Читать книгу Only Forever - Linda Lael Miller - Страница 7

This particular strain of flu, Nick DeAngelo decided, had been brought to Earth by hostile aliens determined to wipe out the entire planet—starting, evidently, with an ex-jock who owned one of the best Italian restaurants in Seattle.

Sprawled on the hide-a-bed in the living room of his apartment, he plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the mattress beside him and crammed them against his face just in time to absorb an explosive sneeze. He was covered in mentholated rub from his nose to his belly button, and while his forehead was hot to the touch, the rest of him was racked with chills.

He wondered when Mike Wallace would burst through the door, wanting the story. It was time to alert the masses to impending doom.

Did you actually see these aliens, Mr. De-Angelo?

Call me Nick. Of course I didn’t see them. They must have gotten me when I was sleeping.

The imaginary interview was interrupted by the jangling of the telephone, which, like the box of tissues, was in bed with Nick. Hoping for sympathy, he dug the receiver out from a tangle of musty flannel sheets and rasped out a hoarse hello.

“Still under the weather, huh?” The voice belonged to his younger sister, Gina, and it showed a marked lack of commiseration. “Listen, if I wasn’t afraid of catching whatever it is you’ve got and missing my exams next week, I’d definitely come over and take care of you.”

Nick sagged against the back of the sofa, one hand to his fevered forehead. “Your concern is touching, Gina,” he coughed out.

“I could call Aunt Carlotta,” Gina was quick to suggest. She was a bright kid, a psychology major at the University of Washington, and she knew which buttons to push. “I’m sure she’d love to move into your apartment and spend the next two weeks dragging you back from the threshold of death.”

Nick thought of his aunt with affectionate dread. It was in her honor that he’d slathered himself with mentholated goo. “This is not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill flu, you know,” he said.

Gina laughed. “I’ll alert the science department at school—I’m sure they’ll want to send a research team directly to your place.”

Privately Nick considered that to be a viable idea, but he refrained from saying so, knowing it would only invite more callous mockery. “You have no heart,” he accused.

There was a brief pause, followed by, “Is there anything I can get you, like groceries or books or something? I could leave the stuff in the hallway outside your door—”

“Or you could just drop it from a hovering helicopter,” Nick ventured, insulted.

Gina gave a long-suffering sigh. “Why don’t you call one of your girlfriends? You could have a whole harem over there, fluffing your pillows and giving you aspirin and heating up canned chicken soup.”

“My ‘girlfriends,’ as you put it, are all either working or letting their answering machines do the talking. And chicken soup is only therapeutic if it’s homemade.” Nick paused to emit another volcanic sneeze. When he’d recovered, he said magnanimously, “Don’t worry about me, Gina, just because I’m putting you through college and paying for your car, your clothes, your apartment and every bite of food that goes into your mouth. I’ll be fine without…any help at all.”

“Oh, God,” wailed Gina. “The guilt!”

Nick laughed. “Gotcha,” he said, groping for the remote control that would turn on the TV. Maybe there was an old Stallone movie on—something bloody and macho.

Gina said a few soothing words and then hung up. It occurred to Nick that she was really going to stay away, really going to leave her own brother to face The Great Galactic Plague alone and unassisted.

There was, Nick decided, no human kindness left in the world. He flipped through the various movie channels, seeing nothing that caught his fancy, and was just about to shut the set off and try to focus his eyes on a book when he saw her for the first time.

She was a redhead with golden eyes, and the sight of her practically stopped his heartbeat. She was holding an urn that was suitable enough to be someone’s final resting place, and there was a toll-free number superimposed over her chest.

With quick, prodding motions of his thumb, Nick used the control button on the remote to turn up the volume. “My name is Vanessa Lawrence,” the vision told her viewing audience in a voice more soothing than all the chicken soup and mentholated rub in the world, “and you’re watching the Midas Network.” She went on to extol the virtues of the hideous vase she was peddling, but Nick didn’t hear a word.

He was too busy dredging up everything he knew about the Midas Network, a nationwide shopping channel based in Seattle. The enterprise was a new one, and one of his friends—an executive with the company—had urged him to invest because he was certain that telemarketing would prove to be the biggest hit with consumers since the tube itself.

