Eager to change the subject, Dena said, "Congratulations, Mr. Pittman. It must be a wonderful feeling to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the law firm you helped found."
"Call me Bob. A wonderful feeling? Dena, it's beyond wonderful. It's—well, it's stupendous. And the most stupendous part is knowing that with the next generation at the helm, Moreau Pittman will be around until well into the next millennium. Kind of like a little dose of immortality." He looked fondly at Gabe, who responded with a respectful nod.
And Dena finally got it. As she watched the two men share a silent, heartfelt exchange, she finally comprehended the full extent of Gabe's love for, and devotion to, his work. She'd always assumed his parents had somehow coerced him into the family business, had taken advantage of his sense of duty and dedication to his family. But in that moment she knew in her heart that the firm his father and Bob Pittman had founded thirty years ago was more than a job for Gabe. It was his legacy. And it made him happy.
Bob motioned to someone to join them. "Gwen, come meet the mystery lady."
He introduced Dena to his wife, Gwen Pittman, an attractive woman of about sixty. She, too, was cordial, although she seemed to be trying a little too hard. Dena supposed it was better than the alternative.
"It's very nice to meet you." Mrs. Pittman's brow wrinkled. "Dena Devlin. That name sounds familiar. Didn't you go to high school here in Briarfield, with Gabe and Andrea?"
"Yes, I did. I graduated the same year." Would she remember that Dena had gone steady with her presumptive future son-in-law? Had her daughter or the Moreaus even mentioned her at the time?
Probably not, Dena decided as she watched Andrea's mother try to place her, and fail.
"Do you live in Greenwich now, too?" Mrs. Pittman asked.
"No, New Jersey."
"Well, there are some lovely neighborhoods in New Jersey. I don't believe I know your parents—although, of course, we moved to Larchmont years ago. Were they members?"
It took Dena a moment to realize Mrs. Pittman was referring to the country club. She obviously assumed Gabe would only escort one of the elite to a function like this. His arm tightened fractionally around her waist, his protective instincts clearly aroused.
"No, they didn't belong to the club."
"I seem to recall a Devlin on the board of the local historical society. Could that have been your mother?"
Dena gave the other woman her most engaging smile. "I'm afraid not. My mother was kept busy raising five children and working as an aide at the Briarfield Nursing Home. You might've met my father, though. He was a janitor at the high school."
Mrs. Pittman's brittle smile locked in place with an almost audible click. She appeared at a loss for words.
Not so her husband. "Do they still live in Briarfield?" he asked as he lifted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and handed it to Dena before taking one for himself.
"No, they retired to Maine two years ago."
Bob's silver eyes lit up. "Does your dad fish?"
"No, but Mom is a champion fly fisherwoman. She says she moved to paradise."
Bob smiled wistfully. "Maine."
Gwen Pittman appeared to have recovered. "Now, don't get Bob started on fishing." She turned to Gabe. "Dear, your father was looking for you a little while ago."
Every muscle in Dena's body tensed. She sipped her champagne, felt the tiny bubbles tickle her tongue.
"Listen, you two have to come over for dinner," Bob said. "Soon."
"Oh yes, that would be lovely," his wife agreed. "Next Sunday?"
Gabe turned to Dena. "How about it, love? Are you free Sunday?" He knew she was free; he was offering her a chance to decline.
"I sure am," Dena said. "Thank you. I'm looking forward to it."
Gabe gave her waist a little squeeze.
Andrea's mother was animated now that she had an opportunity to entertain. "Why don't we plan on seven o'clock. Tell me, Dena, is there anything you don't eat?"
Grinning, she gestured to her hips. "Do I look like there's anything I don't eat?"
Mrs. Pittman reacted with a spontaneous titter, which Dena considered a minor victory. "Now, I know you're just having fun with me. You have a lovely figure, dear." Looking past Dena, she wagged her fingers at someone.
Dena looked over her shoulder and watched Andrea approach, watched the flare of surprise, quickly extinguished, as she noticed Dena. They exchanged vapid greetings and Andrea introduced everyone to her date, Spencer Williams, a senior associate in a midtown law firm. Classically handsome, impeccably groomed and sporting the ubiquitous black tux, Spencer looked like an escapee from Barbie's Dream House: Formal Wear Ken in the flesh.
