by Billie Green
Frankie, she thought, staring at the group around the barbecue grill. Frankie.
Whitney spent the next few minutes tracking down Linelle. She eventually found the blonde washing her hands at a water fountain.
"Linelle," Whitney said, grasping the woman's arm. "Linelle, listen, can I borrow Frankie? No, wait, let me start again."
Whitney splashed some water on her face, then drew in a slow breath as she pulled her thoughts together. "How's it going with you and Frankie?" she asked with a polite smile. "Are you making any progress?"
"Some," Linelle admitted, her eyes suspicious. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing... at least nothing that should make you nervous. It's just that I need to date Frankie a couple of times. Wait, don't hit me. I'll explain everything later. And, it's not what you're thinking. If I were interested in him, would I be here asking your permission? No, of course I wouldn't. I'd be with Frankie, making my move. I just didn't want you to get mad at me if you hear that I've gone out with him, because it won't be like a real date. In fact, I'll probably spend the whole time talking about you... and I promise I won't let him take me anywhere in his handy little Den of Sin." Every inch of the inside of Frankie's van was covered with plush red carpet and black satin cushions. "So what do you say? Can I have him for a little while?"
Linelle looked confused. "Why are you asking me? Do I look like his mother? Frankie's a grown man. He makes up his own mind about who he—''
"Linelle," Whitney said, her voice pleading.
"Okay, okay." The blonde wiped her damp hands on her shorts. "But only for a couple of dates. And I find out he's taken you anywhere near our parking place, you'll be trying to find out which floor wax works best on a bald head. Do you hear me, Mary?" Linelle called this last out as, with a triumphant whoop, Whitney turned and hurried away.
Whitney didn't know why she hadn't thought of Frankie before. He was perfect. Dean seemed to like him, and he certainly couldn't say that Frankie Halloran wasn't up to her speed. Frankie could pass a roadrunner like it was standing still.
"Frankie!" she called, waving when he glanced over his shoulder.
When Whitney reached him, he put down his spatula and struck a bodybuilder pose. "I knew you couldn't resist me for long," he said. "What was it that got to you? The sight of my manly chest?" He clenched his fists, flexing his pectoral muscles. "My outstanding athletic ability?"
"Ifs the way you cook hamburgers," she said, smiling as she glanced beyond him to the rising smoke. "I do admire a slipshod man."
The next few minutes were spent in casual flirtation—no one could flirt better than Frankie—but when Whitney spotted Dean making his way toward them, she decided the subtle approach was taking too long.
Grabbing Frankie's arm, she said, "Quick, can you come to my place for dinner this Friday?"
"Ah, she's getting desperate," Frankie said, closing his eyes and inhaling with pleasure. "What time?"
"Eight." She glanced over her shoulder again. Dean was getting closer. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw clenched, in a way she remembered of old.
"You got yourself a date," Frankie told her. "I'll be there with a bottle of wine, a bouquet of posies and the gorgeous bod."
"Great... terrific." The words were said over her shoulder as she hurried away from the barbecue pit, but she hadn't taken more than a few steps when Dean grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him.
"What devious little plots are you concocting this time, Whitney?"
"Shush," she hissed, looking around nervously. "I'm Mary, remember?"
"I don't care if you're Maynard G. Krebs. I want to know what you're up to?"
"I'm not doing anything except what you've always wanted me to do," she told him as they moved farther away from the group around the barbecue grill.
Hearing the defensive note in her voice, she shook her head impatiently. "You told me to get a life," she told him in an emphatic whisper. "You told me to get my own life. You told me to be a person. This is what people do. They mix and mingle with members of the opposite sex." She looked at him, studying his face as they walked. "You like Frankie. You know you do. And what do you want to bet he can handle my so-called sizzle?"
Dean frowned down at her. Frankie might be able to handle it, but the fact didn't give Dean any comfort. In fact it made him nervous as hell.
