A Perfect Life?

“Good point,” Claire said, comforting herself with three sugars and real cream in her coffee. She turned to face the women, resting her backside against the counter.

“Those mechanicals are on your chair to copy,” Georgia said.

“Great. Just what I need—a visit with Leroy the Letch.” The man lurked in the copy room and lived for a pat, brush or slide against some female part.

Georgia cackled again. “If that man gropes me one more time, I think I’ll have to…I’ll have to…”

“What?” Mimi said. “Sleep with him?”

The three women burst into laughter. It felt good to Claire—kind of like a mini Game Night.

“Nah,” Georgia said. “I can’t sleep with him. Mouth breathers snore.”

They laughed again.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Claire said, raising her doctored brew in a toast to the two women. She turned to go.

“One more thing,” Georgia said.

“Yeah?” She turned, expecting something motherly.

“Lose the suit. You look like a stewardess.”

Just the image she was going for. “Honey-roasted nuts, anyone?” she said. Actually, she could think of a pair of nuts she’d love to roast. With no honey involved…unless the nuts were suspended over an ant-hill. Hmm…

“Don’t feel bad,” Mimi said, shrugging. “If you don’t try things on for size, you can’t learn what works.”

“Right,” she said. The advice was good for life, as well as clothes. Except everything Claire tried on was either too tight, too loose or made her butt look big. She set off for her office.

Low on the account exec totem pole, she’d been squeezed into the cubicle between the copy room and the mechanical room that used to be a janitor’s closet. Now and then, when the breeze was right, she caught a whiff of cleaning supplies. She’d grown to love the smell of Comet in the morning.

She picked up the ads from her chair and began her foray into Leroy the Letch Land. Moving quickly, she escaped with barely a breast brush.

The minute she sat at her desk, the phone rang. “Claire Quinn,” she said into it.

“Don’t hang up!” Jared.

She took in a quick breath, knowing she should do just that, but the phone felt Velcroed to her ear.

“I wanted to tell you a million times,” Jared said, “but I knew it would hurt you and I’d rather die than hurt you.”

She could hear tears in his voice. Tears. She couldn’t help but be touched. And a little weirded out. “How long have you been…?”

“Married?”

No, a cheating creep. “Yeah.”

“Three years. We just sort of ended up together.”

A thought chilled her. “Do you have kids?”

“No, no kids. And we’ve grown apart. I didn’t realize how much until I met you and fell in love.”

“Right.” She tried to sound sarcastic, but the word love softened her like a VCR case on a dashboard in summer.

“It’s a relief that you know the truth. You have no idea how this was haunting me.”

“You poor, poor dear.”

“I know, I know. Of course you’re hurting more than me right now. We can talk this all through on Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

“When I move in.”

“You can’t move in. You keep forgetting—you’re married.”

“We need to be together, Claire. This thing between us is big. Just give me time to talk to Lindi.” His words were as sweet and soothing as warm honey on Claire’s sore throat.

“We’ll work it out,” he continued. “I know we will. And on Saturday we can buy that futon, and a lamp—even an area rug—just like we planned. Anything you want, baby.”

Anything she wanted. Baby. She loved it when he called her that. She fought down the throb of hope that tightened her throat. Hold it right there, you lying sack of pig parts. She decided on a more civilized approach.

“How can I trust you?” she said. “You lied to me. Our whole relationship is a lie.”

“No. My marriage is the lie. Our love is the one true thing I have. You have every reason to hate me, Claire, but please don’t stop loving me. Please.”

She was touched, of course, but she couldn’t help noticing he sounded like bad daytime TV. Plus, the picture of roasting his nuts kept floating in her head.

“I want to hold you,” he said. “I need you in my arms to feel okay in the world.”

Now that line was perfect and she felt herself melt right into her pumps, blisters and all. Maybe it would be okay. Men had to get shocked into change, didn’t they?

“I don’t know, Jared. I have to think.”

“Take a day or two, but never forget that I love you. We’ll find a way to make this work. We have to. What we have is real and true.” More bad dialogue. Stop that, she told herself. The man was professing his love and she was critiquing his performance? That was Claire, though. Always with the smart remarks, as her mother used to say. Sarcasm kept the pain at bay.

Claire glanced up to find Georgia wagging a finger at her through the glass door, like she was a puppy who’d widdled on the carpet. Bad girl.

