Whole Lotta Trouble

by Stephanie Bond

  Jané frowned. “He told Seth that he dumped you. What a jerk. Men are pigs.”

  Felicia nodded her agreement but seemed to turn inward. Tallie tried to fill in the uncomfortable silence with small talk, asking Jané where she lived (Soho) and if she was still single (yes, ergo the “pigs” remark).

  “Listen, Tallie,” Jané said, “I have a fiction author who writes fantasy murder mysteries, really great stuff. I’m looking for a print publisher who would be willing to release the book in tandem with the electronic edition. I was thinking of sending it to Ron—would you put in a good word when you see him?”

  “He’s going to be away for a few weeks,” Tallie said, squashing her irritation at the implication that she didn’t warrant consideration. “But I’d be happy to take a look.” She paused, then couldn’t resist adding, “Ron has passed along some of his high-profile writers to me—Gaylord Cooper, for one.”

  Jané looked impressed. “Okay, I’ll have the manuscript couriered over tomorrow.” She looked past Tallie’s shoulder. “Oh, there are my friends. It was great catching up with you two—hopefully I’ll see you both again soon.”

  They nodded and said good-bye, but when the woman was out of earshot, Felicia made a rueful noise. “Juh-nay? What a crock. And she played you, Tallie. She knows Ron wouldn’t give that manuscript the time of day.”

  Tallie shrugged. “Maybe it’s as good as she says.”

  “Maybe,” Felicia agreed, then drained her martini. “I really should be going—but don’t leave on my account.”

  “No, I’ll walk out with you,” Tallie said and, after leaving money on the table for the drink, pulled on her coat. “Hey, don’t let what she said about Jerry get to you.”

  “I’m not,” Felicia said, but her voice was tight, her forehead furrowed.

  Tallie put her hand on Felicia’s arm. “Are you sure something didn’t happen today to upset you?”

  Felicia looked up, and for a few seconds, Tallie thought she was going to divulge what was eating at her. But instead she shook her head and said, “Nothing that won’t take care of itself.”

  Chapter 4

  Felicia’s words stayed with Tallie as she climbed up three flights of stairs to her Chelsea apartment. The rickety elevator wasn’t worth waiting for, and the spurt of exercise usually got her in the mood for a quick run before dinner. Usually. But a faint odor in the hallway made her a little queasy, and by the time she unlocked all three dead bolts on her door, she had convinced herself that it was too cold/late/dangerous for her to run, and she promised herself that having a salad for dinner would compensate for the calories not expended.

  Nothing that won’t take care of itself. It wasn’t a fatalistic outlook but pure confidence that drove Felicia’s belief that things generally turned out the way they were supposed to. Tallie walked into her tiny apartment, flipped on an overhead light that flickered frantically before it came on, and angled her head at her jumble of scavenged and distinctly uninteresting furniture. It was, she decided, the confidence of someone born on the Upper East Side and for whom things generally worked out well.

  “The rest of us tend to be more skeptical,” Tallie murmured as she turned to slide the dead bolts home again. Thick, thack, whack. She wondered again if whatever was eating at Felicia had something to do with Jerry Key. Anger sparked in her stomach: A woman was powerless to defend herself against a man’s malicious rumors. It was bad enough that the guy was engaging in locker room talk about her, but even worse that Felicia—and she herself—had to work with the jerk. She wished she could find some way to teach the man a lesson…anonymously.

  Tallie turned to survey the cluttered wood coffee table, the smooshed brown couch cushions, the pile of clean laundry in the green side chair that still needed to be folded. Her mother would have a heart attack if she could see the dust on the television, not to mention the dirty dishes in the sink. Deep down, Tallie felt bratty, because while she was no Heloise, she normally kept things halfway straight, though every time she returned from visiting her parents’ home in Ohio, she regressed to Super Slob. As if she had to prove to herself that in no way did she resemble, desire, or have the talent to be a homemaker.