Whitney was right, of course. This is what he had said, often and loudly, that he wanted for her. But what he said and what he felt in his gut were worlds apart.
Dean spent the next few days driving himself crazy, thinking about the prospect of Whitney being with someone else, laughing with someone else, kissing someone else, touching someone else. Since he had come to Dallas, Dean had spent the better part of each day on the phone—with clients or his secretary ox Sam—and although it wasn't a perfect situation, in general it had worked out pretty well. But that was when he could keep his mind on what he was doing. During the days after the picnic, things began to go downhill in a hurry. Unable to concentrate on anything but Whitney, Dean found himself snapping at everyone he talked to. By Thursday, Sam had told him to drop dead and his secretary was threatening to resign.
Whitney hadn't mentioned her date with Frankie— in fact she had done her best to avoid Dean all week— but Lloyd had informed him that Frankie would be at her apartment at eight. Which was why, by eight o'clock on Friday night, Dean was in a murderous mood. He couldn't watch television, and he wasn't interested in food.
After pacing around his small living room for half an hour, he left his apartment and went to Rick's.
* * *
"I've never seen anyone like her," Dean told Lloyd.
The two men were sitting at the bar at Rick's as Dean finished another Little Mary story.
"If she had simply kept her mouth shut, she wouldn't have gotten into nearly as much trouble," he explained with a reminiscent smile. "But try telling her that. If she has something to say, she's damn well going to say it."
"She probably counted on the fact that you would bail her out," Lloyd said.
"I always did what I could," Dean admitted. "And she thought I could do anything. She didn't understand that a boy from the wrong side of the tracks doesn't have a whole lot of pull with school officials. Or with cautious parents. But at least when I couldn't fix it, I was there to help her get it out of her system.''
He shook his head slowly. "She's not like other people. And it's not just her looks or her willingness to fight for what she believes in. There's something unique, something singular, about her spirit."
He paused, staring into the mirror behind the bar, then after a moment he shook his head and staled into his beer glass. "She's strong and wise, vulnerable and funny. And you wouldn't believe how perceptive she is, Lloyd. You never have to wonder if she understands something or not. She can grasp an idea before it's even fully formed in your mind." He laughed. "Of course, she's also the most intractable, pigheaded female it's ever been my misfortune to meet. When she gets an idea in her head, you couldn't pry it loose with a crowbar. She just won't let go."
"And you can't let her go," Lloyd said quietly. It wasn't a question. It was a flat statement of fact.
"I'm trying, Lloyd," he said, drawing in a slow breath. "God knows, I'm trying."
After glancing at his watch, Dean downed the last of his beer and slid off the stool.
He went back to his apartment and paced the floor for a while, checking his watch every few seconds. It was after eleven. Surely by now Frankie had gone home.
Dean stopped pacing. If he hadn't gone home, maybe it was time someone gave him a shove in the right direction.
Slamming the door behind him, Dean walked the few steps to her apartment and knocked on her door. He waited a couple of seconds, then pounded on it.
The door swung open and Whitney stood there, staring at him. She wore jeans and a clingy blue silk blouse that made her eyes even brighter.
When she didn't speak, Dean looked beyond
her and saw her date sitting on the floor. Spread out on the coffee table was a board game.
Dean returned his gaze to Whitney. "I need to borrow a cup of sugar," he said, his voice flat.
She raised one slender brow. "Baking again?" she asked sweetly before standing aside so he could come into the apartment.
"You bake, Dean?" Frankie asked. His voice was only casually interested, as though he were perfectly willing to believe that Dean spent all his free time kneading bread dough and whipping up batches of cookies.
"Just don't think about entering the Pillsbury bake-off this year," Dean told the other man, then glanced at the coffee table. "Trivial Pursuit? Watch out for her, Frankie. She cheats."
"You lie," Whitney said, her blue eyes reflecting a mixture of indignation and amusement.
