by Laura Levine
“Are you Jaine Austen?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied warily, looking to see if he had any pamphlets up his sleeve.
He had no pamphlets. But he did have something worse. Far worse.
“You’re being served.”
I got the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about breakfast.
“Summons to appear in small claims court,” he said, slapping some official-looking papers in my hand.
Uh-oh. Looked like the first day of the rest of my life was getting off to a less-than-spectacular start.
“Have a good one,” my friendly process server said, before trotting off to bring misery into some other poor sap’s life.
By now Prozac was up and about, howling for her breakfast. Tossing the summons onto a pile of junk mail on my dining room table, I shuffled off to the kitchen to open a can of Hearty Halibut Guts.
“Dammit, Pro,” I moaned. “Mommy has to go to small claims court.”
She swished an impatient tail.
You’re not my mommy, and hurry up with those halibut guts.
I fed my demanding princess her halibut glop and had just finished nuking myself a cup of Folgers’ finest when there was another knock on my door.
This time, it was Lance, looking annoyingly chipper in cutoffs and a tank top.
“Morning there, sleepy head!”
“I’m not talking to you,” I snarled.
“I come bearing jelly donuts!” He held up a big paper bag, dotted with grease and faint red spots where the jelly was oozing through.
“If you think you can worm your way into my apartment with a measly bag of jelly donuts—you know me only too well,” I said, snatching the bag from his hand. “But I’m still mad at you.”
“Why?” All wide-eyed and innocent.
“As if you didn’t know.” I began mimicking his simpering patter from the housewarming. “Jaine writes the cutest toilet bowl ads.” “Why doesn’t chubby Jaine sit on the sofa so she can be closer to the brownies?” “Jaine makes a fool of herself at parties all the time.”
“I’m sorry, hon. I admit I played dirty. But all’s fair in love and Celebrity Apprentice.”
“Oh, well,” I sighed. “After yesterday’s brownie fiasco, I don’t stand a chance with Peter anyway.”
“Honey, you never did. I’m telling you. My gaydar is infallible.”
Conceding defeat, I nuked Lance a cup of coffee, and we sat on my sofa, scarfing down the jelly donuts. Okay, I did most of the scarfing. Lance ate a calorie-conscious half a donut and spent the rest of the time commiserating with me over my upcoming lawsuit.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he assured me. “The judge will take one look at that psycho gleam in Cryptessa’s eyes and dismiss the case before you know it.”
That’s the thing about Lance. One day he sabotages you over the man of your dreams. And the next day he’s offering comfort and jelly donuts in your hour of need. It’s why I can never stay mad at him for very long.
“Thanks for the donuts,” I said, as he got up to leave.
“All is forgiven?”
“All is forgiven.”
“Good. Because I have a wee little favor to ask.”
Uh-oh. I should have known there was a string attached to those donuts.
“What do you want?”
“Your books,” he said, pointing to my floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. “I invited Peter over to see my library, and now I need a library. So how about it, hon? Can I borrow your books?”
“No, you may not borrow my books! You want to impress Peter? Buy your own darn books!”
“I understand,” he said, patting my hand in a most patronizing manner. “You’re feeling hurt and depressed by your public humiliation and that hunk of brownie that was stuck between your teeth all afternoon. And you’re taking your anger out on me.” Then, with a smile worthy of Stella Dallas in one of her braver moments, he added, “Not to worry. I have a friend who’s a set decorator at one of the studios. He can loan me the books.”
“Goodie for you.”
“But how about your bookcase? Can I borrow that?”
“No, you may not borrow my bookcase!”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in an uproar.”
Then, as he scooted out the door, he called out over his shoulder, “Talk to you later, hon. And don’t forget. As soon as I land my date with Peter, you owe me dinner at the restaurant of my choice.”
I slammed the door behind him so hard I’m surprised it didn’t come off the hinges.
Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Inviting Peter over to see his library and expecting me to provide the library?
I stomped around in a snit for a while, muttering curses and rinsing out the coffee mugs.
