I was free. I was in love. And I was going to marry Steve Stiletto. Not even Dix Notch could dampen my mood.
Stiletto was not in front of the Moravian Bookshop when I arrived ten minutes late. That was okay, I told myself. He’d warned me that he might be running behind.
A light snow fell on Main Street as shoppers rushed past the eighteenth-century stone buildings, where Advent candles had been placed in the multipaned windows. It was a scene out of Currier & Ives, the Victorian gaslamps, the cobblestone street, the funny, narrow German architecture. The majestic Moravian church that sat above us on a hill at the corner of Church and Main glowing white.
It was the most romantic evening ever to become engaged.
I ducked into the bookstore, thinking maybe Stiletto had started without me. The wooden floors creaked under the weight of so many people buying beeswax candles and Moravian stars, from tiny little paper ones to huge leaded crystal. I searched past the candy counter and the deli, trying not to be persuaded by the fresh, hot cinnamon cookies or the paper-thin sugar wafers.
A recording of the Bach Choir singing “Silent Night” played softly as I searched the bookstore and then the gift room. But my search was fruitless until I went outside and spied Stiletto nicking into Musselman’s Jewelers.
The naughty devil.
“Yoo-hoo!” I shouted.
Stiletto turned. He was dressed more formally than usual in a black wool coat like Mr. Notch’s. His stubble was gone, and the white silk scarf draped casually across his lapel gave him the appearance of being the multimillionaire I tended to forget he was.
“Where were you?” he asked when I caught up to him. “I was waiting.”
“I looked for you inside the bookstore. I thought maybe that’s where you were.” I couldn’t help smiling. I so wanted to tell him everything right away. “Can we grab a few minutes?”
He checked his watch. “I have to pick up this gift before they close. Come on.”
This was not exactly what I had in mind. He took big strides ahead of me as if I didn’t exist, though he held open the door like a gentleman. Inside, Musselman’s was as hushed as the blue velvet-lined cases displaying diamond tennis bracelets, Rolex watches and the most stunning pair of emerald earrings I’d ever seen.
Sniffing obscene wealth, a salesman rushed to assist. “May I help you, sir?”
I thought Stiletto might laugh at being called sir, but it didn’t faze him. Apparently people called him sir quite frequently. “I’m here to pick up a piece of jewelry I ordered.”
“Ah, yes. The reset sapphire. Absolutely lovely.”
As if just remembering I was by his side, Stiletto shot me a stricken look and pulled the salesman out of my earshot.
Sapphire! How did Stiletto know that sapphires were my favorite precious jewels? It made me blush, his thoughtfulness. A final Christmas present to remember him by. A wedding gift. Oh, if he only knew that he wouldn’t be saying goodbye. He’d be saying, “I do!”
I could barely stand the suspense. It was killing me.
The salesman slipped off and Stiletto returned.
“Sorry about that,” he said gruffly. “Didn’t mean for you to hear the gory details.”
“That’s okay.” I was still grinning like an idiot. “Listen, Stiletto, there’s so much I have to tell you, so much I have to explain about how I came to accept Dan’s proposal in the first place and how I was pressured—”
He placed his finger over my lips. “No, don’t, Bubbles. I’m the one who owes you an apology.”
“An apology? What for?”
“For making light of your situation. I hadn’t stopped to really consider Jane’s fragile state of mind and that, of course, you’d put her first. You’re her mother and a damned good one at that.”
If he only knew what the professionals had to say.
“Stiletto, I don’t think you understand.”
“I do. It hit home last night at the Hotel Lehigh when you and Dan reserved the penthouse, when he called you and you went as a fiancée should.”
“I knew you were mad about that.”
“I wasn’t mad. Sad, maybe, but not mad. The good news is that I finally realized what kind of obligations you have. I’m an independent guy, but you . . . you have a whole family already, Bubbles.”
“Would you like to see it before I gift wrap it, sir?” The salesman was back with incredibly lousy timing.
Stiletto excused himself and the two went off for more consultation. I could make out a small black velvet box and something glittering. In fact, I was being so nosy that I didn’t at first notice her walking through the front door.
