Plum Girl (Romance)

  She dug into her pocket for change and placed another call. After three rings, Dominick's voice mail picked up. Great. She'd wanted to explain what was going on to him, not an automated answering service. He'd been at a conference all day, so she'd hoped they'd get to see each other later tonight. It was still a very good possibility, if Terry would just get here already. "Hi, it's me," she said after the beep. "I... Listen, I'm not sure what's going on for tonight. Terry hasn't even gotten here yet. I just spoke to him, and he's running late, and... well, now we're supposed to have dinner when he show's up... and his phone kept breaking up, so I couldn't get out of it.... Anyway, I'll call you when I get home, but I don't know when it will be.... Not that I think it'll be late or anything, but I just mean, I don't expect you to wait. Okay, your tape's gonna run out. I'll call you later. Bye."

  She hung up, crossed the sidewalk, and went back into the warmth of Starbucks to get a decaf white-chocolate mocha to take the chill off. (Well, she didn't want to get a cold.)

  Nearly an hour and a half later, Terry showed up. Unfortunately, Lonnie missed his entrance because she'd fallen asleep in her purple armchair. It must have been that third herbal tea that did her in. "Hey, Lon," he said, shaking her arm.

  She jerked awake, and once she realized where she was—and felt appropriately embarrassed by her public nap—she was overwhelmed by the painfully pressing need to pee.

  Several minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom and actually caught Terry looking at his watch impatiently. She locked her jaw and decided to chalk it up to residual sleep delirium so she could get this night over with as civilly and amicably as possible. "Ready?" he asked.

  They had no trouble getting seated at the restaurant since it was so late. Then Terry spent another half hour savoring his appetizer of fried calamari. Just as Lonnie was about to put her foot down and demand they speed up the meal, their waiter brought out a bottle of Dom Perignon. Terry must've ordered it when she was in the ladies' room earlier.

  Immediately, she protested. "Terry, I don't want to drink this. It's too expensive and we're not celebrating anything."

  "No way," he countered, shaking his head and sending a few light brown shaggy locks out of their loosely defined place. "Don't worry about it. My treat, remember?" And he smiled at her. His smile reminded her that he was only trying to be nice, and that made her feel guilty, because she still didn't want to be there.

  She wasn't bored; she was antsy. It felt like eons had passed while Terry droned on about his career—how it was really starting to take off, how he was "this close" to getting a role in a commercial, how his agent saw big things ahead. Now, while he drank some more champagne, Lonnie tried to get a word in before he launched back into his self-aggrandizing treatise. "I can really only stay for one glass," she said. "Then I've got to get going, okay?" At this rate, she had no idea if he was ever planning to explain his tirade over the phone, and she really didn't care anymore.

  "But my lobster tails haven't come yet," he protested, clearly irritated by her suggestion that she leave before he was fully sated. "And what about your flounder?" Oh, yeah, she'd forgotten all about her electrifying order of flounder broiled dry, with no butter or oil.

  He smiled lightheartedly and asked, "What's the matter, you gotta hot date?"

  She felt like shouting YES! but she really wasn't looking to hurt him, so she tried to move things right along. "Terry, didn't you want to talk about... you know... what happened?"

  "What do you mean?" he asked, clearly baffled—or at least doing his best impression.

  The waiter chose that moment to bring their meals. He set down the plates, and Terry started digging in. Between bites, he reached for the champagne bottle again, and only then did Lonnie realize that he'd already downed two glasses. Part of her wanted to drink more—enough to numb her annoyance—but a bigger part of her knew she had to keep her wits about her if she wanted to get out of there before sunrise.

  This night was truly ridiculous. Was Terry actually going to sit blithely through the entire meal acting like nothing had happened? Never one to ignore food that was placed in front of her, she attempted to eat the blackened, bone-dry flounder. She gave up after two bites, and resigned herself to pushing it around with her fork.

  What in the world must Dominick think by now?

  By the time Terry finished his meal, it was 10:45. So far, all Terry had said was drivel. And he'd gotten even more insipidly chatty within the past few minutes... rambling, really...

  Then she realized.