And I was just about to head off to the shower when there was yet another knock on my door.
Oh, hell. Probably Lance again. What did he want now? My kidneys?
“What?” I snapped, hurling the front door open.
But it wasn’t Lance.
It was Peter, the cleft in his chin looking more kissable than ever.
“You forgot this,” he said, holding out my brownie plate.
He was dressed for work, looking marvelously spiffy in a navy suit and celadon silk tie that brought out a hint of hazel in his eyes.
I, on the other hand, looked like Cryptessa’s younger sister in my coffee-stained chenille robe, my hair a mop of untamed curls. For all I knew, I had a big hunk of jelly stuck between my teeth.
What did it matter, anyway? The Peter Wars were over and done with. I’d already lost to Lance.
“Thanks for bringing it by,” I said with a feeble smile.
“No problem.”
“I want you to know that I feel terrible about that scene at your housewarming.”
“Please don’t feel bad. Nothing livens up a party like a good fight.” He shot me a mischievous smile. “To tell the truth, the housewarming was a bit of a snore till you showed up.”
“Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“I swear on a stack of brownies.”
“But I ruined your carpet.”
“You didn’t ruin it. I got most of the stains out with club soda. And I was going to send it out to the cleaners anyway.”
“Well, I insist on paying the bill.”
“There’s no need for that. But there is one thing you can do for me.”
“Anything,” I said.
“You can come to my Halloween party.”
And with that, he flashed me a smile with enough wattage to light up the Hollywood Bowl.
I didn’t care what Lance’s gaydar said. Peter was flirting with me. I may be packing a few extra pounds in the hip-thigh area, but I know when I’m being flirted with. And I was definitely the designated flirtee in this little tête-à-tête.
“I’d be happy to come,” I said, melting in the warmth of his smile.
We bid each other a fond adieu, and I floated off to the shower on cloud nine.
It looked like The Peter Wars weren’t over yet.
Not by a long shot.
Having showered and dressed, I tootled over to my office (otherwise known as my dining room table) to read my e-mails. Poor Mom. Daddy would drive her and the neighbors nuts before Halloween was over. But I couldn’t worry about the Curse of the Fang-Tastic Dracula. Lest you forget, I still owed Marvin Cooper a bunch of commercials. I reached for my Mattress King file, fully intending to get some work done on Larry Lumbar, when I noticed my summons to appear in small claims court.
In the excitement of Peter’s visit, I’d forgotten all about it. But now I saw it staring up at me from where I’d tossed it on top of a Chinese takeout menu.
With a shudder, I saw that I was scheduled to be tried in a court of law for the wrongful death of Eleanor Jenkins’s beloved parakeet, Van Helsing.
And I almost fainted when I read that Cryptessa was suing me for five thousand dollars!
No way c
ould I afford to fork over five grand to that nutcase. Or any other nutcase for that matter. In fact, five grand exceeded my “disposable income” limit by about four thousand nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars.
Surely there had to be some way to make amends with Cryptessa and get her to drop the case.
Popping an Altoid and plastering a smile on my face, I headed up the street to do some serious groveling.
I’d simply tell Cryptessa how dreadfully sorry I was for everything that had gone down between us, that I’d be more than happy to “bake” her some more brownies or plant some more petunias, that there had to be some way we could mend our fences without involving the courts.
I was in the middle of rehearsing my humble apologies when suddenly I heard voices being raised.
“Get off my property!” I recognized Cryptessa’s shriek right away.
“Not until you pay me for my chocolates!” That sounded like Emmeline.
And indeed, as I walked up the path to Zombie-land, I saw Cryptessa standing out on her front steps, yelling at Emmeline, who was yelling right back, her fluffball dog yapping at her ankles.
“If you and your dog aren’t off my property in three minutes,” Cryptessa cried, shaking her fist, “I’m calling the police.”
“Good!” said Emmeline. “I’ll tell them how you ate my chocolates!
“Look, Jaine!” she cried, spotting me. “Look what this miserable woman did.”
