“There is no bone in that cut of meat, Herman.”
Wanna bet? The whole thing is a fossil now. Marly reached for the noodle surprise, which was Ma’s moniker for bow tie pasta drowned in cream of mushroom soup, baked under a layer of plain corn flakes.
“I’m telling you, Betty Jo, I’m hitting a bone. It’s either that or this thing was carved off the back end of a Cadillac, not a cow.”
“I don’t appreciate that statement, Herman. I don’t appreciate that at all.”
Dad scowled and pressed down so hard on the end of the “meat” that his knuckles went white. He kicked up the speed a level, too.
“I worked all day on that roast, and if this is the kind of thanks that I get—”
“Shi—nola!” Dad exclaimed as the electric knife suddenly gnawed through the slab of beast. The end of it went flying off the table, while the knife nicked the edge of Ma’s china platter and then made a long scar in the finish.
Marly winced at her mother’s enraged expression.
“What is wrong with you, old man?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me, Betty Jo! It’s the roast. Where’d you buy it, from the lumber section at the hardware store?”
Oh, boy. Dinner was degenerating into a brawl. Marly jumped up from her seat and picked up the projectile beef from the green shag carpet. She carried it into the kitchen while her parents traded a few more insults.
She flipped on the kitchen tap and tried to rinse the carpet fibers off the meat, but they seemed to have grafted to the burned ridges. Marly knew Ma would have a goat if she threw “perfectly good food” away, but she was stymied. Finally she took the vegetable brush from the side of the sink and scrubbed vigorously, until every green hair was gone. What the hell did she do now, blow-dry the thing?
Holding it in one hand, she pulled a couple of paper towels off the roll, doubled them and set the meat on top. She didn’t want to pat it dry, since the paper towel fibers would probably stick to the rough edges, too.
Her father stalked into the kitchen and glared at it. “We need something to drink with this meal. Something to wash it down.”
“I heard that!” yelled Ma.
“Well, if you didn’t hear it loud enough, I’ll say it again.” He pulled a bottle of wine out of the pantry and peered at the label. “This’ll work. Peach wine, imported from Dahlonega, Georgia.”
Marly probably would have drunk gasoline at this point, if she thought it would take the edge off. “Great. You open it and I’ll get some wineglasses from the dining room hutch, okay?”
“Yeah.” He stumped over to the utensil drawer and pulled out a corkscrew, then followed her into the other room.
Ma was slopping peas and noodle surprise onto each plate, wearing a scowl that would have frightened a crocodile.
“I like your dress, Ma,” said Marly, trying to lighten the atmosphere. She got three glasses and set them on her father’s end of the table.
“Don’t try to butter me up.”
O-kaaay. Well, then, your dress looks like you tore it off a Goodwill sofa, Ma. But Marly didn’t say it out loud. It was bad enough to be rude and disrespectful in her mind.
Dad made three hefty pours out of the bottle of peach wine and set them down at each place setting with a snap.
Without speaking, Ma went around the whole table and moved them onto the vinyl place mats. Dad tightened his mouth and went back to the roast after inhaling half his glass of wine. He finally managed to carve off three pieces, and they smothered it in jarred gravy.
Marly took a sip of the peach wine and almost gagged at the sweetness of it. She was used to dry whites like Chardonnay and light, crisp ones like Pinot Grigio. Still, it was better than nothing in this poisonous atmosphere.
They got through the meal with Ma completely silent; she and Dad made all the conversation. Marly told him about funny clients they’d had, and her limo ride and how she’d cut the governor’s hair. She told them she thought Peggy and Troy were on the verge of getting engaged.
Dad told her about how something was eating his tomatoes before he could get them off the vine, and that he’d caught a nice-size peacock bass last time he’d gone fishing. He worried about what was going to happen with social security.
Ma cleared the plates, waving away Marly’s offer of help, and brought in individual orange Jell-O desserts embedded with raisins and chunks of canned pineapple. She’d piped Cool Whip around the edges.
