Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

  I close my eyes. I wish on no one the pain my mother went through—is still going through—after her divorce. My father is the love of her life and a hundred fur-giving Bennies won’t change that.

  Trixie rubs my mother’s back. “I saw how Mr. P looked at you in Minnesota, Mrs. P. I bet he still cares about you a lot.”

  “I think so, too,” Shanelle adds. “Not that you should wait around for him to wise up and come back.”

  “Or get mongo expensive beauty treatments to try to reel him back in.” I release my mother and give her a slight shake. “You’ve been doing the right thing moving on with your life, Mom. Now you’ve got to do it not just on the outside but on the inside, too.”

  The room phone rings. My mother sighs. “It’s probably that Bennie.”

  No doubt the poor man playing second fiddle to my father senses the cosmic turmoil in his lady love’s room. My mother fields the call—which does turn out to be from Bennie—and after some surprisingly calm chitchat invites him to her room.

  Meanwhile, I’m pacing the plush carpet. “Okay,” I say once she’s off the phone, “let’s come up with a plan. First, do you want us here when you tell Bennie?”

  “When I tell Bennie what?”

  “Uh, about the fur?”

  “I’m not telling him about the fur!” She looks at me as if I’m certifiable.

  “What?” I screech. “How can you not tell him?”

  “Because you’ll get it back! So he’ll never have to know!”

  I throw out my arms. “We don’t know that I’ll get it back! We have no idea where it is!”

  My mother juts her chin. “You’ll get it back. I have faith in you.”

  At the moment, my mother’s faith in me is driving me batty. “Even if I am able to get it back, and that is a gigantic if, how can you keep Bennie from finding out? It’s an epic snowstorm out there. The minute you go outside, you’re going to need that fur!”

  “Who says I’m going outside? With these stem cells, I’m not supposed to even wash my face until tomorrow. And they cost so darn much moola, I might not wash my face till Monday.”

  “So you’re going to pass on all the wonders of Manhattan?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Does this also mean you’re not going to Mass tomorrow? For the first Sunday in pretty much your entire life?”

  I think I’ve stumped her, but no. “I went to that Saint Patrick’s Cathedral yesterday, which was not a holy day of obligation,” she informs me. “So as far as the good Lord is concerned, I’m covered.” She plunks down on an upholstered chair as if to prove her resolve to stay put.

  I set my hands on my hips. “I cannot believe that the woman who taught me honesty is the best policy is going to try to hide this huge thing from Bennie.”

  She looks away. “I’m not sure you learned that from me. That phrase doesn’t sound familiar.”

  Shanelle pipes up. “This might not be the best time to bring it up, Mrs. Przybyszewski, but is your fur insured?”

  “Now you’re saying you don’t think I’ll get it back?” my mother cries.

  “Just answer the question,” I say.

  “Well, Bennie and I talked about insurance,” my mother allows. “We thought it made the most sense for me to buy it.” She turns to Trixie for moral support. “But over the holidays, who has time?”

  I close my eyes. How did I know she was going to say that?

  “Should we call the police?” Then Trixie frowns. “But what if they think Mrs. P stole Bernadette’s fur?”

  “That Bernadette stole my fur!” my mother cries, despite the lack of evidence to that effect. “Why should she be sitting pretty while I’m in the hoosegow?”

  I get an idea. “Are you sure the salon hasn’t called you?” I ask my mother. “Because maybe somebody there noticed your fur in the closet when they closed down for the night.”

  “How could they call me? They don’t know my phone number. I was a, what do you call it?”

  “A walk-in,” Shanelle offers.

  “And now there’s no point calling the salon till morning,” I say.

  “Well,” Trixie says a moment later, “let’s just hope and pray that your fur is still hanging in that salon’s closet.”

  Because if it’s not …

  I don’t even want to think about it.

  My mother springs from her chair. “It’s time for all of you to skedaddle. Bennie wanted me to order soup for us from that room service.” As we get our coats, she points a warning finger in my direction. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you about this, young lady. Put that fur back in the closet on your way out.”