  The Dom Perignon bottle was nearly empty, and she was still on her first glass.

  "Didja ever wonder," he said jovially, while lifting his glass to clink hers, "why you park on the parkway and drive in a driveway... Wait... no, I got it wrong—"

  "Listen, it's really getting late. I'm going home. Unless there's anything else you want to say?"

  "Like what?"

  She struggled not to grab him by the collar and shake him. Opting instead for personal martyrdom, she kept calm, and said, "I thought you wanted to see me tonight because you wanted to... you know... explain what's been going on with you lately."

  He looked utterly perplexed. "That's what I have been doing," he said cheerfully.

  "Right, but—"

  "Hey, that would be a great bit! Something about how once you buy a woman lobster, she loses interest real fast. You know, something about how you should talk to her first, then buy her lobster, so she'd have a reason to listen to you. D'ya know what I mean? What d'ya think?"

  Something inside her snapped. Just like that, she traded martyrdom for confrontation.

  Slamming her napkin on the table with an audible thump—her tight fist balling the pink linen up painfully—she ground out her words. "What do I think? Oh, a few things. First of all, I have been listening, but you've been babbling about nothing. Secondly, you're the one who got the lobster. And third, just because I've calmly listened to your bullshit for two hours, doesn't mean I'm unaware of what a manipulative ass you are!"

  "What? All right, okay, just calm down—"

  "I don't want to calm down!" Her temper was fully unleashed. "Terry, you lured me here tonight—you made me feel sorry for you, like you've just had a tough time of things lately, and you wanted to explain. But it was all bullshit, wasn't it? You just wanted to get me here. Although, I can't for the life of me figure out why!"

  "So I just wanted to spend an evening with my sweetie, is that so wrong?" he asked, leaning toward her and going for the boyish grin—but only succeeding in giving her access to his heavy champagne breath. Add that to his list of charms.

  "I'm not your sweetie! What are you, nuts?"

  "Shh—" he started, looking around the deserted restaurant.

  "Terry, you dumped me! And on New Year's! You called me up and told me that you never wanted to see me again. Is any of this ringing a bell?"

  He slumped back in his seat and looked at her with droopy eyes. "What, you mean you took that seriously?" he asked.

  "Uh, yeah, the part about loathing me seems to resonate."

  "Lon, come on, I told you I switched shrinks. Can't we just forget about that phone call? It was a mistake. C'mere"—he leaned forward again with his lips puckered—"gimme a little kiss," he begged and puckered harder.

  He actually thought this was cute? The man—correction, boy—needed to grow up.

  "Are you for real?" she demanded, recoiling in her seat.

  "Come on, Lonnie Anderson," he crooned with drunkenness. "You know you still like me a little. Let's go back to your apartment and talk more about this." He grabbed her hand. Unlike Dominick's hands, Terry's were lukewarm and exceptionally smooth.

  She snatched her hand away. "Why did you ask me to meet you tonight? I thought you wanted to apologize. I thought you wanted... closure. That wasn't what you wanted at all," she said, shaking her head because she'd been such a fool.

  "I just want us to be the way we were," he replied. "I'm sorry if I wa
s in a bad mood that day on the phone—"

  "Bad mood? You went psycho on me!" He rolled his eyes as if she were being way too dramatic. "How can I put this?" she continued forcefully. "I think you're a complete jerk. I find you very unappealing. And now, if you'll excuse me, thank you for dinner, but I am going home, and I'd really appreciate it if you never called or e-mailed me again! Ever! "

  She burst out of her chair and reached for her bulky parka. As she was shrugging it on, she saw something.... Oh, no... not that. Anything but that.

  His chin was quivering, and his lower lip was trembling. He couldn't really be—

  "Terry?"

  He covered his eyes with his hand. Jesus Christmas, the boy was crying. And this wasn't Twit crying—his shoulders weren't heaving; his eyes weren't dry. This was a silent flow of tear that rolled down his cheeks in spite of his hand.

  Just terrific. Now look what she'd done! She tries to be a confrontational bitch—just this once—-and it's a complete disaster!

