“Why can’t we have real zebras?”
Joseph cringed at the question, but everybody else in the barbershop seemed to think it was the most amusing thing since Randall, the owner, had announced to his regular customers that he’d had nothing for breakfast except fruit of the looms.
“Why can’t she have zebras?” Randall asked, nudging the Wednesday regular in the chair next to Joseph’s.
The Wednesday regular lifted the hot towel off his face and grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Yeah, Joseph. Why can’t she? It seems a pretty little thing like her ought to be able to have anything she wants.”
“Thanks, fellas,” Maxie said, grinning at her supporters. Every man in the shop swooned.
Every man except Joseph. Her charm was fatal. He supposed that’s why she was called Magic Maxie. But he had no intention of falling victim... again.
Godchild or no godchild.
The next time he saw his brother he was going to kill him. If Crash hadn’t come up with the harebrained scheme of naming his wife’s sister as godmother, Joseph would be sitting in the barber’s chair getting a nice shave and haircut and talking politics instead of being bombarded with crazy ideas by Maxie Corban. He would be planning to get in his Lincoln and take a sedate drive to his law office instead of fielding ridiculous ideas for the christening party with Crash’s scatterbrained sister-in-law.
“We can’t have real zebras because the whole idea is absurd,” he said.
“Why?” Maxie asked.
“Yeah,” Randall chimed in, snipping in earnest around Joseph’s ear. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“You stay out of this, Randall.”
“You know the rules, Joe. Everything said in this barbershop is my business.” Randall winked at Maxie. “The lady’s waiting for an answer.”
If he’d been in a courtroom, Joseph could have snapped out a brilliant reply in two seconds flat. But darned if he didn’t have to ponder before he could come up with a response to Maxie.
Of course, it wasn’t every day he carried on a conversation with a woman who looked like a cross between a sugarplum fairy and a naughty child. Her hands moved when she talked, and so did her hair, a mop of red curls caught high on her head by a bright orange ribbon. As if that color combination weren’t enough to shock, she was wearing mismatched shoes, one pink and one red. Her miniskirt was some fantastic shade of pink that he was certain glowed in the dark, and her raw silk jacket was neon blue.
He wondered if she dressed like that every day or only on special occasions. For a man who had spent the last nine months avoiding her company, it was a foolish thing to wonder.
In fact, he hadn’t done much better himself. When Crash had called and yelled into the phone, “You’re an uncle,” Joseph had actually gone out of the house without shaving. That’s why he was at the barbershop now. He’d never gone to work looking scruffy, and he didn’t intend to start.
The heat rose in his face when Maxie tipped her head to one side and widened her eyes at him. His resolve weakened.
“The zebras,” she prompted.
“Why zebras?” It was a good stalling tactic, using a question to field a question.
“Because they’re lively and fun, and sometimes angels ride them.”
Was he hearing things? Joseph had the kind of steel-trap mind that never missed a word, not even a single nuance. Maybe it was the snipping of the scissors that distracted him. It surely couldn’t be the enticing curve of Maxie’s legs, though she made crossing them an art.
“I beg your pardon?” Studiously avoiding looking at her legs, he cleared his throat and resisted the impulse to run his finger around his collar to release the heat. “Did you say angels on zebras?”
“Yes. Sometimes. I use them in the nurseries. Especially with boys.”
Joseph actually glanced around to see if he’d fallen down the rabbit hole and was conversing with Alice. After all, Maxie did have a ribbon in her hair. Not many women past the age of sixteen wore colored ribbons in their hair.
Certainly not Susan. His fiancee wouldn’t be caught dead with an ornament of any kind in her hair, let alone a ribbon. That was one thing that made her so perfect for Joseph: her bone-deep conservatism. She had other sterling qualities, of course, but he was hard-pressed to think of them right now.
He could barely remember his own name, for the bewitching Maxie had just run her tongue over her bottom lip.
“What nurseries?” He felt disoriented, as if he’d landed on another planet in another body, one bent on betraying him. He controlled the rising tide of heat with an iron will. “What boys?”
“Oh, not real ones. Wallpaper ones.”
“Wallpaper boys?” Was there something Crash hadn’t told him about Maxie? For instance, that she was a little bit batty?
Her laughter was full and deep-throated, surprising in such a small woman, and altogether enchanting. Luckily he wasn’t the kind of man who fell victim to enchantment.
“The boys are real, of course. The zebras are not. They’re painted on the wallpaper I sometimes use when I decorate nurseries for my clients.”
“I see.”
Joseph had completely forgotten that she was an interior designer. In her company, it was easy to forget a lot of things.
Her shop was called Magic Maxie’s, an appropriate name considering that she was given to flights of fancy even in such mundane surroundings as Randall’s Barber Shop and Emporium, the emporium part due to a rack of paperback books the owner sold at a discount and a shelf of very fine cigars he stocked on all major holidays.
Fortunately, Randall considered the Ides of March a major holiday. When Joseph got back to his office he would pass out cigars in honor of being a godfather.
