Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

  “I didn’t see that. I haven’t seen the news all day.” I process this information, recalling Lisette’s fall, her blood, everyone’s shock and horror.

  “The coroner ruled the death accidental,” Mario adds as we make room on the sidewalk for the first pedestrian we’ve seen, a stylish woman walking two black poodles with spindly legs, fancy haircuts, and matching red plaid doggie coats.

  I speak again once we’re back in step. “You must think I’m crazy spending any time thinking Lisette might’ve been murdered.”

  Mario gives me a squeeze. “Lots of adjectives leap to mind when I think of you, Happy. Crazy isn’t one of them.”

  When I think of you, Happy. I like the sound of that. “It’s not like I want her to have been murdered. At least I don’t think so.” If I wanted that, I would be crazy.

  “It’s that you can’t shake the idea. You’ve got a gut feeling.” He stops to pull open a door I hadn’t even noticed. It opens onto a small, utterly charming bar that I would’ve marched right past.

  I lead us to a tiny table, past chic people speaking in low tones. On the yellow walls are delicate illustrations and gently glowing vintage sconces. Again Mario has brought me to a special hideaway.

  We shed our coats and sit. Mario leans across the table and smiles, the flame from our votive candle reflected in his dark eyes. “So basically you’re telling me you’ve got a golden gut. What is it telling you about me?”

  That you’re a wonderful man I’ll never forget, no matter how hard I try. And that deep inside you feel the same way about me. But since I’ve got no business saying anything along those lines, I keep it light. “Oh, that you need a third property. So you’re going to make Dina really happy by bidding on that apartment.”

  “It would be my fourth property, actually. I also bought my mom a place in L.A. But no, I’m not going to be making any offers.”

  Just as I’m thinking, man, Mario is really a great guy to have bought his mom a place, too, his shoulders slump and his smile fades and I realize that I managed to say the wrong thing.

  A server stops at our table. Mario rallies to ask me if I’ll have what he’s having and we all know there’s only one answer to that question. When the server leaves, I speak up. “I didn’t mean to pry into your business, Mario. I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “You weren’t prying. It’s just that”—he hesitates—“I’m as stretched as I want to be right now. I hate to say it, but the show’s ratings aren’t exactly raging.”

  I’m so taken aback I can’t speak. I would think that any show Mario Suave hosted would be a gigantic hit.

  “It’s not that the ratings are bad,” he goes on. “It’s just that all of a sudden we’ve got tougher competition in our time slot. I’m worried the network will move us to another night.”

  “And that would be bad because—”

  “Your audience is used to finding you at a certain time. If you move, they have to look for you.”

  This is a first for me. Mario is revealing the kind of vulnerability I see in Jason or myself or other mere mortals among my acquaintance. It makes me realize the extent to which he is not a flesh-and-blood man, but a fantasy in my mind. I never associate him with mundane concerns like having to make money or keeping his job. Granted, Mr. Owns Three Homes would hardly starve if America’s Scariest Ghost Stories got cancelled, but it would certainly be a blow.

  “I’m in your audience and I would look for you,” I tell him.

  “You’re special, Happy. Nobody else is quite like you. Believe me”—he pauses to give me a smoldering look—“I know.”

  Thank God the server sashays up to our table because my better judgment would probably lie down and play dead if I shared too long a moment like that one with Mario. This time she’s bearing two pink concoctions in tall glasses, each with cranberries across the top on a fancy skewer.

  I lighten the mood by holding my cocktail aloft and making my voice extra jolly. “I think there’s snow on my glass!”

  “There’s snow inside your glass, too.” Mario winks at me. “Snow, vodka, and grenadine. I told you I’d get you the perfect cocktail for a wintry night.” He clinks his glass against mine. “Bottoms up.”

  Will wonders never cease: a cocktail made with snow. I limit myself to a dainty sip for starters. “Well, as the unofficial president of the Mario Suave fan club, I will email your network telling them that the best thing about Tuesday night is your show.”

  “You do that. Otherwise everything could go poof with Esperanza, too.”

