Turn Up the Heat

She had, coffee that lasted through her free hour, her Entrepreneurship class, too much homework time, dinner and the next five wonderful years. During all that time, and in the last year of horrible grief, Candy had hardly looked at another man.

Oh. Well. There was that guy she’d met at the bachelor party she organized last year. And the father of the little girl who had the Barbie birthday party a couple of years before that. And the cute guy who helped her ver-r-ry attentively at Best Buy when she was getting Chuck a new TV for his birthday.

But those men were either spoken for, or she was, so she’d been friendly, and left it at that. Now, gulp, she was free. And if Justin had recently moved, maybe there wasn’t a girlfriend in the picture, unless he’d left one on the beach in California.

Candy turned on the engine, shivering—not from eighteen degrees as much as from Justin. Maybe he was only being neighborly, but her female instincts told her he’d been more than that; the excitement of possibilities had been buzzing in the air between them. Look how she’d jumped to make it seem the whole multiple-dates thing was just a favor to Marie. Candy hadn’t wanted him thinking she was desperate for a man, but obviously she’d also wanted him to know she hadn’t been swept away by anyone yet. Hint, hint.

She wanted to cancel her date tonight with Ralph, knock on Justin’s door and see what talking to him felt like, even though common sense told her this was a temporary thrill. No matter how wonderful Justin turned out to be, odds were he’d end up just a friend in the long run.

Though, mmm, the idea of what could happen in the short run was enticing. Maybe Justin would turn out to be the person Marie prescribed to banish Candy’s ghosts of Valentine’s Day romantic failure.

Oof. Pull back, girl. She was getting ahead of herself, which was a good trait when she was planning an event and imagining everything that could go right or wrong, but not so good when she bulldozed ahead, making assumptions and decisions based on factors she couldn’t control. After all, Justin said he wanted her to come over because he was cold, maybe that was all there was to it.

And romance with a neighbor could be complicated. Candy had inherited her late grandmother’s house here in Shorewood four years ago, bless Grandma, which meant Candy had been able to put her savings toward starting up the party business. But it also meant she wasn’t ever planning to move. Having an ex-boyfriend across the street could be awkward.

One other uneasy thought: Candy had waved hello to Justin a few times, but today was the first time he’d approached, when she was dressed like the kind of person she wasn’t. If that was all that attracted him, they had little hope of hitting it off. Her usual look—sweats and fuzzy slippers, glasses and no makeup—would make him run.

There. Reality was much more reliable than fantasy, as Chuck always had to remind her. Tonight, she’d simply celebrate that she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life with a dormant sex drive, since seeing Justin had woken her hormones from hibernation in a big hurry.

Baby steps toward healing, maybe, but forward motion was the only way Candy would get there.

She pulled out onto Prospect Street and headed for Harry’s Bar and Grill on Oakland. Tonight she was meeting Ralph Stodges who apparently liked his women dressed to seduce, since Marie had matched him up with Sexy Glamour Girl. Despite Candy’s initial misgivings, dating as different types had so far been the perfect way to ease into the concept of new romance with an appropriate sense of fun.

Her first date, as Superwoman—coffee at Alterra by the Lake—had been … interesting. Frank was good-looking and intelligent, but seemed to feel challenged, and kept trying to prove he knew more about pretty much every topic that came up. Tedious, but she’d enjoyed indulging her sense of power and smarts even if she did have to wear that god-awful severe suit.

Her next date—lunch at The Knick as the Professor—was much more fun, probably because that personality came most naturally. Certainly more natural than the one she was trying out tonight. Sam had been thoughtful, interesting and funny, though there was a decided lack of sizzle between them.

Fine by her. She needed to enjoy this experimentation and continue the process of accepting that she and Chuck weren’t going to end up together forever. Admittedly, there were times, home alone in bed, when she still had hope he’d come back, and still times she thought resuming a dating life was a mistake, that she was merely looking for second-best after she’d already had the love of her life. What was the point?

Maybe the point was that second-best would turn out to be better than nothing? She should count herself lucky that she’d loved so deeply. Many people never did.

Somehow that didn’t make her feel much better.

