It's All About Eve

“As a lawyer who handles criminal cases?” Carter asked.

“No, as a woman. Not my style, at all.”

“Not mine, either,” Carter admitted.

Simone perked up. “So tell me, speaking of style, did you succumb and end up buying anything?”

“Why would Carter buy anything?” Ted asked.

Carter reached over to rub the dog under his chin.

Simone pounced. “You did. You bought something. I knew it. Well, fess up. What was it?”

Carter sat up. Buster gave him a droopy smile. “Some one-piece thing called a teddy. Kind of beige. Nothing too fancy, pretty tame really.” The price tag, on the other hand, had been eye-popping.

Simone raised an eyebrow. “I know the one you mean. It’s the type of thing that doesn’t look like much on a hanger—but put it on a woman’s body and ooh-la-la.”

Carter could easily imagine just which woman’s body. Only too easily.

“Pretty good taste, Carter.”

Carter raked his fingers nervously through his hair. “It’s for my mother.”

“Now as a criminal lawyer I find that very interesting.” She studied Carter carefully. “And as a woman, I would have thought it would have looked much better on someone younger, say late twenties, slim build, with dark hair and an attitude.”

“Speaking of women with attitudes.” Ted leaned over and whispered something into Simone’s ear. He saved Carter from having to respond.

Simone smiled knowingly and rose, wiggling her fingers goodbye to Carter.

Ted stood up. Buster did as well. “Sorry, Carter. You’re going to have to fend for yourself at Tonino’s tonight. ’Fraid the surprise just can’t wait until later.”

The dog wagged his tail. And he wasn’t the only one who was happy.

CARTER SHOWERED AND DROVE to Tonino’s. As soon as he opened the bar door, the air-conditioning hit him with the impact of a Minnesota blizzard. If he weren’t careful, his damp hair would form icicles.

Subarctic temperatures aside, life could be a lot worse. A baseball game was showing on the television, and beer was within striking distance. He commandeered a red leatherette stool and dug into a bowl of peanuts.

“Hey, Carter, What’ll-it-be? The usual?” The young bartender came over.

Carter nodded. “Thanks, Dave. And a large pepperoni pizza.” He suddenly thought of Eve Cantoro and her comment about secure men. He found himself smiling as he grabbed another handful of peanuts and turned his attention to the ball game, or at least his partial attention. The dark-haired storekeeper seemed to be occupying a significant portion of his thoughts, kind of like Otis Red-ding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” insinuating itself agreeably into his psyche, so he went through the day with his eyes half-closed and a devilish smile on his lips.

Still, women—even intriguing ones—came and went, and some, like Three Musketeers bars, melted in the heat of the summer. Baseball, on the other hand—and here, Carter munched philosophically on a peanut—went on forever. He studied the screen. It was an inter-league game—the Phillies playing the Yankees. This part of central Jersey tended to have divided loyalties, with the old-timers favoring the Philadelphia teams and the transplanted residents looking to New York. When the two teams mixed, Jerseyans tended to clash—loudly. Carter had grown up in Ohio with the Indians, so he couldn’t possibly root for another American League team, especially the Yankees. That meant he was a Phillies fan by default.

He tossed a peanut up in the air and caught it in his mouth as the popular Yankee second baseman came to the plate. Just don’t throw it high and outside, he thought. He tossed another nut in the air, catching it easily again.

About as easily as the batter met the high, outside pitch that the Phillies pitcher delivered. A lead-off homerun. Carter shook his head. This is what baseball taught you—humility, and the fact that you paid for your mistakes.

“All right,” a female voice shouted in triumph.

Carter reached for the bottle of Rolling Rock that Dave planted in front of him. “It was a lucky hit,” he muttered.

“Oh, p-lease. Even his grandmother could have hit that high, outside pitch,” the woman’s voice responded.

Carter smiled as he gulped his beer. Ah, a woman who knew something about baseball. Definitely a pleasing discovery. Turning, he sought out the voice, almost willing to forgive her misguided allegiance to the Bronx Bombers. It came from two seats down.

And he almost didn’t recognize her at first.

With her wet hair combed back straight from her forehead, wire-rim glasses slipping down her nose, and smooth skin devoid of any makeup, she could have been eighteen years old. In which case, she had no business sitting at a bar in New Jersey, a state with a minimum drinking age of twenty-one.

But no eighteen-year-old had a cotton shift that stuck to curves quite that way. And this time, she wasn’t wearing basic black.

“Lingerie and the Yankees. There must be a connection somewhere,” Carter said.

A burly middle-aged man with thinning hair, a skinny ponytail and a large tattoo on his upper arm, stared at Carter. “You say something?”

Eve looked over. She raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry, I was talking to the lady.” Carter indicated Eve with the tip of his chin.

The dark-blue entwined snakes on the stranger’s arm moved as he clenched and unclenched his own bottle of Rolling Rock. “As long as that’s the case. I don’t mind the part about lingerie.” He pronounced “lingerie” as “Lon Jerry.” “It’s the idea that you thought I was a Yankees fan. Can’t stand them. A bunch of overpriced prima donnas.”

Carter nodded. “Couldn’t agree with you more.”

“It just goes to show, not everyone can appreciate how ordinary things can be art forms,” Eve said.

The ponytail swerved, and Eve got an eyeful of disdain. She backed off. “I was talking to him—” she pointed to Carter “—about lingerie. Mentioning underwear and America’s pastime in the same breath is practically a desecration—to baseball, that is.”

Ponytail looked to Carter. “What the hell is she talking about?”

Carter shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve got me. She’s new around here and doesn’t know any better.”

The man growled softly and turned his attention back to the screen.

Eve leaned back on her stool and made a face at Carter. He leaned back, too. Don’t cause any trouble, he mouthed silently.

Actually, trouble was staring at him straight in the eye. He would have had to be cryogenically frozen not to notice two enticingly damp spots, located right where her breasts strained against the light-blue fabric of her sleeveless dress. He also saw thin straps from an electric-orange bathing suit tied behind her neck. The combination of strategically placed wetness, skinny straps and scrubbed face produced a kind of girl-next-door/bondage look.

Carter concentrated mightily on making sure his beer bottle reached his mouth. Swallowing came next—he nearly choked to death.

Eve leaned around the large Phillies fan and pounded Carter on the back. Hard. And a very solid back, she couldn’t help noticing.

He held up a hand to indicate he was all right, then covered his mouth and swallowed slowly. “Thanks. Must have gone down the wrong way.” He shifted on his stool and leaned forward. Say something clever, he told himself. “Did you just go swimming?” He groaned inwardly. This was like the cafeteria in high school.

She leaned forward on her elbows to try to talk to him directly. “Swimming? Yup. Across the street at the community pool.”

The man in the middle peeled his eyes off the game. “You two going to keep this up?”

“Yes,” Carter said. “No,” Eve answered.