Love at Large Part 5

Whatever she'd been expecting, this wasn't it. "What?"

"Well, it seems to me that if you're going to get this one-woman show you want, then you're going to have to be a.s.sertive." He leaned forward and took Darby's hands in his. "You have talent, Darby, real talent. And you have such a wonderful personality." He grinned. "And you're so darn pretty. Ol' Griffith would probably fall all over himself to give you the show of a lifetime."

"You really think so?" She couldn't stop herself from looking at the way their hands seemed to melt together-a perfect fit.

"I feel very strongly that you should do this. Something tells me that if you approach Griffith personally the show will happen." He squeezed her hands for emphasis.

"But I don't know if I have enough pieces ready."

"So what. Show him what you have, then work on more if they're needed."

"And I have a couple of commissions to complete."

"Again, not a problem. Plan the show for after the commissions are finished."

"But what if-"

"Come on, Darby," Martin said. "There are plenty of reasons to put this off longer, but one really good reason for doing this now."

"Oh?"

"You're good. It's time to take this step."

She glanced up, and when her gaze connected with his, her mind was made up. "All right, I will!"

"Excellent!" Martin stood and pulled on his jacket. "I'll be waiting to hear how it turns out." At the door of the apartment, he turned and cupped her chin with his hand. Her skin tingled where his fingers touched. "Now I don't want you to chicken out once I walk through this door." She chuckled. He read her very well. "Tomorrow morning, you call and make an appointment, okay?"

She smiled and nodded. "Okay."

The next morning, Darby found herself watching the slow crawl of the clock's hands, waiting for nine a.m. when normal business hours would be starting and she could call the Griffith Gallery. At five minutes past nine she punched out the number.

"Griffith Gallery." The slightly nasal, feminine voice pierced her eardrum.

"h.e.l.lo, this is Darby Marshall. I was wondering if I might speak with Mr. Griffith." Her hands were cold and sweaty, but her cheeks felt hot.

"I suggest making an appointment, Miss Marshall. Mr. Griffith is a very busy man."

"Of course." She felt stupid. Martin had told her to do that before he left, and she'd promised, so she made an appointment for the following Friday afternoon. By the time she hung up the phone, she was s.h.i.+vering from a mix of excitement and fear.

FRIDAY CAME TOO quickly, and yet not quickly enough. Darby arrived early at the gallery, her large black portfolio making her arm ache. She had dressed to impress, wearing her power suit of charcoal grey.

"Have a seat, Miss Marshall," the receptionist said, with the merest glance up from her computer screen.

Darby sat on the edge of the chair and stared at the door that marked Mr. Griffith's office. Beyond that door was her future, whatever that might be, and she was overwhelmed at the thought. She fidgeted in her seat and tugged at the hem of her skirt.

Minutes seemed like hours, and she almost decided to leave when the receptionist spoke.

"You may go in now, Miss Marshall."

Darby hadn't heard any buzzer or phone. It was as if this woman had channeled the information. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her portfolio and went to the ma.s.sive wood door. The artist in her took a moment to admire the intricate relief carving that made the door quite special. With one last mental prayer, she turned the k.n.o.b and entered the office.

At first, it didn't appear that anyone was in the room. She took in the lush carpet, the rich, deep wood of the furniture, the muted light grey of the s.p.a.ce, and the astonis.h.i.+ng array of artwork on the walls. Vibrant color danced around the room. Darby's eyes went from one piece to the next, dazzled at the talent residing there.

She began a slow tour around the office, stopping to drink in the beauty of the collection. She was so absorbed in admiring each work that it didn't occur to her to wonder where Mr. Griffith was. She had circled the entire room and came to the last wall by the door.

What met her eyes stunned her beyond reason. For there, on the wall, hung two fractals. Her fractals. The fractals she had sold to Martin at the craft show.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

"Then I'll explain," came a voice.

A hand rested on her shoulder. She turned and found herself looking into Martin's wonderful brown eyes.

