How was it possible, she wondered, to sit through an entire evening and not understand a single word the man said? How was it possible for an evening with such bright promise to dim so completely?
“They hadn't even filedâ”
The waiter discreetly slipped the bill onto the table. “Thank you for dining with us this evening. I'll take care of this for you whenever you're ready.”
As soon as he'd left, Bill picked up the bill. His hair stood on end. “Forty-one eighty? How is that possible?” He began frantically retotaling his columns. “Mine was $18.85, yours...$10.50. How much was the latte? More than the decaf? Decaf $.95. Latte?”
“Two seventy-five, I think. Look, if there's a problem, I've gotâ”
“This bill can't be right. Forty-one? Waiter? Will you come here, please?”
Temple shifted slightly in the booth, hoping to lose herself in the deeper shadows. If he was going to quibble about cost, she wished he would at least lower his voice. The occupants of three tables around them had heard him and made their annoyance clear. Painful memories of the Darrell fiasco surfaced.
The waiter whipped to a stop at the table, bending slightly at the waist with a look of genuine concern in his expression. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“This bill is not right. Forty-one eighty for what we had? And that doesn't include tax and tip? Highway robbery!!”
“Sir, I'm sure there's been no mistake, but I can have the cashier recheck it for youâ”
“I've checked it. I'm only questioning the prices. Who sets these prices? Donald Trump?”
“I'll call the manager, sir.”
“Bill,” Temple said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “If there's a problemâ”
“Nothing that can't be taken care of. These places try slipping a couple dollars here, a couple dollars there. Just in case someone doesn't tip. You know how it is.”
Temple felt her face grow warm as more people glanced in their direction, whispering among themselves.
The manager appeared. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“Your prices are too high!” Bill re-added and came up with the same total.
Frowning, he crossed off the total and re-added the bill again. “Well, I guess it's rightâhighway robbery, but right.” He handed the ticket back to the waiter.
“Would you bring me a to-go container for this? Waste not want not, that's my motto,” he said sanctimoniously. “Are the refills on coffee free? My cup's empty. You're slipping.”
Temple had to give the waiter top marks for holding on to his temper when he most likely wanted to shoot Bill. She knew she did.
“And you, madam? May I freshen your latte?” the man asked politely.
Quickly, shielding the cup with her hand, she shook her head. “No!”
“More bread, Temple? It's free.”
“No, thank you.”
“I'll need a receipt, too,” Bill added, flashing his Gold Card.
The waiter slipped away with the credit card as Bill carefully counted out six one-dollar bills and some change. He placed them squarely in the middle of the table with a little satisfied pat of his fingertips.
“How long have you known Mike and Ginny?” Temple asked, curious as to how the three had gotten together, especially since Ginny didn't have a thrifty bone in her body.
“Only on a professional basis,” he told her. “I did their taxes several years ago. I know everything about their financial situation, but other than that we seldom see one another. Seem like nice folks, though. They've referred several clients to me. I appreciate a prudent person.”
No kidding. I'd appreciate having a smooth exit line.
“Ah, here we are,” Bill crowed when the waiter returned.
He quickly signed the credit card form, carefully tore out the carbons and folded them, then slipped them into his pocket along with his receipt. When another couple left the table across the aisle without taking their receipt, Bill reached over and took it, tooâfor his records.
“You can never be too careful,” he said. “One of my clients got his credit card statement and someone had run up a thousand dollars on his bill. Fortunately, he was able to get the charges removed. You have to be on your toes. Lots of crooks out there. Ready to go?”
She had been ready an hour ago.
More Streisand on the way home. If she heard “People Who Need People” one more time, she'd slap Bill just for the satisfaction of it.
He parked the BMW in front of her apartment building and turned toward her.
“I had a good time this evening. May I call you again?”
This was it; bailout time. “I'm never sure what my schedule will be.”
“No problem. I'll check with Ginny.”
She slipped out of the car before he could say anything more, and shut the door. Giving a brief wave, she ran up the stairs and into her apartment.
Switching on a lamp, she stood a moment to enjoy the soft light bathing the small but cozy room in a warm, welcoming glow. Home sweet home. Her headache began slipping away and she drew a deep, cleansing breath to calm her nerves.