Even though she was encased in a full-length mink, it was hard to miss her toned legs, the slim ankles and the way she carried herself with physical confidence. Every aspect about her was healthy. Her body was healthy. Her superwhite teeth as she smiled were healthy. And there wasn’t a split end on her thick, buoyant mane of silky blond hair.
I was a squishy, tawdry, sickly bitch in comparison. My hair was all of a sudden way too bright. My skin too covered in foundation. My clothes were, well, from the Westgate Outlet. Need I say more?
I was not Sabina Towne, the actress from swanky Allentown. I had not jetted in from California to help organize the Help the Poor Children fund-raiser. I was not dating Stiletto.
She saw me and cocked her head in a questioning way, as if trying to figure out if she should acknowledge my presence. But I wasn’t the issue. I wasn’t why she was here. She was here for Stiletto and I watched in perverse fascination as she tiptoed behind him and slapped her hands over his eyes.
Playful. I’d heard that some women were. But I’d never actually observed a playful member of my species in action.
Stiletto jumped in flirtatious exaggeration and the salesman, being an expert in the business of expensive love tokens, quickly hid the velvet case, smiling at Stiletto and Sabina as if they were the most adorable couple on the planet.
So the sapphire had not been for me after all. It had been for Sabina.
A rush of nausea came over me. My knees cramped and I reached out to the glass counter to steady myself as my spinning head tried to comprehend exactly what was going on. Whereas I hadn’t been able to stop grinning before, now I couldn’t stop from feeling as if I was about to throw up.
“Bubbles?” Stiletto’s voice came from far away. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”
Sabina was there. “Nice to see you again,” she said. “Too bad you didn’t win Steve the other night.”
I must have looked like the biggest dolt in the universe the way I was gripping the counter and baring my teeth with such insincerity that I could have been an embalmed corpse at Kowalski’s Funeral Home. It’s all over, I kept thinking. You’re too late. You missed your opportunity.
“It was just to get them bidding,” I said as casually as I could. “You know how Stiletto and his ego are, all bummed out if no one bids over four hundred. And, of course, Help the Poor Children is a cause that’s near to my heart.”
Stiletto made a doubtful face.
“But the bids for Steve were the highest that evening.” She leaned against him, comfortable and secure in their physicality.
“Yes, but, for him, not so good. Quite disappointing, when you think about it. A few years back and he would have brought in a thousand at least. I’m afraid the old guy’s slipping.”
Stiletto narrowed his eyes. “Like hell I’m slipping. I could have easily gone over a thousand if some crazed maniac hadn’t thrown herself on the high bidder, thanks to you . . . know . . . who.”
“Gotcha,” I said, my senses slowly returning.
“Well, I for one am grateful for your support,” Sabina said graciously. “I mean, with all that’s going on in your life, your daughter, your upcoming wedding, it was so thoughtful of you to think of my charity. It’s always a pleasure to meet another person who puts philanthropy first.”
“That’s Bubbles,” Sti
letto said, his blue gaze boring into me as intently as ever. “Always philanthropic.”
Okay. What the heck did that mean? Would somebody please hand me a copy of the codebook? Mine must have gotten lost in the mail.
“Have you told her?” Sabina asked.
Stiletto cleared his throat. “Sabina has invited me to join her in Greece over the holidays.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t think. All brain activity ceased.
“I have a house there,” Sabina prattled. “I did a film a few years back, Helen of Troy. Maybe you saw it. I know. There are a million Helens of Troy. Anyway, I absolutely fell in love with Greece and the Aegean Sea. It’s so blue. Have you ever been there?”
Sabina might as well have been conversing in Martian. I had no idea what she was saying.
“No,” I said. “I’ve never been out of Pennsylvania.”
“Really?” She batted her eyes. “Anyway, we’re making a sequel, Helen of Greece, and start shooting next month with George Clooney. In the meantime, Steve and I will have my little house on Lesbos all to ourselves. Just the two of us.”
Did she just say Lesbos?
