1
The good-looking man standing in my doorway wanted to
have sex with me.
That much was
apparent just from the way he was dressed. I wasn’t born yesterday.
(In point of fact, I was born twenty-seven years ago.) A man who
goes to that much trouble to look sexy has got definite plans in
mind when he arrives at a woman’s door.
Lopez wore a
sophisticated, well-cut black jacket and trousers with a black silk
shirt. Open at the neck, the shirt exposed the smooth, dark golden
skin of his throat. Even in my current state of panic and
depression, I noticed how tempting this was. But only
briefly.
The dim light in the
hallway glinted off his straight black hair as he held out a single
red rose to me.
I frowned. “What are
you doing here?”
He looked a little
surprised by this reception, but quickly regrouped. “We have a date
tonight.”
“We do?”
“Yes, Esther.” The
hand holding the rose dropped to his side. “Sunday night. Dinner. I
wanted to . . .” Thick black lashes lowered over blue eyes as his
gaze flickered over me. “You’re not exactly dressed for
celebrating,” he noted.
“Celebrating?” I
snapped. “Celebrating? Are you
insane?”
He blinked. “Did
something happen?”
“Ohmigod!” I suddenly
realized what he was doing there. “We have a date
tonight!”
He lifted one brow.
“Do you want to close the door? I could knock on it, and we could
start all over again.”
“You look nice,” I
said, hoping to make up for my earlier behavior.
“Can I come in?” he
asked patiently.
“Oh! Of course.” I
moved aside and gestured for him to enter my home.
I live in a good
apartment for a struggling actress in New York City. It’s a
second-floor walk-up in the West Thirties, near Ninth Avenue. The
neighborhood is about as elegant as the floor of a public bathroom,
and the apartment is old and falling apart. But my place is
spacious (by Manhattan standards) and rent-controlled, and I have
it all to myself.
However, even with
rent control, I was currently worried about how I’d keep a roof
over my head.
I closed the door
behind Lopez and turned to face him as he stood in my living room.
I realized he looked better than nice, he looked traffic-stopping.
I suddenly regretted that I was greeting him with messy, unwashed
hair, wearing old sweatpants and a T-shirt from the Actor’s Studio,
with a half-eaten pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream in my
hand.
Prince Charming meets
the Bag Lady.
Except that Detective
Connor Lopez didn’t look innocuous enough to be Prince Charming.
(He also didn’t look like a Connor.) Thirty-one years old, he had
inherited exotic dark looks from his Cuban father and lively blue
eyes from his Irish American mother. Average height, with a slim,
athletic build, he looked like a man who’d want more than a chaste
kiss in exchange for rescuing the sleeping princess. Especially
dressed the way he was tonight.
I’m 5 foot 6 and in
decent enough condition to do eight performances of a
song-and-dance musical in skimpy clothes every week, but I’m not
skinny enough to work in Hollywood. I’ve got brown eyes, brown
shoulder-length hair, and fair skin. My looks are versatile, and I
can play heroines onstage, but my face, like my figure, doesn’t
meet Hollywood leading-lady standards. However, when he chose,
Lopez had a way of looking at me that made me feel like a sexy
movie-star vamp.
That wasn’t the look
he was giving me right now, though.
Eyeing my
not-ready-for-dinner appearance, he said, “I can wait while you
change. Er, shower and
change.”
“I can’t go out!”
Seeing his expression, I said more calmly, “I’m sorry. I just
can’t. Not tonight.”
Now he looked
concerned. “Are you okay?”
“No.” My stomach
roiled. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Maybe eating half a
pint of ice cream before dinner wasn’t such a good
idea?”
I shook my head.
“It’s not that.” As my stomach churned noisily, I said, “Well,
maybe that didn’t help.”
“Have a rose.” He
held out the flower again. As I accepted it from him, he added,
“And tell me what’s wrong.”
“Sorcerer! is closing.” I wanted to
cry.
Both brows rose this
time. “That’s unexpected, I take it?” When I nodded, he said, “When
did you find out?”
“About two hours
ago.” I had come back from yoga class, done two loads of laundry,
cleaned the apartment, and was just about to step into the shower
when I got the call informing me I was out of work. I’d been in a
blue funk ever since.
“So . . . just like
that? The show’s over?”
I nodded morosely and
sat down on my couch. I gently laid the rose on my coffee table,
then I took another bite of ice cream. Lopez sat down next to me
and took my free hand. Then he looked down at our joined hands,
frowning a little.
