"I started with his hair and his wardrobe," Jennifer told her friend as they stood in the garage filling the buckets she'd found in his broom closet. "Except he bit my head off when I asked him to wear khakis."
Carla looked up from the bucket she was filling. "What's wrong with his hair? I think it looks hot."
"Thanks. I cut it this morning."
Carla pursed her lips in a silent whistle. "Well, don't worry about the jeans thing. That man looks sexy in jeans. I mean, they show off his butt." She wiggled her own butt to show what she meant. "Khakis remind me of fraternity guys that want to get you drunk."
Jennifer shook her head. "You don't move up in the business world wearing jeans and funky T-shirts." She giggled. "It'll be a while before I can get him into a suit."
"Now that would be a crime," Carla agreed. "Although there's something sexy about a man in a crisp white shirt. Hum."
"After doing a bit of a makeover for him, I'll find out when he can take his G.E.D. and look into college," Jennifer explained. Despite Carla's attitude, she took this seriously.
"You plan on being around that long?"
For a moment, that question stopped Jennifer short. No matter how smart Rick was, he couldn't finish college in a couple of weeks. Did she really intend to hang around while he worked his way toward a degree? Her biological clock was ticking, after all. Not that she couldn't wait but... She clamped her eyes shut so hard the inside of her brain rattled. She couldn't let herself start thinking that way. Her cats were all the children she needed. "I'll get him started on the right path, then turn it over to him."
"You'll just walk away?" Carla handed the two soap-filled buckets to Jennifer and picked up the hose she'd brought.
"I do it all the time with my cats. I mean, I like to visit them after I find them foster parents, but--"
"Spare me. A man is not a cat."
"Well I know that. It's just...." Jennifer ran out of steam. She wasn't sure what it just was. Her plans seemed so clear when she looked at the here and now. It was only when she let her plans stretch out into the future that she got into trouble. "I'll hang around for a while, that's all. Anyway, let's go."
They'd almost made it out of the garage when Carla spotted Rick. "Look at that car."
"Hum?" Jennifer followed Carla's gesture. An attractive, jeans-clad butt was on perfect display as Rick bent over the engine of a polished, chrome-encased, beautifully maintained car from what had to be the fifties. To her mind, the car came a distant second to that beautiful butt. "Oh, my."
Carla raised her voice. "Hey Rick. What the heck is that?"
Rick looked up from the engine. A black grease smudge marred his forehead directly above the black eye she'd gouged with the frozen fish. Jennifer had to fight back the urge to run up to him and wipe it off.
"It's a fifty-three De Soto," Rick explained. "Back then, a car was still a work of art."
This one was, anyway. Whoever owned it obviously cared for it with an attention to detail that Rick's truck never experienced. The paintwork gleamed black and green. Carla could have done her makeup in the chrome.
Drawn as if by a magnet, Jennifer stepped up to the vehicle and peered inside. The leather upholstery looked soft and uncracked.
"It's beautiful."
"I'm glad you like it."
His obvious pride opened a window to his personality. Rick cared about beauty.
She fought back a small grin. She'd make a cat-lover out of him yet. Anyone who understands aesthetics was a sucker for felines.
"Is it yours?" Trust Carla to stick her foot in it.
"Of course it isn't his," Jennifer explained. "Rick works on cars. Who does it belong to, Rick. Some rich guy?"
He quirked his head to the side. "Definitely some rich guy. Made his money on the Internet, I think."
"Is he single?" Carla might have a reputation for beating around the bush. When it came to men, she had an aim like a sharpshooter.
"I believe so."
Jennifer grasped her friend's arm and dragged her out of the garage sloshing water from the buckets. "Stay away from the Internet, Carla. My father made millions with his day-trading too. It isn't hard. All you have to do is lose even more millions. That's why he's broke now."
"You wouldn't guess it from his car," Rick called after them, "but the guy is a real slob. Better stay away from him."
