Her fingers touched the note, prepared to remove it. She drew back. It was his note, not hers. Besides, tearing it up wouldn’t prove that she’d changed. She needed to do something more substantial to show him that she wanted to be more than a friend.
The image that greeted her in the mirror, from the black-and-purple hair to the maternity T-shirt emblazoned Babies Rock, was better suited to an eighteen-year-old than to a woman who’d turned twenty-seven a few months ago. Chelsea took a deep breath. It was time she changed her appearance.
For Barry. For the gala. For herself.
AFTER THE FOOTBALL GAME, Barry tried to call Chelsea, but the answering machine picked up. “She’s probably gone to her apartment to fetch more stuff,” said Lew. “Let’s have dinner.”
Over T-bones and baked potatoes at a steakhouse, they reminisced about Barry’s childhood in Austin. He hadn’t expected his father to remember so many details. During those early years, Lew had been so busy with patients and political protests that Barry had felt shut out.
Yet his father reminded him of the summer evening they’d eaten a whole watermelon in the backyard, spitting the seeds into Meredith’s flower bed, and she’d groused for months about having to weed out melon sprouts. Barry had also forgotten the time he’d thrown up during a class trip to the Capitol building. His father, along as a chaperone, had lauded the act as a symbolic commentary on politicians.
“I didn’t know you thought I was tuned out. Is that why you decided to live with your mom after we split up?” Lew asked.
“I didn’t figure you’d care,” Barry admitted.
“I cared a lot,” his father said. “It’s my own fault for not telling you. Besides, I was never as nurturing as Meredith. She was a good mother, even if she did have the instincts of a socialist.”
“And you have the instincts of an anarchist,” Barry couldn’t resist saying.
“Something like that.”
Before he knew it, several hours had slipped by. He hesitated to call Chelsea again in case she’d gone to sleep.
Sure enough, when they arrived home, she was curled in his bed, forming a large lump beneath the covers. In the darkness, Barry studied the sleeping form of the woman he loved.
When he’d arrived in Los Angeles nearly nine months ago, intending to find a wife, he’d had a list of desirable qualities. Chelsea hadn’t appeared to possess any of them. It had taken a long time to accept that, in essence, she was everything he wanted and more.
Love swelled inside him, sweet and painful. It wasn’t going to be easy, reconciling their different personalities. All the same, he hoped that her arrival today meant she was willing to try.
He could learn from his parents’ mistakes. He would get involved with his children by taking an active part in their day-to-day lives. When there were disagreements, he and Chelsea would talk them over, not just snipe at each other verbally.
When he went into the bathroom, Barry spotted the note he’d left on the mirror. If she’d seen it, she’d probably had a good laugh.
He took it down. He’d memorized it by now anyway.
COOL WINTER sunlight woke Barry the next morning. He lay on his stomach for a few delicious moments, suffused with the happy reflection that Chelsea had come to stay.
He rolled toward her and froze in shock. Oh, good heavens. A blonde.
A woman with long, wavy blond hair had sneaked into his bed. What if Chelsea saw them? She’d never believe he didn’t know how it happened. He could scarcely believe it himself.
Barry sat up, discovered he was wearing only his briefs, and snatched the covers over himself. Of all the compromising situations! Was this his father’s idea of a joke? But if so, what had he done with Chelsea?
The woman heaved a long sigh and shifted position. A silky purple strap slipped low on her shoulder. She’d had the nerve to put on the negligée he’d given Chelsea for her birthday!
Barry contemplated trying to sneak out. It wasn’t going to help if he left, though, as long as this woman was lying here. “Excuse me,” he said.
“Mmm?”
“Excuse me? Miss?” He reined in an instinct to give her a light shake. Better not to touch her. “One of us needs to get up.”
“Why?” she said. “It’s Sunday.”
Barry hesitated. That voice had a familiar ring. In fact, the woman sounded like Chelsea.
He leaned over and took a better look. Amazingly, it was Chelsea. That straight nose, those full lips, that twin-padded figure.