Dean made himself comfortable on the couch, letting Frankie know he wasn't leaving any time soon.
After a moment, Frankie glanced at his watch. "Gee, look at the time." He stood up and stretched noisily. "Guess I'd better be going."
After casting a vengeful look in Dean's direction, Whitney walked her date to the door, and Frankie, confident of his charms, didn't bother to lower his voice as he asked her if she would go to a movie with him.
"I'd like that," Whitney said. "Catch me on break Monday and we can talk about it... in private."
She closed the door behind him and walked slowly back to the couch, then stood in front of Dean with her hands on her hips. "Now do you want to tell me what that was all about? You knew I had company. And don't give me that garbage about needing sugar. You bought a bag last Wednesday."
He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling.
Dean's expression, his mood, puzzled Whitney. "What's going on, Dean? I know you want me to make a new life for myself. I guess, somewhere in the back of my mind, I've always known it. But after that little slash-and-burn psychology session in your bedroom— Well, I may be a little dense, but I think I got the point. So that's what I'm trying to do now. Make a new life for myself. I thought Frankie would be a good place to start. Nothing serious, just a little foray into the wonderful world of adult relationships. Dipping my toes into sexual waters, as it were."
He turned his head toward her, his dark eyes blazing. "You're not ready to dip anything anywhere yet," he said in a clipped voice. "You're too inexperienced."
She snorted her skepticism. "At the picnic you were full of talk about sizzle and volcanoes. Now suddenly I'm too inexperienced?"
"Sizzle is a quality," he said tightly. "It isn't practical experience."
She threw up her hands in exasperation. "You beat everything, you know that? How am I supposed to get experience if you keep bird-dogging me? This isn't exactly a spectator sport we're talking about here."
He was staring at the ceiling again, his expression closed. Whitney didn't know what he was thinking, and that fact made her extremely nervous.
"Who taught you how to play baseball?" he asked, his voice abrupt.
"You did."
"Who taught you how to ride a bicycle? To drive a car? To throw a dirty punch in a fight?"
"We both know you taught me all those things. So what's your point?" she asked in frustration.
Dean turned his head slowly to meet her eyes. She stared at him in irritated confusion until suddenly the truth broke through and left her gasping for breath.
Chapter 11
Blood rushed to Whitney's face, and the room grew uncomfortably hot as Dean continued to stare at her.
"You're not suggesting— You an, aren't you?" She swung away from him, smoothing her hands across her heated cheeks. "You've lost your mind. You've finally and completely lost your mind."
After a moment she glanced cautiously over her shoulder. He was watching her closely still, as though gauging her reaction.
Keeping her eyes on his face, she moved to sit beside him on the couch. "Are you sure you fed all right?" she asked, frowning in concern.
He laughed silently. "You sound like you're thinking about taking my temperature. I'm not crazy and I'm not feverish."
"Then what in hell is going on?" She was genuinely confused. "You were practically begging me to cut those old ties that strangle. You said—"
"The ties never strangled," he interrupted, his voice quiet and emphatic. "Never. I thought it would be best—for you—if you stepped back a little. I thought you should put some space between yourself and a relationship that began when you were too young to know better. I simply wanted you to look at your feelings from an objective distance."
After a moment she said, "You seemed to have done a lot of planning for me. And you made an awful lot of decisions without asking about my druthers. But maybe it's unfair of me to resent that. I certainly didn't give you any reason to believe I could make those decisions on my own."
She paused, chewing on her lower lip. "But now you've obviously changed your mind and come up with a whole new plan for me," she said slowly. "Because— I may be way off base here, but it seems to me that what you're suggesting is not going to put any distance between me and anything." '
He reached out and cupped her neck with warm fingers. His eyes were half-closed so that she couldn't see his expression. "I haven't changed my mind, Whit. I still want you to make objective decisions. When it's time," he added firmly. "When you're ready to handle whatever comes along."
