BOXO & EMMA
Boxo Whatley lives a charmed life. No doubt about it. He even wears a silver ‘Charmed Life’ pendant round his neck that he likes to show to disbelievers. This is usually met with scowls and taunts of, ‘Yer daft, Boxo.’ He thinks this is quite humorous and beams with delight.
I bumped into Boxo in a bookshop in Piccadilly. We were reaching for the latest Nick Hornby but since Boxo is 6’4”, he had the advantage over me. I scowled up at him. I was drenched from walking in the rain and he appeared quite dry. ‘Oh, were you wanting this?’ he asked and held the paperback out to me. Boxo is undeniably handsome and I knew his sort at once; accustomed to getting what they want. I wanted to curl my lip at him and show him I wasn’t going to be taken in by his charm.
‘Well, yes.’ I admitted and by the glint of mischief in his eye, I thought he’d say something cheeky and wander off with the book, leaving me red-faced and furious.
‘It’s yours.’ He offered me the book. He leaned his slim frame against the bookcase, ankles crossed and smiled. Something about him made me think he would pull it out of my grasp should I attempt to take it.
‘No. No really. You got it fair and square.’ I turned away.
‘Fair and square?’ he chuckled.
I turned back to him. What was he on about? I wasn’t the sort of woman who expected men to hold doors open or pull out chairs in restaurants. I certainly didn’t expect him to hand over the book simply because of my femaleness. ‘Yes. That’s what I said. You reached it before I could. It’s yours.’
‘But I’m a good foot taller than you. How fair is that?’ He held the book out towards me.
I cocked my head and sucked my teeth at him. It wasn’t that I minded him pointing out my shortness, I just wasn’t in the mood for any sort of philosophical debate; especially from a man whom I discerned to think he had all the answers.
‘Them’s the breaks,’ I said and shrugged.
‘Please take it.’ He pushed it toward me. ‘They’ll certainly be getting in more.’
I squinted at him, trying to figure him out. ‘That’s very kind of you –‘
‘My pleasure. Whatley. Boxo Whatley,’ he said it the way James Bond introduces himself and extended his hand. I had to smile.
‘Cole. Em Cole.’ I shook his hand.
‘Em as in short-for-Emily or simply the letter?’
‘The former.’
He smiled and nodded. ‘You look like you could murder a cup of coffee.’
‘I don’t drink coffee,’ I informed him, ignoring the book between us.
‘Political statement?’
‘No. I just don’t like it.’
‘Tea then? Do you drink tea?’
I nodded and smiled. I couldn’t help myself. This Boxo Whatley was too charming for words. But, for the life of me, I could not accept the notion he was asking me out for a tea.
‘Great,’ he said and slipped a languid arm round my damp shoulders. He guided me toward the door, stopped and went behind the till. ‘Taking my break, Geoff,’ he told the cashier and retrieved a large black umbrella. He held open the door for me and popped open the umbrella above my head.
‘You work here?’
‘Yes. Well, sort of.’ He walked close beside me as we headed to the milk bar up the street.
‘Until you’re discovered by a modeling agent or film agent, I thought. ‘So you weren’t wanting the Hornby book?’
‘Erm…no.’
‘Putting it back on the shelf?’
He smiled. I laughed.
We stepped inside the dark wood eatery and Boxo shook out the umbrella before snapping it shut.
‘Boxo! Good to see you, mate,’ the man behind the counter greeted him.
Boxo smiled and nodded. ‘Alright, Nige?’ He helped me off with my coat and hung it by the door. ‘Two teas, please, Brenda,’ he said to the waitress as we slid into a booth. I was impressed he knew their names and they knew him. I’d worked in the area for years and didn’t know the name of anyone outside of my office.
We talked casually through two cups of tea each and a basket of chips. As we got up to leave Boxo asked me out to the pictures for that Saturday. I knew it wasn’t a date-date. I knew we were going to be friends. It wasn’t that I didn’t find him attractive – Boxo’s handsome enough, interesting, entertaining – but I’m older than him by about 10 years though he swears I’m lying – and I knew should anything of a romantic nature start, it wouldn’t last. And I’d rather have Boxo as a friend for life, than a short-lived fling.