“Sorry,” I said. My
hand was sticky. “It’s the Turtle Soup.”
“The
what?”
I waggled my Ben and
Jerry’s carton at him. “The ice cream. Lots of
caramel.”
“Oh.” When I tried to
pull my hand away, he held fast and said, “No, it’s
okay.”
“In times of stress,
I need ice cream,” I explained.
“Of course.” He
smiled. “Give me a bite.”
I scooped some out of
the carton in my lap and brought the spoon up to his mouth. His
lips were full and, I knew from experience, felt lush when he
kissed.
Our eyes met as I
spooned caramel-laced ice cream into his mouth. When I started to
pull my hand away, he held it in place so he could lick the spoon.
I also knew from experience that he knew just what to do with his
tongue when he kissed.
“Mmm,” he said, still
looking at me.
It should have felt
sexy to feed him ice cream. Normally, it would. As previously
noted, I wasn’t dating him because it was the smart thing to do; I
just couldn’t keep away from him. And the way he looked tonight,
with his thick black hair falling over his forehead and his open
collar showing off his smooth throat . . .
I sighed
dispiritedly. I was just too upset to feel sexy. I was also too
unkempt and dirty. Some other time, when I felt better, I’d regret
that I had wasted this moment. But right now, even Lopez couldn’t
stir my hormones. That’s how bad I felt.
Evidently realizing
that all he’d get out of this moment
was a bite of ice cream, he let me lower the spoon. “That’s pretty
good. But I’m still a Cherry Garcia guy.”
“Heath Bar Crunch is
my usual poison.” I sighed. “But this was all I had in the freezer
when I got the call.”
Since I’m an actress,
I need to watch my weight. Especially while working in Sorcerer!, where my tight costumes left a lot of
skin bare (albeit covered in green body paint and glitter). So I
try to limit my ice cream consumption to special occasions and dire
circumstances; since life is full of both of these, I always keep a
pint or two on hand, just in case.
“So does this mean
you’re . . .” Lopez shrugged, not quite sure how to phrase it. “Out
of work?”
I nodded. “Out of
work.”
“That was
fast.”
“Welcome to my
world.” I ate another spoonful of the Turtle Soup.
“What
happened?”
I knew that to a
normal, salaried person—even to a cop, who sees everything—the
sudden, unexpected shift from employment to unemployment that’s a
normal part of an actor’s life looks pretty dizzying. In fact, it
makes actors dizzy, too. Right now, my head was
reeling.
“Well, you know,
reviews haven’t been so good,” I said. Sorcerer! was a tepid musical built entirely around
the (rather mediocre) magician who was the producer’s husband.
After sitting through a performance, Lopez had said that only the
chance to see me scamper around stage half-naked for two hours had
made it a good evening. Although this sort of comment is flattering
coming from my date, it’s alarming coming from an audience member.
I continued, “So our houses haven’t been good.”
“Your houses aren’t
good?” he repeated with a puzzled expression. “You mean, audiences
don’t applaud?”
“I mean, they don’t
come. Ticket sales are weak,” I clarified.
“Ah. Yeah, I noticed
that the night I came to see you. A lot of empty
seats.”
I nodded morosely.
“That’s a bad house—one with a lot of empty seats. And Sorcerer! is an expensive show. Golly Gee’s salary
alone . . .” I trailed off, since I’d just accidentally stepped
into territory I tried to avoid when I was with Lopez.
Golly Gee was the
surgically-enhanced, B-list pop star who played the female lead in
Sorcerer! I was a chorus nymph and her
understudy. My involvement in fighting Evil with Maximillian Zadok
had begun after Golly had vanished one night during the show’s
disappearing act. I mean, really
vanished.
Lopez knew from
interviewing us during the course of that investigation that Max
and I both believed Golly had vanished magically. (Which was indeed
the case.) He thought this was crazy, which Max assured me is a
very common reaction to paranormal events. I understood Lopez’s
point of view, since it was initially my reaction, too. Only
overwhelming evidence to the contrary, right before my eyes, had
convinced me to believe in things now that I knew Lopez still did
not believe in.
And any attempt to
convince Lopez of what had really happened would no doubt wind up
leading, in the end, to admitting that Max and I had killed
Hieronymus. Or sort of killed him. (The fact that any such
explanation would also convince Lopez I was nutty as a fruit-cake
concerned me, too, since I didn’t want him to stop asking me out.)
True, we had saved Golly Gee and the other disappearees, but Lopez
would insist on knowing how. And he was good at questioning people
and putting together scattered details until he figured things out.
