Designer Genes (5 page)

“I knew when I
married Roger that he’d been divorced twice before. I thought I could change
him,” she admitted. “Chalk it up to youthful stupidity.”

“If you want
to.”

“Suits me.”

They might
have stood there a while longer babbling nonsense if the little girl hadn’t
started squirming. The man handed her the baby and went to put his tow truck
away.

When he was
done, he closed the garage, although he didn’t lock it. Exiting through the
back door, they entered a yard that connected to a small house.

Carter
Murchison had obviously decided to let Buffy stay at his place. She counted
that as an important victory.

Something was
walking on Buffy’s head.

She awoke
already grouchy in her usual caffeine-starved daze. At her shriek of “Get
off!,” the thing on her head sprang away, yanking painfully on a strand of
hair.

“Ow!” She sat
up, ready to pummel someone. Caffeine or no, Buffy had the finely honed
fighting instincts of a blonde who’s spent her life fending off would-be Romeos.

On the floor,
a tan cat regarded her warily. This, Buffy realized, must be the imposter who
shared her name and who’d also apparently shared her pillow.

“Buzz off,”
said Buffy. Even though she collected money for Save the Animals and had signed
a form in which she vowed never to own a fur coat, she wasn’t fond of
four-legged creatures that took their morning stroll on her head.

The cat
refused to budge.

Deciding to
ignore her, Buffy catalogued her surroundings. Carter’s spare room had a lumpy
couch, on which she’d spread her sleeping bag, and a ramshackle bureau into
which she’d emptied her suitcase. Across from it stood Allie’s portable crib.

Considering
that a bachelor lived here, the room was in decent shape. The off-white paint
wasn’t peeling, and the carpet must have been vacuumed recently or there would
have been animal dander everywhere.

The owner
received no points for fashion sense, though. The shapeless curtains were a
pale grapefruit yellow, the carpet was lime-green and someone had painted the
ceiling—shudder—bright lemon. Buffy felt as if she’d fallen into a citrus
spritzer and drowned.

A thunk from
the crib drew her attention. The baby had sat up and begun throwing her toys on
the floor. It was Allie’s version of ringing a gong to summon breakfast.

After rolling
up the sleeping bag, Buffy carried the child to the couch. The cat, which
remained glued to its position on the floor, groomed its fur complacently.

“Let’s get
something straight,” Buffy told it as the baby latched on to her breast. “We
can’t share a name. Imagine the confusion this could create in a town that
labels everything unmistakably.”

The cat licked
a paw and swiped at its face. Another lick, and it smoothed down its ears.

“Maybe we
could agree on some other name for you,” she said. “How about Carter’s Cat?”

The cat’s tail
twitched in what seemed to be annoyance.

 
“I know I’m only here for a week,” Buffy
explained, “but if things go as planned, Allie and I will be visiting. We can’t
have misunderstandings about our names.”

The cat
uttered a questioning meow.

Buffy burped
the baby and resumed feeding her. “There are lots of attractive cat names
available, even if you don’t have distinguishing marks. How about Chairman
Meow? No, you’re a girl. Madame Meow?”

The cat bit
the pad on its paw.

Annoyed, Buffy
rattled off names at random. “Fur Butt. Clawless. Clueless. Monkey Brains.
Splat. Cheese Ball. Ugly.”
 

There must
have been a burr in the cat’s paw, because the biting intensified.

“You made your
point,” Buffy said. “You’d like something more suited to your coloring.” The
cat was a classic orange tabby, a rather pretty shade. “How about Goldie? Or
Fawn, except that’s another kind of animal. We wouldn’t want anyone shooting
you in hunting season.”

A low growl
greeted this remark. Buffy pushed on. “Sunny, Brownie, Copper, Bronze,” she
rattled off. Then she remembered the condition of her car. “That’s it—Toast!”

Meeting her
gaze, the cat uttered a soft but unquestionably pleased meow. “That’s settled.
What a relief.” Her name secure against misuse, Buffy reached for the diaper
bag and set to work changing Allie.

A tap at the
door was followed by the sound of Carter clearing his throat. “Is it safe to
come in?”

