Goodnight Tweetheart Read online

  A fitting choice, considering she’d also shaved her legs and traded her comfy granny panties for a wisp of black lace a mere fraction of an inch away from being a thong.

  Groaning, she dropped her head down on the keyboard. If there was any hope of holding on to even a shred of her dwindling self-respect, she should do exactly what she knew Margo would do—close the laptop, take her de-scrunchied, perfumed, and nearly thonged self down to the nearest club, pick up the first passably good-looking stranger who asked her to dance, and bring him back to the apartment for some safe but anonymous sex.

  Or close the laptop, walk to the freezer, dig out her emergency pint of Chunky Monkey, and wolf it down in one sitting while wistfully watching Colin Firth’s Mr. Darcy emerge from the pond at Pemberley for the four-hundred-and-fifty-first time in the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice.

  Either alternative beat sitting in front of the computer waiting to be picked up for a cyberdate by a man she knew so little about he was beginning to make the Phantom of the Opera seem like an extrovert.

  She was reaching to close the laptop when a familiar chirp sent her pulse into overdrive.

  Chapter Six

  Friday, May 13—7:01 P.M.

  MarkBaynard: What are you wearing?

  Abby_Donovan: A spritz of Chanel No. 5 and the ice-blue satin evening gown Grace Kelly wore to accept her Oscar for THE COUNTRY GIRL. You?

  MarkBaynard: Harrison Ford’s leather bomber jacket from RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK and Steve McQueen’s Persol aviator glasses from THE GETAWAY.

  Abby_Donovan: Speaking of getaways, I came this close to standing you up, you know.

  MarkBaynard: Better offer?

  Abby_Donovan: It’s hard for any man to compete with Ben and Jerry.

  MarkBaynard: I didn’t know you were into threesomes.

  Abby_Donovan: I was going to throw in Mr. Darcy and make it a foursome.

  MarkBaynard: Naughty girl! And to think I had you pegged as a Bronte woman! How can you resist Heathcliff’s smoldering good looks and incessant brooding?

  Abby_Donovan: Heathcliff was a misogynistic asshole.

  MarkBaynard: Could you explain that to my Lit 101 class? I hate to see all those impressionable young females swooning over him like he’s Edward Cullen.

  Abby_Donovan: I’ve always been Team Jacob myself. And Team Mr. Rochester.

  MarkBaynard: So you don’t mind if a guy keeps his mad wife locked up in the attic?

  Abby_Donovan: Not if he puts the seat down after he uses the toilet. So where are we going tonight?

  MarkBaynard: I found this charming little cafe in Volterra just a short walk from here. See what you think …

  MarkBaynard: http://twitphoto.com/BM7stf

  Abby_Donovan: Oh … it’s darling! Hang on … let me grab my chiffon scarf and trade my heels for some sandals.

  MarkBaynard: There’s a cool breeze tonight. How about if I go all Cro-Magnon on you and drape my jacket over your shoulders?

  Abby_Donovan: Mmm … thank you. It smells nice … like your aftershave. Is it Michel Germain?

  MarkBaynard: Old Spice. I borrowed it from my grandfather.

  Abby_Donovan: I wish you’d take off those shades. It makes me nervous when I can’t see a man’s eyes.

  MarkBaynard: It would make you more nervous if you caught me staring at your chest while you talked instead of gazing deep into your eyes.

  Abby_Donovan: Or if I caught you gazing deep into my eyes when I was hoping you were staring at my chest.

  MarkBaynard: Ah, here we are. I reserved a candlelit table on the terrace. Would it offend your feminist sensibilities if I pulled your chair out for you?

  Abby_Donovan: Not if you put the seat down after you use the toilet.

  MarkBaynard: Do you like the music? I put in a special request.

  Abby_Donovan: Very nice! What is it? Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro?”

  MarkBaynard: No, Insane Clown Posse’s “Somebody to Smoke Wit.”

  Abby_Donovan: OMGee … you are 15, aren’t you?

  MarkBaynard: What? Not a big hip-hop/thrash metal crossover fan?

  Abby_Donovan: Not a big fan of insane clowns. Haven’t you seen POLTERGEIST? Or read Stephen King’s IT?

  MarkBaynard: I prefer the more amiable charms of Ronald McDonald myself. It’s the Hamburgler who creeps me out.

  Abby_Donovan: I’m suddenly craving a Quarter Pounder. Maybe we should have just gone to McDonald’s for dinner.