It wasn’t until I got on the Underground that I discovered the Hornby paperback in my coat pocket. I smiled and shook my head. I rang the shop when I got to my flat and asked for Boxo.
‘You,’ I said when I heard his ‘Hallo?’ down the line.
‘Yes?’
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ I whispered.
‘Done what?’ His feigning innocence was charming.
‘The book,’ I whispered.
‘Why are you whispering, Em?’
‘You could get in trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
‘Are you going to tell me Trouble is your middle name?’
‘No, actually. It’s Marvin.’
I laughed.
‘Ouch.’
‘Ouch?’
‘Marvin is my middle name.’
I cringed. ‘Oh, Boxo, I’m sorry. I thought you were joking.’
‘Ah, would that I were, love. My parents’ joke, you see. Boxo Marvin Whatley.’
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.
‘You there?’
I composed myself. ‘Yes.’
‘Were you suppressing a laugh just then?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Liar. See you Saturday.’ He rang off. It wasn’t until weeks later that Boxo confessed he doesn’t work in the book shop, he owns it.
***
‘How’s your cyber pal?’ Boxo asked as he sprawled on my sofa.
‘Phht,’ I said and held up my hands.
‘Oh, Em. Sorry love. Sounded like you two were onto something there.’
‘Yeah, well…’ I shrugged.
Boxo was intuitive enough to realise the demise of my internet correspondence wasn’t my decision. ‘He’s a fool.’ I knew Boxo would take my part. I also knew he wouldn’t lecture me on the folly of trying to find a mate online. ‘Married?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Well, could be for all I know. But I doubt it. ‘He said he thought I was overly fond of him.’
Boxo frowned. I’d told him all about my three-month chatting with Malcolm. I’d shown him photos of Malcolm and he’d merely sniffed at them.
‘And he said he was very fond of me, adored me, enjoyed our chats and my wonderful sense of the ridiculous and that I’m lovely, blah blah.’
Boxo’s frown deepened. I shrugged.
‘Yes, well, I can see why he’d want to cut it off then.’ He shook his head. ‘Wanker.’
I pursed my lips and paced, the coffee table separating us.
‘Men, eh?’
I stopped pacing and gazed at him. ‘That’s it? That’s your explanation?’
Boxo sat up and put his feet on the floor. He stalled for time by sipping his tea and relacing a shoe. He looked up at me and gave a weak smile.
‘What? Tell me, Boxo. I need to know.’
‘Well, how would I know, darling? It could be a number of things. Oh, don’t give me that look. I mean, he could be married and she put an end to it.’
‘I don’t think so. I mean we chatted nearly every night for at least two hours. Sometimes for up to five hours.’
‘Yes, well…I’m not saying he is. I’m simply suggesting it’s a possibility. Perhaps the missus worked nights.’ He saw my face and looked sad for me. ‘Oh, Em.’
‘Well, don’t I feel the fool.’ I blew out my cheeks and sat on the coffee table.
‘Don’t. Don’t do this to yourself. He’s not worth it. Some men are…well, incapable of taking things to the next…erm…level.’
I chewed my lip and watched him; waiting for more of an explanation. Instead, he looked over my shoulder at the window.
After a few minutes of watching him watch the window I cleared my throat. His eyes shifted to mine. ‘That’s it?’
‘Oh, Em, love, I don’t know. Do you know how all females think?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you can’t expect me to understand the thought process of some bloke I’ve never met.’ He didn’t intend to wound me with that remark. But since Malcolm and I had never met in person, it stung. He leaned forward and touched my arm. ‘Enjoy it for what it was. You had a few laughs and it’s over.’ He sat back and crossed his ankles on the coffee table.
‘Thanks, Boxo. You’re really cheering me up.’
‘I thought you wanted an explanation.’ He looked pained.