  I eye Mario over my cocktail. He certainly seems to be in a confessional mood this evening. Trust me, I like that he’s choosing to confide in yours truly. “What do you mean?”

  “She likes being the It couple a little too much. So I have to keep up my side. Or else.”

  Interesting. That’s not the sort of thing you expect a man to say about his lady love. I know it’s mean of me, but I’m feeling cheerier by the second.

  Yet I do recognize this is delicate territory. I can’t be too snarky about Esperanza, but there’s no question Mario has opened the door to mild criticism. I think for a moment, then: “I’m sure Esperanza is smart enough to realize that you being a show host is only one of many wonderful things about you.”

  He smiles as if he can tell how carefully I crafted that line, then leans closer. “So tell me, Happy. How are you? Really?”

  He’s dropped several bombshell revelations. I suppose I can share one. “I’m turning thirty-five Monday,” I tell him. “Which makes me feel kind of old. Plus, I’m freaked out that I have to give up my Ms. America title in the fall, which is right around the time Rachel goes overseas, which has me thrown, too. I’m also scared about competing internationally, which I’ve never done before, and I’m worried that Mr. Cantwell is mad at me because I gave him such a bad testimonial the other day. And I’m nervous about moving to Charlotte. So even though everything seems okay on the surface, I’m kind of a hot mess, to be honest.”

  He eyes me. I can’t count how many personal revelations I just made, but I know it was more than one. At least I left out how strained things have gotten between Jason and me. But that’s the danger when I’m around Mario: there’s so much risk I’ll plunge ahead and do things I shouldn’t.

  Mario lays his hand over mine. “Happy, you are the most beautiful hot mess I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t matter how old you are. And all that other stuff? That’s just life. Things change. They move forward. None of us can stop that, as much as we might want to.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mario is not only sexy, successful, smart, rich and kind. He’s wise, too.

  Dang.

  Just as I quote Shanelle in my mind, gazing into Mario’s soulful eyes as his hand rests atop mine, she calls my cell. I guess it’s that telepathy thing again. Even though she’s forty blocks to the south, she can tell my will power is weakening.

  I’m forced to slide my hand away from Mario’s to answer the call, which I’m sure is just the way she planned it.

  “It’s 7:15,” she informs me. “I hope you’re hailing a cab.”

  “I guess it’s that time.”

  “You bet it is. Meet us in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel.”

  “Not at the restaurant?”

  “Nope. Something weird is up with your mom.”

  This exchange returns me to crashing reality. Mario hands his credit card to the server and books Uber for me. “Will you still be in town on your birthday?” he wants to know as we exit the bar. Snow blows around us and now it’s sticking to the sidewalk, trees, and shrubs. An hour ago Manhattan morphing into a Winter Wonderland would have seemed romantic, but at this point I’m just worried about ruining my stilettos. A black SUV pulls up, which I learn is for me.

  Mario opens the rear door and I climb in. “I’ll still be here Monday,” I tell him. “Jason is here to celebrate with me,” I add, then feel foolish. I don’t want Mario to think I would’ve expected h
im to fete my birthday with me if I were alone.

  He nods, slams the door, steps back, and waves as the SUV rolls away. As usual, I don’t know when I’ll see him again. Also as usual, I find that fairly crushing.

  Before the SUV even reaches the corner, I force myself to remember that I’m hardly a teenager and shouldn’t behave like one. I’m a grown woman who needs to get a grip. That’s something I’m usually pretty good at.

  I just make it to the hotel on time. If the architect wanted the Plaza to look like an immense French chateau, he did an excellent job. And what a killer location: right on Central Park. The SUV drops me at the red-carpeted staircase that leads to the lobby, a grand space befitting a storied, century-old hotel. I know it went through a huge restoration a few years ago and now it’s all cream and white with an impossibly high, ornate ceiling; massive chandeliers dripping with crystal—and, I’m pretty sure, rubies; a marble floor that’s even shinier than the one at the Longley abode; and elegant floral motifs everywhere, from the moldings to the iron railings surrounding the mezzanine level.