She held out a Godiva candy box, and when I looked inside, I saw that there was a bite missing from every single piece.
“My son sent these to me for my birthday, and the UPS man left them at Cryptessa’s house by mistake. She had the nerve to return them to me this morning. Like this!”
Once again, she thrust the half-eaten candy in my face.
“Can you believe it?”
I was outraged, of course, as any true chocoholic would be. I was also tempted to try one of the remaining morsels, a goody with a pecan stuck in its center.
“Have you ever seen anything so outrageous?” Emmeline sputtered.
As much as I would have liked to chime in with a few harsh words of disapproval, I was there to make peace with Cryptessa. I could not afford to pass judgment.
So instead I merely smiled weakly and said, “Happy belated birthday, Emmeline.”
Not exactly thrilled with my reply, she turned back to Cryptessa. “I’ve had it up to here with you. And so has Lana Turner!”
An angry bark from the fluffball.
“I didn’t eat your stupid chocolates,” Cryptessa insisted.
“Liar!” cried Emmeline. “I can see the chocolate on your chin.”
And indeed there was a faint swath of chocolate across Cryptessa’s chin.
“Oh, go fly a kite,” Cryptessa snapped, swiping at her chin with the back of her hand.
Okay, that’s not what she really said, but this is a family novel so I’ll spare you the real four letter words involved. “How do you know it wasn’t a possum who ate the chocolates? How do you know it wasn’t your dog?” She pointed at me and added, “How do you know it wasn’t her? I wouldn’t put anything past her. She killed my bird, you know.”
I was this close to hurling a few colorful four-letter words of my own in her direction when Cryptessa’s balding nephew came hurrying up the front path.
“Aunt Eleanor! What’s going on?”
“Look, Warren!” Emmeline wailed, showing him the chocolate box. “She ate my chocolates!”
“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Not again.”
“She’s done this before?” I whispered.
“Don’t ask.” Warren shook his head, exasperated. “Last time it was a Junior’s cheesecake.”
Excited to see a new face in the crowd, Lana let out a welcoming yip.
“If that mongrel barks at me one more time,” Cryptessa snarled, “I’m calling animal control.”
“Go ahead,” Emmeline said, sweeping Lana up in her arms. “Call them. And I’ll call the FBI. For your information, eating somebody’s mail happens to be a federal offense!”
“I’m so sorry,” Warren said to Emmeline. “We’ll buy you another box.”
“Oh, we will, will we?” Cryptessa whirled on her nephew with fire in her eyes. “The last time I checked, buster, you were dead broke. I’m the one with the bucks around here, not you. And if you think I’m giving you money to buy that falafel franchise you wanted, forget about it. Not when you keep siding with my enemies.”
With that, she turned on her heels and stomped into the house.
“Aunt Eleanor!” Warren cried, running after her, tiny beads of sweat sprouting on his brow. “Let’s not be hasty!”
The door slammed behind them, leaving me alone with Emmeline. I watched as she led her dog over to the DO NOT TRESPASS sign.
“Go ahead, darling,” she prompted.
Eager to please, Lana squatted down and left her calling card.
“Good girl!” Emmeline said, her eyes beaming pure malice.
Nope, there was just no making peace with a woman like Cryptessa.
Chapter 7
“Omigod!” Lance said, surveying the backseat of my Corolla. “So this is where old fast-food wrappers come to die.”
Lance and I were headed over to Hollywood to rent costumes for Peter’s Halloween party. I’d offered to drive, and already I was beginning to regret it.
“My car’s not so bad,” I said.
“Are you kidding? I think I see a ketchup packet from King Tut’s Tomb.”
“Okay, so it’s been a while since I’ve cleaned. I’ve been very distracted. I’ve had a lot of things on my plate.”
“Most of them with fries,” he said, holding up an empty McDonald’s bag.
“Hardy-har-har,” I said, my voice dripping icicles.
“Lucky for me, I never travel without moist towelette sanitizers.”
I reined in my annoyance as Lance ripped open a towelette and made a big show of sanitizing his hands.