I knew that if I let the subject be opened, there was no chance
that Lopez would let it be closed until he knew
everything.
So, having foolishly
lowered my guard enough to mention Golly, I tried to backtrack.
“Anyhow, musicals are very expensive, and without enough revenue
coming in, they’ve decided to close the show.”
“It probably hurt the
budget a lot when Golly, er, disappeared for more than a week?”
Lopez said, watching me with cop eyes now instead of
potential-lover eyes. This was exactly the sort of thing that had
made our first two dates a tad awkward.
“Yes. Keeping the
theater dark for that long was expensive.” I had refused to go on
in Golly’s place and do the disappearing act without knowing what
had happened to her. It was the only time in my entire life I had
let a show down. And it’s a good thing I did! If I had performed, I
would have become one of Hieronymus’ victims. The show only resumed
ten days later, when the evil apprentice was dead (or dissolved)
and Golly was back where she belonged. “Losing all that income hurt
us.” I took a bite of my ice cream.
“Golly has never been
very clear about where she went.” When I didn’t reply, Lopez added,
“You haven’t, either.”
“Oh, it’s all over
now,” I said, scooping up another bite of ice cream and offering it
to him. “So I don’t see why—”
He pushed the spoon
aside as he said, “Because filing a false report with the police is
illegal.”
“No one filed any
false reports!” I put the spoon back in the carton.
“And now Golly’s
explanation—like yours, Esther—is
vague, contradictory, and makes no sense.”
“I haven’t given you
an explanation!” I snapped.
“That’s right. You
really haven’t.” His expression said he was waiting for one
now.
Oops.
I decided to change
the subject. “Can we please focus on my
crisis for a minute? I’m out of work!”
He had the grace to
look a little contrite. “Okay. Fair enough. Are you—”
“Worried about bills?
Yes! I’m also worried about paying rent! Worried about when I’ll
get another acting job! And trying to find a way to earn a living
until then.”
He let go of my
sticky hand and put his arm around me. “I’m really sorry this
happened,” he said soothingly. “I know you were hoping the show
would run a while, maybe even move to Broadway.”
I leaned into his
arm. I’m not prickly, I like being comforted. I admitted, “I guess
I wasn’t being realistic. We never really got off the ground, and
an expensive show needs to come out of the gate like gangbusters to
succeed these days.” I sighed wearily. “But I did think we’d at
least make it through summer. So now it’s May and I have no
prospects for a summer job. I’ll have to find a way to make some
money.”
Lopez had spent
enough time with me by now to know that actors differentiate
between a real job, which means acting, and just earning
money—which means waiting tables, office temping, and other
between-job gigs that keep us from starving. In New York, an actor
who is “resting” is usually working fifty hours per week somewhere
to pay exorbitant rent on an apartment the size of a phone booth. I
was lucky, at least, in that I could reduce my expenses by getting
a roommate for the second bedroom in my rent-controlled apartment.
Although what qualified as a “second bedroom” in Manhattan would
scarcely have passed as a small walk-in closet in most other
cities.
However, I really
liked my space and my privacy; and I also hoped Lopez might start
coming over more often. So I’d rather work for a change in my
fortunes than let someone move into my apartment. Especially since
this city (brace yourself for a shock) is full of
weirdos.
“Look,” Lopez said,
giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze, “why don’t you change—um,
shower and change—and I’ll take you out
for a nice dinner. Maybe it’ll cheer you up a little, and we can
come up with some ideas for—”
“I can’t,” I said
apologetically. “I’ve spent the past two hours making phone calls,
and now—”
“I thought you spent
two hours being depressed and forgetting I was coming over,” he
said.
“I did that, too. I’m
a multitasker.” I shrugged. “I’m freaking out right now, but this
kind of thing is a standard part of my profession. When you’re
suddenly thrown out of work, you have to get on the phone right
away to start looking for another job and figure out how to keep
paying the bills. No delays, no moping. Even if you’re flat on your
back and crawling into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s at the exact same
time you’re making those calls.”
“So you were on the
phone looking for work today?” he said in surprise. “On
Sunday?”
“It’s a
twenty-four-seven city. A cop ought to know that.”
“Good point.” He took
the spoon from me and helped himself to another bite of ice cream
as he asked, “Any luck yet?”
“I don’t know. I had
to leave messages with everyone.”
“So bring your cell
phone to dinner,” he suggested, “and let’s go out.”