"First, let me introduce myself. My name is Martin Griffith...Martin Thomas Griffith." He held out his hand and, in a daze, Darby offered hers. "I hope you'll forgive my little subterfuge these past few weeks."

"But...why?" She searched his face, but could not see answers.

"Truthfully? I stopped into the craft show on a whim. I never expected to find that the most beautiful work of art in the room would be a woman..."

He stepped closer, and Darby's heart pounded.

"Even though I admired your fractals, I didn't want to be Griffith, gallery owner at that moment. I wanted to be Martin, a guy interested in a girl. I wanted you to get to know me, and I wanted to spend time with you."

She stood speechless as Martin continued.

"This will sound crazy, but I didn't connect Darby Marshall, fractal artist to D. Marshall, painter and sculptor until after we had spoken at the craft show. It just added to my pleasure that you were one and the same."

"So, the fractal lessons..." Darby put her hand over her heart.

"It was the only way I could think of to make it natural for us to spend time together. I thought if I asked you out on the spot, you might turn me down." He stepped even closer and put his hands on her shoulders. "And I couldn't risk that."

Her knees went weak. "Oh," was all she could think of to say.

"So, here's what I propose." He leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on her lips. "I suggest we go out for a nice quiet dinner and plan your first fractal show."

"But you don't have to...."

"Shhhh." He placed a finger on her lips then replaced the finger with his mouth.

He ended the kiss and spoke. "You have to understand my strategy. It could take months and months of planning together to get this show launched. Hours together, alone...planning..." He kissed her again.

Each kiss was electric, and Darby wound her arms around his neck, certain it was the only way she would keep vertical.

"So, do we have a deal?"

"Yes," she said. She looked with wonder into Martin's eyes, seeing the desire there. To think she had met him at that cursed craft show. She'd really have to give Ol' Sylvia a call and thank her. "Oh, yes."

"Perfect."

They sealed the bargain with another kiss.

About the Author.

Canadian Author Judy Bagshaw is a woman with a mission and a unique vision. She has lived all her life as a plus size person in a thin-obsessed world. As a full time elementary school teacher for over two decades, she has personally witnessed the effect this thin obsession has had on many of her young, impressionable students. She has also recognized the need for people of size to see themselves represented in the media as more than the b.u.t.t of jokes, the villain, or the jolly sidekick. To this end, Judy's romance short stories and novels feature plus sized central characters living rich, involved lives, just as she has. You can find out more about Judy's work at http://writerlady.homestead.com/homepage.html

DIRTY LAUNDRY.

Jennifer Harrington.

Dedication.

To my family and my BBW writing pals, who always said I could do this.

"I TELL YOU, Flo, he sure got my pacemaker jumping!"

Lauren Giles backed through the door of the laundry room, arms straining under the weight of the wicker basket she carried. Her ears perked at the booming declaration just made by her least favorite neighbor, Gladys Bronowski. Gladys was ancient and didn't have the least bit of use for other human beings, especially the male sort, so if some fella had caught her attention he must be something amazing indeed.

a.s.saulted by bright light and the whirring and clanking of busy machines, Lauren allowed herself a moment to adjust from the change of the cool, dim hall before searching for a s.p.a.ce to claim as her own. Spotting a pair of rickety chairs huddled around a squat dingy table, she hefted the full-to-overflowing basket higher on one generous hip and plodded over to the far corner. On the way, she nodded to purple velour-clad Gladys and her cronies, whom she had long ago dubbed the "Bitter Biddy Bridge club". Most days they were kind enough to her face, but Lauren had heard many hastily cut-off comments about her crumbling marriage during the past several months. It was just her luck to have to share her Sat.u.r.day morning with them.

Sucking in a deep breath of dank air she blew her unruly bangs from her eyes, and staked her claim on a small corner of the room. There she unpacked her laundry room survival kit: a small box of chocolates, a can of diet cola, and her most beloved romance novel. This last item she gave a fond pat as she set it on the table. Lauren picked up her basket again, darting a final glance at the brawny kilted hero who graced the book's cover. Releasing a wistful sigh, she shook her head and walked away. They sure don't make 'em like that anymore.