That is, if he ever got back. At the rate Maxie was going, he might be there until next Wednesday, still trying to catch the drift of her conversation.
“My favorite is the border with the angels riding circus animals,” she said. “It’s so fanciful and marvelous.” She tipped her head and shot a brilliant smile in his direction. “I think every child should be exposed to something marvelous, don’t you?”
If it hadn’t been for her smile, he could readily have disagreed. Only a monster would contradict her and risk snuffing out that smile.
“I never gave it any thought, but yes, I suppose a marvel every now and then might be appropriate.”
He couldn’t think of a single marvelous thing he’d seen or done in the last fifteen years. Or maybe ever.
His brother, Crash, was the fanciful one. Joseph had always been focused and reliable, with his feet firmly planted on the ground... with one notable exception.
He pushed the memory to the back of his mind.
“Great,” Maxie said, whipping a small notepad out of her hot pink shoulder bag. What else did he expect? She dashed off a note. “I’m glad you agree.”
“Now wait a minute. I haven’t agreed to anything.” Her smile made him think of angels with crooked halos and bedraggled wings. “What did you write in that notebook?”
“A reminder to call Quitman this afternoon... about the zebras.”
He leaped from his chair as if she’d set off rockets under his coattail.
“I will not have zebras at my nephew’s christening party. Not only is it undignified, but it has all the makings of a disaster.”
He knew he was towering over her, but he didn’t care. He was not going to be persuaded to do something foolish simply because she looked tiny and fragile staring up at him with her big blue eyes. Maxie Corban was anything but fragile.
“Don’t blame me if you have a gap in your hair,” Randall said. “Party pooper.”
“Thank you, Randall.” Maxie beamed at him. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Joseph figured the best thing to do was ignore them, though ignoring Maxie was about as easy as ignoring a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. She marched up behind him as he shrugged into his navy blazer.
“How about a nice cuddly lamb or two? We could get those at Crash and B. J.’s farm.”
“No live animals. End of discussion.”
He headed for the door, deliberately trying to outdistance her. But she matched him stride for stride. She had long legs for a small woman, long, shapely legs. She put him in mind of that old Betty Grable pinup his granddaddy Beauregard had tacked in his barracks during World War II.
“How can it be the end of the discussion? We’ve agreed on absolutely nothing. We haven’t even begun.”
All activity in the shop ceased as Maxie walked by. Correct that, Joe thought. Maxie didn’t walk. She marched, she strutted, she paraded.
“I’m going to the office.”
He strode toward his car. Maxie had parked beside him, a fiery red Volkswagen Beetle with a broad white stripe and a dented top. Next to his big black Lincoln, her car looked like a peppermint somebody had stepped on.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
He could picture it, Maxie sweeping through his office, eyebrows lifting, tongues wagging. He glanced down at her. The top of her head barely came to his shoulder, and in the bright sun her hair blazed, poppies streaked with gold.
Joseph moderated his tone. “I’m going to be late for my ten o’clock appointment.”
“The christening party is only six weeks away.”
“That gives us plenty of time.”
“Not if future meetings go the way this one did. We didn’t agree on a single thing today.”
“That’s my fault. I should never have agreed to talk about it today. Randall’s barbershop is not an appropriate setting for a business meeting.”
“A business meeting?” Maxie looked as if she’d discovered a bug in her soup. “This is a party we’re talking about. For my nephew.”
“He’s mine too.”
“Well, you certainly don’t act like it. For all the enthusiasm you show, he might as well be one of those criminals you defend.”
“I’m a corporate attorney.”
“That’s what I said.” Her grin was as pert as her stance.
A man could get sidetracked by the way she looked standing in the sun, eyes shooting fire and every part of her body thrust forward and wired for battle. Fortunately, he was not that kind of man. His life was mapped out right down to the silver pattern he used to eat his spaghetti every Wednesday night. Maxie Corban was merely a necessary and temporary diversion.
“In spite of what you might think, I’m deeply concerned about this party and have every desire that it proceed as smoothly as possible,” He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes late. A quarter of a billable hour. “When I get to the office I’ll have my secretary call your secretary to set up an appointment.... You do have a secretary, don’t you?”
“I have Claude.”
She had as many different kinds of smiles as she did moods. The one she gave him made her as mysterious and intriguing as the Mona Lisa.
All the way to the office he wondered who Claude was... and what he did for Maxie Corban besides the typing.
o0o
“You mean he nixed every idea you presented?” Claude pressed his hands to his cheeks in horror.
“Everything,” Maxie said.
“Well, dear, I hope you gave him a piece of your mind.”
“I don’t have any to spare, Claude.”
“Tsk, tsk. You are the most brilliant and talented person in Tupelo. With the possible exception of myself.”
Claude went to the kitchenette and made two cups of hot tea.
Maxie’s shop was in a small loft over an antiques shop on Main Street. Bright paintings and prints covered the walls, a sectional sofa upholstered in vivid pink faced the wide sweep of French windows, and a large oak drafting table strewn with colorful fabric swatches divided the main workroom from the kitchenette.