  MarkBaynard: There’s one right next to the KFC on the corner. Oops … too late! Here comes the waiter with the specials.

  Abby_Donovan: So what are you having?

  MarkBaynard: I’m in the mood for focaccia topped with fresh spinach and smoked gouda and the mascarpone ravioli in tomato vodka sauce. You?

  Abby_Donovan: I believe I’ll have the Chef Boyardee SpaghettiOs.

  MarkBaynard: Let me ask the sommelier which vintage he recommends with those. Price, of course, is no object.

  Abby_Donovan: Then I’ll have the 1945 Mouton for $120,000.

  MarkBaynard: You heard the lady. She’ll have a Diet Coke.

  Abby_Donovan: Cheapskate! I thought you’d pay for my wine with your trust fund.

  MarkBaynard: Sorry. No trust fund until I turn 21, remember?

  Abby_Donovan: Is this an awkward silence? Are you staring at my chest? I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen next?

  MarkBaynard: We get to know each other. Isn’t that what people do on first dates?

  Abby_Donovan: I’ve always heard you’ll never have more in common than you do on your first date. Especially if you get married later.

  MarkBaynard: I can vouch for that. As can my ex. So … toilet paper … over or under?

  Abby_Donovan: I was a staunch “over” until I got up one night and Buffy had unrolled the entire roll with her paws. Ginger or Mary Ann?

  MarkBaynard: Oh, definitely Mary Ann. Everybody knows those wholesome, corn-fed Kansas farm girls are easy.

  Abby_Donovan: I’m betting you’re a big Dorothy Gale fan.

  MarkBaynard: I always preferred the Wicked Witch of the West myself. So passionate. So misunderstood. So green.

  Abby_Donovan: What’s not to love about a woman willing to kill for a fabulous pair of shoes? Yankees or Red Sox?

  MarkBaynard: Braves. I’m from Oxford, Mississippi, not Oxford, Connecticut. Gilligan or the Skipper?

  Abby_Donovan: Thurston Howell III. Any man with that much money can call me “Lovey” and eat crackers in my bed all night long. Dorothy, Blanche, or Rose?

  MarkBaynard: Sofia. Betty White will always be da bomb but I like a woman with experience. Angel or Spike?

  Abby_Donovan: Spike. I never could resist a jerk with a Billy Idol complex, a Brit accent and a snarky sense of humor.

  MarkBaynard: Whew! That’s a relief. At least the jerk part.

  Abby_Donovan: Best song of all time?

  MarkBaynard: That’s an easy one. The Who’s “Baba O’Riley.”

  Abby_Donovan: Oh, I don’t think so. That would be discounting the seminal influence on the pop/rock genre of David Cassidy’s “I Think I Love You.”

  MarkBaynard: Do you?

  Abby_Donovan: What?

  MarkBaynard: Think you love me?

  Abby_Donovan: Don’t be impertinent. I’m not even sure I like you yet. Ah … here comes the food! The fresh tomatoes & rosemary smell incredible!

  MarkBaynard: Shall we share a noodle like Lady and her Tramp?

  Abby_Donovan: Not unless you want to get stabbed in the throat with a fork.

  MarkBaynard: You’re such an incurable romantic! (Dodging the serrated edge of yr bread knife, I reach over & gently tuck a strand of hair behind yr ear.)

  MarkBaynard: Abby?

  MarkBaynard: Abby? Did my charms sweep you off your feet or did a power surge knock you off the Internet?

  Abby_Donovan: You caught me off guard. I think I might be blushing.

  MarkBaynard: If you want me to keep my han
ds to myself, I will. I won’t even lean over and lick the dab of marinara sauce from the corner of your mouth.

  Abby_Donovan: Good. Because I don’t believe in licking on the first date. Wait … did that sound as bad as I think it did?

  MarkBaynard: Worse. Now I’m blushing.

  Abby_Donovan: Perhaps we should just move on to the dessert course.

  MarkBaynard: Cannoli, biscotti, or tiramasu?

  Abby_Donovan: Mmm … cannoli.

  MarkBaynard: The waiter wants to know if you’d like your cannoli dipped in chocolate.

  Abby_Donovan: If I said that to you, it would sound really dirty.

  MarkBaynard: Everything you say sounds dirty to me.

  Abby Donovan: What I’d really like is a box of nice hot Krispy Kreme donuts.

  MarkBaynard: Now you’re just being a tease. Because I’d never be able to resist licking that glaze from the corner of your mouth.

  Abby_Donovan: Or the bottom of the box.

