“I can’t remember,” Cal said. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s a very shifty cat. You know, this furniture is not you, that clock is not you, and you don’t seem like the snow globe type.”
“I know it’s not me,” Min said, looking around at it. “But it’s good furniture, so it doesn’t make sense to buy new. Besides, it reminds me of my grandmother. And the snow globe thing started by accident.” She turned back to him. “At least let me pay for half of dinner.”
“No.” Cal picked up a massive piece that had a globe with Lady and the Tramp sitting on top of a detailed Italian restaurant. “What kind of accident?”
“My Grandma Min had a Mickey and Minnie Mouse snow globe. They were dancing and Minnie was wearing a long pink dress and Mickey was dipping her.” Min’s voice softened as she spoke. “My grandpa gave it to her for a wedding anniversary, but I loved it so much that she gave it to me when I was twelve.”
Cal scanned the mantel. Christine and the Phantom, Jessica and Roger Rabbit, Blondie and Dagwood, Sleeping Beauty and the Prince, Cinderella and her prince in front of a castle with white doves suspended in air, even Donald and Daisy were there, but no Mickey and Minnie. “Where is it?”
“I lost it,” Min said. “In one of the moves when I was in college. You know how it is, you move every year and stuff disappears. I was upset about it so people started giving me other ones on my birthday and for Christmas to make up for it. I tried to tell them I didn’t want any more, you know, ‘Thank you, it’s lovely, but you shouldn’t have,’ but by then it had taken on a life of its own.” She looked at the mantel and sighed. “I have boxes of them in the basement. These are just my favorites. Never collect anything. People never let you quit.”
Cal looked over the assortment again. There was one big, dark one at the end of the mantel that looked like monsters. “What’s this?” he said, picking it up.
“Disney villains,” Min said. “Liza and Bonnie each got me one for Christmas two years ago.”
“Liza got you that one,” Cal said, putting it back.
“How do you know it wasn’t Bonnie?” Min said.
“Because that’s not Bonnie.” He pointed to the Cinderella globe with the doves. “She got you that one.”
“Yes,” Min said. “I still don’t see—”
“Bonnie wants the fairy tale,” Cal said. “Liza’s a realist, she sees the bad guys. Also Bonnie wouldn’t have missed the important part. She got you a couple.”
“A couple of what?” Min said.
“A couple,” Cal said. “Twosome. These are all couples. Look. Lady and the Tramp, Christine and the Phantom, Jessica Rabbit and Roger . . . except for Liza’s, they’re all couples.”
“I wouldn’t call Rocky and Bullwinkle a couple exactly,” Min said, looking at them doubtfully. “And Chip and Dale. I mean, I know there have been rumors, but—”
“C’mon, Minnie,” Cal said. “You started with a couple.”
“Don’t call me Minnie,” Min said, her eyes flashing at him.
“You can call me Mickey,” Cal said, grinning at her, wanting that flash again.
“I’m going to call you a cab if you don’t stop annoying me,” Min said. “Can we just eat?”
Cal gave up and went back to the table to unpack Emilio’s bag, detouring around the cat in case it decided to go rogue and start on him. “That guy really did a number on you.”
“What guy?”
“The one who dumped you the night I picked you up. You must have loved him a lot.”
“Oh.” Min blinked. “Him? No. Not at all.”
Good, Cal thought, even though it didn’t make any difference. “Do you have plates?”
She went around the table and into an alcove that anybody else would call a closet, but that her landlord evidently thought was a kitchen.
“Get wineglasses, too,” Cal said as he opened the box with the bread in it.
“What?” Min said, leaning out of the alcove.
“Glasses,” Cal said. “For the wine.”
Min came out of the alcove with two wineglasses and set the table while he pulled the cork from the wine and poured, trying not to look at her sweats. It was nice of her to dress so badly. If she’d been wearing that red sweater again, he might have had a problem. Then she opened the carton with the salad in it, and tried to plate it using a tablespoon. “Damn,” she said, as the dressing spilled onto the table.
