Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy (6 page)

“That happens to be a very expensive sports car, and standing here screaming about it is not going to make it disappear,” Carol said firmly. “Now let’s go calmly into the house..

“Calmly? Calmly, you say? I’m supposed to go calmly into the house—” her voice was deceptively low “—while this very expensive sports car sits in my driveway, announcing to all the neighbors that I had a man spend the night with me last night?” By the time she’d finished her voice had reached a shrill peak, and she marched over to the car and kicked the rear tire for good measure.

Carol followed after her. “But Cecilia, you said he didn’t spend the night here last night.”

“Of course he didn’t!” Cecilia whirled on her friend. “Don’t you believe me?”

“You know I believe you.”

“Okay. Wonderful. So let’s analyze this situation very carefully.” She began to tick her conclusions off on her fingers. “One, you know I slept alone last night. Two, I know I slept alone last night. Three, the kids know it, because by now they have turned the house upside down looking for— for—” She rushed on, unable to complete the thought. “But—and this is a major but—” she thrust both hands into the air “—everyone else in the world thinks I had a man in my bed!”

“Mom,” Brad called from the front porch, “did you know you left the phone off the hook? No wonder we couldn’t get you this morning.”

Cecilia thought back to the night before. “The idiot didn’t even hang up the phone after I got out of the bath,” she spat out, oblivious to Carol’s startled look. “Thank you, Brad. Did you hang it up?”

“Yeah, but it rang right off. Some man wants to talk to you.” He watched with interest as the thundercloud settled over his mother’s face.

“Some man, huh? Did he happen to say who he is?”

“Not to me, but Anne-Elizabeth’s talking to him now.” Brad followed her into the house. Carol didn’t even hesitate to join them, unabashedly curious.

Entering the den, Cecilia saw Anne-Elizabeth sitting on the breakfast bar, chattering into the telephone. “She’s in the fwont yard kickin’ a car,” she confided to the unknown party. “She’s scweamin’, too.”

“Anne-Elizabeth, give me that phone,” Cecilia threatened.

The little girl stared at her stubbornly, but released the phone to her mother’s trembling hand. “Mommy’s mad, and I didn’t do it,” Anne-Elizabeth said to no one in particular as she scrambled down from the bar and took refuge behind Ralph.

“Hello.” Her fist tightened when she heard Jeff’s voice.

“Cecil, I can explain everything.” He sounded worried, very worried.

“Explain everything, Jeff?” Her tone of voice dripped arsenic-laced honey. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Now, Cecil. I don’t know why you’re so upset. After all, it’s my car that won’t start.”

“If there weren’t children in the room, I would be very glad to tell you why I am so upset, Mr. Smith.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “But I refuse to subject their innocent ears to the kinds of things I would like to say under these circumstances.”

“I told ya he was a jerk,” Peter snorted. “Come on, Brad, let’s get out of here so she can blast him.” Carol dragged Ralph and a very unwilling Anne-Elizabeth behind her, and within seconds the room had cleared.

Cecilia interrupted Jeff in mid-sentence. “I will give you one hour to get that car out of my driveway. If it’s not gone by then, I’m going to call a tow truck. Is that clear?”

“Wait just a minute, Cecil. You didn’t really kick my car, did you? Do you have any idea how much that car is worth? I spent months rebuilding that car. It’s a classic! And if you so much as scratch it, you’ll be sorry.”

“Then move it!”

“What’s the problem? We’re talking about a car that won’t start. I don’t believe that’s a criminal offense in the continental United States, Hawaii, Alaska, or the territories!”

“Use your brains—you’re supposed to be so smart! Your car was parked in front of my house all night. Do you realize what that looks like? And you didn’t even have the common decency to warn me.”

“Good grief, Cecil. I stayed out there a half hour trying to get the thing to start, and by then you’d long turned out the lights. I figured you’d rather sleep than be bothered.”