  She stepped out of her shoes and padded to her bedroom, a mere three strides away, in her stocking feet. She stepped on something sharp and bent to retrieve a dropped—and now bent—earring out of the beige shag carpet. She didn’t remember losing it, but it had been weeks since she’d run the vacuum, so for all she knew, her missing chunky metal belt could be hiding in the depths.

  Her pint-sized bedroom was a disaster, her bed un-made, dirty clothes strewn everywhere, the gaping door to her tiny closet revealing another spectacular mess. Tallie closed the door, then rummaged through bureau drawers and the piled-up chair next to the bed until she found a clean nightshirt. After stripping her sensible skirt and sweater and tossing them into an overflowing laundry basket, she wrapped herself in flannel, shoved her icy feet into sheepskin-lined slippers, and scuffed back to the kitchen to examine the refrigerator.

  The interior reeked of something pungent and rapidly decomposing. The source, she discovered after much poking around, was a carton of soured orange juice. Yuck. The impossibility of making a salad began to sink in as she scanned the contents of her crisper: a soft tomato, a bag of dried-up midget carrots, and a stalk of celery so old it had turned white. She dragged over the garbage can and began tossing everything that looked suspicious, stopping when the bag was almost too heavy to lift.

  That was the bad thing about cleaning—one thing led to another. She tied up the garbage, then grabbed the phone and ordered a burrito with a bushel of chips and a quart of salsa, telling herself she deserved to celebrate, considering the big boost her career had received today. A smile spread across her face, and she rose on her toes for a private little squeal. She picked up the phone again, eager to share the news with someone who would understand and would be happy for her, but her hand halted over the number pad.

  Who?

  Shari, her college roommate? They spoke every few months, and although Shari, who was a registered nurse, would be happy for Tallie, she wouldn’t be able to grasp the significance of her news.

  Chad, the guy she had most recently dated? He worked in production for an entertainment magazine and he was a voracious reader, so he would certainly understand the magnitude of her news…but would he be happy for her? Probably not, considering she had ended their relationship rather abruptly over a carton of leftover shrimp chop suey that he had helped himself to in her refrigerator after a bout of sex that had been considerably less spicy than the food. The fact that she probably would have thrown out the chop suey hadn’t been important—he had stepped over the symbolic line she had drawn in the sand around her relationships. He’d had to go.

  Filching leftovers was simply too domestic for her to stomach. A man might as well say, “I’m hungry and I’m taking your food, woman.” First he’d be foraging for food in the fridge, and next he’d be expecting her to cook for him, replace buttons on his shirts, and give up her job to have babies that looked like him.

  There was Audrey, her former assistant, but she had eloped with one of their science fiction writers and now lived in Australia during the winter months. The phone call would cost her a small fortune.

  There was Bradley, a guy she had dated a long time ago (stuffed manicotti had been his downfall) with whom she had managed to remain friends because they sometimes met on the running path in the park. But the last time she had seen him he’d mentioned that his girlfriend was moving in, so the woman might not appreciate a celebratory call from an ex-lover.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she punched in her parents’ phone number. A couple of rings later, her dad’s voice came on the line. “Hello?”

  His baritone always put a smile on her face. “Hi, Dad, it’s Tallie.”

  “Well, hi, sweetheart. This is a nice surprise. As much as your mother fussed over you during the holidays,
I figured we wouldn’t hear from you until Easter.”

  She laughed—her dad, an insurance salesman, understood the predicament of being caught between her mother and the real world. “I called to tell you some good news.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “Hi, Tallie,” her mother broke in. “I picked up on the extension in the kitchen.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Tallie has good news,” her dad offered.

  “Did Sheila Wages’ son call you?”

  Tallie blinked. Leave it to her mother to think that the good news involved a man. “Um, that’s not why I called, Mom. My boss gave me a big assignment today.”

  “Your handsome boss, Ron, the one you have a crush on?”

  She winced. “Yes, Mom, Ron—but I don’t have a crush on him. Anymore.”

  “Don’t worry, dear, he’ll come around some day.”

  And to think she had hesitated before calling.

  “What’s the big assignment?” her father asked, bless him.

