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.”
