by Leigh Riker
“When is Merrick’s divorce final?” Eden’s question stopped her cold. Darcie wouldn’t escape this evening, like most others lately, without the rest of her grandmother’s lecture.
“We don’t discuss it.”
“You should, Darcie. Make the most of your life, not the least.”
“Merrick Lowell is not the man I’m going to marry.”
“And how well he knows that.”
What do you want from me? At first, she’d assumed he was single but afraid of commitment; then she’d learned he was already married. Now, separated, he seemed too depressed to talk about another potential walk down the aisle. Or was that more naiveté on her part? “I probably couldn’t live with him anyway,” she added.
“I should say not. You’re wasting your time.”
“You met him once.” Wishing Eden would drop the subject, Darcie danced away from Sweet Baby Jane’s flashing teeth. “He thinks you had the hots for him.”
“Darcie Elizabeth Baxter, that’s absurd. I’m twice his age.”
“And then some,” she murmured. “What about Julio?”
Eden smoothed her candy-apple hair. “He’s not that much older than Merrick.”
“How old?”
“Forty-one, two.” She was lying. He must be younger.
“Gran, you’re twice his age.”
“Ah, but love conquers all.”
“You’re in love with Julio?” Eden didn’t answer. “I thought he was just another of your boyfriends. Wait until Mom hears this.”
“My relationship with Julio Perez is my…affair, so to speak.” But Eden didn’t smile, either. “He and I get on beautifully—in bed and out. Which is our business. Ours alone.”
“I couldn’t agree more. So is mine, with Merrick.”
Gran’s mouth thinned into a disapproving line.
“I’m well past childbearing, Darcie. It hardly matters whether Julio and I marry or spend the rest of our lives sleeping together. You, on the other hand…”
“I’m not ready to get married. To anyone.”
She sighed. “If you hadn’t turned off that Aussie hunk—”
Gran scored a point. Bull’s-eye.
Darcie stiffened. She felt terrible quarreling with her grandmother, but, “I did nothing to ‘turn off’ Dylan Rafferty. He said he’d call, but he never did. His choice. I fail to understand how I could possibly ruin a relationship that a) never existed, b) isn’t right for me and c) is probably the worst mistake of two weeks I ever made in my life.” No matter how good they felt.
“You’re pining for him.”
“I am not ‘pining’!”
“Then call him. Or would you blithely sacrifice a chance for a reasonable romance? Merrick Lowell’s only relationship, I might add, has been with himself. Since birth. He’s a narcissist. I won’t tell you again, Darcie, that man is simply using you.”
“You just told me.”
“He’ll hurt you again in the end.” Eden looked exasperated. She reached out a hand to tuck a strand of Darcie’s hair behind her ear, a placating gesture. “You’re wearing that mutinous look. You inherited it from your mother. But I’m quite serious, dear. If both Claire and I have told you that you deserve better than Merrick Lowell, why won’t you at least listen?”
“Because he—he—” She couldn’t find the words to defend him, or herself.
Eden turned thoughtful, another bad sign. “Julio has an adorable nephew. I think you should meet him. His name is Juan—Juanito, to the family—and he—”
Just her luck. Before Darcie could shut the front door behind her on a dramatic statement, Sweet Baby Jane took a chunk out of her ankle. She hoped she didn’t regret the yelped words, or the decision.
“I think I should look for my own apartment!”
“Jane, after all, is a big drawback to our living arrangement.”
And Annie had a point, Darcie told herself, also for the hundredth time. So did Merrick. A few days later she flipped through the Sunday paper to the real estate section. “What sense does it make to live with your eighty-two-year-old grandmother?”
“There’s a whole world waiting,” Annie said through the receiver that Darcie cradled between her neck and shoulder. “Full of men. You know the saying, ‘Girls just want to have fun.’”
Darcie sighed. Her last evening with Merrick hadn’t improved once she left Fort Lee.