  She looked around the restaurant helplessly, unable to believe how this night had turned out. What had been scheduled as a quick cup of coffee had turned into a three-and-a-half-hour foray into the dark underworld of an obviously manic-depressive comedian with a drinking problem and Peter Pan issues. And now she'd made him cry.

  "Terry, please..." She put her arm on his shoulder awkwardly. "Calm down... I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." She fell down into the booth beside him. "Terry, please... I'm really sorry."

  "It's n-not you," he stammered, and swiped his tears with the napkin she handed him. Now it was her turn to look around the restaurant to see who was watching. "It's... it's..."

  "What?" she asked softly, and let her hand rest on his upper arm. She kept her face far from his, though, so he wouldn't misread her compassion for intimacy. If it weren't for his actual tears, she'd think she was still being manipulated.

  "Don't get the wrong idea," he explained. "It's my anxiety medicine. I'm not supposed to mix it with alcohol—it makes me more emotional."

  "Oh... okay," she replied, wondering if that meant she was off the hook and could continue her departure.

  "I guess I just blow everything," he said with palpable dejection, and she realized she wasn't going anywhere yet.

  "What are you talking about? You just told me all about how well your career's going." Ad nauseam. "Remember?"

  "That's true. But I wish I hadn't blown it with you." He avoided her eyes, obviously self-conscious about his admission. Lord, he really was so immature.

  "Well, what did you expect, Terry?" she asked gently.

  "I don't know," he said. "I know I shouldn't have acted like such a jerk, but I still like you. I want you to be my girlfriend." Uh-oh.

  "No, you don't," she said quickly. "We are not relationship material, and I think we both know that." Please say you know that because I can't take much more of this!

  After a long pause, he said, "Maybe you're right. It's like, sometimes I want a girlfriend who'll be there for me, and then other times I just can't be bothered." He still couldn't make eye contact. "And I've just been so... confused. About my career. About everything."

  She could relate to that. Who couldn't? Terry wasn't a bad guy—he just had his own issues, and she wasn't going to be the girl to make the difference. That was okay—that was life.

  And she couldn't help thinking how grateful she was that Dominick Carter was in hers. He and Terry were so different. Dominick was fun without being inane, sensitive without being unstable, and sweet without being a basket case. Dominick listened, and gave as much as he took. She sighed and thought, He's wonderful.

  "Confused about my future..." Terry was saying. "Confused about religion..."

  "You're twenty-five," Lonnie interrupted. "It's fine to be confused, but don't you think you're making more out of us than there really was?"

  He paused, then quirked his mouth a little, and shrugged. She knew him well enough to recognize that as agreement. Finally they'd gotten somewhere.

  "Listen, Terry, I really do have to go," she said. "I'm exhausted, and it's been a draining week. But I'd like us to stay friends. Let's just keep it light, okay? Sometime drop me an e-mail and let me know how you are."

  "Okay."

  "But no forwards, please, " she said. He couldn't promise her that.

  After Terry paid the check, they left the restaurant, and he hailed a taxi to take him to the nearest hotel. He paused before closing the door, and looked up at Lonnie who was standing on the curb. "Later, gator," he chirped, and added, "Thanks, you're beautiful!" as the cab peeled away.

  * * *

  Dominick was lying on his back with his hands crossed behind his head, watching his ceiling in the semidarkness when his phone rang. He jolted a little because the shrill broke his trance, and also because he immediately figured it was probably Lonnie. The latter thought made him wait to answer it. Two rings, three, four—

  "Hello," he said.

  "Hi, it's me," she said. She was whispering so he assumed she was trying not to wake up Peach. Assuming she was at her apartment by now. After all, it was only past midnight, and she was supposed to have met her ex-boyfriend for a "cup of coffee" at seven-fucking-thirty.

  "Hey." His tone was nonchalant.

  "Hi," she said again. "You wouldn't believe the night I had."

  "Really?"

  She must've picked up on his annoyance, because she chimed, "Sorry it's so late." Then she went on to explain how Terry had kept her waiting for two hours, and conned her into some long, boring dinner, but he'd finally gotten the picture that they were through.

