.”

Belle would dislike it when it came out in February. But not as much as she would dislike the article Darryl planned to publish in March.

Remembering the warm feel of her body beneath his in the closet a few days ago, he hoped she wouldn’t hate it too much. Surely she could understand that men deserved a fair shake when it came to custody issues.

Besides, emphasizing men’s fitness for parenthood also highlighted their responsibilities. And as for his thesis that men were superior, Belle was enough of a journalist to recognize the shock value of overstatement.

Tapping his fingers on his mouse pad, Darryl contemplated the fact that he would be moving in with her tomorrow. He would have to make sure their relationship remained platonic. It was what they both wanted, after all.

He still couldn’t figure out why he’d responded the way he had in the storage closet. Belle wasn’t the easygoing
type of woman toasted and celebrated in
About Town.
Moreover, her waistline was expanding rapidly.

That was the odd thing. Instead of finding her less attractive as she burgeoned, Darryl found himself more drawn to her.

She seemed to embody an essential life force that was, unexpectedly, proving more desirable to him than the glitzy sexuality displayed by centerfold models in skimpy swimsuits. But surely close proximity would soon dull the edge of her appeal.

Darryl opened a new file in his computer to rough out an opening for his story. He tried a couple of titles, but “The Natural Superiority of Fathers” was the one that stuck.

If he put it on the cover, it was eye-catching enough to insure expanded news-rack sales for the magazine. In order to justify such an outrageous title, though, he knew he needed an equally in-your-face opening to the story.

His fingers began to tap.

“Until the modern era, a woman played the leading role in only one theatrical-style production—her wedding,” he wrote. ‘Today’s female, however, has created a new showcase for herself. It’s called pregnancy.”

What an opening paragraph! Darryl thought as he resumed his attack on the keys. Who could resist reading further?

‘‘What was once a private matter has been dragged onto center stage. Today’s woman and her expanding belly are applauded by an audience of ultrasound technicians, obstetricians, childbirth coaches and specialty shopkeepers. The man is relegated to a supporting role, if any.

“It’s time someone told the truth. Gestating and delivering a baby are innate biological functions for which the mother deserves no more credit than the father. It’s something that happens to her, not something on which she should pride herself.”

He let out a low whistle. A lot of women would be furious. But if they read further, they would discover that he had some valid points.

“Our assumption that women are more fit to raise their offspring has led to an unfair system in which men are often denied the right to be parents. The result is unin-volved fathers, heartbroken children and, all too often, impoverished mothers.”

With the names and details changed, he described how Jim had lost custody of his son. He emphasized the close bond between the two, and the unfairness of the wife’s decision to move away.

Darryl pointed out that Jim had given up smoking during his wife’s pregnancy, but that she had not. Still, that wasn’t exactly evidence of superiority. He would need to dig up some better examples.

Putting the article aside, he went back to editing other people’s writing. He would keep his eyes open for further anecdotes that would bear out the theme.

A while later, Jim himself arrived with photographic proofs for an upcoming issue. Darryl showed his friend what he’d written and received an appreciative clap on the back in response.

“If you want more examples, you should come to my noncustodial fathers’ support group,” said the photographer. “I’ve heard tales that made my beard curl.”

“I’ll take all the help I can get.” They made a date for the following week.

Then Greg came in to discuss changing the format for movie reviews. Before Darryl knew it, the day and part of the evening had flown.

It was Friday night, and tomorrow he was scheduled to move into Belle’s condo. He planned to spend the evening attending a mad round of parties before temporarily giving up his freedom.

“W
HAT CLOWN NAMED
this ‘morning sickness’?” Belle demanded as she struggled to subdue her stomach while writing a caption on a photo of an obnoxiously slender model. “It’s past dinnertime, and I’ve still got it.”

Anita Rios handed her a bran muffin. “Try this. I’m featuring the recipe this month. It’s got grated apples and zucchini in it. And honey for sweetening. Well, not just honey. Brown sugar, too.”