Forgetting all about Annie, Darcie rattled the open newspaper, folded it into a quarter width as if she were on the crowded ferry or a commuter train with other paper-readers jammed close. Occupy as little space as possible, urbanites. Dylan could probably spread a newspaper over hundreds of acres if he wanted. But lately in Gran’s apartment, Darcie felt like an interloper prying into Eden’s “affair” with Julio, listening—though she never meant to—through the bedroom walls at night.
Ugh.
Taking up too much room.
It didn’t help that Gran’s sex life seemed far superior to Darcie’s, which had become nonexistent.
But did they have to fight about it?
In the past twenty-four hours neither of them had spoken to the other. Her fault? Poor Julio had become their go-between, their interpreter—and his English wasn’t that great. If Eden was waiting for Darcie to apologize, to take back her threat to move from the duplex, she would wait until she turned 164.
Had Darcie outstayed her own welcome?
Running a finger down the column—Furnished Apts./East Side—she gave a sigh. Either the rent seemed too high (all rents in New York were too high) or the advertised space sounded dreary. Sometimes both.
“Darcie,” Annie whined in her ear.
“I’m reading.”
“Anything good?”
“No. And Mom hasn’t said you can come to New York.”
“I think she’s weakening. Look for some place big enough for both of us. Oh, and no tenements. No dangerous neighborhoods.”
Hmm. That seemed almost worth the sacrifice to keep Annie in Cincinnati.
“A quote from Mom?”
Her gaze went blank on the real estate pages. Was she nuts to even consider this? Annie was a slob, while Gran was one of the neatest, hippest people she knew. Darcie regretted her angry outburst, yes, even her threat. But to stop hearing Julio and Eden in the throes of passion? To quit waltzing around Sweet Baby Jane? To decorate her own place…have parties…walk to work? She wouldn’t have to ride the ferry again, unless she decided to visit Eden.
Once they weren’t angry with each other anymore, that is.
A flash of sadness arced through her.
Maybe it was time to strike out on her own. More than time. She imagined Eden Baxter would be happy to get her duplex—and her privacy—back. Surely there was some logical order to be found in her own life.
And who knew? In the city Darcie might meet someone totally unlike Merrick—or Dylan Rafferty.
Hey, Matilda…
In her own apartment the next Thursday, Claire Spencer held on to the last of her temper.
“I’m sorry, Tildy. I can’t continue this charade.”
From beneath her fluffy red bangs, Tildy gazed at her blankly. “Charade?”
Claire reached into the bassinet where Samantha was squalling at a decibel level in the upper reaches of human hearing. Frantic, her heart pounding, Claire lifted the baby into her arms and gently rocked her until Sam’s limbs stopped flailing and her rigid spine relaxed. “Shh, Mommy’s here. You’re fine.”
“I only put her down for a minute, Mrs. Spencer.”
Claire frowned. “I walked into this apartment more than five minutes ago. No one heard me—of course you didn’t. Sam was crying too loud. I changed my shoes, put on a pair of jeans…and she’s still crying.”
“It’s good for her lungs,” Tildy said lamely, brushing hair from her eyes.
“Well, it’s not good for mine.” Claire’s heart felt squeezed in her chest. “I’ll write you a check for the whole week. But I w
ant you to leave. Now.”
“My references…”
“Tildy, if I were you, I’d go to computer school. Or take bartending lessons. Anything but child care, especially with a newborn.”
Tildy’s thin mouth set. “Babies can be difficult.”
“Yes. I know. So can parents,” Claire muttered, then jerked Tildy’s coat from the nursery’s buttery-yellow giraffe rack trimmed in coral-pink.
“I need the pay, Mrs. Spencer.”
Tildy’s whine set her teeth on edge. Her now hard green eyes frightened Claire but she wouldn’t let it show.
“You are a lucky young woman. If I followed my worst instincts, I’d be on the phone to the agency. I thought I was hiring a competent, caring stand-in so I could return to my career. Instead, I’ve spent every moment at my office biting my nails, twining my hair until it snaps off in my fingers…worrying that some terrible mishap has befallen my only child!” Claire finished in a loud, spiraling tone that made Samantha’s face squinch tight again. Her tiny body quivered. Claire was a breath away from screaming when she marched from the cheerful room. If she didn’t leave, she would not only communicate her tension further to her nine-week-old daughter; she might strangle Tildy Lewis.