‘I did. Do.’ I scratched my head. ‘I guess that’s all there is to it. Just chalk it up to him …what was it, not wanting to go to the next level?’
‘Em, I’m the last person to ask about ‘relationships’.’ I swatted at his hands for having made quotation marks with his fingers. We both agreed we hated it when people did that, and gave each other the right to swat us when we slipped up.
‘But you’ve had relationships. Why did you break them off?’
His eyes widened and he smiled at me. ‘Why do you presume I broke them off?’
A blush warmed my cheeks. ‘Sorry.’ I hung my head. We’d made a pact we wouldn’t flatter each other and give each other swelled heads. It would only serve to work against us in the real world.
‘If you must know, I did break off some. But it’s not always for the same reason, of course.’
‘Well, no. Of course not. That would be…well, ridiculous.’ Boxo had told me he was no longer dating Susan, his latest girlfriend, but he hadn’t said why. Naturally, I was curious and thought our friendship could bear me asking. ‘What happened with you and Susan?’ I asked gently.
‘I broke that one off. She clipped her toenails.’
I let his statement sink in. I squinted at him.
‘In front of me.’
I scrunched my nose. I’d never clipped my toenails in front of a boyfriend but if I had, I wouldn’t have thought it would have been grounds for a break up.
‘In front of me, Em.’
I nodded. ‘Yes. So you said.’
‘That’s just not on.’
I thought back over some of my written conversations with Malcolm and wondered perhaps I’d committed a similar offence that was cause enough for him to want to discontinue our chats. I glanced at Boxo and saw him looking at me.
‘You’ll meet someone, Em. In person. Someone who will appreciate you for the gem that you are. Sorry,’ he added, realising he’d broken our non-complimenting rule.
'Thanks, Marvin.’
He smiled. ‘Let’s get something to eat, eh? I’m starving.’ He stood up and got his coat.
‘Just don’t walk too close to me,’ I said and got my jacket.
He stopped in mid-button. ‘Upset with me?’
‘No. It’s just that people might think we’re together.’
‘But we are together.’
‘Not that kind of together. And no man would dare approach me if he thought I was with you.’ I winked at him.
He gazed at his shoes for a moment then lifted his head. ‘You did it again, you know.’
‘Sorry.’
PINKIE [Published in The Improper Hamptonian 9/12/03 Writer's Edition]
Abby Rogers waddled along the icy sidewalk, a loaf of oven-fresh Foccacia bread clamped beneath his flabby arm. He was picturing Pinkie’s face.
He loved the way Pinkie’s makeup was so expertly applied. Not like some of the women he passed on the sidewalk. They seemed to have applied their makeup in a dark room, missing the mark with each cosmetic item. They didn’t care how they looked. His girl, on the other hand, always looked like she’d just stepped out of a bandbox. And her shoulder-length jet-black hair – he could just sit and brush that for hours. Pinkie. Always pert and alert. He giggled at his rhyme.
Abby sidestepped a slushy puddle, wondering what she’d be wearing when he got home. She was still lying naked on the bed when he’d left for work that morning. After putting in his usual lackluster performance as dispatcher at his brother-in-law’s cab company, Abby was ready for a quiet evening with Pinkie. He chuckled, then snorted loudly through his itchy wool muffler. His laugh slipped into a smoker’s cough and he stopped walking, his free hand pressed against the brick building for support. Abby squeezed his thighs together to keep from wetting his pants.
Would she greet him at the door tonight? He loved when she did that. Just standing there with that look on her face, her crayon blue eyes studying him as he hung up his coat and muffler. Wanting to hear about his day. Watching him. Her cherry red lips not saying a word. He loved how quiet she was. So sexy. Never interrupting, never complaining, never nagging. Never telling him to pick up his dirty underwear. Never telling him to get his feet off the coffee table. Never once berating him for eating potato chips in bed.
It would never even enter her head to count how many beer cans he left strewn about the tiny apartment. She never told him he needed a shave and a shower. Never tired of sitting beside him while he watched ballgame after ballgame. Never. Not his Pinkie. Nice and quiet; just the way he liked it. He hated women who yakked all the time. Always finding fault. Always belittling and undermining him.