On the other hand, a smack on the nose with a rolled-up paper was probably exactly what she needed. “I’ve got to go, Jared.” She ripped the phone from her ear and dropped it onto its cradle. The familiar wish to snatch it back washed over her. She had trouble making decisions. Yes, no. Stay, go. Sheesh.

Georgia smiled at her. She’d pleased Georgia, at least.

Claire checked her watch. Seven hours and fifteen minutes until she could plop this burden into the soft and willing laps of the Chickateers. Thank God for Game Night.

2

AT EXACTLY FIVE-THIRTY, Claire stepped off the bus and entered the cool dimness and expectant air of Talkers for Game Night. She surveyed the happy-hour crowd of downtown singles, looking for who of the Chickateers was already here. Claire loved this place and this weekly event. Waning sunlight slanted onto the bar and washed over the toned, well-groomed professionals around the room who were flirting, commiserating and dipping wontons in peanut sauce.

She spotted Kitty Knight at the far end of the bar. Kitty being Kitty, she was with a man. She leaned toward him, swinging her wineglass lazily between two fingers, just this side of slutty. If only Claire had Kitty’s flair. Of course, Kitty also had a model’s face, a flamboyant personality and saline implants. Claire had neither of the first two and no interest in the third. But Kitty stirred up a room like no one else and Claire loved trailing in her wake.

Kitty would be philosophical about the Jared fiasco. Men troubles rolled off Kitty’s back like water over bath oil. She called it the Zen of men—Be the man and you’ll get the man.

As Claire got closer, she could see the guy was writing something in his Palm Pilot. Kitty’s number, no doubt. Just before he left, Kitty gave him that flattering once-over that Claire had actually practiced in the mirror once, feeling goofy.

Kitty spotted Claire and slid off her stool for a hug. She smelled of something new—probably a perfume sample from Vogue—she liked to test out the new stuff before she purchased it—and her hug was the usual well-meaning but painful grab.

“Who was that?” Claire asked, tilting her head toward Kitty’s exiting conquest.

“Investment banker with two first names,” Kitty said on a sigh. “Arnold Oliver. New in town. When Rex is over.” Rex was Kitty’s boyfriend du jour, a personal trainer at a health club. Kitty gave Claire an up-and-down. “Oh, my gawd, it’s Career Girl Barbie.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Not for a stripper pretending to be a librarian. Wanna see my Dewey Dec-i-mals?” Kitty said in Marilyn Monroe’s breathy voice.

Claire laughed. “Who died and made you fashion cop?” Guitar Guy, Georgia and now Kitty had taken potshots at her new look.

“What are friends for?” She grinned, which made Claire smile, too. Kitty’s zingers came laced with affection, so Claire never felt wounded. “Zoe’s here,” Kitty said, nodding past her.

Claire turned to watch Zoe Bellows head their way, her waterproof nylon pants hissing as she moved. Zoe zipped herself into the lives of her lovers like a second skin, taking on their hobbies and interests. Her current boyfriend was outdoorsy.

Zoe would be completely empathetic with Claire. She was into Tarot, numerology and breathing. Inhale health…exhale toxins. Unnaturally optimistic, too, but Claire craved her slow, full-body, patchouliscented hugs.

“Hey,” Zoe said to Kitty, hugging her as best she could, since Kitty didn’t have the patience for Zoe’s lengthy embraces. Then Zoe turned to Claire. Just as Claire had hoped, the hug was long and gentle with a deep inhale, slow exhale. Soothing as a hot bath. Tonight, Zoe smelled of mint and banana sunscreen, instead of the usual patchouli.

Of her three friends, Zoe was the most likely to pick up on Claire’s shocked-by-her-vibrator expression, so she ducked away before Zoe could get a good look at her face. Claire wanted the sympathy in one big wave, not three little ones.

“So, you’re still seeing Mountain Man?” Kitty asked Zoe.

“We’re training for a bike trip through Mexico.”

Kitty shuddered. “What a way to ruin a foreign country—crouched over a bicycle, pumping your ass off. Let’s get a booth and wait for Em.” She led them to their usual spot at the back near the small stage where musicians occasionally played. They preferred it because it was quieter here.

“Is it Emily’s game?” Claire asked, sliding onto the cool leather banquette. Zoe nodded. They took turns choosing, matching the game to the chooser’s mood. They’d started with the chess and backgammon in the café’s collection, and then moved to games they brought themselves.