  Despite the expanse, I quickly locate Shanelle and Trixie, the latter particularly stylish in her forest-green wrap coat with its shawl collar that drapes over both shoulders.

  She grabs my arm. “I can’t believe I’m at the Plaza Hotel! I keep thinking of the movies that’ve been shot here. The Way We Were, The Great Gatsby—”

  “Cotton Club,” Shanelle adds.

  “All I can think about is reading the Eloise books to Rachel.” I smile remembering how the mischievous Eloise lived on the Plaza’s “tippy-top floor” and my little Rachel wanted to do exactly the same thing. “Anyway, where’s my mom? And what’s up with her?”

  “She’s in her room,” Shanelle says. “She wants us to come up. She told me she couldn’t reach you.”

  I hear the unspoken accusation. And what Shanelle says is true: my mother did call while I was with Mario, but—shame on me—I didn’t even notice.

  “We had to wonder why you weren’t answering your phone,” Trixie adds.

  “I’ll tell you everything that happened with Mario,” I say, “but for now I’m worried about my mom.”

  We go up to her room, which is elegant in a gracious, understated way. It features a variety of gold touches: from the bed’s gilt-trimmed headboard to the round occasional tables painted entirely gold. We find my mother wearing the fluffy robe and slippers that Trixie would be wearing if she were staying at the Plaza.

  I lay our coats on the bed. “You don’t look ready to go out to dinner,” I tell my mother.

  “That’s because I’m not going out to dinner,” she informs me. “I’m not going anywhere. And it’s not because I’m sick, so don’t bother asking.”

  I peer at her closely. “Why are you so insistent on staying in? Does it have something to do with your face? Why is it so shiny?”

  She looks away. “I got a facial treatment. With those stem cells.”

  “Mrs. P!” Trixie shrieks. “Like from babies?”

  “Not from babies! From plants.”

  “I’ve heard about those,” Shanelle says. “They’re supposed to be very cell-renewing.”

  “They better be,” my mother mutters.

  “So that’s what you were up to this afternoon.” Now I understand why I heard classical music and female voices when she and I were on the phone: she was at a salon. “Why didn’t you just tell me what you were doing?”

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”

  I’m about to protest that characterization when Trixie gets within an inch of my mother’s face. “Well, your skin couldn’t look more hydrated if you were standing in the middle of a rain forest. And you do look a lot perkier around the eyes.”

  “In kind of a surprised way,” I say.

  My mother throws out her arms. “I probably got that when I saw the bill!”

  I sink onto an upholstered chair. “Don’t tell me you didn’t ask beforehand how much it was going to cost.”

  She drops onto my chair’s mate. “They were kind of snooty at that salon. Not like my place at home.”

  “My mother likes her salon at home,” I tell Trixie and Shanelle. “Sometimes she’s the only woman there without a walker.”

  “That makes me feel young!” my mother cries.

  “So how much?” Shanelle wants to know.

  My mother looks down at her lap. Her answer comes in a mumble. “Eight hundred dollars.”

  “What?” Trixie, Shanelle, and I wail in unison.

  “That’s a lot more than I make in a week!” my mother bellows. “I should look twenty-one years old for that!”

  “That salon took you for a ride, Mrs. P!” Trixie yelps.

  “Not necessarily,” I say. “This is Manhattan. Everything is very expensive here. Plus, stem-cell facials can’t be cheap anywhere. So where was this salon?”

  My mother can’t remember its name but is sure it was on Fifth Avenue, no one’s first choice for low-cost beauty treatments.

  “Give me the credit-card receipt,” I instruct her, “and I’ll look up the salon’s rates online.” Maybe eight hundred smackers is the going rate, not just for gullible Ohioans but for locals, too.

  “I’d be surprised if they advertise their prices,” Shanelle says, claiming a spot on the bed for herself. “I sure as heck wouldn’t if I wanted any business.”

  My mother moves to the desk to forage for the receipt in the bowels of her handbag. “You and Bennie are very neat,” Trixie remarks from her perch on the bed. “I don’t see any of your stuff anywhere.”

