by Laura Levine
Normally, Pro shows up any time she’s within pouncing distance of food. But that night she stayed firmly planted on the sofa, perfecting her hissing skills.
Aside from the hairball Dickie found in his napkin, dinner was dreamy.
I’d lowered the lights and lit candles to ramp up the romance.
And it was working.
Sipping our wine, we rubbed each other’s arms and played footsie under the table, all the while chatting about our respective days.
Dickie told me about the project he was working on at his ad agency, and I told him about my new job with Daisy, confiding my fears about being able to write a romance novel.
That’s the great thing about the new Dickie. The old Dickie would have jumped straight to “Jeez, I sure hope you don’t get fired. We could use the money for a new power drill.”
But the new Dickie—thanks to a guy named Hapi, a new age guru he’d been studying with—was bubbling with affirmations and positive energy.
“Don’t worry, Jaine,” he reassured me. “I’m sure you’ll do great. Just think good thoughts. Every time I feel challenged, I tell myself, ‘I always find a way out of any problem life throws in my path.’ ”
A disgusted hiss from the sofa.
If only you could find a way out of this apartment.
We continued to scarf down our chow, me making a conscious effort not to inhale mine at my usual speed of light. I was sitting there trying to figure out which was yummier, Dickie’s bod or the lasagna (Dickie’s bod the clear winner), and thinking about the tiramisu I’d picked up for dessert, when Dickie dropped his bombshell.
“This lasagna’s super, hon. I’m so impressed that you had the time to roll out the pasta yourself.”
Okay, so I’d fibbed a little.
“But I’m afraid it’s the last time I’ll be eating it. I’ve decided to follow in Hapi’s footsteps and become a vegetarian.”
“No biggie. We can always eat meatless lasagna.”
“It’s more than that. In addition to meat, I’m giving up fats, glutens, and sugars.”
Holy mackerel? What was there left to eat? Oh, well. To each his own, right?
And that’s when he lowered the boom.
“I was hoping you’d give it a try, too. If we’re going to be together, I want you to be at your healthy best. So what do you say?”
Was he kidding? No pizza? No fried chicken? No Quarter Pounders? No way!
But then he took my hand in his, and I felt an electric charge in my Happy Place.
“Sure,” I said, in a lovestruck daze. “Why not?”
Obviously my hormones had taken control of my vocal cords.
“Wonderful!” he grinned.
With that, he pulled me up from my seat and folded me in his arms for another round of high-voltage smooching.
“What do you say,” he murmured in my ear, “we skip the tiramisu and have dessert in the bedroom?”
What?? No tiramisu??
But, my hormones still raging, I wound up saying, “Yes. The bedroom. Now!”
Clinging together, we stumbled into my bedroom, specially spruced up for the occasion and spritzed with White Jasmine.
We flopped onto the bed and began tearing off each other’s clothes with the kind of abandon that comes after six weeks, three days, and twenty-three and a half hours of abstinence.
Our lustfest screeched to a halt, however, when a furry ball of yowling rage came burrowing between us like a nun at a high school dance.
What the heck do you two think you’re doing?
Furious, I scooped her off the bed and frog-marched her back to the living room, where I plopped her on the sofa.
She gave me her patented Abandoned Orphan look, yowling at the top of her lungs.
Okay, go ahead. Break my heart! Desert me for that gluten-free gasbag! Leave me alone and lonely with nothing but your favorite throw pillow to claw to shreds—
I left her mid-yowl and raced back to the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me.
I was ready to hurl myself into Dickie’s arms when I noticed an ugly scratch along one of them—a farewell gift from Prozac, no doubt.
“Omigosh. you’re bleeding! Can I get you some Bactine?”
“No, no,” he said, ignoring his arm and pulling me to him. “I’m fine. Now that you’re here.”
The flame of our lust, I must admit, had been slightly dampened by Prozac’s dramatic entrance, but now we were building up another head of steam. Things were just about to shift into All Systems Go when we were assailed by a fresh batch of yowls from Pro, scratching wildly at the bedroom door.
Dickie sighed and rolled over onto his back.
“I don’t think this is going to work, Jaine.”
“You’re telling me!”
That last bit of wisdom from Lance, who can hear everything through our paper-thin walls.
“Next time,” Dickie said, “let’s meet up at my place.”
“Good idea.”
Again, from Lance.
Dickie threw on his clothes and, after a quick peck on my cheek, made his way past a hissing Prozac out my front door.
“I may never speak to you again,” I said to Prozac as I watched Dickie walk down the path to his car. “You’re in big trouble, young lady. Big trouble.”
She yawned in boredom.
Yeah, right. Whatever. Now let’s have some tiramisu.
There was no denying it. My cat was spoiled rotten. If things were going to work with me and Dickie, I had to stop being such a patsy and show her who was boss.
From now on, things were going to be different. I was going to be a tough cookie, a stern taskmaster, a strict disciplinarian.
