Plum Girl (Romance)

  Peach's tiny book lamp switched on, and she said, "It's four o'clock. It is the morning. What happened, did you guys have a fight or something?"

  Lonnie sighed. "Yeah. I don't want to talk about it. I think it's over."

  "What?" Now Peach audibly shot upright. "What do you mean over? You guys are crazy about each other."

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "All right, if that's how you feel," Peach said, and turned off her book lamp. Lonnie sighed to herself with exhaustion and gloom, and rolled over, ready to let sleep blur her mind for a while.

  Silence filled the room for all of thirty seconds.

  "Just give me a hint."

  She sighed again and said, "I can't really. None of it makes much sense."

  "Well, I need more to go on if I'm going to solve this."

  Lonnie let out a laugh, in spite of her abject misery. "Peach, there are actually some things you can't solve. I'm tired; we'll talk in the morning."

  "Did he make a crack about your body? Is that it?"

  "Of course not. What are you saying? I'm getting fatter?"

  "No, no, I'm just trying to think what he could've done that would make you want to end everything." There wasn't a hint of drowsiness left in Peach's voice; she was chatting away as if it were the middle of the day. Oh well, Lonnie thought. She sat up, looking in Peach's general direction, but only seeing the faded green glow of the tiny iridescent moons that hung above her sister's bed, and started to explain.

  "I don't know what happened," she said. "One minute everything was great, and the next he was accusing me of sleeping with Terry"—she sucked in a breath—"and then I left. But really, it's fine. It's just more of my bad luck with men. Whatever. I knew it had to end sometime. Anyway, perennial spinsterhood is not entirely without its benefits."

  "Whoa, let's back up here," Peach said. "First of all, define 'accuse.'"

  "He asked me who was better in bed, and then claimed he was kidding."

  "Uh-huh..." Peach said, as if processing all the necessary information.

  Lonnie continued. "Then he started doing the whole distant-guy routine."

  "A-ha..." Peach said. "Let me ask you, would you consider Dominick passive aggressive or more obsessive compulsive?"

  "Wha—I don't know. Neither."

  "Mmm-hmm..."

  "Stop doing that."

  "Sorry."

  "Well? What do you think?" Lonnie asked.

  Peach shrugged. "Did he apologize?"

  "Yeah, he tried, but there was no point."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he was still acting like he didn't believe me. Its like, out of nowhere, he's gotten it in his head that there was more to the Terry situation than what I told him."

  "So how did you leave things?"

  "I told him it was over," Lonnie replied simply.

  "You didn't," Peach groaned.

  "What, you're on his side?"

  "No, of course not! I just... Lon, I just don't want you to..."

  "What?"

  "Overreact."

  Lonnie balled her fists at her side, and squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. "Peach, did you not hear a word I said? He thinks I slept with Terry when I told him that I didn't!"

  "No, he's irrationally afraid you might have, and it's eating his guts out. There's a difference," she said calmly.

  "I fail to see the distinction."

  "What I'm trying to say is, yes, Dominick acted like an ass. But if you give up on the whole relationship now, you're never gonna get to see him grovel and beg for your forgiveness, which—believe me—he will."

  "He should grovel!" Lonnie said indignantly.

  "He will."

  Lonnie propped her head with her hand. "But you know what the weird thing is? I don't even think he really believes that I lied about Terry. Part of me thinks he said it just to pick a fight with me. Does that make any sense?"

  "Of course," Peach said. "Maybe he was trying to push you away because he doesn't believe he deserves happiness."

  "I don't think that's it."

  "Or he could always be mad for some other reason."

  "I guess," she said, searching her brain and still not knowing what'd been bothering him.

  "Don't you think you should find out what it is before you junk the whole relationship?" Peach argued. "You should at least explain to Dominick, in detail, why his behavior was totally unacceptable, so he won't do it again."

  "Why should I have to explain it?" she snapped. Then she expelled a breath and continued. "If he doesn't understand on his own—"

  "Please. He's just a dumb guy."