Claire strode into the living room, jiggling Sam in one arm and crooning to her while she searched with her other hand through Peter’s desk for the checkbook. Her heart still thumping, she bent to scrawl her signature on the form. Tearing off the check, she shoved it at Tildy.
“I’ve added a small bonus to tide you over until you get another job. I pray it won’t be as a nanny.”
Claire had no sooner shut the door behind Tildy—with a shaky sigh of relief—when the bell rang. Thank goodness Peter hadn’t been home yet to talk her out of firing the girl. Swearing under her breath, not with her usual creativity because of Samantha’s presence, she yanked open the door again.
Darcie stood there, gaping. “Who was the red-faced girl I just saw stalking down the hall?”
“My ex-nanny.”
“She looked barely out of diapers.”
“Umm. That’s where it starts.” Claire held the door wide. Then took another look at Darcie’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Darcie tried but when she leaned to greet Samantha, Claire saw tears in Darcie’s eyes. Samantha chortled.
“My daughter may not know a female disaster when she sees one, but I do. In fact, I am one. Now that I’ve ditched her nanny, before guilt overwhelms me for ruining someone’s life, let me hear about your day.”
“Oh, Claire.”
She carried the baby back to her bassinet, turned on the dolphin mobile that hung above it, and listened for a moment to the chime of its nursery tune. “‘The Itsy Bitsy Spider.’” Then Claire went to the kitchen, retrieved a half bottle of merlot from the refrigerator and poured it equally into two balloon glasses.
“Here.” She handed one to Darcie. “Talk.”
Darcie’s sigh told her half the story. It was a man, of course. Claire wondered when it wasn’t a man—and thanked the institution of marriage. It had its downside, but for the first time since Samantha’s birth, Claire could appreciate being well out of the singles scene.
Only she was wrong. It wasn’t Merrick, or the Australian.
“Come here, sweetie.” When Darcie had related her quarrel with Eden, Claire tightened her arms around her friend on the living room sofa.
Darcie sniffed. “Maybe I should reconsider—before I make another mistake. I mean, I could apologize to Gran, stay with her, keep the status quo. Why not?”
Claire disagreed. Darcie’s tone sounded brave, the emotion Claire had felt when she fired Tildy at last, but her own problems weren’t resolved with that one action, and neither were Darcie’s. She couldn’t take a step forward, then three steps back.
“No. You can’t. On second thought, you need to move into the city. Get closer to other people like yourself—men, that is—single, certifiably unattached, looking for Ms. Right. No kooks. There must be some.”
Claire wanted her to find someone other than Merrick Lowell and his self-centered approach to their “relationship.” It was taking its toll on Darcie’s self-image. Which wasn’t that solid to begin with.
“I’m conflicted,” Darcie said, reaching for the merlot again. She took a healthy swig, holding the glass with both hands.
“Conflict?” Claire thought of Tildy, her own job, Peter, the baby… “I could write a book.”
Darcie brightened. “Hey. Why don’t we?” She forced a grin, obviously glad to change the subject no matter how silly it proved. “You know that new self-help book that just came out? The Give-In Wife or Woman, something like that? I wonder if she heard of that geek years ago—Gran told me—who thought women should meet their husbands at the door wrapped in see-through plastic every night.” Darcie paused. “Barbie dolls,” she added. “Real ones.”
“The Stepford Wives II,” Claire said with a laugh.
“We could do the realistic take—not the fantasy—on women’s lives today. The turmoil, the demands…the whole dating scene. I mean, who dates? I am a perfect example, even with Merrick.” She sat straighter, clearly in control again. “And what about marriage? The ticking clock. Kids. Add a career—could we focus this?”
“We’ll deal with it.”
“How?”
Darcie’s eyes looked less shadowed. But deal indeed, and how? Claire wondered. They spoke at the same time and Claire’s smile grew.
“I don’t have a clue.”
Darcie threw up her hands. “I don’t have a freaking clue.”