  Before I do, I check the pockets. The only positive news is that I do lay my hands on the salon receipt. Now at least I know the name of the establishment my mother patronized. I only wish I had to call merely to read the salon peeps the riot act about the bill for my mother’s fancy facial.

  “I cannot believe your mother lost her fur,” Trixie murmurs as we ride the elevator down to the lobby. “What if she never gets it back?”

  “Don’t even think it.”

  “This was one expensive day for your mama,” Shanelle observes.

  “I feel terrible for her,” Trixie says, “but I feel terrible for Bennie, too. Maybe we can bring him to the theater tomorrow. Distract him that way.”

  We’re traversing the lobby’s east forty when my cell buzzes with a text from Jason. I’m done. K had to go to the theater. Come to the Sofitel.

  So Miss Fancy Pants Photographer was called in to her real job. And on Saturday night, too! What a shame. I relay this latest to my BFFs.

  Shanelle whistles. “Jason’s living large, staying at the Sofitel.”

  Ain’t that the truth. “I guess I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

  “Have a good time!” Trixie winks at me.

  Shanelle gives me a more assessing look. “Don’t think this lets you off the hook. You still have to tell us what happened with Mario.”

  I promise to give them all the deets. And then I head off to my second rendezvous of this unforgettable Saturday, this one with my coverboy husband.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Six months ago, I never would’ve predicted I’d be meeting Jason at his glitzy five-star hotel in midtown Manhattan. But here I am sashaying into an elegant lobby that’s very different from the Plaza’s but very beautiful, too. It makes me think of a gentlemen’s club, with cream-colored walls and a floor of deep-green marble. Scattered around the lobby are groupings of big leather chairs. Soft indirect lighting imbues everything with a golden glow. And since the hotel is French-owned, I’m greeted with Bonsoir as well as Good evening as I make my way to an elevator that whisks me twenty stories skyward.

  One thing is for sure: this is a long way from the Residence Inns where Jason and I usually stay.

  I find my husband in a room that may not be as large as my mother’s in the Plaza, but which is awfully nice all the same, with ruby-red accent pillows and a gorgeous abstract painting over the bed. Jason is still dressed in the jeans and cable-knit sweater he had on first thing this morning, but I’m planning to take a page from my mother’s book and get into a fluffy robe but quick.

  We exchange a quick kiss before Jason steps back and narrows his eyes at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “How do you know something’s wrong?”

  “Because I know you. Come on, spill it.”

  I heave a sigh. That’s the problem with the man who knows you best. You can’t put anything over on him. “How about we talk while we eat? I see room service already got here.” Upset as I am about my mom’s fur, I haven’t eaten anything since my chocolate-fountain marshmallow this morning and I’m ravenous.

  Both of us end up changing into robes. We set up our meal on the table by the window, which overlooks West 44th Street. The view is obscured by darkness and swirling snow, both of which I’ve had enough of for the moment. We dig into our mouth-watering repast: grilled pork
with a port-wine sauce for Jason and roasted chicken over linguini with a wild mushroom cream sauce for me. Jason’s got a beer going and naturally I’m sipping white wine.

  You know what? After that sustenance, I start to feel better. “I want to hear about your shoot, too,” I tell Jason. “So don’t let me grouse all night.”

  He nods and I plunge ahead. I tell him about my mother’s super-expensive facial and why she got it and how she managed to lose a fifteen-thousand-dollar fur in the process. I tell him that Rachel didn’t sound like her usual confident self over the phone the other day; some new boy at her school is making her uncharacteristically hesitant and unsure. I tell Jason I’m worried Pop will propose to Maggie on Valentine’s Day and—

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Jason says.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Rachel told me Maggie keeps trying to come over and most of the time Lou is telling her no.”

  “Maybe that’s just because he wants to take advantage of the time he has alone with Rachel while the rest of us are out of town.”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Anyway, go on.”