Abby clenched his teeth on the fingertip of his glove and pulled it off, exposing his fingers – still greasy from a double gyro lunch – to the biting air. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His head spun. Damn his brother-in-law for not allowing him to smoke at work. Abby knew it was the law, but come on. The dispatcher’s office was a crummy little hole in the wall.
He continued his walk; two blocks to go. He pulled down his muffler and scratched his face. He needed a shave. When he had shaved last week he noticed how much gray was mingled in with the dark brown stubble. Pinkie didn’t seem to mind. She found it attractive. She found everything about Abby attractive.
His mother didn’t approve of Pinkie. She was appalled and repulsed by her; referred to her as an ‘air head’. The very mention of Pinkie and Abby’s mother would run from the room sobbing, “Why can’t you find a normal girl?”
Abby couldn’t understand his mother’s dramatic reaction. He was happy with Pinkie. Wasn’t that all a mother was supposed to be concerned about?
One more block to go. He couldn’t wait. He shoved his hand inside the white paper bag and started on the bread. He envisioned the table laid out with a white linen cloth, candles and a large platter of linguine with clam sauce, imagined the aroma of garlic and basil filling his nostrils. He saw Pinkie sitting across from him, pleased with his hearty appetite. He knew Pinkie wouldn’t have dinner waiting for him of course. She never did. But Abby didn’t mind. He liked to cook; liked the tiny kitchen all steamy from boiling water; the stove all covered in clam sauce splatters.
The honk of a passing car snapped Abby out of his reverie. He jumped back onto the curb and swore at the diver for splashing him with slush. Looking at the state of his sodden clothes made Abby wish Pinkie could go to the Laundromat sometimes. But she never left the apartment. Her entire world revolved around Abby. And that was the way he liked it, after all. Wasn’t it?
He fumbled with his keys as he mounted the stairs to his apartment. Huffing and puffing up the last few steps, he couldn’t help the tingly feeling of excitement that flushed his cheeks and quickened his already short breath. Abby unwrapped his muffler and wiped the breadcrumbs from his greasy lips. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with a jab of a fat finger.
“Pinkie, I’m home.”
He settled his coat on the hook by the door then shambled down the narrow hallway, past the empty kitchen and into the bedroom.”Pinkie!” he cried, dropping the bag of bread.
She was slumped on the floor.
He lumbered over and dropped into an awkward squat beside her still form. “Oh, Pinkie,” he groaned. “Not again.”
Her crayon blue eyes stared up at him lifelessly. Her cherry red lips were parted in their usual ‘O’ shape. Abby cradled her in his arms, inhaled deeply and blew hard into the little tube that had come undone on her side.
Abby Rogers waddled along the icy sidewalk, a loaf of oven-fresh Foccacia bread clamped beneath his flabby arm. He was picturing Pinkie’s face.
He loved the way Pinkie’s makeup was so expertly applied. Not like some of the women he passed on the sidewalk. They seemed to have applied their makeup in a dark room, missing the mark with each cosmetic item. They didn’t care how they looked. His girl, on the other hand, always looked like she’d just stepped out of a bandbox. And her shoulder-length jet-black hair – he could just sit and brush that for hours. Pinkie. Always pert and alert. He giggled at his rhyme.
Abby sidestepped a slushy puddle, wondering what she’d be wearing when he got home. She was still lying naked on the bed when he’d left for work that morning. After putting in his usual lackluster performance as dispatcher at his brother-in-law’s cab company, Abby was ready for a quiet evening with Pinkie. He chuckled, then snorted loudly through his itchy wool muffler. His laugh slipped into a smoker’s cough and he stopped walking, his free hand pressed against the brick building for support. Abby squeezed his thighs together to keep from wetting his pants.
