Catherine could hear the thumping sound that was her friend tapping the phone like it was a mic she was checking for sound. “Oh my God, Georgia! That’s wonderful news!” She forced excitement into her voice to cover the sadness as she realized she was being left even farther behind now. A part of her had hoped it would take them even longer to conceive—like maybe until she made it down the aisle herself. That way they could have kids around the same time.
“Don’t be such a faker,” Georgia snapped. “I know you’re jealous as hell. But I still want you to be the godmother.”
“It will probably be the only mother I ever get to be,” Catherine grumbled.
“So you want to have a pity party? Get over yourself. Stop your whining and have a drink for me—”
“Listen, Georgia, I am just really distracted right now,” she said, wanting desperately to be more for her friend but feeling a sudden lack of oxygen in the room.
“Call me back when you’re done pouting.” Georgia’s tone was icy, as was the click disconnecting the line.
As Catherine hung up her end too, precious air immediately filled her lungs. It was like the phone had become a vacuum, sucking oxygen out of the space, killing her with reality.
She didn’t have time for her friend’s joy, or the energy to take part…. She was on a mission. Her hand clutched the mouse and her finger busily scrolled down the screen as she looked at tiny pictures of just how pitiful her current existence had become. She had already searched for “Caramellie” and “Mattel” and “Sweet Treats” and “sundae doll” and “little doll.” Now she was searching for “tiny doll.”
Catherine had tried to avoid this; even attempted to channel her inner Elizabeth Hemmings (without the aid of a psychic professional considering her mother was alive and well in Pennsylvania, at least for a little while longer), telling herself that Caramellie was just one more useless old thing that had gotten lost along the way, like Strawberry Shortcake and Barbie and Annette Rose, her Cabbage Patch Kid. But she would have none of that—willfully disposed of, is more like it. Then she reminded herself that she was a thirty-four-year-old, independent, capable, strong woman who didn’t need a dolly to get through the night… or her life. She assured herself that it was ridiculous to go searching half-cocked across the internet for a toy to replace the one she hadn’t even thought about in over twenty years; and reminded herself that she was a grown woman who had thrown away, given away, and sold more of her possessions over the years than she could count… with zero regrets; and further definitively pointed out that there was nothing about Caramellie that would make her richer or better off in general. The devil about fighting with herself, though, was that she always won.
Now that the prosecution had rested, the argument for the defense was that millions of people—heck, probably most people—had some sort of collection they cherished. Most of those collections had little value but to the owner. And there was nothing wrong with that, if it made that person happy. Perhaps this was her inner passion seeking outlet—just the beginning of something big. Maybe she was meant to be an old maid surrounded by the trappings of her youth, with toys covering every square inch of her tiny New York City apartment that she would eventually die in—alone. At least she wasn’t hoarding cats or anything.
No, she had ultimately decided, there were worse things she could be than a woman with a mission to reacquire one, single, solitary, special toy from her childhood. It wasn’t like she was planning on spending her pittance of a life-savings on it… or spending hours and days of her time searching for it. She was just skimming some listings online, perhaps planning to hit a few antique stores if she happened across them on her normal travels, maybe a garage sale here or there.
“There it is,” she said out loud to no one. The awe in her voice would have been better matched to finding early man perfectly preserved in solid ice.
There was only one entry—of course, since anyone with half a mind would never even think about ridding herself of such a classic piece. Judging from the title, the seller didn’t even have a clue what kind of treasure he or she had—“Tiny Ice Cream Dollhouse.” She huffed at the realization that such a total rube was in possession of a Caramellie doll set. Although it could definitely make winning her that much easier.
Catherine clicked on the item and read the description: Excellent used condition, includes pieces shown in pictures. Short and simple, and totally naïve. Doesn’t even know her name; might as well call her Jane Doe Doll. She scrolled down through the pictures. The enlarged shots showed a couple of paint rubs on the body of the house and some of the accessories, and the decals were curling up at the edges in spots, but it was in pretty terrific shape for a thirty-year-old toy—better shape than I am. The going price was $21.95. No bids. More than it had cost new, but far from obscene. And she had no other options. And she wouldn’t think twice of spending as much or more on… well, pretty much anything.
The seller had taken a shot from every single angle, and Catherine looked more closely at the last picture. There was a sticker on the bottom of the house. It wasn’t a decal from the manufacturer. It was a round yellow sticker that said “Poppin’ Good” and had a cartoon piece of popcorn on it—a scratch ’n sniff. The hair on the back of her neck rose up.
That’s my Caramellie!
She had put that sticker on the bottom of her own dollhouse in order to tell hers apart from her friend Suzy’s when she brought it with her on a sleepover. This was her exact doll set. She looked at the location of the item—how the hell did it end up in Florida?
The phone next to her rang, jolting her rudely out of her thoughts.
She snatched it up. “Yeah, what?” she asked brusquely.
“Nice greeting, princess,” Connor said.
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“How many times do I have to tell you not to answer the phone during—”
“I’m not having sex,” she groaned.
“I was going to say your period.”
“I don’t have my period, you big jerk.”
