Once Around

by Barbara Bretton

  She wanted him to be different, though. She wanted him to see her.

  #

  Molly whipped her car into the parking space next to Jessy's then jumped out. "You were supposed to wait for me at the hospital," she said, feeling more than a little put out. "I sat there for twenty minutes."

  "I'm sorry." The doctor's face reddened visibly. "I'totally forgot." Ah totally fuhgot.

  "It happens," Molly said. They started across the parking lot to the secondhand shop. "So what are you doing out here? You should be inside, trying on clothes."

  "I was waiting for you," Jessy said, tossing a cup and crumpled napkin into the trash can near the curb. "And eating lunch," Molly observed.

  "That, too."

  Molly was sure that was only part of the truth. The good doctor's nerves were practically vibrating. Molly didn't get that nervous going to the dentist, and she hated the dentist. She swung open the door and motioned Jessy inside. "Now, there's no guarantee we're going to find anything for you," she said. "The stock changes all the time. Sometimes you're lucky, sometimes you aren't."

  Jessy nodded. She looked like a poorly dressed. twelve-year-old. They had their work cut out for them and not much time.

  #

  Jessy had never seen anything like the way Molly shopped. She moved up and down the aisles with great deliberation, touching some items, ignoring others, evaluating the different outfits according to some mysterious criteria that Jessy was sure she'd never understand.

  A soft pink swirl of fabric caught her eye. "This is pretty," she said to Molly. "I love pink."

  Molly's scowl was forbidding. "You've been spending too much time in the nursery," she said. "Forget pink. I was thinking bronze or copper or maybe a beautiful burnished gold."

  Jessy had been thinking pink or blue. "I always thought pink was my best color."

  "Over my dead body."

  Jessy laughed. "You take this very seriously."

  "Darn right I do." She grabbed Jessy by the wrist. "Now, come over here. I think I've found exactly what you need."

  It was a short, shimmery, nothing of a dress. Skinny straps, a straight column of golden brown fabric that stopped well above the knees.

  "I look like a flapper," Jessy said as she stepped cautiously from the dressing room.

  "You look wonderful," Molly motioned for her to turn around. "Lucky you. You have no hips. This dress is perfect for you."

  "I hate it."

  "Doesn't matter," said Molly.. "I'm telling you this is the dress for you."

  "But I hate it," Jessy repeated. That should count for something.

  "You should hate your hair," Molly said. "That's what's wrong with the picture. You need a sleek, Louise Brooks type of bob, maybe a few highlights."

  "Louise Brooks?"

  "She was a movie star."

  "I never heard of her."

  Molly grinned. "She was a little bit before your time. She made silent movies."

  "How do you know about her?"

  "I copyedited a biography about her."

  "And you think I should wear my hair like her?"

  "Absolutely. The second you came out of that dressing room, I knew exactly what you should do."

  "I'm not cutting my hair." Her hair was her only vanity. If she cut her hair, she might as well go in for a sex-change operation. Nobody would be able to tell she was a girl without a DNA test.

  "Just think about it," Molly said. "It could change your life."

  #

  Molly knew there wasn't a snowball's chance that Jessy would cut her hair. It was a real shame because a short, sassy cut and a few sparkling highlights would do wonders for her, especially in that dress.

  That was one triumph, at least. Jessy bought the flapper-style dress. Now all she had to do was find the right shoes and she'd be set.

  Which was more than Molly could say.

  She came home from shopping in a fashion frenzy. She flew upstairs to the bedroom, yanked off her clothes, and began rummaging through her closet in search of the perfect outfit. The sapphire blue slip dress looked like a sausage casing over her pregnancy poundage. Who would think twelve pounds could make such a difference? Naked it was barely noticeable, but try to fit those same twelve pounds into a sleek dress and you had a blueprint for disaster. Or at least a spot on Mr. Blackwell's list. The rust-colored taffeta looked like a clown suit. She couldn't zip up the skirt to the winter-white dinner suit and couldn't afford a trip back to the consignment shop for herself. There had to be something in this closet that she could wear, some outfit that wouldn't make people laugh and point at her over their fruit cups.

  Finally she hit on a whisper of black silk, cut on the bias, made to hug curves but not embarrass them. And her curves were easily embarrassed these days. She slipped the dress over her head and held her breath. Inch by inch it slid down over her considerable breasts, her widening waist, her baby-maker hips, and then it settled into place. She approached the minor with deliberation and caution. If this didn't work, she was out of options.

  It worked. She almost let out a cheer. She could zip what needed to be zipped and she could breathe without worrying about splitting a side seam. Asking for more than that was tempting the fates.

  The doorbell rang as she was rummaging around at the bottom of her closet for the perfect shoes. She was expecting a box of manuscripts via FedEx, and they required a signature and experience had taught her they didn't like to be kept waiting. She flew barefoot down the stairs. "I'm almost there!" she called out. "One more second and—"

  She flung open the door and found herself face-to-face with Rafe Garrick.

  Chapter Ten

  She was barefoot. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair tousled around her face and shoulders.

  Those shoulders.

  Creamy. Fragile. Bare.

