'Phoebe…'
'I have a four-point-oh this semester. Every semester, in fact, except the last one. Physics kicked my butt.'
'Four-point-oh…' he said, feeling slightly faint. He'd never in his life pulled a 4.0. And he'd majored in liberal arts, which was considerably less demanding than science and business.
Fully dressed, she sat down on the end of the bed. 'Any more questions?'
'What did you make on the SAT?' he asked suspiciously.
'When I took it in high school, eight hundred or so. I don't really remember.'
He felt a bit relieved. Only average. He'd made a 1240 out of 1600, which he remembered because his grandparents had been so proud at the time. He'd thought they might suggest he have the number tattooed on his forehead.
'But when I took it again a few years ago, I did considerably better. I guess I didn't try very hard in high school.'
'So that means you made a…'
'Fifteen-sixty. Do you want to know about my IQ, or have you been shocked enough for one evening?'
He'd better hear it all now. 'Lay it on me.'
'One thirty-seven.'
'Oh, my God, I just made love to a genius.'
'Not quite. One-forty is considered genius level. Still, pretty good for a dumb blonde, huh?'
'I have never called you a dumb blonde,' he said hotly.
'You thought it. Every time you used a big word, you stopped and defined it for me. You patiently explained about the political history of Russia, even though I certainly didn't ask you to. Just this evening, you lectured me on classical music. You even wondered if I understood percentages when you were explaining about the effects of light filters.'
Damn. He was guilty of all those things. 'I over-explain everything to everybody,' he said in his own defense. 'Just ask Phyllis, or Kelly, or Kurt. I would never be attracted to a woman I didn't think was… bright.'
'Bright,' she said, her voice brittle. 'A word normally reserved for children and dogs. Good night, Wyatt.'
'But-' She wasn't going to listen to him, he decided. He couldn't stop her from walking out that door.
She did, without a backward glance.
Damn, he'd blown it this time. Okay, so his sweet little blond bundle of passion was a genius. He could see it. He could get used to it. Most of the women he'd dated over the years had been above-average intelligence. In fact, he was sure he would never be seriously attracted to a woman who couldn't conduct an intelligent conversation, or who never read anything more challenging than a tabloid newspaper.
He'd never, ever, thought Phoebe less than intelligent. He'd just assumed she wasn't well educated. And certainly he'd never guessed she was smarter than him.
Well, damn it, he thought, she didn't go out of her way to flaunt her braininess. She didn't use a lot of big words. She never joined in at the station when he and Phyllis got into philosophical arguments, which was frequently. And when he explained things to her, she didn't gently but firmly inform him that she already understood.
She played it just a little bit dumb, he concluded. Therefore, if he'd made a wrong assumption, he couldn't be blamed entirely for it.
He couldn't mount this ever-so-logical argument, however. Phoebe was gone, and likely not speaking to him in the near future.
Dejected, he went through the condo, picking up the trail of clothes he'd left. Maybe this was for the best. A few minutes ago he'd been ready to commit to a relationship with her. A real, monogamous, regular boyfriend- girlfriend kind of thing. Since it seemed they couldn't keep away from each other, he'd decided they might as well accept the bond growing between them instead of fighting it, which took more time and energy than giving in would have.
Phoebe would have no trouble keeping her hands off him now.
Phoebe crept into her apartment. All was dark and quiet. She released a sigh, relieved her mother hadn't awakened. Maybe she'd taken a sleeping pill.
Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep herself, Phoebe made herself some hot tea and took it onto the balcony. The night air was crisp, but she didn't care. It felt good against her overheated skin. She sat down on a deck chair, set her tea on the little wrought-iron table and proceeded to sob quietly.
Phoebe had never thought of herself as an emotional person. But when she did give in to her feelings, she did it with gusto. She figured the best way to get through this crisis with Wyatt was to wallow in it, cry it out, let it get real messy, then move on.
So she sobbed. She cried, she snuffled, she hiccuped, and she cried some more. She used up an entire box of tissue. And just when she thought she was all cried out, the balcony door opened and Olga stepped outside. She wore a satin caftan, and her hair was wrapped in a sleep turban.
'Addy? I thought I heard something out here. Are you okay?'
'I'm fine, Mama,' she answered, trying to sound normal. 'I just couldn't sleep.'
'Baloney. That boyfriend of yours has done something to make you cry. I always know when my baby is upset.' Olga came and sat on the edge of Phoebe's lounger, moving Phoebe's legs aside to accommodate her. 'Tell Mama what happened.'
'Wyatt isn't my boyfriend.'
'Of course he is. You're not telling me you stay out until all hours of the night with some casual date, are you?'
'How do you know what time I got in?'
'Mothers have super-trained ears. You'll learn all about it when you have your own babies.'
Right now, babies seemed about as far from Phoebe's reality as a trip to Pluto. She wanted babies, she realized. Daisy's plight had gotten her thinking about children in the abstract, but now she realized she really did want one or two, or a dozen. She could even see their faces. They had dark, wavy hair and gray eyes.
'Did mean ol' Wyatt Madison hurt my baby?'
Phoebe nodded miserably. Olga would worm the truth out of her one way or another.
Abruptly Olga stood and grabbed both Phoebe's hands. 'Stand up.'
'What? Why?' But she did as her mother requested. Olga immediately sat down in the lounger herself, then pulled Phoebe into her lap. 'Mama! I'm three inches taller than you and ten pounds heavier!'
'Fifteen. I've been on a diet. Sit in my lap like a good girl. We haven't been close in so long, not since you went away to L.A.'
Since Olga bad her arms around Phoebe like vice clamps, she had no choice but to relax and give in to her mother's sudden spurt of maternal instinct. She laid her head on Olga's breast, just as she'd done when she was a child.
'What did he do?' Olga asked gently.
'He thinks I'm stupid.'
'Nonsense. Who would think that?'
'Only everyone I meet. I got so used to projecting this ditzy blonde image when I was in Hollywood, and now, no matter what I do, people just assume I'm dumb. I thought Wyatt was different, but…'
'But what?'
'You should have seen his face when I told him I was studying biochemistry. I might as well have told him I'd joined a voodoo cult and wanted to sacrifice a chicken in his living room.'
'Well, honey, I could have told you that. Men are intimidated by brainy women.'
'I couldn't let him keep thinking I was hanging out at the university to pick up men.'
'You could have told him you were studying home economics.'
Phoebe sighed, and Olga stroked her hair. Olga just didn't get it.
'Of course, that's not what Jane Jasmine would recommend.'