She dropped her purse onto the couch, kicked off her shoes and continued into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of milk.
Leaning against the cabinet, Temple stared out the window. Mrs. King's lights were off. She went to bed with the birds. One by one, the lights on the block went off as people turned off televisions, put the cat out, and pulled the shades.
She sighed as she thought of the five years she'd spent in the crowded but energetic Dallas/Fort Worth area. There was something here for everyone. The problem was, what was that something for her?
Lately, her life reminded her of the old story about the planeload of passengers who were waiting for drinks to be served, when they spotted their flight attendant crawling down the aisle, frantically peering under seats and around feet. Amazed, they watched as she leaped up and continued her frenzied search through the upper storage compartments.
“What's going on?” one passenger finally demanded.
The harried attendant whirled. “I'm looking for the romance that was promised me!”
The untutored believed the stories about hostesses meeting and marrying first-class megabucks men. The tantalizing tales of lengthy layovers in exotic locales. The crew parties with cases of French champagne.
Temple had never really expected romance. Hoped for it, maybe. The travel was still a nice part of her job. But she'd dreamed that among the new people she met there would have been someone special.
Temple sighed again, drinking her milk as she gazed at the night sky.
Bright stars dotted the velvet-black sky, and the sliver of a moon hung over the backyard fence. A perfect night, if only there was the perfect man to spend it with.
Drawing a deep breath, she padded into the living room and relaxed on the couch, flexing her toes as she closed her eyes.
Who was the perfect man?
Not Bill Moffit.
Nor the pet store owner who had a passion for boas and thought she should have one of his slithering friends as a roommate.
Nor the car salesman who had the perfect deal for her; the advertising copywriter who'd been all puffed up with pride because he'd been nominated for a local ADDY award; nor the television cameraman who was impressed by his acquaintance with a minor celebrity who hosted an area talk show; nor the minor league baseball player whose total focus was on getting to “the brigs.” Not a “perfect” man among them. Forget perfection. She'd settle for normal.
A man who could carry on a normal conversation, not a running narrative.
A man who was sensitive, concerned, interested in something other than himself and his own small world.
She carried her milk into the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror over the sink.
Where was the man who could appreciate who she was and what she wanted to do? A man who made a woman feel strong and confident, yet protected and needed.
Her mouth turned down as she remembered the evening she'd just survived.
A man who didn't total his date's dinner on a napkin.
A man like Craig.
Nuts
.
8
“S
TEVENS AN airline pilot. Who would've thought it?” Jack Ladue leaned forward, a knowing grin in his eyes. “What's the attraction? The flight attendants? Eh?” Jabbing Craig in the ribs, he grinned. “What I wouldn't give to be in your shoes.”
Craig smiled. He and Jack had been passing friends in college, but they hadn't kept in touch except to exchange the occasional Christmas card. When Jack had called to say he was in town, they'd made plans to meet.
“Wow, who's the fox?” Jack murmured as he spotted Temple coming through the lounge door.
Craig followed Jack's gaze and saw she was accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man tonight. She was laughing up at him, and he was responding with a quick squeeze of her shoulders.
“She's a flight attendant with Sparrow.”
“Whooee. Redheads. Don't you love 'em,” Jack drawled, dramatically emphasizing the accent he'd picked up from his years in Oklahoma as a representative with an oil company. “What's her name, and what's her number?”
“Sorry, she's off-limits.” At least to men like Jack.
“You dating her?”
“Just friends.”
“Then why the objection?” Jack swiveled back to look at Craig. “I want her.”
Craig watched as Temple and her date were seated.
“Introduce me,” Jack said. “I'm a good catch. Single, employed, all-around American guy.”
Craig pointedly looked at his watch and stood. “Sorry to cut this short, Jack, but I've got some things to do at the airport.”
Clearly oblivious to Craig's cool tone, Jack stood and stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, buddy.” His gaze went back to Temple's table. “I think I'll just stay here and girl-watch for a while. Give you a call next time I'm in town.”
“Sounds good.” Craig glanced in Temple's direction, frowning when her date leaned closer and laughed at something she said.
