A Baby...Maybe? & How to Hunt a Husband Page 3

  Last week, Cara had been so frustrated she had called her friends Kate and Tony Donetti and told them what Cecilia had been doing. They already knew, since Kate was Shannon’s sister, and Shannon was apparently getting the same treatment from her mother, Brigit, as Cara was getting from Cecilia. They’d commiserated then offered her an open invitation to visit them in Texas.

  When Billy looked over at her, smiled and belched and didn’t even say, “Excuse me,” she knew she couldn’t go on with this anymore. She had to get away or else she’d go positively nuts. She pushed herself away from the table that had no food on it yet, and said, “I have to go.”

  “Go where?” her mother demanded, eyes wide in surprise at Cara’s sudden burst of independence.

  Before her mother could say a word of protest, Cara said, “I need to get home.”

  “You can’t be rude to our guest.”

  Cara’s blood pressure was soaring. She could feel her blood curdling and her face flushing with heat. Her mother didn’t have the slightest idea how this parade of men was affecting her daughter. And Cara, the good girl, the child who never made waves, who never did anything to make anyone angry, had reached the boiling point. Maybe her rotten, biting, hitting kindergarten student had the right idea all along. Maybe he, too, was so frustrated by his parents that he did what he did out of frustration. “He’s not my guest, Mom. He’s yours. They’ve all been yours. You have been using me like some pawn in your silly bet with Brigit, and I can’t believe that you would subject me, your only daughter, your only child, to this. What kind of mother are you?”

  “How dare you talk to me like that?” The look of hurt on her mother’s face was almost enough to make Cara want to take it all back. But not quite.

  “I dare because you won’t stop bringing these losers to meet me.” She looked at Billy. “With the exception of you, of course. You’re not a loser.”

  He nodded and grinned because he believed her. She shook her head and sighed. He didn’t get it.

  “Everything I’ve done is for your own good. To help you find your happiness.”

  “I am happy.” She was, too, except for the fact that she now knew she would die a shriveled, childless old maid. When the truth sank in, she might be miserable, but it hadn’t sunk in yet.

  “Oh, my God!” Cecilia crossed herself and spit in her hand. “Don’t say such things. You’re miserable and you know it.”

  “Mother, please, look at me. Do I look miserable to you.”

  “Yes, you do.” Cecilia reached up and brushed stray strands of hair from Cara’s face. “Of course, if you would only comb your hair, and wash that paint from your hands, and keep your clothes clean—why don’t you wear aprons at school when you play with those children?—then maybe someone as wonderful as Billy here would fall in love with you. And you could get married, say, next week,” she suggested hopefully.

  “Mother!”

  “It’s really all your fault, you know. It’s not as if I haven’t brought you a wonderful selection to choose from.”

  “Okay, I’ve had enough. Bye, Billy. Bye, Mom.”

  She headed toward the door with her mother trailing on her heels and shouting behind her, “Be back here tomorrow at noon. There’s someone I want you to meet, and I’ve made lunch reservations.”

  Cara didn’t even break her stride getting out of that house. When she arrived at her apartment, she called Tony and Kate. She needed their help. “Can I take you up on your invitation? I know this is short notice…in fact, it’s extremely short notice. And I know tomorrow is Saturday and you may have plans for the weekend, and I know—”

  “Nonsense, you don’t know anything.” Kate laughed. “We’d love to have you, Cara, and the sooner you get here, the better it’ll be. This is a perfect place for you to have a retreat,” she exclaimed. “I can’t wait to see you again.”

  “We won’t tell a soul where you are.” Tony was on the extension phone. “In other words, Cecilia will never know.”

  “And neither will Brigit,” Kate added.

  “Thank you.” Cara let out a sigh of relief. “I may actually have a peaceful vacation.”

  “You’ll have a great time. This is a perfect place to hide,” Tony said.

  “Maybe not.” Suddenly all the doubts stated bombarding her. “Your house is the first place my mother will look for me.” Cecilia would be relentless in her search. Cara knew her mom.