“Well, Jeff, you thought wrong. I realize that being a swinging bachelor—a man of the world, shall we say?—you wouldn’t be accustomed to thinking about things like that. Perhaps the women you usually associate with don’t have reputations to protect, but in my case I can assure you—”

“Okay, okay, I get the point,” he broke in roughly. “Look, I’ll have the car moved before dark. In case you’re interested, it wasn’t my idea of a fun evening to walk five blocks to a convenience store and call a friend to pick me up.”

“My heart bleeds for you.” She tossed her head impatiently, and the room suddenly spun. “What...what are you going to do about your car? You’re blocking me in.”

“I’ll get that car moved if I have to carry it. But listen to me carefully.” She heard his ragged breath, and realized that the menace in his voice was very real. “You don’t go near my car with a tow truck. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” she snapped.

“And keep those kids of yours away from it, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Cecilia replied coolly. “They have Hot Wheels with more class than that junk heap.”

“Junk? Have you no taste?”

“Unfortunately, no. I fell for you, didn’t I?”

“Don’t remind me. That was the beginning of my troubles.”

“All you need to do is move your little car, and then your troubles will be over, at least as far as I’m concerned,” Cecilia announced, then slammed the phone down.

The telephone rang.

“Hello,” she answered, striving to keep her voice cool.

“Cecilia Evans, you have more hang-ups than a nutty fourteen-year-old I used to know, and that’s saying plenty!” The phone clicked in her ear.
 

~o0o~

Jeff shoved himself away from the wall and tucked his cell phone into his pocket. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were knotted with tension. Who the hell did she think she was, giving him orders? What he really ought to do was go on over there immediately.

He glanced at his watch, conscious of the overdue twenty-six laps waiting for him. Twenty-six laps he would have run Thursday evening, if he hadn’t worked late. Twenty-six laps he would have run last night if he hadn’t gone to Cecil’s. His fists bunched in exasperation.

He took the stairs to the jogging track two at a time, then plunged into the Saturday morning “traffic” with a score of other masochists who resorted to running to keep their middles slim and their arteries clear.

Damn, she was the most troublesome female he’d ever encountered in his entire life, he thought, methodically placing one foot in front of the other, his elbows pumping rhythmically with each step. Some things never changed. At fourteen Cecil had been incorrigible, and now, as if one Cecilia Evans in the world wasn’t bad enough, matters were even worse. Not only was she still trouble with a capital T, she had cloned three incorrigible kids.

He remembered his car, his pride and joy, at the mercy of Cecil’s clan, and stumbled.

He stifled the urge to toss off the entire day and go rescue his car immediately. One lap down, twenty-five to go.

Besides, what could they really do to his car?

Two laps later, he’d thought of a half-dozen things they could do to the exterior alone. That hard, red finish would be a prime target for anything from graffiti to Tic-Tac-Toe. They could slash the tires, the rag top...

He was being ridiculous. Of course they wouldn’t do any of those things. They might be brats, but they weren’t delinquents.

Five laps. He concentrated on the people in the weight rooms flanking the track, his eyes trained on the males as he ran one side and the females as he completed the circle. Overhead, speakers amplified a bland male voice as it encouraged those on the machines, “Ready, begin.” Sixty seconds and three-quarters of a lap later, “You’re halfway through.” And then, “Finished. Move to the next machine.” And like sweating automatons, the club’s patrons, male and female alike, abandoned one gleaming instrument of torture and moved on to the next. A completed circuit was supposed to work every muscle in the body.

Jeff swiped the sweat out of his eyes. Not for him such lunacy. Of course, he was nobody to talk. He’d paid through the nose for a health club that boasted saunas, a lap pool, three weight rooms and an aerobic area—all of which he ignored to run two miles, three times a week, like a mindless rat on a treadmill. White Rock Lake would be closer, cheaper, more scenic. He grabbed his side and forced the air into his lungs. In, out. In, out. One foot in front of the other.