It was a generous
offer. I’d have been tempted to strangle a date who spent half the
evening on the cell phone, but he was evidently willing to put up
with it under special circumstances.
I considered it
briefly, but I thought of the effort it would take to shower, get
dressed, and primp for a nice evening out with a well-dressed man,
and I felt exhausted. Then my stomach churned again, reminding me
that eating a lot of ice cream when you’re upset isn’t always such
a good idea.
“I’m really sorry,” I
said. “I just don’t feel up to it right now.”
He looked
disappointed but said, “Okay. I can understand that.”
I felt terrible. A
man who didn’t sulk under such circumstances was worth more than
rubies. “I’ll make it up to you,” I promised. “But I’d be rotten
company tonight. Now that I’ve made all my calls . . . now I just want to lie on my couch
moping.”
“So you’re saying sex
is also off the menu tonight,” he guessed.
I jumped a little,
startled. It was the most direct he’d ever been about wanting to
get me into bed.
The blue of his eyes
suddenly looked darker. “I had plans.”
“And you dressed for
the occasion,” I noted.
His gaze dropped to
my mouth. “I didn’t do that for you. I did that for the hostess at
Raoul’s. I hear she’s hot.”
“You were going to
take me to Raoul’s?” It was a pricey restaurant in Soho with a
reputation for good food and a romantic ambience. I felt even worse
about canceling our date when I recalled, “Oh! You said you had
something to celebrate tonight?”
“Yeah.” He removed
his arm from my shoulders. Leaning back against the cushions, he
said, “But I see it’s not a good night for a celebration. So we’ll
do it next time.”
“Did you make
reservations?”
“I’ll
cancel.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry about
it,” he said. “You didn’t know you’d lose your job
today.”
I rose to my feet.
“I’ll get dressed. Er, shower and get dressed. And
we’ll—”
“Suddenly you’re
feeling better?”
“Well, no,” I
admitted. “But I don’t want to spoil—”
“Then let’s save it
for a night when you’re in the mood.” He smiled and added, “For
everything.”
“I’m sorry. I feel
terrible about this.”
He waved aside my
comment. “Forget it. Raoul’s is the wrong place to take a woman who
isn’t hungry. If I’m going to pay that much for dinner, we have to
eat every bite.”
I smiled. “Spoken
like a man on a cop’s salary.”
The phone rang. I
grabbed the receiver . . . but then I just stared at it without
pressing the TALK button. I felt a sudden sense of looming
dread.
“Aren’t you going to
answer it?” Lopez asked.
“I’m afraid it’s my
mother,” I said.
“She calls on
Sundays?”
“No, she calls
whenever things are going badly.”
As the phone
continued ringing, he said, “Don’t you want to talk to
her?”
“No, of course
not.”
“She’s not one of the
people you called today?” he asked.
“Good God,
no!”
He blinked at my
tone. “Then how does she know things are going badly?”
“I’ve never figured
that out,” I said. “She just has this uncanny sixth sense. Whenever
things are at their lowest, she calls me. And within minutes, she
manages to make me feel even worse.”
“I see.”
“It’s her
gift.”
“Maybe you should get
a phone with caller ID.”
“I can’t buy a new
phone, I’m out of work.” I’m an actress, my budget is tight. My
current phone would remain in use until it died. “I should never
have given my home number to my mother!”
I knew even from our
short acquaintance that Lopez was much closer to his parents than I
was to mine. However, since his mother pestered him often by phone,
perhaps he sympathized with my problem.
“Here, I’ll answer
it,” he said. “If it’s your mom, I’ll tell her you’re in the
shower.”
“You can’t do that!”
I clung to the cordless receiver when he reached for it. “I’ll have
to explain what a strange man was doing in my apartment while I was
showering!”
“I’m not that
strange,” he said. “Besides, she must realize you date. I mean, if
my mom realizes that I date, then surely—”
“Dating and being
naked in the next room are not synonymous in my family. Anyhow,
then she’d fight with me about dating someone who’s not
Jewish.”
“How would she know
I’m not Jewish on the phone?”
There are things that
Gentiles just don’t understand about Jewish mothers.
Realizing that any
caller who was not my mother would give
up in another ring or two, I girded my loins and answered the
ringing phone. “Hello?”
“Esther! Esther
Diamond! Sweetie! It’s Stella,” boomed a robust female voice in a
strong Queens accent.
“Oh, Stella,” I said
with relief. “Thanks for returning my call so soon.”
I met Lopez’s eyes
and smiled. He took the ice cream carton from my lap and ate
another spoonful.