Fifteen minutes later, the three watched Emily Decker push through the door in a chic pantsuit, trailed by her husband Barry, who held two shopping bags by their handles. Emily hustled to the booth, determinedly kissed each woman on the cheek, smelling of her personally blended perfume mixed with expensive car leather, then slid in beside Kitty.

Barry set the shopping bags at his wife’s feet. “I’ll pick you up in three hours,” he said, then gave the rest of the Chickateers a weak smile. He probably saw them as evil witches stirring up trouble over a bubbling brew. After one Game Night discussion, Emily had declared him a flop at oral sex; after another she’d convinced him to propose marriage.

“We were shopping for a valance for the guest bathroom,” Emily explained. “Later, I’ll show you some swatches.” Emily had quit her job at a bank and now devoted herself to fixing up the home in Scottsdale they’d recently bought. To Claire, she seemed bored. The Chickateers already had been forced to admire her choice in kitchen knobs and light-switch plates.

Barry was kind of a schlub, and yet Claire couldn’t help thinking how great it would be to have a man willing to shop for something as mundane as a valance. What heterosexual man even knew what one was? Or cared? Jared, she’d thought. But she’d been wrong about Jared. Completely wrong.

“So what’s the game?” Kitty asked Emily. She filled Emily’s wineglass with the “cunning” pinot noir she’d selected for their first bottle. Kitty always chose the wine.

Emily took an eager sip and held up her glass. The other three joined her in their traditional toast: “All for one and one for all…No sniveling!” Except that’s exactly what Claire would be doing tonight.

Emily reached into one of the shopping bags and lifted out a board game, which she set on the table. “Voilà!”

“‘Life’?” Kitty asked in amazement. “You brought ‘The Game of Life’?”

“Yeah. Isn’t it perfect? It was in a toy-store display window and I couldn’t resist. I loved playing this as a kid. Choosing my career, earning my paycheck, getting married, putting the little pink and blue kids in my car…” She opened the lid as she talked, laid out the board and began to separate the money denominations.

“The Game of Life.” How ironic, since Claire seemed to be losing her own private version. All messed up with love and uncertain at work, with an apartment she could no longer afford. So much for her perfect life. The bright, cheery game board blurred as her eyes filled. Enough with the self-pity, already. She ducked her nose into her wineglass to hide.

“Pick a car color. I’ll be yellow,” Emily said, shuffling the career and income cards.

Kitty grabbed the red car and Zoe said, “Green or blue, Claire?”

Claire couldn’t speak, and a single fat tear plopped onto the table.

“What’s wrong?” Zoe turned to look Claire full in the face.

Claire would be strong about this. She brushed the water from her cheeks and lifted her chin. “A demonstration,” she said. She picked up the green car and inserted a little pink person into it. “Here’s me, right?” Then she took a little blue person. “Jared goes here, right?” She started to put it beside the pink person, then stopped. “No, because he’s already here.” She stuck the blue token into Emily’s yellow car. “Jared’s married.”

“He’s what?” Zoe exclaimed, sucking in a breath.

“No!” Kitty and Emily said, jaws sagging like in a bad comedy sketch. The three friends looked from Claire to each other and back…twice. Their shock made her feel loads better.

“But, I thought Pinkie was moving in with you,” Kitty said. Over one too many Fuzzy Navels, Claire had once mentioned that Jared’s penis was a pinkish color and Kitty had seized on it as a nickname.

“How did you find out?” Emily asked.

“A radio call-in show.”

“No!” all three said at once.

“Oh, yes.” She told them the whole K-BUZ debacle, gratified by their horror and anger on her behalf. “So, Happy V Day to me.” She took a drink of wine.

“Screw Valentine’s Day,” Kitty said. “It’s just a plot by the jewelry industry to soak men for big bucks and make single women feel like roadkill.”

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Emily said. Emily’s advice would be practical and down-to-earth, which Claire valued, even if it came via bulldozer, aka, Emily’s way or the highway.

“I really thought he loved me,” Claire said.

“I’m sure he does love you.” Zoe pulled her into her banana-paba-smelling arms for a quick hug. “He’s just a little…well…mixed-up.”

“Well, duh,” Kitty said.

“Did he explain himself?” Zoe asked.

“His wife and he have grown apart. He didn’t realize it until he met me.”

“And started getting regular blow jobs,” Kitty added.