  His eyes trailed across those bare shoulders and dropped lower. If he'd ever wondered about the existence of magic in this world, he stopped wondering at that moment. Her magnificent breasts, barely restrained by the silky black dress, were all the proof he needed.

  "Rafe!" She looked rattled, flustered. She wrapped her arms across her chest in a protective gesture that only deepened her cleavage. A man could lose himself in there. "What are you doing here?"

  "I tried to call you," he said, looking past her into the hall. She looked lush and beautiful, like a woman who'd just been loved. "Your machine's not working."

  "There's nothing wrong with my machine," she said, stepping aside and motioning him into the house. "It was working this morning."

  "I called five times," he said, trying not to notice the scent of Shalimar wafting up from her warm, bare skin. "It just rang through."

  "I don't understand," she said, gliding toward the kitchen. The soft swirl of skirt molded her hips and hinted at the swell of her buttocks. A few fiercely vivid fantasies presented themselves to him, but he counted to ten and thought about nuclear disarmament instead. He didn't see any sign of company. No man's coat tossed casually over a chair. No tie on the stair railing. He already knew there wasn't a Porsche in the driveway. That was the first thing he'd looked for.

  "The machine's on," she said, pointing toward the steady red light near the top.

  "Yeah," he said, "but the tape's out." He pointed toward a microcassctte on the counter.

  "Damnation," she said, "The tape broke, and I forgot to put a new one back in."

  "Mystery's solved," he said, tossing her the cassette. "Maybe it's time to switch to voicemail."

  "My husband cancelled our voicemail when he left," she said. "I found this in the basement."

  She popped cassette in place, closed the lid, then turned back to him. She looked deliciously rumpled, the way she'd look after a night in his arms. The way she looked every time he made love to her in his dreams. What would she do if she knew he was making love to her right now, stroking her with his thumbs, piercing her with his tongue—

  "Rafe." Her cheeks flushed even brighter red
. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  Because I'm rock hard just from looking at you, he thought. Because breathing the same air makes me want to take you right now, standing up, no preliminaries, no sweet talk. He didn't say it, though. He angled himself behind the work counter and moved right on past the question.

  "The weather broke," he said, as if that was all he'd been thinking about. "I could finish off the deck this afternoon."

  "Oh." She looked at him as if she didn't quite believe him. "It's after two o'clock. Isn't that kind of late to get started?"

  "I can put in a good five hours before it gets dark. That might be enough to knock it off."

  "It's up to you," she said, glancing down at her slender bare feet. Her toenails were painted a vivid red. He would do that for her. The two of them in bed, her foot against his belly while he applied the polish slowly and carefully.

  "You're doing it again."

  "Doing what?"

  "Looking at me as if you've never seen me before."

  "I haven't," he said. "I mean, not dressed like that."

  She lifted her chin a fraction. "I was trying on clothes for Saturday night's dance. I'm showing more than I realized. This was the best I could come up with."

  "You're beautiful." He hadn't meant to say it, but the words had a will of their own. "I mean, the dress is beautiful."

  "Thank you." That was all she said. He waited for a smile, some flicker of recognition in those beautiful blue eyes, but there was nothing. Those two words stopped him cold.

  "I'd better get to work," he said.

  "I'd better change," she said.

  He wondered why. She was already perfect.

  #

  Rafe finished the deck on Friday afternoon. Molly was on the telephone with Spencer, confirming their plans for tomorrow night when she heard the rumble of an engine in her driveway.

  "Hold on one second," she said to Spencer and ran to the front door in time to see Rafe's truck disappear around the corner.

  She stepped out onto the porch to see if he'd left a note for her. She checked the garage and the back door. Nothing. He'd left without even saying good-bye.

  "Is something wrong?" Spencer asked when she came back on the line. "You sound upset."

  "I'm fine," she lied. Rafe didn't owe her a good-bye. He didn't even owe her the deck he'd just rebuilt. "You were saying ...''

  He picked up the conversation where they'd left off, some bit of office gossip that, if she were being totally honest, meant nothing to her. His small talk was comforting, and she had deluded herself that they were becoming close friends. He was so good at it that it had taken her weeks to realize that they talked about nothing at all that mattered. She knew he'd lost a brother some years back and that family dynamics had changed in some way, but he never opened up to her and shared the particulars. She wasn't sure he would know how. Spencer's defenses were securely in place, and Molly doubted he'd lower them any time soon.

  She enjoyed his friendship, felt comfortable with him, but she never stopped feeling lonely in his company. She knew even less about Rafe than she did about Spencer, yet she never felt lonely when he was around.

  Jessy was at the hospital all day Friday. Molly thought she heard her come in after midnight, but when she woke up Saturday morning, Jessy was nowhere in sight.

  Molly made breakfast then settled down to the wonderful rituals that surrounded a night out. She couldn't remember the last time she'd indulged herself this way—manicure, pedicure, hair, perfume, makeup—even a garter belt and stockings, although nobody else on earth would know she had them on. She supposed it was ridiculous, a lonely pregnant woman indulging her sensual side, but lately she found she couldn't ignore her body. For the first time in her life it wouldn't let her.