  "Oh, that makes me so mad! I hate that 'just a dumb guy' excuse. It's a complete cop-out! And it's degrading. I mean, how would men feel if they knew how many times women just automatically concluded that they're simply 'too dumb' to be responsible for anything they say?"

  "Are you kidding? They'd love it; they're the ones who came up with it. Lets them off the hook for everything." Peach softened her tone. "Look, I'm on your side here, believe me. But I just don't want you to—"

  "What?"

  "Use this as an excuse to sabotage your love life. You sort of have a history with that."

  "I do not," Lonnie said... not completely convinced. She had to admit that she didn't have the best track record when it came to men. Until Jake, she'd pretty much avoided relationships by finding fault with any guy who'd taken an interest in her. After Jake, she'd used his asshole status as an excuse to shun sex... not to mention love, by taking up with Terry, a clown she'd never take seriously. Then her relationship with Dominick had suffered several awkward stops and starts that were pretty much all her doing. Now she was poised to run again.

  But still... it was different this time.

  "It was a fight," Peach went on. "That doesn't mean everything has to be over."

  Lonnie plopped backward onto her pillow. "I don't want to talk about it anymore," she mumbled, and rolled over. "Good night."

  This time Peach took the hint and settled back into bed. " 'Night."

  The dark silence lasted this time, and kept Lonnie awake for a while. Dominick had acted like a jerk, and as far as she was concerned, that was his problem. His loss. Period.

  So why, over an hour later—as she watched the sun break the vaguest hint of light into her apartment—did she still feel a painful pit in her stomach, a vacuous hole in her heart, and the hot wetness of the spot on her pillow where her stupid tears had fallen?

  * * *

  Mondays were bad enough, but this one was dragging on miserably. Every time the phone rang, Lonnie hoped it was Dominick. But it wasn't. Not once. Less than two days had passed since they'd last spoken, and she missed him terribly.

  Too bad there was no way in hell she was going to call first.

  This wasn't a question of maturity. Really. It was a matter of principle. He was the one who'd offended her, and he should be the one to call. If he didn't grasp that, well, then she was better off without him.

  Then again...

  In the heat of battle, she had sort of declared the end of their entire relationship. Please, did he actually take that literally?

  To top things off, Twit informed her that Delia was going to sit at her desk while she was out of the office Tuesday and Wednesday. A bundle of nerves, Lonnie was planning to drive to Maine Bay College the following morning to meet Macey's friend Emma and go through a few interviews before heading back to Boston on Wednesday afternoon. That was stressful enough, but now with the Grand Master B sitting at her desk, Lonnie would have to worry about locking her drawers.

  BRRINNG!

  She answered her phone, trying to remember the new greeting Twit had taught her earlier. "Beauregard Twit's central headquarters for financial litigating prowess. Whom shall I tell Mr. Twit, Esquire, is calling?"

  "Hey, kid. You got a minute?"

  "Oh, hi, Detective," she said, hearing the usual ruffling of papers, and phones ringing in the background
. "What's up?"

  "Remember how we were supposed to talk about B.J. Flynn?"

  "Oh, right. You never called me back; I thought you weren't that interested."

  "Well, I am now. What did you want to tell me?" Montgomery asked.

  "Why? What's going on?"

  "I ask the questions," he said, and she could just picture the cocky expression on his face.

  She told him about what Matt had said about B.J.'s job insecurity, and her conversation with Bette, who'd confirmed that Lunther had planned to fire the poor guy.

  "Why?" she asked again. "Is B.J. a suspect now?"

  "Everyone's a suspect." He paused, as if deciding how much to say. "But Flynn got arrested this past weekend."

  "What?" she exclaimed. "Are you sure? I just saw him this morning."

  "Yeah, Stopperton ended up letting him go with a warning."

  "But what did he do?" B.J. was a lawyer, for pete's sake!

  "He got into a fight with a homeless guy near Faneuil Hall. Apparently, the guy asked him if he could spare a dime, and Flynn snapped."

  Lonnie's eyes widened. "Define snapped," she said.

