Mr. Perfect Read online

  Jaine was relieved to have the topic shift away from Sam. How could she explain what she didn’t understand herself? He was maddening, they rubbed sparks off each other, and he hadn’t come home at all the night before. She should be running in the opposite direction instead of trying to plot ways to get him all for herself.

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much, which was surprising. When Brick’s mad, he’s about as reasonable as a two-year-old having a tantrum.” Marci propped her chin on her folded hands. “I admit, he took me off guard. I was prepared for yelling and cussing, but not hurt feelings.”

  “Maybe he cares more than you thought,” Luna said, but even she sounded dubious.

  Marci snorted. “What we had was convenient for both of us, but not exactly the affair of the century. What about you? Have you heard from Shamal?” Marci’s change of subject indicated she was as ready to abandon the subject of Brick as Jaine had been to talk about someone else other than Sam.

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” Luna looked thoughtful. “He was … I don’t know … kind of impressed with all the publicity. As if I were suddenly a more valuable person, if you know what I mean. He asked me out for dinner, instead of saying he’d stop by the way he always has before.”

  A little pool of silence engulfed the booth. They all looked at each other, uneasy at Shamal’s sudden change of attitude.

  Luna’s expression was still thoughtful. “I said no. If I wasn’t interesting enough for him before, then I’m not interesting enough now.”

  “Way to go,” Jaine said, immensely relieved. They exchanged high fives all around the booth. “So what now? Is Shamal officially in the past, or are you in a holding pattern?”

  “A holding pattern. But I’m not calling him again; if he wants to see me, he can do the dialing.”

  “But you turned him down,” Marci pointed out.

  “I didn’t tell him to get lost; I just told him no, I had other plans.” She shrugged. “If we’re to have any kind of relationship, the ground rules are going to have to change, meaning I get to make some of them instead of playing everything his way.”

  “We’re a mess,” Jaine said, sighing, and sought refuge in her cup of coffee.

  “We’re normal,” T.J. corrected.

  “That’s what I said.”

  They were giggling when the waitress brought their orders and plopped the plates in front of them. Their love lives were, collectively, a disaster, but so what? They had scrambled eggs and hash browns to make them feel better:

  Because it was Friday, they kept to their tradition of eating at Ernie’s after work. Jaine found it difficult to believe only a week had passed since they had so lightheartedly composed the List. In a week, a lot had changed. For one thing, the atmosphere at Ernie’s: when they walked in, there was a round of applause and a chorus of boos. Some women, undoubtedly the outraged feminist contingent, joined in the booing.

  “Can you believe this?” T.J. muttered as they were seated. “If we were prophets, I’d say we were about to be stoned.”

  “It was fallen women who were stoned,” Luna said.

  “That’s us, too,” Marci said, and laughed. “So we get a reaction from people. So what? If anyone wants to say something to our faces, I think we can hold our own.”

  Their usual waiter brought their usual drinks. “Hey, you guys are famous now,” he said cheerfully. If he was upset by certain items on the List, he didn’t show it. Of course, it was possible he had no idea what the items were.

  Jaine said, “Just think, we came up with the idea last Friday night, sitting at that table right over there.”

  “You did? Wow.” He looked at the table in question. “Just wait until I tell the boss.”

  “Yeah, maybe he can gild the table, or something.”

  The waiter slowly shook his head, looking doubtful. “I don’t think so. Isn’t that what you do to horses?”

  She was tired, courtesy of getting up at the ungodly hour of two, so it took her a second to make the connection. “That’s geld, not ‘gild.’”

  “Oh.” Relief washed over his face. “I was wondering how you could do that to a table.”

  “Well, it takes four people,” Jaine said. “One to hold each leg.”

  T.J. had her head down on the table, her shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle her mirth. Marci’s eyes were looking a little wild, but she managed to give her order with only a mild shake to her voice. Luna, the most composed of them all, waited until all the orders had been taken and he had disappeared into the kitchen before she clapped her hands over her mouth and laughed until tears ran down her face.

  “One for each leg,” she repeated, gasping, and went off into more whoops.

  Their dinner wasn’t as relaxed as usual, because people kept coming up to their table and making comments, both snide and complimentary. When their orders arrived, their food was burned; evidently the cook was among the booers.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Marci finally said in disgust. “Even if we could eat this charcoal stuff, we wouldn’t have a chance to with all the interruptions.”

  “Do we pay for it?” Luna asked, examining the hockey puck that was supposed to have been a hamburger patty.

  “Normally, I’d say no,” Jaine replied. “But if we make a fuss tonight, it’s likely to be in the paper tomorrow morning.”

  Sighing, they agreed. Leaving their plates largely untouched, they paid the tab and left. They usually lingered over their meal, but this time when they left, it was just after six; the summer sun still hung low in the sky, and the heat was scorching.

  They all retreated to their respective cars. Jaine started the Viper’s engine and sat for a moment listening to the rumbling purr of a powerful, well-tuned machine. She turned the fan on “high” and adjusted the air vents so the cold air blew on her face.

  She didn’t want to go home and see the news, in case the List was featured again. Deciding to buy groceries instead of waiting until tomorrow, she turned north on Van Dyke, zooming past the GM plant on the left and resisting the urge to turn right, which would have taken her to the Warren Police Department. She didn’t want to see if a red pickup truck or a battered brown Pontiac was in the parking lot. All she wanted to do was stock up on food and get home to BooBoo; she had been gone so long he had probably started on another cushion.

  Jaine wasn’t one who lingered over grocery shopping. She hated doing it, so she attacked a grocery store as if it were a racecourse. Piloting a buggy at high speed, she zipped through the produce department, tossing cabbage and lettuce and an assortment of fruit into the basket, then raced up and down the other aisles. She didn’t cook much, because it was too much trouble for just one person, but occasionally she would prepare a roast or something similar, then eat sandwiches made from it for a week. BooBoo’s cat food was a necessity, though—

  An arm wrapped around her waist and a deep voice said, “Miss me?”

  She managed to strangle her shriek so it emerged as not much more than a squeak, but she jumped at least a foot straight up and almost crashed into a stack of Sheba cat food. Whirling around, she quickly positioned the buggy between them and gave him a look of wide-eyed alarm. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t know you. You have me mixed up with someone else.”

  Sam scowled. Other shoppers were watching them with acute interest; at least one lady looked as if she intended to call the cops if he made one wrong move.

  “Very funny,” he growled, and deliberately removed his jacket, revealing the holster on his belt and the big black pistol that resided in it. Since his badge was also clipped to his belt, the wide-eyed tension on aisle seven melted away as murmurings of “He’s a cop” reached them.

  “Go away,” Jaine said. “I’m busy.”

  “So I see. What is this, the Produce Five Hundred? I’ve been chasing you up and down the aisles for the last five minutes.”

  “No you haven’t,” she returned, checking her watch. “I ha