She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not. Darlene Gardner

mind raced. In horror, he wondered where he’d come up with the death wish to insult a guy who was twice—maybe three times—his size. And worse, he called him Dog Breath, a label he never used with anyone, even his dog Max. As these thoughts crowded Ben’s mind, Dog Breath threw open his door, jumped to the ground and marched right at him.

      Ben prayed the mud hole—strategically placed between him and the trucker—would hinder the one-man death march.

      No such luck.

      Dog Breath stepped in and out of the hole as though it were a mere dent in the road. The death march continued, unabated. Next thing Ben knew, a big jowly face was inches from his own. He fought the urge to cough at the stench of cigarette smoke.

      “My beef, Mr. Beemer, is that people like you think they own the road.”

      Holding his breath, Ben stared at the man’s chest, which was a blur of plaid. He raised his gaze to the man’s beady eyes, which were difficult to see through the folds of fat. But Ben didn’t want to back down. Hell, he’d backed down long enough…to Meredith, to Heather, to Ms. Parking Space.

      “If I’m costing you time and money,” Ben said, “why are you arguing with me, preventing me from getting in my car and moving out of your way?”

      Dog Breath snatched a handful of Ben’s sweatshirt and jerked him closer. “I’m not arguin’,” he growled.

      Ben would have growled back, but the tightly pulled sweatshirt was like a noose around his throat. “Physical violence,” he rasped, “never solved anything.”

      “Oh yeah?”

      “I’m a lawyer.”

      “All da better.”

      The last thing Ben remembered was a chicken-size fist obliterating his vision.

      ROSIE STARED at the flaxen-haired receptionist, who was studiously applying mascara with one hand while holding a small hand mirror with the other.

      “If Benny said he’d meet you at seven-forty-five,” the receptionist said, her eyes never wavering from the hand mirror, “he’ll be here any minute. He’s very punctured.”

      Rosie paused. “You mean punctual?”

      “Yes,” the woman answered absently, adroitly twirling the mascara wand along her lashes.

      Makeup. Rosie never understood why women took such pains to slather on that stuff. Rather than stare at the eyelash-thickening procedure, she checked out a painting over the receptionist’s head. It was a tropical beach under moonlight. Rosie eyed the pearly crest of waves along a dark beach, the spiked silhouette of palm trees, the man-in-the-moon face which was also…a clock? Rosie leaned forward. The moon was definitely a clock. What kind of office had a tropical painting with a clock for a moon? Lawyers. No sense of decor.

      Rosie compared moon-time with her wristwatch. Both read 7:55. She crossed her arms under her chest. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly always on time herself, but hadn’t Mr. ILITIG8 said, “Not seven-fifty-five—seven-forty-five”?

      Uh-huh. Real punctured.

      The clattering of a dropped hand mirror interrupted Rosie’s thoughts.

      “Benny!” The receptionist stood up, her voice rising with her. “Did you get mugged?”

      Rosie turned to look.

      If she’d run into this man on the street, she’d never have recognized him as the nattily dressed lawyer she’d met yesterday. Today he wore a soiled gray sweat suit that looked oddly stretched out around the neckline. His tennis shoes were caked with mud. His hair, which yesterday had been neatly parted on the side, stuck out in tufts that reminded her of the baby chickens back home. One hand clutched the handle of a workout bag—the other held a wadded white napkin to his chin.

      Ben started to speak, but his voice was muffled behind the napkin. He moved it from his lips. “I wasn’t mugged,” he said gruffly, “I was slugged.”

      “Is that a Starbucks napkin?” the receptionist asked, making Rosie wonder if this woman was more caught up with brands than injuries. “That’s why I prefer decaffeinated,” the receptionist said, jabbing her wand into the air for emphasis. “Too much caffeine makes people do weird things.”

      Ben heaved a weighted sigh. “Heather, it has nothing to do with caffeine. A kindly convenience store cashier offered me this napkin filled with ice.”

      “Wow,” Rosie said softly. “You can get everything at convenience stories these days. Even medical help.”

      Ben flashed her a disbelieving look. In a low growl, he said, “It’s you.”

      She straightened. “We had an appointment at seven-forty-five.” When his blue eyes narrowed, she bit her tongue, wishing she hadn’t blurted the appointment thing. The man obviously had a very good reason for being late.

      “Sorry,” he said, sounding about as unsorry as anyone she’d ever met. “I would have been here on time, showered, dressed appropriately, and unslugged if somebody had gotten into work at a reasonable time, not some nocturnal predawn hour. Otherwise, I could have briefly used the shared space.” He clenched his jaw muscle, then winced. Adjusting the napkin, he glanced at Heather. “You’re early.”

      “I was late yesterday, so I’m early today,” she said, adjusting a strap on her shift before sitting back down. “Making up for that hour.”

      “Making up, all right,” he murmured, glancing at the mascara wand. “I’d love a Scotch,” Ben said to no one in particular, “but all I need is early-morning booze breath to complete this gone-to-hell look. After picking myself up from the alley asphalt, I had to park four blocks away. Do you believe on the way back, somebody mistook me for a vagrant and slipped me a quarter?” He gave his head a shake, then winced again. “But all’s not lost. Maybe Meredith can use this down-and-dirty, slugged look as a new theme when she breaks up with her next boyfriend.” He headed toward his office. “Would you be a pal and get me a cup of coffee? Black.” He disappeared through the doorway. “Like my heart.”

      “Oh, I almost forgot! Your eight o’clock will be a few minutes late!” The receptionist brushed her hair back with her mascara-wand-free hand. “I’ve never seen him like this!” she whispered urgently to Rosie. “Even the time that Christmas tree fell on him and we had to call 911.”

      “Christmas tree?” Rosie repeated, blinking. But the receptionist was engrossed in putting away the mascara and digging around in a little polka-dot bag from which she extracted various tubes and bottles. “I’ll get the coffee,” Rosie murmured, unsure who exactly Ben had called “pal,” considering he seemed a bit peeved with both of them.

      Okay, maybe a little extra peeved with Rosie, but considering they had to negotiate sharing the parking space, she decided it was best if she were his pal. That’s what Athena, the goddess who joined men as an equal, would do. Yes! Athena was the perfect goddess persona to adopt for this encounter.

      Rosie-Athena headed to an arrangement of coffee stuff on a corner metal table. Reaching it, she scanned the pot, sugar and cream containers, and the collection of Hollywood mugs. Rosie felt a mild surge of guilt as she recalled that the James Dean cup still sat on her desk. Well, she’d return it later. For now, should she pick the mug with the movie title Singin’ in the Rain? No. There might be sunshine outside, but Ben looked as though he were having a rainy day. And he definitely didn’t look as though he wanted to sing. Nix that one.

      Blonde Venus? No. He’d visibly flinched when he’d glanced at that yesterday. My Fair Lady? Hmm. Some Like it Hot? Hot coffee. He’d like it. Yes!

      Rosie poured the steaming liquid into the cup, checking out its picture of Marilyn Monroe wearing some clingy dress and playing a ukulele. Did Benjamin Taylor like that kind of big-breasted, blond-bombshell type? An uncomfortable feeling skittered around Rosie’s stomach. Maybe she’d quaffed her nutri-quasi-Twinkie bar too quickly.