  "Well, according to one witness, Flynn started screaming about how he's had to work for every dime he has, and then he grabbed the guy's tin cup and threw it. It almost clocked a couple coming out of Houlihan's."

  "B.J. did that?" This was too much to believe. She'd never known he had such a bad temper.

  "It gets better," Montgomery said. "Or worse, depending on your perspective. He slugged the homeless guy. Just missed his nose. That's when a squad car showed up, and Flynn ran. You know the steps outside of City Hall?"

  "Yeah."

  He chuckled. "Well, apparently, Flynn took 'em three at a time, and it was quite a sight." She could only imagine. "Anyway," he went on, "Stopperton caught up with him in Copy Cop, trying to hide behind a color printer."

  "I can't believe this," she said, shaking her head. "But how come they let him go?"

  Montgomery snorted. "The homeless guy dropped the charges after B.J. gave him a fifty."

  "How ironic."

  "Yeah. Anyway, I need you to do something for me. Two things, actually."

  "What?"

  "I need you to keep an eye on B.J. I mean, really keep close tabs on him. Without being an obvious, nosy pest, that is."

  "Don't try to change me, Detective." He laughed. "What's the second thing?" she asked.

  "Try to stop dreaming about me. I'm too old for you." She laughed.

  After she hung up with him, she glanced at the clock. 5:28 p.m. Well, she'd had about all she could take of the office. Sighing, she shut down her PC and tried to mentally will the phone to ring. Very predictably, it didn't work.

  She coiled her scarf around her neck, gathered up her coat and bag, and headed toward the elevators... determined to coast right past twenty.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning Dominick had barely finished half of his first coffee before he gave in and called Lonnie. He'd thought about her a thousand times since their argument, but he still hadn't been sure if he should call her. He couldn't help wondering if it was worth it—if he really wanted to be so involved at this point in his life. In theory, he did. But theory hadn't prepared him for the intensity of their relationship, and he didn't know if he liked it. Honestly, he was used to feeling more in control.

  Looking at it logically, he was planning to start his own company within a year. Did he really need the extra burden of a serious relationship? For chrissake, Lonnie was probably moving to Maine, anyway! Did he really want to be involved when he had no idea what the future even held for them, if anything?

  And he'd decided: yes, that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her.

  After she'd stormed out of his apartment, he'd let his anger consume him for the rest of the night. But in the morning he'd awoken with a dull ache in his stomach. He knew that she hadn't lied to him, and as soon as he recalled those big, guileless eyes blinking in confusion, the ache got sharper. For that reason alone, he'd wanted to call her. He'd wanted to apologize for acting like a jackass. But he couldn't. Not until he was sure of what to say.

  Now it had been three days, and he'd already growled at his sweet little landlady and absently put on different colored socks more than once. Fortunately, he'd successfully run the status meeting earlier, though, proving to himself that he still had a head for his job. He had to admit it filled him with a twisted sense of pride to have Harold's respect again.

  So he was on top of work again. That was good. Very good. But still...

  He was determined to get that affectionate, black-haired cutie back in his life no matter what amount of groveling it took.

  Of course, she'd have to pick up the phone first.

  Finally on the fourth ring, there was a click, and then a female voice: "Beauregard Twit's central headquarters for financial litigating prowess. Whom shall I tell Mr. Twit, Esquire, is calling?" Except it wasn't Lonnie. He'd know his girlfriend's mellifluous, honeyed voice anywhere, and this raspy Boston-accented one wasn't it.

  "Hi, I was looking for Lonnie," he said, and could've sworn he heard the woman snort before she answered.

  "Uh... Lonnie stepped away. Can I take a message and have her call you back?"

  "Oh, sure. Could you have her call Dominick when she gets a chance?"

  "Dominick. Got it. Any other message?"

  He thought for a second and added, "Yeah. Tell her... it's important."

  After he hung up, he picked up his coffee mug and headed to the kitchen to reheat it. Until he heard back from her, he was determined to stay focused on his work.