Claude handed her a cup of tea. “I put two lumps of sugar in yours. You need the extra energy after dealing with that lump.”
Claude talked as if he were onstage, punctuating his speech with dramatic gestures and emphatic enunciation.
“He’s not a lump.”
“Well, darling, he’s certainly not Mr. Perfect.”
Maxie was not above dramatics herself. Heaving a sigh worthy of the divas of the silver screen, she sank onto the sofa, holding her tea carefully between cupped hands.
“Once upon a time I thought so.” She sighed once more. “Did I ever tell you about the first time we met?”
“It’s been a while. Refresh me on the details, darling.”
“It was when B. J. decided to have a baby...” she began.
It had been nine months, almost to the day, Maxie remembered. She had gone to a banquet for Tupelo’s elite to help her sister find the perfect father, and there he was, Joseph Patrick Beauregard, Mr. Right. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Dreamboat.
B. J. didn’t think so, of course. She only had eyes for his brother, but Maxie was smitten, snowed, dazzled, enchanted. Until...
“There we were,” she said, concluding her story, “Mr. Dreamboat and I, sitting side by side in the moonlight at B. J.’s first social gathering after her marriage, not saying a word to each other for two solid hours.”
“Not a single word?” Claude clapped his hands over his cheeks, aghast for the hundredth time. Maxie took comfort in the familiar.
“Well, I tried at first, but I gave up after he turned two shades of pale when I introduced the subject of the mating habits of the praying mantis... you know, the female eats the male after they mate. Crash and B. J. thought it was funny, but Joseph didn’t even crack a smile.”
Not only that, but she’d later overheard him in the foyer telling Crash his sister-in-law was highly inappropriate.
Inappropriate for what, she’d like to know. But she would never ask. Not in a million years.
Especially after what had happened that night in B. J.’s guest bedroom.
“And that’s it?” Claude leaned forward, his teacup delicately balanced on his knees. “He’s avoided you because of praying mantises?”
“I’ve avoided him.”
There were some things she couldn’t tell even her best friend.
“Of course, darling. That’s the way it ought to be.”
Maxie jumped up and paced the loft, then stood at the window. Across the street Kathy pulled up the shades in the art gallery, readying the historic bank building for the small flurry of art lovers who would come inside on their lunch hours.
Behind her the phone rang.
“Hello,” Claude said. Then, “Just a minute, I’ll see if she’s in.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “Are you in?”
“Who is it?”
“Joseph Patrick Beauregard.”
Chills went all over Maxie. “Not his secretary?”
“The man himself.”
“Tell him... I’m not in.”
“She’s not in. Can I take a message?”
Maxie tensed, waiting. Only after she heard the click of the receiver did she relax.
“He wants to see you after-hours tomorrow, to discuss the baby’s party.”
“What time?”
“Around six. I told him I’d check with you and let him know.”
She felt as if she were on a carousel, giddy and dizzy, spinning round and round with no way off.
“Call him back in about an hour and say...”
What? Maxie Corban doesn’t want to see you because she’s a coward? Because she can’t forget a hot summer night nearly a year ago?
“... say I’ll be there.”
“Maxie, are you all right, dear? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I have, practically.”
“It’s that man, isn’t it? Good grief, I wouldn’t care a flitter what he thought about my conversational skills.”
“That’s not all there is to it, Claude.”
“I knew it.” Claude sat down and patted the sofa cushion beside him. “Tell me all about it. You know you can trust me with your deepest, darkest secret.”
Maxie kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her.
“The truth is, he still rings my chimes.”
“Then I wouldn’t let something as silly as praying mantises stop me from a little ting-a-ling.”
“It’s not that. It’s B. J.”
“Your sister? I knew she was straitlaced, but I didn’t know she was a prude.”
“It’s nothing she’s said or done, it’s me. You know my track record with men. Every man I get involved with ends up in a wilderness somewhere contemplating his navel. My sister loves her brother-in-law. She’d die if I was the cause of his ruination. Somebody else might ruin Joseph Patrick Beauregard, but it won’t be me.”
“Do you want my advice, or do you want me just to listen?”
“Just listen.”
“That’s what I thought.” Claude sipped his tea. “It’s hard, though. I do love meddling in other people’s affairs. Especially yours. They’re so exciting.”
Claude could always make her laugh. She guessed that was one of the reasons they were such good friends.
“Can you come by the house tonight? I’m going to watch I Love Lucy reruns and eat tons of popcorn with butter.”
“Anything for Magic Maxie.”
“Thanks, Claude. If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”
“There is one thing.”
“Name it.”
“Take my advice. This is not about you-know-who, it’s about the christening party. Just plan the thing yourself and let that odious man stew in his own juices.”
“I’m tempted.”
“Then why don’t you do it?”
“I can’t. B. J. named both of us as godparents. My sister is counting on me.”