  Then I describe the havoc I wreaked at the Longley’s snazzy apartment and admit that I was fired from Dream Angel, but only sort of. I share the details of my new duties.

  Jason shakes his head. “How do you get yourself into these things?”

  There’s no good answer to that question.

  “Anyway, be careful with that old director,” he goes on. “I don’t want you landing on his casting couch.”

  “I’ll be careful. And if the situation gets out of hand, I’ll bolt.”

  Jason makes me give him Senior’s address and phone number in case he ever needs them. He gets even more serious when I relay one notable factoid about my ill-fated testimonial with Sebastian Cantwell’s lawyers: that I ran into Mario Suave.

  Jason sets down his beer. “So he’s in town. I guess I don’t have to ask why.”

  “He’s not here because of me. For one thing, he had to meet with the lawyers, too. Plus, he’s promoting the new season of his show.”

  “So you saw him only that one time.”

  “Well, no. We also had dinner. With Shanelle and Trixie,” I hasten to add. I force myself to go on, because when it comes to Mario—and everything else, for that matter—I believe in full disclosure. “And then I saw him today again. Because he could get the name of somebody who might’ve had a motive to kill Lisette Longley.”

  “Were you alone when you saw him today?”

  I admit I was.

  Jason eyes me. “And you’re the only person who thinks that Lisette woman might’ve been murdered. So, really, that was just an excuse to see Mario.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, which of course Jason can see.

  He leans forward. “I’ve asked you this question before, but I’ll ask you again. Just how into that guy are you?”

  I have to answer, and honestly, too. “I’m flattered that he likes me. And I do like him. I can’t deny that. But Jason, I want to be married to you. That’s why I’m moving to Charlotte.”

  “You’re not exactly chomping on the bit to do that.”

  “No, because that’s scary for all kinds of reasons. But I’m still doing it.”

  Jason falls back in his chair. He shakes his head. Then: “I get that you’re flattered. And since you’re being so honest, I will be, too. I’m flattered that Kimberly’s into me.”

  Hearing him say that kind of knocks the wind out of me. I try to recover. “She is, too. I can tell.”

  “But you know what, Happy? That’s different. Because she’s not some insanely rich success story like Mario Suave.”

  “Maybe not. But she is ten years younger than me. And she’s very pretty.” As soon as those words leave my lips, I wonder why I’m highlighting Kimberly’s charms.

  Especially when Jason keeps it up. “She’s very sweet, too. And she’s an excellent photographer. She really likes being behind the camera. She doesn’t want the limelight at all. You know, in many ways she’s kind of shy.”

  Those last few observations shake me up even more. Basically Jason is complimenting Kimberly for being different from me. Because we all know Happy Pennington likes being in front of the camera. She tries to hog the limelight. And no one on God’s green earth could call her shy.

  I already know Jason finds Kimberly attractive. Now I’m also learning how many of her character traits he admires—at least the ones that I don’t share.

  Unfortunately, there seems to be no stopping him now, because he continues to wax on. “And Kimberly really believes in me. She’s gone all out to make this calendar happen.”

  “Well, it’s obvious that the calendar people are very impressed by you. I mean, to give you your own calendar is pretty incredible. And to put you up in a hotel like this for the shoot? It’s amazing.”

  “It’s totally awesome. And it wouldn’t have happened without Kimberly.”

  Say what you will about the little trollop, that’s true. And now Jason is getting a taste of what I’ve always found so seductive: attention. While Kimberly, unlike me, appears content to bask in Jason’s glow.

  “What it comes down to,” Jason says, “is that Kimberly has been a helluva champion for me.”

  “Wow.” Since I’m momentarily speechless, I force a laugh. “Maybe I’m the one who should be jealous here.”

  I expect Jason to scoff at that, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me. And as he does, somehow the years slip away and I’m back in high school hoping against hope that I have a chance with Jason Kilborn—the hottest and the nicest guy in the junior class, who also happens to be a football hero. Even though we got married because I was pregnant with Rachel, so it was pretty much a shotgun wedding, in the seventeen years since I’ve never doubted that Jason wanted me and me alone. But now for the first time, I get an idea what’s it’s like not to be so sure that’s the case.

