Designer Genes

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  When Carter joined her, she hugged him. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “You could see me the whole time.”

  “I kept getting the sense that something had come between us,” she teased and backed away.

  He chuckled. “Together at last.”

  “I’m glad we don’t have to play mountaineers on the way out,” Buffy said. “Hey, what’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  A tiny light winked on and off above the pool. Then another, and another. They reminded her of Tinkerbell in a stage version of Peter Pan she’d seen long ago. “I thought I saw a couple of those in your yard the other night, but I figured I was imagining it.”

  He regarded her in amusement. “Haven’t you ever seen a lightning bug?”

  “Is that what the rest of us call fireflies?”

  “Same thing.”

  “I’ve never seen one of those, either.” Buffy watched the fairylike lights flash here and there. “They’re pretty. They don’t bite, do they?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Carter said. “It’s the mosquitoes that bear watching.” As he spoke, silver moonlight gleamed across his sculpted chest and flat stomach, and gave his gray eyes a wolflike shrewdness. The swim trunks hung low on his hips.

  “Waiting for something?” he asked.

  She knew very well that, having seen the outlines of a bikini beneath her clothes, he wanted to study her body, too. The same mischievous imp as before, not content with having brought them this far, made her stretch things out. Slow and tempting, that was the ticket.

  Buffy removed her shoes and set them aside neatly. She unfastened her shorts and wiggled them down, then kicked them off. Was it her fault they smacked Carter in the chest? “Watch out!”

  “I am watching out.” He tossed her shorts onto a lounge chair. “If I weren’t, we’d both be naked, and we wouldn’t be swimming, either.”

  His boldness made Buffy’s breath come faster. She knew she’d asked for trouble, bringing him out here and flirting with him. A part of her ached to get to know him very, very well indeed. Several parts, actually.

  But Carter was different from any other man she’d ever met. Although he would never lie to her or deliberately hurt her, the truth was that she didn’t fit into his world or his heart.

  For one wistful moment, Buffy wished she did. That somehow a square peg and a round hole could fit together without squashing the corners or nicking the curves. But he would have to love her so much that the differences didn’t matter, and she would have to trust him completely with a heart so bruised it might never be whole again.

  They were safer keeping space between them.

  “Let’s hit the pool.” She slipped off the polo shirt that covered her minuscule bikini top, and wished that what it covered wasn’t also minuscule. Roger had pressed her repeatedly to have breast implants—everybody in L.A. did, he’d insisted, including some of the men.

  In most regards, Buffy hadn’t stood up to him. But having a surgeon alter her body to suit someone else just felt wrong. If she’d been eager for big boobs, that might be a different story. Still, she remained self-conscious at moments like this.

  Anxious to hide her shortcomings, she took a couple of strides and dived into the pool. When Carter hit the water, they cut through it side by side.

  While her shorter legs put her at a disadvantage, Buffy had grown up around water. A summer surfer and a junior lifeguard, she’d swum competitively in high school. She’d aimed at becoming captain of a swim team, any swim team, but her family had moved around too much.

  All the same, she was grateful now for her training. Because, in spite of everything, she enjoyed looking graceful for Carter.

  *

  He wasn’t sure how he plowed through the water without churning up a huge wake. He felt all protuberances and awkward angles, not to mention so overheated that the pool must be near the boiling point.

  Although they’d kept their swimsuits on, Buffy might as well be naked. Of course, bikinis had long ago reached Nowhere Junction. He saw them every summer, on all kinds of figures. None compared to hers.

  A man could write poems about a woman like Buffy, if he were so inclined. He’d have to mention the nipped-in waist and the delicate build and those small breasts that would fit in the palms of his hands. Little mounds like that were the most sensitive kind, he’d heard.

  When her leg grazed his, Carter discovered the woman had the smoothest skin he’d ever imagined. The impression intensified when his hand accidentally touched her hip, the portion bared by the bikini bottom.

  He might explode, any minute. Folks would have to organize a search party and pick up little pieces of Carter Murchison all over the county until they had enough to bury him properly.