“What did you do to your hair?” he asked.
“Oh!” Her eyes popped open. “Gee, I hope I didn’t startle you.”
“Nearly gave me a heart attack,” Barry said ruefully. “I thought I’d awakened in a compromising situation.”
“You didn’t!”
“It’s a little embarrassing.” He chuckled. “So that’s what you were doing when I tried to call you yesterday. I was hoping you’d join us for dinner.”
“Shopping and beauty parlor.” Chelsea sat up. Pregnancy gave her a glowing sensuality, from her enlarged breasts to the blush in her cheeks. “My natural color is light brown, but I thought this was more flattering.”
“You look gorgeous.” Black had been a harsh contrast to her delicate features. The cascade of shimmering blond hair emphasized the fairness of her skin and the blue of her irises.
“I bought a new dress, too.” Chelsea indicated a black outfit hanging on the back of the door. The dress had a lacy bodice with a long skirt that was slit up one side. “It’s big enough to accommodate my stomach, but can be taken in afterward.”
“Why the new you?” Barry asked. “Is this in Angela’s honor?”
She blinked sleepily. “No, it’s for you.”
His chest tightened. She must have seen the note and drawn the conclusion that he was itching to transform her into someone more conventional, only was holding himself back with difficulty.
Well, Barry did like her new appearance, but he’d grown fond of the sense of freedom she’d projected, that element of the unexpected. He’d enjoyed being kept off-balance, although maybe not quite as off-balance as he’d felt waking up next to a blonde.
Still, he wasn’t disappointed. No, he was pleased. Definitely pleased.
“Thank you,” he said. “I like this makeover and the fact that you’ve moved in with me.”
“I guess I’m finally growing up.” Chelsea stretched, thrusting forward her luscious full breasts. Barry ached to run his hands over them, then pull her against him and find a creative position to make love.
Dr. Keller had warned that, during the last trimester, they should refrain. Still, it wasn’t easy to ignore his masculinity screaming for fulfillment.
“You’ve got the weirdest expression on your face,” Chelsea said.
“It’s lust.”
She laughed. “If I’d known you’d react this way, I’d have bleached my hair sooner!”
“You didn’t need to bleach your hair,” Barry said. “You already did inspire this reaction. How do you think you got pregnant with twins?”
“Dumb luck,” she said.
“That, too,” said Barry. “For both of us.”
SUNDAY EVENING, dressing for the gala, Chelsea put on the necklace and earrings that, in addition to the nightgown, Barry had given her for her birthday in September. This honey-blond hair was a flattering shade, she decided, regarding herself at various angles as she experimented with a French twist. The cosmopolitan image pleased her, and she pinned it into place.
Since the disastrous relationship with Gene, she’d sworn never again to turn herself inside out for a man. Yet now it felt good. She’d made Barry happy and, frankly, she’d been tired of the retro-hippie look.
“Don’t dawdle in there!” came Lew’s voice from the hall. “I need time to go backstage and wish Angela luck.”
Why? she wondered, remembering Barry’s concern about his father. Had he and Angela hatched some plot together? “I want to s
ee her, too. I’ll come with you.”
There was silence from the hall. As she awaited a response, Chelsea applied a frosted shade of lipstick.
“Great,” Lew said at last. His voice lacked enthusiasm.
Chelsea made a note not to leave him alone with Angela. The old scamp was definitely up to no good.
She’d make sure he didn’t get away with it.
“WHERE’S LEW?” Angela asked, fiddling with herbangs in the dressing-room mirror. She had to half shout to be heard above the chatter of the other dancers.
Brightly lit glass ran along one wall of the long room, above a counter littered with makeup, glitter spray and hair implements. The air was filled with flowery scents and whiffs of aerosols.
“Barry’s keeping him under close guard,” Chelsea said. “I came in his place.”
It was the truth, sort of. She had come in his stead, but not at his request.
“Okay.” Angela accepted the explanation without question. “You know, I really, really like your hair that way.”