“It’s delicious.”

“And good for you.”

“Well, let’s not exaggerate.” Belle had written the headline on Anita’s column herself: “Muffin Madness. High Fiber, Low Fat, Huge Taste!” Only farther down in the article would readers discover that low fat didn’t mean low calorie.

She declined a second muffin. Even writing headlines on food articles seemed to make Belle gain weight. Selfconsciously, she stroked one hand across her stomach.

“Oh, goodness, aren’t you over that pregnancy thing yet?” Sandra swung into the office in a cloud of silk and expensive perfume. Orchids wove around her hat and trailed down her back, matching the flowers painted on her white two-piece dress.

“Gestation still takes nine months,” Belle informed the publisher.

“Oh, does it?” Sandra’s blue eyes widened. “I know so little about children—I keep mistaking them for mice. When one enters the room, I scream. You aren’t planning on bringing it to work, are you?”

“I’ll find day-care,” Belle assured her, although that was a prospect she wasn’t ready to consider. The emergence of an actual baby remained in the realm of the theoretical.

“Have we heard from that mall lady about an appointment?” Sandra asked.

“Not yet. I thought she was going to call you at home.”

“Oh, was she?” One hand fluttered in the air. “I suppose she did say that.”

Belle wished her former roommate would pay more attention to the details of business. If not for the lawyer who oversaw her investments, Sandra would probably have forgotten where she kept all those millions of dollars.

At least she
had
promised to organize their formal presentation for cosponsoring the mall’s opening, once they got the go-ahead from Mira. That was a relief. Belle had enough work to do without adding a major project like that.

Anita checked her watch. “Maybe we should hit the road.”

The publisher smiled. “Oh, yes, let’s! Wait till you see the spread at the Hendersons’! They’re using Chef Francois and he makes an incredible pâté!”

Anita was researching an article to be called “Cater Your Own Wedding: Banquets on a Budget.” Sandra had offered to take the food editor to some of her friends’ parties that night to steal ideas.

Belle waved goodbye, then sat staring at the photo of the skinny model and wondered if the woman ever went on eating binges. Or got pregnant. Or lost her mind and agreed to let some Neanderthal specimen like Darryl Horak move into her apartment.

Belle didn’t even like female roommates. What on earth was she going to do with the editor of
About Town?

He would criticize her mismatched furniture, take over the remote control and probably fill the condo with the nasal whine of football announcers. She wondered if it was possible to tune the TV permanently to PBS.

There was still time to change her mind, she supposed. True, she had given Darryl a duplicate house key, but she could simply demand its return.

The more she thought about it, the more Belle felt she would be doing them both a favor. Allowing Darryl to move in was tempting fate.

They might kill each other. They might even succumb to that bizarre recurring attraction that must be an aftereffect of the aphrodisiac in the punch.

A few back rubs and a promise to fetch pickles and ice cream at midnight weren’t worth days of inconvenience and discomfort. Why hadn’t she given more thought to what it would mean, having a man on the premises?

No more wandering around in her underwear. No more lolling on the couch like a beached whale, groaning aloud until Placido Domingo soothed her alpha waves. No more evening-long marathons watching tapes of ice skating from Olympics past.

She should call him now. The clock was edging toward eight, later than she’d realized.

After checking the phone book, she dialed the
About Town
offices, but reached only voice-mail. She tried to find a home number for Darryl, but it wasn’t listed.

Well, she would simply have to send him packing when he arrived tomorrow. That would be soon enough, Belle decided as she collected her purse and headed for the door. At least she needn’t confront the man tonight, with her feet sore and her abdominal muscles aching.

S
ITTING IN HIS CAR,
Darryl stared at the beach half a block from his house. It was a sorry world when a selfconfident single man with a credit card and wheels could neither find a party nor start one of his own.

The November moon shone bleakly over an almost deserted strand. It was too late in the season for barbecues, and the only lovers strolling here tonight were more interested in getting their dogs to poop below the waterline than in exchanging romantic caresses.