Andrea wore a sleek navy gown disturbingly similar to the one Dena had modeled for Gabe earlier.
First thing tomorrow, she was taking it back to the store.
Andrea turned to her father. "The D.A.'s office should be getting back to us with—"
Bob held up his palm. "It'll keep till Monday. Tonight we're celebrating. No shop talk."
Gabe said, "I see my parents over there. Let's go catch them while they're still together."
Dena's heart squirmed into her throat. She said her nice-to-meet-yous and set aside her half-full champagne flute. Gabe took her hand and led her across the room. People greeted him along the way, and he made fleeting introductions. Dena responded on autopilot, smiling brightly and saying all the right things, but all she could think about was Lucien and Cynthia Moreau getting ever closer in her peripheral vision.
It was as if she'd been transported back in time. As if she were turning back into the self-conscious, easily intimidated girl she'd once been.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. She had nothing to be nervous about. Gabe loved her, and that was all that mattered. Regardless of how his parents reacted, he'd still love her, because he believed in her.
That thought brought her up short. Gabe did believe in her. He was proud of her. He'd said it often enough, and he was proving it even now. He was right—she'd been holding back a part of herself, fearful, on some gut level, of a repeat of the wrongs and hurts of her youth. But as Gabe strode right up to his parents with her in tow, every last lingering doubt evaporated. She couldn't help smiling at her own foolishness, and that was how the Moreaus first saw her, standing by their son's side, beaming proudly, practically daring them to disapprove.
"Gabriel!" his mother said. "We were wondering where you were. I was just telling Helmut—" She stopped abruptly, staring at Dena. Her husband, too, fixed his gaze on her.
Lucien Moreau was even more imposing than Dena remembered, as tall as his son and powerfully built. His thick, neatly trimmed hair was fully silver now, in dramatic contrast to his deeply suntanned face, the result of a lifelong love of sailboating.
Gabe squeezed her hand. He said, "Mom, Dad, you remember Dena Devlin, I'm sure."
Dena took a deep breath, released her death grip on Gabe and extended her hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Moreau, it's so good to see you again."
Gabe's father was the first to shake her proffered hand, an automatic impulse, no doubt. His mother followed suit.
"My goodness. Dena." Cynthia Moreau's eyes skittered over Dena's distinctive gown. "It has been a long time. Hasn't it, Lucien?"
"Yes," was all he said. His flat stare shifted from Dena to Gabe, where it lingered—accusingly, Dena thought.
For his part, Gabe held his father's gaze for several beats longer than strictly required, before turning away to introduce Dena to the man his parents had been chatting with, an elegant, white-haired gentleman with a cultured German accent. Dena immediately connected this Helmut Danziger to the German-based H. Danziger Corporation, one of the world's leading manufacturers of optical equipment.
Gabe's parents exchanged a brief look. Their indignation was palpable. Dena found herself chewing back a grin. She almost felt sorry for them. After fifteen years, they had to have thought they'd seen the last of their son's lowbro
w high-school sweetheart. They must have long since thanked God he'd seen the light and ended the wrongheaded flirtation.
Dena felt like something out of the movie Poltergeist.
I'm baa-ack!
And suddenly she was enjoying every minute of it.
* * *
17
« ^
Dena gave Lucien Moreau's arm a friendly pat. "I'll bet you're wondering how Gabe and I hooked up again. We ran into each other back in July at the reunion. Right here at the Briarfield Country Club!"
Lucien turned to address Helmut Danziger.
"So. Mr. Moreau," Dena said, knowing he couldn't ignore a direct question. "How does it feel to be celebrating thirty years?"
Slowly he turned back to her, said blandly, "There are no words for what I'm feeling right now."
"Talk about evasive!" She grinned at Gabe and Danziger. "Isn't that just like a lawyer?"
A ripple of laughter answered her. There was a funny light in Gabe's eye as he watched her. She sensed he was ready to jump in at any moment, had probably planned to do all the talking. For now, though, he seemed content to listen.
She said, "I asked Bob Pittman the same thing. He was a tad more loquacious on the subject."
