Little Pink Slips Part 21

"There's no one left at Bebe who's going to appreciate how you keep that magazine moving, Cameron," Magnolia said. "You're its central nervous system." She started to cry, had no idea where her tis sues were, and wiped away the tears with her hand.

"I'm going to try not to feel too sorry for myself," Cameron said in a serious voice Magnolia rarely heard. "Buck up. Keep your perspec tive. It's just a job."

She wondered if he'd give her a hug-or at least a tissue. He did not. Cam was halfway out the door when he turned. "I almost for get-what's up with your friend Abbey? I read her personal online."

"You read the personals?" she asked, surprised. "I thought you had a girlfriend."

"Katya moved back to Prague."

"Which one was Katya?" "Filmmaker. Leggy, blond. Not important. Not anymore."

For no reason she could explain to herself, Magnolia felt intrigued to know this detail about Cameron. They were close, but only profes sional-close. They'd often spent fourteen-hour days together. She knew how he took his coffee and that he'd rather drink beer than wine. Magnolia could predict what he'd wear to work the following day and which movie he wouldn't see even if you tried to bribe him.

But Cameron cruising the personals? What kind of woman would he be looking for? That she couldn't say.

"Who's your dream girl, Cam?" Magnolia asked.

"Maureen Dowd."

Shows you how little I know went through Magnolia's mind. "So what do you think about Abbey? You've met her-she is adorable."

"I don't know. I don't think I'm either the Paris flea market or Bergdorf's."

Magnolia could hear him chuckling as he walked down the hall.

She logged on to her personal e-mail. Anything from Preacherman8?

Just spam ads for drugs to make her p.e.n.i.s bigger and a new diet pill that promised to pop cellulite like a bubble and burn an extra 937 calories per day.

Where was her radio? This office was a tomb. Pluck sucks.

Chapter 2 7.

Angel Girl.

"He asked for you again, Miss Gold," Manuel, the doorman said. "The gentleman from yesterday."

"Any message?" Magnolia asked.

"No, said he'd be back. Tried to get me to say when you'd be around but my lips are zipped." The doorman pulled his fingers across his lips in an exaggerated gesture.

"By any chance," she asked, "did this man have an accent?"

Manuel considered Magnolia's question as if the grand prize depended on it. "Si. Si. He did talk kinda funny."

"Thanks, Manuel," she said.

"One more thing."

"Yes, Manuel."

"I think I seen this guy hangin' around during my shift a few days ago."

She wondered whether she was getting an extra helping of atten tion because it was Christmastime, and her doorman pictured his hundred-dollar tip enjoying some jolly inflation. "Thanks again, Manuel," she said. "Don't work too hard."

Magnolia let herself into her apartment, kicked off her shoes, and returned her dogs' affection. Could the gentleman caller once again be Tommy? He'd phoned last week, eager to meet for a drink "now that Abbey and I are finished." Magnolia thought she'd spurned him with exquisite clarity, but Tommy was a no-means-yes guy-maybe he saw her exclamation-point rejection as a flirtatious semicolon beg ging for a repeat invitation.

Or was the visitor Harry, intoxicated with holiday spirit? Less than two months had elapsed since their split-he might consider their relationship under warranty, available for free repair. Harry swooping into her life was not beyond her imagination; the nonstop Christmas music everyone had to suffer through could wig out even the most stable person, subliminally programming him to find a mate, wait for Santa, and have compulsory intercourse.

She blinked away the thought. Magnolia was feeling doubtful of her resolve to turn away Harry-especially if he returned, bearing the Magnolia bracelet, although she knew she'd pay for it eventually when old St. Nick replaced it with a lump of disappointment.

Dogs fed, she settled at her computer to dash off the last of her holiday e-mails. But first she reread yesterday's message from Preacherman8: Angel Girl, I hope u gt yr heart's desire. U 2, she'd responded, in the language of the teenager she regressed to with Tyler.

She hadn't heard from him today. But it must be a pastor's busy season.

She glanced outside. Like tiny doilies, snowflakes were beginning to fall, reflected in the high-intensity haze of yellow-white street lights. The holiday messages could wait. Best to take the dogs for their long walk.