  She was blooming. Her breasts, her belly, her outlook, her needs. She wanted to share herself with someone who loved her, someone who would touch her and caress her and help her explore this miracle that was her body.

  Another of life's little jokes, she supposed. She finally awoke from her sensual slumber, only to find herself alone.

  She wished she'd asked Rafe if he was going to the dance. Not that she expected he would. She couldn't imagine him enjoying anything so staid and dull. Besides, who said he was alone? A man who looked like that probably had more women than he could handle. He probably juggled lovers like circus performers juggled apples and knives and red rubber balls.

  You know that's not true. You know he's as lonely as you are.

  She pushed the idea aside. That kind of thinking led women to make terrible mistakes. She didn't know anything about him, not really. He was from Montana. He was divorced. He lived up near Stockton by the river. That was the sum total of her knowledge of Rafe Garrick.

  He's alone, Molly. Nobody has to tell you that. You've known it right from the start.

  It didn't matter. Their lives weren't connected in any way beyond the obvious. Once he finished repaying his debt he'd be gone, and she'd never see him again.

  It's your own fault. Why didn't you ask him to the charity dinner?

  She gave him a ticket. What more did she have to do?

  You know there's a difference between giving him a ticket and asking him to join you.

  "Oh, shut up," she muttered as she turned on the water for her shower. None of this mattered a damn. He had his life, and she had hers. It would take more than a ticket to a dinner-dance to bring the two of them together.

  It would take a miracle.

  "I know she's home," Molly said to Spencer a few hours later. "Her car's in the garage, and I heard the shower running."

  "I don't hear a shower running now." Spencer glanced at his watch. He didn't need to. He already knew they were running late. "Maybe she lost track of time."

  "I'll go upstairs and sec what's what."

  Heat gathered low in his belly as he watched her go. You'd have to be dead not to react to the sight of her lush body in motion. She looked so magnificent that she scared him. Where she'd been beautiful before, she was otherworldly now. Woman to the infinite power.

  Powerful. That was the word to describe her these days. She radiated sensual power. He'd always thought of pregnant women as having an asexual, Madonna-like appeal, but Molly blew that thesis to bits. He felt sorry for Jessy, having to compete with a goddess. No wonder she was still upstairs. If he almost felt like bolting, Jessy must be damn near suicidal.

  He paced the foyer, considered lighting a cigarette, then thought better of it. He heard voices, the staccato tap of high heels, laughter. He turned toward the staircase.

  "I found her," Molly said. She had a funny smile on her face, as if she couldn't quite believe what she was saying.

  "Are you sure?" he muttered, looking at the woman gliding down the steps behind her. Jessy Wyatt was a small, forgettable little brown-haired bit of attitude who thought a clean pair of scrubs was haute couture.

  "You'd better smile or somethin'," Jessy said, "because the way you're lookin' at me is makin' me real nervous."

  "Wow," he said. "You look incredible." He wasn't lying. Her tiny body looked amazing in that flapper-style dress, delicate and heart-stopping. He looked at her more closely. "Did you do something to your hair?"

  Jessy and Molly laughed out loud.

  "If you consider cutting off two feet of hair doing something," Molly said.

  "It's more than that," he said, admiring the sleek geometric bob. "The color—"

  "Highlights," Jessy said, giving her head a little toss. "It was Molly's idea."

  "Good idea," he said. He couldn't take his eyes off her. "You really do look incredible."

  "You said that already."

  "And I'll probably say it a dozen more times before the night's over, so get used to it." He grabbed his car keys from the small table beneath the hall mirror. "Come on, ladies. We don't want to miss the first dance."

  #

  Jessy had wondered how they were all going to fit into Spencer's Po
rsche. He must have wondered that, too, because he left the little sports car home and brought a roomier Jaguar instead. She didn't wonder who was going to sit in the back, however. There'd never been any doubt about that. She dutifully slipped into the backseat, while the radiantly pregnant Molly claimed the spot next to Spencer.

  In a way she was glad she was in the back. She could stare at Spencer all she wanted, memorize the way his hair kissed his collar, the way his elegant hands held the steering wheel, maybe even catch his eye in the rearview mirror and see him smile. She didn't even have to go to the dance. The look on his face when he saw her come down the stairs was everything she'd ever dreamed about. She could hold that one moment close for the rest of her life and die happy. He'd seen her, really seen her. He'd looked past Molly and into Jessy's eyes, and the only reflection she saw in his eyes was her own face.

  She'd lived her mama's dreams for so long that she'd almost forgotten they weren't her own. Nothing she'd ever accomplished, no scholarship or honor, had ever come close to making her feel the way she felt tonight. It didn't matter that she'd spend the evening watching him dance and laugh with Molly: She'd known that was the price of admission, and it was worth it.

  Molly and Spencer were chatting about the traffic, making idle, friendly conversation. There were no sparks flying between the two of them, at least none that Jessy could see. They sounded like two old friends, which their body language didn't dispute. Jessy was looking for a way to join in when her beeper sounded. She glanced at it, saw the hospital code, and nearly cried in disappointment.