  “Where is Bennie, anyway?” I ask.

  That inquiry is met with silence.

  “Out having dinner alone?” I guess. “Since you refuse to leave the premises?” Poor man. He treats my mother to a Manhattan getaway and ends up wandering the streets by himself because she won’t leave their hotel room to go to dinner!

  She doesn’t look up from her purse. “If you must know, Bennie is in his room.”

  I clutch the arms of my chair. “What? Are you telling me that you and Bennie are staying in separate rooms?”

  “Did you have a fight?” Trixie wants to know.

  “No, we did not have a fight.” She spins around to face us. “It’s just that unlike some people who shall remain nameless, I have certain moral standards.” She pauses, then: “Not that I necessarily want your father to know that.”

  “Oh, I get it,” I say. “Because if Pop knew you weren’t sleeping with Bennie, he wouldn’t be so jealous.”

  Her face lights up, and not from those Fifth Avenue stem cells, either. “You think he’s jealous?”

  I leap up from my chair. “Mom, you claim to have high moral standards, but it’s awful the way you’re using Bennie!”

  “Not to mention really expensive for him,” Shanelle says.

  “Yes!” I cry. “You’ve got that nice man paying for two separate hotel rooms; he bought you that incredible fur coat for Christmas—”

  “The receipt is probably in the pocket of that fur,” she tells me. “You go get it out of the closet there across from the bathroom.”

  I am muttering as I walk up the narrow corridor that leads to the bathroom, closet, and entry door. Then I pull the fur from the closet and get the shock of my life. “Oh. My. God.”

  “What’s your problem now?” my mother calls.

  I withdraw the fur from the closet. It’s an attractive fur, don’t get me wrong, but it’s no Russian sable. I carry it to the main room. “What is this?”

  Shanelle’s mouth gapes open.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Trixie breathes.

  My mother cocks her head to one side, then her eyes widen. “Uh oh.”

  I try to remain calm. “This is not your fur, mom. Where did you get this?”

  “And where is your fur?” Shanelle asks, which is a darn good follow-up question.

  My mother approaches the fur with obvious trepidation. She pulls it open, examines the name em
broidered on the lining, then raises frightened blue eyes to mine. “Who the heck is Bernadette?”

  “I have no idea! Where did you get this?”

  “From the closet at that salon! In that dim light they got there, I guess one pelt looks a lot like another!”

  By now both Trixie and Shanelle are also feeling up the fur. “This isn’t nearly as nice as yours, Mrs. P,” Trixie declares.

  “I wonder what it is,” Shanelle says. “Fox? Maybe beaver?”

  “Raccoon?” Trixie guesses.

  I note that all these beasts rank far lower on the animal-kingdom pecking order than the Russian sable. I try to keep from hyperventilating. I knew my mother would get into trouble here in Manhattan! Where in the world is her fur? It could be anywhere. How is she going to explain this to Bennie?

  I take a deep breath. “Mom, how could you possibly have managed to mistake this fur for your fur?”

  “Maybe I didn’t!” She slaps the fur as if this gigantic snafu were all its fault. “Maybe that Bernadette snatched my coat and this was the only fur left in that closet by the time I got there.”

  “That’s possible,” I allow. A slimy salon patron might’ve recognized the fur’s value and raced away with it faster than Usain Bolt runs a hundred meters. In which case: sayonara. “But I still don’t understand how you could’ve worn this coat all the way back to this hotel and never noticed it wasn’t yours!”

  She looks down at the carpet. “Maybe I was flustered.”

  “By what? The bill at the salon?”

  “Of course by the bill at the salon! But maybe by something else, too.” Again her eyes meet mine and this time she can’t hide the hurt in their blue depths. “Maybe by the fact that your father might propose to that Maggie on Valentine’s Day. Then where would I be?”

  “Oh, Mom.” I grab her in a hug. She doesn’t always but tonight she feels very fragile. I squeeze her tighter.

  “Why do you think I got those crazy stem cells anyway?” She makes no move to shake off my embrace. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I wanted to look younger so your father would have to think a time or two about what he threw away.”