“Are you kidding?”
Stella said. “I called back as soon as I got your message. Of
course we can use you around here! A good voice, sturdy feet, and a
strong back? There’s always a place for you at Stella’s, sweetie.
You wanna start this week?”
“I’ll be there
tomorrow.” We made arrangements, and then I said, “Thanks,
Stella.”
“No problem,
sweetie.”
When I hung up, Lopez
noted my relief and asked, “An audition? A job?”
“Well, I won’t starve
or lose the apartment. I got my old day job back. The one I had
right before Sorcerer! Waiting tables.
Though ‘day job’ isn’t quite accurate. I usually get off work
around two o’clock in the morning at Stella’s.”
“Stella’s?”
“It’s a restaurant
called Bella Stella in Little Italy.”
He frowned. “On
Mulberry Street.”
“You know it?” That
didn’t surprise me. It was a pretty famous place.
“Of course I know it,
Esther. There’ve been two mob hits there in the past five years,
and Stella Butera launders money for the Gambello crime
family.”
Okay, so it was
notorious as well as famous.
Bella Stella was a
Mafia hangout, particularly popular with the Gambellos. This
notoriety, of course, also made it a hot tourist spot, as well as a
stomping ground for certain celebrities. Stella perpetually claimed
to be thirty-nine, which was probably a dozen years younger than
her true age. The restaurant had been given to her long ago by
Handsome Joey Gambello, who’d been her lover for more than twenty
years—right up until the night he was assassinated in the
restaurant’s bathroom five years ago.
Lopez said, “Look, I
know this is only our third date—sort of—but I don’t want you
working there. It’s not safe.”
“Oh, come on,” I
said. “Nobody there is going to kill me. I’m just an actress. Er,
waitress.”
“When somebody sprays
a sawed-off shotgun across the room, the bullets don’t go out of
their way to avoid law-abiding citizens,” he pointed
out.
“No innocent
bystander—or waitress—has ever been harmed at Stella’s.” I’m no
fool, I had checked before the first time I started working
there.
“Not yet,” he said.
“That would be bad for business, and if there’s one things wiseguys
love, it’s making money. They’ve been careful at Stella’s so far.
But sooner or later, it’ll happen. A waiter or tourist will get
killed in the cross fire.”
Since his expression
implored me to take him seriously, I did. “I read up on those
hits,” I said. “There was no spraying of shotguns.”
“No,” he agreed,
“Handsome Joey Gambello was whacked five years ago with a
twenty-two caliber, two shots straight into the head. Very
professional. Then two years ago, Frankie Mastiglione got shivved
while gorging on pasta al forno, and no
one realized he was dead until he fell facedown into his dinner
after the hitter had already left.”
So Lopez had
evidently read up on the murders at Stella’s, too.
“Cops know all sorts
of interesting things,” I said.
He continued, “But
all it takes is one bullet, Esther. Or one hitter who thinks you
may remember his face.”
“I suppose so,” I
admitted. “But, then, all it takes is one cab that runs a red light
or one lunatic on the subway, right?” Or one sorcerer’s apprentice
run amok.
“Spending all your
nights at Bella Stella raises the odds of dying young,” Lopez
insisted. “The Gambellos have been at war on-and-off with the
Corvino family for decades. Things are quiet between them these
days, but it wouldn’t take much to trigger another war. And that
could make Stella’s a dangerous place to work.”
“How do you know so
much about this?” Before he could answer, I said, “Never mind, I
get it. You’re a cop, and they’re criminals. Of course you
know.”
“Actually—”
“Look, as day jobs
go, this is a good one for me. Wiseguys tip well. I make better
money at Stella’s than anywhere else, and that’s
important.”
“And I want you to
live long enough to spend whatever you make.”
“Plus, since we’re
all, you know, singing waiters—” This
was a special feature of Stella’s; the waiters and waitresses
performed on request. “—Stella treats us like actors. She makes it
easy for me to get time off for an audition or a quick job, like
one day of filming on a soap opera. Most restaurants make that sort
of thing a real headache for me. I even got fired from two other
places because of it.”
“My point
is—”
“I understand your
point,” I said. “I do. But working at Bella Stella is a good
between-jobs gig for me. And I can start earning right away, too.
So I’m not going to give it up.”
“Esther . . .” Lopez
let his breath out, sagged back against the couch cushions, and
looked at the ceiling. “I just had to
get interested in a starving actress.” He glanced at me and added,
“One with no sense of self-preservation.”
