Josie looked under the table. Rosie was sound asleep, her little head cradled between the stuffed animal's paws. Josie smiled.
“Nice article. Not as good as ours. Guess that's why he got the back and we got the centerfold. The camera likes him. Good bone structure. He doesn't look like he knows how to relax. Kind of stiff-looking. The arrogance is there, though. If he's Cajun, what happened to his accent? It says here he's Cajun. He must have a lot of money. He has a house right here in the Garden District, a chalet in Switzerland, and a house in the Hamptons. That all makes for big bucks. They stop short of saying he's a playboy. Old money. It doesn't say what it is exactly that he does. We do have a name now, though. Paul Brouillette. We could look him up in the phone book. If we were interested, that is. Since we aren't interested, we won't look it up,” Josie said.
“I already did that. I wrote the number on the pad by the phone. Just in case we wanted to call him, which we don't, so we probably should throw away the number,” Kitty said breathlessly.
“You already called the number, didn't you?” Josie said suspiciously.
Kitty winked at her sister. “I just wanted to see if he was home. He wasn't. His answering machine came on. I hung up. There's nothing wrong with that. I wanted to be sure he was bona fide in case we have to, you know, send him a bill for the screen door like you said. It wouldn't hurt you to show a little interest. I'll bet you could get him just by snapping your fingers. If you're interested, that is,” Kitty said slyly as she ladled soup into the two strawberry bowls.
“I can't believe you're trying to match me up with some . . . Cajun playboy with a ponytail. Let's get real here, and you know what else? I am going to send him a bill for the repairs regardless of the cost. The plants were over a hundred dollars. The screen door is going to be at least sixty. I had to buy screws for the windows boxes. It damn well adds up.”
“Why don't you take the bill over there personally? Gee whiz, you could walk from here. Give Rosie a chance to wreck his place.”
“I'm not giving back that stuffed dog. That's a given. Look how happy she is. We don't ever mention that, okay, Kitty?”
“Fine by me. You make it sound like we're going to be seeing him again. How's that going to happen?” Her voice turned sly again as she raised her eyes to the slowly rotating paddle fan over the kitchen table. “I think it's gonna rain.”
“Don't change the subject. The weatherman didn't say anything about rain. That gray cloud over the backyard is going to go away.”
“When we were little we used to pray for rain so we could slop in the puddles and make mud pies,” Kitty said wistfully. “I don't care if I am all grown-up. I want to do that again. I wonder what it would be like to run naked through the rain sucking on a mango.”
Josie choked on the food in her mouth. “Where . . . what . . . ?”
“I asked Harry if he ever did that and he said no but he had crawled buck-ass naked through tall weeds sucking on a long neck bottle of Budweiser. I thought it was kind of funny. We're going to do it the next time it rains. Providing I'm recovered from my cold.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me,” Josie said hoarsely. Kitty would do it, too. Kitty was the adventuresome one. The most daring thing Josie had ever done with a guy was to go skinny-dipping. Because she was two minutes older, she felt as though she had to set an example for her more precocious twin. Some example.
“I'll clean up. Start thinking about a new recipe for Mrs. Lobelia. I'm going to take Rosie for a walk.”
“I drew a kind of crude map of where Mr. Rich lives. It's on the sheet under his phone number. Just go to the end of this street, make a right and two lefts, and
voilà ,
you're there.”
Josie threw the dishtowel at her sister's back. She tucked the directions in the back of her mind. Not that she had any intention of following them. Besides, how could she possibly know the house number? She looked around to see if Kitty was within eye range. Satisfied, she peeked under the first sheet of paper on the notepad. There it was: 2899. How hard could that be to remember? She tucked it away in her mind along with the directions.
Â
Ninety minutes later, Josie tripped down the staircase, Rosie's leash in her hand.
Kitty whistled her appreciation from her position on the couch. “Nice dog-walking outfit! Isn't that the same getup you spent days searching for when you had a date with that diplomat not too long ago? Didn't you say you were sick for days over how much it cost? Is that perfume I smell? By God, it is perfume!” Kitty said sniffing appreciatively. “It
is
the same perfume you bought for that tight-assed diplomat who arm wrestled you on the front porch. You're lookin' good, girl. He'd be a fool to turn you down.”
“I simply changed my clothes because I dribbled some of the tomato soup on my blouse. I'm not going anywhere near his house. Stop matchmaking. The diplomat was a jerk. I might as well get some use out of this outfit. As for the perfume, I like it. What's wrong with wearing perfume ?”
“Are you going to gussy up Rosie, too?”
“I put a clean bow in her hair. I do that every day. Get that gleam out of your eye, Kitty. You're up to something, aren't you? You wouldn't dare! Tell me you wouldn't . . .”
“Me pretend to be you and go visit him! Nah! That's kid stuff. We're all grown-up now. Besides, I can't get pissed off like you do. I'm too easygoing. He'd see right through the charade.”
Josie jiggled the leash and waited for Rosie to join her. When Rosie finally wiggled her way through the dining room to the living room she had the stuffed dog with her.
“Look at her.” Kitty laughed. “She's exhausted from dragging that toy. Looks like you're going to have to pull her in the wagon. From the looks of her she won't last a block, and you have about four to go from the front door.”
“You're out of your mind! There's no way I'm going to pull a dog in a wagon down the street. People are sitting on their porches. They'll laugh me right out of town.”
Josie flopped down on the couch next to her sister. “I miss that old couch with the spring popping through at the end. We should have kept it. Since my plans have been thwarted, I think I'll have a little glass of wine or maybe a tall beer. How about you, Kitty?”