Carla tugged herself free from Jennifer's grasp and turned back to Rick. "If slobbiness scared women away, the human race would have died out by now."
"Carla!"
Carla gave her a dreamy smile. "I'd surely love to ride around in a car like that."
Jennifer pulled on Carla's arm again. "Help me with Rick' truck."
"You know what I think?" Carla asked when they'd exited the garage.
Jennifer shook her head and continued to drag her out sloshing water from her filled pails. "I'm sure you'll tell me."
"I think Rick owns that car."
Jennifer shook her head. "He just said it belongs to some rich guy."
"Huh-uh. You said it belongs to a rich guy. He just agreed."
"Same difference."
Carla grinned. "Maybe. Maybe not."
Jennifer shrugged. "You really do live in a fantasy world. If Rick owned that El Sozza, you think he'd drive this?" She kicked the old truck's tire.
"De Soto."
"Whatever."
Carla plumped down the two buckets of soapy water and stared at the ancient Ford truck. "Yuck. You're right. Nobody would own that beauty and drive this beast."
Jennifer screwed the hose into the faucet on the outside of the old fire house and turned on the water. "Keep the hose untangled, will you?"
Underneath the dirt, dust, and archeological layers of bird poop, the truck seemed in surprisingly good shape. Even some of what she'd been certain was rust turned out to be mud.
Jennifer turned to her friend. "This is going to work."
Carla jumped out of the way of the spray of water. "Careful."
"Sorry." Jennifer crimped back the hose to cut off the flow of water. "Once we get it washed and waxed, maybe this old heap will pass for a classic. At least it won't look like the cheapest wheels in Dallas."
Carla walked to the faucet and turned off the hose. She turned back toward Jennifer slowly and reached into one of the buckets for a soapy sponge. "Girlfriend, I only have one question."
"That'll be the day."
"I'm serious. Have you thought why this truck is so important to you?"
"You aren't going to analyze me, are you?"
Carla laughed. "I got my Masters in psychology. I'm supposed to analyze you."
"You're supposed to analyze strangers or maybe yourself. You know, real kooks."
Using the windup she'd perfected in intramural softball, Carla swung the sponge around twice and heaved it at Jennifer. The soapy water splashed off Jennifer's front.
"So neither of us is perfect," Carla told her as she reached for the second sponge. "I analyze everyone and look for guys. You spend your life rescuing cats and running from guys. So let's forget about it and see what happens when we really scrub this truck."
Jennifer nodded. "Sure. Just one thing first."
She accidentally-on-purpose wrung the still-wet sponge over Carla's head.
***
Rick realized he hadn't heard the women giggling for a long time now. He packed the sockets back in his tool case and slammed the hood of the old crate. A few more weeks of work and the thing would be as good as new.
For the past month, he'd been telling himself how much he anticipated taking his De Soto for a spin around town. The closer he got, though, the more he realized that he'd been using the car to avoid thinking about his future. Without it, he'd either have to find something else to do or admit he was thrashing.
He pressed the thought out of his mind. He had at least a few more weeks to spend on the car.
"Hey, Manuel. Is Jennifer still out there?" The man was coming back from another cigarette break. If Jennifer hung around outside for much longer, Manuel was going to end up with very bad lungs.
Manuel stuttered for a moment, let his hand begin to make the classic hour-glass sign, then stopped. "Oh, yes." His voice sounded wistful. "I saw her friend too."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Mean? Nothing. I just talk. My wife kills me if I do more than talk. Still, a man can look."
Rick decided not to throw his socket wrench at Manuel. He couldn't resist following Manuel's advice and taking a look, though.
The hot sun beat down on him as he strode from his garage. The spray of water that caught him in the chest felt surprisingly good.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Rick. I didn't see you coming." Carla came cooing at him.
"What on earth are you guys up to?"
Carla batted her eyelashes. "Guys? You're the only guy here."