  He stopped swimming laps and drifted to one side. “You’re a heck of a good freestyler.”

  “Thanks.” Flipping, she floated on her back, blonde hair spread across the water. She looked vulnerable and inviting.

  It was harder than ever to restrain himself. But he would resist, absolutely and ruthlessly, Carter resolved. Whatever he missed, it wouldn’t cost nearly as much as what he stood to lose if he loved unwisely and too well.

  Of all people, he should know.

  *

  Why hadn’t he hugged her or kissed her? Buffy wondered when she woke up on Friday morning. Not that she intended to go any further than that, but for heaven’s sake, they’d been nearly naked. Had her skimpy chest put him off?

  Oh, seriously. Carter isn’t that shallow.

  He wasn’t the type to take advantage of a woman, she mused as she picked up the baby to nurse. He wasn’t the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am type, and neither was she.

  She wished she hadn’t dreamed all night about his broad, bare chest and powerful shoulders. There’d been a delicious scene, clearly etched despite the usual waywardness of dreams, in which he’d lowered her onto a chaise longue and aroused her to exultation.

  It was dangerous to stay in the same house with such a man. The only alternative, however, would be to share the tornado shelter with Mazeppa, and that seemed plain silly, not to mention uncomfortable. Besides, how would she explain it to Finella and the others if she suddenly moved out?

  Buffy frowned as she shifted the baby to the other breast. She wondered when she’d started worrying about what her new friends thought. She also felt a brief resentment at cruel fate. Every other woman she’d ever heard of who nursed a baby enjoyed a noticeably improved bust size. Some things in this world were simply unfair.

  Later, during breakfast, Carter said little. However, since Mazeppa joined them and finished the lemon-corned-beef mold with a couple of fried eggs on the side, he didn’t get much of a chance.

  “I sure hope Willie and Billy Dell Grimes figure out what to call their baby before it comes, which it’s likely to do any minute,” Zeppa grumbled into her coffee. “They don’t even know what sex it is. Mimsy Miles offered them a free ultrasound, but Willie said it isn’t natural to find out in advance. She’s downright medieval, if you ask me.”

  “You must know them pretty well,” Buffy said. “How long did you live in their laundry room?”

  “Nine months,” the older woman continued. “The way Billy talks, you’d think I was a burden, but I right away took the younger ones—Adam, Eve and Abel—in with me. I was intending to let Billy and Willie get some sleep, and what did they go and do? Make like rabbits and conceive another one. If you ask me, they only did it for an excuse to throw me out. Haven’t taken the trouble to circulate a name for the tot so we can all provide useful criticism.”

  Buffy struggled not to show her amusement at this bizarre idea, since Zeppa obviously didn’t find the situation funny. “I don’t see why you’re so worried about what name they choose.”

  “The problem with Billy and Willie is they lack imagination,” Carter explained, joining the conversation. “They named their older three kids Billy, Dell and Willie, after themsel
ves. They had the twins at Christmas, and naturally picked Joseph and Mary.”

  “The next one was a close call,” Zeppa said. “Pastor O’Rourke was preaching on Jezebel and Ahab when Willie started groaning and puffing, right there in church. Can you imagine if the last names in Billy’s and Willie’s ears had been Jezebel and Ahab?”

  “The minister switched in midsermon, maybe even midsentence, to Adam and Eve,” Carter explained. “He practically shouted the names as Billy hauled his wife up the aisle. ‘They were fine old folks, in spite of their errors. Fine old names, too! Adam and Eve!’”

  “You mean he did it on purpose?” Buffy asked.

  Both of her dining companions nodded.

  “Everybody’s afraid that, having settled on Abel, they’re likely to go for Cain next,” Zeppa explained. “Imagine that--a man who murdered his own brother.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t.” Even though she doubted she’d be around long enough to meet the baby, Buffy hated to think of a kid trudging through life with such a name.