“Those look beautiful, Ma.”
“Not fancy enough for you, I’m sure.”
“Ma! I said they look nice. I know they’ll taste great, too.” Marly picked up her spoon, eager to get the meal over with. They ate dessert in total silence.
When everyone was done, she insisted that her mother go and relax while she did the dishes. She scooped up all the little glass parfait dishes and spoons and fled to the kitchen.
She put all the food away, rinsed the plates and other things, then loaded the dishwasher and started it. Only then did she realize that something was missing from the kitchen counter: the projectile piece of roast.
Dad and Ma didn’t have a dog. There was only one possible culprit. With a beetled brow and her hands on her hips, Marly searched the house. Fuzzy wasn’t in the formal living room, the study, the back hallway or her parents’ bedroom. She stalked to the half-open door of the guest bedroom and kicked it open. She saw the discarded paper towels on the carpet first, as a low growl greeted her.
Fuzzy and the piece of roast were in the middle of her bed.
MARLY DROVE back home doubting that her relationship with her mother—or Fuzzy—would ever improve. Not that she gave a rat’s ass about Fuzzy. She put them both out of her mind, cranked on some loud rock and thought about a different kind of hot beef in her bed.
Tuesday night seemed to take a long time arriving, and when it did she had a hard time choosing her clothes, since she was uncertain of where Jack Hammersmith would take her.
Finally she settled on a deep ruby-red sarong and a black silk tank top that tapered to a V on one side.
She didn’t own a single pair of closed-toe shoes that weren’t for the gym, and she hated high heels, so she put on another pair of flat thong sandals, these in leather instead of rubber. She added dangly silver earrings and a silver cuff to the outfit and piled her hair on top of her head.
She refused to smear foundation on her face, no matter what the occasion, but she did put on mascara and tinted her lips deep red.
Marly surveyed the result in her bathroom mirror and decided she didn’t look half bad. Of course, the governor was probably used to women who put on a full face of makeup and teetered around in skyscraper heels—but she wasn’t going to pretend to be someone she was not.
She looked down at her still-blue toenail polish and reflected that it didn’t work at all with what she was wearing. She still had ten minutes or so before Jack was due to pick her up, so she slipped off her shoes and sat on her bathroom floor to make a change.
When her doorbell rang a few minutes later, she sported silver polish—with one red rose on her left big toe. Wonder what he’ll think of that?
She still couldn’t believe she was going out on a date with the governor. The Republican governor. What if his politics were infectious and she caught the disease? What if they argued over social programs and she stabbed him with her dinner fork? What if Frick and Frack did a flying belly-flop into the appetizers to prevent her from doing so?
Marly had a feeling it was going to be an interesting evening. But she opened the door and smiled. “Hi, Jack.”
Chapter 7
SHE’S IMPOSSIBLY beautiful, Jack thought, drinking in the sight of her. She’d done something to her eyes to make them even more exotic and mysterious, and her lips looked like cherry-flavored sin.
Though her fingernails were short and bare, she’d painted her toes silver, which he found highly erotic. Silver with one suggestive, carnal-red rose. And—was she trying to make hi
m spontaneously combust?
Because that skirt was really no different from a tablecloth knotted at her waist, perfect for a picnic in a secluded spot on the beach.
Marly didn’t smell of any overpowering, commercial perfume. She wasn’t hung with jewelry like a human Christmas tree. And she didn’t tinkle with artificial laughter.
She didn’t make him wait half an hour while she finished getting ready—in fact, she didn’t invite him in at all. She said, “Let me get my bag,” and left him standing in the doorway.
But Jack was curious. He wanted to see her personal space. So he stepped inside and looked around. The apartment itself was…very apartment-like. What Marly had done with it, however, was simply amazing. The walls were draped in exotic fabrics and giant floor pillows dotted the carpet, which she’d mostly covered with a gorgeous Oriental rug. Little jeweled lanterns hung everywhere, along with paintings and intriguing collages. And candles dotted every available surface.
