by Jenny Jacobs
Hello, you’re missing your legs.
He squelched the thought. Plenty of other people had disabilities — challenges — and found mates. Although he admitted there was a difference between, say, having arthritis and missing both legs.
Anyway, he wasn’t looking for a mate, he reminded himself firmly. He was looking to get laid. And Rilka wasn’t that kind of person. He suspected her Gran would have been.
Chapter 9
At least no one was calling her from the county jail. Rilka was trying to find the bright side.
“That woman is a menace to society,” Don Deane thundered when she called him to see how the date had gone. “Intelligent woman like that admits to a cop fetish, what’d she think my next move was going to be?”
Rilka closed her eyes. She could imagine, and the picture it presented was hideous, and now that was something she was never going to be able to unthink. “I told you she was looking for someone who acted like a gentleman,” she said. “And I hope you backed off — ”
“Well, hell, I know what no means,” Don snapped, and now he was pissed at her. So, great.
She sighed. “I’m sorry it didn’t go well,” she said. “We’ll keep trying.”
She hung up before he could froth at her some more and dragged a frustrated hand through her hair. What was she going to do with Hilda? The woman needed a psych evaluation, not a matchmaker. She had some sort of hang-up that going on dates wasn’t helping any. Unless she enjoyed being offended. That was possible.
“Crap,” Rilka said out loud.
Sugar looked up at Rilka and barked, then went back to snoozing on the dog bed Rilka had purchased for her.
“Same to you,” Rilka said.
• • •
“He’s dumb as a box of rocks,” Daphne said.
Wasn’t that the truth.
“He’s always struck me as rather reserved,” Rilka suggested. She was willing to lie for Duncan. Daphne pulled her hair over her face as they discussed her most recent date.
“Rilka, he’s dumber than my fern.”
Rilka winced. “You didn’t tell him that?”
Daphne looked offended. “Of course not. I just left the two of them together while I watched a movie on TV.”
“The two of them?” Rilka asked tentatively.
“Him and my fern.”
Rilka really hoped she was making a joke. “You didn’t go out?” She lifted a brow and looked at Daphne, who lowered her gaze.
“No. I don’t, you know. People stare. I feel like they’re pointing at me, saying things behind my back.”
That was ridiculous, as Rilka felt sure Daphne’s psychiatrist had told her, although almost certainly he had phrased it a little more kindly than that. Psychiatrists probably weren’t supposed to go around saying, That’s ridiculous. Although maybe they should. Anyway, people were way too self-interested to spend a lot of time gossiping about total strangers, so Daphne’s self-consciousness probably had no basis in reality. She might feel like people were pointing and talking but almost certainly no one was, and if someone did, that was just evidence that he or she was a stupid loser, so who cared? But it was easy for Rilka to think that, she wasn’t the one facing it.
“You know my Gran had a scar, too?” Rilka said. Gran’s scar had been on her back where no one could see it, or at least when they saw it, that meant she was naked, so they were thinking about other things. Anyway, it was on her back but Daphne didn’t need to know that. Rilka was telling the truth, as far as it went.
“Oh?” Daphne said politely, but her jaw tightened and Rilka knew she was treading dangerous ground. But that had never stopped her before, so she plunged onward.
“When I first met you, I thought you might be like her. She was an adventuress.”
“An adventuress?” Daphne sounded tentative but intrigued.
“Sure,” Rilka said. “She was an amazing woman. She was a member of the Hungarian resistance. Escaped Budapest by the skin of her teeth after the Communists took over. She never had a husband but she took plenty of lovers.” Would claiming Gran had died with the pool boy in her bed be stretching it too much? Probably. Gran had never had a pool.
Daphne had a slight smile on her face. “She sounds like quite a lady. But that was a long time ago. People don’t do things like that anymore.”
Sad but true.
“Being an adventuress is an attitude,” Rilka said, then wondered where she’d come up with that. “You know, when I saw you I wondered what adventure had caused it. The scar.”
Daphne started, pawed her curtain of hair, and said, “It wasn’t an adventure at all. It was a car accident.”
“No, no,” Rilka said. “Look at you. Anyone would believe you’re an adventuress. Call it ‘a souvenir of my misspent youth.’ With a laugh. Leave ’em wondering.”
“Hmm,” said Daphne.
Rilka wondered what Dr. Pennyman would say when Daphne told him Rilka’s suggestions as she almost certainly would. Well, Rilka had never been told off by a psychiatrist before, so that would be something to look forward to.
• • •
“Marcus, this is Marilyn. Marilyn, this is Marcus.”
They were at Henry’s on Sixth Street. Rilka and Marcus had “just happened” to come in during Marilyn’s shift. Not even Marilyn could resist the dashing and handsome Marcus, could she? Rilka didn’t think they would make a match — given Marcus’s penchant for lifting valuables, a character flaw Marilyn would never be able to overlook — but Rilka was trying to find some way to jumpstart Marilyn’s dating life. She had to thaw eventually, didn’t she? And if being with Marcus made her feel good, even if it wasn’t long term, then maybe, just maybe, she could imagine finding a guy who could be long term. And then Rilka could help her make that match.