  * * *

  On Thursday morning, the elevator dinged on twenty-three, and Lonnie got off absently, still engrossed in thought about her interviews at Maine Bay College. Overall, she thought it had gone well. Late Tuesday afternoon, she met Macey's friend Emma who was the director of social research, and they'd talked for two hours about Lonnie's background and goals. Then on Wednesday morning, she'd met with the dean of liberal arts and the chair of social studies for a breakfast interview that seemed to go smoothly. Of course, there had been a few loaded moments, like when the chair asked her if she "espoused more of a postmodern or poststructuralist pedagogical methodology." She'd bluffed her way through it by claiming she preferred a combination of both, but not really either, and that seem to mystify him enough that he dropped the subject with a knowing nod.

  Now she shucked off her ice-blue coat, tossed it onto her chair, and looked at her phone, expecting to see a flashing red light indicating voice mail messages. There was no flashing light. Then she remembered that Delia had covered her desk the past two days, so if someone had called—oh, just a generic "someone," not anyone in particular—it would be probably be written down somewhere. She plopped down in her chair, on top of her coat, and searched for phone messages. She looked across her desktop, under folders, behind her monitor, inside book jackets. Everywhere, anywhere.

  She couldn't believe it. Dominick hadn't called her at all! She'd felt sure that she'd return to the office—after two days' absence, and after four days without speaking to him—and find a message. But he hadn't even called once. How could that be? Didn't he miss her the way she missed him? Namely: painfully, desperately, hopelessly. Obviously not. Apparently, he was just going to give up on her, on them, on all of it.

  Well, fine.

  It took all of three seconds before she was in full sulk mode, complete with targetless rage and futile bitterness. She decided she needed some caffeine to nurse her self-pity, so she headed to the kitchen, hoping there would be a pot of coffee ready and waiting. She was half right.

  Delia was wiping the counter of some errant coffee grounds as the pot finished percolating and a heavenly aroma filled the lime green-tiled room. But as soon as she saw Lonnie, she brought a hand up to stop her from getting any closer to Mr. Coffee.

  "This isn't for you," she declared unapologetically. "Beauregard's meeting wi
th clients at nine thirty, and this pot's for them."

  "Oh, okay." Lonnie felt devastated—which she recognized as slightly irrational—but she'd be damned if she'd give Delia the satisfaction of seeing how badly she wanted the coffee. Now that she thought about it, she didn't know when or why Delia had become her mortal enemy, but at this point, she was just running with it. She turned to go back to her desk, but stopped midpivot to ask, "By the way, did anyone call for me Tuesday or Wednesday?"

  Delia looked at her dead-on, got that Nosferatu thing going with her eyes, and replied simply, "Nope." She turned her attention back to the countertop, and Lonnie tried to hide her disappointment as she made her way down the hall to her desk. She found Matt waiting there for her.

  "Hey," she said.

  "What's up with your sister?" he asked sharply.

  "What do you mean?" Don't tell me Peach didn't end things with you. Don't tell me I'm going to have to do it.

  "I left three messages on her cell phone"—Cell phone! Of course. Dominick must've left a message on my cell phone—"and she never called me back. Also, she hasn't e-mailed me. What's the deal?" He sounded unusually testy, but then why was she not surprised that Peach—sassy, adorable, and heartbreaking—was able to penetrate Matt's otherwise pathological apathy? Well, if Peach thought Lonnie was going to do her dirty work and dump him for her, she could think again.

  "Gee, I have no idea," she said, and put her hand to her head as if contemplating something. "Although, come to think of it, she did mention she was having a really busy week at work."

  That seemed to relax him a little. "Oh, really?" He paused and shrugged casually. "Okay, well, if you talk to her," he said, "tell her to give me a call."

  "Sure, uh-huh, no problem!" She was nodding a bit too hard to conceal her overcompensation. Oh well. Matt was a big boy; surely he'd figure out on his own that Peach had lost interest. They made small talk for a few minutes, during which Lonnie surreptitiously reached into her coat pocket, switched on her cell phone, and glanced down to read the display screen, no messages. So much for that comforting-but-fleeting notion.