She’d created a colorful, exotic bazaar, and Jack loved it, despite the fact that it was utterly foreign to him. That was part of its charm.
“Marly, this is fantastic!” he said as she came out of the bedroom with a little embroidered tapestry handbag.
She flushed with pleasure. “My friend Peggy says I’m going to set the apartment on fire with all these candles. But I’m actually very careful.” She walked to the window and pulled the filmy drapes aside. “Isn’t the view gorgeous?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. She overlooked some kind of hideous factory complex. “Uh…”
“It’s why I took the place. I pay extra for that view.” She laughed and let the drapes fall back into place. They obscured the factory in a romantic, feminine haze. “So, are you ready? Where are we going?”
I’m ready to throw you down right here on your Oriental rug. But Jack tried to remain civilized, even if he felt anything but. He ran a finger around the suddenly too tight collar of his shirt. “Where are we going? It’s a surprise.”
He put a hand to the small of her back and felt her quiver. Christ, just anticipating having her was going to kill him. He wanted to do a lot more than make her quiver.
Jack wanted her crying out, begging for release and thrashing in ecstasy.
But he felt ashamed by his desire, because she was a whole lot more than a hot body who triggered an animal reaction in him. Marly Fine was complex and delicate and soulful—but strong. How many twenty-year-old girls would drop out of their dream art program—one for which they’d received a full scholarship—to shoulder a parent’s crippling medical bills?
Again, Jack wasn’t proud of having read the file on her, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. And he was stunned at her sheer strength of character.
He waited while she locked her apartment door and took her elbow as they walked down the stairs. The limo sat gobbling gas at the curb, garnering curious stares from residents on their way in and out of the building.
Marly seemed embarrassed by it, and he wished he’d brought a normal car instead. But he’d wanted to give her the full treatment, so to speak. Now he realized that she wasn’t the sort of woman who was impressed by the trappings of his world.
Mike, his personal chauffeur, saw them and hopped out of the driver’s seat to hand them into the back.
“Hi,” said Marly. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you, miss. Governor, Mr. Lyons is trying to reach you. He says you’re not answering your cell phone.”
“Correct. Whatever it is can wait.”
Marly looked at him as she settled herself onto the seat. “You don’t think—I mean, I don’t mind. It sounds as if it’s important.”
Great. He’d been trying to assure her that they’d have quality time together, but now she thought he was neglecting his duties to the state. “All right. Thanks.” He dug the damn phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial. “Lyons?”
While he listened to his advisor foam at the mouth over what he deemed a crucial poll on how the Florida voters viewed him, Marly began a conversation with Mike.
“So, do you have children?” she asked him.
“Sure do, miss. Ages two and four, girl and boy. They’re a handful.” He laughed good-naturedly.
“Are they home during the week, or do they go to day care?”
“Day care’s name is Grandma Eulala, which is lucky for us in a lot of ways…but unlucky in others.”
She looked a question at him.
“I get to do all her remodeling and home repairs in payment. Oh, and lawn maintenance and pest control.”
“Sounds like you don’t get much time off, Mike.”
“Oh, can’t complain. Lots of folks out there have it much worse. We have our health and beautiful children and food on the table. Know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Marly, shooting a furtive look toward Jack that told him she questioned very much whether he did.
Wonderful. The very things that drew most women to him—his money and power—caused the one he wanted to look at him sideways. Lyons continued to yak into his ear about issues that could easily have waited until tomorrow.
“So do you carry pictures of your children?” Marly asked Mike.
“Sure do.” He dug into his back pocket for his wallet and passed them back to her.
“They’re adorable.”
Yeah, they were. But Jack didn’t necessarily want her focused on them. “Lyons,” he said into his cell phone, “I have to go. Brief me on this in the morning. I’ve got a date right now.”
“Date?” squawked Lyons. “What do you not understand about what I’m telling you, Jack? The people see you as a playboy—”
Jack shut the phone and put it in his pocket.
