Her father wouldn’t allow Barbie in the house. Zacharias felt the doll was indecent, not a suitable toy for the daughter of a minister. Over the years he’d also criticized Maxine’s clothing, her hair, and her personality. The one thing he hadn’t been able to touch was her fantasy life.
And that was the beginning of India, Maxine thought, turning up Burrard Street to get to St. Joseph’s Hospital.
As a girl growing up she’d imagined herself beautiful, sensual, untamed. And she'd envisioned the man who'd be her lover. Of course, he’d be the total opposite of her father. He’d be a man who laughed and loved with an open heart, a confident man who celebrated all the things her father deplored in her.
And as she grew, so did the longing to be loved. She’d blinded herself to things that should have warned her what kind of man Ricky was. She’d gone on loving him long after some part of her knew he was dishonest and a cheat.
And now she’d gone and done it again.
Harold had made her feel special. She’d been seduced into believing he was different, that he saw beyond the facade of India to Maxine.
What a gullible fool she was, she thought, turning in to the parking lot at St. Joe’s. Well, no more. She slammed the car door to punctuate the vow.
Inside, a man at the information desk directed her up to the surgical floor.
“Ms. Kelville is still in surgery,” the tall nurse at the desk informed her. "You can wait just along the hall there, and as soon as the operation’s over I'll have Dr. Bellamy come and speak to you.”
Maxine bought a cup of coffee from the machine and settled down to wait. Even though it was the middle of the night, there was activity, nurses bustling up and down the hallway, a telephone ringing.
“Ms. Bleckner? I’m Dr. Bellamy.” A tall, stork-thin man still wearing operating room garb came into the room. “Ms. Kelville is in recovery. The operation was a total success, and her leg will be as good as ever once it heals. She’ll have to do some therapy, of course. You’ll be able to see her in a short while.”
Maxine found a telephone and called Edna, filling her in on what the doctor had said.
"Graham’s just waking up. I’ll unplug the business phone while I change him and give him his cereal.”
“Thanks, Edna. I want to talk to Polly before I go. The doctor said it shouldn’t be too long before she’s conscious.”
But it was the better part of an hour before a nurse came to take her to Polly. She had intravenous tubes in her arms and a cast on her lower leg. Her forehead had a huge blue lump, and her eyes had shocking purple smudges under them. She seemed to be sleeping, and Maxine didn’t want to disturb her, but the nurse had no such reservations. She said in a loud voice, “Ms. Kelville? Ms. Kelville, wake up. Your friend is here.”
Polly's eyes reluctantly opened, and when she saw Maxine, recognition slowly dawned and her face crumpled.
"Maxine, I’m so glad you came,” she said in a thick, slow tone. “Jesus, Maxine, I smashed into a dumb doctor’s car. He’s probably gonna sue the ass off me.”
It was so typically Polly, Maxine had to laugh. And any sign of vulnerability quickly faded as Polly got her bearings. "Did you meet that idiot ass of a doctor they allowed to practice surgery on me?"
"He’s nice, Pol. I’m sure he did a good job. He said the operation went perfectly, that you’d be absolutely fine as soon as your leg heals.”
“I’ll believe that when I get a good look at what he did to my leg. Did he say when I could go home?” Polly's voice was anxious. “I hate doctors and hospitals. I want to go home.”
Maxine had thought about that while she was waiting to see Polly. Polly’s apartment was downtown, on the fifteenth floor of an impressive building, with a magnificent view of Stanley Park, but the stairs in the lobby weren't designed for someone in a wheelchair. Or on crutches, either.
Maxine’s house, on the other hand, was all on one level. She could move Graham’s crib into her own room.
“I think you’ll have to stay here for a couple days."
Polly groaned and cursed in a steady stream.
“And when they release you, you’re gonna come home with me for a while," Maxine said firmly. "At least until you can get around on crutches."
Polly argued a little, but Maxine could tell that she was relieved. It was the first time she’d ever seen Polly vulnerable.