  “Tell you what. Instead of staying here in Houston, you’ll go to Pegleg. That’s a great place to hide. It’s a small town right outside of Houston, there’s a great bed-and-breakfast owned by a friend of ours. She’ll make sure you have all the privacy you need,” Tony said. “It’s only a few miles from the house and my restaurant.”

  “You’ll love Mandelay,” Kate promised. “No one will find you until you decide you want to be found.”

  After Cara said her goodbyes to Kate and Tony, she called the airline and booked herself on the first flight to Houston the next morning. Nothing was going to stop Cara from getting away from her mother and her marriage-minded meddling.

  Cara opened the closet door and stared at the clothes hanging there. What did she have that was appropriate for a vacation in Texas?

  There were the calf-length dirndl skirts, wide and loose enough for getting down on the floor to play with the kids. A variety of buttoned-down shirts, high at the neck and modest to the point of being virginal. She had plenty of clothes all right. A closet brimming with modest skirts, slacks, shirts and sweaters—the clothes of a quiet, conservative schoolmarm. Was that the look she wanted for this vacation, or was that actually the look she was escaping? Suddenly afraid to make such a momentous decision, she turned on the weather station and monitored the Houston-area weather—sunny, with the chance of rain, high in the low eighties and humid. The eighties. In March, no less. Wonders never cease.

  Hot enough to go naked. Even though she was all alone in her apartment, Cara blushed. Where had that idea come from? Her naked? Well, why not? She was on vacation. She didn’t have her mother watching over her, dictating her every move. She not only could sleep naked, she could walk around the room naked. She could answer the doorbell naked. Okay, maybe that was going too far, but still, naked was freedom.

  She laid her khakis carefully over the back of the chair along with a powder-blue short-sleeve sweater.

  She opened her travel bag and packed three more short-sleeved sweaters, and then she reached slowly into the closet for her one tank top, the one she always wore with a shirt over it. No more. At least no more for the next week. Underpants, bras, socks and a belt followed. She was about to throw in her favorite brushed-cotton nightie with the sweet-pea flowers, long Shakespearean sleeves and a high neck trimmed with a heavy lace that practically covered her hands and made sure no cold air got anywhere close to her neck. But something stopped her. She held the gown for barely a second before putting it back in the drawer. This was her breakout trip, and she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to sleep naked by bringing a nightgown.

  She totally threw caution to the wind when she climbed up the stepladder to get her strappy white sandals, the ones with the two-inch heels she had bought on sale two summers ago and had never worn. She carefully wrapped each shoe in a plastic grocery sack. She was going to be daring and bold, she promised herself. Wearing white sandals when it was weeks and weeks before Memorial Day would be almost as daring as sleeping naked. She wondered if she should sleep naked with the sandals on, and giggled. That wouldn’t be such a bad idea. She could answer the doorbell with nothing on but those white sandals.

  Except with her luck, it would be someone like Billy the waste disposal man on the other side of the door. That thought was depressing, until Cara remembered peepholes, and knew she didn’t have to open the door to any Billys.

  She tucked her toiletries—safely packed in plastic zippered sandwich bags—into all remaining crevices. Cara glanced around the bedroom, making sure she wasn’t forgettin
g anything. Coco Mademoiselle. Still in the box, unopened, the clear plastic wrap a testament to its forlorn status on the dresser. She had tried on the perfume in the department store and loved it. Had bought it on a whim, like the sandals. Hadn’t worn it, either.

  She unwrapped the package and sprayed the perfume on her neck and wrists, inhaling deeply. Good. Just as she remembered. Into the bag it went. Then she took it out again and sprayed everything she had packed in the bag with Coco Mademoiselle.

  She thought she had everything ready to go until she glanced at the top of her dresser. Then again, maybe not.

  She called it a jewelry box, but it was more like a chest than a box. Made of solid, heavy oak, it had come to her through her grandmother Romano and all the generations of Romano women before her. Over a hundred years ago, her great-great-grandparents had brought it to America, filled with silver and copper coins, nothing that would seem of real value. Nothing worth stealing.