"You've been talking to Bob?" Cynthia glanced nervously at her husband.
"And Gwen, too. I've been trying to meet everyone here, all the people Gabe works with!" Dena gushed, a sadistic impulse on her part, considering the fact that all the firm's most important clients were in attendance.
One of those clients, of course, was Helmut Danziger. He turned to Dena. "Do you also practice law, Miss Devlin?"
Cynthia quickly interjected, "No, Dena is Gabe's friend."
"A very good friend, yes?" Danziger's smile was warm. "You are not with the firm, then?"
"Nein, Herr Danziger," Dena replied. "Ich habe verschiedene Hotels fur Hunde und Katzen." I have several hotels for dogs and cats.
Danziger's eyes grew round. "Ja?"
Cynthia tugged on Gabe's sleeve. Dena just made out their whispered conversation. "What did she say?" his mother hissed.
"She said she gives dogs tick baths and her father's a janitor."
Cynthia glared at her husband as if to say, Do something!
"I believe the first course is being served," Lucien announced, with booming authority. "Shall we find our seats?"
Dena ended up sitting between Gabe and Herr Danziger. Gabe's parents, the Pittmans, Andrea and Formal Wear Ken completed the table. Dena continued to converse in German with the charming Herr Danziger, about everything from the relative merits of German versus Japanese camera optics to his favorite Rottweiler's picky eating habits. Dena had excelled at German in junior high and high school, and had honed her skills on her former employer Frau Buchler while shampooing countless canines at Going to the Dogs.
Gabe's mother seemed to have turned into a picky eater herself this evening. She made a conspicuous effort at lighthearted conversation, while her jittery gaze kept returning to Elly May Clampett and the Very Important Client she was chatting up in a foreign tongue.
Outwardly Gabe's father appeared unaffected by whatever havoc Dena might be wreaking. On those occasions when his penetrating dark brown eyes homed in on her, she had the distinct impression he was sending her a message. Or a warning.
For his part, Gabe smiled serenely and said isn't this some brisk weather we're having.
"I'm afraid I'm being rude," Dena finally said to the table at large. "Doubly rude. Not only have I monopolized Helmut, but I've subjected the poor man to my mediocre German."
"Nein, nein!" he objected. "Ich verstehe Sie sehr gut. I understand you very well. You are quite fluent, Dena. I have enjoyed our conversation immensely." He turned to Gabe's father. "This is quite a special young lady, Lucien. You must be very proud of her."
"A facility with languages is much to be admired," Lucien said evenly.
"And a facility in matters of commerce even more so, you must agree," Helmut replied. "I am referring, of course, to Dena's business venture."
Gabe's father wasn't so quick with a reply this time. He glanced at Gabe, clearly expecting his son to jump in and provide some hint as to what Helmut was talking about. It would have been awkward for Lucien to admit his ignorance in the face of his client's enthusiasm.
Gabe set down his salad fork. "Personally, I couldn't be more proud of Dena." He seemed inclined to let his folks sweat a bit.
Not so Andrea. "Of course, we're all very impressed." She addressed Helmut, although her words were, of course, meant to enlighten the Moreaus. "Such a clever idea, a fancy pet hotel as an alternative to boarding kennels. And the idea took off! How many Xanadu Pet Resorts are there now, Dena?"
"Six. I'm looking into opening a seventh in Owings Mills, Maryland."
Lucien's expression never changed. Cynthia, however, couldn't conceal her surprise. "Pet hotels?" she asked Dena, wide-eyed. "You mean like with little rooms?"
"The animal lives in an apartment on the premises with one of the staff. We also offer large dog runs, which are more economical, but the apartments are always booked well in advance."
"And no wonder! Do the dogs get to spend time outdoors?" Cynthia asked, shushing her husband when he attempted to redirect the conversation.
"Of course," Dena said, as a waiter removed her salad plate. "All the Xanadu resorts have big yards. And they all offer grooming and obedience training."
"A pet resort! What a brilliant concept!" Cynthia cried. "And long overdue! I feel so terribly guilty every time I take a trip and have to leave my precious babies at the kennel." She seized her husband's arm. "Lucien, isn't this the most wonderful news!"