"Only if you let me baby-sit Graham for you,” was Polly’s final concession.
Of course Maxine agreed, and then Polly complained that she was cold, and the nurse went for a spare blanket. But before she got back, Polly fell asleep in the middle of a sentence and started to snore.
The nurse came with the blanket, tucked it around Polly, and told Maxine she should leave.
“She’s probably going to sleep most of the morning. We’ll be moving her to the surgical ward in a little while.”
“Please tell her that I’ll come back tonight. Is there anything she needs?”
“Is there anything you want your friend to bring you, Ms. Kelville?" The nurse gently shook Polly’s arm. "Ms. Kelville, wake up. Is there anything you need?”
Polly stopped snoring and opened bleary eyes. “I need to sleep, for god’s sweet sake. Is there some bloody law against a person sleeping in this damned place?”
Maxine apologized. The intrepid nurse simply asked again if there was anything Polly needed.
Polly took a sulky moment to think about it.
“My makeup, and some decent pajamas, and some good underwear," she recited. "And something that’ll go over this obscene thing on my leg, sweatpants I guess. There are a couple of sweat suits in my drawers at home. I want the pink set and the yellow. My keys must be around here somewhere. God knows what they’ve done with my purse.” She gave the nurse an accusing glare. “Where’s my purse?”
"We have it at the desk,” the nurse said in a patient tone. “As soon as you’re moved to the surgical floor, we’ll bring all your things and put them in the locker in your room."
“Well, be sure to give Maxine my ring of keys,” Polly ordered. She turned her head to Maxine. “Don't take any snot from the nursing staff, either. This is why we pay medical."
Maxine felt her face redden with embarrassment. The nurse sniffed and walked away. Polly was not going to make friends here in the mood she was in, but Maxine wasn't brave enough to tell her so. Obviously Polly wasn't in any mood to be reasoned with.
"Hold it,” Polly ordered in an imperious tone as Maxine started to leave. “That’s not all. Call Judd at the clinic and tell him what happened. His number’s in my address book at home. Oh, and I’m gonna need some of my files. Tell Judd to get Shirley to bring them; she’ll know which ones. And tell him he’s gonna have to do that frigging motion for discovery on Monday, the Smith thing.”
As she left, Maxine felt guilty about feeling relieved.
The friendly nurse at the station had Maxine sign a form and then let her take the keys to Polly’s apartment.
It was only a short drive from St. Joe’s, and at this hour of the morning there was street parking.
Maxine made her way through the elegant lobby and up to the fifteenth floor.
She’d been in Polly’s apartment only once before, for lunch on a Sunday, with some of Polly’s other female clients. It had been Christmas, and Maxine had worried about what to wear, expecting sleek sophistication and cool elegance. She’d been taken aback by the cluttered, casual apartment, and by Polly’s total unconcern for dust and litter.
That hadn’t changed. Books, magazines, and the pages of several different newspapers were scattered across the floor in the spacious living room. The coffee table held a stack of file folders and several thick books on law. In the kitchen, dirty dishes and the dried remains of at least three meals were strewn over the table and the counters.
Maxine shook her head. Polly, who always looked as if she’d been put together by a fashion coordinator, was a slob at housekeeping.
Sh
e found the address book and called Polly’s associate at his office number. It was too early for him to be there. She left a lengthy and detailed message on his answering machine.
Then she called Edna to update her on what was happening. “I should be home in about an hour. I’ll just bundle up the stuff Polly needs and pop it back to the hospital first.”
“Don’t rush," Edna said comfortably. “We’re getting along just fine here."
Maxine heard Graham babbling in the background, and Edna held the phone to his ear so Maxine could talk to him for a moment.
In startling contrast to the untidiness everywhere else, Polly’s closets and drawers were arranged with military neatness and precision, her dresses and suits color coordinated. Maxine found a bag and loaded it with the things Polly had requested.