Her late arrival at the bar was made later when it took ten minutes circling blocks before she found a place to park. Then she couldn’t resist calling her best friend since fourth grade, Abigail Glucklich, because God forbid anything should happen the two of them didn’t share immediately.

“It’s quarter after six, you’re supposed to be on your date. Why are you calling me? Is Ralph horrible?”

“I haven’t met him yet.” She got out, locked the car and started toward the bar.

“Losing your nerve? You were a mess when we were picking outfits, no matter how often I told you how gorgeous you were.”

Candy grinned. Abigail had provided clothes, shoes, makeup and advice to bring Sexy Glamour Girl to life, since Candy’s wardrobe definitely wouldn’t suit. And yes, Candy had been squirmingly uncomfortable no matter what the mirror said. She kept hearing Chuck’s voice assuring her she was pretty and sexy without artificial trappings. “No, not losing my nerve.”

“Then …?”

“I met a guy.” Her voice turned girlish and giggly without her permission.

“What?” Abigail’s normal sleepy tone rose an octave. “Where? How? When?”

“Just now. My neighbor across the street.”

“The Bakers’ old house?”

“That’s the one.”

“What happened? You went over and jumped in bed with him?”

“I said I met him. As in ‘Hi, how are you, I’m Candy.’”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. That was Abigail. In Candy’s place she would have accepted Justin’s invitation for coffee and made sure they drank it in the bedroom, leaving poor Ralph at Harry’s glancing at his watch, wondering what had happened to his date. “What is so momentous about meeting your neighbor? Though of course I can guess.”

“He’s gorgeous.”

“Now we’re talking.”

“And from what I can tell, available.”

“Even better.”

“So what do I do next?”

“Take him cookies.”

Candy stopped on the sidewalk and burst out laughing. “Do what now?”

“Cookies. A plate of homemade cookies says, ‘Hello and welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Candy and I can bake. What’s more, in bed I can cook. Let’s get married.’”

Candy snorted and kept walking. “Oh, that’s subtle.”

“That’s how I got Ron. All the other women after him dressed like bimbos and acted as if all they brought to the table was sex and permission for him to spend millions on them. On our first date, I brought to the table a bag of sugar-oatmeal cookies I baked. He never saw what hit him.”

“True enough.”

Abigail had grown up in West Allis, one of five boisterous siblings in a house without enough love or money, and had decided the latter was more important, therefore she got herself engaged to the first gazillionaire she could find. He ducked out—the infamous Valentine’s Day non-wedding—but she married the next one, Ron Glucklich. They lived in a mansion overlooking Lake Michigan with a three-car garage the size of Candy’s house. Until the start of her pregnancy four months earlier, Abigail was always rushing off to this or that country, resort, beach, et al, and was hardly ever around long enough for her house to feel like home, at least as Candy saw it. Now that Abigail had finally stopped throwing up, she and Ron would be off again soon, to Jamaica. Candy wouldn’t want her life for anything.

Okay, maybe for a month. Or two. Abigail didn’t have to dress up and pretend to be Sexy Glamour Girl, she lived it.

“Where are you?”

“On my way to meet Ralph.” She stopped outside the restaurant entrance. “I’m here, in fact. He’s probably thinking by now that I’m not going to show.”

“My, my, you are certainly rolling in men.” Abigail sounded wistful. “Those were the days.”

“Like you’d trade what you have now?” She snorted. Though there were times Candy suspected Abigail missed having the kind of love Candy had found with Chuck, she and Ron got along well and were both thrilled about the coming baby. “I’ll let you know how it goes. What are you doing tonight?”

“Ron’s traveling. I’m going to hang out, watch TV and try not to eat Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Those miniature ones are so cute you think they don’t count, then you reach the end of the bag and realize that’s a whole day’s allotment of calories and none of them were good for the little one.” She let out a groan of exasperation that couldn’t hide her joy. “This baby-making is a major responsibility.”

“Worth it, though?”

“Oh, yeah.” She sighed blissfully. “The little nugget has me already. I’m a goner.”

“I knew that about you.” Candy grinned over a twinge of envy. Abigail was finally looking out for someone other than herself. That was worth grinning over. The envy … well, Candy had thought that by now she and Chuck would be married and starting a family, too.