“Beer sounds good. Turn the fans on when you get back. It's getting hot already. I hate humidity. My hair is nothing but a ball of frizz. I'm going to get some of that stuff that takes the curl out of your hair.”
“Don't bother. It doesn't work,” Josie said, handing her a beer. “Kitty, was Mom anywhere near being a perfect mother?”
“Not to my way of thinking. Why do you ask?”
Josie told her about Mrs. Lobelia and her son. “I don't even know anyone who has a perfect mother. More to the point, what
is
a perfect mother?”
Kitty shrugged as she gulped at the frosty beer. “I guess it's someone who does everything right, anticipates your every need, is always there, never complains, and always smiles no matter what. Jeez, Mom was nothing like that. Remember how she used to whip our asses with the wooden spoon when we did something wrong? To me, that's a perfect mother. She wanted us to know right from wrong. We never made the same mistake twice, so I guess it worked. How about another beer since you aren't going for your walk?”
“Sure, why not?” Josie said glumly. She hated taking these trips down Memory Lane.
The twins were finishing their second bottle of beer when the phone rang. “Right on schedule,” Josie muttered. “The guy is a creature of habit. Does he
ever
call at two minutes past the hour? Does he have some kind of timer he goes by? Where's the excitement? How can you get an adrenaline rush when you know he's going to call precisely at eight o'clock? If you want my opinion, your intended is boring as hell. I'm going for that walk now while you talk about nothing for two hours.”
“The wagon's by the front door. Rosie is waiting for you,” Kitty gurgled. “Don't worry. No one will see you since it's getting dark.”
Rosie yipped her pleasure. Going out the front door in the wagon was something new. Normally, Josie pulled her around in the garden. She yipped again before she cuddled with the stuffed dog. “We're just going up the street and down the street. I have a buzz on and . . . I probably shouldn't even be out. Maybe halfway down the block. Halfway is good. That's what we'll do.”
It was a beautiful, quiet evening, the air clear and fresh, the sky full of stars. Even though it was getting dark, Josie could make out quiet forms sitting on front porches. Some of the neighbors waved or shouted an evening greeting. She waved back. The jasmine smelled heavenly that evening. Once she'd bought a bottle of expensive perfume called Jasmine and had been so disappointed with the bottled scent she'd thrown it away.
Josie was about to turn the wagon around at the end of the block when she heard the crunch and grind of rusty wheels. She stepped to the side and reached for the lamppost just as a tall form pulling something behind him rounded the corner.
Him.
It was instant chaos. Whatever he was pulling slammed into the man, pushing him forward until he, too, was hanging on to the lamppost. The boxer leaped and pranced as Rosie yipped and danced her way around him. Traffic crawled by as teenagers whooped and hollered.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” the man said huskily, one eye on the girl pinned under his arms and one on the dogs' wild antics.
“Why?”
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Keep your mouth closed so he doesn't smell your breath.
“Meeting twice in one day like this is . . . rather strange, don't you think?”
“Is that what you say to all the women you meet? Is that dog of yours some kind of shill or something? Ooops,” she gurgled as she lost her balance. She righted herself and hung on to the light pole.
Damn, now he was going to think she was a drunk. So much for the pricey outfit and the sinful perfume.
“Miss Dupré, are you by any chance . . . ah, inebriated?”
“Do I look in . . . inebr . . . drunk?”
Go ahead, keep giving him more clues
. “Where's your Cajun accent, you . . . you Cajun playboy? I read all about you. I did. So did my sister.”
“I lost my accent went I went north to school. It didn't go over very well at Princeton. I'm not a playboy, but I do like to play. I'm flattered that you read my article. I read yours, too. Why don't I walk you home? You seem a bit unsteady. Do you have any more questions?” he asked patiently.
Did she? She wished she could think straight. Swinging around the lamppost certainly wasn't doing her any good. “As a matter of fact I do have a question. What's your definition of a perfect mother, sir?”
He took so long to reply, Josie prodded him as she peered at him in the yellowish light from the lamp. She wasn't so tipsy that she couldn't see the misery in his eyes or the slump of his shoulder. “Well?”
“Probably someone who knows her son's name, makes him breakfast, kisses him good-bye before she sends him off to school and listens to his prayers at night when she tucks him in. Are you writing a book?” he asked stiffly.
“My mother was like that, but she wasn't perfect. It has to be more than that. I might write a book. The idea . . . intri . . . intrigues me.” Josie hiccuped.
“Come along, Miss Dupré. I'll walk you home. Do you think you can pull the wagon, or should I do it for you? It's amazing that we were both doing the same thing. Zip likes to ride in the wagon. I guess I'm just a sucker for dogs. May I say you look lovely this evening.”
“This is my dog-walking outfit. I bought it for that . . . diplomat. He had diplomatic immunity. They can get away with
anything.
I gave him a black eye and bit him on the neck. I'm going to throw it away.”
“That sounds like it might be a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because it brings to mind an unhappy experience. By the way, I got a stuffed dog in the mail today that was obviously meant for you.”
“Yeah, well, I got yours, too, and I'm keeping it. Rosie loves it. She thinks it's your dog.”
“I know. Zip thinks the same thing. All he did this afternoon was moon over it. That's why I took him for the walk.”
“Rosie didn't eat her supper.”
“Zip didn't eat his either. Maybe we could feed them when we get to your house. Together they might eat. Are you agreeable to that?”
“Sure, why not? What else makes a perfect mother?”
The Cajun threw his hands in the air. “I don't know . . . maybe one who doesn't palm her kid off on a housekeeper, one who goes to his baseball games and school plays. One who isn't too busy. One who says I love you once in a while.”