She pulled away from the hand that was destroying her ability to think. "And sex comes under the heading of Whatever Conies Along? Couldn't you just buy me one of those Now-That-You're-a-Woman books that mothers give to their teenage daughters?"
"Does the idea of making love with me embarrass you?" he asked, his voice blunt.
"I—" She broke off and shook her head in a helpless movement.
He glanced away from her. "That day you walked into my bedroom, just before you left § Antonio, you wanted me that day."
Whitney's breath caught in her throat, and she closed her eyes in self-defense. "The gloves are off now," she said wryly, her voice weak.
Saying she wanted him was like saying a roaring furnace was a little blaze. She had never felt anything as powerful, before or since. "I wanted you, too, Whitney." The quiet words dropped like a bombshell between them. Opening her eyes, she studied his face and knew he was telling her the truth.
She ran her tongue over the inner edge of her lower lip in a nervous gesture. "But you— Why did you hide it? Why did you say all those things?"
He frowned. "You were brought up by people who didn't know anything about real life. I guess I just got used to protecting you. And I was afraid you would get sidetracked. I pulled out the...the 'slash-and-burn psychology,' as you called it—" he didn't relish using her vivid description ''—because I didn't want you to think an affair with me was the real thing."
Whitney let the explanation sink in. Dean was saying he wanted her. But he was also saying he didn't love her. She knew that. She had known it when she left San Antonio. Hearing the words shouldn't have caused the suffocating pain in her chest. Hearing an acknowledged truth shouldn't hurt quite so much.
Moistening her lips, she drew in a slow breath to steady her voice. "And now?"
He shrugged. "Whether you're a Harcourt, a Grant, or Mary White, you're an adult. Old enough to make your own decisions, old enough to handle a physical attraction."
"Oh, yeah?" Her tone was openly skeptical.
"Yeah," he said with a slight smile. "But I don't want this to be something that we simply slide into. No being carried away by the heat of the moment. I couldn't handle the thought of you waking up tomorrow regretting what happened tonight. We both have to know what we're getting into before we make another move."
"Are we going to sign a contract?" Without waiting for a response she rose abruptly to her feet. "No, you stay here," she said when he started, to get up. "I need some time alone.. .to think. I'll go make us some coffee," she added on her way out of the room.
Dean watched her leave. What in hel
l was he doing? She was right, he had finally lost his mind. This wasn't what he had intended when he came here tonight. He was simply going to make sure that Frankie wasn't pulling any fast moves on her.
A short, contemptuous laugh escaped him. Frankie wasn't the problem. The only one trying to pull a fast move around here was Dean himself.
He stood up and was almost to the kitchen to tell her to forget the whole thing, that it had been a bad joke, when he stopped, shoved a hand though his hair and walked back to the couch.
Whitney said that Dean had been making decisions for her without her knowledge or consent, and to a certain extent she was right about that. If he really believed Whitney was a mature, capable adult, then he had to allow her to make this decision on her own. It wasn't his place to tell her to forget it. Only Whitney knew what was best for her.
He had put his proposition to her in an unconventional way, but even if he had said, "How's about it, kid?" it would lead to the same thing. She would make a decision—of her own free will, and based on her own needs and desires—whether to accept or reject his offer.
And if she decided—on her own—that she was better off rejecting it, then the fact that Dean wanted her more than life itself was something he would have to deal with... on his own.
In the kitchen, Whitney put the coffee on, then stood and watched as it slowly ran into the pot. Could she handle it? Could she come away from an affair with Dean without permanent injury? Could she accept the fact that when he touched her, he was touching only the outside, making no effort to reach what was inside her?
The pot had been full of coffee for a good quarter of an hour before Whitney finally decided that it didn't matter if she could handle an affair with Dean or not. She would almost certainly get hurt, but that had never stopped her before. Whitney didn't believe in foregoing the wonderful things in life just because some bad might come along with them. If this was all she would ever have of Dean, it was more than she had had yesterday.