“So go. Have fun. I’ll fret about calories and you have wild sex.”

“We’ll see.”

“Oh, and I was serious about baking Neighbor Guy cookies, Candy. Make those chocolate chunk ones I nearly gained forty pounds on once I stopped wanting to throw up every hour. He’ll fall like bricks.”

“Will do.”

“And call me the second you’re done with the Ralph-date. If he doesn’t get a stiffy at the sight of you, he’s gay.”

Candy giggled. “Thanks, Abby. I promise I’ll call right away.”

She clicked off the phone, tucked it in her bag, and felt suddenly faint with nerves. She’d have to walk into a bar full of people who would take one look and make all kinds of assumptions about her character. Same for the other dates, yes, but this character seemed so false …

She squared her shoulders and strode into the bar, trying to act as confident and sexual as she knew she looked. No backing out now.

Inside, she gritted her teeth against the rush of warmth and noise, and made herself look around. Ralph was pretty hot in his picture, though Marie said he’d put on a few pounds.

A huge man lumbered toward her. Much taller than she expected. A regular elephant bull. He’d put on, yes, a few pounds. No, several pounds. And shaved his head. And added an earring. And grown one of those soul patches which made Candy itch for a razor. He looked like David Draiman, the lead singer of the band Disturbed, minus the giant, scary lip ring. “Candy?”

“Yes. Ralph. Hi.” She stuck out her hand with a bright smile, forgetting she was supposed to smolder, then tried to smolder, but probably looked like she had something in her eye.

This was a mistake. What had been natural with Abigail, and even with Justin, was foreign and ridiculous with this intimidating mountain of a person. A person she didn’t know, a person to whom she was broadcasting messages about herself that weren’t true.

“Well, we-e-ell.” He gave her a long, slow once-over that was like getting rubbed with used engine oil. “You are one very hot woman. Am I in luck or what?”

What. Candy kept her smile going, tried to arrange her body in a suitably seductive pose, feeling naked, a ludicrous pretender.

She wanted to go home, change into sweats, bake those cookies, deliver them to Justin and spend the evening consuming them in his kitchen over coffee and conversation. What kind of sex kitten did that make her?

Not one. By the end of this evening Ralph would find that out. And who knew what Justin would say to the cookies if they were delivered by a woman in baggy fleece?

Candy should have listened to Chuck who knew her better than she knew herself. Sexy Glamour Girl was only part of her personality in her dreams.

Marie walked down the stairs into the Cellar at Roots Restaurant, her favorite after-work place for a drink and occasionally a reasonably priced and excellent dinner. The restaurant was located in the up-and-coming Brewers Hill neighborhood where Marie had bought a small fixer-upper Victorian. She’d hired a friend to do renovations on the cheap, resulting in a cozy, colorful home that said “Marie” everywhere one looked, and which Marie adored. She and her ex-husband, Grant, had lived in a beautiful Tudor in Whitefish Bay on the east side by the lake, a place she’d decorated the way she thought a wife should decorate a house for her husband. After the divorce, while she’d wanted to stay in Milwaukee where she’d lived all her life, she needed to live somewhere that felt like a new start. Here in Brewers Hill, she wasn’t constantly running into Grant or his new hot-young-babe wife, nor did she risk encountering mutual friends with their tsk-tsk sympathy. This part of the city had come to feel like hers.

“Hey, Marie, how are you doing this evening? What’ll it be today?”

“I’m fine, Joe.” She sat in a tall chair at the long wooden bar set under a dimly lit canopy of tangled brown metal, evoking roots, for obvious reasons, and grinned at the handsome young bartender with the eyes of a doe, the mouth of a young girl and the body of an Olympic swimmer. “Let me see. How about a Prufrock tonight?”

“You got it.” He grabbed the bottle of pear vodka which he’d mix with gin, chartreuse and a splash of sour mix at lightning speed. Cellar cocktails were inventive and changed with the seasons. Never a dull moment.

Marie looked around the room, white lights strung in a scattered pattern from the bar overhang, early patrons sitting at some of the tables already, many more to come soon she knew.

“Here you go, one Prufrock.”