  I lean across the table and take his hand. I’m not crying exactly, but there are tears in my eyes. “I love you, Jason.”

  “I love you, too, Happy.”

  “Nobody can come between us if we don’t let them.”

  He rises from his chair and pulls me up against him. “I don’t see anybody coming between us right now.”

  There sure as heck isn’t. And we make good use of that state of affairs; believe me.

  The next morning does not allow for continued indulgence, as Jason has to meet Miss Kimberly at 7. We’re up well before dawn and again order room service, this time both selecting omelets. Jason, who’s already showered and shaved, chooses the Parisian—with white ham, gruyère and mushroom—and I go for the egg white and veggie option. I am not so noble that I opt for one of the truly low-cal choices, like grapefruit segments with honey, which would leave me famished by the time I walked to the elevator bank down the hall.

  By this point Jason has given me the lowdown on yesterday’s shoot. “Where do you start today?” I ask him.

  He sets down his coffee. “Central Park.”

  “Even though it’s a total whiteout?” I can tell from looking out our window that a few inches of snow accumulated overnight.

  “Kimberly says it’ll be stunning.”

  I bet the shameless hussy is right about that. But I also know that Jason is far from fully clothed for these photos. “You’ll freeze!”

  Jason winks. “My photographer can keep me warm.”

  I toss a napkin at his face. “She’d better not.”

  He leans over to kiss me, then hurries to get dressed. “Kimberly says Central Park is one of the few places she still likes in this city. She’s pretty much had enough by this point. She’s even talking about moving to the South.”

  My coffee cup halts halfway to my mouth. “Doesn’t she have a sister in Charlotte?”

  “Yup. She loves it there.”

  I just bet. It has lots of attractions, i
ncluding the six-foot-two-inch hunk I’m currently eyeing, who’s shrugging on his leather jacket and slipping his wallet into his jeans pocket.

  We say goodbye for the day and share a lingering kiss. I want Jason to have no trouble remembering what he’s got waiting for him tonight.

  Since I married my high-school boyfriend while we were still in high school, I never participated in that fine American tradition of the Walk of Shame. But I get to do it this morning, via the subway. I’m back at the apartment, showered and wearing my swishy robe by the time Shanelle and Trixie are up and at ‘em.

  We have a lot to catch up on. Armed with coffee, with Trixie and Shanelle still in their PJs, we settle at the sleek glass table in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Not far away the Art Deco wonder of the Empire State Building reaches toward the heavens, its spire disappearing into clouds the color of dirty dishwater.

  Swearing both my BFFs to secrecy, I share Mario’s worries about his show and that he finds Esperanza a little too interested in what he can do for her career.

  “It wouldn’t be the first cynical Hollywood romance,” Shanelle opines.

  “It would be horrible for Mario, though,” Trixie says. “To be used like that?”

  “Let’s get down to the really important stuff.” Shanelle directs her laser-beam gaze on my face. “How did you feel being out and about with Mario?”

  I glance at the view, at all those windows in all those buildings behind which people are living their lives. I wonder how many of them are as bewildered by it all as I am. “I can’t deny that every time I see him, I find him amazingly attractive. And I’m always stunned that somebody like him seems attracted to me, too.”

  “He is, girl,” Shanelle says. “That’s been crystal clear from the get-go.”

  “And it’s not just him, as incredible as he is. It’s also that whenever I’m around him everything seems fresh and new and exciting and full of possibility—”

  “You get lots of wonderful things from a long marriage,” Trixie says. “But I’m not sure you get that.”

  “The point is that our marriage started when Jason and I were both seventeen. What did we know? We were kids.” All of a sudden, I slam my jaws shut. I don’t want to say what I’m thinking. The moment you say something, it has a way of becoming a lot more real.