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  Shopping for others presented a whole myriad of problems. Many items, like pasta or bread, she could pick out through recognition, but choosing others was much more complicated. Often the pictures on labels helped, but sometimes—say, trying to distinguish Campbell’s minestrone soup from Manhattan clam chowder, or Minute Maid’s tangerine-orange from its original orange juice—the task was much more difficult.

  “Sorry, but I’m not food-shopping three weeks in a row. Besides, we only need a few things, like more toilet paper. And don’t get that Marcel brand again. It’s like using sandpaper.”

  “I grabbed it by mistake.” Gabrielle swallowed back the embarrassment of another time when she’d mistakenly brought home a bottle of Lestoil cleaner thinking that it was olive oil because of it’s similar color and container.

  “Yeah, and you got the wrong juice, too. I like cranapple not cranraspberry. In fact, here,” Stephanie said, grabbing a sheet of memo paper and handing it and a pencil to Gabrielle. “Make a list.”

  “I don’t need a list. I’ll remember.”

  “Who was it that forgot the coffee and flour the last time? Write it down.”

  Gabrielle accepted the pencil and paper, unwilling to argue and raise any suspicions. While Stephanie walked around rattling off the names of various sundries and foodstuffs, Gabrielle recorded them by using symbols and letters to represent each item. For bread she quickly sketched a rectangular loaf, then drew an egg, two rectangles with a B on top to represent butter, and a steaming cup of coffee. The list grew without problem until Stephanie stumped Gabrielle by mentioning cumin.

  “What’s wrong?” Stephanie demanded to know, noticing she’d stopped writing.

  “Cumin?”

  “It’s a spice. For Mexican dishes.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  “I don’t know. C-U-M-I-N. Now I forgot what else we need. Let me see your list.” Before Gabrielle could protest, Stephanie had grabbed the paper from her. “What the hell is this?”

  “I just felt a little … I don’t know—creative,” Gabrielle explained with a nervous laugh. “You as a writer should understand that.”

  “Yeah, I understand creativity, but if your lists always look like this, I understand why you never get the shopping right. I have to go get dinner ready.”

  “Have fun tonight,” Gabrielle said, taking the shopping list back.

  “I will. With Jack, I always do.”

  “Damn it!” Stephanie screamed as she dropped the hot lid and rushed to the sink to cool her burning skin. Running the cold water on her hand, she surveyed the mess surrounding her. Never mind that the kitchen looked as if the food fight of the century had just taken place in it. It was the withered fruits of her labor that depressed her. The rice was hard and undercooked, the vegetables oversteamed and mushy, and instead of tender nuggets of juicy poultry, petrified chicken rocks sat at the bottom of her new wok. Well, she told herself, dinner is ruined and Jack is due in forty-five minutes. Now what?

  Why had she promised him a home-cooked Chinese dinner, particularly when she could barely scramble eggs? Why? Because she wanted to impress Jack. She’d spent an untold amount of time these past three months finding out what he liked and then learning to do it. She was determined to transform herself into his perfect woman and convince Jack that he’d made the ideal love connection.

  What to do? What to do? she thought as she drained her wineglass. Bea was at the movies with Gabrielle. She’d have to figure this out on her own. Voilà! What a clever girl you are, Stephanie congratulated herself. She’d call the Szechuan Palace and order dinner. It was so easy. She could throw the food into that stupid wok in an attempt to look authentic and serve it up with a smile. Just to be on the safe side, Stephanie put a third bottle of wine in the refrigerator to chill. Once she got Jack’s taste buds good and drunk, he’d never be the wiser.

  He was already half an hour late, but Jack decided to get out of the cab three blocks from Stephanie’s place. The walk would do him good. He had to cool down. This afternoon with Nicole had been particularly volatile—as evidenced by the scratches on his face and wrists. Their relationship was finally over. Her incredible face and impressive body had ceased to compensate for the fact that she was just too demanding. So different from Stephanie, who couldn’t seem to do enough for him.

