Just Desserts (16 page)

But, for now, she just wanted to get the hell out of this place. The half of her brain that was still frozen in shock was going to thaw out any minute now.

And even though she didn’t want to think of herself as a weak person or a cry baby, she wanted to be at home when she fell apart.

F
or years Savannah had struggled to exorcise all those pesky demons of guilt from her spirit. Guilt about every bite she ate, guilt about not exercising enough, guilt about weighing thirty pounds more than the charts said she should. It hadn’t been easy. Devils don’t surrender their power over a soul without a fight.

Her battle had been a virtual Armageddon, but she had finally done it. She took great pride in knowing that, in spite of a society that insisted that every woman look like an anorexic teenager, she had the confidence to accept her own body. She had lived guilt-free for years, loving food, loving life, loving her own flesh and blood ... all of it.

So it was a shock to her psyche when she opened her refrigerator door and found all those vexing demons back again to torment her.

“You shouldn’t eat the rest of that Black Forest cake,” they said. “That’s how you made yourself
fat
in the first place, you idiot, you glutton. Show a little self-control, for Pete’s sake. Eat some lettuce instead.”

“I don’t want lettuce. I want chocolate!” she said, grabbing for the cake. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”

“We would, but there isn’t room! That chocolate is going to wind up there on your behind, too. Your butt’s already the size of a bam.”

Strange how one little thing, like getting fired from a job you loved for being fat, can ruin your day,
she thought.

“Too bad it didn’t ruin your appetite,” one of the demons whispered.

“Oh, shut up!” She slammed the door closed and walked into the living room with the entire cake box in one hand and a tablespoon in the other.

Most people in her position would be getting totally plowed at a local bar, she rationalized, trying to feel a little self-righteous. At least she was feeding her sorrow, rather than trying to drown it. That
was
better ... wasn’t it?

So tomorrow I won’t have a hangover,
she thought.
I’ll just weigh five pounds more.

Other than devouring the cake, she hadn’t decided what to do with herself for the remainder of the evening. She was all cried out. Her eyes were swollen nearly closed and her head ached abominably. She didn’t think she would be able to concentrate on a movie or television show. Reading a book was definitely out; she doubted she could even see straight.

She could go on to bed, but it was only seven-thirty and she was certain she’d never be able to get to sleep.

Like an answer to an unspoken prayer, a knock sounded on her front door. It was the old shave-and-a-hair-cut knock. Dirk.

“If you came back for the rest of your cake, you’re too late,” she said when she opened the door and saw him standing there. “I just polished it off. You can lick the box if you like.”

He gave her a suggestive grin that made her giggle in spite of her agony.

“Come on in,” she said. “I look like hell, but—”

“You look fine, kid. Don’t sweat it,” he said, his tone far more sentimental than his words.

“Are you off duty?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Want a beer?”

He nodded again.

“So am I,” she said as she handed him the bottle and plopped down on the sofa beside him. “Off duty, that is, permanently.”

“So I heard. Damn it, Van, I still can’t believe it.”

He set the beer on the coffee table—she had never been able to teach him to use a coaster—and turned to face her. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him look so upset, and she was touched that she was the reason.

“What the hell happened?” He reached over, took her hand in his, and squeezed it.

“I got canned. Bloss said I was too fat, but I—”

“I heard the reason they gave, but we all know it’s a pile of bullshit. Come on; what
really
happened?”

Savannah wanted to blurt it all out, to tell him everything from beginning to end. This was one of the most difficult things she had ever faced, and not being able to share it with anyone she loved was driving her crazy.

But intuitively she felt she should wait at least twenty-four hours. She should give herself a cooling-off period, and then she would be in a better frame of mind to make rational choices.

“I’ll tell you all about it, Dirk. Really I will. But for right now I just want to think about something else.
Anything
else. Okay?”

“Okay, but before we close the subject, there’s just one thing I want to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Is there
anything
I can do to help out? Anything at all.”

That did it. She had been able to hold back the tears for at least half an hour. But the sweet, compassionate tone of his voice and the unaccustomed softness in his expression was her undoing. Covering her face with her hands, she began to sob with renewed fervor.

So much for having cried it all out. The well wasn’t dry after all.

“No, no-o-o-thing. But ... but ... thank you,” she added between hiccups.

“Ah, come on, kiddo,” he said, putting one hand on her shoulder and giving her the same sort of shake a naughty puppy gives his master’s slipper. “Don’t do that. It can’t be that bad. There’s gotta be something I can do. You just name it.”

Suddenly she realized that what she needed most was human contact. Just to be close to another person for a few minutes. Cleo and Diamante were nice, but they just didn’t cut it when things were this bad.

“Do you mean it? Anything?” she asked with a loud sniff.

He pulled a tissue out of his pocket and handed it to her. She didn’t dare look too closely to see if it had been pre-blown-upon. His heart was in the right place.

“Sure. What is it? You need somebody to go tear Bloss another asshole? We can jump him in an alley; I’ll hold him down and you can beat the shit out of ’im. Sound good?”

“Oh, yes, Dirk, perfectly lovely,” she replied with subdued enthusiasm.

“Not what you had in mind, huh?” He actually seemed disappointed with her reaction.

“Not exactly. I was hoping for something a little less macho.”

“Like?”

“A hug.”

He stared at her for so long that she thought he might have suffered a minor stroke. Of course, she had figured he might be surprised at her request. In the five years they had been partners they had eaten together, snoozed in a cramped car together, fought, argued, and laughed together. She had even pitched an ice-cold Coke all over him for calling her a “dame,” but they had never hugged. Never even come close.

