There was no getting around, over or under these two women. She’d have to tell the awful truth. “I’ve got a gut,” Madeline said quietly, so quietly that Annabelle leaned closer, made her repeat what she’d said.
“A gut,” Madeline said, more loudly than she’d intended. “A belly, Annabelle. I always have. There are the medical terms for it, but in layman’s terms, I’m an apple. You know—apples and pears. Pears have small waists, flat bellies, bigger hips, heavier thighs. We apples have skinny arms and legs, narrow hips, but tend to gain all our weight in our bellies, waistlines. And our busts,” she added, knowing that every drawback had at least one bonus, and her generous bust was hers.
“She says she’s an apple,” Annabelle said to April, shrugging.
April shrugged in return. “So? I’m a pear. I’ve been waging war on my upper thighs since I was twelve. No problem. We camouflage.”
Madeline rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?”
“Madeline,” April said reasonably, “you could hide Oklahoma under that dress. We don’t need that much camouflage. We just go for short skirts—to show off your legs—and longer, more swingy tops, to hide this massive waistline you say you have. Now, what size are you?”
Madeline tried to make her one-hundred-and-forty-pound, five-foot-six-inch frame smaller—knowing she couldn’t make it disappear. “I don’t know. I have to go larger to be able to comfortably button my waistbands, which is just another reason Mom’s dresses are easier and definitely more comfortable. And slacks? Forget it! By the time the waist fits, the crotch is at my knees, the seat sags, and my legs disappear. Which—” she ended on a sigh “—is why I don’t wear slacks or jeans.”
“Oh, have you ever been shopping in the wrong stores. Except you don’t shop, right?” Annabelle shook her head. “Come on, Madeline, it’s just us girls here. The size?”
Madeline sighed. “A fourteen? A sixteen?”
“Sixteen? No way!” Annabelle exclaimed, eyeing Madeline with what looked to be a practiced eye. “You probably just chose the wrong designers. Some seem to design for those of us with smaller waists and bigger butts—pardon my French—and others design for, what did you call yourself? Oh, yeah, an apple. We just have to find a designer who caters to apples.”
“And elastic waistbands,” April added, dragging Madeline across the carpeted floor to yet another section of the women’s department. “According to my mother, a definite apple, elastic waistbands are the greatest invention since sliced bread, or something like that. A sixteen? Never! I’ll bet you’re a twelve, once we find those elastic waistbands.”
April was wrong. Twenty minutes later, with Annabelle running back and forth between dressing room and selling floor to exchange sizes, Madeline stood staring at herself—and wearing a size ten.
The collarless Wedgwood blue silk suit jacket she wore had long sleeves, a lovely row of covered buttons, a hem that hit just at the top of her thighs and a softly nipped-in waist that actually gave her a shape. A real shape. And the skirt? Lined with slinky taffeta, the straight skirt—with elastic waist—barely skimmed the top of her knees, exposing her slim, well-shaped, very long lower legs.
“Now I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, who is this gorgeous creature?” April asked, obviously quite pleased with herself. “So, Madeline? What do you think?”
“I think I don’t believe it,” she answered, pulling up the tag hanging from the sleeve. “A ten?”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of camouflage,” Annabelle said as she hung up rejects, then sat on the small chair in the dressing room. “You look great, Madeline. Professional, yet sexy. We’ll take it, right, April?”
“Definitely. Happy birthday, Madeline,” April answered with a grin. “Thank heaven the mall is open late for the pre-Easter sales. Now that we know the style and the size—and the great elastic secret—Madeline, it’s time to pull out the plastic, because we aren’t leaving here until you’ve got a whole new wardrobe. Suits for work, slacks and tops for casual wear, you name it.”
“And then we do the shoes, the purses—because you’re not going to ruin that suit by carrying around that knitted feed bag anymore, Madeline.”
“And makeup,” April added, unwrapping the elastic tie around Madeline’s braid, unwinding the braid itself. “Oh, would you look at those curls! Madeline, you’ve been hiding naturally black, naturally curly hair? How could you? That’s positively criminal. And you’ve got fabulous skin, Madeline, white and creamy. That’s probably because you’ve never worn makeup. Snow White skin, Snow White hair—all we need now is a prince.”