A moment's search led her to an available was.h.i.+ng machine. She was about to load her darks into it when one of the old women shouted, "Dontcha see that it's broken, girly?!"

Lauren slinked across the aisle to a trio of open washers and made a great show of searching for her change purse, wincing when Gladys barked, "Don't see much, that girl. Husband having an affair right under her nose like that, and her too dim to see it!"

Lauren would have given anything to be able to stuff the cackling old crow into the nearest washer and set her on spin cycle! She dug some quarters out of her wallet, snapped them into the slots, and forced the levers home, then slopped some soap into both machines, adding bleach to the one on the right. Maybe this group of ladies would have been friendlier if she had sought them out. But Lauren's innate shyness and discomfort at baring her wounded soul had caused her to shrink in on herself, rather than reach out to anybody during this past, painful year.

Anxious to be back in her haven of chocolate and happily-ever-after, she tossed clothes about in a flurry of activity. Blue jeans, left--white tee s.h.i.+rt, right. Red shorts, left--white sock, right. Almost entranced by the simple-minded activity, she was jolted back to reality by Mrs. B's grating voice.

"Y'know, if I were just a few years younger, I'd go after that hot stud myself!"

Lauren's brow furrowed even deeper over that last outrageous statement. She tried to imagine a guy, any guy, hanging around Gladys long enough for her to put some smooth moves on him.

"Gladys! You can't be serious! Why he's young enough to be your son. Or grandson, even!" Lauren recognized the nasal-sounding voice of the prudish Miss Carmichael, a shriveled husk of a woman who had been giving piano lessons to local children for the last 50 years. She would probably continue do so until she expired, most likely while sitting at the keyboard.

She grimaced at the thought of some unfortunate law enforcement officer answering a call about a strange smell coming from Miss C's apartment. She could imagine him opening the door to find the old woman sitting stiffly on the bench, hands splayed across the keys, the metronome still keeping time for one whom time no longer mattered.

"Or grandson-in-law."

Mrs. B's thoughtful rejoinder pulled Lauren back to earth again.

"Yes, I think it wouldn't be a bad idea if I had my girl over for a visit this week. Wouldn't hurt to have her help me bake a few goodies and deliver them up to 7A as part of the welcome wagon, eh?"

Lauren gave another snort. It was unfair and ludicrous that a baby named Barbara had grown up to look like the fas.h.i.+on doll, but that was just what had happened in Barbie Bronowski's case. Apparently babies named Lauren hadn't such high expectations for when they grew up. Or rather when they grew out. She made a self-conscious shuffle to the left to hide more of her wide hips behind her was.h.i.+ng machines.

"I wouldn't wait too long to get her over here, or he might get snapped up by someone living in the building. That redhead upstairs, for one," chimed in Mrs. Morretti, right-hand yes-woman to Mrs. B.

"She's no match for my girl! There's no one in this building who can even come close to her."

Lauren felt rather than saw the crone tilt her head toward the corner. "Men don't fall for a girl like that. Not unless she runs them down in the hallway."

Lauren felt her cheeks burn with anger as she pulled another piece of clothing from her basket and clutched it in her fist. Of all the nerve!

The laundry room door bounced open, startling Lauren, who gave a small hiccup of surprise. Her jaw went slack as she saw the man who had kicked it open. Not just tall, he was broad and well-muscled, as though he was used to physical labor. The hair waving across his brow was the same shade of inky black as his T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans, which molded themselves to his hard body as though he'd been dipped in dark chocolate. His heavy black boots landed with decisive thuds against the grey tiled floor as he strolled through the group of swooning septuagenarians. Glancing from one to another with his intense blue-green eyes, he gave each of the ladies a roguish yet sincere-seeming smile through his close-trimmed moustache and beard. Her eyes followed him as he sauntered his way across to the corner.

Her corner.

