Phelps returned to the kitchen and leaned against the counter. "Candy's more your thing."
I had expected the questions. But that didn't mean I wanted to answer them. As I poured the water into the well I shrugged.
Water dribbled down the pot and all over the counter.
"Want to talk about it?" He pushed away from the counter and tore some paper towels off the roll hanging beneath the cupboard by the sink. Mopping up the dribbled water, he offered, "I'm a great listener."
"Can you grab the coffee from the freezer?" I asked, fully aware of my weak diversionary tactics.
Phelps was also a great interpreter, because he read my unwillingness to talk and let the subject of candy go. "If you don't drink coffee, why do you have three bags of it in your freezer?"
"I have friends. Family, too."
He started to read the label but I grabbed it away before he could finish. "Did that say Thin Mint Blend?" I scowled and started to retort, but he interrupted. "Never mind, forget I asked. You got music in this joint?"
I nodded to the armoire and went about making the coffee as Phelps flipped through my meager CD collection.
"The Bangles. Cindy Lauper. Boy George." The sound of CD cases clicking against each other as he flipped echoed through the apartment. "What decade are you from?"
"80s born and bred," I answered, never feeling so old since the time my six-year-old cousin asked if I was one-hundred. I know children have no conception of age, but still.
Phelps plucked out a CD and popped it into the stereo. Soon the sounds of Macy Gray filled the room and my mood cheered exponentially.
"How old are you?"
"You can't ask a woman that question."
"But you asked me." He returned to the kitchen and searched through cupboards until he found a pair of coffee mugs. "It's only fair."
When he lifted one mug in question, I nodded. "I'll have a Frothe." No need to mention it was a Butterfinger Frothe. "And it's not the same. You're a guy."
"Thanks for noticing, but it's still your turn."
I punched the on button before turning to face him and his question. "I'm thirty-three." Crossing my arms across my chest I dared him to tease. "Almost thirty-four."
He wisely moved ahead without commenting—which I interpreted as "Jeez lady, you're old!"—and asked, "When's your birthday?"
"Next month. September 17."
Maybe he would leave the subject now. I already felt as old as Croesus, and was getting older by the second. Almost to the point of regretting inviting him in.
Almost, but not quite. Feeling crummy and old was better than feeling crummy and alone any day.
"That's during the trip to Milan," he exclaimed. "Perfect. We can celebrate in Italy."
"First of all, I am not celebrating the birthday that will make me irrevocably
mid
-thirties." Though the excitement in his beautiful blues could induce a woman to celebrate even her fortieth birthday, I turned away and worked on making my Frothe. There are some lines a woman has to draw in the world of birthdays. "And second, you're not taking me to Italy."
He came up behind me, so close I could feel the heat of his body. But he didn't touch me. He just whispered into my ear. "But I want to take you."
The coffee pot chose that instant to explode all over my cream, beige, and taupe apartment.
Forty minutes later I tied my terry robe tightly over my pajamas as the Maytag in my utility closet spun a dozen coffee-stained towels and Phelps' clothes dry. My apartment was covered in Carpet Fresh soaked splotches and Phelps sported my fleecy gray robe. And nothing else.
I had to keep reminding myself not to think about that.
"Your clothes should be dry in half an hour."
"No problem." He looked me up and down, his attention caught by the neckline of my robe. And the jammies poking through. "Are those candy hearts?"
Clutching the robe tight to my neck, I made sure the terry covered everything. "Of course not, they're just hearts. Simple, girly, romantic—"
"I can still see the pants, Lydia."
I looked down to see the candy hearts-covered fabric peeking beneath the hem of my robe. "Alright, they're candy hearts. You got a problem with that?"
"I'm not the one with a problem."
He meant it as a joke. It sounded like a joke. I knew it was a joke. But after the night I'd had, I was not prepared to joke. Especially about candy.
Which reminded me, there was a full bag of candy waiting on the kitchen counter for me. One I was not about to open and consume in front of Phelps.
"I think you'd better leave." I tried for offended, but came off as snooty.
He just laughed it off and collapsed onto my sofa. "I can't. You have my clothes hostage."
Which only reminded me that he was wearing nothing—and I meant nothing—under that robe. My gaze unconsciously dropped to his basement, as Fiona put it. Darn thick fleecy robe! I couldn't see anything.
Man, I was sure hard up if I was resorting to looking up a guy's skirts, so to speak. Good thing he wasn't wearing a kilt or I'd be upskirting him with my camera phone.
"Fine. Stay. I don't care."
He smiled like he knew what I had just been thinking. "Come here." He curled his index finger at me.
"I'm fine where I am." Leaning against the dining table a good fifteen feet away.
Instead of keeping the comfortable distance between us, he stood and crossed to me. When he was just inches away—so close I could smell the faint remains of his aftershave and the lavender water on the robe he wore—he lifted his hands. I braced myself for another kiss.
Well, brace was not the right word. I arched my neck to present my mouth at a better angle, leaned forward, and closed my eyes.
Then I felt his hands on my robe. Pulling it open.
"Candy hearts." He closed the robe just as gently and patted it back in place. "Just as I thought."
I heard the smile in his voice. The nerve.
When I opened my eyes to give him a piece of my mind, he was gone. "Phelps?" No answer. Was I losing my mind? Maybe this was a symptom of candy withdrawal; hallucinating gorgeous young men naked beneath their robes. But I could still smell the aftershave. "Phelps!"
