Hysterical Blondeness (7 page)

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Shakespeare

Patricia caught her reflection in
the mirror behind the bar and jumped. Who was she? Well, whoever she was, she was out to dinner with Brett Nordquist, swigging down Sazeracs two at a time. They were so small and fruity and delicious. She gazed over at Brett through a haze of Sazerac sweetness. Bring on the free-range chicken, mister, she thought, I need to soak up some rum.

That reminded her of the old Andrews Sisters
song which she began to hum under her breath “Rum and Coca-cola.”

“Hey, I know that song.” Brett was holding his liquor better than she was. “My grandmother used to sing it.”

“Mushical family?” That didn’t come out quite right, but it was close.

“Not really, just crazy Grandma and her sisters. They used to make us all have a talent show for the Thanksgiving holiday reunions. I think that was just so they could do their Andrews Sisters imitation, because the rest of us were pathetic. I played “Louie Louie” on the trumpet every year until I wasn’t in band anymore. Then I hid.”

Patricia laughed. “Your family is just as strange as the rest of us.” That also didn’t come out right, but also close.

“Everyone thinks just because we’re rich we have a perfect life.”

“
Pffftt.
I should have this problem.” Patricia realized she’d made a
pfftt
sound and spit on Brett. Also she sounded a whole lot like Pinky and her Brooklynese. Or was it Paul’s Bronx accent? It was also possible she’d just been a little rude.

Brett wiped his eye and smiled. “You don’t drink very often, do you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Nope. But it’s sort of fun, isn’t it?”

“Speaking as one who overindulged his way through college and hasn’t stopped yet, yes.”

“So, Brett, have you seen any movies later?”

“Lately, I think you mean. Why, yes, Miss Stillwell, I have.” Brett looked amused. “I saw the remake of
War of the Worlds
. Great special effects.”

“I’m into remakes. I like to go back and watch the old ones first. Have you ever seen the
Thin Man
movies?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Myrna Loy is brilliant. Not that William Powell is any slouch, but she is the perfect foil.”

Free-range chicken appeared before her, thank God. Patricia knew she was babbling. What should she say to Brett? How did a girl talk to a man and get him to fall madly in love with her?

She politely waited until Brett’s grilled salmon was in front of him and proceeded to dive into her chicken. It had a mushroom risotto side dish. Now, it wasn’t as good as Paulie’s risotto, but it was damn good. Paulie only made risotto on special occasions, since it was so tedious.
Both she and Pinky had been put on stirring duty many times.

“This is delicious. Do you like to cook, Brett?”

“No. We have a cook. He’s great.”

Oooh, a cook. They had a cook. She had a cook, too, but it was Paul.

“I hear you. My housemate Paul does all the cooking.”

“You live with Paul Costello?

“And a girl, too.”

“Any funny business going on there?”

“No.”

“So you and your girlfriend live with this guy, and no one has, like, snuck into anyone’s room at night?”

“God, no!” Patricia let out a hearty laugh. “We’re all just friends and he lives upstairs and we live downstairs, except for meals, because he is the best cook. He’s taught us all about Italian food. His family is New York Italian, but they moved here about six years ago. You know Paul? He’s the assistant handbag buyer.”

“The guy who grabbed you out of the elevator today. Sure, I know all the buyers.”

“Hey, he speaks Italian, and they needed someone to go with Henri to the shows in Milan and all that. So he took the job. He’s really talented in many ways. He has a degree in English, did you know that? He’s actually a writer. And by the way, back in New York being a handbag buyer is a perfectly respectable job that doesn’t reflect on your sexual preference one way or the other. As Paul says, leather is a guy thing.”

Brett stared at her blankly, then took a bite of salmon. “Sounds like a great guy,” he said.

Okay, Patricia had just violated some date rule for sure. She stared at her beet salad and tried to figure out how to save the conversation. Sheesh, going on about Paul like that probably wasn’t her wisest move.

“So,” she asked, “what do you do for fun, Paul?”

“Brett,” he corrected her with a smirk.

She died, then smacked herself on the forehead. “Brett, I’m sorry. Too much rum.”

“I ski, I play tennis, I chase women,”

“You devil,” Patricia said. She tried to be flirty. “What else?”

“Okay, I like to travel. My father and I just got
back from a trip to Japan. Is there something in your eye again?”