She'd be sharing her table with this hunk of a man, this stepped-right-off-of-a-romance-novel-cover G.o.d! She cringed as she mentally heard her mother's voice intoning, "Never put off was.h.i.+ng your laundry 'til you run out of clothes." Why don't I ever listen to her? Lauren moaned, feeling her absolute worst in her rumpled, stained sweat suit complete with moth-eaten granny briefs beneath.

Briefs? Oh Gos.h.!.+ The sudden realization hit her that she had been standing about with her red thong dangling from her right fist for the entire world to see. In a flash, she dropped it straight into the gaping machine below, and raised her eyes heavenward in a silent thank you that no one had been watching.

Sucking in a breath of air to once more blow her bangs from her eyes, she found that the humidity had plastered them to her forehead. Yet another thing you shouldn't have put off was.h.i.+ng. Never in all her 30 years had she felt less attractive. Even the old biddies could beat me hands down in a beauty contest right about now.

The machines in front of her rumbled to life, bringing Lauren back to the task at hand. She sorted the remaining clothes in haste, stuffed them into the washers, and dropped the lids closed. She glanced back at her corner, trying to decide if the dire situation merited its abandonment. She felt the level of estrogen in the room surge to new heights as the stranger chose that moment to seat himself in one of the chairs, stretching panther-like in order to better accommodate himself.

Lauren made great pretense of arranging her empty basket, laundry detergent, and fabric softener on the top of her washers. Sneaking another look in the man's direction, she realized he had carried a black leather bag into the room with him. He rooted around in it and smiled in satisfaction when a small foil-wrapped item emerged in his hand.

A Power Bar. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, but had to give him points for the carton of chocolate milk which followed soon after. He reached into the bag again and withdrew a battered paperback, so old and tattered it was all Lauren could do to make out the words, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance splashed across its cover. She shrugged at that, figuring he had selected it for the motorcycle slant, as he looked more like a well-manicured h.e.l.l's Angel than a benevolent Buddha.

His bright eyes caught hers and he gave her a friendly smile before flipping open his book and burying himself in it.

Lord, the man was magnificent! In panic, Lauren turned back to her machines, hoping he wouldn't notice that she pressed her hands to the pit of her stomach as though they could calm the hundreds of b.u.t.terflies taking wing inside her. She puffed out her cheeks, blew the air out through her teeth, and straightened her spine before turning back to see if he was still distracted by his reading.

He was.

She cleared her dry throat and decided this was as good a time as any to return to her seat. Feeling like the world's frowsiest hausfrau, she crept back to the corner and breathed a self-congratulatory sigh of relief for reaching the table without drawing notice to herself. But she celebrated a moment too soon, for as she turned the back of her heel hit the metal leg of the chair, which gave a deafening screech as it skittered away from her. Lauren threw herself backward in a desperate bid to plant her backside on the retreating furniture, only (just) saving herself from plopping on the floor in a graceless heap.

Heat filled her face as she made a blind grope for her soda and missed knocking her book to the floor. Her numb fingers struggled until she finally popped the tab of the can. She raised her shaking hand to her mouth and gratefully swallowed draught after draught of the cool beverage, her tongue snaking out to lick any wayward drops from her lips.

Thirst abated, she turned her attention to her box of chocolates, and gave an imperceptible shake of her head. Much as she'd love to dive into her velvety treat, the unbearable heat of the room must have taken its toll on them. She could not, would not be seen by this gorgeous hunk dribbling candy all over her herself!

With reluctance, she turned from the chocolates to her book, which she picked up with as much nonchalance as possible under the circ.u.mstances, and opened to the little Celtic cross-st.i.tch book mark she'd made the winter before last. Raising the novel s.h.i.+eld-like in front of her face, Lauren tried to make sense of the words that on any other day she could have recited from memory. Leaning a bit to the left, she peeked around the paperback at her uninvited tablemate, who gave a deft lick to one large thumb and turned another page of his book, wreaking still more havoc on her frayed nervous system.

She brought her eyes back to the words on the page and tried to regain her normal breathing pattern. She heard a soft tearing sound: the chocolate milk carton.