  Every time he turned around, Stephanie was making some sort of effort to please him. Like tonight’s invitation—a note attached to a tin of supposedly homemade cookies. He’d bet a hundred bucks that they were from Mrs. Fields’s kitchen, not Stephanie’s. But what the hell. It was vintage Stephanie—indiscretions and half-truths, from those fake green eyes to her bottled red hair. She was creative and inventive and she lied like the proverbial rug, but she was a harmless diversion after crazy Nicole. Besides, he didn’t want to marry her. He wanted to sleep with her. Bar none, Stephanie Bancroft was the best fuck he’d come across in a very long time.

  Not only was Stephanie great in bed, she was a cheap date. Jack knew he was using her, but she was so willing to be used. Stephanie was like an amusement park where the rides were free and the lines were short. Who wouldn’t take advantage? He also knew that the ride would have to come to an end soon. Lately Stephanie had become increasingly possessive and clingy, two qualities he found deadly unattractive.

  When it came to women, Jack loved what every red-blooded male with an ego and an ounce of confidence loved—a challenge. Throw in a little friendly competition, and Jack was at his best. Sure, you won some, you lost some. But in the big scheme of things—as for a greyhound at the racetrack—the real fun was in the pursuit. For Jack, the things that followed—love, commitment, marriage—could never compete with the thrill of the chase.

  Jack Hollis had no intention of being tied down to one woman. He was a good-looking heterosexual male who made enough money with his business to live a comfortable life. Why throw all that away for the drudgery of monogamy? He’d settle down when he was ready to have kids—maybe in another ten or twelve years. Maybe.

  Stephanie watched from the parlor window as Jack climbed the stairs leading to the front door. The sight of his well-built torso caused her to bite her lip in anticipation. No matter how many times she’d seen it, naked or otherwise, Jack’s body never failed to make her catch her breath.

  “Hi,” she purred, looking up at him, her eyes full of lusty promise. She pressed her body to his in a welcoming hug. Right away he knew that before any food passed his lips he had a more urgent appetite to satisfy.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, kissing her long and hard.

  Stephanie felt Jack’s erection through his jeans. His kiss became more urgent as his lips devoured hers and his tongue tickled the inside of her mouth. Her breath became short as she clung to him both with her arms and mouth. She felt his fingers swiftly undo the buttons on her shirt and peel it away, dropping it to the floor. Jack’s mouth began a seductive journey down her neck and across her shoulders, until his lips came to rest on her waiting nipples. He nibbled them with practiced expertise until Stephanie heard a lazy groan escape her lips. Hearing her excitement, Jack lingered there, rolling her erect nipples gently between his teeth. Stephanie continued to moan, arching her back and pressing herself against him.

  Suddenly Jack pushed her against the foyer wall. He pulled up her skirt, only to find the treasure he sought unobstructed by panties. He slid his hand between her legs, coaxing apart the lips of her moist vagina with his finger. He began massaging her, teasing her into madness. Jack looked directly into Stephanie’s eyes and found them heavy with desire. “I want to fuck you now,” he whispered urgently in her ear. Stephanie could only smile in agreement, her entire being locked in his gaze as he dropped his pants.

  Taking him into her hands, she guided Jack into her waiting body. Effortlessly, he lifted her off the floor, and Stephanie wrapped her legs around his hips. Together they rocked vigorously, his hands on her behind, their lips locked in a hungry kiss. She ca
me almost immediately, feeling momentarily suspended in a pool of delightful sensations. Finally Jack’s body shuddered, and he held Stephanie so tightly against his hard sweating body that she could hardly breathe.

  As Jack withdrew from her, he could feel his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. “That was one hell of an appetizer.” He smiled, pulling up his pants.

  “Just wait till you see what I’ve cooked up for dessert.”

  8

  Gabrielle emerged from the Fifty-ninth Street subway station and into the summer sun smiling. It was a beautiful June morning, and for the first time in a very long time she felt happy. The pain of losing Helene had dulled to a manageable ache, mainly due to Bea’s unwavering love and attention. She’d even grown accustomed to Stephanie and her ever-changing moods. Yes, things were going better than she could have ever wished. True, she wasn’t a model yet, but at least she had a job—a job that for nearly four months she’d proven to be very good at.