“Thanks,” Chelsea said.
The girl bent down gracefully and rummaged inside her workout bag. “Here you go.”
She pulled out a box. Pie-size. Redolent of lemon.
“Lemon meringue?” Chelsea said.
“They were out of cream pies,” Angela explained. “It was the best I could do.”
Chelsea stuck the box into her oversize purse. She’d been carrying one on the advice of the childbirth instructor, who suggested taking overnight gear everywhere during the last month because you never knew when you might have to go to the hospital.
“I have to be honest with you,” she said. “Lew didn’t send me. I came on my own.”
Angela’s jaw dropped. It took a moment for her to regain her powers of speech. “You’re…you’re…turning me in?”
“I won’t tell your parents,” Chelsea said. “I’m going to dispose of it quietly.”
“That’s not fair!” she said. “It’s my pie! Besides, I don’t want Lew to think I went back on my word.”
“I’ll assure him of your loyalty.” She winced at the expression of betrayal on the girl’s face. “Angela, I know you mean well, but think of what this gala means to everyone else.”
“Think of Lew’s friend and his junkyard! He gets all the wrecks from the police department and the city. It’s like half his income.”
“There are better ways of defeating a ridiculous bill,” Chelsea said. “There’s no reason to drag the opera and ballet into this mess.”
“When’s the last time those fat-cat politicians listened to little people unless they made a stink?” Angela demanded.
Lew had stayed at her house for two days, and already he’d brainwashed her. Chelsea sighed. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you do this.”
Guiltily, she fled the noisy dressing room. Angela’s accusing glance followed her.
It bothered Chelsea that she’d misled her young friend. It bothered her even more that she’d probably lost her influence with the girl, who needed all the guidance she could get as she entered adolescence.
Chelsea prowled through the maze of hallways, looking for a trash can. She saw no point in showing the pie to Barry and provoking a battle between father and son. Better to dispose of it and eliminate any chance of its being misused.
Too bad she didn’t have a spoon. She really like lemon meringue.
Chelsea wandered into an adjoining hallway. Ahead of her flared bright lights. The sight of a man carrying a shoulder-mounted minicam tipped her off that it must be a TV interview.
Curiosity drew her closer. In a small lounge area stood the reporter, a well-dressed woman with chin-length chestnut hair. “Tell me, Mr. Magnifico. How do you justify trying to put people out of business when they haven’t done anything harmful?”
“Oh, please!” The phony Italian accent came from just outside Chelsea’s view. She scooted forward until she could see the man, his thick black hair shining with gel. He wore an old-fashioned brocade smoking jacket and wielded an unlit cigarette in a ridiculously long holder, obviously his latest affectation.
“If Army surplus stores and junkyards can’t be nationalized, they should be shut down for aesthetic reasons,” he said into the camera. “They’re eyesores.”
“What about people on a tight budget?” the reporter said.
Fiorello’s lip curled into a sneer. “People who shop at tacky places like that are beneath contempt.”
The reporter nodded, not exactly agreeing but not challenging him, either. Chelsea slipped away, seething.
She often made the rounds of thrift shops and occasionally picked up an item at an Army surplus store. So Fiorello considered her beneath contempt, did he?
Getting hit by a pie would serve him right. It might also draw press attention to the absurdity of his campaign.
As she recalled, the event was being taped for later broadcast. The incident would be captured on camera.
Chelsea struggled to breathe. She couldn’t be contemplating going along with this. She’d given Barry her word. Well, sort of.
She’d promised to keep an eye on Lew, but then, Barry was doing that himself. Nevertheless, she’d assured him she was on his side. It was part of being the new Chelsea, of perhaps becoming a doctor’s wife.
Barry’s face filled her mind. His strength and tenderness, as always, gave her a thrill. She needed him so much.
The trouble was that if he rejected her for acting on her principles, it meant he loved a woman who wasn’t really her. Chelsea might lighten her hair color and wear a conservative dress, but she couldn’t let a jerk like Fiorello go unchallenged.