Chapter
Ten
On a bright Saturday afternoon Darcie marched along East Seventy-Third Street, a newspaper clipping clutched in one tight fist. Behind her, Claire pushed Samantha in her fancy stroller—which must have cost as much as a low-end Jaguar—and every third step advised Darcie to relax.
“Don’t get discouraged. We’ve been through this before.” Claire leaned down to slip Sam’s pacifier back into her mouth. “In SoHo, NoHo, Chelsea, Gramercy Park, Central Park West and South, Yorkville…”
Apartment after apartment over the past two weeks had disappointed them, but in those same weeks Claire hadn’t let Darcie out of her sight. If she wanted to see a possible rental, Claire went with her, and more often than not Samantha rode shotgun.
“No, I have a good feeling today.”
Darcie glanced left, then right. How could she not feel good on this quiet, tree-lined street on the Upper East side, flanked by rows of exquisite town houses. Some had been gutted, then renovated, and looked ultracontemporary with huge windows and chrome doors, but still, they blended with their older, brick-faced neighbors. Fingers crossed behind her back, Darcie hoped the address she was looking for would turn out to be perfect.
Her spirits instantly sank. In front of the brownstone—yes, a classic original—stood a small crowd of what appeared to be other house hunters. Well, what did she expect? Real estate was at a premium.
“You have as good a chance as anyone else,” Claire whispered in her ear.
They hung off to one side, near the curb, and Claire rolled Samantha’s carriage back and forth to keep her happy.
When she fussed, Darcie handed the baby a bright rattle from the small collection of toys tucked in around her. Sam’s fingers tightened then fell open. She didn’t get the concept of holding on yet. Distracted, Darcie held out the blue lion face again. She adored Samantha, but the milling group of would-be renters all looked more financially stable than Darcie.
Claire squeezed her shoulder.
“You’re becoming a mother hen,” Darcie said. “If you get any closer to being like Janet, I won’t be responsible for my actions.” She grinned but Claire’s encouragement had made her eyes mist. “And I love Samantha, but don’t you think she’s getting a little bored? We’ve dragged her to every rental in Manhattan.”
“Maybe she’ll become a real estate agent wh
en she grows up.”
“If you’re set on being part of this miserable process, you could leave her with Peter on Saturdays.”
“Peter had to work. I should, too,” Claire added, then hastily, “I don’t mean I’m making some great sacrifice here.”
“But you’re behind in your job.”
“Who isn’t?”
“True,” Darcie murmured, still feeling guilty that she’d kept Claire from her own duties, responsibilities, obligations. Hadn’t they talked about the pressures on women recently? Neither of them had time to write the book. “What about a new nanny?”
Claire hesitated. “I’ve been thinking…my job’s high enough on the food chain that I could take Samantha to work with me…oh, hell, like that would allow me to catch up. I’d just stay up all night at home—when Sam’s finally sleeping through—and piss off Peter.”
“Walt’s a little impatient with my apartment search,” Darcie put in.
“Men,” Claire muttered. “They just don’t get it.”
“To be honest, he’s a lot impatient. I scrambled to meet my deadline on the Sydney store design yesterday.”
“Which must have thrilled Greta.”
Darcie winced. “She offered to do it for me.”
“Big of her.”
“Walt nearly agreed.” Darcie mused for a moment. “I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t try a different approach with her.”
“A snake in her desk? Or no, why not rifle her belongings the way she sifts through yours? No telling what you might learn.”
Darcie’s frown quickly smoothed when Samantha peered up at her and started to pucker. “Don’t cry. I’m fine, cupcake,” she said, offering the baby a soft-stuffed alphabet block to gnaw on. I keep thinking how you’d look, swollen, ripe…
Claire grinned. “Sam’s heard all about Greta Hinckley.”
“She sits right across the aisle from me. If only I could stop feeling like the KGB is watching.”
“The KGB is watching.”
Darcie’s next comment got swallowed. A woman wearing a tweed suit pushed through the knot of waiting apartment-hunters, and took her position on the stone steps leading to the front door.