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BETSY BURKE
was born in London, England, and grew up on the West Coast of Canada. She has a Bachelor of Music from the University of Victoria. Among the many jobs on her résumé, she includes opera singer, dishwasher, guitar teacher, nurse’s assistant, charwoman, mural painter, salesclerk, puppeteer, English teacher and, most recently, freelance translator. She currently lives in Italy. Her interests include art, music, books, rejection-slip origami, turning the planet into a garden rather than a toxic waste dump and trying to convince her four-year-old daughter that chocolate is not a breakfast food. She is also the author of a murder-mystery set in Florence.
Lucy’s Launderette
Betsy Burke
MILLS & BOON
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Many thanks to Liz Jennings, Jean Fanelli Grundy, Salva, Sara, Mom, Kato, Yule Heibel, Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Kathryn Lye.
For David Burke
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
1
“Your prince could show up anytime, anywhere.” My mother’s words. Words not to be discounted, I’d decided. It hadn’t exactly been a bumper year in the man department. Winter had come with a vengeance and I spent a lot of time shivering under my duvet, finding true love and sensual thrills in hot paperbacks and the occasional Belgian chocolate hedgehog, emphasis on hog.
To make things worse, Anna the Viking, legs that never quit, mind that never started, had moved in the month before. Ours was one of those West End Vancouver apartments just off Davie Street, post-war Bauhaus sterile, nice hardwood floors, but with walls made of meringue. It became pretty clear after a couple of weeks that Anna was going to be the star of an ongoing Bonkfest that I would have to endure through the connecting wall of our bedrooms.
Anna was from Sweden and had men…and more men, and I don’t think conversation ever blighted her relationships. But none of them were THE ONE, because she would have stuck with him for more than a night. Let’s face it; it takes energy to find THE ONE, and I mean the kind of man who can walk, talk, dress himself and doesn’t have his finger up his nose while sitting alone in his car waiting for the light to change.
I was running on empty that winter. Too long out of university to consider myself a student, I was determined not to run with my tail between my legs to my parents’ mind-numbingly tranquil suburb of Cedar Narrows. What would I do in Cedar Narrows anyway? It had all the vestiges of a self-sufficient town: shopping malls, cinemas, brand-new homes for families of ten, churches, schools, more shopping malls; it had everything but a soul of its own. For me it had always been like one huge waiting room in a train station. The last stop before the real city.
So I’d given in to financial pressure and let Anna move in. With her ThighMaster, her mini-trampoline and her G-string. I tried turning the heat right down but she still paraded mostly naked around the living room.
For the Viking’s share of the rent, I’d packed up what had been my studio into cardboard boxes and toted it all downstairs to the storage rooms. It was like locking my children away. Okay, ugly and deformed children, but my children nonetheless. Besides, how could I call myself an artist when I wasn’t even making art?
Not only was I a non-artist, but it had been so long since I’d had a decent relationship that I was considering the possibilities of romance on distant shores. I was still worth a couple of camels, at least.
There had been Frank, the “writer,” the year before, but he didn’t qualify as a decent boyfriend. He hadn’t even been a diamond in the rough. He was a zircon, emphasis on con, and it was because of him that I was forced to rent the spare room to Anna.
Frank had all the requirements of a writer, the B.A. in English, the promising first half of a first novel rewritten a hundred times then abandoned for the first half of another promising first novel. He had the permanent three-day growth of beard, the scruffy corduroy jacket, the scotch and Gauloise halitosis, not to mention the scumbag buddies who always seemed to be flopping on my couch for the night. And could he talk! But lately, he confided in me, he was suffering from some kind of burnout or writer’s block. He just couldn’t seem to commit all those fine words to paper, just couldn’t push past it. That would have required hard work and hard work, as I found out too late, wasn’t really Frank’s line. My bank account and I were relieved to be rid of him.
My only source of income was my job at Rogues’ Gallery in Gastown. Over the four years I’d worked there, it had lost its glamorous sheen. I was still getting minimum wage and still being called the assistant manager, a term that meant glorified gopher. Being a gopher for my boss, the oh-so-miraculously thin Nadine Thorpe, meant an exaggerated number