  MarkBaynard: Or the bottom of your shoe.

  Abby_Donovan: Foot fetishist?

  MarkBaynard: No … Krispy Kreme fetishist.

  Abby_Donovan: Sigh … I may be falling in love with you after all.

  MarkBaynard: If that’s all it took, you just might be easier than Mary Ann. Or Ginger.

  Abby_Donovan: Like everyone didn’t know Ginger was diddling the Professor! That’s why he never fixed the radio. He didn’t want to get off that island.

  MarkBaynard: If you could take one book on your 3-hour tour, what would it be?

  Abby_Donovan: Peter S. Beagle’s A FINE AND PRIVATE PLACE.

  MarkBaynard: “The grave’s a fine and private place. But none I think do there embrace.” Andrew Marvell

  Abby_Donovan: According to Mr. Beagle, Marvell was wrong.

  MarkBaynard: How so?

  Abby_Donovan: Because in the novel his characters learn to embrace both life and death and to realize it takes one to give the other meaning.

  MarkBaynard: Is that what you believe? That life has more meaning because it’s finite?

  Abby_Donovan: I sense a note of skepticism.

  MarkBaynard: I’m just not convinced the poor schlub who ends his life puking his guts out in a hospital trash can would agree with you.

  Abby_Donovan: What about you? What do you believe?

  MarkBaynard: That life has meaning simply because it’s … life. You don’t have to go out and wrap your BMW around a tree to find the value in it.

  Abby_Donovan: Where does that leave death? Is it without meaning?

  MarkBaynard: There are meaningful deaths. And there are absurd and utterly meaningless deaths. Unfortunately, you don’t get to choose which one you get.

  Abby_Donovan: Unless you’re Sylvia Plath.

  MarkBaynard: Is that why you have an electric oven? Less temptation?

  Abby_Donovan: If I had my choice of overdramatic writer deaths, I’d prefer to walk into the water with my pockets full of rocks like Virginia Woolf. You?

  MarkBaynard: Death of choice? Choking to death on a Krispy Kreme. Unless “none of the above” is an option.

  Abby_Donovan: Only if you’re a vampire. Which brings us back to Spike. Buffy or Faith?

  MarkBaynard: Which brings us back to that threesome.

  Abby_Donovan: Throw in Drucilla and you could make it a foursome.

  MarkBaynard: I’ve always been more of a one-woman man myself. That’s how I ended up marrying my high school sweetheart when I was only 22.

  Abby_Donovan: You know, it just might be bad form to talk about your ex-wife on a first date.

  MarkBaynard: Oh, I don’t know. You never know when you might be interviewing your next ex-wife.

  Abby_Donovan: How long were you married?

  MarkBaynard: 9 years, 11 months and 17 days. Saved me from having to buy an expensive anniversary gift.

  Abby_Donovan: Yeah, divorce lawyers are SO much cheaper. Were you the proverbial couple who got married too young?

  MarkBaynard: Probably. By the time I was ready to grow up, she was ready to grow apart.

  Abby_Donovan: Any kids?

  MarkBaynard: A son. Dylan. He’ll be four in November.

  Abby_Donovan: I knew it! That’s why you and Tinky Winky and Biff the Bunny are BFFs, isn’t it?

  MarkBaynard: Ah, Biff and his beloved hedgehog Henry/ Henrietta. Their unrequited love is truly one for the ages. As long as the age is 3.

  Abby_Donovan: Is your son named after Bob Dylan or Dylan Thomas?

  MarkBaynard: Dylan from 90210. If we had twins I was going to name them Brandon and Brenda.

  Abby_Donovan: Is he traveling with you?

  MarkBaynard: No. He’s with his mother at the moment. I hope to see him soon. So have you ever taken a stroll down the aisle?

  Abby_Donovan: No. I was going steady for a while after I came to New York but he broke up with me before I could make him Mr. Abigail Donovan.

  MarkBaynard: Threatened by your meteoric rise to fame?

  Abby_Donovan: Turned out he preferred artists of the starving variety. Dumped me for a sculptor in Soho who had never even had a show.

  MarkBaynard: What did she sculpt?

  Abby_Donovan: Mostly plaster casts of his penis.

  MarkBaynard: Specialized in miniatures, eh?

  Abby_Donovan: Now I KNOW I’m falling in love with you.

  MarkBaynard: Did he break your heart?

  Abby_Donovan: In his defense, I’m not sure I ever really gave it to him. I prefer to keep it in my safe deposit box at the bank.