In the kitchen she wrinkled her nose and then threw away leftovers and loaded the dishwasher, scouring the sink and counter. She tidied the books and newspapers in the living room into neat stacks, and when she was finished she wandered over to the sliding patio doors and stepped outside.
The small rooftop deck had a breathtaking view, overlooking the park, Lost Lagoon, and the towering snowcapped North Shore Mountains. This was the view that Maxine described when her clients wanted to know where she lived; it was a perfect setting for a fantasy.
Did Harold live in an apartment like this?
The thought of him brought back the tumult of feelings she'd had the night before. She had to forget about him. The way to do that was to keep busy.
She hurried back inside and grabbed the things she’d packed. Between her business, her son, and now Polly’s accident, staying too busy to think shouldn’t be a problem.
Her gaze fell on the law books and file folders, mute testimony to Polly’s devotion to her work.
It was too bad her own job didn’t use her brain a little more, Maxine thought. She remembered the books she’d borrowed about radio broadcasting. There were night-school courses offered at a local college, weren’t there?
With Polly staying at the house, there was no reason she couldn’t be away for a few hours one or two nights a week. And after Polly left, maybe she could hire Edna to come a few hours early and baby-sit.
She hated the thought of being away from Graham at bedtime. And it was a scary idea, going back to school.
For a while she did her best to talk herself out of it, but as she drove back to the hospital, dropped Polly’s things at the nursing station, and then hurried home, the idea just wouldn't go away.
Chapter Eleven
“Daddy? Wake up, Daddy. Today is my school, you promised."
Sadie’s persistent nagging finally penetrated the dream he was having about a boat and a naked woman. Harry groaned, rolled over, and managed to come to enough to squint at the clock.
Eight-fifteen.
Eight-fifteen?
He threw the covers aside and leaped out of bed. He had a fuzzy memory of turning off the alarm earlier, and he groaned. The week before, he’d crumpled under Mrs. Campanato’s relentless campaign, and Sadie had been attending the program ever since. She was due at Motoring Munchkins in fifteen minutes.
At least Sadie was dressed, after a fashion— her own fashion. She’d put on the costume he'd bought her last Halloween, a floor-length, silver-spangled, Cinderella-at-the-ball number. She had her magic wand under her arm and her yellow rubber boots on her feet.
Tugging on the jeans and sweatshirt he’d worn all week, he raced into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water.
No time to shave; he had to get Sadie fed.
He solved that dilemma by putting Cheerios in a Ziploc bag and slapping jam between two slices of bread.
“You can have a breakfast picnic in the car,” he declared, hauling her out the door.
Damn, he'd forgotten to brush her hair—and his own, he realized, glimpsing his unshaven face, bed-head hair, and glum expression in the rearview mirror.
What the hell. His looking like a crazed street person would convince Mrs. Campanato’s daughter Rosalie he was a bad prospect as a future husband and maybe put a stop to the coy glances she shot his way during the juice break. He could only hope.
“Are you pissed off, Daddy? You look pissed off, Daddy.”
“No, I’m not pissed off, and I told you not to use that word."
“Why, Daddy? You say it on the phone; I heard you say it lots.”
Damn. He must have been talking to the software company who'd owed him money for two months now.
“It’s a man word; language like that isn’t for little girls. Eat your picnic, kid.”
He stopped at a light and noted that the strawberry jam he’d smeared on her bread was now decorating the front of her white Cinderella ball gown. He was gonna get those scathing looks again from the European mother whose little Elsa looked as if she’d been bathed in bleach and dipped in flour.
His spirits were at an all-time low. It had been two weeks since his disastrous date with India. After the first several calls, he’d given up trying to contact her; she’d obviously put out the word with her colleague that if he called, the rule was to hang up.
He’d written the outline for Sullivan, but he’d felt like a traitor doing it. And then when Sullivan said it was good stuff, and to go ahead, and “This here telephone sex broad sounds like a real firecracker,” and "Here's the money, Harry,” he’d wanted to punch Sullivan in the chops and tell him where to stuff the check.