“Yes, definitely a prince,” Annabelle said, jumping up from her chair to kiss Madeline’s cheek. “You look wonderful, Madeline.”
“True, Annabelle, but there does come a time when we all need a little…embellishment. Even princesses. With those brown eyes, I’d say some two-tone beige and brown shadow, some peachy-colored blusher and lipstick. And, of course, mascara and eyeliner. Madeline? Madeline, are we pushing too hard? Are you okay with this?”
Madeline, who had been staring at her reflection, half frightened, half pleased, knowing she still wouldn’t give Catherine Zeta-Jones a run for her money—but, then, who could?—just nodded. “Okay. Sure. I mean—” she gave her head a small shake, watched her curls settle onto her shoulders “—sure. Let’s do it.”
IAN LOOKED at his watch, calculating how much time it would take to get across town to the Lone Star in time for their six o’clock reservations.
He’d had it all planned so carefully. Up early, go for a run. Golf with the guys, a nap, some power shopping to locate a reasonably good birthday gift, dinner at six.
Except he’d come home to a note Madeline had slipped under his door, telling him that she might be a little late because she had to go back to the mall with April and Annabelle for “some last-minute idiocy.”
Ian pondered that line for a while, then tossed the note aside, found the channel changer and surfed for whatever sports might be on the tube the week before the NCAA March Madness started next week. He lucked out with a great game for one of the last divisional tournaments and settled in to watch, one ear listening for Madeline’s footsteps in the hallway.
Not that he wasn’t interested in the game on the screen, because he was. But he and Maddie usually watched the games together. Baseball, basketball, football, ice hockey—anything that wasn’t soccer, because she always fell asleep during soccer games.
Maybe, after dinner, they’d come back and watch the video he’d rented last night. He’d started to watch it by himself, but only five minutes into it he knew Maddie would love it, so he’d ejected the tape. Then he’d read two chapters of a book. Then he’d walked around his apartment, straightening up, and found one of Maddie’s hair clips under the kitchen table. He put it in the dish on the counter, the Maddie Collection Plate that she raided every time she ran out of hair clips or needed postage stamps, emery boards, even her extra pair of reading glasses. Her sandals he kept in the hall closet, along with a tweed vest he hoped she never remembered she owned and the crutches she’d used that summer she broke her foot.
Not that he minded that Maddie, left to her own devices, could quickly have his entire apartment littered with her stuff, because he didn’t. He liked that they were so comfortable with each other that they just about lived in each other’s pockets. Sharing, caring. All that good stuff.
Except now Maddie was going to turn thirty-five. If he’d thought she’d panicked at thirty, it had been nothing to compare with the teary monologue he’d listened to one night a few weeks ago, wherein Maddie lamented her single state, her ticking biological clock and her conviction that she was speeding headlong into old maidhood.
He was also going to be thirty-five. Did that mean he was racing down the road to old bachelorhood?
Not according to Maddie, Ian remembered, as he looked into the mirror above his dresser, twisting his tie into a neat Windsor knot.
&n
bsp; “You’re just entering your prime,” she’d told him—accused him, actually. “Men have it so much easier. You’ll be able to take your pick of women—especially younger women—well into your fifties. But not women. And especially not if we want babies. Do you know how much more difficult it is to even become pregnant for the first time after the age of thirty-five? And the complications of having your first child after forty? Not good, Ian, not good. Trust me. So I’m thinking about getting pregnant. I mean, why not? Women like me are doing it every day. Of course, I’d have to find a donor.”
“Yeah?” he’d said, trying to keep the conversation light. “Well, don’t go to strangers.”
Ian checked the collar of his shirt, still looking at his reflection as he thought over Maddie’s words, his flip reply, the rather shattered look that had passed over her features before she’d smiled, laughed rather hollowly.
Was that when everything had changed?
Probably.