“Really?” he asked, looking both shocked, pleased, and scared at the same time.

“Yeah. I feel like shit. I need a hug and my granny is in Georgia.”

“Your granny?” He seemed insulted. “You want me to hug you the way your grandma would?”

“I don’t care, damn it. Just be my friend and hug me and tell me that I am ... or was . . . a good cop, and that I’m not fat.”

“Oh, Van,” he said, holding out his arms to her. “Come here, honey. Of course you aren’t fat. You’re a hell of a lot of woman, but I’ve never once thought of you as fat.”

She scooted toward him on the sofa and melted into his embrace. It felt much better than she had even hoped. His arms were hard, muscular, and warm as they folded around her. He mashed her to his chest in an overly vigorous bear hug, then rocked her gently, as though she were a kindergartner who had skinned her knee while jumping rope. She found she liked the dichotomy of gentle and rough.

After soaking in the comfort for a few moments she pulled back and looked up at him. “Is that really true?” she asked, her wounded ego needing to hear it one more time.

“Let’s put it this way,” he said with a deep, sexy growl, “a lot of words come to mind when I think of the way you’re built, kid, and none of them are anything like ‘fat.’ ”

Again she snuggled into his masculine warmth, breathing in the pleasantly combined scents of aftershave, tobacco, the freshness of outdoors, and man. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed enjoying the opposite sex.

At one time, not that long ago, she had allowed herself the other hedonistic pleasure that made life worth living—other than food. And while she hadn’t exactly been what Gran would call “a maiden of ill repute,” she had compiled a lengthy list of delicious memories to warm her on a chilly night.

Why she had denied herself the real thing in lieu of memories, she wasn’t sure. Too busy, she supposed. Too involved with that damned job ... for all the good it had done her in the long run.

Her arms stole around his neck, and she could feel him tense for a few seconds. Then his own hold on her tightened, pulling her closer.

“And you’re a good cop, Van,” he said, his voice husky, “the best I’ve ever known ... other than me, of course.”

She giggled. “Of course.”

His big hand moved slowly up her back. She wished she was wearing one of her new satin robes, something prettier than her old terry-cloth standby. Although, judging by his accelerated respiration, Old Faithful wasn’t doing so badly either.

“Savannah,” he said, burying his face in her hair. “I don’t think we should ...”

His breath felt warm and moist against her neck. She leaned her head back, giving him better access.

“Then don’t think,” she replied breathlessly.

Part of her couldn’t believe what she was doing. She was sitting on her sofa, dressed in her old ratty robe, her eyes swollen, her nose like Rudolph’s, her hair stringing down around her face ... and she was trying to seduce Dirk. Good ol’ Dirk, her buddy, her
compadre
, her companion in arms.

Not anymore,
she thought sadly. Immediately her sense of urgency soared.

She reached up to touch his hair, and she felt him cringe. He was so sensitive about his thinning hair, so self-conscious. But he didn’t need to be. It was much nicer to touch, much softer than she had ever thought it would be.

Looking up at him, she was overwhelmed with an unexpected, overwhelming urge to kiss him. His lips were right there, inches from hers.

She had never noticed before how full and inviting his lower lip was, what a pleasant contrast it was to the rest of his rugged face.

Or maybe it was the cherry brandy in the Black Forest cake she had just devoured.

Whatever the reason, she wanted to be kissed. By Dirk. Now.

Lifting her face to his, she brushed her lips lightly across his. The contact set up an electrical charge that flowed through her body and settled into some rather intimate, decidedly feminine areas.

“Kiss me, Dirk,” she said, her own breathing as ragged as his. “Please, I really need it.”

For a moment he bent his head, as though he was going to. She closed her eyes, waiting, anticipating.

But when nothing happened she finally opened her eyes to find him staring at her, looking perplexed and maybe even a little hurt.

“I know you do,” he said.

“What?”

“I know you need it.” He gave her another hug, shorter than the others, then gently pushed her away. “But ... but I’d rather wait.”

“Wait? For what?” she asked. “We’re all alone. We’ve known each other for years. It isn’t as though we haven’t thought about this a thousand times.”

“I know,” he said as he rose from the sofa. “I know you’re hurting, you’re feeling insecure about yourself, and you probably do need to have some guy wrestle you on that mattress of yours for a few hours. It’d probably cure what ails you.”

“So, what is it you’re waiting for?” she asked, completely confused. In her thousand fantasies, things had never played this way. He had never said no.

Dirk smiled knowingly, bent down, and gave her the kiss she had asked for ... but he placed it on her forehead.

“I know you need it,” he said as he walked to her door. “But you’ve always been really special to me, Van, and I think I’d like to wait until you need
me.”

Savannah couldn’t think of a thing to say as she watched him walk out the door and close it quietly behind him. In the empty space he left behind she felt more alone than ever.

And she found that the well of tears
still
wasn’t dry.

Savannah awoke from the first shallow stages of sleep with a start. The phone. It was that damned phone again. For hours she had lain in bed, counting sheep, trying to get to sleep. Actually, she had been counting heads, rolling from a guillotine, most of them wearing faces that looked remarkably like Bloss’s. She had found the image more soothing than fleecy, gymnastic sheep.

Glancing at the new digital clock that had replaced the broken one, she groaned. It was a quarter to four. She had been asleep for ten whole minutes. Whoopee.

“This had better be a wrong number,” she mumbled into the phone. “Because if I know you, you’re dead meat.”

“Savannah, it’s me, Atlanta! I have got the
neatest
surprise for you! You’re not going to believe this, really!”