She dabbed her napkin to her eye. Damned contacts. This time she didn’t get garlic in there, so things cleared up quickly. “No, I’m fine. New contacts. Steamy chicken. How was Japan?”

“Everyone was very short.”

An entire country summed up in one phrase. Apparently Brett was a man of few words. Patricia gazed upon Brett, the man of her dreams. She imagined the two of them in their wingback chairs in front of a roaring fire in the ol’ Nordquist mansion. She’d be reading a Jean-Paul Sartre novel. And Brett, he’d be snort-laughing over the newspaper funnies. It was beautiful. She giggled.

She needed to be better at this. She needed to get in touch with her inner blonde.

“So, Brett, that must be very exciting, traveling the world.”

“I do like to get away from the store as much as possible. I used to be the road representative. I liked that so much better than managing the store, but Dad said I should learn from the ground up if I’m going to take over the company someday.”

Patricia made mental notes about Brett’s future career with Daddy Nordquist. Brett must be the chosen son. She knew there was a younger brother in there somewhere. “Road representative? What’s that?” she asked.

“I traveled the West Coast and visited all the stores as the family representative. It was great when we were opening a new one. I’d get to stay in that town for a month or so. It was exciting to watch a new store go up. Dad would come along on those trips, but he’d be busy with the details and I’d be having a great time. Just great.”

Patricia imagined Brett partying with the local girls in his fancy hotel. How old was he now?

“How old are you now, Brett?”

“Twenty-nine. The old three-oh is looming. That’s why Dad says I should learn the grind. You know, settle down.”

“Get married?”

“That’s the idea.” Brett looked up at her as if he’d let a secret slip. “In theory anyhow. Generally, you know, settle down, quit partying, and get to work.”

“Your life is so interesting, Brett.” She batted her eyes at him. That made the left one water again. Note to self: No eye-batting. She dabbed.

“Thanks.” He sat back and drank his white wine. Wine he’d ordered, sniffed, tasted, and all that jazz. Paulie could do that, too, but he usually just picked a good bottle and swigged it down with her and Pinky. Her life was interesting, too. Mostly because she had Paul and Pinky in it.

“You’re very pretty. I can’t believe I didn’t notice you before.”

“You’ve been busy with Lizbeth.” Oops, a little more daring than she had planned on. But she listened for his reply.

“Damn. That woman is so stubborn. I can’t figure women out sometimes.” He lounged in his chair, sipping wine, but seemed slightly agitated at the same time.

“We’re really simple creatures with simple needs. I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you two.” She smiled coyly.

Brett pulled at his collar nervously, even though he’d loosened the tie and left it half cocked since his third Sazerac. “She just wanted more than I could give.”

The waiter came and whisked away their dinners. Dessert and coffee were ordered, even though Patricia knew she was living on the edge. Eating flan with a caramel drizzle and
taking experimental diet drugs didn’t go hand in hand. Also, hadn’t she made some vow to try and keep her diet reasonable? Dr. Bender wouldn’t approve.

As to Lizbeth and Brett, obviously, if she’d been the right woman, Brett wouldn’t have had any problem making a commitment to her. Patricia tugged at the waist of her red cashmere sweater, a vintage number from Pinky’s collection with elbow-length sleeves and a V-neck that showed off her cleavage.

She reached in her beautiful red Bottega Veneta woven leather handbag—last season, but still fabulous, thank you, Paulie—and pulled out her vintage black and gold compact. She checked her face and it was still intact, red lips and all. This stuff really did stay on forever.

God, she was being so girly. But the reapplication of her lipstick and the sexiness of that would have to wait until after flan. After flan. She giggled again. Sounded like some kind of postsexual moment.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself, that’s good.”

“I am. I’m having a very pleasant evening, Brett. Thank you for taking me out on the town.”

“Would you like to go dancing?”

Dancing was not something Patricia specialized in, except on rare occasions when she and Pinky got into a boogaloo frame of mind. She, frankly, sucked at it. But hey, she was a new woman tonight. She was wild, she was free, she was not herself. She felt like her old inhibitions were a fuzzy memory.

“I’d love to,” she blurted out in a spontaneous moment of blondeheadedness.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Pinky held the door open for her. Pinky had on her Nick & Nora flannel pajamas with garden gnomes. Her straight brown hair was a tangled mess of bed-head.