But who gave a damn about scenic when it was raining or, worse, sleeting? Who needed fresh air? He didn’t. Besides, he thought, rounding the north end of the track for the twelfth time. Here he knew exactly where two miles ended. Not one step too many, not one step too few. From the first day he’d forced himself to finish the entire run, and again on the second, when his aching muscles had made it even worse. Two years, and he hadn’t missed a run or shortchanged a lap.

Thirteen down, thirteen to go.

Two years, and his lung capacity had increased, his waist had slimmed, and his color had improved.

Six hundred twenty-four miles later, he still wasn’t sure it was worth it.

The slender woman in front of him wore red shorts. He didn’t usually notice things like that by this point in his run, but it was the exact shade of red as his car. His baby. His pride and joy.

He forced his fists to relax. Only ten more laps. He tried to unclench his jaw. But instead of red nylon, he was seeing the immaculate red finish of his car. Scratched by a bicycle, or perhaps a dog’s claws. His windshield shattered by a stray baseball.

A quarter way through the fourteenth lap, he did an abrupt U-turn and headed for the stairs, swerving around the scowling runners now headed straight toward him.

Four minutes later, damp from his shower, he tugged on his jeans. As he zipped up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His stomach was definitely flatter, even without sit-ups. But why was he noticing such a thing at this late date?

He tugged a knit shirt over his head and slipped on a poplin jacket, shoving his sweaty running gear into his duffel bag, ready to make a mad dash for Cecil’s and his car.

Another glance in the mirror revealed his hair, still wet, pressed against his head. He snatched a towel out of his bag and rubbed it halfway dry. After all, he couldn’t afford to catch some damned virus. He had taxes to figure, forms to fill. Again he grabbed his bag and headed for the door.

He stopped to comb his hair, and tried to convince himself it was the general public he was trying to impress.

Certainly not Cecilia Evans.

Never in a million years.
 

~o0o~

Humming along with the radio, Cecilia grabbed a wicker basket of magazines from the floor beside the easy chair and unceremoniously dumped them onto the coffee table. Methodically she gathered the baseball cards, Hot Wheels and army men into the basket, stifling a curse when her bare foot landed on a plastic bayonet.

The basket was almost full but the carpet still littered, when she noticed Peter in the doorway. “You really told that jerk off, didn’t you?”

“I’d rather not discuss it,” she muttered, spying Yu Darvish’s grinning image under the sofa. She dropped to her knees to retrieve the card.

“I thought you were sick.”

“I am.” She thrust the basket into his hands. “Dump this mess in Brad’s toy box, and come back for more.” Then, after a second thought, she lifted Yu from the top of the pile. “He deserves better,” she explained, slipping the picture of the cute pitcher’s grinning face into her back pocket.

When Peter returned, she tossed two more handfuls of boyish collectibles into the basket. “You finish the floor while I get the vacuum.”

“If you’re sick, why don’t you go to bed?” Peter demanded.

“Mothers don’t go to bed. They just keep on truckin’.”

“Mom!”

Something in the tone of his voice stopped her in midstride. She pivoted, resting one hand on the door frame.

“Why are you wearing makeup?”

She flushed. “I just felt like it.”

Peter snorted his disbelief, but began snatching the toys from the floor. Cecilia retrieved the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet.

Peter met her in the doorway. The floor was clean. Even the magazines were back in their basket. “Thanks,” she said, planting a kiss on his forehead.

“Do you want me to vacuum?”

“No, no... you run on and play.” She stooped to plug in the Hoover.

“I’m going to ride my bike, unless you want me to stay and keep the kids out of your hair.”

She rose slowly and turned, digging her fingers into the small of her back. But her mind wasn’t on her backache. Instead she stared at her eldest son in surprise. The kids? Didn’t he consider himself one of them? Sadly she noticed the solemn expression in his gray eyes. Of all of them, the divorce had seemed to affect him the least, and had, of course, affected him the most.