When The Lights Go Out.... Barbara Daly
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There were deep circles under her eyes. She must have had a hard time getting back to the office and an uncomfortable night sleeping there, just to assure Blythe’s privacy with Garth. Blythe’s guilt grew and compounded.
Feeling the blood rush back to her face, Blythe said, “I…well, he…”
“All lit up,” Garth said, returning to the living room.
“It just wasn’t fair for that transformer to blow up yesterday,” Candy said, pouting. “I had a date with Max Laughton, a dreamboat who’s coming to the Telegraph from the Chicago Observer. Soon as I found out he’d been hired, I decided to get dibbies on him, because if he’s half as hunky as his picture—”
A loud crash from Blythe’s room caused both Candy and Garth to swivel their heads toward the closed door. “Who’s in there?” Candy asked in a hushed tone.
“Well,” Blythe said, “I think it might be somebody trying to fix the bed. See, the strangest thing happened…”
“You broke your bed?”
“My, oh my, oh my,” Garth murmured, gazing ceilingward.
“While I was trying to get Garth here to mend your psyche, you found somebody to break your frigging bed?” Candy’s expression wavered between shock and admiration.
“Not exactly,” Blythe mumbled.
“Then who—” Candy’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. It couldn’t be.”
She whizzed past Blythe toward the closed bedroom door. Just as she reached it, it opened and Max strode out, wearing a navy blazer over his shirt and slacks. The crisp-cut outfit was a little incongruous with his unshaved face. Through the doorway, Blythe could see that he’d made up the bed and somehow put the footboard back on—upside down.
“Good morning,” he said in a jarringly hearty tone. “Wow.” He looked at Blythe, who stood quivering beside the sofa. “Either you slept on the sofa in your clothes or you sure were quiet when you came in to get them. I didn’t wake up until I heard all the yelling.”
He was a terrible liar, embarrassingly bad at it, but Blythe felt that was a point in his favor. He held out his hand to Garth. “I’m Max Laughton.”
“Garth?” Garth said in a tentative sort of voice. “Garth Brandon? Dr. Garth Brandon.” The title seemed to make him feel more secure.
Max shook Garth’s hand briefly, then turned to Candy. “You must be Candy. We had a date last night, and you’re late.” He gave her a totally engaging, disarming smile. Blythe would have died to be on the receiving end of that smile.
And was dying anyway, she was so touched to realize he was lying so unconvincingly in an attempt to save her reputation. A not-too-bright ape—and that would be according to ape standards—could have seen through him.
“Too late, apparently.” Candy’s chin firmed and her baby blue eyes flashed. “You slept together. I can see it written all over your faces. How could you, Blythe? You’re my best friend.”
In fact, a person could die from the sheer weight of the guilt Blythe felt on her shoulders.
“Let’s have coffee!” Garth said. He smiled at all of them. He had a nice smile, but it didn’t sock Blythe in the tummy the way Max’s did. “We can sit down, have a cup and talk things over.”
“There always were times, Garth,” Candy snapped, “when your perfect manners made me want to frigging barf.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Candy,” Garth said. “I feel used by the thing that has obviously occurred, but it makes me feel more in control to act like a civilized human. Besides, as a psychiatrist I’m always open to understanding the deeper motivations of people in times of stress, so I think…”
“I’m warning you, Garth. Stop being so frigging nice or I’m going to upchuck,” Candy said.
“Thank you for sharing your feelings,” Garth said, escaping to the kitchen. “Cream, sugar, anyone?”
“I’ll help,” Blythe said. “Oh, look, you lit the oven, too. There’s a coffee cake in the freezer. If I wrap it in foil, it will thaw in no time. And we have orange juice. Lots of sugar to jump-start the…”
“Listen to them,” Candy said. “They’re made for each other. And you had to come along and mess it up.”
Max, who didn’t want Blythe—that was her name, and it suited her—alone in the kitchen with this Garth person, was on his way to chaperone, but Candy’s voice brought him to a halt with one foot in midair.
He settled it down to the floor, slowly turned back to her, and for the first time took a good long look at Candy Jacobsen, with whom he’d thought he was spending the night.
She had to be six feet tall in those witch’s shoes she was wearing, and her blond hair, long and straight except where it curved at the ends, was thick and shiny.
Maybe a little too shiny. She wouldn’t have been able to shower and wash it this morning at the Telegraph offices. The gunk on her eyes was half-on, half-off. Well, not off. It was still on her face, just not in the right places. Those dark circles under her eyes weren’t exhaustion, they were eye makeup.
Who was he kidding? Cleaned up she’d be a stunner, a dream of a woman, just the kind of woman he was accustomed to dating, but more so. Then why did he keep glancing toward that kitchen door, hoping for another peek at the little red-haired, green-eyed Orphan Annie-type he’d—he’d—
It usually took him a few weeks to turn romance into a tangle that had to be straightened out. This time he’d done it before the first date.
“We can grill some toast,” Blythe was saying. “It’ll be good with the eggs.”
“This is turning into a full breakfast,” Garth answered her. “Maybe we should sit at the table.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll set the table while you finish up in here.”
“No, no, I’ll do it. You pour the juice.”
Their happy voices were driving him crazy. “What exactly did I mess up?” he asked Candy, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at her.
“A perfect relationship,” Candy snapped. “Blythe needed somebody to have sex with, sure, but I knew she and Garth would have more in common than sex. And—” she moved a step closer, smiling sexily at his angry expression “—I knew you and I would make sparks together.” The smile faded. “And still will,” she said with a determination that made Max nervous. He was trying desperately to put the set of unrelated facts together, read some sense into what was going on here.
“Sorry, it just didn’t turn out that way,” he said, trying to look sorry. “It was the blackout that messed it up, not me. I was here by invitation, your invitation,” he reminded her, “but due to the circumstances, Blythe was the Good Samaritan who got me out of the elevator with her comb.”
It must have been his mention of the comb that made her blink, because her anger only escalated. “A frigging nameless Good Samaritan, apparently?”
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