  Only, the coins inside the chest were actually there to distract anyone from finding the real treasure the chest held.

  Cara walked slowly over to the dresser. You only live once, she told herself. What was she saving all of the jewelry for? They were there for her to use. She wore the earrings almost every day. They were the smallest of the gold coins her forebears had brought over in the secret compartments built into the chest. The coins had been set in a gold-filigree bracket by a past Romano relative. She looked at her reflection in the dresser mirror. She never thought twice about wearing the earrings. They were so much a part of her. But they were only a small part of the treasure.

  She lifted the lid and reached inside, bringing out what remained of the solid-gold coins. Some of the coins had been used to start businesses, to send Romanos to college, to get started in life. She had inherited what remained. That same Romano relative who had done the earrings also had made coins into a necklace, bracelet and brooch. They were solid gold, heavy and priceless.

  Cara tried on the necklace and almost collapsed under the weight of the coins, each set in a filigree frame then attached to the gold necklace. The bracelet was the same design, and the brooch was layered with coins in the shape of a crescent moon.

  She never wore any of the jewelry except the earrings. Tomorrow all that would change. The coins had brought her ancestors luck. They would bring her luck, too. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know where, all she knew was that she was going to wear those pieces of jewelry, either separately or together, and her life would work out fine.

  She undressed for bed, took the sweet-pea nightgown back out of the drawer and was about to put it on but stopped. No, she wouldn’t need it. She set her alarm and slipped naked beneath the sheets, took a few deep breaths, then with eyes wide open stared at the ceiling, waiting for the alarm to go off.

  Saturday morning couldn’t come fast enough, and when the alarm finally buzzed, she was already set to go. She left her car parked on the street in front of the apartment building and took a cab to the airport. She checked her luggage, walked over to the airport gift shop and stopped in front of the mailbox outside the entrance. She took the goodbye note she had written to her parents out of her purse, unfolded it and read it one last time before licking the envelope shut and sending it on its way.

  The note was simple and very, very sweet. It was also to the point, because she felt extremely sympathetic to her parents’ feelings.

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  I didn’t take my cell

  phone, so don’t even try to

  call, because it would just

  be a waste of time.

  Love,

  Cara

  2

  AT TEN O’CLOCK on Saturday morning Rex parked his pickup about fifty feet from the cow billboard on the shoulder of the freeway, close to the outdoor patio of Mama Jo’s Bar-B-Q.

  The meat smoking in the massive drums on the backside parking area had probably been cooking for at least twenty-four hours already. The smell of huge slabs of beef saturated with flavors from mesquite and hickory chips made his stomach growl despite that he had finished breakfast only about an hour earlier.

  Mama Jo happened to be one slick businesswoman who knew how to bring in the customers. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, those smokers were working, and the sweet-tangy aroma of smoking beef could be inhaled from miles away. It was no wonder Mama Jo’s was the busiest restaurant in Texas. Automobiles and trucks were guided to Mama Jo’s on the smoky barbecue fumes alone. His friend Tony often joked that it was a good thing Donetti’s Irish Pub and Sushi Bar was just outside the fragrant limits of Mama Jo’s Bar-B-Q, or he’d be out of business. There was nothing in the world like the aroma of Texas barbecue.

  On the other side of the freeway the wind carried the smoke puffing out of the bull’s nostrils right toward him. That smoke, on the other hand, didn’t leave him with the same feeling as Mama Jo’s Bar-B-Q did. Not even close.

  Rex peered up at the cow billboard. Either way, up close or fifty feet away, the view was the same. He feared the image of shimmering udders would be branded on his brain forever.

  Clay’s black Mercedes screeched to a stop behind Rex’s truck. Clay, using his hand as a shield against the sun, stood next to his car as he looked up at the sign. “Whaddya think?” he asked, his smile bright, his eyes optimistic. “Great advertising campaign, eh?”