Nick shoved one hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end in ridges that reeked of eucalyptus. Undoubtedly, he thought, he was experiencing some kind of dementia related to the virus that had been visited upon him.

Without taking his eyes away from the screen, he groped for the telephone and punched out the office number. His secretary, a middle-aged woman named Harriet, answered with a crisp, “DeAngelo’s. May I help you?”

“I hope so,” wheezed Nick, who had just finished another bout of coughing.

“You don’t need me, you need the paramedics,” remarked the secretary.

“At last,” Nick said. “Someone who understands and sympathizes. Harriet, find Paul Harmon’s number for me, will you please? I’m in no condition to hunt all over for the phone book.”

It was easy to picture Harriet, plump and efficient, flipping expertly through her Rolodex. “His office number is 555-9876,” she said.

Nick found a pencil in the paraphernalia that had collected on the end table beside the hide-a-bed and wrote the digits on the corner of the tissue box, along with the home number Harriet gave him next.

The woman on the screen was now offering a set of bird figurines.

“Oh, lady,” Nick said aloud as he waited for Paul Harmon to come on the line, “I want your body, I want your soul, I want you to have my baby.”

The goddess smiled. “All this can be yours for only nineteen-ninety-five,” she said.

“Sold,” replied Nick.

Vanessa Lawrence inserted her cash card into the automatic teller machine in Quickee Food Mart and tapped one foot while she waited for the money to appear. A glance at her watch told her she was due at her lawyer’s office in just ten minutes, and the drive downtown would take fifteen.

Her foot moved faster.

The machine made an alarming grinding noise, but no currency came out of the little slot, and Vanessa’s card was still somewhere in the bowels of the gizmo. From the sound of things, it was being systematically digested.

Somewhat wildly, she began pushing buttons. The words Your transaction is now completed, were frozen on the small screen. She glanced back over one shoulder, hoping for help from the clerk, but everyone in the neighborhood seemed to be in the convenience store that afternoon, buying bread and milk.

“Damn!” she breathed, slamming her fist against the face of the machine.

A woman wearing pink foam rollers in her hair appeared at Vanessa’s side. “You’re on TV, aren’t you?” she asked. “On that new shopping channel, the something-or-other station.”

Vanessa smiled, even though it was the last thing she felt like doing. “The Midas Network,” she said, before giving the machine another despairing look. “Just give me back my card,” she told the apparatus, “and I won’t make any trouble, I promise.”

“I watch you every day,” the woman announced proudly. “I bought that three-slice toaster you had on yesterday—there’s just Bernie and Ray and me, now that Clyde’s gone away to the Army—and my sister-in-law has four of the ceiling fans.”

In her head, Vanessa heard the production manager, Paul Harmon, giving his standard public relations lecture. As the viewing audience expands, you’ll be recognized. No matter what, I want you all to be polite at all times.

“Good,” she said with a faltering smile.

She took another look at her watch, then lost her cool and rammed the cash machine with the palms of her hands. Miraculously two twenty-dollar bills popped out of the appropriate slot, but Vanessa’s cash card was disgorged in three pieces.

She dropped both the card and the money into the pocket of her linen blazer and dashed for the car, hoping the traffic wouldn’t be bad.

It was.

Worse, when Vanessa reached her attorney’s modest office, Parker was there with his lawyer and his current girlfriend.

Vanessa prayed she didn’t look as frazzled as she felt and resisted an urge to smooth her chin-length auburn hair.

Parker smiled his dazzling smile and tried to kiss her cheek, but Vanessa stepped back, her golden eyes clearly telling him to keep his distance.

Her ex-husband, now the most sought-after pitcher in the American League, looked hurt. “Hello, Van,” he said in a low and intimate voice.

Vanessa didn’t speak. Although they had been divorced for a full year, Parker’s presence still made her soul ache. It wasn’t that she wanted him back; no, she grieved for the time and love she’d wasted on him.

Vanessa’s attorney, Walter, was no ball of fire, but he was astute enough to know how vulnerable she felt. He drew back a chair for her near his desk, and gratefully she sank into the seat.

Parker’s lawyer immediately took up the conversational ball. “I think we can settle this reasonably,” he said. Vanessa felt her spine stiffen.

The bottom line was that Parker had been offered a phenomenal amount of money to write a book about his career in professional baseball and, with the help of a ghostwriter, he’d produced a manuscript—one that included every intimate detail of his marriage to Vanessa.

