“Such an interesting hypothesis. Shall we conduct further tests?” Rejuvenated, I moved toward Fiona, but she retreated, that adorable blush coloring her face again.
“Oh, dear, I’ve got to get back before my mob of fuzzy hooligans breaks into the cookie jar and gets sick from eating too many puppy treats.”
“We wouldn’t want that, darling Fiona. But would you consider going out to supper with me tonight?”
Her answering smile was as divine as the blue of her eyes.
“I’ll be over at seven o’clock.” I limped after her to the front door. “Will all the mutts be picked up by then?”
“All except Kirby. He’s mine.” Fiona stood on tiptoe to bestow a butterfly-light kiss on my cheek. “But I’m willing to share him. See you at seven. We’ve got fences to mend in our relationship—starting with that escape tunnel Kirby made under your hedge.”
Then she was gone, leaving me gaping after her on the doorstep as Burt must have done the morning of our first otherworldly visitation. My angel with her own guardian imp.
I hobbled back inside. If Kirby didn’t mend his manners when I tried to steal another kiss, I knew of one picture in my fall show that would have a certain terrier painted out of it.
THE END
Love To Go
Jenny and I blew into Corleone’s Pizzeria just ahead of the approaching storm. I immediately felt its coziness envelop me. “Brick ovens make all the difference in texture and taste,” I informed Jenny, my words tumbling over each other as I inhaled the scents of yeast and toasted cheese.
A small town girl, I’ve only been in the big city for a few months. Jenny’s a co-worker who heard me bragging about finding a fabulous restaurant and decided to tag along. Since stumbling across the pizzeria, I’d visited the place nearly every week. Watching the family members who owned Corleone’s and listening to their banter and laughter made me feel somehow less lonely.
I steered Jenny to a small red table whose round top resembled a piece of pepperoni. “Here’s the order slip. They’ll pick it up after you check off what you want. FYI, when it’s ready, they announce your choice to the room, usually with teasing comments.”
“Then I’ll order something non-fattening.” Jenny smoothed her hair and glanced around the intimate interior. “I see there’s mostly families in here tonight, RaeLynn. This doesn’t look like such a great place to meet guys.”
It’s not a ‘meet’ market, it’s more of a ‘meat’ market—remember, I only claimed that the pizza’s great.” I avoided looking for Nicky behind the counter. He worked Friday evenings and somehow on Fridays I usually found myself hungry for pizza. And a slice of Nicky.
The door blew open and the man himself burst in, threading his way between the tables.
In a moment, Jenny would spot him—she’s got a laser scope that locks on any cute guy in the vicinity, which meant I was crazy for bringing her along.
I snatched up a slip and waved it under her nose. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could order dates to specifications?” In the “special order” section, I printed the first item on my list of wants and wishes. “Dazzling smile—one that makes me weak in the knees.”
“You go with the guy with a good dental plan,” Jenny muttered. “I’d rather have one whose killer body does the talking for him.”
But Nicky was more than just eye candy. I’d watched him mop floors, hand toss pizza dough like a pro and listen to complaints without ever losing his sparkle. By nibbling on my pizza slices to prolong each visit and eavesdropping on the chatter behind the counter, I’d learned Nicky took college courses several evenings a week, chasing his dream of becoming an accountant.
I looked up in time to see him bend down to retrieve a doll and hand it back to a tot who gazed up at him, wide-eyed. He said something that made her giggle. I giggled too, reminded of my next requirement and started to write again. “Good with kids—I want a big family.”
I thought we were talking about a date, not a commitment.” Jenny scowled at the choices on the order blank. “No pineapple. They don’t offer many low fat options.”
“Not low fat, but life long,” I whispered. “Like the type of marriage my parents experienced.”
“Okay, I’m out of here.” Jenny stood up and shook back her hair with an impatient gesture. “If I decide to eat three kinds of cheese and bacon on my pizza, I’m gonna do it some place where they don’t announce my choices to the world—”
When she sank back down, her mouth slightly open, I realized she must have caught sight of Nicky at the microphone.