  “Ron asked me to edit Gaylord Cooper’s next book.”

  “Who?” her mother asked.

  “You know,” her dad said. “The successful author who writes those big thrillers. He’s great.” Her father had become a fan since Tallie had started sending him copies of Cooper’s books.

  “Is that safe?” her mother asked. “Doesn’t he write about professional killers and perverts?”

  Tallie pursed her mouth. “Mom, it’s fiction. Just because he writes about those things doesn’t mean he lives them.”

  “Well, it still sounds dangerous to me.”

  “I think it’s great, honey, congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Tallie,” her mother said, “I dropped a package in the mail for you today, an early birthday gift. I sent it parcel post—have you noticed how much postage has gone up? Now that’s a crime somebody should write about.”

  “I’ll be looking for the package, Mom, thanks.” Tallie’s doorbell rang, saving her. “Oh, there’s my dinner.”

  “All that take-out food isn’t good for you,” her mother admonished. “You should cook once in a while. And when Sheila’s son calls, be nice.”

  “Take care, sweetheart,” her father said. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll call again soon.” She hung up the phone and shook her head ruefully—hadn’t she known what would happen? And Keith Wages would give her mother something to obsess about for a few months.

  The doorbell rang again, more insistently. She grabbed her purse on the way and counted out cash, then turned the dead bolts and opened the door the four inches the safety chain would allow. But instead of a burrito-bearing delivery person, Mr. Emory, the stout building super, stood outside her door wearing an unflattering black velour running suit.

  “Something dead in there?” he asked without preamble, his big nose twitching.

  “What? No.”

  “There’s a bad smell on the stairs and it’s coming from one of the apartments on this floor.”

  “Well, it’s not coming from in here.”

  “Still,” he said flatly, “I need to check it out.”

  Tallie frowned. “Give me a minute, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, be brisk about it. I got eleven more apartments to check.”

  She closed the door and glanced over the disarray in her apartment; she couldn’t make a dent in a minute’s time. Resigned, she unlocked the chain and opened the door. “Sorry for the mess. I’m cleaning.”

  He took one look around and said, “Good. It needs it.”

  She squirmed. This was the equivalent of lying on a gurney in the emergency room wearing dirty underwear. And she hated feeling guilty about it—every guy she’d ever dated lived in worse conditions, yet it seemed to be men’s God-given right to be untidy and women’s God-given duty to care.

  Mr. Emory poked in her garbage, then recoiled.

  “Bad orange juice,” she offered.

  He opened and closed the refrigerator door, then stuck his head in her bedroom.

  “Satisfied?” she asked.

  “I suppose,” he said. “But you’d better take out that trash. If you attract roaches, I’ll have to charge you for the pest control service.”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  He left shaking his head, and Tallie felt like a bum. On the spot, she decided to call Felicia’s maid service and have them come over to give the place a good thorough cleaning. After that, upkeep wouldn’t be so bad. She dialed Felicia’s number, thinking it would also be a good excuse to check on her friend.

  Just in case the situation Felicia thought would take care of itself needed a little nudge.

  Chapter 5

  Felicia wiped the flour from her hands on the hem of her vintage rose-patterned apron and leaned over the Blankenship Bulletin, reviewing the ingredients for Merrilyn’s Best Carrot Cake to make sure she hadn’t left out anything. The wonderful thing about Tallie’s mother’s cake recipes was the extra care required in preparing the ingredients, such as replacing a certain amount of the flour with finely ground hazelnuts; that kind of attention to detail was the difference between a homemade cake and a concoction worthy of the best bakeries in Manhattan. Felicia had learned early on that the foundation of being an accomplished baker was using only the best ingredients.

  She dipped her finger into the thick, apricot-colored batter, dotted with fat golden raisins and shredded sweet carrots, and touched the dollop to her tongue. Mm—heaven. Tallie had no appreciation for her mother’s genius in the kitchen. Over the years, Felicia had gotten some of her best baking tips through the Blankenship holiday newsletter, like the importance of sifting cake flour and how to remove a bundt cake from its pan with perfect results every time. Merrilyn Blankenship was a domestic goddess.