And my new Show Prozac Who’s Boss regime would start that very night.
Right after I gave her just the teensiest slice of tiramisu.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Exciting News!
Hi, sweetheart!
Hope all is well with you and your precious cat, Zoloft.
Exciting news here in Florida. Lydia Pinkus, beloved president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association, is organizing a sculpture class—to be taught by a local sculptor and owner of one of Tampa’s most prestigious art galleries. I’m always so impressed with the way Lydia finds such fascinating things for us to do.
I can’t wait to broaden my artistic horizons with this fun and stimulating class!
I tried to talk Daddy into going, but he absolutely refuses.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: A Gift from the Gods
Dearest Lambchop—Your mom’s been yammering all morning about some stupid sculpture class Lydia “The Battle-Ax” Pinkus is organizing.
That’s one class I won’t be going to. As I always say, a day without Lydia Pinkus is a gift from the gods.
Love’n snuggles from,
DaddyO
PS. Guess what came in the mail? A discount coupon for a $5 haircut. Now that’s something to get excited about! I think I’ll give it a try.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Cheating on Harvy
Daddy just went off to get a discount haircut. I can’t believe he’s “cheating” on Harvy, the stylist who’s been cutting our hair for the past fifteen years. Harvy always does such a lovely job. But you know Daddy. He can’t resist a bargain.
XOXO,
Mom
PS. I only hope Harvy doesn’t find out about Daddy’s betrayal. I once went to Supercuts for an emergency trim while Harvy was on vacation, and it took him three months to forgive me. Every time I called for an appointment he claimed he was booked. It was sheer agony until he finally relented and agreed to see me.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: The Worst Haircut Ever!
OMG! Daddy just came back from the discount hai
r salon with the worst haircut ever! Not only did they dye his hair an Eddie Munster jet black, they tortured the few remaining hairs on the top of his head so they’re standing straight up. I swear, he looks like a balding porcupine.
Worst of all, the whole thing is glued together with a ghastly hair “wax” that smells like bad fish.
XOXO,
Mom
PS. Between the cut, the blowout, and the dye job, that $5 haircut wound up costing $125!
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: The Best Haircut Ever!
Just got back from Big Al’s discount hair salon with the best haircut ever. A Metrosexual Mohawk that takes at least ten years off my life. All the stylists at the salon said I look fantastic.
And you should’ve seen the looks I got on the way home. People couldn’t take their eyes off me.
What’s more, Big Al gave me a complimentary jar of his special styling wax. Mom says it smells like bad fish, but I don’t know what she’s talking about. It has a delightfully tangy aroma, very mild. In fact, I can hardly smell it.
Love’n hugs,
From your very stylish
DaddyO
Chapter 4
The good news: Daisy loved my outline.
“It’s brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!” she’d gushed when I showed up for work the next morning, her eyes bright with excitement.
The bad news, of course, was that now I had to write the darn thing.
So there I was, alone in Daisy’s office, Kate not yet in, staring at my blank computer screen.
How I wished I were writing about a Toiletmasters commode.
Do you realize how easy it is to write about a toilet bowl? All you have to do is dash off a few paragraphs about its sleek construction, double flush action, and optional built-in bidet, and you’re done. A couple of hundred words at most.
But now I faced the daunting prospect of having to churn out thousands and thousands of words about love in the turquoise mines.
I tried to think of a snazzy opening for Clarissa Weatherly’s adventures but was coming up with zilch. I could practically see the tumbleweeds rolling in my brain.
So instead of concentrating on Clarissa, I checked my parents’ emails, cringing at the thought of Daddy’s smelly new hairdo.
As those of you familiar with my little sagas already know, my father—although a sweetie of the highest order—is a certified disaster magnet. The man attracts trouble like my thighs attract cellulite. It’s so typical of Daddy to think he’d actually get a good haircut for five bucks. I just hoped he wouldn’t drive Mom too crazy with his Metrosexual Mohawk.
After bidding my parents a fond cyber-adieu, I continued to perfect my work avoidance skills, resharpening the thirty-six already-sharpened pencils on my desk.
I was just taking the last one out of the sharpener when Kate breezed in.
Goodie! Someone to talk to! With any luck, I could keep this work avoidance thing going for another hour or two.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, settling down across from me in her swivel chair. “How’s it going? Do anything fun last night?”
“I was supposed to have a romantic evening with my boyfriend, but things didn’t go exactly as planned.”
“What a shame,” she tsked. “I hope everything’s okay with you two.”
“Everything’s fine. Just a furry blip on our radar screen.”
“At least you have a boyfriend,” she sighed.
“Not seeing anyone?”
“Only when I close my eyes and fantasize.”
I felt her pain.
“The last guy I went out with asked me to dinner, didn’t eat a thing, and spent the whole night licking Splenda from those little packets.”
She groaned at the memory.
“Don’t lose hope,” I urged. “If I can find someone, so can you.”
“I’m not so sure about that. All the funny, sensitive, good-looking guys already have boyfriends.”
