Читать книгу Fill-In Fiancee - Deanna Talcott, DeAnna Talcott - Страница 11

By the time she’d run up the two flights of steps to her apartment, Sunny was gasping—and it wasn’t due to the exercise. No, the reason her head was spinning and her lungs had turned six shades of breathless blue, was because of Brett Hamilton.

He had kissed her until she ached—and she’d kissed him right back. She’d never realized a man could taste so good.

She’d never imagined she could lose herself like that. Not her. Not Sunny Robbins. She’d steeled herself to take cold, analytical views of everything life presented. That’s why she worked so hard in her job as a paralegal. She could see both sides of a story, weigh issues and make rational decisions.

Never in her wildest dreams had she thought a man like Brett Hamilton could make her feel so light-headed and giddy.

The lyrics to a song popped into her head, and she shivered. “With just one kiss…”

Well, shiver me timbers, she thought insanely, some English bloke, with a title and a reputation, plants a kiss on me in the middle of the apartment parking lot, and I fall apart like a sinking ship.

She would put a stop to it. She swore she would. For a moment, standing there on the commercial carpet outside the door to her apartment, Sunny thought about who and what she was.

Because she liked a roof over her head, and benefits that included medical and dental, she held a nine-to-five job in the corporate world. She ate commercially prepared meals in throwaway boxes because it was efficient and convenient. She voted a straight Republican ticket, read the New York Times, paid her taxes when they were due, and balanced her checkbook every week. She’d never been hauled off to jail during a sit-in, a sit-down, a rally, protest or demonstration. She didn’t have a screaming room, and she didn’t paint abstract canvases of her inner self. She hadn’t dated anyone in two years and had only explored one sexual experience. Love-ins were way out of her league.

It went without saying her parents thought they had failed. On every count.

Then Brett Hamilton came along, proposed an absurd charade, kissed her and swept her off her feet.

She looked down at her toes. Okay. She was still standing. Barely.

Sunny pivoted on her heels and sank back against the wall, taking a cleansing breath. She would drive that maddening man out of her mind by sheer will and determination. She swore she would.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered. The scents of honey and vanilla surrounded her, making her take deep, gulping breaths, to get as much of the calming scent into her lungs as she could. Inside, she heard her father’s low hum as he chanted, “Ommm…”

Damn, she thought irritably. He was meditating again. Some days he was up at the crack of dawn, meditating and searching for the soul of his universe. Sometimes it was dusk—or before lunch, or after lunch, or after the eleven o’clock news. She really, really hoped he found himself soon.

For to imagine him there, planted in the center of the living room in the lotus position, was one more reminder of why she was moving in with Brett: to resume her own orderly life.

She sighed heavily and fumbled with her key. She jammed the key in the lock, then winced and pushed the door open. “Mom? You left the door unlocked again.”

Her father, in his striped shaman’s robe, cracked one disapproving eye. His chanting grew louder, as if he could drive out any distractions by sheer willpower. “Ommm…”

Her mother wandered out of the kitchen, wearing her favorite cotton skirt and peasant blouse, a concho belt tightly girding her plump middle. Dressed in wool socks, her feet noiselessly scuffed the floor. She brushed her long, graying hair back from her face, but didn’t look up from the recipe card in her hand. “Hi, dear,” she said absently. “If people want in, they’re going to get in. And if people want something bad enough to steal it, I say just give it to them. They must need it worse than we do.”

“Mother, this isn’t the commune,” Sunny reminded her edgily, “and these are my things. I don’t want to have to replace them.”

“I know. It’s just…” Her mother shrugged. “Old habits and old philosophies are hard to break.”

“Ommm…” her father chanted.

“I know, I know,” Sunny said, relenting. “I’m not trying to be difficult, but I worry about keeping everything nice, that’s all.” She threw her handbag on the table and moved to the kitchen, her nose twitching. The apartment did, she realized, smell better than the incense her father usually burned. “What smells so good? Are you baking?”

“It’s vanilla,” her mother said. “But it’s for candles.”

Sunny stopped stock-still in the doorway of her galley kitchen and stared. Her Cuisinart was in pieces. Cupboard doors hung open and the sink was heaped with utensils. Discarded candle forms littered the countertops. Cork-stoppered bottles of scent cluttered her lazy Susan. On the stove, every one of her stainless steel pans had wax simmering in it.

Wax dribbled down the front of the stove. Wax speckled the floor. Wax puddled and dried on the chrome fixtures. It glopped in fascinating spatter patterns over the cherry-wood cabinets. It had apparently been sopped up with her brand-new kitchen towels.

A ripple of frustration mushroomed to a tidal wave. Sunny’s head started pounding and her stomach churned. “Mother…?” Her one-word query was carefully contained, carefully executed.