That much was obvious. Both women had tied their T-shirts high on their midriffs and wore short shorts that showed curvy derrieres cute enough to stop traffic. Worse, it was obvious that he wasn't the first person Carla had sprayed with the hose. Wetness plastered Jennifer's T-shirt to her chest.
He took a deep breath. "What have you done to my truck?"
"What does it look like?" Jennifer had rolled up her T-shirt sleeves and blue smudges of car wax smeared her arms all the way to her shoulders.
"It looks like you guys," he stopped at Carla's frown, "I mean girls--"
That warranted another spray from Carla's hose.
He ducked, but even the reflexes honed on Tai Kwon Do didn't let him avoid the spray. "Women," he finally sputtered. "Why are you women washing my truck? It'll just get dirty again."
"That's a lot like saying why bother eating because you'll just get hungry again?" Jennifer lectured. She didn't look at him, though. Instead she inspected a scratch in the truck's bed. "Waxing isn't going to help with this. Do you think you could get one of those fiberglass bed liners people get to protect their trucks?"
The idea of treating a classic truck like that made him shudder. "No."
Jennifer's face fell. "It would look better," she argued.
"It's a truck," he reminded her. "It's not supposed to be beautiful."
"Are you sure you're from Texas?"
Considering the fancy trucks gracing Dallas's freeways, she had a point. "Most of the trucks in this town have never seen a dirt road, much less hauled anything dirtier than golf clubs. Don't confuse my work truck with those sissy SUVs"
Jennifer glared at him. "I was only trying to--"
"That said, I appreciate the wash." Rick didn't need his Tae Kwon Do training to know when to retreat. "It's been a rough couple of weeks on the old girl."
"I'd say it's been a couple of decades from all the dirt we washed off," Jennifer told him.
"I said I was grateful. What do you say I take you to Farley's Corner for ice cream. My treat, of course. It'll give us a chance to show her off? Before the grackles and pigeons make a mess of her again."
"You can bribe me with desert any time," Carla told him.
A few minutes later, Rick and Jennifer stood in his living room waiting for Carla to go through whatever steps women go through to get ready. "Can I ask why you decided to wash my truck?" he asked.
"Do I have to have a reason?"
Jennifer looked defensive. Rick also noticed that she had avoided answering the question.
"You might--"
The little black and white kitten chose that moment to attack his ankle and cut off his follow-up.
Jennifer made a cooing noise and tugged the cat into her arms, cuddling it against her breasts. "Such a darling little thing," she murmured. "Don't you go bothering Uncle Rick."
Rick wasn't quite sure how to react to becoming an honorary uncle. It was better, he thought, than being a father. He didn't think he was ready for the leap to parenting a herd of cats.
On the other hand, if Jennifer was the mom and he was the uncle, did that mean she had only sisterly feelings for him? Playing house with Jennifer just might have its benefits.
Carla finally emerged and Rick led the way to his newly clean truck. He opened the passenger door, then stood there holding it like a valet while Jennifer and Carla played out a little skit.
First Carla took a step toward the door, then Jennifer. Then both stood back and looked at the other. Finally Jennifer gave Carla a long glance and slid in. Carla clambered in after.
The reason for their indecision was obvious. It was going to be, Rick realized, a tight squeeze.
He closed the door behind Carla, walked around to the driver's side and climbed in.
He sat as carefully as he could, but the full length of his body came into direct contact with Jennifer's. Every nerve went onto full alert. Her heat radiated through the fabric of his jeans and T-shirt sparking a fire he knew all the ice cream in Farley's Corner would fall short of dousing.
It was just as well Carla was there as a chaperon. Before this weekend, he'd always prided himself on his control--when it came to women, business, or anything else. Jennifer changed the rules. Whenever he touched her, however innocently, his hormones went into overdrive and his common sense went out the window.
He grimaced, stuck the key in the ignition, and grinded the transmission into first.
Farley's Corner was about a mile from his home and he covered the distance in less than four minutes. He pulled the truck to a stop, still uncertain whether he wanted the painful pleasure of near full-body contact between himself and Jennifer to end at once, or to continue indefinitely.
