Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [178]
I’d intended to concentrate, but my eyes kept wandering to the scene outside the sliding glass door. Dwayne, who’d been lounging in a deck chair, was now making desultory calls on his cell phone. He stepped in and out of my line of vision as I hit the print button, wirelessly sending information to Dwayne’s printer. Nirvana. I’m technologically challenged, but Dwayne has a knack for keeping things running smoothly and efficiently despite my best efforts. Since I’d acquired my laptop—a gift from an ex-boyfriend—I’d slowly weaned myself from my old grinder of a desktop. This new, eager, slimmed-down version had leapfrogged me into a new era of computers. It fired up and slammed me onto the Internet faster than you can say, “Olly olly oxen free.” (I have no idea what this means, but it was a favorite taunt from my brother, Booth, who was always crowing this when we were kids, gloating and laughing and skipping away, delighted that he’d somehow “got” me. Which, when I think about it, still has the power to piss me off.)
The laptop untethered me from my old computer’s roosting spot on the desk in my bedroom. Now, I’m mobile. I bring my work over to Dwayne’s, which he highly encourages. I’m fairly certain Dwayne hopes I’ll suddenly whirl into a female frenzy of cleaning and make his place spotless. Like, oh, sure, that’s going to happen.
Still, I enjoy my newfound freedom and so Dwayne’s cabana has become a sort-of office for me. I early on claimed my spot on his well-used but extremely comfortable one-time blue, now dusty gray, sofa. Being more of a phone guy, Dwayne spends his time on his back deck/dock and conducts business outdoors as long as it isn’t raining or hailing and sometimes even if it is.
Feeling absurdly content (always a bad sign for me, one I choose to ignore) I checked my e-mail. Nothing besides a note from someone named Trixie, which I instantly deleted. One day I made the mistake of opening one of those spam e-mails about super-hot sex, and ever since I’ve been blessed with a barrage of Viagra, Cialis and penis enlargement ads and/or promises. If I didn’t have penis envy before, I sure as hell do now. Eighteen inches? Where would you park that thing on a daily basis? There are a lot of hours when it’s not in use…unless you count the fact that it functions as some guys’ brains. I have met these sorts, but I try not to date them. Makes for uncomfortable dinners out where I talk and they just stare at my breasts. If I had serious cleavage I could almost understand, but my fear is that it simply means my conversation is really boring.
My cell phone interrupted this inner monologue with a whiny, persistent ring. I am going to have to figure out how to change it. A James Bond theme would be nice. I snatched it up without looking at Caller ID. An error. Marta Cornell, one of Portland’s most voracious divorce lawyers, was on the line.
“Jane!” Marta’s voice shouted into my ear. Her voice lies at sonic-boom level. I feared this time she may have shot one of my inner ear bones—the hammer, the anvil or the stirrup—into the center of my brain. Who names those things, anyway?
“You know Dwayne’s working for Cammie Purcell,” Marta charged ahead without waiting for my response. “Jane? Are you there?”
“Yes.” I was cautious. Marta was Cammie’s divorce lawyer, and Dwayne had been following her husband Chris around for several weeks, intent on obtaining proof that Chris possessed a second family. Said family was apparently sucking up some Purcell money. Chris Denton wasn’t exactly a bigamist. He’d never actually married his other “wife.” But he had children with her and he divided his time between them and Cammie. Stunted as he was maturity-wise, I