  He believed her... he supposed... but he was still jealous and pissed off anyway. And why did Lonnie have to be so damn sweet—why couldn't she stand Terry up? Or tell him to go to hell?

  "Anyway," she said, obviously yawning while speaking, "I'm going to sleep now; I'm exhausted."

  "Do you want me to come over?" he asked. He wouldn't ask her to come over in the middle of the night because it wouldn't be safe, and she was obviously tired. But he still wanted her soft, cuddly body that smelling like strawberry lying next to him. He still wanted to see her.

  "Oh..." she whispered. "Baby, I'm too tired tonight."

  "No, I didn't mean for sex. Jesus," he muttered.

  "Oh. No, I know. I just mean I'm so tired I'll fall asleep before you get here. This week has been so draining, and then tonight sealed it."

  "Okay, whatever you want," he said flatly.

  "You're not upset, are you?" she asked with predictable sweet concern.

  "No."

  "Because we're definitely doing something tomorrow night, right?" He could tell she was trying to be upbeat in spite of her exhaustion. That softened him up a little.

  "Uh-huh," he said, half smiling into the semi-darkness.

  "Good, I can't wait."

  "All right, tomorrow. Good night," he said.

  "'Night, babydoll. Till tomorrow."

  He hung up and settled back on his pillow, with both hands crossed behind his head. Well, she'd apologized for not calling sooner, explained what happened, and assured him that things were over with Terry. He should be satisfied. So why was he still pissed off and jealous?

  Maybe it was because she didn't want him to come over. She'd said she was too tired, but still... he couldn't help but wonder...

  No. She'd said Terry went to a hotel. He had no reason not to believe that. No reason to think he might be staying in her apartment with her. Lonnie wouldn't lie to him.

  Of course, she hadn't even told him that Terry was still in the picture until she absolutely had to.

  Forget it. He'd see her tomorrow, and he was sure by then all his doubt would fade.

  Chapter 25

  On the drive to Mabel Wills's house, Lonnie knew she was embarking on a long shot. She'd gotten her telephone number and address from the phone book. But when she'd tried to call, the number was perpetually busy. So, she'd borrowed her father's car, and decided
to be impulsive. Now with a crinkled Mapquest printout, she was heading down the Mass Pike refusing to second guess herself.

  She had no idea if Ann Lee's blasé attitude toward Lunther-the-Adult-Baby was typical or atypical, and she was at least going to talk to one other woman before she forgot about that list. Of course, there was always the possibility that Mabel wouldn't be home when Lonnie arrived. Or, even if she were home, she could refuse to speak to her.

  Thirty minutes later, she found herself in the tiny town of Blueville, pulling into Mabel Wills's gravel driveway. She cut the engine on Jack's Oldsmobile, and walked up to the front porch, which was covered by a sturdy, wood-plank awning. After she rang the doorbell, she nervously fidgeted with her hair—pushing it behind her ears, then back in front, and then behind again. Finally an old woman opened the door.

  "Yeah!" the old woman barked gruffly. "Oh, hi. Are you Mabel?" Lonnie asked sheepishly. "Yeah!" she barked again, and Lonnie quickly took in the image. Mabel Wills was a heavyset, seventyish woman with thick gray hair in a loose Martha-Washington upsweep and an unforgiving frown. She certainly didn't appear to be in the mood to entertain—much less confess to Murder One—but Lonnie hadn't driven all this way just to turn and run. As much as she wanted to at that moment.

  "Uh, hi there," she began. "My name is Lonnie Kelley, and I'm currently working at Twi—"

  "Sometime today!" Mabel commanded with impatience. "What the hell do you want already?"

  Lonnie swallowed hard, and shifted her eyes, avoiding direct contact with Mabel's all-but-loathing stare. "Well, you see, I'm sure you've heard about Lunther Bell's"—cold-blooded murder—"passing."

  "Who? Oh, right. The pervert. So, what about it?"

  "Um, well, I don't mean to impose on you, Ms. Wills, but—"

  "What's with the 'Ms.' crap? Everyone calls me M. W.—Maw for short—and you can do the same, or get the hell off my property." Lonnie nodded thoughtfully, as if that were more than reasonable.