“I’m wearing
my nightgown,” Buffy said. “Will that make the tongues wag around here?”

“I’d better
keep my distance, just in case.”

He remained
half in and half out of the doorway, a large muscular figure with only the side
of his face visible as he tried not to stare at her. Buffy noticed the firm
line of his jaw and the prominence of his cheekbone beneath the tanned skin.

He must have
just showered, because his hair was so wet that even the cowlick behaved
itself. As for his jeans and plaid shirt, they were honest enough to put phony
Western fashions to shame.

“I’m fixing to
start work,” he said. “Help yourself to breakfast. If you need baby food or
anything, turn left on Cross Street and walk three blocks.”

“I saw Gigi’s
Grocery Store last night,” Buffy reminded him. “By the way, your cat and I have
agreed to change her name to Toast.”

“She agreed?”
On his face, disbelief warred with amusement.

“We
negotiated,” she said. “She’s got nonverbal communication down cold.”

“Most cats
do.” He studied Allie, who gave him a smile. “That sure is a friendly child.”

“She likes
you,” Buffy said. “She needs a man in her life.”

“She’s got a
daddy,” he pointed out.

“That is a
term that never, under any circumstances, fit my ex. But we’ll discuss this
later.”

“We’ll discuss
what later?” Carter asked.

“Things.”
Buffy wasn’t ready to broach the sensitive topic that had brought her from
California. Plus, she needed coffee. “When will you know more about my car?”

“In a while.”
He vanished from the doorway, only to reappear a moment later. “By the way, if
a woman named Mazeppa shows up, tell her you’re occupying the spare room and
the only place left is the back porch. The roof over it leaks when it rains.”

“Who’s
Mazeppa?”

He’d left
already. Buffy hoped she wasn’t creating problems, but if Carter had planned on
renting this room, he should have told her.

*

Carter nearly
tripped over Rover as he strode out of the house. The dog was digging in the
yard, burying a mouse that the cat must have dispatched.

Rover never
killed anything. The dog had such a reverence for life that it felt compelled
to provide Buffy’s victims with a decent burial.

Not Buffy, he
reminded himself. Toast. What other changes was that woman intending to make?
As for the threatened discussion, in his experience women didn’t so much
discuss things as lay down the law.

He wished she
weren’t so pretty. Those green eyes practically leaped out of her face when she
smiled at him. And when she frowned, they grew so sharp, he feared she might
draw blood.

In point of
fact, Lilibeth Anderson had more classical beauty, and she was taller, too. The
town’s homecoming queen lacked a certain verve, though, that Buffy had in
abundance.

As Carter
opened the garage, switched on his computer and checked his equipment, he
wondered why none of the town’s eligible females stirred his interest. Life
would be a lot simpler if they did.

He and Mimsy
Miles had been friends since first grade, but he couldn’t get past thinking of
her as a buddy. Then there was Brigid Wernicke, whose mother, Gigi, owned the
market. Brigid had been a grade behind Carter and was a nice enough girl. But
he hadn’t minded a bit when she’d moved to Groundhog Station two years ago.

The only other
woman around here who hadn’t married young was Bobette Moriarty. She and her
twin brother, Bob, the town’s part-time sheriff, had taken over their father’s
ranch when he and his new wife moved to Detroit. Bobette was like a tractor,
straightforward and plain.

All the women
in town reminded him of tractors or maybe family-style sedans. Buffy Arden, on
the other hand, was like her sports car, sleek and dazzling.

Carter knew he
had a weakness for what his father would call fast women. If he weren’t
careful, he might ruin his life over one of them, the way he’d nearly done
years ago.

He was smarter
now. And he meant to stay smarter.

*

Buffy had only
seen a coffee percolator once before, and that was in a museum exhibit about
household items of the Fifties. As for what came out of the spout, did Carter
consider this stuff drinkable?

Glumly she set
her cup on the table and took a hard look at the rest of the kitchen. The
refrigerator belonged in that exhibit, too. Judging by the size of the freezer
section, it would hold at most two low-fat dinners and a pint of frozen yogurt.

A box of
matches beside the gas stove testified to the absence of a pilot light. No microwave
oven greeted the eye, either.