“So there’s another reason you sound like a total bitch?”
“I do not sound like a total bitch.”
“Whatever.” He said it with aggravating nonchalance.
“Shut up!” she yelled, hating when he made her sound like exactly what he was calling her.
“You’ve made my point, bitch.”
She forced her tongue to relax before he goaded her into saying anything worse.
Catherine’s eyes remained trained on the screen before her. There were two days left on the seven-day auction. It would come to an end on Thursday at precisely 5:32 PM, Pacific time. At 8:32 on Thursday night, she would be trapped in hell—at a party at her boss’s house.
“So you’re not going to talk to me now?” Connor prodded.
“I was just waiting for you to grow up.”
“Well, I was calling to let you know that I looked through the boxes, which, by the way, Lacey did not get rid of.”
“She’s letting you keep them?” she asked, surprised. “I bet in the garage, right?”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Anyway, I looked through and found a pair of pink ruffled thong panties, and since you said pink and frilly—”
“Eew! They’re not mine!” she shrieked. “You might want to throw those out before Lacey sees them.”
“Why?”
“You want to explain who you were screwing before her?”
“They’re mine, Cat,” he said evenly.
“And that makes it better?”
“I wore them on senior prank day. We all did. Streaked through the gym in nothing but them.”
“Mom and Dad should be so proud.”
“Damn straight. I was voted best buns in the yearbook.”
“They don’t have that category in the yearbook.”
“I was the inaugural winner.”
“My baby brother,” she swooned.
“Fuck off.”
“You brought it up,” she pointed out.
“Anyway, I don’t have anything of yours.”
“Did you get your Star Wars stuff from home?”
“Of course.”
“Seriously?” She seethed at the double standard. So they kept his toys, but my toys were just a bunch of useless shit.
“I got that stuff a long time ago, why?”
“When exactly?”
“After college. I went home for the summer, remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“Oh yeah, you were drinking pretty heavily back then,” he snickered.
“Screw you,” she spat back.
“Anyway, when I moved out I took a whole bunch with me.”
Why the hell didn’t I go back home and take my stuff? Oh yeah, I had a job when I got out of school. And for that I am punished.
“Cat?”
“What?” she asked, her finger poised on the trigger to bid on Caramellie.
“You just got quiet. What’s the deal?”
“It’s nothing. Listen, thanks for letting me know. I’ll talk to you later,” she said quickly, cutting him off before he could start digging.
She put thirty dollars in the field and clicked to place her bid. With satisfaction, she watched herself become the high bidder. Then she thought twice and put an extra five in on top. With shipping it would only be a scant bit over forty—a reasonable price to pay for a piece of her history. Besides, as the only bidder in five days she would probably get it in hand for thirty.
-7-
“I just always imagined taking my kids home to the house I grew up in for holidays and junk,” she said, swirling her drink.
“You don’t even have kids yet,” Georgia pointed out. “Not that there is anything wrong with that,” she added quickly, touching Catherine’s arm lightly as if to lessen the blow.
“Precisely. And now by the time I do, my hometown house will be a memory.”
“Well refresh my memory… didn’t you say about Christmas last year—the birth of Christ, mind you—and I quote, ‘another friggin’ weekend with the folks.’”
“That doesn’t mean that I won’t want to bring my future family there to visit the grandparents and take part in all the traditions. Facing my parents like this—single and biologically over the hill—it’s just a big pain in the ass. But when I have a family of my own—”
“Shhh, he’s coming,” Georgia said between the gritted teeth of a too-big smile.
“Don’t shush me,” Catherine smarted.
“We can talk about marriage and kids later. You don’t want to scare him off, do you?”
She ventured a peek toward the door of the restaurant and thought, yeah… actually I think I do. Catherine knew that Georgia meant well, but while they were the best of friends inside and out, they had completely contradictory interests in men. This guy was Thomas Love’s twin. Not that Thomas wasn’t a completely nice guy, but he was so stiff and formal. Catherine didn’t understand why, but for some reason that was just Georgia’s type; maybe she brimmed with enough life for a couple and any more exuberance in a relationship would be downright volatile.
Catherine deserved this setup though. This last-minute blind date was a symbolic throwing down of the gauntlet after her shitty reception of the pregnancy news last night. The guy was a business associate of Thomas’s who was in town for a few days and needed to be entertained—I’m not talking sex, mind you, Georgia had assured her… although getting a little somethin’-somethin’ couldn’t hurt, Cat, it has been a while…. It was the least Catherine could do to have a drink and some dinner with an ogre, a troll, a serial killer, or this guy; if only to show her love for her best friend in the world. At least it was a double date. I’ll do it, but I’m not going to like it.
“By the way, I’m glad you wore that suit,” Georgia whispered out the side of her face. “It’s perfect. The lines are tight and sexy but still conservative and business-like. He’ll love it.”
Catherine thought about the fact that she hadn’t actually dressed for the occasion. She had come straight from work where she’d had a meeting with the brass this afternoon. This was her most formal spring work attire, and she hadn’t had the time or the will to go home and change for a mere setup. Had she only known that this was up his alley, she would have found the time to put on something more distasteful.