Would she greet him at the door tonight? He loved when she did that. Just standing there with that look on her face, her crayon blue eyes studying him as he hung up his coat and muffler. Wanting to hear about his day. Watching him. Her cherry red lips not saying a word. He loved how quiet she was. So sexy. Never interrupting, never complaining, never nagging. Never telling him to pick up his dirty underwear. Never telling him to get his feet off the coffee table. Never once berating him for eating potato chips in bed.
It would never even enter her head to count how many beer cans he left strewn about the tiny apartment. She never told him he needed a shave and a shower. Never tired of sitting beside him while he watched ballgame after ballgame. Never. Not his Pinkie. Nice and quiet; just the way he liked it. He hated women who yakked all the time. Always finding fault. Always belittling and undermining him.
Abby clenched his teeth on the fingertip of his glove and pulled it off, exposing his fingers – still greasy from a double gyro lunch – to the biting air. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His head spun. Damn his brother-in-law for not allowing him to smoke at work. Abby knew it was the law, but come on. The dispatcher’s office was a crummy little hole in the wall.
He continued his walk; two blocks to go. He pulled down his muffler and scratched his face. He needed a shave. When he had shaved last week he noticed how much gray was mingled in with the dark brown stubble. Pinkie didn’t seem to mind. She found it attractive. She found everything about Abby attractive.
His mother didn’t approve of Pinkie. She was appalled and repulsed by her; referred to her as an ‘air head’. The very mention of Pinkie and Abby’s mother would run from the room sobbing, “Why can’t you find a normal girl?”
Abby couldn’t understand his mother’s dramatic reaction. He was happy with Pinkie. Wasn’t that all a mother was supposed to be concerned about?
One more block to go. He couldn’t wait. He shoved his hand inside the white paper bag and started on the bread. He envisioned the table laid out with a white linen cloth, candles and a large platter of linguine with clam sauce, imagined the aroma of garlic and basil filling his nostrils. He saw Pinkie sitting across from him, pleased with his hearty appetite. He knew Pinkie wouldn’t have dinner waiting for him of course. She never did. But Abby didn’t mind. He liked to cook; liked the tiny kitchen all steamy from boiling water; the stove all covered in clam sauce splatters.
The honk of a passing car snapped Abby out of his reverie. He jumped back onto the curb and swore at the diver for splashing him with slush. Looking at the state of his sodden clothes made Abby wish Pinkie could go to the Laundromat sometimes. But she never left the apartment. Her entire world revolved around Abby. And that was the way he liked it, after all. Wasn’t it?
He fumbled with his keys as he mounted the stairs to his apartment. Huffing and puffing up the last few steps, he couldn’t help the tingly feeling of excitement that flushed his cheeks and quickened his already short breath. Abby unwrapped his muffler and wiped the breadcrumbs from his greasy lips. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with a jab of a fat finger.
“Pinkie, I’m home.”
He settled his coat on the hook by the door then shambled down the narrow hallway, past the empty kitchen and into the bedroom.”Pinkie!” he cried, dropping the bag of bread.
She was slumped on the floor.
He lumbered over and dropped into an awkward squat beside her still form. “Oh, Pinkie,” he groaned. “Not again.”
Her crayon blue eyes stared up at him lifelessly. Her cherry red lips were parted in their usual ‘O’ shape. Abby cradled her in his arms, inhaled deeply and blew hard into the little tube that had come undone on her side.
DEAD SERIOUS
“I’ve made some lists,” Linda began, referring to a small spiral notebook before her.
“I’m listening,” Michael said. He stood with the refrigerator door open, removed the
lid on the container of left-over tacos and sniffed. He closed his eyes, debating, waiting for
his olfactory system to determine the edibility of the food.
Linda watched as he dug his fork in. She scrunched her nose. “You’re not going to warm that?”
“Nah.” He got a beer from the fridge and sat opposite her.
“OK. First of all, we’ve got to scout the area for a good site.”
Michael nodded.
“Then we’ve got to visit the airport and get some information on helicopters.”
Michael nodded.
“We’ve got to talk to the police about certain procedures. You know, ransom and the FBI. As you know, things are changing so rapidly, there’s probably lots of electronic gadgets, microchipped data retrieving equipment, etc., that the authorities have at their fingertips that we don’t even know about.”