She looked good tonight, damn good. Her new haircut framed her face, giving her a perky kind of Kathy Lee Gifford look that made heads turn. Who was the man? No one he knew. For a moment, he entertained the idea of going over to introduce himself on the pretext of business, but he decided against it. With another glance over his shoulder, Craig quickly strode out of the lounge.
He spent the evening prowling his apartment trying to find something to occupy his mind. Three times he picked up the phone. Twice he even dialed Temple's number. He thought about leaving a message, but couldn't think of anything to say.
What was the matter with him? He'd picked out dates for Temple. Why should it bother him that she was out with somebody she'd chosen herself?
He didn't know why, exactly, but it did.
Â
SATURDAY MORNING, Temple spotted Craig's Lincoln approaching the airport gate. Punching the accelerator, she sent her truck spurting forward and grinned when his Lincoln followed a millisecond later.
She had a bone to pick with him. Dwight Mason had turned out to be nice. A definite improvement over the men Temple had dated lately. Dwight was kind, courteous, successful, attentive, generousâbut dull as a box of rocks. Craig couldn't spot a loser any better than her other friends.
Cutting off the Lincoln, she whipped into her parking spot, slammed on the brakes and killed the engine. Once again the Silverado blocked two spaces in her best lane-sharking style.
The Lincoln's brakes squawked, then Craig slowly backed it up. After several tries, he managed to squeeze the car into the space left between Temple's truck and Ginny's small Ford.
Sliding out of her pickup, Temple wiggled her fingers at him. “Captain Stevens.”
Craig maneuvered his shoulders out of his car, and nearly fell onto the asphalt as he tried to stand. Temple bit back a grin.
“Burney, one of these daysâ”
“Threats don't faze me, Stevens. By the way, Dwight was nice, but we didn't hit it off.”
“Oh?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
He handed her a large manila envelope, and fell into step beside her. “Here are your tax forms. I had to leave out a couple of good deductions because you didn't have receipts. Other than that, you're in good shape.”
She slid a sly look his direction, her eyebrows arching.
“Your tax form, Burney. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
Grinning, Temple matched his stride. Threatening clouds hung overhead promising rain any moment. She hoped the flight wasn't bumpy. All she needed today was a full plane of airsick commuters.
“Guess I should take a leaf from Bill's book,” she said.
“Bill?”
“Wednesday night's date.”
“You mean last night.”
She glanced at him. “No, Wednesday night. Your dud, Dwight Mason, Monday, Keith Wilson, Tuesday, Bill Moffit â”
“Who were you with last night?”
Was that an attitude in his voice? “That was you!” She punched his arm lightly. “I thought I recognized your back going out the front door last night.” She'd recognize his backside in a cast of five hundred, but she wasn't about to tell him that. “Why didn't you say hello?”
“You looked busy.”
There was that tone again. “Not really.”
“Who was the guy?”
“Kirk Petersen.”
“Little young for you, isn't he?”
“Twenty-two? I'm not that ancient, am I?”
“Who is this jock?”
“He goes to my gym. We stopped for a drink after we worked outâbut back to Wednesday night's date. Craig, you wouldn't believe this one.”
“Oh, I probably will.”
“You'd like him, though. He's got this receipt thing down to a science. He's a CPA.”
“Did you have a good time?”
What
was
that tone? Jealousy? Nah. It couldn't beânot Craig.
“Bombastic. I love going out with guys who quibble over the cost of entrees in a five-star restaurant. Quibble loudly.”
He grinned.
“Kill the grin. He added the check over and over on a napkin. Wait until Ginny tries to set me up again.”
“Maybe she thought he'd be good for you. You could use a lesson or two in economics.”
“Why? I have you,” she said dryly. “Besides, Dwight wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs, either. I had to poke him to make sure he was still alive.”
“No go, huh?”
“I thought he might be mechanical and someone forgot to wind him up. Talk about your deadpan face.”
“Well, he does tend to clam up when he's nervous.”
They turned toward the terminal.
“Well, scratch him off your list,” she said. “Did you ever call Miranda?”
“Called her. Shouldn't have. What is this thing you have about blondes? Have I ever given you the impression I enjoy a woman who speaks in one-syllable words?”
“Sorry. Mandy's cute. The cheerleader type. I thought you'd make a nice couple.”
“Think substance, Burney. Women who have something between the ears. I like conversation with breakfast.”