“Thanks, Joe.” She unfolded the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, dreading the world’s depressing news, and took a sip of the icy liquid, fruity and not too sweet. Mmm. Her favorite way to unwind at the end of a long day, especially at the end of a long week. Sometimes a lonely person came in, a close or distant neighbor, or someone needing escape to a place with delicious food, great service and a restful view over the Milwaukee River to the city skyline. If that person was in the mood to chat, Marie would have company. Sometimes during the week Joe wasn’t too busy and she’d talk to him—or listen more like it—but most of the time she enjoyed sitting in the bustle of a thriving business within walking distance of her house, indulging in a pleasant buffer between the hectic work day and the emptiness of her home.

She’d adjusted pretty quickly to not being married, but going home to an empty house—even an empty house she adored—still felt hollow and unsatisfying, though after the trauma of her divorce, and the initial joy of her subsequent freedom, she wasn’t looking for a replacement husband yet. If she weren’t violently allergic, she’d get a pet. Pets loved you no matter what, didn’t criticize, were always supportive, and never left you for a younger version.

Halfway through her drink, while Marie skimmed articles in the business section, a dark suit sat down three chairs away.

That guy. He was here often when she was, more predictably on Fridays. She peeked around her paper for the enjoyment of a surreptitious eyeful. He was delicious. Mid-forties, classically handsome, solidly built, with short salt-and-pepper hair and dark brown eyes, very George Clooney-esque. Sometimes he came alone, sometimes with a woman—seldom the same one twice. Many times he didn’t leave alone, even if he came in that way. Women fell with such regularity that Marie found herself tempted to interview him and find out how he worked. She imagined he lived somewhere in Brewers Hill, though she’d never bumped into him anywhere but here.

She’d love to sign the guy up for her site, put his picture on the home page, Look what you can find here, but clearly he didn’t need help finding company. And if his behavior was anything to go by, he was more into quantity than quality, which wasn’t the type of man she’d foist on anyone looking to date seriously. Like Candy, who insisted she was out there for fun, but wasn’t, not really. Marie hoped she was having fun with Ralph tonight.

Another sip of her drink and she sat, considering. How about matching this man with someone who wasn’t looking to date seriously? Like Darcy? He could be the lure Marie needed to get Darcy to take a first step toward admitting she wanted a serious relationship, too. She was much more firmly in denial than Candy. One way or another Marie would wear down her defenses. After all, the urge to merge was basic human nature, no matter what the level of commitment. Though clearly this clone of George Clooney—George Cloney?—was more about urge than long-term merge. At least until he met the right woman.

He glanced her way, glanced again. Marie hid back behind her paper. He was so fun to observe, she didn’t want to speak to him. Especially because they were often here at the same time; if they started now, one or the other would always feel obligated to make conversation in the future. Sooner or later on any particular day, some sweet young ‘un would walk in on them chatting, and he’d excuse himself and move on to those greener pastures. Marie could do without that humiliation, thanks very much. Once with Grant was plenty.

But one of these days she wanted to be close enough that she could at least hear his pitch. Though his targets didn’t always leave with him, Marie had never seen a woman respond with anything but smiles and a readiness to talk, even briefly. Was he able to read body language with uncanny accuracy or did he have some deep instinct for who would match him, even for a few hours? How did he know which women to approach and which to leave alone? When to move in and when to move on? When to sit tight and wait until the prey approached him?

The guy was a master, and as someone for whom matching people was an obsession, Marie was shamelessly fascinated.

Maybe there was something more to her interest. Something personal. He did remind her of Grant: his confidence, his certainty in what he wanted and that he would get it. Grant had swept Marie off her feet the same way. He’d walked into the hotel bar where she was waitressing her senior year, having returned to UW–Madison after four years of active duty in the navy, to have a drink with the director of the ROTC program, with whom he’d kept in touch.

One glance at Marie and he’d turned on the charm, overwhelming her with his interest, insisting he take her out, then taking every opportunity to visit until she graduated. When she got a job in Milwaukee, where he’d also settled, it had seemed like fate. Now she thought any woman would have done for him at that stage. That was how Grant operated. Back from duty, time to get a wife, here’s one, good, check that off, next task on the to-do list …

And then, somehow, ten years later, his checklist included having an affair with a girl young enough to be their daughter. Ironic since they hadn’t been able to have children, and Grant hadn’t wanted to adopt. In retrospect, just as well. Who wanted to put a kid through an unpleasant divorce? Not that there was any other kind.

