Blushing Pink Page 6

  Just then the phone on his desk rang. "Brian Doren. Oh, right, I'll bring the paperwork. No problem, I'll be there in five minutes." Great. He'd forgotten about the status meeting at two o'clock. He released a deep sigh and gathered up some folders he'd need.

  He made a mental note to call Danny afterward and make sure she was taking it easy. He'd sent her enough money to cover her expenses for the next few weeks, and he wanted to make sure she didn't need more. He also had to call his mom to make sure his dad wasn't driving, and to double-check that she had gotten her new eyeglass prescription.

  Oh, yeah, and he had to call Veronica back. She'd left him two messages that morning.

  As he made his way down the hall, he straightened his tie and ignored the clawing in his gut that must have been leftover Reese Brock-related tension. The whole incident at the bookstore had really thrown him. When he'd gotten to the cafe, he'd noticed that the girl working behind the counter was on the phone, and he'd assumed she'd be with him soon. What he hadn't assumed was that she'd begin talking about him—insulting him. Him!

  He hadn't counted on realizing in a matter of moments that that cute round ass belonged to Reese Brock, and he hadn't counted on Reese Brock regarding him as Quasimodo. Balding, Altoid-needing Quasimodo. Jesus.

  And had he officially gone crazy or did her memory of him seem completely divorced from the reality of that night they'd spent? They had talked for most of the New Year's party, and ended up in the hallway, kissing and pawing at each other, right there with fifty other people around the corner. Sure, he hadn't gotten the vibe from her that she was interested in anything more, but he hadn't picked up on her being nauseated, either.

  And why was she talking about him like he was dying to get together with her? Had he ever said that? But he supposed he knew the answer to that—obviously his attraction to her had been more obvious than he thought. She must've picked up on it at the diner.

  Well, so what? He was a male; she was a female... since when did that make him a charity case? To hell with it, he thought irritably. She was clearly unstable. And he was just in a rotten mood because he hadn't gotten his double espresso, and now had to face a long afternoon of meetings ahead of him.

  The pounding in his head started again. It turned into a relentless beating against his temple the moment he entered the conference room.

  * * *

  It was normal to be exhausted after working a shift at Roland & Fisk, but this was the first time Reese also felt like she'd ingested her body weight in guilt. The incident with Brian Doren at the cafe had happened four hours ago, but it kept echoing through her brain.

  "Reese? Is that you, sweetheart?" Joanna's voice called from the kitchen, as Reese set her keys on top of the antique grandfather clock by the stairs and made her way down the hall. She followed the smell of heavy, rich food, and the sound of Ally insisting that silver streaks in her hair, if done well, would look terrific at her wedding.

  "Hi," Reese said, ducking in, and seeing her family sitting around the long wooden kitchen table. Both Ben and Drew smiled when they saw her.

  "Hey," Ben said, while forking in what Reese now recognized as her mother's famous souffle de fromage aux truffe noire.

  "Hey, there," Drew said, smiling.

  "Hi, guys."

  "Your mom tells me you've got a new boyfriend," Drew said amiably.

  "Oh..." Reese floundered. "Well..." Was this the same mom who frequently took "denial" to new heights? No, Kenneth was not her boyfriend—he didn't even act like he wanted to be her boyfriend. He was so damn passive—he never articulated anything he was feeling, for Pete's sake.

  But she couldn't get into all that now. She supposed she could use the old stall tactic of pointing out that, well, Kenneth was a "boy" and also a "friend," so technically, that made him a "boyfriend," but that ploy was usually transparent, and always lame.

  "Oh, no, did I say something wrong?" Drew asked suddenly and apologetically.

  "No, no, of course not. Don't be silly." Reese didn't want to make her brother-in-law feel bad, especially when Drew always tried so hard to be a part of the family, yet not overstep his bounds. It was sweet. And Reese suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that he was older than the others. Besides, was it Drew's fault that Joanna was certifiably delusional where Kenneth Peel was concerned?

  "Honey, you have a plate warming in the oven," Joanna said cheerfully, and then hopped up to get it herself.

  "It's okay, Mom; I got it—"

  "Sit, sit," Joanna said.