“Oh.” She glanced up at him. “Got to breakfast, did you?”
There it was again. That little stab of something she hated to call jealousy. But the idea of Craig with a woman was more than she wanted to considerâand that was crazy, especially since she was the one who'd set up this mutualdating plan in the first place.
Craig stopped in front of Temple, forcing her to stop also.
“What?” she said.
“I don't go to bed with every woman I meet.”
“Iâ” She felt a little foolish. “It was only a comment.”
His gaze met hers intently as if he was measuring her response.
“I know you don't sleep around. What's the problem?”
Craig shook his head. “I don't know. I just...this dating thing is getting to me.”
“I know the feeling.”
They stood for a moment as if there was something more to say.
But when neither came up with it, Craig reached for the door of the terminal building and held it open. “After you.”
Inside the terminal, Craig waved at Flo behind the car rental counter as he headed toward the pilots' lounge. Temple walked over to the lunch counter. Ginny was busy taking an order from an elderly couple, so Temple poured herself a cup of coffee and waited for her friend to finish.
“Hi,” Ginny said, taking two sweet rolls out of the case and sliding them into the microwave. “What's up?”
“Not much.” Swiveling on the stool, Temple turned to look at Craig's retreating back. “Maybe my temperature, a little.”
“Anything to do with the hunk over there? Saw you walk in with Craig.”
“Yeah.”
“Any man who looks like that is too good to waste on just friendship. Don't you ever wonder what he's like?”
“I don't have to wonder, I know what he's like.” That was the problem. She was starting to compare every man she met to Craig. The others came up shortâway short.
Ginny laughed.
“What, what?” Temple said, tossing the last of her coffee into the sink.
“Admit it, you're attracted to him. And not just as a buddy.”
“Buddies don't mess up good friendships by dating each other.”
Ginny rinsed cups and set them in a drain rack before putting them into the dishwasher.
“You're missing a good thing,” she said. “He's gorgeous. Every flight attendant I know recognizes thatâmarried
and
single.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
“Get a grip, Gin.” Temple picked up her bag, uneasy with the subject of Craig. She left with a good-natured wave, and started down the concourse to check in.
As she approached the bottom steps into the plane, Scotty came into view. The surprised look on the faces of nearby passengers made Temple take a closer look.
Scotty had a large book tucked beneath his arm.
“Good morning, Flight Attendant Burney. Fine morning it is.”
Temple got a look at the bookâ
How to Fly the Saab
.
Trying to keep a straight face, she mounted the stairs. Scotty followed, strutting through the cabin with the fake book innocently tucked beneath his arm. The few early boarders strained to read the title, chuckling at one another when they did.
Inside the galley, Temple checked supplies and then started the coffee.
Thirty minutes later, all passengers were boarded. When everyone was settled with seat belts in place, Scotty made another walk-through, the book still tucked beneath his arm.
“Good morning, good morning,” he greeted as he walked up and down the aisle.
Returning to the cockpit, he slid the door open and inquired in a loud voice, “Captain Stevens, boy am I glad you showed up. Do you remember how to fly this thing? I didn't get past chapter five in the book last night.”
The open laughter assured Temple that the passengers understood their copilot was a buffoon.
One day, someone is going to fall for his routine and I'm going to let him do the explaining.
Temple braced herself against the forward bulkhead, microphone in hand, preparing to make the usual announcements. With the mood set for the flight, she took advantage of the affable atmosphere.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we'd like to apologize for the delay in leaving the gate this morning. The machine that usually smashes your luggage is broken so the ground crew is having to crush it by hand.”
More giggles.
She continued the patter for a few minutes then, announcements finished, Temple was returning to the galley when a hand reached out and caught her arm.
“How about half a cup of coffee, honey, little cream, sprinkle of sugar.”
“Good morning, Mr. Carlson. This isn't your usual flight. Special sales meeting?”
“Convention. High times this weekend.” He grinned widely. “Just barely got a hotel reservation.”
“Well, I hope you have a good timeâ”
“I'd have a better time if you'd go to tonight's banquet with me.”
“Mr. Carlsonâ”
“I know, no fraternizing with the passengers. Can't blame a guy for tryin'.” He grinned again, his teeth like piano keys in his puffy face.