It was a long shot, but sometimes you took long shots when you wanted to help a friend.
Marilyn nodded at Marcus, gave Rilka a suspicious look, and then said, “What’ll it be?”
“I’m driving,” Rilka said. “So Diet Coke for me.”
Marilyn transferred her disgruntled expression to Marcus.
“What’s your signature mix?” he asked with a charming smile.
Marilyn smacked a bottle of Rolling Rock on the counter.
“I see,” he said.
“Marilyn,” Rilka said, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Which one is this?” Marilyn snapped, folding her arms in front of her chest, body language that anyone from any culture could understand. “The jewel thief?”
Marcus paled under his tan and glanced around the room as if someone might cuff him on suspicion. “Not so loud,” he said.
“I’ve told you I’m perfectly happy just the way I am,” Marilyn said to Rilka through gritted teeth.
“I keep forgetting. You do sort of glow with inner joy.”
“Rilka,” Marilyn said, the warning in her voice as clear a signal as the folded arms.
“Fine,” Rilka said, sighing with exasperation. “Marcus can be my date.”
“Rilka, I’d be delighted but — ”
“He can’t score if you’re sitting there,” a wry voice said. Rilka jumped at the sound of Jeremy’s voice and turned to look.
“Hey, Jeremy,” Rilka said. “This is Marcus. You’ve met the tall redhead glaring at me. Marilyn’s my best friend.”
“You do have a way with people,” Jeremy said. “And yes, I know Marilyn. How’s it going?”
Marilyn grunted and moved down the bar to slice limes. Jeremy stuck his hand out and said, “Nice to meet you, Marcus.”
“The same,” Marcus said, shaking his hand.
Jeremy turned to Rilka. “So how’s our baby?”
“She’s obnoxious as hell. She takes aft
er you that way.”
“What baby?” Marilyn asked, looking up from the limes.
“I’m taking care of Mrs. Olsen’s dog. God, I didn’t even tell you about that, Marilyn. Mrs. Olsen had a heart attack — where are you going, Marcus?”
“See that blonde shooting pool? I’m about to get invited back to her place.”
“Confidence is so sexy,” Rilka said, watching him move. Or obnoxious. One or the other. “He could probably walk out of here with any woman he wanted.”
“Then what does he need you for?” Jeremy asked. Rilka handed him the Rolling Rock on the counter since Marcus wasn’t going to take it.
“Not everyone just wants to get laid, Jeremy. His … career makes it difficult for him to find a quality woman who’ll stick around.” Yech. Had she just used the phrase quality woman? She was doomed.
Jeremy nodded. “Some people are just never happy. Here’s a guy who can get laid six nights a week and it’s not enough?”
Marilyn rolled her eyes and started slicing lemons.
“It’s not enough,” Rilka said. “For anyone, even you, Jeremy.”
• • •
Maybe if he got her drunk. Jeremy lifted the bottle of Rolling Rock to his lips and noticed that Marilyn served Rilka a Diet Coke. Did aspartame lower inhibitions? He seriously doubted it.
He sighed and glanced around the room, lifting his hand to acknowledge a couple of regulars he knew.
“Am I cramping your style?” Rilka asked.
“Nah,” Jeremy said, cool and casual. “I’m not trying to pick anyone up tonight.” Except you. Although that was dumb. He was probably attracted to her because he couldn’t have her. That was what Nate had said, or at least what Nate’s wife had said, which Nate had passed along to him, which it was really wonderful having people talk about your love life like that. Jeremy had the feeling that he liked Rilka because she was likeable, and not for any weird psychological reason. It was just coincidence that she was unavailable to him.
She pushed a cloud of hair away from her face. “Distract me from my troubles,” she said.
“At your service.”
“You play darts?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Bet I’ll beat you.”
“Care to back up your big mouth?”
He grinned and reached for his wallet.
Chapter 10
“Don? This is Rilka.” She glanced at the clock. If she could keep this phone call short, she’d have just enough time to get to Julia’s ballet recital. “Look, I have another match I wanted to tell you about.”
“Are you kidding?” Deputy Deane asked. “A couple a dates with those wackos and I begged my wife to come back home.”
“Oh,” Rilka said, taken aback. “Well … that’s great.”
“Damn straight,” Don said. “Ain’t letting her walk away again. I can’t go through that again.”
Another satisfied customer, Rilka thought, hanging up the phone and making a mental note to remove him from the active file.
She glanced at the clock. Just time to brush her hair before heading to Julia’s ballet recital.
She was headed down the hall to her bedroom when the doorbell rang. If it was Jeremy, she’d invite him along. She moved quickly to the door. Her face fell when she caught sight of who it was. Not Jeremy.
“Duncan? Hi, sweetie. I’d love to talk to you but I have an appointment.”
“I just need a minute,” he said and burst into tears.
“Oh, dear,” Rilka said, handing him a tissue. She kept boxes of tissues located strategically throughout the house; there was one on a stand by the front door. You never knew when a client would burst into tears. Sometimes they were tears of joy, but not lately.
