Breakfast At Bethany's. Kathleen O'Reilly
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the door in her face.
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, his stomach rumbled and he realized he’d missed lunch—and dinner. All afternoon he’d been listening to the interview tape, pretending to take notes, but so far the page was blank. When she spoke, you actually could hear her smile in her voice.
Spence rubbed his eyes. Next thing, he’d be buying her flowers, and then maybe taking her on a date, and before you knew it, they’d be headed to divorce court and he’d be forced to endure fifteen more years of Sophie’s slipshod work.
Hell would freeze first. Besides, Mr. Right Now was somewhere out there, just waiting for her, waiting to be graced with that careless smile, waiting to taste her strawberry kisses.
Well, Mr. Right Now could have her.
Not willing to go further down that strawberry-laden path, Spencer pushed himself back from his desk and walked over to the refrigerator. Now to play the new and exciting what’s-for-dinner game.
Leftover pasta from Thursday night at Via Concetta. No. Leftover chicken from Wednesday night at Via Concetta. No. Would his luck change in the freezer? Frozen pizza. Frozen lasagna.
The lasagna wins, the crowd goes wild.
He popped the package into the oven, set the temperature and then slammed the door just as the doorbell rang. Odd. He hadn’t buzzed anyone up. “You’re going to have to wait. Don’t embarrass me now,” he said to his stomach.
Spencer didn’t get many visitors. He tried to discourage the practice of stopping by without calling first. It tended to disrupt his concentration, and he’d forgotten how to make small talk, not that he really cared.
The bell rang again. It was most likely another salesman who couldn’t read the No Soliciting sign. He should use a bigger font. Prepared to deliver his standard I’m-just-the-house-sitter line, he opened the door.
It was his onetime best friend, Harry, who mostly wrote sports for their paper.
“Spence, got three tickets to the Bulls game tomorrow. Want to come?” Harry said, shrugging out of his coat and slinging it over the chair.
“It’s too early for April Fools, and too late for Halloween. Tell me you’ve just been drinking.”
Harry collapsed on the couch and then stared up with that who…me? look he did so well. It was how he met all his women. “It was a genuine offer of hospitality.”
“I’ve got plans for dinner already,” said Spence, resigned to having company.
“Via Concetta?”
Spence flashed him a rude gesture often seen in the wilds of Los Angeles. “You can leave now.”
Harry, who had never been to the wilds of Los Angeles, elected to stay. “I worry about you. This aloneness can’t be good. The next thing you know, you’ll be getting a cat.”
Spencer shot out of his seat, the veins hammering away in his head, the pain only making him angrier. “First off, since you are the primary reason that I’m suffering from all this aloneness, your concern smacks of hypocrisy. And I’m not getting a cat. Not even a dog. Not even a hamster. The little beasts are nothing more than glorified rats.”
Harry shook his head in a mournful manner. “You’re never going to meet another woman with that sort of attitude. You need to get back in the saddle.”
“I can get back into the saddle anytime I want. You tell Joan that. In fact, I’ve got a date tonight,” snarled Spencer, mainly to salvage what was left of his ego.
Never one to practice the fine art of subtlety—damn sports writer—Harry began to laugh. “A date? Returning a favor?”
“No.”
“Mother’s dentist’s niece?”
“No,” Spencer snapped.
“Some friend of Joan’s that I haven’t met yet?”
“Since you’ve been sleeping with her longer than I was married to her, that’s highly unlikely.”
“I waited four months. It seemed acceptable. Does this still bother you?”
“No.” Spencer sighed. “Why don’t you marry her?” he asked. Then he could at least save the alimony. Fifteen hundred a month, which was galling, since Joan’s father could buy Spencer several million times over. Unfortunately, Mr. Barclay didn’t believe in passing along his wealth to his daughter until he was dead, so now it was Spencer who was footing the bill.
Harry picked up the latest New York Times and began to read. “I’ve tried. She says no. It breaks my heart that her desire for revenge is bigger than her love for me. But you inspire that in women, Spence.”
The phone rang, sparing Spencer a reply. “I bet that’s my date now.” In one smooth move he picked up the phone and opened the door for Harry to exit. “James here.”
“Spencer, it’s Beth. Beth Von Meeter.”
After listening to her voice all afternoon, he still found it sent a tingle to places he thought were long dead. He turned his back on Harry, intimating intimacy. “Yes, I was hoping you would call.”
“I think you’re on to something. I’ve gotten four responses so far. Oops, make that five. And they all sound amazing.”
Did she actually doubt his skills? “Of course.”
“You wanted me to check in with you after I set up my first date, right?”
“Yes, I’ll need to see you as soon as possible. Can you excuse me for a moment?”
“Certainly.”
Spencer turned and glared at Harry. “Out,” he said, arm stretched toward the door. If his arm were long enough to make it to hell, he’d have pointed there, too.
Harry gestured to the phone, then made pornographic hand signs, but he did pick up his coat and make his way to the door. Spencer walked over and slammed it right after him.
Then he took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry, Beth. You were saying?”
“We’re going to see a play at the Steppenwolf tomorrow.”
“Oh. What time will you be done?”
“It’s a date, Mr. James, not a business appointment.”
“You’re right. What was I thinking? I’ll meet you at one a.m. There’s a coffeehouse across the street.”
“I’m not dumping my date, who might be the most fabulous man I’ve met in my entire life, in order to go through the third degree with you.”
As if he were just some two-bit stringer from Pomona. Spencer slammed his hand on the counter, immediately bruising his palm. Stupid moves like this were the prime reason he was healthier staying away from the human race. “As the man responsible for you meeting the most fabulous man you’ve ever met in your life, I would think some gratitude would be in order.”
“Gratitude is not the emotion of the day. Try again tomorrow. I’ll meet you Sunday morning.”
Defeat came and smacked him on the head. “I’ll meet you at nine. Where do you live? We can find someplace nearby.”
“All right,” she replied, and then gave him her address. It was an apartment two blocks from his. Cheap, but safe and serviceable. Sad that an award-winning journalist was placed in the same caste as a coffee shop barista. Damn Joan. Why couldn’t she just marry Harry?
“What’s your date’s name?” Spence asked, mainly because even while he was condemning his wife to alimonial purgatory, he was lining up lemming-style to be pushed over the edge again.
“Donald. Donald Hughes.”
She sounded thrilled, as if the love of her life was going to be standing