  So she did. "Where's Angela?"

  Just then Angela ducked out of the deep, walk-in pantry. "Mom, is this it?" she asked, holding a ceramic canister of French roast—and looking cute as hell with her new haircut.

  "Omigod!" Reese began, hopping out of her chair, "I love it!"

  It took a second for Angela to realize what she meant, and then she began her usual self-effacing qualifications. "Oh, please, it's dorky and it's too short." She brought a hand up to the straight, layered cut that came about an inch above her shoulder and had wispy ends on the side that turned out around her face.

  "It is not dorky," Reese said, reaching out to touch it herself. The dark silky wisps floated through her fingers airily, adorably, and Reese only wished Angela could see herself the same way that others did. Reese added simply, "I think you look terrific."

  "Right, I look like I tried to get the Friends haircut about eight years too late."

  "No way," Reese said emphatically. "You look great."

  "Angela, I'm telling you, it looks nothing like that," Ally piped in. "You have a distorted perception of reality. Drew, tell your wife how hot she looks."

  Drew hesitated for a second, then said, "She knows what I think." His tone implied that he liked the haircut, too, but since he wasn't even looking at Angela, it took some luster off the remark. Reese stole a glance at Angela, who set the canister of coffee on the counter, looking quietly depressed. What is going on with them?

  "You're hardly one to talk about distorted reality," Michael said to Ally. "You're talking about putting silver streaks in your hair for your own wedding."

  "Your father's right," Joanna said in that "I'm sorry but I've got to be honest" voice—with that "raw naked honesty is just a curse" inflection, "That's going to look ridiculous, honey."

  Ally scoffed. "It will not. It's gonna match my dress."

  "What dress?" Ben said through a mouthful of food, and somehow managing a smile.

  Ally shot him a look, and said to everyone else, "My dress is coming, so don't all freak out now."

  "Oh, Ally, how can you know that it's coming?" Joanna asked, wide-eyed and martyred. "Of course we're worried. You order your wedding dress off the Internet—who ever heard of such a thing? Now the wedding's less than a month away, and you don't even have it yet!"

  "It's coming," Ally insisted, exasperated.

  "Okay, enough of this topic, it's making me too stressed," Joanna said with a deliberately shaky voice. She got up and started clearing the table. "Reese, eat, eat."

  "I'm not done yet," Michael protested when Joanna tugged on his plate absently.

  "And about the silver streaks," she was saying, suddenly back on the topic, "that's just not going to look right. It's not very traditional."

  "Mom, I don't think that's your best argument," Reese countered, as Ally twisted three of her braids around her fingers, the short nails of which were painted electric blue.

  "I want cool hair at my wedding, and that's it."

  Michael smiled crookedly and said, "'He that falls in love with himself will have no rivals.'"

  "What?" Ally said.

  "Vanity can be a very destructive thing," he explained.

  "Yeah," Ben mumbled midchewing.

  As soon as he set his fork down across his plate, Joanna bustled over. "Sweetheart, do you want some more?"

  "Oh, no, thanks, Mrs. Brock," Ben replied, smiling up at her. "Well... what's for dessert?"

 
; "What are you saying?" Ally demanded. "That I'm vain?" She held her hands out, as her gaze circled the table, silently asking, What's wrong with this picture?

  "Me," she declared, "I'm vain. Me."

  Joanna tapped Ben affectionately on the shoulder, winked, and whispered, "How does crane brulee sound?"

  "Uh, great, that sounds terrific, Mrs. Brock." He flashed that hundred-watt smile again.

  "Eddie Haskell," Reese heard Ally whisper under her breath, while Ben took her hand in his and sat back in his chair as though he were full (which was only an illusion, of course).

  "Reese, I want to include something in the wedding program about your Ph.D.," Joanna called over her shoulder as she rinsed a plate.

  "What? Why?"

  "Because I'm just so proud of you, honey!" She clapped her hands together. "My little achiever!" Inwardly Reese groaned and felt more guilt creep into her chest.

  "By the way, Al," Angela said, "did Lane ever reimburse you for her dress?"

  Before Ally could answer, Michael muttered, "'A fool and his money are soon parted.'"