  Felicia held the mixing bowl over the first of two round flour-dusted pans and, as carefully as one would handle an explosive substance, used a wooden spoon to dole out one-half of the lovely batter. The phone rang and she sighed. Once mixed, batter should never sit because the tiny air bubbles would begin to dissipate, resulting in a heavy cake (another newsletter tip). She glanced at the caller ID screen—Tallie—then picked up the receiver and jammed it between her ear and shoulder. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me—did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “I’m in the kitchen.”

  “Heating up a frozen dinner?”

  A wry smile curved Felicia’s mouth. “Yeah. Give me a minute to get this in the oven, okay?” She set down the receiver and carefully emptied the bowl into the second round cake pan, lightly tapped each on the counter to level the batter, then slid them onto the oven’s center rack, positioning them two inches apart for best heat circulation. After setting the timer for thirty minutes, she picked up the phone. “Okay, I’m back.”

  “Microwaving those frozen entrees is much faster,” Tallie said.

  “But they don’t taste as good,” Felicia said breezily. “What’s up with you?”

  “I’m biting the bullet and calling to get the name of your maid service—my place is a total wreck.”

  Felicia glanced around her kitchen, spotless save for the cake-making supplies she had pulled from the glass-front white cabinets, and stalled. “Actually, Tallie, the service has been coming for so long, I don’t remember the name offhand.”

  “Can you look it up?” Tallie pressed. “Your place always looks so great. If I’m going to spend the money, I want to go with a service I know does a good job.”

  “I’ll look for it while we talk,” she said, buying time.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “The migraine is gone,” Felicia lied. But her head did feel better—baking always eased her stress level.

  “Good. And I hope you don’t let what Jane said about Jerry Key get to you.”

  Removing a yellow pages volume from a drawer, Felicia emitted a little laugh. “You mean Jané, don’t you?”

&
nbsp; “You said it yourself, Jerry’s a bastard.”

  “True, but I thought even he had more integrity than to spread rumors about me.”

  “Felicia…you’re not still hung up on the guy, are you? I mean, if you are, I wouldn’t think badly of you.”

  Felicia stopped, then wondered what possible good could come from telling the truth. “No, Tallie, I’m not still hung up on him.”

  Tallie’s sigh of relief whistled through the receiver. “Good. So what happened today to put you in such a bad mood? It couldn’t be as bad as my gray hair.”

  The nude picture of herself rose in Felicia’s mind. “No. Nothing as bad as your gray hair.” But her voice sound high and false, even to her own ears.

  “You know, Felicia, that you could tell me anything, that I would help you any way I could, don’t you?”

  Felicia’s chest warmed with true affection, and she attempted a laugh to lighten the mood. “If I decide to put a hit out on Jerry Key, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Deal,” Tallie said, her voice equally light. “Oh, I didn’t tell you—I’m supposed to meet the son of a friend of my mother’s for coffee on Wednesday.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Are you kidding? The guy sounded like a dork on the phone. I’m hoping I get the flu so I can cancel. And my mother is already pestering me about it.”

  “Then you’d better get it over with,” Felicia said, trying to remember the last time her mother had cared about anything in her life. She wasn’t even sure if her mother was in town, or off on one of her “business” trips with a “client.”

  “Did you find the name of your maid service?”

  Felicia looked down at the Cleaning Services page beneath her finger and selected the nicest ad. “Imperial Mother’s Maid Service.”

  “Okay, thanks. Gotta run, there’s my dinner at the door. Call me this week when you get a chance.”

  “I will,” Felicia said, then disconnected the call slowly. She didn’t like fibbing to Tallie, but her friend would never believe that she did her own cleaning and enjoyed it, no less. It was her own little secret; by all outward appearances, she was super career woman, but in the privacy of her own home, she preferred cotton house dresses and rubber gloves. It made her feel…nostalgic, like looking at the world through technicolored glasses.