“I don’t know why that part didn’t work,” she said.
“What marsala did you use?” Cal said when he’d gotten the taste out of his mouth, and she handed him a bottle of cooking wine. “No, no, no,” he said and then relented when she winced. “Look, honey, when you make wine sauce, you’re cooking the wine down, concentrating it. You have to use good wine or it’ll taste like . . .” He looked down at the pan. “. . . this. It’s a wonder the cat’s not dead.”
“Ouch,” Min said. “Could you write that down for me?”
“No,” Cal said, and then they heard a crash from another room. He looked around. “Your cat’s gone, Minnie. You leave a window open anywhere?”
“I have one of those cheapo sliding screens in the bedroom,” Min said and went through a doorway beside the mantel to look. “Oh, this is good,” she said when she was inside, and Cal followed her in.
Her sliding screen was gone from the dormer window, which was now open to the night air. Cal went over and looked out. The screen was halfway down the roof, and the cat was sitting in a tree branch that tapped the shingles, washing its paws. Its left eye was closed.
“It does switch eyes,” Cal said, pulling his head back in. “Maybe it’s conserving . . .” His voice trailed off as he saw Min’s bedroom.
Most of it was filled with the most elaborate brass bed he’d ever seen, a huge thing covered with a watery lavender-blue satin comforter and lavender satin pillows that were piled against a headboard that curved and twined, erupting in brass rosettes and finials, until he grew dizzy just looking at it. “How do you keep from falling out of bed?”
“I just hold on and try not to look at the headboard,” Min said. “I love it. I bought it last month even though it was completely impractical. . . .”
She went on, but Cal had stopped listening when she said, “I just hold on,” imagining her lying back on the soft blue satin comforter, her soft gold-tipped curls spread out on the pillows, her soft lips open as she smiled at him, her soft hands gripping the headboard, her soft body—
“Cal?” Min said.
“It smells good in here,” Cal said, trying to find a thought that didn’t have “soft” in it. Or “hard,” for that matter.
“Lavender pillows,” Min said. “My grandmother always put lavender in her pillowcases. Or maybe it’s the cinnamon candles.”
Cal cleared his throat. “Well, it’s . . . nice. It’s the first thing I’ve seen in this apartment that looks like you.” The thought of tipping her onto that blue comforter was entirely too plausible, so he said, “We should go eat. Now.”
“Okay,” Min said and started for the door.
“You want the window closed?” Cal said.
“Then how will the cat get back in?” Min said.
“Good point,” Cal said, thinking, Oh, Christ, I gave her a feral cat, and followed her out.
When they were eating Emilio’s salad, Min said, “So chicken marsala is not heart smart or weight friendly.”
“Heart smart?” Cal said, picking up his tumbler of wine. “Does that mean good for your heart? Because it is. I told you, olive oil is good for you. And a little bit of flour and butter won’t kill you.”
“Tell that to my mother.” Min tasted her salad again. “This is so good. You know, the lesson here is, I shouldn’t be cooking.”
“Why?” Cal said. “It was the first time you tried. Everybody makes mistakes.” He picked up the chicken carton and filled the two plates, managing it so that nothing spilled.
“Except you,” Min said, watching him. “You do everything well.”
“Okay,” Cal said, putting the carton down. “You just got dumped, I get that, but you didn’t care about the guy, so why are you still so mad and taking it out on me?”
Min cut into her chicken. “He was sort of the last straw.” She put the chicken in her mouth and chewed, and got the same blissful look she always got when eating good food.
“You should never diet.” Cal picked up his fork and began to eat. “So what did he do that you can’t get over?”
“Well.” Min stabbed a mushroom with more antagonism than it deserved. “It was mostly my weight.”
“He criticized your weight?” Cal shook his head. “This guy has the brains of a brick.”
“He didn’t criticize, exactly,” Min said. “He just suggested that I should go on a diet. And then he left because I wouldn’t sleep with him.”
“He told you to go on a diet and then asked you to bed?” Cal said. “I take it back. Bricks are smarter than this dipwad.”
“Yes, but he has a point,” Min said. “I mean, about my weight.” She looked at him, defiant. “Right?”
“There is no way I can answer that without getting all that rage put back on me,” Cal said. “Keep it on the loser who dumped you. I’m the good guy.”
Min stabbed another mushroom, and then put the fork down. “Okay, I’ll give you a free pass on this one. No matter what you say, I won’t get mad.”
Cal looked at her stormy face and laughed. “How are you going to work that?”
Min nodded. “Okay, I’ll get mad, but I’ll play fair. The thing is, you’re the only man I trust enough to tell me the truth.”
“You trust me?” Cal said, surprised and flattered. “I thought I was a beast.”
“You are,” Min said. “But you do tend to tell me the truth. On most things.”
Cal stopped eating. “On all things. I’ve never lied to you.”
“Yeah,” Min said dismissively. “So what am I supposed to do about my weight?”
Cal put his fork down. “All right. Here’s the truth. You’re never going to be thin. You’re a round woman. You have wide hips and a round stomach and full breasts. You’re . . .”
“Healthy,” Min said bitterly.
“Lush,” Cal said, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breasts under her sweatshirt.