Maddie was his best pal, his good buddy—his other half, when he got right down to it. There was nothing they didn’t know about each other, nothing they couldn’t share—not their pains, their joys, their highs, their lows. Theirs was the friendship of a lifetime, the sort only a few were blessed to have and one he knew had to be fed, nurtured, in order to endure.
Except he’d been taking advantage of Maddie. Oh, not intentionally, but he’d been monopolizing her time all these years while keeping his social life in full swing.
Was that his fault? If Maddie didn’t date very often, didn’t actively look for dates—was that his fault?
Did he keep her that busy? Sure, they saw each other every day, sometimes sharing breakfast in her apartment, sometimes meeting near the hospital for lunch. Madeline cooked dinner for them at least four nights a week.
And on Friday and Saturday nights Ian went out on dates…and Maddie stayed home to read medical journals.
“You’ve been getting all the perks here, bucko,” Ian told himself as he ran a comb through his dark hair. “You don’t just count on Maddie hanging around, waiting for you to show up in her life—you expect her to be there. And that’s not fair.”
Maddie should be married. Ian knew that. She should have a gang of kids, definitely. But if she stayed with him, let him be the platonic man in her life, she’d never find a romantic man for her life. Maybe Maddie didn’t see that, but he did. Now. The damn dirty shame was that he hadn’t seen it for fifteen long years.
“Yeah, but don’t tell her that tonight,” he warned himself as he went to the closet and pulled out his sport jacket, slid his arms into it as he headed out of the bedroom. “Happy birthday, Maddie. Go away, find a life.” He shook his head. “Oh, yeah, that would do it. That one would nail down that Prince of the Year award for sure.”
But what else was he to do? What Maddie wanted, what Maddie needed, he couldn’t give her. They were friends, not lovers. Hadn’t they tried that back in college? It hadn’t worked then and it wouldn’t work now. They knew each other too well to change their comfortable friendship into something so much more complicated.
Besides, if he tried to kiss her, tried to do anything at all, she’d probably laugh at him, just the way she’d done the one time he had tried to kiss her in something other than a brotherly way.
What was it she’d said to him at the time? Oh, yeah. Something really nice. “What, are you nuts, Russell? I’m not even blond.”
“See?” Ian said to the ceramic dalmatian Maddie had bought him for Christmas, the one that stood sentinel in front of his gas fireplace in the living room. “That’s how she sees me, Spot. Playboy of the western world. Not that I haven’t done my best to live up to that reputation. But man, Spot, I’m getting tired. Dancing all night, ruining my new sneakers with romantic walks in the rain, fielding veiled questions about how many kids I’d like to have. Who needs the hassle? I’m just getting too old for this. Right, Spot?”
Spot just sat there, that sort of sickly half smile on his face that had gotten him marked down to half price and won the heart of Maddie, who believed the underdog should be able to catch a break from time to time. So she’d brought Spot home, given him to Ian, saying he shouldn’t worry, she’d feed the mutt if he’d walk him.
Ian smiled, shook his head again. What an idiotic present. He wouldn’t take Spot’s weight in diamonds for that stupid, crooked-mouth dog.
Okay. He checked his watch one more time, decided he’d killed enough time on introspection, or whatever in hell it was he’d been doing—and he certainly wasn’t going to examine his rambling thoughts too closely, because then he might find out. Maddie should have been knocking on his door fifteen minutes ago, maybe twenty.
“Yeah, well, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad,” he grumbled, scooping his car keys from the table beside the couch. “Don’t wait up,” he called over his shoulder to Spot, and headed across the hall to Maddie’s apartment.
“GO AWAY!”
Ian knocked again, harder this time.
Madeline should have known. The man never had taken direction well.
There was that time she’d told him not to make a U-turn at that intersection with the No U-Turn sign. Yes, she’d been called to the hospital for an emergency, and yes, she’d wanted to get there as fast as possible. But did he listen? No. That one had cost him a hefty fine.
And then there was the time—okay, about six hundred times—she’d told him not to take the wooden spoon from a pot, take a taste and put the spoon back in the pot. And then he’d wink at her, the rat.
