by Denise Dietz
Unsnapping her seat belt, Hallie found the ground with her boots, then raced toward Josh and gave him a bone-crushing hug.
“Damn,” he exclaimed, holding her at arm’s length. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“Don’t be silly.” She felt her cheeks bake. “I’ve seen your illustrations for Beauty and the Beast. Now there’s a beauty.”
“Only on the outside,” Gabe mumbled. He couldn’t quite believe the acute stab of jealousy he’d experienced when Hallie hugged his brother. He had known her a little over three hours, and yet he felt as if he’d known her forever. Or at least met her before. What a cliché. If he wasn’t careful, he’d tell her he was a Leo and ask for her sign. On second thought, he didn’t need to ask. She’d been born in May. “When’s your birthday, Hallie?”
“May eighteenth, Gabe. Why?”
Josh chuckled. “My brother thinks you’re too old for me.”
“I’m not too old for any man. I’m not too young, either.”
Hallie realized her retort was irrational. But she also realized that her dream man would adopt a hands-off policy. His brother had already staked a claim. Well, hunky-dory! Her first reaction at the airport, her impulse to rip Gabriel’s clothes from his body, scared her. Gabe’s clothes, not Gabriel’s clothes. She’d have to remember to keep Gabe and Gabriel separate.
“What did you mean by Irish bull?” Gabe whispered, escorting her inside the restaurant.
I was talking obsolete-speak, she thought, adding hunky-dory to her list. “My father’s Irish,” she whispered back; the first clarification that came to mind.
“Okay, but—”
“Hush. Josh might think we’re exchanging intimate secrets.”
“That comes later, along with dessert and coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“You might try some tonight. If you add Bailey’s Irish crème, it sweetens the taste.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Josh asked as a hostess led them to their table.
“Coffee,” Gabe said. “Hallie’s never developed a taste for the bitter brew so I suggested she add a liqueur.”
“She can have anything her little heart desires,” Josh said.
No she can’t, Hallie thought, because her little heart desires Gabe.
“What a flapdoodle,” she blurted.
“A flap-what?” Josh arched one eyebrow.
“Doodle,” said Gabe. “Hallie has all kinds of quaint expressions you wouldn’t expect from a sophisticated New Yorker. Didn’t you notice when you met her at the art seminar?”
“Not really.” Josh picked up his menu. “I’ll order for all of us. Shrimp cocktails and stuffed mushrooms to start, then Maine lobsters. How does that sound?”
“Expensive,” Hallie said.
“Don’t fret, sweetheart. During this afternoon’s conference call, we all decided to collaborate on another project, The Ugly Duckling. My publisher’s advance payment will be generous and I’m already picturing a black swan.”
Gabe and Josh exchanged a high-five across the table.
“Good for you, Beast,” Gabe said. “Damn, we have two celebrities present. Joshua Quinn and Hallie O’Brien.”
“Three,” said Josh. “Don’t exclude yourself, Scarecrow.”
While the brothers explained their nicknames, Hallie’s mind raced. What had Josh meant by three celebrities? A Boudoir Photographer wasn’t a celebrity, unless he hobnobbed with the rich and famous. Did Britney, Cher and Miley put on scanty underwear and schedule photo sessions?
Before she could ask about celebs and scanty underwear, the waitress sidled table-side. Josh captured her attention completely. He had the Quinn charm; a subtle, flirtatious energy. He was also undeniably attractive, with his hazel eyes and mischievous smile. Josh was an open book while his brother possessed a dark, brooding, Gothic quality. With Gabe, you’d want to sneak an early peek at the last chapter, only to discover that the last chapter was missing. While the idea itself was thought provoking, right now she had more than enough mystery in her life. She preferred to read the pages where the hero rescued the heroine from the castle’s uppermost parapet and they lived happily ever after.
The shrimp cocktail was delicious. So were the stuffed mushrooms, dripping with melted cheese. Two bites into her Caesar salad and she felt stuffed. She shouldn’t have let Josh order the lobster. Too late. Their waitress, Gretchen, was presenting Hallie’s red crustacean with a flourish. It had large claws, a curled-up belly, and a head. The only lobster she’d ever eaten was lobster thermidor, where the meat was mixed into a rich wine sauce then stuffed into its shell and browned. The only whole lobster she’d ever seen was in Disney’s The Little Mermaid. Her stomach lurched, and she didn’t care if her lobster came from Maine or Minneapolis or the moon. Its dead, beady, stalked eyes stared accusingly.