Except he needed the money. The washing machine had packed it in, and Joe at the garage had found out the car needed brakes as well as a transmission. So he sold India to pay for it, God help him.
Meeting her had been shocking, because she wasn’t at all as he’d visualized. Not that he’d been disappointed, quite the opposite.
He’d found her incredibly attractive. He’d been captivated by the way she looked.
He’d been prepared for one sort of woman, but India was so far removed from his mental image, her appearance had taken him off guard. And he’d been stupid, insensitive. Dumb. He’d been really dumb.
He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t married, that she’d misunderstood his reasons for not introducing bloody George Joost, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that although her reasoning was all wrong, her conclusions were right; he was lying to her. He just wasn’t lying about what she thought. Did it matter? A lie was a lie was a lie.
And every time his mind circled like that around the situation and arrived back at the same sorry place where he’d royally screwed up, the sick feeling filled his gut and threatened to eat him.
He liked her.
Harry, for God’s sake, be honest— at least with yourself. He more than liked her: he’d wanted to jump her bones right in the middle of the restaurant, for cripes’ sake. She was lush and hot and fleshy, the stuff that erotic dreams were made of. And smart; it was the smart part that did him in.
Each time he told himself it was better this way, that nothing could have come of their relationship anyhow, that he had Sadie to consider, that India was from another world, one that he didn’t want his daughter involved with, absolutely not, his gut ached until he wondered if maybe he was getting an ulcer.
His dad had gotten an ulcer, and an uncle, too. Lots of dads had ulcers when he was a kid. Did anybody get ulcers anymore? He hadn’t heard of them lately, but if this gnawing in his midsection didn't go away soon, he’d have to pay a visit to the doc.
Maybe he could sell an article on ulcers to somebody. He had to start scrambling for assignments again if he wanted to pay next month’s bills.
That depressed him even further.
He pulled into the parking area by the community center and stopped the car. He took his daughter’s sticky hand in his, convinced her she had to leave the magic wand in the car, and hurried with her into the controlled, headache-making chaos that was Motoring Munchkins.
Maxine was trying to get Graham to socialize with the other k
ids the way the pediatrician had suggested, but the thing that he liked best was the purple foam tunnel. It was about four feet long, and Maxine was kneeling at one end, head and shoulders half inside, alternately encouraging her son to crawl through it and trying to pry mouthfuls of foam out of his mouth before he swallowed them. He’d learned that if he put his face into the stuff and bit, he could dislodge chunks. He had some canine tendencies she hadn't noticed until now, Maxine decided.
“C’mon, punkin, give that to Mommy, that’s my good boy.” She stuck her finger gingerly into Graham’s mouth. He had seven teeth, and biting was his favorite hobby.
A small girl with tangled carrot red hair and a heart-shaped face smeared with jam was kneeling at the other end, watching Graham through huge blue eyes.
“He’s not ’posed to eat it,” she announced in a scandalized tone. “Daddy, this baby’s eating the tunnel."
Maxine could see long denim-covered legs behind the girl.
“This little girl wants to use the tunnel, Graham. Let’s go find that truck you like.” She reached out to pry him back toward her, but he resisted, head down, determined to take another bite, and she raised her voice as she hauled on her determined son. “C’mon, demon, foam has no food value. Take my word for it.”
"India?” The horrified male voice came from behind the little girl.
“India, is that you?” He’d crouched down on his hands and knees, and he was staring in at her, and she was pretty sure it was Harold.
Chapter Twelve
Maxine froze.
“Harold?” It sounded like him, but the scruffy man giving her the incredulous look didn’t resemble the Harold she remembered from the restaurant.
Or did he?
“It can’t be you.” Maxine backed up and struggled to her feet.
He, too, was now standing, and the dumbstruck look on his face must mirror the one on hers.
ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild) Page 9