Michael nodded and pushed the empty taco container aside. “Don’t forget the burnt cork and the twigs in the mesh on our helmets.”
Linda studied his face. “I want this to seem realistic, Michael.”
“Me too.” He agreed and downed the remainder of the beer. “Come on,” he said and led the way to their respective dens. They simultaneously slid open the accordion wall that separated the two rooms.
“Oh, I adore what you’ve done with the place,” Michael gushed. “Is this where you actually sit and create those delightful Aunt Holly stories?”
“How are we going to work this?” Linda asked, ignoring his jokes. “I like to listen to Vivaldi with earphones and you like to listen to Abbott and Costello without.”
“Through the magic of modern technology, we can continue to operate in our usual working style. I won’t play my tapes that loud and it shouldn’t disturb you.”
“OK,” Linda said reluctantly, doubting Michael’s word. She sat, booted her computer and opened to her spreadsheet of bills that needed to be paid.
“Uh-oh,” Michael said. “If you’re paying bills, this must mean I have to do the laundry.”
“Pavlov was right.” Linda smiled.
Michael headed for the kitchen. “Did Hemingway do his own laundry?” he called over his shoulder. “Did Fitzgerald? Faulkner?”
“Gertrude Stein?” Linda called out to him.
“Nah. I bet Alice B. Toklas did it for her.”
“Don’t forget to strip the bed, too, please.”
“Yes, dear. Very good, dear.” He sighed wearily and trotted up the loft stairs. “Clifford Irving?” He called to Linda and tossed the bed linens over the rail.
“He said he was going to do Howard Hughes’,” Linda called out.
Michael laughed and took the damp towels from the master bath and tossed them over the rail. He trotted down the stairs, gathered them up and carried them to the laundry room and started a load.
Within minutes Linda had paid all the bills online and went to the kitchen to put on the tea kettle. “What’s the matter?” she asked Michael when he entered the room looking glum.
He exhaled and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Sure it is,” Linda said encouragingly and rubbed his shoulders. “Neither one of us has heard of it being done before.”
“No. I don’t mean the idea for the book, I mean that we should write it at all.”
“Why?”
“Well, you got started on another Aunt Holly book and … I’ve been playing around with an idea for something myself.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s not quite out of the embryonic stage yet.”
“Can’t it keep?” I’ve sent Aunt Holly to the Betty Ford Clinic like you suggested.” She squeezed his arm plaintively. “Come on, Mick. I was really geared up for this.”
“Aw, babe, I just don’t want us to screw up a good thing, ya know.”
Linda nodded. “You’ve got your ways and I’ve got mine but I think with patience and understanding we’ll be able to dovetail them quite nicely as we manage to dovetail other things.” She smiled and squeezed his butt.
Michael looked into Linda’s eyes and knew he could never deny her anything. Linda interpreted his gaze correctly and fell against his chest. “You’re so sweet,” she whispered and nibbled at his collarbone.
“Don’t do that and expect me to be able to fold sheets later.”
Linda laughed. “I’ll help you fold.” She slid her hand up under his shirt and tugged playfully on his chest hairs.
“I yanked a white one the other day,” Michael confessed softly.
“Aw,” Linda cooed and kissed the center of his chest.
“What’s gotten into you?” Michael held his arms up for her to pull his sweatshirt over his head.
“I’m finding you incredibly sexy lately,” she whispered.
Michael leaned down to see his reflection in the toaster. He shrugged and allowed himself to be pulled down onto the kitchen floor. “Hmm, we haven’t done this in a while.”
Linda giggled and covered his lips with hers.
“I’m listening,” Michael said. He stood with the refrigerator door open, removed the
lid on the container of left-over tacos and sniffed. He closed his eyes, debating, waiting for
his olfactory system to determine the edibility of the food.
Linda watched as he dug his fork in. She scrunched her nose. “You’re not going to warm that?”
“Nah.” He got a beer from the fridge and sat opposite her.