“Beeswax, and all natural ingredients,” her mother replied, as if that answered every question. “I couldn’t find a candle in the house. And candles nurture the soul. They lend atmosphere. They save electricity.”

“You can buy candles! At the store.”

“Not like these,” her mother said proudly, displaying a slightly unbalanced six-inch pillar.

Sunny gaped, and the pent-up frustration winching her shoulders tight popped like a spent balloon. One more un-forgettable moment with her lovable, goofball parents. Sometimes it was just easier to give up than try to fight it. Her shoulders slumped. “No, definitely not like those,” she agreed dryly. “And that would be, what? A wax takeoff on the Leaning Tower of Pisa?”

Her mother lifted the saucer of Sunny’s good china a fraction of an inch higher and regarded the listing candle. “What do you know? Maybe I created a novelty.”

“Maybe.” Sunny reluctantly moved to the stove and tipped the smallest of the gourmet pans to check the contents. Sick-looking wax, half-congealed, purled to the other side. “Mom, do you have any idea what I paid for these pans?”

“Must have been a lot. They conduct a nice, even heat.”

Sunny nodded mutely. “This,” she said finally, “is an omelette pan. It used to cook eggs.”

Her mother’s face flickered with recognition. “Oh, honey, I’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you? I got so wrapped up in what I was doing I completely lost track of time.”

“That’s okay,” Sunny said, holding up a hand as she turned to the freezer. “Don’t worry about it.” She yanked open the appliance door and came face-to-face with a dozen more candles.

“Putting candles in the freezer before they’re set creates a beautiful crackle pattern.”

“Uh-huh. But what happened to the food that was in here?”

“Oh, honey, I just threw away a few of the things in the front that were freezer burned…or that had refined sugar, or a lot of additives….”

Sunny reached around the most beautiful of the crackled candles and pulled out a box. “Well, we still have these,” she said happily, dumping the contents on the last clean plate. “I’ll just nuke ’em.”

From the corner of her eye, Sunny saw her mother take a step back and stare in horror at the forlorn-looking little chicken nuggets. “Oh, Sunny, no. That isn’t good for you. The fat content alone in processed foods—”

Her father joined them in the kitchen. “Sunshine,” he said reprovingly, “I don’t think ‘nuke ’em’ is an expression we should use loosely. Doing so strikes a vein of terror in all third world countries.”

Sunny momentarily put the heel of her hand to her forehead, where she knew the throbbing was about to start. “Daddy, whatever was I thinking? Some third world country probably has my kitchen bugged and now they know all about my plans to cook chicken nuggets.”

Her father cocked his head at her, the way he always did when he was disgruntled, and his single earring winked at her. A loose strand of hair had come free from his ponytail and he hooked it behind his ear. “You really need to take the world situation seriously, Sunshine,” he admonished.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But the only world situation I’m concerned with right at this minute is mine. I’m hungry and I’m tired, and I want to talk to you.”

“Your father picked up fresh mustard greens at the coop,” her mother wheedled, her eyes fixed on the plate inside the microwave.

“Oh, yummy.” Sunny automatically punched in the numbers on the appliance, and when it was humming she turned back to her parents. “Sylvia. Doug,” she began, unconsciously lapsing into the psychobabble she’d learned many years ago, when she’d shared their living space in the California beach community. “I have the opportunity to move on, at least for a little while. A friend has offered me a bed and a place to chill. I have some life choices I want to ponder, and—”

“You aren’t moving out on us, are you?” her mother exclaimed.

“Only for a little while. I just need my space.”

“Space is relative,” her father reflected. “The freedom of the spirit soars beyond the physical limitations.”

“Doug,” Sunny said to her father, her voice flat and no-nonsense, “I figured you could use the room. My apartment’s kind of small.”

“Honey, we’re not going to be here forever.” Her mother patted her arm consolingly. “We’re only between places right now.”

“Just until we find a place in Vermont.”

“Because if we’re in your way—”

“No, it’s okay. I understand,” Sunny assured them. She opened the refrigerator door to grab a soda and was immediately faced with dozens of votive candles cooling there. She closed the door and came away empty-handed. “I love you guys, I do. But the opportunity for a temporary roommate came up, and I just took it, that’s all. I’m sure you’ll still be here when I get back.”

“I’m not so certain,” her father warned. “The manager at the food co-op asked your mom about a job.”

“A job? Really?” Hope spiraled, and Sunny tingled with anticipation.

“I told him about my homemade soap,” she confided. “He wants to sell it.”

The bubble of expectation quickly burst. Sunny pulled her plate of limp-looking chicken nuggets from the microwave. “So,” she said. “Will you be needing the roaster or the stock pot for the soap?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” her mother scoffed. “You’ve got more than enough pans. I’m more concerned about getting the goat’s milk. It’s a hard ingredient to find, especially here in Boston.”