  “If they do, I supposed we could figure out a nickname.” Carter got up and removed his dishes. “You’re good with names, Buffy. Like Toast. It’s kind of grown on me.”

  Under the table, the cat licked Buffy’s toes. It tickled. “I’m not so sure she likes it.”

  “You can’t name a baby Toast,” grumbled Mazeppa. “And what sort of nickname? Cain’s only one syllable.”

  “We’ll put our heads together,” Carter said. “We won’t let that poor baby go through life as a murderer. I’ll see you folks later.” He headed out.

  Mazeppa waited until they heard the front door close behind him. Then she said, “Speaking of Billy Dell, the man has carpentering skills. I’ll threaten to move back in with him unless he helps us with dress displays.”

  Buffy experienced a guilty twinge, although she had tried to explain her plan. “I ought to tell Carter what we’re doing.”

  “Why?” Zeppa demanded. “He’s the one charging you all that money for your car. He’s the reason you have to do this.”

  “It’s not his fault.” She glanced at the baby, who was playing in her portable bassinet. Allie seemed utterly entranced by her own fingers. “It’s my cheapskate of a husband who’s the problem.” She’d explained about Roger’s alleged money problems.

  “You’re taking Carter’s side? Jumping to a man’s defense is a bad sign. You want to watch out, if you ask me.” The older woman swiped a leftover piece of toast from Buffy’s plate and spread it with jam.

  “I don’t see why, if he happens to be right.”

  “A word of warning,” Zeppa said. “Allie bears more than a passing resemblance to Carter.”

  Buffy’s stomach twisted. Did the woman suspect something? “What’s your point?”

  “I presume it means that your ex-husband resembles him, too,” she said. “Which tells me you have a weakness for that sort of man. Carter’s a good mechanic, but he’s not the marrying kind.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “On account of he’s thirty-three years old and still single.”

  “He must have his reasons.” Determined not to breach Carter’s confidence, Buffy was searching for a way to change the subject when, to her relief, Finella shouldered open the back door. Buffy went to hold it while the PTA president staggered in with an armload of dresses.

  “You wouldn’t believe how excited people are,” the newcomer said. “Cissy Leroy and Minnie Finkins and I stayed up all night sewing, and there’s half a dozen other women raring to go.”

  “Thank you so much.” Buffy hurried to hang the garments in the laundry bay off the kitchen. Finella had wrapped each one in a clear plastic bag. “These are charming, and you’ve taken such good care of them.”

  She couldn’t believe how fast the women had turned out the garments she’d selected, most of which would fit a range of sizes. There’d been unavoidable compromises on styles and fabrics, based on what was available at Popsworthy’s, but Buffy was pleased with the results. They had style and individuality, while still suited to ordinary women’s realistic body shapes.

  “Bobette Moriarty’s driving in from her ranch tomorrow to buy new clothes,” Finella went on. “Her twin brother Bob’s the town sheriff. Then Fordyce Huggins said his wife plans to come shopping next week. Word’s getting around.”

  It certainly was, Buffy reflected happily. She loved this work, and she loved the prospect of earning money.

  The dresses would sell for forty to fifty dollars each, with twenty-five percent of the price reimbursing the seamstresses for materials. Another twenty-five percent would benefit the school, and Buffy could put the remaining half toward her repair bill. She hoped to net a thousand dollars in less than a month.

  It was a shame she wouldn’t be able to put other ideas into effect, such as offering custom prom, wedding and special-event dresses. And when she saved up enough, she’d like to stock accessories.

  A month wasn’t much time. After it passed, she’d miss these Nowhere Junction-ites more than she’d counted on.

  One of them in particular.

  *

  There sure were a lot of visitors dropping by to see Buffy today, judging by the foot traffic on the sidewalk next to the garage, Carter thought as he took his midmorning iced tea break.

  She’d mentioned something yesterday about raising money for the school and for car repairs. He supposed that must be what was going on. The woman knew how to galvanize the citizenry.