"Wonderful," Lucien agreed, in a monotone.
"You mean you didn't know about Xanadu?" Helmut asked.
Cynthia drew herself up. "If I'd known, do you think I would have left my precious babies at a kennel?"
"What breed are we talking about?" Dena asked.
"Shih Tzu. Two girls, Amber and Topaz. They're little darlings, they really are. I don't know what I'd do without them. Last Easter Lucien and I went to the south of France and I worried about my babies the whole time, locked up in that awful place."
Lucien said, "It's a perfectly adequate kennel."
His wife sent Dena a look that said, What do men know? "Now, I'm almost afraid to ask, Dena, but is there a Xanadu resort anywhere near Larchmont?"
"Well, our Litchfield location isn't too far from you."
Cynthia's face lit up. "Litchfield! No, that's not too far at all!" She turned to her husband once more. "We can leave our babies at Xanadu when we go to Tahoe next month."
"We'll discuss it," Lucien said.
His wife waved her hand dismissively. It was clear that as far as she was concerned, the decision was made.
"You might know some of our clients in your area," Dena said, knowing a little name-dropping would go a long way with Gabe's mother. "Elliot and Abigail Drinkwater have boarded their prize-winning Abyssinian cats with us three times already, and the Litchfield location has only been open since June."
Cynthia looked suitably impressed. Elliot Drinkwater was a well-known commercial real estate mogul. "Did you hear that, Lucien? We met the Drinkwaters at Cloris's New Year's open house."
Dena said, "Lena Demopoulos—the movie producer?—left her Jack Russell terrier with us for three weeks when she went to Greece. When she arrived to pick him up, he didn't want to leave!"
"Gabriel, you've been very selfish," his mother scolded, "keeping our darling Dena all to yourself."
"Can't imagine what I was thinking," he said.
"I can't wait to tell Marjorie Wentworth about Xanadu," Cynthia said, with gleeful anticipation. "That woman thinks she's on the cutting edge of every new trend. I'll just happen to mention dropping Amber and Topaz off at the luxurious pet resort in Litchfield."
"Actually," Dena said, "you don't have to drop the dogs off unless you want to. We offer pickup service.
"
Gabe's father finally spoke up. "For which your customers pay dearly, I assume."
His wife raised an eyebrow. So low that Dena barely heard it, she muttered, "Shall we discuss how much that new sloop of yours set us back?"
"Don't be silly." Dena waved her hand negligently. "Naturally there'd be no charge for pickup and dropoff. Not for you," she added, in her chummiest tone.
Gabe's mother bestowed a smile of such warm affection, Dena could only wonder if she remembered she was talking to "the janitor's daughter."
As waiters arrived with the next course, Cynthia politely asked after Dena's parents—"Maine! How lovely! The Prescott Webleys retired to Maine just last year. I must ask them if their paths have crossed." She insisted Dena alert her the next time her folks visited, so they could meet for lunch. By the time the dinner plates were being cleared, history had been rewritten and Cynthia Moreau had always known that "our darling Dena" would make them all proud.
Gabe found Dena's hand under the table and squeezed it. He leaned toward her. "I don't know how you did that, love. I'm just glad you didn't decide to go into law. I'd hate to have to go up against you in a courtroom."
"You shouldn't be so surprised," she whispered. "Wasn't it you who told me I'd win them over?" She glanced at his father. "One down, one to go."
Gabe's sigh said he wasn't so optimistic.
Lucien abandoned his seat and came toward them, putting her instantly on the alert. "Would you care to join me on the dance floor, Dena?"
She made herself smile. "I'd love to."
The band began "Strangers in the Night" as the two singers, a man and a woman, lent their excellent voices to the sentimental lyrics. Gabe's father danced her away from the other couples on the floor. Dena tried to match his relaxed confidence, but apprehension made her stiff and graceless.
He remained silent, which only increased her anxiety. But of course, that was his intention, she realized. He was trying to rattle her.
"That was quite a performance you gave," he said at last. His pleasant expression never faltered, even when he added, "Gabe should have known better than to bring you here. He had more sense when he was a kid."
A CLASS ACT Page 15