“So how’d Peter like your ‘library’?” I asked, determined to get off his car cleanliness kick.
“Slight snafu,” he sighed. “Unfortunately, the only books my set decorator friend could get a hold of were a bunch of medical texts. In German. So if Peter ever asks, remember: I went to medical school in Heidelberg and dropped out to pursue my love of fashion.”
Oh, man, this guy deserved the Pulitzer Prize in Whoppers.
“It was a magical evening,” Lance gushed. “I looked divine, if I do say so myself. And I was the perfect host. I served Brie and crackers, washed down with a 1989 Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”
“Châteauneuf-du-pape? Doesn’t that stuff cost an arm and a leg?”
“Technically, it was Two Buck Chuck, but I put it in a Châteauneuf-du-Pape bottle I bought at a thrift shop years ago. That bottle’s come in so handy. I don’t think Peter knew the difference.”
“So how did this magical evening end? Did Peter ask you out?”
“Not exactly, but I can tell he’s on the brink. There was something in his eyes that told me he was interested in me.” Lance patted my arm in that maddeningly patronizing way of his. “I’m so glad you listened to reason and gave up your foolish dreams of dating the guy.”
“Actually, I’m back in the dating game. Peter stopped by to return my brownie plate the other day, and there was something in his eyes that told me he was interested in me.”
“You mustn’t confuse interest with pity, hon.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, barely restraining myself from bopping him over the head with a stray Slurpee cup.
The rest of the trip passed in an icy silence. Well, I was the icy one. I doubt Lance even noticed. He was too busy sanitizing my dashboard with his moist towelettes.
At last we arrived at the costume rental place Lance had picked out.
“It’s where all the Hollywood costume designers go!” he gushed.
“Estelle’s Costumes and Beauty Suppl
ies?” I said, eyeing the tiny storefront whose window was jammed with an eclectic mix of costumes and cosmetics.
“It’s much bigger than it looks,” Lance assured me.
And indeed it was. A long narrow space, it boasted endless racks of costumes, not to mention a back wall crammed with beauty supplies.
I stood there, breathing in the heady aroma of old clothes and hairspray, while Lance sprang into action, in full-tilt kamikaze shopper mode, flipping past costumes with lightning speed.
“Omigosh, hon!” he called out, holding up a huge puke green outfit. “This one’s perfect for you.”
“Forget it, Lance. I’m not going as Mrs. Shrek.”
“How about this?” he asked, holding up a pink monstrosity.
“Or the Michelin Man.”
“Spoilsport,” he pouted.
“Why don’t you just concentrate on getting your own costume, okay?”
Lance reluctantly agreed to go our separate ways, and before long he’d picked out a svelte werewolf-in-a-tux ensemble for himself.
“It’s you, Lance,” I said, nodding in approval. “Armani with hairy knuckles.”
Meanwhile, I made my way down the racks, flipping past a white, plunging “Marilyn” dress, a Marie Antoinette extravaganza, and a Madonna outfit with bra cups pointy enough to drill holes in a two-by-four.
Then I spotted it: a saucy lace flapper dress, complete with a feather headband. I tried it on in Estelle’s cramped dressing room. The outfit reeked of cleaning fluid, but it looked adorable, and I was thrilled to see it camouflaged the dreaded hip-tush zone quite nicely. (True, it was a little clingy around my tummy, but if I sucked in my gut and didn’t eat a thing the night of the party, I’d be fine.)
Costumes in hand, we headed over to the counter where Estelle, a fiftysomething woman with neon-green hair and enough rings to stock a display case at Nordstrom, took our deposits.
“I’ll be back on Halloween,” Lance told our green-haired friend, “to pick them up.”
“I still don’t understand why we can’t rent the costumes the day of the party,” I said.
“Are you nuts? We have to reserve them now. All the good ones will be gone by Halloween.”
My flapper ensemble was $49.99 more than I could afford to spend, but I kept my eye on the prize (Peter) and figured it was worth it.