Love-Lines Read online

  Love-Lines

  Sheri Langer

  Love-Lines

  Red Adept Publishing, LLC

  104 Bugenfield Court

  Garner, NC 27529

  http://RedAdeptPublishing.com/

  Copyright © 2019 by Sheri Langer. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: February 2019

  Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One: Eat, Play, Love

  Chapter Two: Runaway Pride

  Chapter Three: From Here to Maternity

  Chapter Four: Lovers and Other Dangers

  Chapter Five: Bell, Book, and Scandal

  Chapter Six: It’s a Blunderful Life

  Chapter Seven: Track to the Future

  Chapter Eight: Close Encounters of the Absurd Kind

  Chapter Nine: The Wedding Zinger

  Chapter Ten: The Draw-Blank Redemption

  Chapter Eleven: Mothering Heights

  Chapter Twelve: On the Daughter Front

  Chapter Thirteen: The Good, the Bad, and the Bubbly

  Chapter Fourteen: Admission Impossible

  Chapter Fifteen: Tunestruck

  Chapter Sixteen: Of Advice and Men

  Chapter Seventeen: Bless Who’s Coming to Dinner

  Chapter Eighteen: The Way We Err

  Chapter Nineteen: Stunts upon a Mattress

  Chapter Twenty: Journey to the Center of the Dearth

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Wedding Zinger

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Floored of the Rings

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Some Like It Not

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Sleepless in Seattle—Really

  Flowers from the Heart: | Love Online after Forty

  I Got You, Abe

  Love-Lines

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One: Eat, Play, Love

  “Okay, spill.” Fordham Price was determined to get answers, and she wasn’t about to relent without a struggle. She assumed a tone learned from watching episodes of Law and Order and cocked her head, sending her long dark-brown hair dangling down her back. “So?” She widened her eyes as she waited for Margo to supply her with a story that would make their lunch date less about business and more about fun.

  “Fordham, darling, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Margo Flax was probably ten years older than Fordham’s forty-plus—nobody knew Margo’s true age—and still a head turner. She was elegant and sophisticated—if a bit pretentious—and as stubborn as a poppy seed wedged between two teeth.

  Their waitress, a toned, bronzed blonde, arrived with an enormous banana-split sundae she carried as if it were the Hope Diamond. She quickly set the dessert in front of Margo, looking nervous, as if fearful that she too might be on Margo’s menu if she stuck around long enough.

  Margo clapped her hands. “Wow! This looks amazing!”

  “I think a dozen cows went into a coma just to make this happen,” Fordham said.

  Margo took a slow, calculated bite like a woman rehearsing a scene from Fifty Shades of Grey. “Mmm. It even smells exquisite. Oh, come on. Have a sniff.” Margo tempted Fordham with a heaping spoonful as if coaxing an obstinate toddler.

  “I can’t.” Fordham pushed the spoon away. “The last time I was near one of those was over a decade ago on a date at retro night at the drive-in with Marshall Jaro. John Travolta was in a white leisure suit, scaling the Verrazano Bridge, and every time Marshall went to kiss me, hot fudge would slide down my throat. Since then, whenever I hear the Bee Gees, I swear I gain ten pounds.”

  “You have an interesting history, Fordham, but you don’t know what you’re missing.” Another bite of vanilla fudge ice cream disappeared between Margo’s lips.

  “Oh, yes, I do. An extra year on my treadmill. You are aware that you’re Margo Flax and you’re eating a banana split?”

  In the three years they’d been friends and coworkers, Fordham had only seen Margo eat outside the food pyramid once. It was at an office party, and she was drunk. The hot mail guy had dangled a churro from his open fly.

  “Of course I’m aware, darling. I’m celebrating.”

  “I assumed you were celebrating when you ate all the croutons in your salad. Not to mention the hamburger. What happened to, ‘Water, no lemon’ and ‘Garnish is just a pretty word for calories’? Margo, this is just plain nuts.”

  “Mmm, no, not plain. Candied... candied walnuts, and they are beyond delicious.” Margo licked her lips. “This is almost as good as sex.”

  “Considering that the last sex I had couldn’t rival mung beans, I’ll pass, thank you.” Fordham squeezed a tired wedge of lime into her seltzer. “Margo, I’m worried about you. You seem happy, but your fondest sex tip is, ‘Go with Cool Whip Lite, especially if you swallow—it’s fewer carbs.’ What exactly are you celebrating, anyway? Last night’s orgasm?”

  “Last night’s... the one from the night before... the one after breakfast this morning. I’m celebrating love. It is so much better the fourth time around.”

  “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” Fordham’s tone sounded more defeated than she had intended.

  “The little girls’ room is calling again.” Margo stood and patted Fordham on the back. “Help yourself, if you dare.” She smoothed her dress over what Fordham guesstimated was an additional five pounds on her tiny frame and strolled away with a confident swagger.

  Celebrating love was a notion Fordham couldn’t relate to. For one thing, her ex-husband had taught her everything about love she never needed or wanted to know. And judging by Margo’s behavior, love involved having to shop in the plus-size department. When Elizabeth Taylor fell in love with John Warner, she gained the state of Virginia. And it ended anyway. It always ended.