She clenched her fists. If she gave the pie to Lew, she risked driving Barry away forever. On the other hand, it was impossible to build a marriage on a shaky foundation.
Her decision made, Chelsea set off down the corridor, the pie still stowed inside her purse.
13
BARRY HAD NEVER seen his father so restless. Even after the public address system in the lobby announced that it was five minutes to curtain time, he kept insisting he had to go see Angela.
“She’s fine,” Grace snapped, her nerves wearing as thin as Barry’s. “I told you, we saw her half an hour ago and she didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Except by me,” Lew said. “She promised. I mean, I promised…to give her my best wishes.”
“You can do it afterward,” said Andrew. “Let’s take our seats before the lights go down.”
“Where’s Chelsea?” asked Meg, who had arrived with Hugh a few minutes earlier. They’d been delayed by freeway construction on their drive from Orange County.
“She went to the ladies’ room.” Barry frowned at his watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Which one?” Cindi asked. “I’ll check on her.”
“She didn’t say.” The theater had a ladies’ room on every level. If the main floor facility was crowded, Chelsea might have taken the elevator to a different one.
Fifteen minutes was a long time, though. Suppose she’d started labor? Suppose right now she was doubled over on the floor?
“Here I am! Sorry it took so long.” Chelsea materialized from the crowd. Barry wondered why he hadn’t seen her coming, since she cut a wide swath, and then realized he hadn’t been looking for a blonde.
“Your hair!” Hugh said. “I like it.”
“Thanks.” She grinned.
The lobby lights flickered. The crowd melted into the seating area. “We’d better get moving.” Barry took Chelsea’s arm, trying not to show how relieved he was to see her. In hindsight, his worries seemed foolish.
He didn’t notice his father heading toward an interior door until Chelsea called, “Lew! Get back here!”
The elder doctor broke stride, hesitated and finally turned. His thin white beard quivered. Now Barry knew for sure that he’d been planning something. “Dad!”
Barry’s newly blond companion waddled across the carpet and seiz
ed Lew’s elbow. “You’re sitting next to me. If my waters break, I want a doctor on either side. You’re not abandoning me, are you?”
The mention of his incipient grandchildren did the trick. “No, of course not. I’m here if you need me.”
There was a crestfallen slump to the man’s shoulders, though, that gave Barry a guilty twinge. His father thrived on self-righteous indignation, and they were depriving him of its full expression.
He shook off his sympathy. This wasn’t a Blink City Council meeting, it was a theater event in Los Angeles. He was not only preventing a major embarrassment to all concerned, he was probably saving his father from jail.
Barely in time, the Menton-Cantrell party settled into their fifth row seats, with Lew on the right next to an aisle. Almost immediately, the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up the overture to The Marriage of Figaro.
Chelsea shifted uncomfortably when the music got loud, and Barry realized the twins had started kicking. He stroked her midsection, hoping to distract them, but they thumped about lustily. Wasn’t Mozart supposed to be soothing to babies?
The kids turned positively gymnastic during the applause, then settled down as gentle ballet music wafted from the pit. Tchaikovsky was the one with the magic touch, it seemed.
It didn’t work on Lew, though. Seated on Chelsea’s far side, he kept crossing and recrossing his legs and slumping and straightening in the chair.
He grew still only when Angela pirouetted on stage with the corps de ballet. Even as a member of a group, her elegance and stage presence stood out.
When she danced her solo, the audience seemed to hold its breath. The omnipresent rustle of candy wrappers and light coughing stilled. Everyone sat rapt until she finished, then burst into cheers.
Lew clapped harder than anyone. As the applause continued, Chelsea shifted her purse, which she’d been holding in her arms.
“Would you put this on the floor for me?” she asked Lew. “It’s getting heavy.”
“I’ll handle it.” Barry reached for it.
“That’s okay.” She shoved the purse at his father. “He needs to make himself useful.”
The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva Page 13