Or the day he swore he wasn’t too sick to go camping with some old college friends and ended up with pneumonia. That had been a big “I told you so” between them, considering she had been the lucky one who’d ended up playing nurse for a very uncooperative patient.
She could go on. And on. The man was a menace. There were times she threatened him with divorce—and they weren’t even married.
“Ian, go away!” she called, definitely in the grip of panic. “I’m…I’m not ready yet.”
“Well, I am, Maddie. Come on, I’m starving,” he called through the door, then turned the knob—just as Maddie realized she hadn’t locked the door. Damn him for knowing she rarely remembered to lock the door during the day. He’d give her another lecture. Just what she didn’t need, someone else telling her what was best for her.
Madeline turned on her heels, ready to make a break for it all the way to her bedroom, to her bathroom, to the door that would lock behind her once she was in the bathroom.
“Whoa!”
Too late. Madeline remained where she was, her back to Ian, her eyes closed as she waited for whatever would follow that whoa.
It wasn’t long in coming.
“Maddie? Is that you? In slacks?”
She looked at herself. At the tangerine-colored silk top that flowed softly over her body, ending at the tops of her thighs. At the beige raw silk slacks that were pencil thin all the way down to the ankles, where they covered her brand-new beige boots with the three-inch heels.
She raised a hand to grab the tortoiseshell pendant that hung to her waist from a thick gold chain and turned to confront Ian. “Don’t say a word,” she warned him.
And, for once in his life, the man was obedient, because he stood there, looking at her. And looking at her. And looking at her.
“Oh, for crying out loud, Ian!” she complained when she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Say something.”
He shook his head, spread his arms. “I can’t. I don’t know what to say.” He used the sweep of one hand to encompass her hair, her face, her new clothing. “What happened?”
Madeline threw up her hands. “I knew it. I just knew that would be your reaction! I look ridiculous. Stay here, I’m going to go wash my face.”
His hand snaked out, capturing her elbow. “Oh, no, you’re not. Come here, Maddie,” he said, half dragging her toward the mirror hanging over a table beside the front door. “Look at yourself. Your hair loo
ks great, all pulled away from your face and curly and everything. And those eyes! Maddie, when did your eyes get so big?”
“Makeup,” she told him tightly. “My eyes didn’t grow, Ian. It’s just makeup.”
“I know that, Maddie,” Ian said, giving her a quick hug as she faced the mirror. “And I love this color,” he said, rubbing a bit of the fabric of her shirt between his fingers. “Silk. I’m crazy about silk.”
Madeline shivered, knowing it wasn’t cold in the apartment, and stepped away from the mirror, wrapping her arms around herself. “Then you don’t think I look ridiculous? It’s why we went back to the mall today, Annabelle and I. To have my hair and makeup done.”
And then her shoulders slumped. “Oh, Ian, I can’t believe I let people do this to me. Makeup, a new hairstyle, enough new clothing that I doubt my charge card will cool down for at least a year.”
“You mean there’s more?” Ian said, waggling his eyebrows at her. “You bought more than just this one outfit?”
“Oh, stop grinning,” Madeline said testily. “And, yes, it’s true. All your fondest dreams realized. I promised to get rid of my old wardrobe. Are you happy now?”
“Hey, I’m not brokenhearted,” Ian said, shrugging. “You look good, Maddie, damn good. Except I never realized you’re so skinny.”
Madeline’s mouth dropped open, and she blinked several times. “Skinny? You think I’m skinny?”
“Well, maybe not skinny-skinny, if you know what I mean. I just didn’t realize you had any shape at all.” He winced, obviously knowing he’d stuck his foot in it, badly. “That is, I know you’ve got legs. Great legs, Maddie, honest. It’s just the rest of you that I didn’t know was there. No! That’s not right. I know you’re here, Maddie. I’ve always known you’re here. You’re my girl, right? You’ve always been my girl. I just didn’t realize you’re also a girl. No! I don’t mean that, either. Oh, dammit, Maddie, let’s go eat, okay?”
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