“You don’t cook, do you, Minerva?” Cal said.
“Oh, and you do?” Min said.
“Sure.” He took the spoon from her. “I worked in a restaurant while I was in college. You need a big spoon, Minnie. This one is for eating.”
“Or I could just jab you with it,” Min said.
He shook his head and went around her into the kitchenette to look for a larger spoon and instead found a frying pan with something horrible in it.
“What is this?” he said when she came in for a paper towel.
“None of your business,” Min said. He raised his eyebrows at her and she said, “I thought I could make it on my own. I got the recipe. But it didn’t—”
Light dawned. “This is chicken marsala?”
“No,” Min said. “That is a mess, which is why I called Emilio’s.”
“What did you do?” Cal said.
“Why?” Min said. “So you can make snarky comments?”
“Do you want to know how to make chicken marsala or not?” Cal said, exasperated. She was such a pain in the ass.
She scowled up at him. “Yes.”
“What’s the first thing you did?” Cal said.
“Sprayed the pan with olive oil,” Min said.
“Sprayed?” Cal said. “No. Pour. A couple of tablespoons.”
“Too much fat,” Min said.
“It’s good fat,” Cal said. “Olive oil is good for you.”
“Not for my waistline,” Min said.
“You’re going to have to pour, Minnie,” Cal said. “It’s part of the flavor.”
“Okay,” Min said, but she looked mutinous. “Then I browned the chicken.”
“Too fast,” Cal said. “Pound the chicken breasts first. Use a can if you don’t have a mallet, put them in a plastic bag, and pound them thin. Then dredge them in flour mixed with ground black pepper and kosher salt.”
“You’re kidding,” Min said. “Flour just adds calories.”
“And seals the chicken,” Cal said. “So it doesn’t get . . .” He picked up a fork, jabbed one of the petrified slabs in the pan, and held it up. “. . . dry. Then what did you do?”
Min folded her arms. “When they were browned, I put the mushrooms in and poured the wine over and let it reduce.”
“No butter?”
“No butter,” Min said. “Are you insane?”
“No,” Cal said, dropping the chicken back in the pan. “But anybody who makes chicken marsala without olive oil, butter, or flour may be. If you wanted broiled chicken, you should have made broiled chicken.” He dipped his finger in the sauce and tasted it. It was so vile he lost his breath, and Min ran him a glass of water and handed it to him.
“I don’t know why that part didn’t work,” she said.
“What marsala did you use?” Cal said when he’d gotten the taste out of his mouth, and she handed him a bottle of cooking wine. “No, no, no,” he said and then relented when she winced. “Look, honey, when you make wine sauce, you’re cooking the wine down, concentrating it. You have to use good wine or it’ll taste like . . .” He looked down at the pan. “. . . this. It’s a wonder the cat’s not dead.”
“Ouch,” Min said. “Could you write that down for me?”
“No,” Cal said, and then they heard a crash from another room. He looked around. “Your cat’s gone, Minnie. You leave a window open anywhere?”
“I have one of those cheapo sliding screens in the bedroom,” Min said and went through a doorway beside the mantel to look. “Oh, this is good,” she said when she was inside, and
Cal followed her in.
Her sliding screen was gone from the dormer window, which was now open to the night air. Cal went over and looked out. The screen was halfway down the roof, and the cat was sitting in a tree branch that tapped the shingles, washing its paws. Its left eye was closed.
“It does switch eyes,” Cal said, pulling his head back in. “Maybe it’s conserving . . .” His voice trailed off as he saw Min’s bedroom.
Most of it was filled with the most elaborate brass bed he’d ever seen, a huge thing covered with a watery lavender-blue satin comforter and lavender satin pillows that were piled against a headboard that curved and twined, erupting in brass rosettes and finials, until he grew dizzy just looking at it. “How do you keep from falling out of bed?”
“I just hold on and try not to look at the headboard,” Min said. “I love it. I bought it last month even though it was completely impractical. . . .”