Gabe’s dark eyes stared compassionately. He seemed to be on the same wave-length, thank goodness.
“Gretchen,” he said, “would you be kind enough to tote our lobsters back into the kitchen, disentangle their heads, and place their remains in three to-go boxes? Our lovely guest just arrived from New York and she’s two hours ahead of us. Not quite jetlagged but close.”
“Of course, sir. May I bring you coffee? Dessert? Our Key Lime pie is featured tonight.”
“That sounds great. Hallie?”
“No, thank you. Hot tea would be nice.”
“Two slices of pie,” said Gretchen, “two coffees, one hot tea, and three Styrofoam coffins for the lobsters.”
Gabe’s nod and smile promised a very generous gratuity. Hallie wanted to hug him. She wanted to hug Gretchen. She wanted to hug Josh, who looked perplexed yet had the good sense to remain silent.
I’m on emotional overload.
Gretchen returned with the beverages and dessert. The desire to hug had become a desire to sniffle, and Hallie felt dewy-eyed. Reaching into her purse for a packet of tissues, her fingers brushed against the Polaroid snapshots. Glancing down, she saw The Homestretch. Gabe, Josh, Gretchen, tables, chairs, fish plaques, and a billboard that announced the fresh catch of the day, all receded while new images whirled.
The inside of a small bedroom.
A dragon-decorated screen.
A spool bed.
A leather-thonged chest.
A dressing table cluttered with bottles labeled Crème de Marshmallows, Princess Hair Restorer, Milk of Cucumber and Dr. Hammond’s Nerve and Brain Tablets.
Seated at the dressing table was a beautiful woman, her hair skewered into a topknot, crimped curls hugging her face.
Near her stood a child. The child wore loose-fitting white panties gathered at the knees.
“I cook coffee best,” the child bragged.
“I cook coffee best,” Hallie bragged, her voice young and sluggish. “It’s easy. I stand on a chair, fill a big pot with boiled water and roasted mocha grounds, add the white of an egg, or a few shavings of isinglass, or a dried bit of fish skin. Ten minutes later the coffee’s ready. Cook lets me do it while she starts the custards and all-day roasts.”
“Hallie!” Gabe’s voice reflected his alarm. “Hallie, wake up!”
“Huh? Why are you looking at me like that, Gabe? Holy Moses, what did I say?
NINE
“I’ve never cooked, I mean brewed coffee, Gabe, but I don’t believe one adds dried fish skin, or wet fish skin, or any other kind of epidermis.”
Gabe watched Hallie march up and down his family room as if she were a soldier on parade. A barefoot soldier. After removing her suit jacket and boots, she had performed an adorable snake-like hula, her hands beneath her skirt. Finally, with a sigh of relief, she had shed her pantyhose.
“Women used to cut off their circulation with corsets and garters,” she had grumbled. “Now they glove their legs in pantyhose. You’ll never find a man binding his legs with elasticized nylon.”
“That’s right, honey. A man binds his throat with a
tie. Why not be honest and call it a hangman’s noose?”
“You’re not wearing a tie.” After un-pacing to inspect Gabe’s open shirt collar, she had resumed her march.
Outside, the wind huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf. Inside, it was warm and cozy. A floor lamp cast its muted glow across one corner of a beige corduroy sofa. Overhead track lighting emphasized white walls decorated with movie posters, an eclectic assortment that included Ray Bolger as The Wizard of Oz Scarecrow, Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird, Whoopi, Oprah and Danny in The Color Purple, Daniel Day Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans, Kirk Douglas in Sparticus, and Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones.
Directly above the fireplace mantel hung a portrait of Jenn. The artist had worked from one of Gabriel Q’s earlier photographs and Jenn had given the painting to Gabe, a birthday present. For the first time, he noticed that her features were perfectly rendered but her expression was devoid of any true emotion. Passive lips, he thought critically. And blank eyes that brought to mind a goldfish.