With a convulsive movement, Duncan grabbed her and sobbed on her shoulder. Awkwardly she patted him on the back. She couldn’t help taking a nice deep breath of his heady scent. I have a male supermodel in my arms and all I can think is, if he only had a brain …
“Duncan, honey, what brought this on?”
“I called Daphne.”
“But I told you — wait, how’d you get her number?” No, that didn’t matter. “Sweetie, she told me she felt it wasn’t a good match. And that’s what I told you.”
“I know. But I just wanted the truth.”
“Oh, dear.”
“So she told me. She was really gentle. But I’m just — I give up,” he wailed, his shoulders shaking. Rilka did not have time to buck him up but she couldn’t just abandon him to his administrative assistant. Who was — there, parked at the curb even now. Rilka gave her the “I got this” wave.
“Look,” Rilka said to Duncan, patting him on the back. “Come with me. I promised a friend I’d watch her recital tonight and I really need to go. Maybe it’ll take your mind off this for a little bit. Then you and I can go out to dinner afterwards and we can talk about everything. Okay?”
“I can’t eat,” he moaned.
“No problem, I’ll eat, you drink.”
“Okay,” he said, sniffing. He lifted his head from her shoulder and dabbed at his eyes with the tissue. God, he was beautiful. Upset, he looked tragic, not comic. Noble, heroic, gorgeous, and she wanted to take his clothes off and comfort him.
“C’mon,” she said, tucking his hand in her elbow and leaving the house before she did something stupid with him.
• • •
“Turn here,” Duncan said, tapping the window on his side of the car.
“I know where I’m going,” Rilka said.
“But you’ll arrive empty-handed,” he protested. “You can’t go to a ballerina’s recital without a bouquet of flowers to give her afterwards.”
“She’s not that kind of ballerina,” Rilka said, but she turned anyway. He had a point.
“Roses,” Duncan called after her as she entered the florist shop. She returned a few minutes later with a mixed bouquet and handed them to him to hold.
“Charming,” he said sourly.
Rilka gave him a startled glance. He’d never used that tone of voice with her before. “When you pay, you can bring roses,” she said, starting the car.
The recital was being held at the community theater playhouse. Despite barely arriving in time, they were able to find two seats near the front of the room.
“Not exactly a full house,” Rilka said.
“Everyone has to start somewhere,” Duncan said, philosophical. A Duncan she had not experienced before. He sat down and looked attentively at the stage.
The instructor, a severe-looking gaunt woman with dyed black hair scraped back into a bun, stepped on stage and thanked them for coming, then described the evening’s coming events in rather more detail than Rilka thought was strictly necessary. The program indicated that it was going to be a long night. Anything for a friend, Rilka reminded herself, and was startled to realize that was what Julia had become.
The house lights dimmed and the stage lights rose. Then a chorus of dancers entered, thumping rather loudly in counterpoint to the music being played over the sound system. The dancers were of various ability levels but all exhibited more heart than actual talent. Still, there were worse ways to spend an evening. She could be interviewing clients. This was much better than that.
“That’s Julia,” she said in a low voice to Duncan, pointing. “The brunette in the turquoise leotard.” The bright color had the unfortunate effect of emphasizing Julia’s less flattering features. But it was a pretty color. Eye-catching.
Duncan leaned forward, giving every evidence of being riveted by the spectacle. If he’d been the kind of person who would find it amusingly pathetic, she would have understood the smile on his face, but Duncan didn’t have a cruel or malicious bone in his body, so it wasn’t snark. She didn’t quite understand what it was.
He didn’t even know any of the participants.
“She’s doing rather well,” Rilka remarked. Julia seemed absorbed in her movements, enjoying her moment in the spotlight, her face happy, her whole figure transported with the joy of dancing, even if she wasn’t technically proficient.
“Hush,” Duncan said firmly. Another side of the man Rilka had not experienced before. She subsided into her seat, watching Duncan’s pensive profile as he stared at the dancers. Well, not the dancers. He was staring at Julia.
When the dancers came out to take their bows, Duncan grabbed Rilka’s bouquet of flowers and marched toward the stage.
“Oh dear,” Rilka said out loud, darting after him. Duncan might do anything if left unattended. He threw the bouquet at Julia’s feet, which was perhaps slightly overdramatic but at least it wasn’t actually wrong-headed, dangerous, or rude. “Brava!” he said, clapping madly. “You danced so beautifully! You moved me.”
Julia bent to take the flowers, her movements uncertain. She glanced at Rilka, who shrugged.
“They should have been roses,” Duncan said.
Then Julia extended her hand, regal as a prima donna, and Duncan reached up to kiss it.
“Oh dear,” Rilka said again.
• • •
“She was beautiful,” Duncan said again, pacing in the hallway near the backstage door as Julia and the other dancers changed from their recital costumes into their street clothes. “Did you see the passion on her face? She was so alive, so happy.”
“Uh-huh,” Rilka said. She looked at his excited face, her heart sinking. What did he see in Julia? And what did he think Julia would see in him? It would be no different from any of the dates that had come before. He would be hurt again. And Julia had given up dating; she’d told Rilka herself that it was too hard on the ego. She wasn’t likely to be very receptive to him.