It was the day before Christmas Eve, and the stock of the trees on Broadway had dwindled to the last lopsided orphans, although the scent of pine and balsam lingered, as did a gemutlichkeit that perme ated the entire city. Magnolia walked south, down to Lincoln Center awash in twinkling light, then back again, enjoying the mood-elevating sociability that comes with being escorted by a matched set of canine extroverts. She could never walk a whole block without someone's stopping to converse, nose to nose, as if her animals were short, intel ligent children. "h.e.l.lo, sweetheart! How are you today?" And occa sionally people talked to her, too. Starbucks was as packed as on a Sat.u.r.day morning, especially the tables favored by laptop users who turned them into private offices.

Magnolia thought she saw a woman wave, and peered inside. It was Sasha, gathered with friends. Magnolia waved back-if she didn't have Biggie and Lola, she might have joined them-and as she turned, her eye caught the back of a man with a blue ski hat, sprint ing uptown. Another Tyler doppelganger-same long legs, same lop ing gait. What would Preacherman8 be doing now? Sledding with his kids under the endless black velvet of a starry prairie sky? Writing an antiadultery sermon? Arguing with little Jody Sunshine about whether to serve goose or turkey for Christmas dinner?

"Tyler-A Retrospective" had become Magnolia's favorite playlist on the iPod in her brain. When she left him in Fargo, she'd been relieved to escape into her real life, even if it was ruled by Jock and his harem of amped-up harpies. She knew there could never be anything real between her and Tyler Peterson; he'd hate the MTV-metabolism world she lived in, and she'd never find her place in a state with more cinnamon buns than bialys. In the absence of a flesh-and-blood boyfriend, however, she loved Tyler's attention. If this was twisted and pathetic, well, a therapist could make of that what she might.

She told herself their harmless cyberflirtation would-out of mutual boredom or his fear of getting caught-soon fade.

Once home, she rubbed the salt off Biggie's and Lola's paws and took out her present for Abbey. The box was wrapped in shiny scarlet paper and a white silk bow, the tissue paper inside blanketing a bracelet-sleeved gold brocade jacket-circa 1962, but pristine-that Magnolia had found months ago in a downtown shop. She and Abbey planned to indulge tonight in many movies, spaghetti alla carbonara, a garlicky Caesar salad, Chianti, and-depending on the strength of their willpower-chocolate mousse cake.

"Let's make it a yearly ritual," Abbey had suggested. "Food and presents."

"You expect us to always be single forever?" Magnolia asked.

"I expect us to toast our friendship no matter what male baggage we trip over," she said. As she turned into Abbey's building, she thought she saw the back of Blue Hat again. It probably wasn't the same guy-hard to tell in the dark. This man's hat might be navy or black or purple. As Magno lia rode up Abbey's elevator, she played the stranger game and began to weave stories about him.

Blue Hat was hurrying home to his wife for their twins' first birth day, an engraved silver spoon for each tot in his deep pockets. Blue Hat worked the Aspen ski patrol but flew in to see his widowed mother, who was on life support after a horse had bucked her in Central Park.

Blue Hat owned a restaurant in Vermont and came to Manhattan to buy truffles for New Year's Eve. Blue Hat had got a glimpse of her on the subway and was traversing the streets, searching for his G.o.ddess.

He would run, run, run until he found her.

The evening melted away with comfort food and Katharine Hep burn. Abbey danced around in her jacket, and Magnolia opened Abbey's gift to her, pale lilac crystals strung with tiny pearls in a lariat that would dangle enticingly between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s had she not been, at the moment, wearing a bulky cable knit. "I can see you in this with a low white dress," Abbey said.

"Something to look forward to," Magnolia said.

"Something to look forward to," she repeated to herself as she walked the ten blocks back home at one A.M. Manuel opened the door for her.

"You missed him," he said, excited. "The guy. Fifteen minutes ago."

"Did he leave a note?" Magnolia asked.

"Nothing."

"I'll live in suspense, Manuel," Magnolia said. "Thanks for the update."

Earlier in the evening, she'd shared the news of the visitor with Abbey. "It's getting a little unnerving," she said.

Abbey convinced her the guy was Harry. "He needs closure, Mags,"

she said. "The last word."

Upstairs, she decided to b.u.t.tress the good mood the evening had brought by slipping into her white Jean Harlow nightgown and try ing on her beads. Abbey was clairvoyant about trends. By next summer, when Magnolia would probably live in the pale lavender trea sure, compliments would rain. She returned the necklace to its silk pouch and started to shut down her computer as an IM popped on the screen.

"Angel Girl," Preacherman8 said. "Did u hav a gd evning?"

Magnolia smiled. "Lovely. U?" she wrote back. It did feel lovely to end the day with someone who asked nothing of her and who made her A and LOL.

