Stephanie swore as she crushed this latest rejection letter in her hand. Out of six simultaneous submissions, she’d received in return six letters saying “Thanks, but no thanks” to her story on city bartenders. It was time to face the fact: Without any writing income, she was going to have to work full-time with Felicia.
“Now what?” she murmured, hearing a knock on her door. Can’t my life fall apart without an audience? “It’s open.”
“Hi. Have you seen Bea?” Gabrielle asked.
“No, but I haven’t been looking,” Stephanie barked.
“Are you okay?”
“Read this,” Stephanie said, thrusting the crumpled sheet in Gabrielle’s face. “If this were the third kiss-off letter you’d received this week, would you be okay?”
Gabrielle glanced at the letter. By all appearances, she looked sincerely interested as she perused the brief communication. Inside she was shaking.
“What’s wrong with these stupid editors?” Stephanie raged. “Don’t they know insightful prose when they see it? Obviously not, judging from these fill-in-the-blank form letters they send out. They don’t even have the imagination to reject me with style. Whose ass do I have to kiss to get something published?”
“No wonder you’re upset,” Gabrielle said, mentally thanking Stephanie for supplying her with the necessary clues to continue this conversation. “You really love to write, don’t you?”
“Have you ever wanted something so bad that it consumed your entire life? No matter how hard you tried to forget about it and let it go, it just kept coming back—strong as ever.”
Every time I look at a book or a magazine, a street sign, or the label on a can of food. Each time I think, This is it. This will be the day when all these letters come together and make sense. But they never do. “I always dreamed about being a model.”
“I’ve wanted to be a famous writer since the first time I picked up a pen. I published my first story when I was eight years old. I wrote about my dog, Brewski, and the Sunday News published it. The first time I saw my words in print, I was hooked. I knew right then I wanted to be a writer.
“Your parents must have been very proud.”
“Oh, yeah. They were real proud, all right,” Stephanie remembered bitterly. “My dad never got around to reading my story. Said he would, but then a fight came on, and that was that. And my stepmother was so proud, she used my story to wrap the garbage.”
Gabrielle could see that Stephanie’s memories were painful. “You want to go to the movies with Beatrice and me?” she asked.
“Can’t. Jack will be here soon. I’m cooking dinner for him. Which reminds me, we’re almost out of soy sauce and it’s your turn to do the household shopping tomorrow.”
“Oh, come on, Stephanie, trade with me. I’ll do the laundry again,” Gabrielle pleaded.
“Forget it. I’m not schlepping around the grocery store while you sit back with a book waiting for the spin cycle to finish. Why is it such a big deal?”
“I just hate grocery-shopping,” Gabrielle said, not willing to reveal the difficulty shopping presented her. Buying for herself was easy because she’d learned to recognize the labels and logos of her favorite foods, and her list rarely varied. Gabrielle was a loyal brand shopper. Since she couldn’t read the labels, generic store brands were out as far as she was concerned, even though years buying name brands had cost her hundreds of dollars.
Shopping for others presented a whole myriad of problems. Many items, like pasta or bread, she could pick out through recognition, but choosing others was much more complicated. Often the pictures on labels helped, but sometimes—say, trying to distinguish Campbell’s minestrone soup from Manhattan clam chowder, or Minute Maid’s tangerine-orange from its original orange juice—the task was much more difficult.
“Sorry, but I’m not food-shopping three weeks in a row. Besides, we only need a few things, like more toilet paper. And don’t get that Marcel brand again. It’s like using sandpaper.”
“I grabbed it by mistake.” Gabrielle swallowed back the embarrassment of another time when she’d mistakenly brought home a bottle of Lestoil cleaner thinking that it was olive oil because of it’s similar color and container.
“Yeah, and you got the wrong juice, too. I like cranapple not cranraspberry. In fact, here,” Stephanie said, grabbing a sheet of memo paper and handing it and a pencil to Gabrielle. “Make a list.”
“I don’t need a list. I’ll remember.”
“Who was it that forgot the coffee and flour the last time? Write it down.”
Gabrielle accepted the pencil and paper, unwilling to argue and raise any suspicions. While Stephanie walked around rattling off the names of various sundries and foodstuffs, Gabrielle recorded them by using symbols and letters to represent each item. For bread she quickly sketched a rectangular loaf, then drew an egg, two rectangles with a B on top to represent butter, and a steaming cup of coffee. The list grew without problem until Stephanie stumped Gabrielle by mentioning cumin.
“What’s wrong?” Stephanie demanded to know, noticing she’d stopped writing.
“Cumin?”
“It’s a spice. For Mexican dishes.”
“How do you spell that?”
“I don’t know. C-U-M-I-N. Now I forgot what else we need. Let me see your list.” Before Gabrielle could protest, Stephanie had grabbed the paper from her. “What the hell is this?”
“I just felt a little … I don’t know—creative,” Gabrielle explained with a nervous laugh. “You as a writer should understand that.”
“Yeah, I understand creativity, but if your lists always look like this, I understand why you never get the shopping right. I have to go get dinner ready.”
“Have fun tonight,” Gabrielle said, taking the shopping list back.
“I will. With Jack, I always do.”