Georgia got up excitedly as the guy Catherine was betrothed to for the next meal reached the table. “Oh, I’m so glad you could make it. Mitchell, this is Catherine.” She motioned elegantly with her arm toward her still-seated friend.
Catherine gulped down a swig of her drink—ordered by Georgia, who knew that Mitchell just loved a woman with a cosmo in hand. Keep ‘em coming!—anything to make getting through this that much easier.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, standing up and curtsying slightly; just enough to make Georgia bristle, she was sure, though she didn’t look over to see.
“Catherine, it’s my pleasure,” he said, giving her a once-over that was exceedingly not business-like and conservative.
“Sit—sit,” Georgia said, putting out her arms and pressing down at the air as if she were a conductor who could control them. Then she grabbed for her phone quickly, although it most certainly hadn’t rung. She put it to her ear and whispered low into it, then closed it abruptly. “Ooh, I’m so sorry. Looks like Thomas isn’t going to be able to make it. He isn’t feeling well. He’s already on his way home and I told him I would meet him there.”
Catherine shot daggers at her friend. There was no way all that had transpired in the phone call. Touché, Mrs. Love.
Georgia opened her eyes wide and nodded toward bachelor number thirty-one, warning her in just so many gestures and facial expressions to be a good date and call her later.
As her ex-friend left the restaurant, Catherine gazed longingly at the exit, wondering how long she would be imprisoned here and whether this guy’s freakishly long arms would turn into octopus tentacles as time progressed.
“So, Georgia tells me that you’ve never been married.” He seemed genuinely surprised.
“Yup, never,” she said curtly, wishing she had prepared more for the night, like maybe downed several beers on her way over and a few shots before sitting down.
“I just can’t believe that a woman of your age hasn’t ever tied the knot.”
“My age?” she asked incredulously.
He reached over and grabbed her drink, asking, “May I?” Without waiting for the answer, he took a large, satisfied swallow. Then he moved to set the half-empty glass back in front of her.
Catherine waved him off. “Keep it,” she said, turning green at the thought of sharing a drink with the man, let alone a table and a few hours of conversation.
He hefted the glass in a gesture of cheers and quickly drained it.
Now that’s rich—guy steals my girlie drink and downs it like a shot. Priceless.
“So, have you been married before, Mitch?”
“It’s actually Mitchell Anderson III, but I go by Mitchell.” He raised a hand and snapped his fingers, holding up her empty glass and letting a passing waiter know he wanted two more of the same.
“But of course,” she said coldly, wondering what self-respecting man ordered a cosmo… and on a first date. Plus she had a sneaking suspicion that this guy most certainly went by Mitchell Anderson III, especially in bed.
“I have been married,” he said with pride. “I’m actually separated right now.”
Not a pinch of embarrassment or sadness. Nothing. Georgia! she screamed in her head, wishing for the telepathy to make her friend hear her ear-piercing shrieks wherever she was in the city right now.
She grabbed at the ring hanging just below her collar bone and ran it along the chain, preferring the slight whirring sound it created to the droning of her date’s voice that was like ice picks in her brain.
“You should really have that checked out,” he laughed, pointin
g toward her chest.
“Excuse me?” she choked out. Is this asshole going to tell me that he’s authorized to do breast examinations?
“That.” He pointed again toward her chest. “It’s a horrible tell. I can see that you’re nervous.”
She realized he was talking about her hands, assuming her fidgeting with her necklace was pent-up excitement about their date rather than a need to keep her hands occupied so she wouldn’t take a swing at him.
Catherine reached down to her purse that sat snug up against her leg under the table, trying to get at her phone so she could send her friend Tara an urgent, “spring me from this hell” message. Sure, she would be running from one bad matchmaker’s efforts straight into the haven of another bad matchmaker’s arms, but anything was better than losing a few hours of her life to Mitch. She had been playing her two friends against each other this way for years, as each continued to set her up with men entirely off the mark in the exact opposite directions. Her safe call was always the friend not at fault in the situation.
Her head was almost level with the table and her date leaned down on his side, looking straight at her cleavage that was full and snug in the v of her crisp coral suit.
“What is that anyway?” he asked, with come-hither words, as he reached toward her chest with one quick hand. He captured the necklace and pulled it closer to look at the charm hanging from it.
She had to lean forward just to make sure her chain didn’t break with the pressure. Perhaps this guy had prepared with a few too many drinks before getting here himself; he was a total oaf. Hardly seemed of the quality to be a III anything.
“What kind of pendant is this?” he asked, showing her the ring as if she didn’t know what she had hanging around her own neck.
“It’s a butterfly ring.”
“It’s a piece of crap. Probably paid a couple hundred at some boutique in Manhattan for an enameled, gold-plated piece of shit…. But I guess you’re all the same. My wife blew cash on that stuff all day and night, and I will be paying for more of the same for the rest of my life, what with alimony.”
You are going to owe me huge, Georgia, she seethed.
2 Days 'Til Sundae (2 'Til Series Book 1) Page 5