  Ally sucked in a breath, and Reese said, "Dad, please. I don't think that's helping."

  Angela got up to make coffee, and Drew rose to help her.

  "But about Lane—" Joanna began.

  "Look, I don't know what's going on with Lane," Ally protested. "Can we maybe put someone else under the hot lights for a few minutes? Hmm, Ben, have you called the travel agent about changing our hotel arrangements?"

  "Changing your arrangements?" Joanna echoed dramatically, and then threw head into her hand. "What are you talking about, Ally? You can't do this! When are you going to learn that you can't always save everything until the last minute?"

  "All right, just relax, Joanna," Michael said calmly. "I'm sure Ally can handle it."

  "Don't you mean Ben?" Ally said, again trying to bring the focus on her fiancé, but again it wasn't working.

  "Why do you need to change your hotel arrangements?" Joanna asked Ally anxiously. "Why, why?"

  She sighed. "Because they put us on the thirteenth floor, that's why."

  Angela rolled her eyes. "Oh, you're not serious, are you?" she said from the counter, while she filled the coffeepot with water and Drew handed her a clean filter.

  "There is no way I'm staying on the thirteenth floor, and that's that."

  After the table was cleared, Angela and Drew served the coffee, while Joanna dished out the dessert.

  "How was your boss today?" Michael asked Reese pushing his fork into the soft crème brulee. "Darcy, isn't it?"

  Reese rolled her eyes, while she tore open a Sweet'n Low wrapper. "Awful, miserable, satanic, the usual."

  "What's wrong with her?" Drew asked.

  "Ech, where do I begin?" Reese said. "The woman is irritable, berating, crotchety, and an all-around Crab-Apple-Annie bitch from hell."

  Drew smiled. "A real old battle-ax, huh?"

  "Yeah, totally. Well, she's twenty-three, but still."

  "All right," Joanna said, taking a pad from the counter. "While we're all here, let's have a quick meeting about the wedding." Everyone groaned.

  "Do we have to do it now?" Ally asked.

  "Ally, I'm doing this for you," Joanna said, sounding mildly annoyed. "Besides, I told you I wanted to have a meeting about the wedding tonight."

  "Oh, I thought you said we were gonna have a meeting about having a meeting."

  "Yeah, I like that idea," Reese said, in no mood to sit through a wedding-meeting, either. They always went the same way: Nobody knew anything, and everyone was disorganized except Joanna.

  And she was still feeling painfully uneasy about her misunderstanding with Brian Doren earlier that afternoon... how much more could a girl take in one day?

  Joanna sighed. "Fine, fine. But when are we going to go over Reese's toast?"

  Reese buried her forehead in her palm. It always came back to the toast, which her mother was only freaking out about because she was afraid Reese would embarrass her in front of the entire Goldwood Women's Club, whom, of course, she'd invited.

  Diplomatically, Angela said, "Mom, let's go over everything another night when we're all prepared."

  "No, we don't have time to waste," Joanna pressed, unwilling to accept the family standard: vague attempts at procrastination and empty promises to reschedule. Reese sighed and thought, She's on to us.

  "Sweetheart," Michael injected calmly, "let's go with the consensus and have a meeting about the details another night."

  Joanna threw her hands up in the air. "But it just seems silly to wait! We're all here, sitting together—"

  "'Graft good fruit all, or graft not at all,' " he said.

  "What?" she asked, frustrated.

  "Well, 'an empty bag cannot stand upright,'" he explained with a brief shrug.

  "Oh, Christ," Ally mumbled, and Joanna brought her hand up to her throat in panic.

  "But when?" she cried. "Nobody's telling me when we're gonna finalize everything! Oh, this is going to be so disorganized!" She shook her head, undoubtedly trying to lose the mental image of Remmi Collindyne having a less than five-star evening.

  "How about we meet the night after tomorrow—Wednesday," Angela suggested helpfully (depending on one's perspective). "Around seven, does that work?"

  After some groaning, everyone finally agreed. Joanna said, "Oh, we need to have Lane and Deb here, too. The whole wedding party, really."