“Kitty!” Zoe said.

“It’s true. I bet Lindi-with-an-i hasn’t delivered since she got him to say ‘I do.’”

“It’s more than that,” Claire said, though Jared did seem stunned and grateful when she performed that particular act. “Anyway, he says we can work things out.”

“And of course you told him to go piss up a rope,” Emily said.

Claire didn’t answer.

Kitty shook her head and tsked. “I wish you’d help yourself the way you help us.”

Claire felt another tear escape and roll down her cheek.

Zoe hugged her again and they all remained supportively silent while Zoe frantically patted Claire’s back. And patted.

When she felt welts forming, Claire gently extracted herself. She blew her nose on the tissue Emily proffered, forced a watery smile and lifted her wineglass in a toast. “Come on. No sniveling!”

“You just snivel away,” Zoe said. “This is a special occasion. Right, girls?”

The four clinked glasses, then took a solemn drink in Claire’s honor.

“What do you want us to do to Pinkie?” Kitty demanded, her eyes gleaming in the golden light. “Blow his cover with Lindi-with-an-i? Slash his tires? Trash his apartment?”

“Kitty!” Zoe said. Zoe kept trying to tone Kitty down, but they all knew it was no use and loved her for trying anyway. And Kitty for refusing to change.

“It’s the company’s apartment,” Claire said gloomily. “He was going to move in with me on Saturday, remember?”

“So, we graffiti the walls. He’ll be responsible for the damages,” ever-practical Emily said.

“Yeah, baby. That’s the ticket!” Kitty said. “Nobody messes with our crew.” Kitty jutted her chin and thrust out her chest in a seated strut.

Claire felt a stab of satisfaction at the idea—and a rush of gratitude for her friends.

“That would be bad karma,” Zoe said. “Negative energy boomerangs. And besides, maybe he’ll leave his wife.”

“You think so?” Claire asked more hopefully than she felt.

“Forget it,” Kitty said. “Men who cheat want to have their cake and eat it, too.”

“But maybe Jared’s different,” Zoe said.

“They’re all different until they get what they want,” Kitty said to Zoe, then patted Claire’s hand. “Speaking of which, wasn’t Jared splitting the rent on your apartment?”

Claire nodded. “I can’t really afford it without him.”

“Not to worry,” Kitty said. “I’ll move in with you.”

Claire gulped. “But you just moved into that great duplex….”

“I’ve barely opened a few boxes. The landlord’s driving me nuts already—whining about my music and the water bill. Life’s not worth living without a daily parboil and loud tunes. Besides, that place isn’t really me.”

“What about your lease?”

“She’ll let me out of it. Trust me. Deposit and all.”

“But, you’re kind of a night owl, aren’t you?” Claire protested weakly.

“A night owl?” Kitty gave her a steady look, her mouth tight. “Don’t worry. If Thor and I are going to get out the whips and leather we’ll go to his place.”

“You’re seeing a guy named Thor?”

“She doesn’t mean literally, Zoe,” Claire said. “I’m sorry, Kitty.” She knew that under her friend’s hard-candy coating lay a marshmallow center. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Eh, forget it. My moving in will be good for you. I’ll introduce you to some new men and you’ll forget all about Pinkie.”

“But I thought Pinkie—I mean, Jared—was the one.”

“There are lots of ones,” Kitty said. “It’s like a deli where the men take a number and every day we start over with number one. Rex knows some single guys. Don’t worry.”

Soon the four Chickateers were toasting the new roommates, and Claire began to woozily welcome the idea. Kitty would help her be strong. A tiger didn’t change his spots or a rat his whiskers. With Kitty as a reality check, she’d be less vulnerable to Jared’s soap-opera pleas.

When it was time to leave, Barry and Emily dropped Claire at CityScapes. The building that had seemed exciting and full of possibilities the day before now seemed hollow and lonely—and expensive. She trudged up the stairs, rode the elevator in sadness, plodded down her hall to her door…

And found an impossible surprise. Resting in front of her door were a dozen red roses, bright as blood. The typed card said, “To my dearest love. Jared.”

She picked up the roses and pressed her face into their velvety softness and dusky perfume. She was Jared’s dearest love. Her heart warmed…then turned to ice. She might be his dearest love, but she wasn’t his only love. Lindi-with-an-i was going to get her own dozen blood-red roses next week, courtesy of K-BUZ radio. Claire stomped through the apartment, opened the window and tossed the roses out.