She was prepared to sue if the book went to press.

“Wait,” Parker interceded suavely, holding his famous hands up in the air, “I think it would be better if Van and I worked this thing out ourselves…in private.”

His girlfriend shifted uncomfortably on the leather sofa beside him, but said nothing.

“There is nothing to work out,” Vanessa said in a shaky voice she hated. Why couldn’t she sound detached and professional, like she did when she was selling ceiling fans on the Midas Network? “If you don’t take me out of that book, Parker, I’m going to drive a dump truck into your bank account and come out with a load of your money.”

Parker went pale beneath his golden tan. He ran a hand through his sun-streaked hair, and his azure blue eyes skittered away from Vanessa’s gaze. But after a moment, he regained his legendary poise. “Van, you’re being unreasonable.”

“Am I? That book makes me sound like some kind of sex-crazed neurotic. I’m not going to let you ruin me, Parker, just so you can have a few more annuities and condominiums!”

Parker flinched as though she’d struck him. He rose from his chair and came to crouch before hers, speaking softly and holding both her hands in his. “You feel threatened,” he crooned.

It was all Vanessa could do not to kick him. She jerked her hands free, shot to her feet and stormed out of the office.

Parker caught up to her at the elevator, which, as luck would have it, was just arriving. “Baby, wait,” he pleaded.

Vanessa was shamed by the tears that were flowing down her face, but she couldn’t stop them. She dodged into the elevator, trying to escape the man sportscasters compared to Hank Aaron and Pete Rose.

Parker squeezed into the cubicle with her, oblivious, apparently, of the fact that there were two secretaries, a cleaning woman and a bag lady looking on. He tried again, “Sweetheart, what do you want? A mink? A Corvette? Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you. But you’ve got to be reasonable!”

Vanessa drew her hand back and slapped the Living Legend. “How dare you assume you can buy me, you pompous jackass!” she cried. “And stop calling me sweetheart and baby!”

The elevator reached the ground floor, and Vanessa hurried out, hoping Parker wouldn’t give chase. As it happened, however, he was right on her heels.

He looked exasperated now as he lengthened his strides to keep pace with her on the busy downtown sidewalk. He straightened the lapels of his tailored suit jacket and rasped out, “Damn it, Vanessa, do you know how much money is at stake here?”

“No, and I don’t care,” Vanessa answered. She was almost to the parking lot where she’d left her car; in a few minutes she could get behind the steering wheel and drive away.

With sudden harshness, Parker stopped her again, grasping her shoulders with his hands and pressing her backward against a department store display window. “You’re not going to ruin this deal for me, Vanessa!” he shouted.

Vanessa stared at him, appalled and breathless. God knew Parker had hurt her often enough, but he’d never been physically rough.

Parker’s effort to control his temper was visible. “I’m sorry,” he ground out, and because he seldom apologized for anything, Vanessa believed him. “I didn’t mean to manhandle you like that. Vanessa, please. Sit down with me somewhere private and listen to what I have to say. That’s all I’m asking.”

“There’s no point, Parker,” Vanessa replied. “I know what you want to tell me, and my answer won’t be any different. The way you portrayed me in that book is libelous—I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up in public.”

“And I thought you’d be proud when I sent you a copy of that manuscript.” He paused to shake his head, as if still amazed at her negative reaction. “Van, people will know I made most of that stuff up,” Parker went on presently with a weak smile. “They’re not going to take it seriously.”

Vanessa arched one eyebrow. “Oh, really? Well, I’d rather not take the chance, if you don’t mind. I have dreams of my own, you know.”

Passersby were beginning to make whispers that indicated they recognized Parker. He took Vanessa’s arm and squired her into a nearby coffee shop. “Two minutes,” he said. “That’s all I want.”

She smiled acidly. “That’s you, Parker—the two-minute man.”

He favored her with a scorching look and dropped into the booth’s seat across from her. “I’d forgotten what a little witch you can be, Van.” He paused to square his shoulders. “Darla hasn’t complained.”

Darla, of course, was the girlfriend. “People with IQ’s under twenty rarely do,” Vanessa answered sweetly. Then she added, “Your two minutes are ticking away.”