  Well, the less he heard about some flea market or bake sale, the better. Three people had brought in their cars this morning, which meant he had his work cut out for him.

  An hour later, he was up to his elbows in grease when Principal Dick Smollens trotted across the street. The Greek sea captain’s hat that he always wore looked blacker than usual against his white hair, and Carter realized it was wet.

  “Geyser!” the man gasped. At close range Carter could see moisture dripping from his trim, squared-off white beard. “Whole auditorium’s flooded.”

  “Did you call Billy Dell?” He was as close to a plumber as the town had.

  “He’s already there, but he can’t handle this alone,” the principal wheezed.

  “I’ll be right with you.”

  The leaky pipe that Billy had been unable to find on two previous attempts had, Carter soon learned, decided to go public in a big way. It had burst beneath the auditorium, choosing—ironically, Carter thought—a spot directly below where the school board had been sitting on Tuesday. Through a broken floorboard, water shot into the air, rising halfway to the ceiling.

  He was tempted to thumb his nose at the pipe and taunt it with having missed its great opportunity to blast them all. Under the circumstances, however, it appeared to be enjoying the last laugh.

  Carter, Uncle Dick and Billy Dell had to slosh through a good two inches of water to reach the source of the flood. Thank goodness the principal had had the foresight to shut off the electricity, although it meant the teachers and children had to conduct classes outdoors at City Hall Park.

  B. K. Anderson, the owner of the drugstore and café, arrived to pitch in, along with George Weinbucket from the bank. Horace Popsworthy stood around pontificating on his concerns regarding education, taxes and the pothole in front of his store.

  “People are saying somebody ought to run against Horace in the June election,” B.K. muttered when Horace took a bathroom break. “Not that Fordyce Huggins has been any great shakes as mayor, but he deserves points for not boring us all to death.”

  “The man who ought to run is Quade Gardiner,” added George. “He’s a friend of yours, Carter. Talk to him.”

  “I don’t tell him how to conduct his business,” he responded. “If Quade wants to run, that’s his decision.”

  “What’s this about Quade?” boomed Horace, who had returned from the men’s room unexpectedly. “Run for what?”

  “Nothing,” said B.K. “We were only speculating
.”

  Horace frowned. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “Right now, we have a flood, not a fire, in case you missed it,” snapped George. “There’s work to do.”

  “I’m serving in a supervisory capacity,” returned the would-be mayor.

  Carter raised his hand to halt George’s irate response. “Don’t argue with him. The only thing worse than not having another hand would be having Horace help.” The man was notoriously incompetent with tools.

  “You’re right about that,” the banker grumbled. Horace pretended to ignore them.

  It was lunchtime before they stopped the leak and bailed out the auditorium. The floor was soaked, as well as torn up where they’d dug to reach the pipe. The damage presented yet another nail in the school’s coffin, so to speak.

  “I notified Quade,” Uncle Dick told Carter as he prepared to leave. “He’s called an emergency school board meeting for tonight. I don’t see how this town’s going to raise millions of dollars without a bond issue.”

  “Even if we passed one, how would we pay it off?” Carter asked. “If we had the revenue to do that, we’d have been stockpiling it for a new school already.”

  “Politicians always manage to find money,” the principal said.

  “Yes, and they find it in our pockets,” he replied. “Considering that the economy around here’s been flat as a Texas salt marsh for years, a tax raise would force a lot of belt-tightening.”

  “I wish I had an answer,” sighed the ironically named Uncle Dick. Although he didn’t have a single niece or nephew, he’d received the nickname “uncle” when his hair turned white while he was in his late twenties.

  In a chastened mood, Carter wandered across the street. Well, no need to wash up. The geyser had done that job for him.

  He hadn’t been paying attention or he’d have noticed the crowd of women around the front of his garage sooner. They had homed in on a row of objects wrapped in plastic bags and hanging from the extended front of the overhead door. What the hell was this?

  No one paid him any attention except Mimsy Miles, who must have stopped on her way to the hospital. She was holding up a slinky lavender dress.