What Phoebe Wants

“What are you talking about?”

“You insult me, and then you try to blow it off as if it isn’t important.”

“Hey, you insulted me first.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. You accused me of trying to grope you when I was only trying to keep my balance.”

“You were groping me.” I flushed, remembering the feel of his hand on my breast. “Though I’ll admit, you probably didn’t do it on purpose.”

He looked up at the ceiling, addressing some invisible being. “She admits she’s wrong. That must be a first.”

“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

He grinned. “No, but I’d like to.” He stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Jeff Fischer. Nice to meet you, Miss Frame. Or is it Mrs.?”

“It’s Ms.” I shook his hand, ignoring the flutter in my stomach at his touch. Maybe I was just hungry. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Fischer.”

“I thought we were going to be friends now. Call me Jeff.”

“All right, Jeff. I’ll, uh, just leave you to your work.”

“Sure you don’t want to stick around? You could tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

“No, I think I’ll go to lunch.” I backed toward the door. With any luck, Jeff wouldn’t be here when I got back. The last thing I needed right now was a young, handsome man with a sarcastic sense of humor.

Or maybe it was the first thing I needed. Sometimes the two extremes aren’t that far apart.

ON THURSDAYS, I ALWAYS HAVE LUNCH with my friend Darla. After the morning I’d had, I figured our lunch would be the one spot of sanity in my day. A tall blonde with an Ivana Trump updo, Darla is not only my best gal pal and chief partner-in-crime, she’s also my hairdresser—the only person who knows my real hair color—and the keeper of all my secrets.

“You got new wheels!” she squealed as I pulled to the curb in front of Hair Apparent, the salon where she works. She climbed into the passenger seat. “What happened to your old ride?” She flipped down the passenger side visor and fluffed her bangs in the makeup mirror.

“The Probe died yesterday afternoon, smoke pouring out from under the hood and everything.”

“So you just walked down the street and bought a new one?” Darla’s perfectly plucked eyebrows rose in amazement.

I shrugged. “It was either that, or call a taxi.”

I turned into the lot of Taco Loco and found a parking place. Darla followed me inside and we slid into our usual booth. “I never knew anyone who decided to buy a car and just did it,” she said. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to research these things? Take test-drives?”

The waitress set two glasses of iced tea and a basket of hot chips in front of us. “The usual?” she asked.

“The usual,” we chorused. Chicken chalupas with guacamole. Best in the city. I turned back to Darla. “That’s how Steve bought cars. How my father bought cars.” In fact, it was how every man I knew bought cars. Did that make it right?

Darla raised her glass in a toast. “To Phoebe’s new wheels,” she said. “May they take you places you’ve always wanted to go.”

I liked the sound of that, even if I had yet to figure out where it was I was headed. “What’s new with you?” I asked.

She suddenly became very interested in the placemat in front of her, eyes avoiding mine. “Well…” She pursed her lips. “I heard some news today. Something I don’t think you’ll especially enjoy hearing.”

I sipped my tea and tried not to look too interested. News meant gossip and it felt unseemly to appear overeager to indulge in something that, after all, was supposed to be a vice. “News about what?” I asked after a moment.

“News about Steve and Miss Just-a-waitress.”

Darla’s nose for news had discovered that the teenybopper Steve had started dating three months into his midlife search for “happiness” worked at the Yellow Rose, one of those cabaret places euphemistically known as gentlemen’s clubs. The girl—Tami—swore she was “just a waitress,” though from what I had seen, she was certainly well qualified to wear tassels, or whatever sort of excuse for a costume was customary for dancers in those places. “I don’t want to hear it,” I said, and shut my mouth firmly, as if to hold back any sign of the curiosity that was already spreading over me like a rash.

“You’re going to find out sooner or later.” She leaned across the table, her voice soft. “And I think it’s something you’d much prefer to hear from me.”

My stomach quivered. I hated this—hated caring what Steve and his girlfriend were up to. My goal in life was not to care, to be serene and happy and above it all.

But I wasn’t there yet. I took another swallow of tea, trying to wet my too-dry mouth. “What is it?”

Darla studied her perfect manicure. “Just-a-waitress came into the shop today.”

I waited, but apparently Darla required some sort of reaction before proceeding. “Did she have an appointment, or just drop by to say hi?”

“She had an appointment. With Henry.” She made a face. “Good thing it wasn’t with me, or she’d have walked out bald.”

I held back a snicker. Tami had gorgeous long blond hair. The idea of her without that crowning glory had a certain nasty appeal. “So what’s the scoop? Did she get dreadlocks, or a pierced nose?”

Darla shook her head. “Didn’t you say Steve never wanted children?”

There went my stomach again, acting as if I’d just plunged five stories in the front car of a roller coaster. “Yes. I mean, no, he never wanted children. He said they would make things too complicated.”

I put a hand over my belly, not even realizing until it was too late that I’d done so. In the early days, I’d thought I’d change Steve’s mind, that one day we’d have a family. Even as recently as last year, I’d been telling myself we had plenty of time. “What are you saying, Darla?”

“I’m saying Steve’s life is about to get pretty complicated. Just-a-waitress is four or five months gone.”

I counted back in my head. That meant it had happened after our divorce six months ago. We’d been separated six months before that. Plenty of time for me to get over the guy, right? Why should I care what he and his girlfriend were up to?

“You don’t look so good.” Darla leaned forward and studied my face,

“I’ll be okay in a minute,” I managed to squeak out.

“Okay is a relative term.” She frowned. “You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. No, I wasn’t okay. And no, I didn’t want to talk about it.

The waitress brought our food and I focused on adding salsa to my chalupa, glad of an excuse not to say anything. Even if I’d wanted to spill my guts to Darla, I didn’t think I could have found the words to describe how I felt.

Something ugly and black had attached itself to my insides, some slimy emotional specter that was, in turns, angry and disgusted. I’d put off having children because Steve didn’t want them, yet our divorce papers were scarcely cold before he knocked up some other woman. Outside, I was mute, lips welded together by pride. But inside, I was screaming.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Darla scooped guacamole onto a chip and popped it into her mouth.

Last I heard, murder was still illegal. I sighed and laid aside my empty spoon. “What can I do? I have to get on with my life.”

She eyed me critically. “Starting when? It’s been six months since the divorce and almost a year since Steve walked out. Have you been on a single date?”