The pattern of Pinky’s pajamas made Patricia a little dizzy. She was damp from a drizzling rain and fairly drunk, and waved Pinky off. “Can’t find my key,” she mumbled.

“Good grief, girl, you changed purses and left it in the old one. Are you okay? Brett didn’t take advantage of your secret desire to be his wife, did he?”

“Shhhhh. you’ll wake up Paulie. You’ll wake up
me
. Shhhh.” Patricia put her finger to her
mouth and peeled off her wet coat, dropping it and everything else in a puddle in the hallway.

Pinky closed the door behind her. “We have to get up in four hours anyway. And so do you. Real people don’t party on weeknights.”

“It
was
a little empty out there on the town. We went dancing at some club. But they threw us out at two o’clock.”

“That’s fairly normal. Now come with me. You just need some sleep.” Pinky took Patricia by the hand and led her down the hall toward her downstairs bedroom.

On the way they saw Paul in his boxer shorts with his arms crossed over his naked chest. Gosh, he still had his great tan all over from Italy and from his kayaking adventures. Paul had taken to zipping around the lake in his kayak like a harbor seal. Patricia smiled. Paul was actually extremely sexy. His wavy dark hair and dark brown eyes were very handsome. And his muscles had definitely moved to the buff side from all that rowing.

What was she thinking? He was just a fun guy. Maybe he and Pinky should get together for more than corned beef hash. Paul and Pinky sitting in a tree. What a great idea. If she wasn’t
all focused on her Brett project, she might think differently about ol’ Paulie after all these years. Sometimes something was right under your nose and you didn’t see it. Her thoughts got all jumbled at this point.

Once in her room, Pinky helped her get undressed. She fell into bed naked. Her face hit the pillow and she stuck there. Pinky pulled the covers up around Patricia.

“He kissed me,” she muffled through the pillow.

“Was it star-studded?”

“It was okay. He went for a grope, but I told him you wouldn’t approve, and that I wasn’t that kind of girl yet.”

“Good for you. Now go to sleep and dream whatever dreams may come now that you are blonde.”

Pinky tucked her friend in under her pink floral duvet and trudged back to her own room, scuffing her Sylvester slippers across the dark wood floors. The yellow glow of their hallway nightlight guided her along.

Patricia Stillwell had gone crazy. Why she’d
agreed to help her win Brett Nordquist was, at this moment, a complete and stupid mystery. Brett was ill suited to Patricia. He was probably just toying with her. He certainly wasn’t up for a commitment.

Pinky had hoped a date with Brett would turn on the lightbulb for Patricia. But apparently she had her heart set on Brett and his old-money life and his old-money mansion. That was understandable, in a sort of
Tammy and the Bachelor
kind of way.

Asta growled at Pinky when she reasserted herself under the covers. Asta believed any bed was his bed and the humans were just taking up too much space.

Maybe Patricia and Brett would find some common interests. Maybe it wasn’t wrong of Patricia to pursue being the new socially responsible maven of the Nordquist family fortune for years to come.

Maybe it was seeing someone else’s dreams come true that tempted Pinky into accepting these sorts of things.

Maybe they’d both watched too many old movies.

But she’d never seen Patricia use such radically unwise judgment in her life. Maybe that drug was changing more than her hair.

Three o’clock in the morning. It was three o’clock. What the hell was Patricia thinking, dragging in here at this hour, ringing the damn doorbell, waking everyone up? She’d never come in this late in the entire five years he’d known her.

Paul lay flat on his back in his dark room with his eyes wide open, arms crossed behind his head. Light off the water of Lake Union shimmered like a ghost against his terra-cotta-colored walls, dancing and rippling.

She’d been drinking, too. Good thing he always had the girls carry cab fare. No doubt Brett Nordquist had been drinking even more. Brett was a party boy. A rich, spoiled party boy. And here he was at twenty-nine sitting pretty in Daddy’s company.

Paul thought of his own father and how his peculiar talent for creating accounting software had changed their lives. Before they’d moved to the Seattle area and his dad had started working for Microsoft, he’d been an accountant doing
books for a dozen small businesses. Businesses like dry cleaners and florists that barely made ends meet. They’d lived a fine life before and after the move. Even with lots more money, they’d stayed grounded. Paul admired that in his dad. His family had a solid, positive foundation.