  Gabrielle was proud of herself. She was succeeding without anyone realizing her secret. With her co-workers’ help it had taken her only two days to memorize the placement of every variety of muffin and bagel the shop sold. While the rest of the staff read the handwritten signs, Gabrielle developed her own system of counting over, down, and up to arrive at the requested item.

  “Hey, wait up,” a familiar voice called. Gabrielle turned to see one of her co-workers.

  “Hi. Marta, you’re in early today.”

  “I need at least two cups of java before feeding time.”

  “What’s this?” Gabrielle asked, pointing to the huge banner hanging above the shop’s doors. “Free—” she said, reading aloud the only word she recognized. Through the years she had acquired a small vocabulary of words she identified on sight. Words like “stop,” “exit,” “in,” “out,” “women,” “men.” For Gabrielle, trying to decipher the rest of the banner’s copy was like trying to solve one of her favorite jigsaw puzzles without all the necessary pieces.

  “ ‘Free coffee with every purchase. Today only,’ ” Marta recited, cutting Gabrielle off. “Has Louie lost his mind? There’s going to be a stampede in this joint.”

  “Marta, Gabrielle,” a new voice called out to them as they entered the shop. “I’m Paul, your new manager,” he told them, his voice cracking slightly. Paul had recognized the two from Louie’s description.

  “Where’s Louie?” Marta asked.

  The new manager. Gabrielle’s heart sank. A new manager meant new rules and new problems.

  “Uncle—I mean Louie’s opening up a franchise on the East Side, so I’ll be running this place. We’ve got a lot to do before the store opens, so shall we get started?” he asked, trying to sound authoritative, but failing miserably. “First off, Marta will help in the back with the inventory. Gabrielle will stay out front with Chuck, who’ll work the cash register,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

  “What’s up with the free coffee?” Marta asked, dreading the idea of spending the day counting flour sacks with this geek.

  “It’s just a promotional gimmick to get us some attention. There’s a new gourmet bakery opening up down the block. By the way, I added five new muffins and reorganized the trays this morning. I don’t know what system you’ve been using, but I think you’ll find that by arranging everything alphabetically, things will run more efficiently.”

  Reorganized the trays! Gabrielle felt lightheaded. It would take her days to memorize the new arrangement. But she had no other choice. Doing inventory was definitely not an option. She’d have to stay out front and do her best. She just hoped it was good enough.

  “Paul, would you write down the names of the new muffins?” Gabrielle asked. “That way I can push the new flavors right away until I get them memorized.”

  “Now, that’s the kind of thinking I like.”

  Marta coughed to get Gabrielle’s attention and with a smile began rubbing the tip of her nose. Gabrielle smiled and stuck out her tongue in response. Marta might be teasing her for being a brownnoser, but she wasn’t after brownie points. If Gabrielle had the letter combinations in front of her, she could match them with the words on the tray cards.

  I can do this, Gabrielle told herself as she took her position behind the counter and began trying to sort out the stock in front of her. She was able to locate the first two flavors on the list before being interrupted by a customer.

  “Morning. Carrot muffin, please.”

  “Sure.” Gabrielle’s eyes scouted the trays until they came to rest on C-A-R-R-O-T. The orange bits of color confirmed her find.

  “There you go. Hi, Denny.”

  “Good morning, Gabrielle. I’ll have my usual, please.”

  Gabrielle knew that Denny’s usual was an apple-oat-bran muffin with cream cheese. The problem was, she just didn’t know where to locate it. They sold apple, banana, and just plain oat-bran muffins. They all looked the same with white oats sprinkled on top. How can I tell which is which? Gabrielle was beginning to feel flustered. Paul’s coffee incentive was working. There were at least a dozen people standing in front of her, and they were obviously in a hurry.

  “You wanna get a move on? I got a job to get to,” someone yelled out.