The rest of his furnishings were functional: a red-bordered Turkish Prayer rug, a polished redwood coffee table, a wall unit with a plethora of electronic equipment, and hand-crafted shelves filled with mystery novels and Joshua-Quinn-illustrated books.
“Dried fish skin,” Hallie repeated for the umpteenth time, bumping into Gabe’s rock-hard chest.
“Forget the damned coffee,” he said, “and sit down. You look like you’re about to—”
“Faint?”
“No. Explode.”
“People don’t explode.”
“They do verbally.” Gabe glanced at the portrait above the fireplace. Then his gaze returned to Hallie’s face. It revealed an apprehensive vulnerability that tugged at his heart. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”
“For my cooking lesson or my obsolete speak?”
“Obsolete speak? What do you mean?”
“I’m a New Yorker, Gabe, born and bred. I’ve never used quaint expressions before. I’ve never said ‘featherbrained mooncalf’ or ‘Irish bull’ or ‘Holy Moses’ or ‘flapdoodle.’ And I’ve never, ever used the phrase ‘blue devils.’”
“Blue what?”
“Devils. The blues. I think I’ve got them now.” With a weary sigh, she sank onto a couch cushion. “When will Josh be back? All he said before he took off was ‘Napkin.’ Then he blew me a kiss and slammed the door.”
“He won’t be back tonight, Hallie. While you visited the bathroom, he called home and checked his answering machine. There was a message from his next door neighbor. Napkin likes to tunnel under the fence and saunter off to menace the neighborhood or visit various lady friends. Josh had him neutered but the desire is still there, if not the technology.” Gabe waited for Hallie to smile. She didn’t. “Anyway,” he continued, “the next door neighbors own this huge black Persian cat named Eartha Kitt.”
“Eartha Kitt,” she echoed. “My father would love that.”
“Eartha purred her songs,” said Gabe, relieved to see Hallie’s lips crease upwards and her taunt features relax. “Her voice could send shivers up and down your spine.”
“My voice generates shivers, too. It sounds like fingernails scratching a chalkboard.” She sighed. “Poor Dad. He’s into music, big-time, and he had such high hopes.”
“Yes, I remember. At the airport you said you were named for a singer named Alice somebody or other. Alice W. I’m a music buff like your father, but I still can’t fathom what the ‘W’ stands for.”
“My brother, who was named for Neil Diamond, can’t sing either. We’re hoping Neil’s kids, all christened for various singers, aren’t tone deaf. Don’t they fight?”
“Who? Your brother’s kids?”
“No. Napkin and Eartha Kitt.”
“Yup. They fight like cats and dogs. The neighbors usually lock Napkin in their kitchen until Josh collects him.”
“What nice neighbors.”
“Three years ago Josh used their cat as his model for Puss in Boots. He also used their daughter, a high school senior, for the Princess. She had joined a gang, but quit to pose. Josh talked her into applying for a college scholarship. The neighbors were grateful, and charmed by Josh’s illustrations. They’ve got autographed copies of his book, an original sketch of Eartha as Puss…” Gabe swallowed the rest of his words. “Hallie, what’s wrong?”
“I’ll let my pets go when their wounds heal. President Roosevelt’s son has a garter snake. He named it Emily for a skinny aunt.”
“Hallie!”
“The Roosevelts have cats and dogs, too,” she said, her voice a plea. “And guinea pigs, a black bear, a parrot, ponies, and a kangaroo. They all live inside the White House, though it’s not gonna stay white if the Roosevelts’ pets mess like mine do. That was a joke, Gabriel. Please laugh. Mama Scarlet made me give my pets away. But you’ll let me keep them, won’t you?”
Thoroughly alarmed, Gabe sat on the couch and pulled Hallie into his lap. “Honey, wake up!”
“I’m not asleep. Oh, God! I just said something stupid, didn’t I?”
“No, not stupid. Baffling. You mentioned Scarlet and—”
“Lady Scarlet?”
“No. Mama Scarlet.”
“I knew it! I told Marianne, my sister-in-law, that Scarlet was the little g-girl’s m-m-mother.”