“Generous,” Min snarled.
“Opulent,” Cal said, remembering the soft curve of her under his hand.
“Zaftig,” Min said.
“Soft and round and hot, and I’m turning myself on,” Cal said, starting to feel dizzy. “Do you have anything on under that sweatshirt?”
“Of course,” Min said, taken aback.
“Oh,” Cal said, ditching that fantasy. “Good. We should be eating. What were we talking about?”
“My weight?” Min said.
“Right,” Cal said, picking up his fork again. “The reason you can’t lose weight is that you’re not supposed to lose weight, you’re not built that way, and if you did manage through some stupid diet to take the weight off, you’d be like that chicken mess you just made. Some things are supposed to be made with butter. You’re one of them.”
“So I’m doomed,” Min said.
“Another problem is that you don’t listen. You want to be sexy, be sexy. You have assets that skinny women will never have, and you should be enjoying them and dressing like you enjoy them. Or at least dressing so that others can enjoy them. That suit you were wearing the night I picked you up made you look like a prison warden.” He remembered looking down the front of her red sweater and added, “Your underwear’s good, though.”
“There are no clothes that look good on me,” Min said.
“Of course there are,” Cal said, still making his way through dinner. “Although you’re the kind of woman who looks better naked than dressed.” His treacherous mind tried to imagine that and he blocked it. “I’m assuming. Eat, please. Hunger makes you cranky.”
“I look better naked?” Min said, picking up her fork again. “No. Listen—”
“You asked, I told you,” Cal said. “You just don’t want to hear it. The truth is, most guys would rather go to bed with you than with a clothes hanger, you’re a lot more fun to touch, but most women don’t believe that. You keep trying to lose weight for each other.”
Min rolled her eyes. “So I’ve been sexy all these years? Why hasn’t anybody
noticed?”
“Because you dress like you hate your body,” Cal said. “Sexy is in your head and you don’t feel sexy so you don’t look it.”
“Then how do you know I am?” Min said, exasperated.
“Because I’ve looked down your sweater,” Cal said, flashing back to that. “And I’ve kissed you, and I have to tell you, your mouth is a miracle. Now eat something.”
Min looked at her plate for a moment and then dug in. “God, this is good,” she said a few minutes later.
“Nothing better than good food,” Cal said. “Well, except for—”
“There’s got to be a way to make this heart smart,” Min said.
Cal shook his head. “Good to know I’ve been talking to myself here. Did you hear anything I said?”
“Yes,” Min said. “So I looked like a prison warden when you picked me up, huh?”
“No,” Cal said. “You had great shoes on. You do let yourself go on shoes.” Nice toes, too.
“So the reason you crossed the bar to pick me up even though I looked like a prison warden was because of my shoes?”
The question sounded pointed, so he tried to remember why he had picked her up. The dinner bet. He winced. That stupid dinner bet with David. “Oh, hell.”
“There was a bet, wasn’t there?” Min said, sounding disgusted.
Cal took out his wallet and put a ten on the table. “There you go, it’s all yours. Can I finish dinner before you throw me out?”
“Sure,” Min said. “You know, you’re taking losing that bet pretty well.”
“I didn’t lose,” Cal said, stabbing another mushroom. “I don’t lose.”
“You collected on that bet?” Min said, sounding outraged.
Cal frowned at her. “You walked out the door with me. I won.”
“And everybody just assumes . . .”
“Assumes what?” Cal said, exasperated. “Somebody bet me ten bucks I could get you to leave with me. You left with me. I got the ten bucks. Now you’ve got the ten bucks. Can we move on?”
“So the bet’s over,” Min said, disbelief palpable in her voice.
“Yes,” Cal said, moving beyond exasperation. “Okay, it wasn’t the best start to a relationship, but we don’t have a relationship, what with you waiting for Elvis and both of us with our non-dating plans. Plus I’m feeding you. Again. Why are you mad?”
“No reason at all,” Min said, flatly, and went back to her chicken.
“I’m missing something big here, aren’t I?” Cal said.
“Yep,” Min said. “Keep eating.”
Cal offered to help with the dishes, but Min shoved him out the door, fed up with him because of the bet and with herself for caring. She put the leftovers from Emilio in the fridge and dumped the mess she’d made into the trash, and then she went into her bedroom and crawled under the satin comforter. Cal had said the bed was the only thing that looked like her. In an apartment full of plain lumpy furniture, he’d picked out the one beautiful, rich, sexy thing and said, “That’s you.” The bastard.