I scribbled down my final item. “Eyes a rich espresso brown.”
The man’s husky baritone cut through the chatter. “Who’s got #31? Hint: it’s a pie Popeye would love!”
At a corner table, a couple waved to the room at large. “Spinach pizza. I yam what I yam!” the guy hollered amidst a fresh burst of laughter.
I snatched up another slip and with quick slashes checked the boxes for my usual order. Nicky’s sister appeared at our table just as the door opened again, the wind swirling our slips and a napkin to the floor. I dove for the orders and handed them over to Mara, crumpling my wish list in my other hand.
Nicky continued to entertain the patrons with his good natured comments while I pretended not to watch and clutched my “order”. If only I had the guts to talk to him. If only Nicky would notice me watching him ...
Then Mara, a smile teasing her lips, handed the next slip to her brother, who announced, “#38’s ready—and, wow! Listen up, folks, someone’s ordered a great smile, a person equally good with kids and numbers, and they’re looking for a lifetime commitment and dark brown eyes. And they want it ‘to go’. Sounds like we’ve got a marriage proposal here tonight, folks!”
Everyone applauded, along whistles and shouts. Mara smiled at me while I sat as stiff as a wooden artifact in a museum, thoughts flashing like traffic signals in my brain. She must have recognized my writing, remembered me handing the slip to her. No. Not possible. I must be asleep; this had turned into a nightmare.
Nicky flashed that grin at the now silent crowd, everyone craning their necks to see who was about to go down on bended knee.
Jenny, traitorous Jenny, gestured at me. “Over here, over here!”
I hated her.
Nick ignored her piping voice. “Now speak up, who’s the romantic fellow—”
He broke off when his sister grabbed his sleeve, gestured in my direction and whispered in his ear. Nicky stared at the order again before his shocked gaze met mine. I gasped, unfolding the wadded paper in my fist. Oh, no! I was holding my actual pizza order, not my wish list.
Jenny burst out laughing. Covering my face with my fingers, I wanted to sink under the table and die, in no particular order.
After an eternity, someone gently moved my hands; I stared into espresso dark eyes. The restaurant noise faded as the world shrunk to just Nicky and me.
“Our advertising promises that we’ll serve exactly what the customer orders. Shall we discuss your special specifications?”
A shiver ran through my body as he brushed a strand of hair back from my face and plucked my regular order from my nerveless fingers, replacing it with my wishes and wants.
I gulped and stuttered, frozen in fear. Then Nicky smiled the smile I adored, the one that makes me weak in the knees.
I wanted to tell him how much I’d longed to talk to him, how his smiles had warmed my lonely heart. Then from somewhere I got the courage to pick up the shaker of parmesan flakes and sprinkle it on his dark curls.
“If you recall, my usual order calls for extra cheese.” He chuckled and I couldn’t stop an answering smile from stretching my lips. “Let’s go for coffee at the diner across the street,” I whispered. “Tonight, for a change, I asked for my order to go.”
THE END
Perfect Body—Perfect Match
Becca was in pursuit of the American Dream. She craved what every man and woman secretly ye
arns for—a perfect body and someone to appreciate it.
Her best friend, Lana, had a perfect body. Becca sometimes wondered if Lana had ever endured the pimples and awkwardness of adolescence. She appeared to have stepped, fully grown, from the pages of a fitness magazine advertising French cut leotards. Whenever Lana walked down the street, men forgot urgent appointments, slammed into traffic light standards and drooled on their silk ties.
If Becca hadn’t acquired a perfect body yet, it wasn’t for lack of trying. One of her recent ventures into the realms of fitness was the purchase of an exercise bike. After a week of nightly workouts, however, she came to the conclusion that her own seat was completely incompatible with that of the bicycle’s.
Next, Becca bought several fitness DVDs. The shapely women on the covers were frozen in mid-movement and the clincher for Becca was their happy smiles. She spent the next month sweating, bumping into furniture and “going for the ‘burn’. The day she found herself sneaking out of the room when the instructor’s back was turned to brew a cup of herbal tea was the day the fitness DVDs were banished to a cupboard.