Fifteen minutes later, whaddya know, two women walked in, late twenties, dressed to be noticed. A casual observer wouldn’t have picked up on the way Mr. Cloney minutely adjusted himself on his chair for the best view. Marie wasn’t a casual observer. She waited, with all the patience and concentration of a naturalist studying animal behavior in the wild.

The women ordered drinks, spoke in loud voices, squealed with laughter. One glanced behind her friend at George, glanced again, then a third time. He appeared not to register her interest, taking a leisurely sip of his martini, of which he never had more than two in an evening, at least that Marie had seen.

He was implacably cool, yet, when he chatted up his prey there had to be warmth, or he wouldn’t do so well. You could fool some of the women some of the time …

The girl with her back to Mr. Cloney gave him a shy smile over her shoulder.

“Hello.” His deep voice carried. No stupid line, nothing suggestive in his tone, just a friendly greeting, acknowledging her smile.

“Hi.” The blonde’s blush was visible even in the low, warm light. “I’m Jill.”

The brunette swivelled to face him, giggling silently. “I’m Maura.”

“Hi, Maura. Hi, Jill. I’m Quinn.”

Quinn. Marie nodded. She loved that name.

The girls put their heads together; the blonde nodded.

“What are you drinking, Quinn?” Tipping her head coyly, the brunette extended her arm toward him, let her hand rest on the bar.

“Gin martini. Extra dry with a twist.”

“Join us? We’ll buy your next one.”

“Only if I can buy both of yours.”

Marie had to stifle laughter. Nothing scintillating in that conversation. Nothing cute, nothing enticing, no showmanship, and yet … Quinn was in once again.

He got up, moved closer, left one seat between him and the brunette, not crowding them, keeping his own space to himself. Brilliant. He struck up a conversation Marie wished she could hear, but she’d bet it was casual get-to-know-you chitchat. Where do you work, where do you live, how about them Packers/Brewers/Bucks, and will winter ever end?

The closer she got to the bottom of her drink, the more convinced she was that this man would be perfect for Darcy. Too smooth, too polished for Kim. Kim would do better with a sweet boy-next-door type. Once Candy figured out who she was and what she wanted, her guy would come along, too, someone earnest and kind, harboring an inner wild child. But Darcy needed someone with as much confidence as she had. Someone who’d let her be herself, but would never let her walk all over him.

Marie dug her cell out of her bag and dialed, knowing Darcy was at Gladiolas and wouldn’t pick up. Better that way. If she spoke to her, Darcy would blow off the suggestion.

But if Marie left a message to work on Darcy’s subconscious before she brought it up again in person … maybe.

Marie grinned, waiting for voice mail to pick up.

Darned if she wasn’t as big an operator as Mr. Quinn.

4

“HI, JUSTIN, NICE TO MEET YOU. Come on in.”

Justin shook Marie’s hand, impressed by her grip. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Her rich voice on the phone had him imagining a broad-shouldered Amazon, not this intriguing mix of elfin and elegant. Small, plump, with short auburn hair and scattered bangs above hazel eyes emphasized tastefully with makeup. She wore a stylish reddish-brown suit with a silk scarf of beige, orange and yellow, the colors combining to evoke pictures of a New England fall.

“Nice to meet you, too.” He stood looking around, hands in his pockets, portrait of a brand-new dating client nervously ready to put his ego on the line. He hoped the act was convincing. “Great office. Very inviting.”

“I’m pleased you noticed.” She leaned over her desk to make a quick note in a folder—that he appreciated decor?—and gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” He dropped into the comfortable chair, rubbing his hands along his thighs, poor ill-at-ease dude who could barely handle the stress of putting himself out there. “So, how do we do this?”

He was having fun already. Not that he wanted the lovely Marie and the even-more-lovely Candy to be involved in anything shady, but it was great to be back to the rush of an investigation. Writing the computer book with Troy was a good idea, a great career move, satisfying in many ways, but not exactly a thrill ride.