Marly obviously liked Mike, since she’d offered to paint portraits of his kids sometime. She pulled a card out of her little tapestry bag and wrote her home number on the back for him.
Jack glared at Mike. Impossible, but he was jealous of his chauffeur! She hadn’t hesitated a bit before giving him her contact information, while Jack still didn’t have it.
He folded his arms across his chest.
“Something wrong, sir?” Mike met his eyes in the rearview mirror.
“No, no. Nothing’s wrong.” Besides the fact that my date would rather be sitting up front with you. His displeasure seemed to affect the atmosphere in the limo, though. Like black ink from a squid, it clouded the waters.
“Sir?” Mike said. “There’s a bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket back there.”
“Thanks. Marly, can I pour you a glass?”
She hesitated. “Sure.”
The woman didn’t want to sip champagne in a limo? What was wrong with her? How could he turn things around, elevate the mood a bit?
Jack produced two chilled glasses and filled them, handing one to Marly. She took it with thanks, but looked regretfully at Mike, as if she felt bad that Jack didn’t ask him to join them in a toast.
“Mike’s on duty,” he reminded her. “And he’s driving.”
“Of course,” she said quickly.
Jack hit the button that raised the divider, feeling like a jerk. But that was irrational! He and Marly were on a date. Yes, Mike’s kids were cute, and yes, Mike was an all-around great guy, but Jack didn’t want him in the picture right now.
“To dinner together,” he said, raising his glass to her. “Cheers.”
She kept her face utterly expressionless. “Cheers.”
They drank, and Jack unaccountably thought of the time during his childhood when his mother had given him “grown-up ginger ale” to drink. He smiled.
“What?” Marly asked.
“I was just thinking of my mom.” Oh, brilliant thing to say, Jack, on a date.
“Your mom?” She raised her eyebrows.
“The first time she gave me champagne. She called it ginger ale for grown-ups. I was twelve.”
Marly smiled. “You…have a good relationsh
ip with your mother?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s fabulous. My mom could run the country single-handed and still keep her sense of humor.”
“That’s high praise.”
He shrugged. “It’s the truth. What’s yours like?”
She stared into her champagne glass for a moment too long. “Oh, you know. Ma’s…retired now. She used to work for the post office.”
“Yeah? What does she do in her spare time?”
Again, that infinitesimal hesitation. “Um, this and that. She has a bunko group and she watches her soaps.”
Jack beat a conversational retreat, realizing that this topic was a sensitive one. “How about your dad?”
Marly brightened. “He’s into everything he can do. Loves to fish, tends a garden, plays penny poker with the guys.” She chuckled. “Gets passionate about politics—dyed-in-the-wool Democrat—and writes rude ditties that he plays on a guitar while he sits on his workbench.”
“He sounds great,” said Jack. “Well, except for the poor political judgment.” He grinned. “Any brothers or sisters?”
Marly started to shake her head and then stopped. “Yeah, a rabid cat named Fuzzy who thinks he rules the house.”
Jack pulled a long face. “Sounds like you and Fuzzy have a little sibling rivalry going.”
“You could say that,” Marly agreed, sipping more champagne.
“Would you like to lie down on ze couch and tell me all about it?” Jack asked in his best Dr. Freud voice.
She laughed. “Fuzzy has anger management issues and a lot of pent-up hostility. He’s a psychopath, a Ninja and a master thief.”
“Hmm,” said Jack in a thoughtful tone. “He sounds like a prime candidate for, say, the CIA. Black ops?”
“If he gets shot at and thrown out of airplanes, then I’m all for drafting him. Can you write up an executive order right away?”
“Done,” he said promptly. “Anything for you, beautiful.” Jack picked up the champagne bottle and refilled her glass and his own.
“Thank you. Where are we headed? Canada?”
“We’ll arrive at the surprise location shortly.”
Midnight Madness Page 6