"Just giving myself the ten cent tour," he called from another room. "What's in here?"
His voice was coming from the second bedroom. From my— "Great Gobstoppers, get out of there."
I ran to the workshop, heedless of the way my pink furry slippers, um, slipped across the wooden floor of the hall. There he was, in all his nakedness—beneath the robe—in the precious den of my creativity.
"This is where you design your jewelry," he stated as he sifted through a collection of sketches on the work table. "These are amazing."
"No, no, no." I rushed across the room and grabbed the sketches from him. "You can't be in here. No one is allowed in here. You'll destroy my creativity."
Grabbing him by the shoulders, I forcibly pushed him toward the door. He didn't fight my efforts.
"No one can destroy your creativity," he argued as I thrust him through the door and closed it behind us. "It's inside you, not that room."
"You don't understand. You can't be in there."
"Okay, I'm not anymore. Alright?"
I stopped, looked around, and realized we were in the middle of the living room. My work room was far away with the door safely closed.
And Phelps looked a little shocked.
"I-I'm sorry, it's just that..." I searched for a meaningful explanation but found none. "I need candy."
The buzzer on the dryer went off to signal a batch of dry clothes and towels. As I headed for the full bag of candy in the kitchen, he headed for the utility room.
By the time he emerged, fully clothed, I was sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar and had inhaled two packages of Gummi Lifesavers. I swallowed the last of a pair of cherries before venturing to meet his gaze.
"Sorry I freaked out," I said by way of apology. "I get a little obsessive about my work room. No one else has ever been in there."
"No one? Not even Gavin?"
"No, and..." That was another problem we had to deal with. "You can't go off all macho on Gavin. It only sets him off and I don't want any fights on my conscience. He's not worth it."
He moved between my knees and lifted my chin. "I can't promise not to punish the guy for being a jerk. But I'll try not to start anything."
I allowed myself a small smile as I stared, hypnotized by those blue eyes. "Thank you."
"
Nothing
," he whispered in my ear, "can take away your creativity.
Nothing
."
He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth before walking away and heading for the door. "And Lydia," he called without turning back, "I am taking you to Italy."
The door closed behind him with a whooshing click and I sighed. There was something about Phelps Elliot that made a girl quiver. On the inside
and
the outside.
Now if only I knew whether that was a good thing or not.
In the utility room, I found my coffee-stained towels neatly folded and stacked on the dryer. Frowning, I decided that Phelps was a surprising man.
And I was a hysterical woman.
Sweet Saltwater Taffy, could I have overreacted more?
Sure, the work room was sacred, but that didn't mean I had to go ballistic and blast the guy out of the room for daring to enter. It's not like he knew what he was doing.
Still, I had to wonder what kind of damage had been done to my fragile field of creativity.
Leaving the towels next to a bottle of bleach, knowing that Danielle would know what to do, I headed for the room.
At first glance everything seemed normal.
Everything in the right place, except for the stack of sketches I had tossed on the nearest table as I kicked Phelps out the door. I quickly returned them to their home on the work table.
All appeared okay.
I closed my eyes to feel the room.
No negative vibes struck me. No glaring disruptions in the energy— in fact, I had an inspiration.
Unbidden, and design popped into my mind that would be perfect for the Ferrero men's line. A manly silver wrist cuff with a brilliant blue lapis stone in the center. Part Wonder Woman bulletproof bracelet, part Native American bow guard.
It was beautiful, perfectly formed in my mind, and entirely unexpected.
Before the image left as quickly as it came, I jumped onto the stool and started sketching. I had just finished the final sketch when the house phone rang.
Quickly scrawling the title, "Rockuff," I ran for the phone in the kitchen.
"Hello?" I answered with more enthusiasm than I had felt in ages. I guess Phelps had not destroyed the creativity in my room. In fact, I would have to admit, he might have helped it.
From the other end of the line I heard a serious of sniffles.
"Hello?" I repeated.
This time I heard a full out sob.
Quickly checking the caller ID, I saw a number I didn't recognize. It wasn't Mom, Fi, or Bethany. Who else would be calling me to cry in my ear?
"Hello!"
"L-l-ydiaaa?" a faintly familiar voice wailed.
"Yes," I answered hesitantly. "Who is this?"
"K-k-kaaathhhh—"
Now I recognized the voice. "Kathryn?"
All I got was a muffled "Uh-huh."
She sounded miserable. "Kathryn, honey, what's wrong?"
"Lydia," she wailed into the phone, "my fiancé is having an affair."
12
Q: What did the cheerleader say to the ghost?
A: Show your spirit.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #26
"Where are you?" I asked.
"D-d-downstaaairs."
I heard a rustling on the other end of the line, along with a muffled, "Here, let me speak with her."
"Hello?" This had to be the most bizarre phone call I had ever received. What was KY Kathryn doing downstairs in my apartment building, calling me because her fiancé was cheating on— Oh wait, that sounded vaguely familiar.
"Miss Vanderwalk, it's Howard."
At least
he
wasn't hysterical.
"What is going on down there, Howard?"
"There's a young lady,"—a pause followed by a wailed something akin to
Kafrin Mamforf
—"a Miss Kathryn Danforth if I interpret correctly, asking to see you. It seems a matter of some urgency but I wanted to check with you first."
"Send her up—" I started, but realized that might be a bad idea. "Actually, I'll come fetch her."