A waitress came, and Parker ordered two cups of coffee without even consulting Vanessa. It was so typical that she nearly laughed out loud.

“The advance on this book,” Parker began in a low and reluctant voice, “is in the high six figures. I can’t play baseball forever, Van; I need some security.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. Most oil sheiks didn’t live as well as Parker; he certainly wasn’t facing penury. “I’ll drop you off at the food bank if you’d like,” she offered.

A muscle bunched in his jaw. Vanessa could have lived for years on the money that Parker’s face brought in for beer commercials alone. “You know,” he said, “I really didn’t expect you to be so bitter and frustrated.”

The coffee arrived, and the waitress walked away again.

“Watch it,” Vanessa warned. “You’re trying to get on my good side, remember?”

Parker spread his hands in a gesture of baffled annoyance. “Van, I know the divorce was hard on you, but you have a job now and a life of your own. There’s no reason to torture me like this.”

He sounded so damnably rational that Vanessa wanted to throw her coffee in his face. “Is that what you think I’m doing? I want nothing from you, Parker—no money, no minks, no sports cars—and no lies written up in a book and presented as the truth.”

“So I was a little creative? What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, if you’re writing a novel.” Vanessa could see that the conversation was progressing exactly as she’d expected. “I don’t know why I even came down here,” she said, glancing at her watch and sliding out of the booth.

“Hot date?” Parker asked, giving the words an unsavory inflection.

“Very hot,” Vanessa lied, looking down at Parker. She was meeting her cousin Rodney for dinner and a movie, but what Parker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She made a sssssssss sound, meant to indicate a sizzle, and walked away.

Much to her relief, Parker didn’t follow.

Rodney was waiting in the agreed place when she reached the mall, his hands wedged into his jacket pockets, his white teeth showing in a grin.

“Hi, Van,” he said. “Bad day?”

Vanessa kissed his cheek and linked her arm through his. “I just came from a meeting with Parker,” she replied. “Does that answer your question?”

Rodney frowned. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m afraid it does.”

Vanessa smiled up at the handsome young man with the thick, longish chestnut brown hair and Omar Sharif eyes. Her first cousin—and at twenty-one, five years her junior—Rodney was the only family she had in Seattle, and she loved him. She changed the subject. “Aren’t you going to ask me about the apartment?”

Rodney laughed as they walked into the mall together and approached their favorite fast-food restaurant, a place that sold Chinese cuisine to go. The apartment over Vanessa’s garage was empty since her last tenant had moved out, and Rodney wanted the rooms in the worst way.

“You know I do, Van,” he scolded her good-naturedly. “Living over a funeral home has its drawbacks. For one thing, it gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘things that go bump in the night.”’

Van laughed and shook her head. “Okay, okay—you can move in in a few weeks. I want to have the place painted first.”

Rodney’s face lighted up. He was a good kid working his way through chiropractic school by means of a very demanding and unconventional job, and Vanessa genuinely enjoyed his company. In fact, they’d always been close. “I’ll do the painting,” he said.

It was late when Vanessa arrived at the large colonial house on Queen Anne Hill and let herself in the front door. She crossed the sparsely furnished living room, kicking off her high heels and rifling through the day’s mail as she moved.

In the kitchen, she flipped on the light and put a cup of water in the microwave to heat for tea. When the brew was steaming on the table, she steeled herself and pressed the button on her answering machine.

The first message was from her boss, Paul Harmon. “Janet and I want you to have dinner with us a week from Friday at DeAngelo’s. Don’t bring a date.”

Vanessa frowned. The Harmons were friends of hers and they were forever trying to fix her up with one of their multitude of unattached male acquaintances. The fact that Paul had specified she shouldn’t bring a date was unsettling.

She missed the next two messages, both of which were from Parker, because the name of the restaurant had rung a distant bell. What was it about DeAngelo’s that made her uncomfortable?

She stirred sweetener into her tea, frowning. Then it came to her—the proprietor of the place was Nick DeAngelo, a former pro football player with a reputation for womanizing exceeded only by Parker’s. Vanessa shuddered. The man was Paul’s best friend. What if he turned out to be the mysterious fourth at dinner?

Vanessa shut off the answering machine and dialed the Harmons’ home number. Janet answered the phone.