  Fordham checked the time. She’d asked Margo to lunch because she needed a favor, and so far, her request was the only ingredient not to make it into the sundae. Still, Fordham wanted to get out of there. Sure, she adored Margo, but the excessive cheeriness was daunting and getting on her nerves. Maybe Fordham could speed the process along with an urgent message that would allow her a polite, expedient exit. She checked her texts and emails. Nothing. She’d feel too guilty if she made something up. No, even though they met at work, she and Margo were friends first. She’d suck up her discomfort, and when the time was right, she’d ask for the favor.

  Fordham grabbed a toasty breadstick calling her from the basket, studied it, and tossed it back in. She rarely went out for lunch, and when she did, Café Panache on Amsterdam and West Seventy-Ninth Street was not her kind of place. She preferred the diner around the corner from her office at Haskins Publishing in Chelsea. They served giant cups of coffee with long rock-candy stirrers and fat-free muffins that tasted as if her jeans would still fit when she was finished. The restaurant she sat in at the moment didn’t have much of what she considered panache, despite its name. With its high-tech lighting and monochromatic furnishings, the place felt cold and impersonal, though commanding and pretentious, as if everybody was somebody and anybody who wasn’t somebody could pretend they were and have others believe it. Fordham didn’t think anyone noticed
her in the mix.

  In need of immediate gratification, she picked up the rejected breadstick and treated herself to a bite. So this is what all the fuss is about. She had to admit, she’d never tasted a carb that offered so much personality.

  Only a few tables were filled, but given the late hour, that was understandable. Fordham was sorry she hadn’t brought her tablet with her. She could have been watching the Nora Ephron marathon on Turner Classic Movies. She couldn’t understand what was taking Margo so long. In a corner booth sat a woman in her seventies with big eyes, shiny red lips, and short grayish hair. She was with a distinguished-looking man of about the same age. He had the kind of hair that made balding thirty-year-old guys say, “Yeah, but I bet he has a small dick.” The two were in their own world, talking and staring into each other’s eyes. Each time the man would say something, the woman would giggle and touch his arm. The old guy motioned for the waiter, who promptly came over to their table with a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket.

  The waiter ceremoniously popped the cork, poured, and went to speak to another server. The old man gave a toast, and they both drank from their flutes. Afterward, he stood up, reached into his pocket, and effortlessly dropped onto one knee. Fordham couldn’t see the diamond sparkling in what appeared to be a velvet box, but she could imagine it. Her heart beat a little faster when the woman squealed in delight while the man slid the ring onto her finger. The two began kissing as if they were in a high school cafeteria. The self-involved power lunchers didn’t seem to notice the couple. Fordham turned away, a little embarrassed to witness such a personal moment.

  Margo marched out of the ladies’ room and, as if she could sniff the diamond, made a beeline for the newly engaged couple. Of course she did. Margo was in love and needed to share her excitement with people who could relate. They offered her a glass of champagne, but she refused and shot a nod in Fordham’s direction. Hugs were exchanged as if they were all members of the same secret club.

  Great. Just great. But Fordham refused to follow through with that thought. Jealousy was for losers. Still, Margo looked stunning, and it had nothing to do with the ocean-blue Donna Karan dress she’d bought at Neiman Marcus the week before—“Darling, they had the most wonderful little sale”—or her perfect auburn hair cut to the appropriate length to both gently convey and masterfully hide her age from every telling angle. Fordham had to surmise that love looked good on Margo. The woman’s radiance even transcended her finishing powder.

  She sat across from Fordham, smiling like a cat who had discovered an aviary in her backyard, then resumed taking enthusiastic bites of her dessert. Fordham returned to her garden salad tossed with a mound of sprouts and an adventurous handful of Chinese noodles.

  “So, who’s the lucky guy who is worth all the...?” Fordham used her finger to outline a circle around the ice cream.

  “Oh, I’m the lucky one, but my mouth is zipped on this. At least for now.”

  “It’s someone from the office!” Fordham shrieked. Maybe she’d finally gained some ground in solving the mystery.

  “I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything, and I’m not going to, either. No jinxing. So just drop the inquisition.” She followed the order with a few more spoonfuls of hot fudge.

  “Fine. I guess your secret will come out when you have to let your pants out. Did you know that menopausal women addicted to sugar invented the elasticized waistband?”

  Margo speared a slice of banana, laid the fork down, and hugged Fordham’s hand. “Fordham, you’re too much.”

  “I’m too much? Ha.” It took a moment, but Fordham realized that she was the rude one. Margo hadn’t done anything except smile excessively. “I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch. It’s just all the dating and all the starving because of all the dating.”

  “Sorry, sweetie. Just give it time. You and Gil have been split... what, a year?”

  “Actually, over three, but I’ve stopped counting since my mother now does that for me.”

  Margo raised an eyebrow. “I have some idea what it’s like to be a daughter, but what’s it like to have a daughter?”

  “Amazing. Whitty is a little bit of everything I always wanted to be. I think my mother sees that too.” Fordham sighed. She still had trouble living up to her mother’s expectations.