Six weeks ago, I would have agreed with her, but that was before Dickie made his grand re-entrance into my life.
Now I was happy. I was hopeful. I was filled with the wonder of romance.
If only I could get some of that wonder down on paper. And then I thought of something that would give me the boost I needed. My favorite mental stimulant—chocolate!
“Want a Dove Bar?” I asked Kate, jumping up from my desk.
“Absolutely!”
And off I marched to the kitchen for our chocolate fix.
Daisy’s kitchen was a cavernous room at the rear of the house, complete with a huge granite island, Sub-Zero fridge, six-burner stove, and restaurant-sized pantry.
As I approached the kitchen door, I heard a woman moaning. It sounded like Solange.
Gosh, I hoped she wasn’t sick.
On the contrary. Solange was far from sick, I discovered as I swung open the door and saw her locked in an X-rated embrace with Raymond, the chef. Her uniform was halfway unbuttoned, her hair freed from her chignon and flowing down past her shoulders.
The lovebirds sprang apart as I entered, Solange clutching her uniform to her chest to cover her exposed boobage.
“So sorry to interrupt,” I said.
“That’s okay,” Solange replied, her eyes still glazed over from her smoochfest.
Raymond put his arm around the pretty maid and squeezed her waist.
“As you can see, Solange and I are an item.”
How lucky they were not to have Prozac in their lives, gumming up the works.
Instead, they had me.
“I was just coming to get a couple of Dove Bars.”
“Help yourself,” said Raymond, pointing to the huge Sub-Zero fridge.
But before I could get to the fridge, the doorbell rang.
“Damn!” Solange said, running her fingers through her love-mussed hair. “I can’t answer the door like this.”
“No worries,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
“Would you? Thanks a bunch.”
Leaving her to button up, I scooted off to the grand foyer to open the front door.
It was then that I got my first glimpse of Tommy LaSalle.
He stood on the doorstep in jeans, work boots, and a construction worker’s vest, a tool belt slung around his hips. Tall and tan, with black hair and lake-blue eyes, he was an absolute stunner.
“Hello,” he said, flashing me a smile meant to enchant.
But there was something off-putting about his smile. It was the kind of calculated smile you see on used car salesmen and Bachelorette contestants.
“I’m here to see Daisy Kincaid,” he said.
I wondered if Daisy was planning some remodeling. If so, I couldn’t imagine what on earth she wanted to improve. Everything was already so perfect at La Belle Vie.
“I’ll go get her,” I said.
But I didn’t have to go get her, because just then she came drifting down the stairs in one of her gauzy caftans.
“Jaine, sweetie! I was just coming to chat with you about Fifty Shades.”
Then she caught sight of the stunner in the foyer and blinked at him questioningly.
“May I help you?”
“Mrs. Kincaid,” the stunner said, “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by. I saw your picture in the local paper while I was working on a construction job down the street.”
From his back pocket, he pulled out a folded-up copy of the Bel Air Society News, the one with Daisy on the front page hosting her charity fund-raiser.
“If you’re here for a charitable donation, you’re going to have to talk to my personal assistant.”
“No, no. I don’t want any money,” he said, with a meant-to-be endearing grin. “I’m Tommy LaSalle. My aunt Emma used to work for you as your companion.”
“Good heavens!” Daisy cried, her hands flying up to her cheeks. “Emma’s nephew!”
She beamed up at him.
“How lovely to meet you!”
> “Aunt Emma always said such wonderful things about you. I wanted to stop by and thank you for the many kindnesses you showed her.”
By now, Daisy’s eyes were welling with tears.
“Poor, sweet Emma. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
I remembered Kate’s tale about the loyal companion who’d died in a hiking accident in Tuscany, the companion whose death inspired Daisy to embark on a whole new life.
Daisy grabbed her hunky visitor by the hand. “You must stay so we can chat. Jaine, dear, tell Solange to bring us tea in the study.
“Imagine!” she exclaimed, still beaming at Tommy. “Darling Emma’s nephew! How wonderful it will be to share our memories of her.”
I watched as she and the hunk walked off to the study, Tommy’s tool belt bouncing against his hip. And suddenly an uneasy feeling washed over me.
Something told me this guy was bad news.
But I was wrong. Tommy was worse than bad news. He made bad news look like a picnic in Provence.
If I’d only known what poop was about to hit the fan, I would’ve never opened the door to him in the first place.
Chapter 5
I grabbed some Dove Bars from the freezer, but sad to say, the chocolatey treat was not the fount of inspiration I’d hoped it would be. The minutes slogged by like centuries as I struggled to bring Clarissa Weatherly to life.
Really, she was a most uncooperative heroine.
I’d just managed to grind out three measly paragraphs when Solange put me out of my misery and summoned us to lunch.
Once again, our midday meal was being served out on the patio, and once again, Clayton was there when we showed up, pouring himself a glass of wine from a bottle cooling in an ice bucket.