“About dinner at DeAngelo’s,” Vanessa said, after saying hi. “Am I being set up to meet Mr. Macho, or what?”

Janet laughed. “I take it you’re referring to Nick?”

“And you’re hedging,” Vanessa accused.

“Okay, yes—we want you to meet Nick. He’s a darling, Vanessa. You’ll love him.”

“That’s what you said about that guy who wanted to take me parking,” Vanessa reminded her friend. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“He’s nothing like Parker,” Janet said gently. She could be very perceptive. “It isn’t fair to write Nick off as a loser without even meeting him.”

The encounter with Parker had inclined her toward saying no to everything, and Vanessa knew it. She sighed. She had to be flexible, willing to meet new people and try new things, or she’d become stagnant. “All right, but if he turns out to be weird, Janet Harmon, you and Paul are off my Christmas-card list for good.”

That damned sixth sense of Janet’s was still evident. “The appointment with Parker and his attorney went badly, huh?”

Vanessa took a steadying sip of her tea. “He’s going to publish that damned book, Janet,” she whispered, feeling real despair. “There isn’t anything I can do to stop him, and I’m sure he knows it, even though he seems to feel some kind of crazy need to win me over to his way of thinking.”

“The bastard,” Janet commiserated.

“I can say goodbye to any hopes I had of ever landing a job as a newscaster. I’ll never be taken seriously.”

“It’s late, and you’re tired,” Janet said firmly. “Take a warm bath, have a glass of wine and get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

Exhausted, Vanessa promised to take her friend’s advice and went off to bed, stopping only to wash her face and brush her teeth. She collapsed onto the mattress and immediately fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming that Parker was chewing her cash card and spitting the plastic pieces out on the pitcher’s mound.

She awakened the next morning in a terrible mood, and when she reached the studio complex where the Midas Network was housed, her co-host, Mel Potter, looked at her with concern in his eyes.

A middle-aged, ordinary looking man, Potter was known as Markdown Mel in the telemarketing business, and he was a pro’s pro. He had ex-wives all over the country and a gift for selling that was unequaled in the field. Vanessa had seen him move two thousand telephone answering machines in fifteen minutes without even working up a sweat, and her respect for his skill as a salesman was considerable.

He was, in fact, the one man in the world, besides her grandfather, who could address her as honey without making her hackles rise.

“What’s the matter, honey?” he demanded as Vanessa flopped into a chair in the makeup room. “You look like hell.”

Vanessa smiled. “Thanks a lot, Mel,” she answered. “You’re a sight for sore eyes yourself.”

He laughed as Margie, the makeup girl, slathered Vanessa’s face with cleansing cream. “I see by the papers that that ex-husband of yours is in town to accept an award at his old high school. Think you could get him to stop by the studio before he leaves? We could dump a lot of those baseball cake plates if Parker Lawrence endorsed them.”

Now it was Vanessa who laughed, albeit a little hysterically. “Forget it, Mel. Parker and I aren’t on friendly terms, and I wouldn’t ask him for the proverbial time of day.”

Mel shrugged, but Vanessa had a feeling she hadn’t heard the last of the subject of Parker Lawrence selling baseball cake plates.

Twenty minutes later Vanessa and Mel were on camera, demonstrating a set of golf clubs. Vanessa loved her job. Somehow, when she was working, she became another person—one who had no problems, no insecurities and no bruises on her soul.

The network had a policy of letting viewers chat with the hosts over the air, and the first caller was Parker.

“Hello, Babe,” he said, after carefully introducing himself to the nation so that there could be no doubt as to who he was. “You look terrific.”

Vanessa’s smile froze on her face. She tried to speak, but she couldn’t.

Mel picked up the ball with admirable aplomb. “Thanks, Parker,” he answered. “You look pretty good yourself.”

Even the cameraman laughed at that.

“Giving up baseball for golf?” Vanessa was emboldened to say.

“Never,” Parker answered confidently. “But I’d take ten of anything you’re selling, Baby.”

Vanessa was seething inside, but she hadn’t forgotten that several million people were watching and listening. She wasn’t about to let Parker throw her in front of a national audience. “Good,” she said, beaming. “We’ll put you down for ten sets of golf clubs.”

Parker laughed, thinking she was joking. Vanessa wished she could see his face when the UPS man delivered his purchases in seven to ten working days.