Part 8 (1/2)

”Mom, she's not exactly confiding in me,” Magnolia said.

”Fran, you're wrong,” her father said. ”She's gay.” ”Eliot, you're crazy,” she said. ”That's Rosie.”

The bickering raged on, until Magnolia told them she needed to get off the phone because she had a date and wanted to get a manicure.

”A date, honey?” her mom said. ”That's fabulous. Is he Jewish?”

”No, Mom,” she said. She had no idea what Harry's religion was, but she was fairly sure he wasn't Jewish.

”It's the most important thing, doll,” her father said. ”Never forgot that.”

”Because it's been the charm for you two?” Magnolia said, and instantly regretted it.

”Do you ever hear from Wally?” her mother asked.

”Not in years, Mom,” she said. ”And, anyway, he remarried.”

”You blew it, kiddo,” her father said.

”Eliot, shame on you,” her mother said. ”What's wrong with you?”

And on and on.

Magnolia relived the conversation until she arrived on West Fourth, the kind of tranquil, leafy street where she could easily pic ture living. She opened the door to Extra Virgin and found Harry waiting at a corner table. He stood as she entered. Tonight he wore faded jeans, a white s.h.i.+rt with the sleeves rolled up-a jacket hung on the back of the chair-and a faint scent which, when they hugged, recalled long walks in Nantucket.

”Magnolia, duckie, the week you've had,” he said, holding her face in his hands and giving her a short, tender kiss. ”Has that big bully, Bebe, stomped all over you?”

”I have a little bruise right around here,” she said as she pointed to her heart. ”But don't underestimate me.”

”You?” he said. ”Never. Here, have a look at the menu. The chef here is a genius.”

Magnolia's appet.i.te usually left men asking ”Where do you put all that?” For this biological blessing, she thanked her mother, who still fit into a Pucci dress from her honeymoon. Magnolia started with Chardonnay-steamed mussels, but nibbled one of Harry's roasted artichokes. He continued with the branzino. She wavered between crabmeat ravioli and lamb tangine. Ravioli won. Having eaten dessert for lunch-her own flan and half of Abbey's tiramisu-she slowed, but couldn't resist a taste of Harry's tarte tatin, sipped with strong espresso. Tonight she hoped she'd be up for hours.

”Caught a moment of that press conference on the telly,” Harry said. ”You looked ravis.h.i.+ng, if a little frightened. Or was it bored?”

”Maybe I should be frightened, but for the moment I'm wearing the red badge of courage.”

”Bebe-she's got eyes like a nasty little hedgehog,” Harry said, sliding his hand on top of Magnolia's. ”I knew her stunt double at university. Or maybe I'm confusing her with the mean nanny of my nightmares. Is she the type who hangs around with a lot of poofs?”

”I'm told she likes real men,” Magnolia said, ”and lots of them, the younger the better. Her last husband was twenty-eight.”

As the candles burned low, dripping on the roughly hewn wooden tables, Harry's hand slid under the full skirt of her gauzy white sun dress and skillfully climbed her bare thigh. While they discussed work-tactics to handle Bebe, how he could land an account with Banana Republic-Magnolia's mind settled between her legs. She knew Harry lived only blocks away, but he wasn't rus.h.i.+ng to end their dinner. He was setting the pace, slowly and confidently.

”Amaretto?” he asked. At this point, the only thing she wanted to put in her mouth was an appetizing part of his anatomy, but he nod ded to the waitress. A brunette with long, silky hair and a personal trainer's body sprinted across the room.

”Heather, luv, two Amarettos, please,” Harry said, letting his hand graze the waitress's slim waist.

”Mr. James, of course,” she responded, holding his gaze and never glancing in Magnolia's direction.

Harry brushed her hand, but turned back to Magnolia and stroked her arm. Twenty minutes later, she and Harry were the last diners to leave Extra Virgin. Magnolia tossed a tiny bottle of olive oil-compli ments of the chef-into her bag, in which she'd stashed a toothbrush and an extra thong. Without discussing it, Harry steered them toward his brownstone. They entered through a foyer containing a small table with an antique bra.s.s bowl for keys and a slim Steuben vase filled with several deep purple dahlias. The foyer opened into a large room dominated by an enormous kitchen, as full of equipment as a small restaurant.

She noticed several black-and-white paintings on the far end of the room, which held low, oversized, red leather couches and a grand piano. The canvases were well over ten feet tall. Just as Magnolia real ized the sensual form in the largest painting was female, Harry wrapped his arms around her from behind, caressing her face and sliding down over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her hips.

”She reminds me of you,” he said. ”Curves in the right places, but understated. Not too showy.”

Perhaps it was his regular line. Maybe he was silver plate. But at that point, ”Miss Gold, please remove your clothes and put on this paper gown” would have worked. They walked upstairs and entered Harry's spartan bedroom-a simple black iron bed, a dark walnut Empire armoire, a table, a chair loaded with art books, and a painting featuring another fertility G.o.ddess. Harry gathered Magnolia's clothes and care fully hung them on a heavy wooden hanger on the back of the door.

For a split second, an image of Harry and Extra Virgin's waitress, together in this very room, crossed Magnolia's mind. She imagined them naked, clinking Amaretto gla.s.ses, sharing a postcoital joke at her expense. ”Did you catch the business-cla.s.s-sized b.u.t.t on her, Harry?”

the girl would say. But then Harry pressed Magnolia to him, drew her down to the cool, cotton sheets, and pinned her body under his.

”Magnolia Gold, my darling, surrender your red badge of courage,”

he ordered, in a low growl. ”I am the big bad wolf.”

Chapter 1 4.

Whatever Turns You On.

”Magnolia Bakery?” Magnolia said.

In every relations.h.i.+p, the man came up with the same idea. Harry just thought of it sooner than most. On Sunday, a few weeks after they'd started seeing each other, Magnolia met Harry at the front of the bakery's line. Hipsters and tourists alike trailed out the door, waiting for sugar transfusions. Magnolia Bakery might be in the Village, but inside, under the swirl of a lazy ceiling fan, you could easily imagine Scarlett waving a confederate flag. Magnolia found Harry's gesture as endearing as the bak ery's signature cupcakes iced in the hues of little girls' party dresses.

”Four, please,” he said to the guy behind the counter.

”Four?” Magnolia said. ”I'll be as big as Bebe.”

”On you it would look good,” he said, putting a piece of cupcake in her mouth. She wondered what life might have been like if she'd been named, say, Hermes: smaller b.u.t.t, better bags.

It was definitely the gold rush. She and Harry had been seeing each other two or three times a week and last night, at bedtime, he signed off his phone call with ”You're growing on me.”

”Sweet dreams,” she replied. And that's what her dreams were.

She was gaga over Harry, and his attentions arrived with superb timing. Which made it all the harder to be sitting in her crowded new office on Monday morning, watching a leftover cupcake disap pear into Sasha's mouth as she sought Magnolia's opinion on her new blog.

”What do you think of me calling it Almost 24/7?” Sasha asked.

”I'm almost twenty-four, and I'd yak about everything in my life- oral s.e.x, work, my 32AA b.o.o.bs. Other women should know what it's like to go through life built like a playing card. I'll call that entry 'No b.o.o.bies, No Rubies.' ”

”Almost 24/7? What will you do when you turn twenty-four?”

Magnolia asked.

”Not going to work,” Sasha realized. ”I'll give it another think.”

She licked cupcake crumbs off her fingers. ”Nutritious breakfast.