He checked his watch. Twenty-three-forty hours. Not even midnight.

With a grunt, Darryl removed his car keys and strode along the oceanfront sidewalk. He didn’t intend to go home, but that’s where his legs were carrying him.

His neighbors, he noticed, had finally removed the pumpkin and witch decorations from their windows and replaced them with turkeys and Pilgrims. Judging by the rough edges on the paper cutouts, their children had made the things in preschool.

Frowning, he wondered whether his baby would ever go to preschool, and realized that of course it would. He had to stop picturing a baby perpetually babbling in its crib. How fast did they grow, anyway? At what point did they start blaming their parents for the world’s problems?

His house was tiny, a one-story white adobe wedged between duplexes. Prices at the beach were astronomical, and he’d been lucky to be able to afford this one. It wouldn’t accommodate much more than a solitary bachelor, though, Darryl reflected as he entered.

The living room was barely big enough to swing a cat. The kitchen begged for the suffix “ette” on the end, and if the health service ever checked behind the refrigerator, Darryl was due for a long stretch in the slammer.

He flicked on the light in the bedroom and tried to visualize it through Belle’s eyes. He noted the out-of-date wood paneling, the curtains dotted with ducks and the latest Flaunt It centerfold hanging on the wall. No wonder she’d bitten him.

A surge of energy told Darryl he couldn’t bear to spend the night lounging around in front of the TV. He might as well pack and move into Belle’s place right now.

She couldn’t be asleep yet. Even two-year-olds stayed up later than this in Los Angeles.

Besides, he’d promised to wait on her, hadn’t he? He might as well start with breakfast tomorrow.

Invigorated by his decision, Darryl pulled a suitcase from the closet and threw in some clothes, his shaving kit, shampoo and hair dryer. He nearly added a packet of condoms, then realized he was three months too late.

Staring at the suitcase, he noticed that he’d forgotten underwear, and tossed in a few days’ worth. He decided to take the perishables from the fridge, too, until a cursory inspection revealed that they had already perished.

He locked the house behind him, hopped into his car and set off for Palms. He knew the way, sort of. It wasn’t far, as Los Angeles geography went.

The problem was that the authorities had installed a new freeway that hijacked his lane when Darryl wasn’t expecting it. Before he could figure it out, he found himself making an unscheduled landing at Los Angeles International Airport. It took half an hour just to find his way back.

He refused to ask directions. Only tourists did that.

It was nearly 1:00 a.m. by the time he located Palms, and he was beginning to doubt that Belle would still be awake. That was the advantage of having a key. He could quietly establish himself in the spare bedroom and surprise her with breakfast.

The condo complex turned out to be five units along a driveway that ran at right angles to the street. The lot was. narrow and deep, the structures solid but not showy.

After parking, he proceeded along the walkway to unit C. Holding the suitcase to his left hand, Darryl fished the key from his pocket and inserted it into the door. A copy of a copy, the key grated reluctantly into place but refused to turn.

He jiggled the thing, but it still wouldn’t move. Baring his teeth, he twisted as hard as he could and threw his weight against the door.

Everything gave way at once. The key turned, the door flew open and Darryl plunged into the living room, fell over his suitcase and crashed to the floor.

Rubbing his hip, he waited tensely for Belle to come storming out, but she didn’t. He recalled hearing that pregnant women slept very soundly.

He was about to get up when he heard a click, like someone cocking a gun. The odd part was that it came from the outer doorway, not from the direction of the bedrooms.

Great. Darryl had arrived at Belle’s condo only to provide free admittance to a mugger. This was not going to look good either in the article or in his obituary, whichever came first.

“Put your hands up, you lowlife creep.” Despite its dryness, the voice bristled with authority. “Way up!” The shadowy figure in the doorway didn’t sound like a mugger. It didn’t look like one, either. Too thin, too short and too dressed in a nightgown.