She went on, but Cal had stopped listening when she said, “I just hold on,” imagining her lying back on the soft blue satin comforter, her soft gold-tipped curls spread out on the pillows, her soft lips open as she smiled at him, her soft hands gripping the headboard, her soft body—
“Cal?” Min said.
“It smells good in here,” Cal said, trying to find a thought that didn’t have “soft” in it. Or “hard,” for that matter.
“Lavender pillows,” Min said. “My grandmother always put lavender in her pillowcases. Or maybe it’s the cinnamon candles.”
Cal cleared his throat. “Well, it’s . . . nice. It’s the first thing I’ve seen in this apartment that looks like you.” The thought of tipping her onto that blue comforter was entirely too plausible, so he said, “We should go eat. Now.”
“Okay,” Min said and started for the door.
“You want the window closed?” Cal said.
“Then how will the cat get back in?” Min said.
“Good point,” Cal said, thinking, Oh, Christ, I gave her a feral cat, and followed her out.
When they were eating Emilio’s salad, Min said, “So chicken marsala is not heart smart or weight friendly.”
“Heart smart?” Cal said, picking up his tumbler of wine. “Does that mean good for your heart? Because it is. I told you, olive oil is good for you. And a little bit of flour and butter won’t kill you.”
“Tell that to my mother.” Min tasted her salad again. “This is so good. You know, the lesson here is, I shouldn’t be cooking.”
“Why?” Cal said. “It was the first time you tried. Everybody makes mistakes.” He picked up the chicken carton and filled the two plates, managing it so that nothing spilled.
“Except you,” Min said, watching him. “You do everything well.”
“Okay,” Cal said, putting the carton down. “You just got dumped, I get that, but you didn’t care about the guy, so why are you still so mad and taking it out on me?”
Min cut into her chicken. “He was sort of the last straw.” She put the chicken in her mouth and chewed, and got the same blissful look she always got when eating good food.
“You should never diet.” Cal picked up his fork and began to eat. “So what did he do that you can’t get over?”
“Well.” Min stabbed a mushroom with more antagonism than it deserved. “It was mostly my weight.”
“He criticized your weight?” Cal shook his head. “This guy has the brains of a brick.”
“He didn’t criticize, exactly,” Min said. “He just suggested that I should go on a diet. And then he left because I wouldn’t sleep with him.”
“He told you to go on a diet and then asked you to bed?” Cal said. “I take it back. Bricks are smarter than this dipwad.”
“Yes, but he has a point,” Min said. “I mean, about my weight.” She looked at him, defiant. “Right?”
“There is no way I can answer that without getting all that rage put back on me,” Cal said. “Keep it on the loser who dumped you. I’m the good guy.”
Min stabbed another mushroom, and then put the fork down. “Okay, I’ll give you a free pass on this one. No matter what you say, I won’t get mad.”
Cal looked at her stormy face and laughed. “How are you going to work that?”
Min nodded. “Okay, I’ll get mad, but I’ll play fair. The thing is, you’re the only man I trust enough to tell me the truth.”
“You trust me?” Cal said, surprised and flattered. “I thought I was a beast.”
“You are,” Min said. “But you do tend to tell me the truth. On most things.”
Cal stopped eating. “On all things. I’ve never lied to you.”
“Yeah,” Min said dismissively. “So what am I supposed to do about my weight?”
Cal put his fork down. “All right. Here’s the truth. You’re never going to be thin. You’re a round woman. You have wide hips and a round stomach and full breasts. You’re . . .”
“Healthy,” Min said bitterly.
“Lush,” Cal said, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breasts under her sweatshirt.
“Generous,” Min snarled.
“Opulent,” Cal said, remembering the soft curve of her under his hand.
“Zaftig,” Min said.
“Soft and round and hot, and I’m turning myself on,” Cal said, starting to feel dizzy. “Do you have anything on under that sweatshirt?”
“Of course,” Min said, taken aback.
“Oh,” Cal said, ditching that fantasy. “Good. We should be eating. What were we talking about?”
“My weight?” Min said.