“Damn it!” Stephanie screamed as she dropped the hot lid and rushed to the sink to cool her burning skin. Running the cold water on her hand, she surveyed the mess surrounding her. Never mind that the kitchen looked as if the food fight of the century had just taken place in it. It was the withered fruits of her labor that depressed her. The rice was hard and undercooked, the vegetables oversteamed and mushy, and instead of tender nuggets of juicy poultry, petrified chicken rocks sat at the bottom of her new wok. Well, she told herself, dinner is ruined and Jack is due in forty-five minutes. Now what?
Why had she promised him a home-cooked Chinese dinner, particularly when she could barely scramble eggs? Why? Because she wanted to impress Jack. She’d spent an untold amount of time these past three months finding out what he liked and then learning to do it. She was determined to transform herself into his perfect woman and convince Jack that he’d made the ideal love connection.
What to do? What to do? she thought as she drained her wineglass. Bea was at the movies with Gabrielle. She’d have to figure this out on her own. Voilà! What a clever girl you are, Stephanie congratulated herself. She’d call the Szechuan Palace and order dinner. It was so easy. She could throw the food into that stupid wok in an attempt to look authentic and serve it up with a smile. Just to be on the safe side, Stephanie put a third bottle of wine in the refrigerator to chill. Once she got Jack’s taste buds good and drunk, he’d never be the wiser.
He was already half an hour late, but Jack decided to get out of the cab three blocks from Stephanie’s place. The walk would do him good. He had to cool down. This afternoon with Nicole had been particularly volatile—as evidenced by the scratches on his face and wrists. Their relationship was finally over. Her incredible face and impressive body had ceased to compensate for the fact that she was just too demanding. So different from Stephanie, who couldn’t seem to do enough for him.
Every time he turned around, Stephanie was making some sort of effort to please him. Like tonight’s invitation—a note attached to a tin of supposedly homemade cookies. He’d bet a hundred bucks that they were from Mrs. Fields’s kitchen, not Stephanie’s. But what the hell. It was vintage Stephanie—indiscretions and half-truths, from those fake green eyes to her bottled red hair. She was creative and inventive and she lied like the proverbial rug, but she was a harmless diversion after crazy Nicole. Besides, he didn’t want to marry her. He wanted to sleep with her. Bar none, Stephanie Bancroft was the best fuck he’d come across in a very long time.
Not only was Stephanie great in bed, she was a cheap date. Jack knew he was using her, but she was so willing to be used. Stephanie was like an amusement park where the rides were free and the lines were short. Who wouldn’t take advantage? He also knew that the ride would have to come to an end soon. Lately Stephanie had become increasingly possessive and clingy, two qualities he found deadly unattractive.
When it came to women, Jack loved what every red-blooded male with an ego and an ounce of confidence loved—a challenge. Throw in a little friendly competition, and Jack was at his best. Sure, you won some, you lost some. But in the big scheme of things—as for a greyhound at the racetrack—the real fun was in the pursuit. For Jack, the things that followed—love, commitment, marriage—could never compete with the thrill of the chase.
Jack Hollis had no intention of being tied down to one woman. He was a good-looking heterosexual male who made enough money with his business to live a comfortable life. Why throw all that away for the drudgery of monogamy? He’d settle down when he was ready to have kids—maybe in another ten or twelve years. Maybe.
Stephanie watched from the parlor window as Jack climbed the stairs leading to the front door. The sight of his well-built torso caused her to bite her lip in anticipation. No matter how many times she’d seen it, naked or otherwise, Jack’s body never failed to make her catch her breath.
“Hi,” she purred, looking up at him, her eyes full of lusty promise. She pressed her body to his in a welcoming hug. Right away he knew that before any food passed his lips he had a more urgent appetite to satisfy.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, kissing her long and hard.
Stephanie felt Jack’s erection through his jeans. His kiss became more urgent as his lips devoured hers and his tongue tickled the inside of her mouth. Her breath became short as she clung to him both with her arms and mouth. She felt his fingers swiftly undo the buttons on her shirt and peel it away, dropping it to the floor. Jack’s mouth began a seductive journey down her neck and across her shoulders, until his lips came to rest on her waiting nipples. He nibbled them with practiced expertise until Stephanie heard a lazy groan escape her lips. Hearing her excitement, Jack lingered there, rolling her erect nipples gently between his teeth. Stephanie continued to moan, arching her back and pressing herself against him.
Suddenly Jack pushed her against the foyer wall. He pulled up her skirt, only to find the treasure he sought unobstructed by panties. He slid his hand between her legs, coaxing apart the lips of her moist vagina with his finger. He began massaging her, teasing her into madness. Jack looked directly into Stephanie’s eyes and found them heavy with desire. “I want to fuck you now,” he whispered urgently in her ear. Stephanie could only smile in agreement, her entire being locked in his gaze as he dropped his pants.
Taking him into her hands, she guided Jack into her waiting body. Effortlessly, he lifted her off the floor, and Stephanie wrapped her legs around his hips. Together they rocked vigorously, his hands on her behind, their lips locked in a hungry kiss. She came almost immediately, feeling momentarily suspended in a pool of delightful sensations. Finally Jack’s body shuddered, and he held Stephanie so tightly against his hard sweating body that she could hardly breathe.
As Jack withdrew from her, he could feel his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. “That was one hell of an appetizer.” He smiled, pulling up his pants.
“Just wait till you see what I’ve cooked up for dessert.”