"Brrrr. What did u do?"

"Party."

"Who with?"

"Aren't u being nosy?"

"Jealous type. Miss u. Visit?"

E-mail was Archie and Veronica, chaste and juvenile. An actual visit? Nightmare. Magnolia stared at the screen.

"Cat gt yr tung?" he wrote.

"I hve dogs."

"Duh. I repeat. Visit?"

"When?" she wrote, regretting the word as soon as she hit SEND.

"Now."

How slow could a woman be? He must be talking about cybers.e.x.

Was a semirepressed Midwestern preacher really capable of pound ing out wet p.u.s.s.ies, throbbing d.i.c.ks, hot rods, tell me, higher, lower, there! Sucking trembling fondling licking slippery climaxes, oh oh oh yes yes yes!!!!!!! Ahh. . . . was it good for u, 2? Or would it be the equivalent of an electronic dry hump?

Cybers.e.x is definitely on my list of things to do before I die, Mag nolia thought, but not tonight, not with Tyler. She wasn't going to peck away, pretending her keyboard was his p.e.c.k.e.r when it belonged to another woman, not to mention the Lutheran church.

"Gotta headache."

"Aw, let me make it better."

"Aren't u worried about J catching u?"

"Impossible."

"Anything's possible."

"Like your att.i.tude. Visit?"

There was an easy way to get out of this rabbit hole.

"Merry XMAS & good night!" she wrote, switched off her computer, slammed it closed, and crawled into bed. Yet as she tried to read the bestseller on her nightstand, the unnerving image of Tyler as perv replaced every sentence. Ten minutes later, she turned off her light, pulled the covers to her chin, and begged for sleep.

In her dream, a phone rang. And rang. Magnolia awoke and recog nized that the relentless trill was coming from her intercom. She stumbled to the hall and pressed the TALK b.u.t.ton.

"The funny-accent guy, he's back," Manuel said. "Won't say his name."

"Well, don't send him up, Manuel," Magnolia said as she shivered.

"I ain't going to do that, Miss Gold. Wanted you to know, though.

Now don't worry."

But she did. What if this Tommy-Harry-creep was a stalker? Over the last two years she'd received repeated, illiterate scrawls from a Florida prison inmate who, inspired by her Lady editor photo, professed to have fallen in love with her. While Scary's attorneys reas sured her that the matter had been addressed, no one accused them of being a crack legal team. Could Fred the Felon have found out where she lived? Her phone number and address were unlisted, but a dedi cated psycho had his ways.

Or what if Bebe had got completely unglued-enraged by the sum she was going to have to fork over to Prince Fine-and ordered another special delivery for her, this time in the form of someone a lot more like Tony Soprano? Knowing she'd been b.u.t.ted off Bebe might simply be a down payment toward the penance that woman felt she deserved.

Bebe had to blame her for her public humiliation, and she couldn't inform her otherwise without exposing Sasha.

Magnolia was ready to call Abbey, who'd tell her whether she was having an attack of the paranoids, when she thought she heard someone shout her name. The snow was falling heavily now, and her view was blurred. She opened the window, letting a gust of cold rush into her bedroom. Yes, someone was shouting, "Maggie." It wasn't Tommy, and it wasn't Harry. Blue Hat was standing below her window. Tyler in his blue ski hat.

"What are you doing?" was all she could think to yell back.

"Freezing my buns off," he said. "Can I come up?"

"You must be crazy," she shouted. She pressed her eyes shut. Was he transported here by burning l.u.s.t, romantic ecstasy, or random lunacy?

"Please," he shouted back. "Maggie, I've come all this long way."

"No!" she shouted, but friends don't let friends wake the cranky couple in 2A, from which place an angry voice was already rumbling, "Hey, Romeo and Juliet, shut yer traps. People wanna sleep."

"Okay, I'm coming down," she gestured. "Go inside." She grabbed her parka and threw it over Jean Harlow, stepped into her dog-walk ing boots, and rode the elevator to the main floor. At the end of the hall which led to the entrance, a twelve-foot Christmas tree, switched off for the night, stood guard like a sinister totem. Magnolia's footfalls echoed as she rounded the corner, her nightgown dragging on the marble floor.

"You know this guy?" Manuel asked.

"I do," Magnolia said. "Old friend." She moved out of the door man's earshot and fixed on Tyler. "Whatever are you thinking?" she whispered.