An hour later she was plucking the bright blooms from where they’d scattered in the newly planted hedges of her building. They were roses, for God’s sake. Even when your boyfriend turned out to be a rat, you deserved a little beauty, didn’t you? Especially a week before Valentine’s Day. Hugging the flowers to her chest, Claire knew exactly how to think of them: a lovely parting gift.

TRIP OSBORN packed up his guitar, sorry that he’d missed the lively brunette who’d crashed into him yesterday. Her name was Claire, he thought—someone had called to her the first day he’d played on this corner.

She’d caught his eye from the first moment with her forward-leaning stance and bouncy walk. She looked his age, but seemed younger somehow. She was certainly more driven.

He wondered how she was doing today and what she was wearing. Yesterday, she’d marched down the sidewalk in a business suit and punishing shoes, upset as hell. Her brown eyes had been watery, her nose pink and she’d slumped instead of bounced. He’d had the urge to protect her—as if from oncoming traffic.

You’re critiquing my outfit? He smiled to himself, remembering the jab. She had an edge to her. And maybe she was right about the haircut.

He’d get a tip on a good barber from Erik Terrifik, the blues giant he was taking class with. He’d come to Phoenix because of Erik and the visiting philosophy professor whose class he was taking at ASU.

He was sorry he’d missed a morning exchange with Claire, but he’d better head to the neighborhood dive Erik owned. The place didn’t open until later, but he liked the old-smoke-and-stale-beer smell of it. Atmosphere meant a lot in music. And life.

Trip had spent most of the years since high school in the West. He liked the open feeling, the sense of limitless possibilities. Long straight stretches of highway, winding mountain roads. And all the climates he could want, from baking Sonoran desert to high, cool Rockies.

In the smoky dimness of Chez Oui, while he waited for Erik to finish up with the beer delivery guy, Trip found himself thinking about the woman again. Claire. She had pretty eyes. Mink dark with flecks of milk chocolate. Smart eyes. And an expression both vulnerable and sturdy.

That was a lot to notice in a few passing glances and one quick collision, but he was good at reading people. You learned that in foster homes. You quickly figured out what counted, because things always changed, got lost or showed up out of the blue. You learned what to hang on to, what to fight for and what to shrug off, and always to be ready to move on. Lessons he maybe got too young, but good ones all the same.

He didn’t blame his mom too much. Hadn’t really at the time. She’d done her best. She was just…limited. He visited her whenever he blew through Colorado. She always baked him something awful. And he always ate it like it was gourmet.

He picked up the bar phone to sign up with a palm-trimming crew to make enough money for the next couple of months’ rent at the guest house where he was staying. The work was dangerous—climbing hundreds of feet in the air to work with sharp blades—but that was why it paid so well.

Plus, he liked variety. He never stayed long in any place or at any job, choosing both for the opportunity to learn…about people, ideas, music and himself. He liked college towns, so he could take classes from people he admired. Gigs were easy to come by near universities. Gig money paid his tuition. But he was happy to work in restaurants or bars, on yard crews or as a handyman to make his daily wage.

Just as he hung up the phone, Erik slid onto the stool beside him, his guitar in hand. “’Sup?” he breathed in his rumbling bass.

“Not much.” Trip said, smiling at his teacher.

“You’re wearin’ that look.” Erik winked at him.

“Yeah?” Trip opened his guitar case and removed his baby.

“Yeah. The look of a cat after a big slurp of cream.”

Trip chuckled. Erik was smart and wily, and the best guitarist he’d had the privilege to know.

“It’s a girl, am I right?” Erik said, fingering his strings.

And he was intuitive. “Could be.” Trip plucked through a tune-up.

“So tell me about her.”

“She’s pretty. Nice eyes. Brown.” He sighed.

“Uh-huh.” Erik began to play Van Morrison’s classic “Brown-Eyed Girl.” “I ain’t heard ya talk about a woman since you been in town.”

Trip shrugged, then started up a harmony line to the tune. “I like spending time on my own.”

“My ass. You’re jus’ too lazy to call any of ’em.”

Trip shrugged again. There had been women who let him know they were interested, but none had caught his eye. Except this Claire. Maybe because she was different than the women he usually spent time with. Which made her off-limits completely, of course. He moved into the chords he’d been learning from Erik, who’d stopped playing to muse a while.