  “Over here. To the left,” Denny prompted, pointing to the correct tray.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry. We reorganized this morning. Everything is in a different place,” she apologized loud enough for the others to hear.

  “Do you think you can find me two pecan muffins?” the next man in line asked.

  Gabrielle looked over the baked goods in front of her, hoping that the pecan muffins would somehow make themselves known to her. She looked at Paul’s list again in search of a clue. Nothing.

  “Look, honey, are you going to stand there all day or what?”

  “Forget this. Free coffee or not, I don’t have time to wait,” declared one woman as she departed the store in a huff.

  “Read the signs, honey. Everything’s marked.”

  Read the signs. Read the signs. The words paralyzed her.

  “Hello. Can I get some service here? I’d like my damn muffins.”

  READ THE SIGNS, she commanded her brain. Gabrielle stood frozen behind the counter, staring in vain at the trays in front of her. Panic and shame washed over her. She really thought she could pull it off—work in the real world, like a normal person. Who was she trying to kid? She wasn’t normal. She was a freak.

  “Hey, what the hell? What about my order?”

  “Can we get some help here?”

  Hearing the commotion, Paul stepped out front in time to see a small mob of hungry customers waiting noisily to be served and the back of Gabrielle’s head as she ran sobbing out the door.

  9

  “Think, Stephanie. Don’t you know any place that’s hiring?” Beatrice asked.

  “Really, Bea, I don’t know of anything. All my friends are either bartenders or waiters. Gaby’s too young to work in a bar, and these days the good restaurants only hire experienced people.” She was dying to point out to Beatrice that Gabrielle was obviously no rocket scientist. She couldn’t even keep a job peddling muffins.

  Stephanie was finding it difficult to squash her growing resentment over the way Gabrielle had come in and taken over the household. Ever since she’d moved in, Bea had basically ignored Stephanie, spending all her time and energy hovering over Gabrielle, catering to all her needs and trying to help solve all her problems.

  Who’s going to help me? Stephanie had her own problems. Forget that it was becoming painfully clear that her career as writer was in the toilet just waiting for someone to flush it down. Stephanie’s most pressing quandary at the moment was Jack. He was sending her distinct signals that he was losing interest in their relationship. Not only had he stood her up again last night, he was effectively dodging her phone calls.

  “Well, what about this big rodeo thing you’re organizing? Surely you can find something for her?”

  The first leg of th
e Montell American Spirit Celebration was about to kick off in New York. She and Felicia had spent months finalizing the logistics for the five-city tour. The gallery exhibit, featuring the work of a Philadelphia sculptor, Phil Sumpter, was scheduled to open next Friday at Harlem’s eminent Studio Museum, followed by an all-black rodeo on Saturday and Sunday. Felicia had done a yeoman’s job in getting press coverage, and the rodeo had been sold out for weeks. The RSVP list for the preview party had grown long with enthusiastic responses. Folks without invitations were lobbying hard to get on the exclusive guest list. By all indications, this was going to be a blow-out success.

  Felicia was certainly excited, but Stephanie was less than thrilled. Yes, she was going to one of the biggest parties of the year, but she was relegated to roaming the room, passing out engraved wineglasses stuffed with gift certificates. An idea clicked in Stephanie’s head. Maybe there was something Gabrielle could do after all. If she could persuade Felicia to hire Gabrielle, Stephanie would be free to eat, drink, and be merry with the beautiful people.

  “Maybe I do have something for her.”

  “Wonderful!” Beatrice said, clapping her hands in delight. “Why don’t you go tell her now, so she has something to look forward to.”

  “Let me make a phone call first.”

  Stephanie called Felicia and then walked downstairs to find Gabrielle stretched out on the couch, reading a book and listening to her Sony walkman.

  “What are you reading?” Stephanie asked.

  “The Firm.”

  “You’re always reading and listening to music at the same time. I don’t know how you can concentrate. That’s not one of my tapes, is it?” Stephanie asked, reaching for the headphones.