"Have you ever been to Farley's before?" Rick asked Carla as they entered the ice cream shop's air-conditioned interior.
"Nope. I've heard it's great, but I've always been a little hesitant to wander into Oak Cliff. You hear such bad stuff in the news."
"It's not all drive-by shootings and drug dealers," Rick said as they got in line behind a half-dozen people.
***
Step four, Jennifer made a mental note. Get Rick into a part of town where a bank vice president might live. Maybe Plano.
She tore her mind back to the present. At least she could think now. Rick probably suspected she'd been struck dumb for all she'd said during their ride over.
"I hear Farley's rum-raisin is especially good," she contributed, trying to pick up on the conversation. She would think about implementing Step Four later. Once she got Rick past Step One. Maybe by then he would have adopted her twelve-step improvement plan as his own.
"Oh, I love rum-raisin," Carla gushed.
Rick made a face.
"What's wrong with rum-raisin?" Jennifer asked.
"According to us purists, the only flavors worth bothering with are chocolate and vanilla." He paused for a moment, then continued. "I take it you haven't eaten here either."
She looked around at all the couples enjoying both ice cream and each other. A place like this made her question her decision to avoid men. "I try to watch what I eat," she said, not wanting to admit she'd done so little exploring in the neighborhood he seemed to love.
"Makes less mess that way," Rick agreed.
"That's not--"
Carla laughed, and Rick joined her. Jennifer felt an unreasonable stab of jealousy. Just because Rick and her friend shared the same lame sense of humor? Ridiculous.
Jennifer cleared her throat. "Let's figure out what we want to order before we lose our place in line."
"If you really want Rum-Raisin, I promise I won't tell anyone," Rick said in a stage whisper.
"Nobody else would mind," Jennifer shot back.
"It's my best offer."
Carla giggled at the interchange. Obviously the woman was getting a charge watching the friction between herself and Rick. At least Jennifer hoped it was friction. Certainly the sensation of his body against hers in the truck had created enough heat to start a fire. Why hadn't she changed into something less revealing when she'd had the chance?
Carla caved in to Rick's pressure and ordered a chocolate sundae with vanilla ice cream. Rick ordered a small bowl of chocolate. His ice cream was so rich and dark it looked more like fudge than anything else.
Only her need to resist Rick's narrow-minded definition of ice cream selection let her resist the lure of chocolate. She ordered a rum-raisin cone. They all trooped to a wrought iron table and sat to enjoy the treat.
"Omygod, this is so good." Carla made enjoyment noises that would have been more appropriate in a bedroom than in a crowded restaurant.
Jennifer licked her cone carefully, letting her tongue travel up from the cake cone, then pulling the sharp tip between her lips and savoring the taste. After Rick's joke about watching what she ate, it would be poetic injustice to end up with ice cream all over her front.
Rick froze, his spoon suspended halfway between the bowl and his mouth.
Jennifer looked up from her cone. "What?"
"Uh, nothing."
She shook her head, then took another lick.
Rick seemed unable to tear his eyes away from her cone.
"If you want one, I'll buy one for you," she offered. Surely she could find two dollars somewhere in her purse.
"Oh, no. I'm happy with what I have."
She stared at her cone for a moment, moved it back toward her mouth, then stopped as she belatedly realized what was bothering Rick. Although she didn't have a great deal of personal experience, she had read widely. The way she was eating her cone must be reminding Rick of some kinky experience.
Step Five, she made a mental note. Keep Rick away from low-class women who wear tattoos and who distract him with their tacky willingness to yield to a man's lowest depravity.
Jennifer took a hard bite on the sharp point her lips had left in the top of the ice cream cone and closed her eyes to enjoy the sensation of cool from the ice mixing with the fire from her body.
Then she opened her eyes and mentally erased step five. It might be good for Rick, but she had to be honest and admit she'd invented step five for herself, not him. Time to erase, back up, and come up with something better.