  "That's true; I guess we should," Ally conceded. She turned to Ben, who was sitting relaxed with one leg crossed perpendicularly over the other, looking only three-fourths into the conversation. "About Brian—"

  Reese froze at the mention of his name. Did her family have to keep rubbing it in? She did not want to keep thinking about Brian Doren. Jeez!

  "Do you think he'll be able to come?" Ally asked.

  Ben shrugged. "I don't know. I think he's really busy with work lately. I'll call him tomorrow and ask."

  Oh, God! Brian Doren might be coming to their house? The day after tomorrow? Reese's stomach muscles clenched and locked in a tight, anxious crunch. She suddenly lost the desire to finish her dessert.

  On the one hand, she was dreading seeing Brian. Yes, she knew that she needed to explain their misunderstanding, but she was so damn intimidated by his presence. On the other hand... the sooner she cleared things up, the sooner she could move on and stop obsessing about him. "Reese?"

  "Oh... huh? Sorry, Mom, were you saying something?"

  "Yes, I asked you to have a draft of your toast by Wednesday evening, so we can go over it at the meeting."

  "Mom," Reese and Angela said at the same time that Michael pleaded, "Joanna..."

  Joanna blinked ultra innocently. "What?" she said. "Am I allowed even to ask a question anymore?"

  "Okay, let's just save all this for the meeting," Ally said.

  Can't wait.

  Chapter 7

  That night Reese couldn't sleep, so she started cleaning out her closet. It was really the only thing she could clean, because ever since her mother had redone the room, it remained meticulously neat and orderly. Reese's closet, on the other hand, looked orderly, but upon close inspection, she could see that the clutter was just arranged well. And she was searching for a good way to release some energy, or to exhaust herself out of insomnia, whichever came first.

  Straining on tiptoe, she struggled to reach a big cardboard box that was on the shelf above her clothes. Every time her fingers grazed the box, she fell back on her heels and had to start all over again. Finally she began jumping and swatting the box closer with each bounce. "Damn this thing," she muttered, as she leaped up and achieved one very fierce swat. Too fierce—the box tipped over, spilling out its contents as it tumbled headfirst to the floor.

  Letting out a startled yelp, Reese hopped out of the way before her feet were crushed by a violent storm of cassette tapes and yearbooks. She let out a laugh, dropped to her knees, and started rifling through the junk. Now it was
junk—ten years ago, it was "life."

  And speaking of life, it was probably an odd time to start thinking about what a mess hers had become. But she couldn't help it. She was trapped in a Ph.D. program she'd grown sick of, and she was stuck ghostwriting a book that sucked instead of really writing a book of her own. She was sort of seeing Kenneth, who seemed incapable of passion, and was now having passionate thoughts about Brian, whom she'd kissed once, two years ago, and who didn't seem too interested. Oh, yeah, and she'd also emasculated him in public earlier that afternoon.

  Mostly, Reese felt like a fraud. She hated school, she had no dissertation, and she was too much of a coward to do anything about it. Plus, despite all her protests to her mother, she really did want to find someone who would make her life make sense.

  Just then her cell phone rang.

  Startled, she hopped to her feet and tried to remember where she'd left it. Following the ring, she darted across the room, lunged across her bed, and grabbed the phone from her windowsill just before the voice mail picked up. "Hello," she said, mildly out of breath, which, if she thought about it, was sort of pathetic.

  "Hello, it's me," said a very calm, cool, controlled male voice. New twist. Kenneth was actually calling her on his own, not merely returning her call.

  Hmm, that shows initiative. "Hi, Kenneth. What's up?"

  "Oh, not very much," he said. "And how are things with you?"

  Confusing as hell. Sleep-deprived, sex-deprived, fun-deprived. "Great!" she said. "Um, it's so nice to hear from you." She tucked the phone under her ear, rolled off her bed, and ambled back to her closet. Might as well work while they strained to talk.

  Awkward beat of silence, followed by awkward throat clearing on the other end. Followed by, "So, how is work going?"

  Dispassionate nonsequiturs, okay, so much for initiative. "It's okay. The people are pretty weird, but—"

  "What do you mean? What people?"

  "Oh... you know, the people I work with at the store."

  "Oh, yes, I see. No, I meant, how's your work for Professor Kimble coming along?"