“Right,” Cal said, picking up his fork again. “The reason you can’t lose weight is that you’re not supposed to lose weight, you’re not built that way, and if you did manage through some stupid diet to take the weight off, you’d be like that chicken mess you just made. Some things are supposed to be made with butter. You’re one of them.”
“So I’m doomed,” Min said.
“Another problem is that you don’t listen. You want to be sexy, be sexy. You have assets that skinny women will never have, and you should be enjoying them and dressing like you enjoy them. Or at least dressing so that others can enjoy them. That suit you were wearing the night I picked you up made you look like a prison warden.” He remembered looking down the front of her red sweater and added, “Your underwear’s good, though.”
“There are no clothes that look good on me,” Min said.
“Of course there are,” Cal said, still making his way through dinner. “Although you’re the kind of woman who looks better naked than dressed.” His treacherous mind tried to imagine that and he blocked it. “I’m assuming. Eat, please. Hunger makes you cranky.”
“I look better naked?” Min said, picking up her fork again. “No. Listen—”
“You asked, I told you,” Cal said. “You just don’t want to hear it. The truth is, most guys would rather go to bed with you than with a clothes hanger, you’re a lot more fun to touch, but most women don’t believe that. You keep trying to lose weight for each other.”
Min rolled her eyes. “So I’ve been sexy all these years? Why hasn’t anybody noticed?”
“Because you dress like you hate your body,” Cal said. “Sexy is in your head and you don’t feel sexy so you don’t look it.”
“Then how do you know I am?” Min said, exasperated.
“Because I’ve looked down your sweater,” Cal said, flashing back to that. “And I’ve kissed you, and I have to tell you, your mouth is a miracle. Now eat something.”
Min looked at her plate for a moment and then dug in. “God, this is good,” she said a few minutes later.
“Nothing better than good food,” Cal said. “Well, except for—”
“There’s got to be a way to make this heart smart,” Min said.
Cal shook his head. “Good to know I’ve been talking to myself here. Did you hear anything I said?”
“Yes,” Min said. “So I looked like a prison warden when you picked me up, huh?”
“No,” Cal said. “You had great shoes on. You do let yourself go on shoes.” Nice toes, too.
“So the reason you crossed the bar to pick me up even though I looked like a prison warden was because of my shoes?”
The question sounded pointed, so he tried to remember why he had picked her up. The dinner bet. He winced. That stupid dinner bet with David. “Oh, hell.”
“There was a bet, wasn’t there?” Min said, sounding disgusted.
Cal took out his wallet and put a ten on the table. “There you go, it’s all yours. Can I finish dinner before you throw me out?”
“Sure,” Min said. “You know, you’re taking losing that bet pretty well.”
“I didn’t lose,” Cal said, stabbing another mushroom. “I don’t lose.”
“You collected on that bet?” Min said, sounding outraged.
Cal frowned at her. “You walked out the door with me. I won.”
“And everybody just assumes . . .”
“Assumes what?” Cal said, exasperated. “Somebody bet me ten bucks I could get you to leave with me. You left with me. I got the ten bucks. Now you’ve got the ten bucks. Can we move on?”
“So the bet’s over,” Min said, disbelief palpable in her voice.
“Yes,” Cal said, moving beyond exasperation. “Okay, it wasn’t the best start to a relationship, but we don’t have a relationship, what with you waiting for Elvis and both of us with our non-dating plans. Plus I’m feeding you. Again. Why are you mad?”
“No reason at all,” Min said, flatly, and went back to her chicken.
“I’m missing something big here, aren’t I?” Cal said.
“Yep,” Min said. “Keep eating.”
Cal offered to help with the dishes, but Min shoved him out the door, fed up with him because of the bet and with herself for caring. She put the leftovers from Emilio in the fridge and dumped the mess she’d made into the trash, and then she went into her bedroom and crawled under the satin comforter. Cal had said the bed was the only thing that looked like her. In an apartment full of plain lumpy furniture, he’d picked out the one beautiful, rich, sexy thing and said, “That’s you.” The bastard.
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