I protested, “I have
plenty of—”
“Still hanging out
with Max?” he asked abruptly.
Another awkward
subject. “Sometimes.”
Apart from enduring
Golly Gee’s sour temper at work, I hadn’t encountered much Evil
since we had eliminated Hieronymus, but I had become fond of Max.
So I’d seen him a few times since then. Since Max was nearly 350
years old (though he didn’t look a day over 70), he was certainly
not a rival for Lopez. But Lopez thought he was crazy and probably
dangerous, and he didn’t like me having anything to do with
him.
“Well,” Lopez said
after a long moment, “at least I can keep an eye on you at
Stella’s.”
I frowned. “You
suddenly have time on your hands? Has the crime rate plummeted in
the Sixth Precinct, or something?”
He blinked. “Oh. I
didn’t tell you, did I?”
“Tell me
what?”
“That’s what I wanted
to celebrate tonight. My transfer to OCCB finally came
through.”
“It did? Good!” I
knew he’d been waiting for it for a while. “But . . . I can’t
remember what OCCB means,” I admitted.
“Organized Crime
Control Bureau.”
“Oh. I guess that’s how you know so much about Bella
Stella and the Gambellos. Organized crime. You’ve been studying up
for your new post.”
“What happens at
Stella’s is pretty common knowledge. But, yeah, I take an
interest.” He eyed me. “Anyhow, since I’ll be keeping an eye on the
Gambellos, I should be able to keep an eye on you while you’re
working at Stella’s.”
“I don’t need anyone
to keep an eye on me.” But I smiled at him. I kind of liked that he
felt protective of me. I wasn’t used to that, and it made the Big
Apple seem a little cozier.
“All the same . . .”
He smiled at me, too.
“As soon as I get a
night off, maybe we could take another shot at going out and
celebrating?” I suggested.
“Not for a couple of
weeks,” he said with regret. “Tomorrow I’ve got to go out to Long
Island for two weeks of training. I’ll be working long hours, so
I’m going to stay with a cousin out there. And I’m going to Nyack
next weekend.”
“You do lead a life
of glamour.” Nyack was a suburb across the Hudson. Lopez had grown
up there.
“It’s my dad’s
birthday,” he said. “I thought about asking you to come with me . .
.”
“I’m nowhere near
ready to meet your parents,” I said firmly.
“Yeah, I thought
that’s what you’d say.”
“So you were planning
to wine and dine me tonight, get me into bed, and then abandon me
for two weeks?”
“That was the plan,”
he admitted.
“I’m pretty sure that
makes you a cad,” I told him.
He grinned. “I’m
coming back. I just wanted to mark my territory before I
go.”
“Mark your territory?”
“A woman who could
forget I was coming over tonight might forget me completely in two
weeks,” he said innocently. “Unless I make a strong enough
impression.”
“You’re pretty
confident about the effect of marking your territory,” I
noted.
“I just don’t want
some other guy stepping in while I’m off training to be a more
effective officer of the peace.”
“I’m going to be on
my feet ten hours a day at Stella’s while you’re gone,” I pointed
out. “The only man likely to get my attention is a foot
masseur.”
“I give a pretty good
foot massage,” he said.
“Yeah?”
He lowered his lashes
and nudged my foot with his. “We can start with that when I get
back . . . and see where it leads.”
Heat crept through me
as I looked at him and felt the gentle pressure of his foot against
mine. Securing an income a few minutes ago had revived me a little.
I was just about to reconsider the possibility of taking a shower
when the phone rang again.
Feeling optimistic
now, I said, “That could be my agent.”
I answered the phone.
Then I realized my mistake.
“Hi, Mom,” I said
morosely.
That sense of looming
dread I’d felt when Stella called had been accurate, just a little
ahead of schedule.
“Oh, I’m okay,” I
lied in response to my mother’s opening question.
Lopez rose to his
feet and made leaving motions.
“Just a second, Mom.”
I rose to my feet, too, put my hand over the receiver, and said to
Lopez, “Two weeks?”
He nodded. “Foot
massage.”
“Maybe I’ll massage
something of yours, too,” I said.
He grinned. “I’ll
show you my favorite places.”
As he headed for the
door, I said, “You’re not even going to kiss me good
night?”
“With your mom
practically in the room? No way.”
“But—”
“Two weeks from now,”
he said. “Kisses and . . . whatever else you ask for
nicely.”
As I watched my
handsome date leave my apartment without a backward glance at my
bedraggled self, my mother said, loud and clear, “How’s the show
going, Esther?”