“OK. First of all, we’ve got to scout the area for a good site.”
Michael nodded.
“Then we’ve got to visit the airport and get some information on helicopters.”
Michael nodded.
“We’ve got to talk to the police about certain procedures. You know, ransom and the FBI. As you know, things are changing so rapidly, there’s probably lots of electronic gadgets, microchipped data retrieving equipment, etc., that the authorities have at their fingertips that we don’t even know about.”
Michael nodded and pushed the empty taco container aside. “Don’t forget the burnt cork and the twigs in the mesh on our helmets.”
Linda studied his face. “I want this to seem realistic, Michael.”
“Me too.” He agreed and downed the remainder of the beer. “Come on,” he said and led the way to their respective dens. They simultaneously slid open the accordion wall that separated the two rooms.
“Oh, I adore what you’ve done with the place,” Michael gushed. “Is this where you actually sit and create those delightful Aunt Holly stories?”
“How are we going to work this?” Linda asked, ignoring his jokes. “I like to listen to Vivaldi with earphones and you like to listen to Abbott and Costello without.”
“Through the magic of modern technology, we can continue to operate in our usual working style. I won’t play my tapes that loud and it shouldn’t disturb you.”
“OK,” Linda said reluctantly, doubting Michael’s word. She sat, booted her computer and opened to her spreadsheet of bills that needed to be paid.
“Uh-oh,” Michael said. “If you’re paying bills, this must mean I have to do the laundry.”
“Pavlov was right.” Linda smiled.
Michael headed for the kitchen. “Did Hemingway do his own laundry?” he called over his shoulder. “Did Fitzgerald? Faulkner?”
“Gertrude Stein?” Linda called out to him.
“Nah. I bet Alice B. Toklas did it for her.”
“Don’t forget to strip the bed, too, please.”
“Yes, dear. Very good, dear.” He sighed wearily and trotted up the loft stairs. “Clifford Irving?” He called to Linda and tossed the bed linens over the rail.
“He said he was going to do Howard Hughes’,” Linda called out.
Michael laughed and took the damp towels from the master bath and tossed them over the rail. He trotted down the stairs, gathered them up and carried them to the laundry room and started a load.
Within minutes Linda had paid all the bills online and went to the kitchen to put on the tea kettle. “What’s the matter?” she asked Michael when he entered the room looking glum.
He exhaled and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Sure it is,” Linda said encouragingly and rubbed his shoulders. “Neither one of us has heard of it being done before.”
“No. I don’t mean the idea for the book, I mean that we should write it at all.”
“Why?”
“Well, you got started on another Aunt Holly book and … I’ve been playing around with an idea for something myself.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s not quite out of the embryonic stage yet.”
“Can’t it keep?” I’ve sent Aunt Holly to the Betty Ford Clinic like you suggested.” She squeezed his arm plaintively. “Come on, Mick. I was really geared up for this.”
“Aw, babe, I just don’t want us to screw up a good thing, ya know.”
Linda nodded. “You’ve got your ways and I’ve got mine but I think with patience and understanding we’ll be able to dovetail them quite nicely as we manage to dovetail other things.” She smiled and squeezed his butt.
Michael looked into Linda’s eyes and knew he could never deny her anything. Linda interpreted his gaze correctly and fell against his chest. “You’re so sweet,” she whispered and nibbled at his collarbone.
“Don’t do that and expect me to be able to fold sheets later.”
Linda laughed. “I’ll help you fold.” She slid her hand up under his shirt and tugged playfully on his chest hairs.
“I yanked a white one the other day,” Michael confessed softly.
“Aw,” Linda cooed and kissed the center of his chest.
“What’s gotten into you?” Michael held his arms up for her to pull his sweatshirt over his head.
“I’m finding you incredibly sexy lately,” she whispered.
Michael leaned down to see his reflection in the toaster. He shrugged and allowed himself to be pulled down onto the kitchen floor. “Hmm, we haven’t done this in a while.”
Linda giggled and covered his lips with hers.