  MarkBaynard: Let me guess. You sleep with the key under your pillow.

  Abby_Donovan: I’m beginning to think I might have lost it. Permanently.

  MarkBaynard: I know this fabulous locksmith. I’ll give you his number someday …

  MarkBaynard: We’re the last ones left in the cafe and I believe the hot-eyed Tuscan maitre d’ is giving us the evil eye. Shall we go?

  Abby_Donovan: I’d say “Your place or mine?” but since we’ve already established I don’t lick on the first date …

  MarkBaynard: It’s still a lovely night. How about if I just walk you back to the villa where you’re staying?

  Abby_Donovan: The 16th-century villa with the marble floors, the frescoed ceiling painted by Michelangelo, and the climate-controlled wine cellar?

  MarkBaynard: That would be the one. You are paying for dinner, right?

  Abby_Donovan: So (I say as we stroll down a cobbled alleyway), how did you end up teaching English lit? A love of books or of shaping young minds?

  MarkBaynard: A love of being tenured before I was thirty-five. The books and young minds were fringe benefits along with the 401K and the dental plan.

  Abby_Donovan: I’m not buying your dimestore cynicism, Mr. Baynard. I’m convinced the wounded heart of a romantic beats beneath that sardonic exterior.

  MarkBaynard: If you must know, I chose English lit because I wanted to wear one of those houndstooth jackets w/ the leather patches on the elbows to work.

  Abby_Donovan: It’ll look fabulous on the dust jacket of your first novel.

  MarkBaynard: Plus it was really the only possible vocational choice for a kid who used to carry a briefcase to grade school.

  Abby_Donovan: I used to do that too!

  MarkBaynard: Yeah, but if you’re a girl they don’t steal your lunch money and give you an atomic wedgie for it.

  Abby_Donovan: You never did tell me what book an English lit professor would take on his 3-hour tour?

  MarkBaynard: The Kama Sutra, of course. Especially if Ginger and Mary Ann were on board.

  Abby_Donovan: And if you had to choose a book WITHOUT pictures? Tolstoy? Dickens? Updike?

  MarkBaynard: No Biff the Bunny, huh? How about A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY by John Irving?

  Abby_Donovan: Really? I would have pegged you as more of a Hunter S. Thompson man.

  MarkBaynard: He was gonzo, but Irving, like Jerry Seinfeld, knows the only way to survive this life is to view it as
some sort of absurdist tragi-comedy.

  Abby_Donovan: No matter how tragic or comic, all of Irving’s books incorporate a pervasive sense of destiny.

  MarkBaynard: Maybe that’s the secret appeal for me. In a John Irving novel, nobody ever dies a meaningless death. Ah, here we are back at your villa.

  Abby_Donovan: Do you want your coat back?

  MarkBaynard: Keep it. It’ll give me an excuse to call you again.

  Abby_Donovan: What makes you think I’ll answer?

  MarkBaynard: Because you care enough to play hard to get.

  Abby_Donovan: Maybe I’m just bored because my hot Italian lover is off racing his Formula One Ferrari at Monza.

  MarkBaynard: His loss. My gain.

  Abby_Donovan: Why are you looking at me like that?

  MarkBaynard: I’m trying to decide if I should kiss you goodnight.

  Abby_Donovan: I’m trying to decide if I want you to kiss me.

  MarkBaynard: I definitely want to kiss you but I don’t want to scare you away.

  Abby_Donovan: I don’t frighten that easily.

  MarkBaynard: Then why are you trembling? (I lean down & ever so gently brush my lips against your temple, inhaling the scent of your strawberry shampoo.)

  Abby_Donovan: It’s Paul Mitchell. I haven’t used strawberry shampoo since the 6th grade.

  MarkBaynard: (Then I turn and walk away, the epitome of Steve McQueen cool, humming “Perfect Day” by Lou Reed while you gaze longingly after me.)

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Sawyer (I call after you, admiring your carefully calculated slouch.)

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Freckles (I toss over my shoulder.)

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Hurly

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Juliet

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Dr. Jack

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Penny

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Desmond

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Sun

  Abby_Donovan: Goodnight Smoke Monster

  MarkBaynard: Goodnight Tweetheart …

  Long after Mark was gone, Abby continued to stare at her Tweetdeck through semidazed eyes. Several new tweets from people she was Following flitted across the left column of the screen, but her Direct Message column remained empty. It wasn’t the screen she was seeing anyway, but a man walking away from her down a winding cobbled alleyway laced with moonlight and shadows.