Stiletto said, “Don’t look so shocked, Bubbles. By that time you’ll be settling into your new role as Mrs. Dan Ritter. Or will it be Mrs. ‘Chip’ Ritter?”
I had to pull myself together, here. I couldn’t just let this woman walk off with him. I couldn’t let her kidnap him to an island of lesbians as if he were cast in some low-budget porn movie.
“I don’t know if it’s Dan or Chip. I don’t care. Listen, Stiletto. . . .”
The salesman returned with the wrapped package that Stiletto clearly was attempting to hide from Sabina, as if she had no idea. As for the salesman, I was going to have to sic Genevieve on him when I was done with this crisis. Either that or give him a speed lesson in tact.
When the two men went off to finish the transaction, Sabina reached out and touched my arm. This was probably some Californian gesture meant to convey a secret. “I know Steve feels so bad about not being here for your wedding. After all, he did come all the way back from England for it.”
“He won’t be here?” Not that I had invited him. I just didn’t know what else to say.
“I’m afraid we’re leaving on Friday night. The production company chartered a private plane for me and”—she shrugged—“it’s not like you can turn down a private plane. Or, rather, that you’d want to.” She giggled again.
I envisioned Stiletto and Sabina sitting on leather couches thirty-eight thousand feet above the ground, sipping champagne and playing footsie on their way to her bleached house on the bleached beach of the turquoise Aegean.
This gave me a splitting headache.
“We better go,” Stiletto said, his coat pocket now bulging with Sabina’s sapphire.
“Steve’s whisking me off to New York to see some show on Broadway. I have no idea what it is. Was he always so full of surprises?”
“Yes,” I said, though I hadn’t really considered him to be a Broadway musical kind of guy. “And the thing about it is, the surprises never stop.”
“Funny,” Stiletto said dryly, “I could have said the same about you.”
Sabina wrinkled her nose. “I can see now why it didn’t work out between you two. People so alike rarely stay together for very long.”
Shut up, Sabina, I wanted to say. Just, please, shut up.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I could not afford to waste one minute being depressed. I had exactly forty-eight hours to somehow win Stiletto back before he hopped a private jet to Greece with twinkle toes. This got me to thinking bad thoughts, about how desperate times called for desperate Lithuanians.
Yes, I was referring to Genevieve.
No, I scolded myself, remembering poor Flossie in her leg cast. Never again.
“What’s wrong with you? Why the long face?” Mama said when I showed up at her door to attend the shiva for Ernie Bender.
“She’s going to sit shiva! She should be dancing, maybe?” Genevieve barked from the living room, where she was polishing some kind of machete.
I pushed past Mama and plunked my geranium on her tiny kitchen counter. My mother’s apartment in the senior citizen high-rise was a miniaturized version of a real house. The stove had only two burners. The refrigerator was half the size of a standard Amana and the counter was about the length of my arm.
Unfortunately, she’d brought along all the furniture from her prior home, giving the place a crowded, Keebler-elf feel. And it smelled of pot roast simmering in a Crock-Pot. Wherever my mother is, there is pot roast in a Crock-Pot.
“I got problems,” I said. “I talked to Dan and Stiletto.”
Genevieve lowered her machete. “And?”
“And it was exactly the reverse of what I expected. Dan took the news like a trouper, put up absolutely no fuss when I dropped the bomb that I didn’t want to get married.”
Mama crossed herself. “The god of Loehmann’s has smiled down upon me. I can still return the dress.”
“You mean you haven’t bought it yet?”
“I told them you were trying it on and hadn’t decided. Let’s just say I had my doubts.” She placed her hand over her heart. “A mother knows, Bubbles. A mother knows.”
I gave her a look. The only thing this mother knew was how to pilfer three thousand dollars’ worth of toile and satin under her plus-sized muumuu.
“That’s not the problem,” I continued. “The problem is Stiletto. He’s going off to Greece Friday night on a private jet with Sabina, the actress from Allentown. She’s taking him to the island of Lesbos.”
“My people,” Genevieve mused whimsically.