As she perched in her cubbyhole at the studio, sketching designs for a toilet paper campaign and nibbling M&M’s, Becca dreamed of possessing a body where dimples peeped coyly near her mouth instead of her knees. So she signed up for a YMCA rebounder class, hoping to obtain the benefits of jogging without the dangers posed by dogs, cars and pedestrians.
Memories of that rebounder class fiasco still gave Becca a guilty twinge. Bouncing in unison with ten other women, she began to feel almost weightless, no longer trapped within the folds of cellulite.
After a few minutes of gentle jogging, the instructor encouraged them to step up their heart rate. “Jump, girls, jump! Take it higher and higher. Pretend you’re a ballerina floating gracefully into the air.”
Even though she had a wonderful imagination, she couldn’t see herself floating in a tutu. Becca had always felt more in tune with animals, so she pictured herself instead as a jack rabbit. Bounding along a dusty path and keeping a sharp rabbit eye out for coyotes, she sprang into the air but, unfortunately, her trajectory must have been slightly askew.
Like a rocket gone off course, Becca soared up and across the neighboring rebounder, taking its occupant with her on a path of errant flight.
Mrs. McCarthy suffered multiple bruises, especially on her ample rear portions, while Becca ended up with a badly sprained ankle. When the next brochure from the YMCA arrived in the mail, someone had used a red marker to slash through the rebounder class. She suspected the change had been made exclusively on her copy.
Over orange blossom tea on a Sunday afternoon, Lana suggested a solution to Becca’s quest for that perfect body. “Join my health club, The Fitness Studio. You can lift weights, work out on state of the art machines, swim ... all with the aid of a personal instructor. The men are real foxes!” Lana leaned back on the kitchen chair, drew a deep breath and crossed elegantly sculpted legs. “I get all the personal attention I need.”
“I’ll bet you do,” Becca muttered, tearing an envious gaze from her friend’s shapely limbs. Her own legs would never reach that length, but if the rest of her body would cooperate, she might possibly aspire to become a pocket Venus.
“Come with me to The Fitness Studio tomorrow night,” Lana urged. “You’ll love the new you that you become.”
Becca picked up a calico ball of fluff named Lady BoJangles, and scratched her cat companion behind the ears. She had to face facts: exercising her creativity each day hadn’t taken an inch off her hips. Her lack of commitment might stem from not investing enough money in a program. Perhaps if she splurged an entire year’s food budget on leotards and walked to work because her car had been sold to pay The Fitness Studio dues ...
Lana, dramatically attired in a scarlet leotard, mini wrap skirt and matching leg warmers, led the way into The Fitness Studio. Two men in the process of picking up their cards to leave immediately surrendered them again and one dropped his shoes on the floor with a thud. A third man squeezed the can of racquet balls he was holding so tightly that the lid flew off.
During her interview, Becca was asked about her goals in joining the club. She swallowed the wish of gaining a traffic-stopping body and murmured a few words about needing to get back into shape, thus implying at one time she had been a pocket Venus.
The woman conducting the interview kindly concealed her disbelief under a warm smile and summoned a statuesque blond to take Becca on a tour of the facilities. As a confirmed pizza-for-breakfast person, Becca had trouble warming up to a guide with the radiant complexion of one who considers yogurt and alfalfa sprouts junk food.
The machine room was crammed with bikes, steppers, ski simulators, rowing machines, etc., all controlled by electronic brains and equipped with more choices than a Surface or Tablet.
Forcing a smile, she clung to high hopes for the next stop, only to find the blue tiled pool awash with muscular shoulders and arms cleaving the water as dedicated dolphins swam laps with the concentration of hamsters in an exercise wheel. The splashing reminded Becca of watching a shark attack in a horror movie.
After touring the weight rooms, relaxation center (sauna and massage) and aerobics areas, the women returned to the office. Becca’s guide, barely concealing her desire to wash her hands of this couch potato who had apparently wandered in off the streets by mistake, shoved a sheet of paper across the desk.
