Free Punchline by Jacqueline Diamond Page B

part of the evening had flown.
    It was Friday night, and tomorrow he was scheduled to move into Belle’s condo. He planned to spend the evening attending a mad round of parties before temporarily giving up his freedom.
    “W HAT CLOWN NAMED this ‘morning sickness’?” Belle demanded as she struggled to subdue her stomach while writing a caption on a photo of an obnoxiously slender model. “It’s past dinnertime, and I’ve still got it.”
    Anita Rios handed her a bran muffin. “Try this. I’m featuring the recipe this month. It’s got grated apples and zucchini in it. And honey for sweetening. Well, not just honey. Brown sugar, too.”
    “It’s delicious.”
    “And good for you.”
    “Well, let’s not exaggerate.” Belle had written the headline on Anita’s column herself: “Muffin Madness. High Fiber, Low Fat, Huge Taste!” Only farther down in the article would readers discover that low fat didn’t mean low calorie.
    She declined a second muffin. Even writing headlines on food articles seemed to make Belle gain weight. Selfconsciously, she stroked one hand across her stomach.
    “Oh, goodness, aren’t you over that pregnancy thing yet?” Sandra swung into the office in a cloud of silk and expensive perfume. Orchids wove around her hat and trailed down her back, matching the flowers painted on her white two-piece dress.
    “Gestation still takes nine months,” Belle informed the publisher.
    “Oh, does it?” Sandra’s blue eyes widened. “I know so little about children—I keep mistaking them for mice. When one enters the room, I scream. You aren’t planning on bringing it to work, are you?”
    “I’ll find day-care,” Belle assured her, although that was a prospect she wasn’t ready to consider. The emergence of an actual baby remained in the realm of the theoretical.
    “Have we heard from that mall lady about an appointment?” Sandra asked.
    “Not yet. I thought she was going to call you at home.”
    “Oh, was she?” One hand fluttered in the air. “I suppose she did say that.”
    Belle wished her former roommate would pay more attention to the details of business. If not for the lawyer who oversaw her investments, Sandra would probably have forgotten where she kept all those millions of dollars.
    At least she had promised to organize their formal presentation for cosponsoring the mall’s opening, once they got the go-ahead from Mira. That was a relief. Belle had enough work to do without adding a major project like that.
    Anita checked her watch. “Maybe we should hit the road.”
    The publisher smiled. “Oh, yes, let’s! Wait till you see the spread at the Hendersons’! They’re using Chef Francois and he makes an incredible pâté!”
    Anita was researching an article to be called “Cater Your Own Wedding: Banquets on a Budget.” Sandra had offered to take the food editor to some of her friends’ parties that night to steal ideas.
    Belle waved goodbye, then sat staring at the photo of the skinny model and wondered if the woman ever went on eating binges. Or got pregnant. Or lost her mind and agreed to let some Neanderthal specimen like Darryl Horak move into her apartment.
    Belle didn’t even like female roommates. What on earth was she going to do with the editor of About Town?
    He would criticize her mismatched furniture, take over the remote control and probably fill the condo with the nasal whine of football announcers. She wondered if it was possible to tune the TV permanently to PBS.
    There was still time to change her mind, she supposed. True, she had given Darryl a duplicate house key, but she could simply demand its return.
    The more she thought about it, the more Belle felt she would be doing them both a favor. Allowing Darryl to move in was tempting fate.
    They might kill each other. They might even succumb to that bizarre recurring attraction that must be an aftereffect of the aphrodisiac in the punch.
    A few back rubs and a promise to fetch pickles and ice