Mama waved both her hands in disgust. “You’re through. You blew it, Bubbles. Come on, let’s go sit shiva and mourn your lost life. We gotta get to your house and be there when Jane gets back from cheerleading.” She grabbed her honey cake.
“Hold on!” I placed my hand on her wrinkled little arm. “Aren’t you going to help me?”
“You didn’t need my help getting his attention. You didn’t need my help getting him into bed. You don’t need my help now. At this stage of the game, kiddo, Steve Stiletto, the gigolo, either loves you and is willing to do what it takes to win you or he’s a wimp who wants to give up and go to Greece with boop-boop-boopie-do. Hurry up, Genny.”
Boop-boop-boopie-do?
Genevieve put down the machete and waddled to the door. “You know I got a standing offer. It may be rusty, but it works.”
“Thanks, but no, thanks, Genevieve,” I said, closing the door behind us. “I think I’ll pass on the home castrator today.”
Mrs. Bender lived three floors up in apartment 1705. Miraculously, it too smelled of pot roast.
“Okay, now we’ll knock but no one will come to the door,” Genevieve said, taking a tissue out of her purse and wiping off her lipstick.
“What are you doing?” I asked in horror.
“Removing my makeup. I forgot to tell you. You shouldn’t wear makeup at a shiva.”
Mama and Genevieve busily set to rubbing off their rouge and coral lip color. I didn’t know what kind of strange ritual this was, but I refused to comply. I do not go out in public without makeup.
As Genevieve patted her cheeks, she went on to explain shiva protocol. “The mirrors will be covered so the mourners don’t have to look at themselves in grief. Also, that way people concentrate on what’s important, the deceased, not about their appearance.”
No mirrors. No makeup. Not concentrating on appearance. This was getting worse and worse.
“And it’s best not to talk about anything but the dearly departed. Then only in moderated, respectful terms.”
“How do you know so much about sitting shiva?” I asked.
Genevieve counted on her fingers. “My fourth. No, my fifth husband, Abe, was Jewish. We were married only six months before he dropped dead.”
“What happened to him?”
“Vic
tim of bad timing. Made the mistake of walking in front of my bullet.” She crumpled her tissue. “I buried them all, you know, my husbands.”
“I’d keep your trap shut about that. It could be taken the wrong way by the wrong people,” Mama said.
Like the police, I thought.
Genevieve knocked. She was right. No one came to the door. We just let ourselves in.
Mrs. Bender’s apartment was identical to Mama’s, only darker, if that was possible. The curtains were drawn, and as Genevieve had predicted, the mirrors were covered with scarves. Mrs. Bender must have been hard up for furniture because she and two other people were sitting on little, short children’s stools.
“Why don’t I go down to Mama’s apartment and get her kitchen chairs?” I whispered to Genevieve.
“They’re supposed to be low to the ground,” Genevieve said. “It’s symbolic.”
Symbolic for what? Bad knees?
Mama stood awkwardly with her honey cake, unsure what to do since Mrs. Bender and her offspring hadn’t even so much as looked up to greet us. They were awfully haggard, hunched over in their low chairs. There was a big box of Kleenex on the floor near them and a woman who appeared to be in her early forties kept sniffling.
If Detective Burge could have seen them, maybe he wouldn’t have been so cavalier about Ern being a drug addict. People are people, no matter how they live their lives or how they die. Most have someone somewhere who grieves for them when they go. It’s easy to forget that when drugs and alcohol and crime are involved.
Mama found a spot for her honey cake on the kitchen table, where other people had brought casseroles and fruit. Then we sat on folding metal chairs. Genevieve’s bent slightly, I noticed, when she put her full weight on it.
I crossed my legs, uncertain what to do next. No one was talking. No one was drinking. No one was punching someone out in the parking lot. It was unlike all the Polish/ Lithuanian wakes I was used to.
Genevieve broke the ice. “Shoot, Arlene, that was a bummer of a thing to have happened to Ernie, OD’ing on crystal meth like that.”
Mama kicked her.
Arlene dabbed at her eyes. “He was a good son. A good son I had to bury today.”
Bubbles All The Way Page 23