The cat jumped up on the bed and padded across to her. “Hey,” she said as it curled up by her side. She petted it, feeling its skinny little body under its fur, and it opened both eyes. They were different colors, one of them stained with a blotch that matched the blotch of its fur. “Patchwork cat,” she said, and it snuggled next to her, incredibly comforting. She turned on her bedside stereo and listened to Elvis sing about how lousy life had been since his baby left him. The cat pricked up its ears for about a verse, and then relaxed into the comforter again. “Moving into Heartbreak Hotel, are you?” Min said to it, and scratched it behind the ears. It lifted its head to press closer to her fingers, and she looked at its weird little face, screwed up in ecstasy with both eyes shut, and felt a rush of affection for it. It began to purr, and the sound was more comforting than she could have imagined. “It would not be sensible to keep you,” she told it, and it opened its eyes slowly and then closed them again, and she kept petting it as it curled close, warm and peaceful and comforting. No wonder all those single women kept cats. They certainly beat charming, lying, compulsive gamblers who kissed like gods and had hands like— “Oh, I’m so lonely, baby,” Elvis sang, and Min reached over and punched the UP button. The cat picked up its head, but it seemed to like “Don’t Be Cruel” as well as “Heartbreak Hotel” and curled up again, warm against her stomach. “You can stay,” she told it, and they lay together in companionable silence, listening to Elvis, until they both fell asleep.
“There’s a real babe waiting in your office,” David’s assistant said when David came in on Wednesday. “Very nice.”
Min, David thought and then realized with disappointment that it couldn’t be. Nobody described Min as a babe.
When he opened the door, Cynthie was sitting across from his desk, looking phenomenal in a red suit.
“There you are,” she said, standing up.
“That’s a great suit,” he said, closing the door behind him. He walked around her, impressed by the way the skirt curved under her tight little butt without hugging it.
“David,” Cynthia said. “Forget the suit. Why is Cal still dating the woman you love?”
“Dating?” David lost interest in Cynthie’s suit and sat down behind his desk.
“He took her to lunch on Monday, which meant he couldn’t go with me. He took her dinner last night at her place.” Cynthie leaned closer, her lovely little face tense. “I thought you were going to call Greg. Why is he still with her?”
“I did call Greg.” David moved some papers around while he thought fast. “I don’t know why it didn’t work. Maybe Cal had a good time when he was with her.” Maybe he wants to win ten thousand dollars.
“But no sex,” Cynthie said.
“No,” David said, praying Min was still frigid. “They will not be having sex.”
“I think you’re right.” Cynthie began to pace. “She doesn’t sound like a woman who would do it that fast, and he wouldn’t push it. He has great instincts.”
“Well, hooray for him,” David said. “Is there anything else you wanted?”
Cynthie leaned over the desk. “I want you to call Min. Ask her to lunch, ask her to dinner, pay for it, and get her back.”
David looked down the neckline of her suit and revisited her cleavage. “You do this on purpose, don’t you?”
Cynthie took a deep breath, her jaw rigid. “David, I am a dating expert who is losing the man she loves. This isn’t just about my private life, this is about my public life, it’s about my whole life. I have a potential bestseller on my hands, my editor wants to put our wedding picture on the back cover, everything is riding on this, and I am not going to see it go down the drain because you’re too spineless to get your girlfriend back.” She leaned closer. “I’ll go away when you promise me you’ll call her for lunch, and you tell me who her best friends are. I saw two in the bar on Friday. A little blonde and a tall redhead. Are they close to her?”
Her perfume wafted toward him, very faint, a whisper of a scent that made him dizzy. “What perfume are you wearing?” he said, trying to ignore the “spineless” crack.
“It’s a special blend made just for me,” Cynthie said, her voice lower now. “It’s made of the scents that most strongly activate a man’s libido. I put it on for you, David. Who’s her best friend?”
David shook his head to clear it and slid his chair back, away from her. “What’s in that stuff?”
“Lavender and pumpkin pie.” Cynthie straightened. “I need to know her best friend. I’m helping you, David. You want the actuary back, right?”
She stood in front of him, lithe and lean in red wool crepe, smelling like lavender and cinnamon, and it took him a minute to remember who the actuary was.
“I don’t even like you,” he told her. “Why am I so turned on?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re male. Who’s her friend?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Okay,” David said, still fixated on her breasts. “Are you wearing anything under that jacket?”
“If I show you, will you give me a name?” Cynthie said.
“Yes,” David said, knowing he was low and weak and not caring.
Cynthie popped the two buttons on her jacket and opened it. Her red silk bra matched the lining of the suit, and her breasts were perfect B cups, high and taut and, from where he sat, real.
“Oh, God,” David said, freezing in his seat.
“Damn right,” Cynthie said, buttoning back up again. “Now give me the name.”
“The redhead,” David said. “Liza Tyler. She thinks all men are bastards anyway.”
“She’s right,” Cynthie said. “Call Min for lunch.”
Then she left and David watched her go, the afterimage of her perfect breasts imprinted on his retinas, trying to tell himself that he’d done the right thing because somebody had to stop Cal Morrisey. And save Min, that was important, too.
“Very hot,” his assistant said from the doorway. He sniffed the air. “Wow. Is that her perfume?”
“Yes,” David said, picking up his phone. “It’s brimstone. Don’t let her in here again.”
At eight that night, Liza was sitting with Tony and Roger in The Long Shot waiting for Bonnie and Min to come back from the bathroom when Tony said, “Uh oh,” and turned away from the bar.
“What?” Roger followed his gaze. “Oh.” He shrugged. “She’s clear across the room.”
“She who?” Liza squinted through the dim light. A brunette lounged at the bar, looking expensive, lean, and bored while the guy next to her made his pitch. “Old girlfriend?”
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