“By signing up now, you can take advantage of our special. Six months of free classes.” Her patronizing tone of voice implied that they were both aware Becca wouldn’t last six months.
A muscle-bound man in nylon shorts and a fishnet T-shirt wandered into the cubicle and attempted to wheedle a midnight movie date from the blond. Becca stared at the abbreviated class names on the page, too intimidated by the silent contempt for her flabbiness to ask for clarification.
“V’Ball” caught her eye and she seized it with the relief of a drowning victim spotting a life preserver floating nearby. The entry sparked memories of family picnics, friendly competition over a sagging net, grass tickling bare feet and fireworks after dark. She was aware, however, that her skills needed brushing up.
“Do you have a beginner’s class in volleyball?”
The other woman didn’t bother to glance in Becca’s direction. “There’s a sign-up sheet in the pink folder.”
Becca located the folder in the pile stacked precariously on the corner of the desk and scribbled her name on the top sheet. The die was cast. She would breathe, eat and sleep volleyball until she had that perfect body.
The first session was scheduled for a week from Friday night. In an attempt to gain some confidence before hand, Becca resurrected a fitness DVD and gyrated faithfully each night while BoJangles purred in utter contentment on the couch. Ten hours of shopping finally yielded a peach short set that she felt made her thighs look miraculously thinner.
Inspired by memories of 4th of July family reunions, Becca also designed an advertising campaign for a local car dealership featuring children roasting marshmallows over a bonfire, families seated on blankets as dazzling fireworks exploded overhead and barefoot players hitting the volleyball over a net, their blissful expressions reflecting the twin joys of companionship and competition. Her boss and the client expressed delight with her concept with a bonus that would help pay for a year at The Fitness Studio.
Friday finally arrived—and found Becca on the expressway, struggling to fix a flat tire. Her elderly car intuitively seemed to know any plans she’d made to arrive early and somehow contrived to sabotage those good intentions. She was still scrubbing grease marks off her hands with a rag as she walked into The Fitness Studio.
Her blond guide perched on check-in duty at the desk tonight, directing a scornful glance at the grease smears on Becca’s peach shorts. Vowing she’d rather be lost in the desert for three days without water than ask the other woman for directions, Becca found a restroom and washed up be
fore striking off on her own to locate the volleyball courts.
After interrupting a bizarre looking session that appeared as if it had something to do with either delivering babies or tummy-tightening, she found herself in the hall of an unexplored wing. Without warning, the double doors on the left burst open and someone erupted. Becca’s first impression was of absolute male gorgeousness. Chestnut hair curled low on an intelligent forehead and the body beneath also appeared to be in excellent shape.
He froze, seemingly transfixed by the sight of the woman lurking in the hallway. Deciding an overlooked smear of grease might be responsible for his dazed condition, Becca put up her hand to cover her face and decided to clean up with more care before venturing out in public again.
When she turned to go, however, he waved an impatient hand. “You’re late. Volleyball? B team, new player?”
B? B for beginner, of course. Before her head could finish the first nod, a sinewy arm shot out and caught Beeca in a bruising grip as the stranger marched her into a high-ceilinged room swarming with people clad in shorts and tennis shoes. Four separate nets were set up and the noise level was incredible.
Her captor shouted in her ear, “You’re late, but it’s a good thing you showed up at all.”
“I had a flat tire—”
When he said “Wonderful!” in that hearty voice, she had the feeling he’d have said that even if she’d just announced she’d wiped out everyone in the building with an Uzi.
“What’s your name?”
“Becca—”
“Nice to meet you, Becky,” He continued, “We’d have had to forfeit with only five players and every game counts when we’re getting so close to the playoffs. You missed warm-up so you’ll just have to jump in cold.” He hustled her across the gym floor to a huddle of two other men and two women.
“Everyone, this is Becky.”
One of the guys grinned at her. “You’re way too short to be on the front line. Zach, shall we run the 6-2 offense? Two setters? Hey, don’t tell me you’re a spiker.”
Love Has The Best Intentions Page 2