“Aw, don’t cry.” Gabe pressed her face against his shoulder. “Should I call Josh?”
“No. Please. Josh and I, we’re friends, that’s all. He wouldn’t understand.”
“I don’t understand,” Gabe said, striving to keep his voice soft and comforting.
“But you must.”
“Why must I?”
“Because you’re Gabriel.”
He tilted her chin and stared into her tear-drenched eyes. “You’d better start at the beginning.”
“I painted you. Then I painted her. Lady Scarlet. Well, not really. I mean, she was missing. The room was empty. But it was her room, just like the little girl is her daughter. Then I painted them both, seated on top of a couch shaped like an upside down L. Then I painted a train and a street, Myers Avenue, and a comet, and I had the blue devils because I knew something bad was going to happen.”
“To whom? Lady Scarlet?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Is that the reason for your visit? Does Lady Scarlet live in Colorado?”
“Yes. Cripple Creek.”
“Does she have a last name?”
“I guess. Doesn’t everybody? Why?”
“If we can ferret out her last name, we can call and warn her.”
“Gabe, my paintings depict the 1890s.”
“Teddy Roosevelt.”
“What?”
“You talked about the Roosevelts and their pets. Teddy Roosevelt was President from 1901 to 1909.”
“Okay, so I’m off by a few years. Or my little girl’s not so little any more. Or I’m going back and forth and can’t control her age.”
“Hallie, listen to yourself. You can’t control her age? That makes no sense.”
“If I can’t control my vivid images and my paintings, hopscotching the age of a child makes perfect sense.”
“Maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “you read Gone with the Wind when you were a kid. Maybe you saw the movie.”
“Both. But my Scarlet is spelled like the color red and she’s a parlor girl from Colorado.”
“There’s got to be a logical explanation.”
“There is. I’m stuck inside the Twilight Zone.”
“Hush,” he soothed. “I’m not in any zone, twilight or otherwise, and you’re here with me.”
“Am I really? This isn’t a dream?”
His reply was a kiss. He had meant it to be a physical reminder, like pinching somebody to prove they’re awake, but her lips parted and he thrust his tongue inside.
Hallie pressed her body closer to Gabe’s. The un-pliable expanse of his chest adapted t
o her breasts and his leg muscles tightened as she sank deeper into the crevice between his thighs. Another portion of his anatomy grew, she could feel it grow, and a panicky trepidation blotted out what little remained of her rational mind. With an effort, she stayed motionless. With an even greater effort, she refrained from skidoodling. And where the heck did that word come from?
The kiss continued. He tasted tangy. In her wildest imagination, she had never thought her dream man’s kiss would taste like key lime pie. But then she had never thought a kiss would drain all the strength from her arms. In another moment, she’d release his neck. No. Another second. What was shorter than a second? A trice? How about an instant?
It didn’t matter. While she had contemplated less-than-no-time time, her head had landed on the cushion to the right of his knee. The rest of her body spread lackadaisically across his thighs.
Their magical kiss had ended. But that didn’t matter, either. Gabe’s hands were lightly pressed against her tummy. She had no desire to move, didn’t feel embarrassed or shy. His fingers began to rove, creating a coil of heat that traveled from her belly to her legs, and yet his strokes felt familiar.
So did the unbearable ache in her breasts, beneath her camisole. Her nipples pressed against her blouse. Frightened again, she was tempted escape from his fingers and rise to her feet.
Suddenly, as if her brain had shifted into reverse, she could hardly wait until he unbuttoned his trousers.
Unbuttoned his trousers? Jeans didn’t unbutton. They unzipped, unless they were special Levi’s, and Gabe’s fly had a zipper. She had felt it. Gabe’s fly had a zipper and she wore a bra, not a camisole.
“Wait, please, wait.” She struggled to sit up. “I thought you were Gabriel.”
“I am Gabriel.”
“The other Gabriel.”
Gabe disentangled Hallie from his lap. Rising from the couch, he said, “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m Gabriel Quinn, not somebody’s double. Okay?”
She stood on coltish legs. Gabe watched her retrieve her purse from the coffee table and reach inside. With hands as shaky as her legs, she handed him a packet of photographs.