  “No Bull?” That was the first thing Rex asked. “When did you come up with that slogan?”

  “It just came to me. Pure inspiration at work, that’s what it is.”

  “Inspiration?” He didn’t see any kind of divine entities at work here.

  “Isn’t it great? Noble, no bull. No-ble. Get it? Huh?” Clay nudged Rex in the ribs.

  Rex stepped away from Clay’s elbow. “I get it. The problem is, I didn’t get what I paid for.”

  That seemed to stop Clay cold. “What are you talking about?”

  “I did not pay for bestial pornography.”

  Clay looked confused.

  “You glittered her udders.”

  “The pièce de résistance. Great, huh?”

  “You had the mock-up. This is nothing like the mock-up. The billboards were supposed to look more like that.” He nodded at the Noble Sperm Bank Association, A Breed Apart logo painted on his truck. “It’s a very simple, very subtle proclamation that tells everyone in Pegleg, Texas, and breeders across the country what I do.”

  “You have stiff competition.” He glanced at the bull. “No pun intended. You said that yourself. How do you expect to get breeders interested in your bull with some pansy-looking logo like that?”

  “Let’s get something straight. My business is doing just fine. I hired you as a favor to your brother. These billboards may ruin me.” And it wasn’t just himself that was at stake. He had his investors to think about. This wasn’t a one-man operation.

  “They’re not going to ruin you. They’re going to make you. You need a bull that looks like he’s got what it takes to make things happen. And that’s what I gave you.”

  “What you gave me is a bull who looks like he’s getting ready to hump the cow.”

  “That’s the idea.” Clay nodded, as if Rex was finally getting it.

  Only Clay was the one who didn’t get the program. “Look at what kind of interest these billboards are generating,” Rex said as vehicles whizzed past, honking their horns, making catcalls out the windows. “I want some of that,” some lady yelled. “Whoo-whoo,” another hooted.

  “You’re not going to be sorry you put your advertising needs in my hands. Your business will boom.”

  “It’s already booming.”

  “Now it will explode. I see putting these billboards everywhere. Maybe even have cow and bull magnets, the kind that have the lips that come together to kiss. Or we could put the magnets on their—” Clay gave Rex a man-to-man look. When Rex’s expression finally appeared to sink into the ad executive’s brain, Clay’s voice became serious and he mumbled, “Just a thou
ght.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll add the magnets as inserts to telephone and electric bills.”

  Rex held up his hand. “Forget it.”

  “Let me finish. I’m only getting started here. I have plans. Big plans. Wait till you hear about the cow and bull calendar,” he said with pride. “Not to mention the huge advertising campaign I’ve outlined for magazines and newspapers. You’ll have to clone your bull just to keep up with the business.”

  “The billboards have got to come down.”

  “No way,” he said in disbelief.

  “All the way down.”

  “You’re killin’ me.” Clay’s voice was strangled.

  “Replace them with regular rectangular billboards that look like my logo.”

  “You’re going to ruin an incredible campaign,” Clay accused him.

  “The bull’s penis is so big it’s offensive.”

  “Bulls have big penises.”

  “Yes, they do, but it doesn’t have to be displayed ten feet long on a billboard.”

  “Men need visuals, you know that. They have to see what they’re getting. It’s like silicone.”

  “What?”

  “The woman’s breast. Silicone breasts aren’t real, but that doesn’t stop men from fantasizing about them. Same with the bull’s bobby. Guys know it’s not real, but that’s not going to stop them from thinking if their cattle was inseminated with your bull’s semen, they could breed a giant.”

  “That’s not what the phone calls we’ve been getting—”

  “Have you been getting calls already?”

  “We can’t keep up with them.”

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it, what a little advertising will do for a business?”

  “You don’t get it. I’m quickly becoming the laughingstock of this county.” Rex’s jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt. “These are not phone calls about doing business with me. These calls range from women screaming about the obscene nature of the bull’s organ to men wanting to know if I provide growth hormones for them.”