Worst of all,
most unforgivable, most deplorable, was the fact that this kitchen had no
dishwasher. Buffy’s plan called for regular visits to Carter’s with Allie, but
Carter was going to have to come visit them once she found a job in Dallas. She
couldn’t be expected to spend time here.

Eventually, of
course, she would earn enough money to return to the West Coast and open a
dress shop in Beverly Hills. That had been her dream since she was a
star-struck teenager.

She wasn’t
naïve enough to think she could land major stars as clients, because they
patronized big name designers. But there were plenty of other fascinating
people—publicists and personal assistants, film editors and character
actors—who would appreciate quality and zest on a budget. Plus tourists with a
taste for fashion and an appreciation of personal service.

However long
it took, Buffy intended to find the glamorous niche she knew was waiting for
her. She was only putting her dream on hold temporarily for her daughter’s
sake.

Taking another
survey of the room, she noted that the counters, although chipped, had been
scrubbed and dishes arranged neatly in the drainer. There was a cheerful, easy
quality about the kitchen that matched the man. This wasn’t a bad place to land
for a short time, she concluded. As for dirty dishes, one could always use
paper plates.

A trace of
Carter’s aftershave lotion lingered in the air. It was heady, masculine stuff.
Everything about the Texan seemed solid and old fashioned, in a reassuring way.

Buffy wished
she didn’t keep remembering how good it had felt to lean against him last
night. A weaker woman, or a less experienced one, might be tempted to trust her
heart to a man like that.

But she’d
finally learned the lessons that life had kept teaching her since childhood.
About men and their failings. About not being a sucker. Just because Carter
wasn’t a self-absorbed cheater like Roger, that didn’t mean she couldn’t get
hurt.

After settling
the baby on a blanket with some toys, Buffy fixed herself a bowl of cereal.
Since there wasn’t likely to be a Starbucks hiding anywhere in town, she
resigned herself to doctoring her boiled coffee with milk and sugar.

She should
treat Carter to a new coffeemaker, Buffy mused. Popsworthy’s Dry Goods Store
must carry one.

It would give
her a sense of satisfaction to charge it to Roger. While it might be true that
he’d expanded his fashion factories too rapidly into China and Japan, she
suspected that his company’s problems would be miraculously resolved once their
divorce—with its microscopic financial settlement—became final.

She couldn’t
prove he was cheating her financially just as he’d cheated her in other areas.
But as long as he was paying her credit card bills, she intended to wave that
plastic to the max. The few trinkets she purchased would be the only material
things she had to show for five years of marriage. Except, in a way, her
daughter.

The kitchen’s
screen door creaked open. “What is that baby doing on the floor?” demanded a
dry female voice.

The
seventy-something woman who entered had gray-streaked dark hair, a thin face
and a pursed mouth. She wore a shirtwaist dress expertly tailored of fine, soft
material that had faded to a pinkish gray.
She used to have money, or
whoever gave her that dress did.

“Babies need
to explore,” Buffy returned. “And she isn’t on the floor, she’s on a blanket.
You wouldn’t be the housekeeper, by any chance?”

“The what?”
The newcomer snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I came here to meet the new baby in
town. I’m a mite tired of the ones over at Billy and Willie’s. You’d think
folks would stop producing kids before they have to kick an old lady out of the
laundry room, wouldn’t you?”

“You must be
Mazeppa,” Buffy guessed.

“That’s what
some people call me,” came the reply. “And variations thereon. It’s kind of a
mouthful. You may call me Zeppa.”

Since the
woman was staring at her cereal, Buffy added, “Would you like breakfast?”

“Done! You’re
not a bad sort, for a newcomer.” In no time the visitor had cracked eggs into a
pan, found some bacon and fried herself a cholesterol special. She didn’t even
seem to mind the boiled coffee.

“I’m afraid
I’ve taken the spare room,” Buffy said as Zeppa plowed into her food.

“Tell Carter
to fix the roof on that sun porch. Everybody knows he’s been putting it off
just to spite me.” The woman ate rapidly, as if afraid someone might snatch the
plate away. “I’m moving in as soon as possible.” Zeppa eyed Allie. “You need
someone to watch that baby.”