  “I wish I had a mother like Dorie around. I would never have to worry about bad bras or the wrong eye shadow. You’re so lucky.”

  “True. Every day with Dorie feels like a day on What Not to Wear.”

  “How is it going having Dorie living with you and Whitty?”

  “It has its moments. Sometimes, I want to pull out every hair on my head. Other times, I want to pull out every hair on hers. But for the most part, she’s been really great. She adores Whitty, and she helps keep the house safe from the clutches of schmutz, her pet name for anything that can’t breathe but can be captured by a sponge.”

  Margo nodded. “But how is she doing? It must be so difficult for her to deal with all the changes.”

  “Other than an obsession with online Scrabble that keeps her up till all hours, I think she’s managing. I know she misses my dad and her own space. I hear her crying sometimes. He was a great guy—one who couldn’t say no to Atlantic City or Belmont or Fantasy Football... or to her. I guess he figured what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.”

  Margo waved her spoon. “Famous last words. Sorry, but I’ve never known a liar who doesn’t think of himself as some kind of hero.”

  “Lying was only a symptom. He was sick. We just didn’t know it. But we certainly found out the hard way.” Fordham poked at her arugula. “And with it all, we were close. At least, I thought we were. I still miss him, and it’s been almost a year. Every time Sinatra comes on the radio, I know my dad is visiting me.”

  Margo sat back. “I’m so sorry, Fordham.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin, missing a thin line of hot fudge. “So no men, no sex, no sweets, and no money. Even Mother Teresa traveled. How are you managing?”

  “I’m fine. Really. Gil went to Istanbul to start some outsourcing service, and even though Whitty misses him, I sing ‘Happy Happy Joy Joy’ every day. She seems to be holding her own without him, anyway. And I’m paying my bills by doing something I love. It’s funny. A few years ago, I didn’t know what a public relations manager was, but Abe saw something in me and hired me anyway. Sometimes, I’m still not sure what I’m doing, but he’s been great about giving me autonomy and letting me make the position my own. The man is a gem.”

  “Yes, he can be wonderful. Of course, I want to slam him for giving me this latest Flowers from the Heart book, Love Online. I know. It sounds sweeter than this”—Margo pointed to her almost-finished ice cream—“but it isn’t.”

  “Why?” Fordham was genuinely puzzled. The Flowers from the Heart series was a Haskins original and the first endeavor to give the tiny publishing company any kind of attention among its mighty brethren. The concept was simple but brilliant: books that were like reality shows that people could read. The editor targeted a specific audience that shared a common interest or experience and solicited relevant personal stories, which she then organized into a collection and compiled into a book. Hell, even a ten-year-old like Whitty could probably edit one.

  “It’s a different concept from our usual format. It’s far more extensive, and I’m so inundated with material I can’t get a solid handle on how to fit it all together.” Margo was so distraught she dropped her spoon. “I was told it was going to be like Flowers from the Heart: The Bridesmaid Who Is Never the Bride. I loved working on that. This sounded like it was going to be just as much fun, but it’s become a huge headache. I have to comb through emails from people who either have no insight, no couth, no conscience, or no shrink. I had to scrap everything, and now I’m back to square one. I’m sorry I agreed to do it.”

  “Could you have refused?”

  “I don’t see how. Sunny Wallerstein might have done it, but now she’s do
ing The Birdwatcher so I get Love Online. At least I have until next summer to get it done. It’s going to take me almost that long just to choose submissions and edit.”

  Fordham’s job involved being behind the scenes: talking to authors and agents, setting up photo shoots, and arranging promotions and tours. Although she’d recently amped up her time at the office, she realized it had been a mistake.

  Margo went back to the sundae, scooping up the nuts with the help of a breadstick.

  “Margo, I hate to ask, but...” Fordham paused as she watched the engaged couple leave the restaurant amid cheers from the staff.

  “Fordham, what is it?”

  “It’s Whitty,” Fordham said. “I think I’ve been working too much, and I’m afraid I haven’t been giving her enough quality time.”

  “Ooh! Has she been complaining?”

  “No, not at all, but that’s not typically her style. So I was wondering, do you think you could handle some of the PR for this project?” Fordham motioned to the server to bring the check and continued. “I mean, you have so many connections, and you’re so good at knowing and getting whatever you want.

  “That’s true.” Margo sucked on a maraschino cherry.

  “And if possible, I’d like to keep this just between us.”

  “Like sisters?”

  Since neither of them had siblings, sisters was fine if Margo needed to hear it to comply with Fordham’s request.

  “Sure,” Fordham agreed. “Like sisters.”

  “Okay,” Margo said, taking the final bite of banana.

  “Thank you, Margo. You have actually made my weekend.”

  “Glad I could help.” Margo jumped up suddenly. “Sorry, I have to run. I have an appointment downtown!”

  “Oh, okay.” Fordham reached into her bag and pulled out a credit card.

  “No,” Margo insisted. “This one’s on me.”

  It wasn’t worth arguing. Even though Fordham was doing okay with Gil’s support checks augmenting her salary, Margo was from old money. As stipulated in her trust-fund agreement, the checks would keep coming as long as she had gainful employment. Regardless, Fordham would insist on paying next time.