by Josie Brown
He rolls his eyes. He’s not happy about it, but he knows it’s what Ryan would want.
As for me, I just want this mission to be over.
There is a line a block long around Abu’s ice cream truck. The line moves quickly, despite the mommies who meander forward as they gossip, and the indecision inherent in children with too many tasty frozen desserts to choose from on this hot summer day.
Abu has gotten his groove back.
Even as he makes chitchat and change, like all good bridge agents, his eyes scan the length of the park in search of anyone who will notice the hand-off of intel. When I catch his eye, he winks. At the same time, he smacks the hand of a fifth-grader who makes a grab for a kindergartener’s special edition Disney Popsicle: the Blue Raspberry Elsa.
“Cut it out,” Abu growls at the kid. “If you can’t wait your turn, go to the back of the line.”
Soon, there is only one family in front of us: a dad with an eight-year-old boy. After buying a Dreamsicle, the man hands Abu a twenty-dollar bill. Abu dolefully counts out his change in singles, just like the man asked. As thanks, the man takes the loose change—a dime and three pennies—and drops it in Abu’s tip jar.
The coins tinkle as they hit the jar’s glass bottom.
“Piker,” Abu mutters under his breath.
Trisha asks for a White Cherry Olaf Popsicle. Armed with the frozen treat, she ecstatically runs off to catch some shade so that it won’t melt so quickly.
“That, and a Fudgsicle,” I bat my eyes at Abu.
He nods nonchalantly, as he reaches deep into the freezer for our very special pop.
Jack hands him a ten-dollar bill. “Will this cover it?”
Abu gleefully snatches it out of his hand. “You’re a generous man, my friend.” He holds it up for the other parents to see before stuffing it into the tip jar.
“I take it this hasn’t been a lucrative day?” I ask.
Abu shrugs. “Beats driving an Uber car share.”
He’s got a point.
We aren’t worried that the pop will melt before we get home. Most of it is dry ice anyway.
The code is punched out, like Braille, on the Fudgsicle’s stick. After tracing over the stick and deciphering the message, we light a match to both, and let them burn down to ashes in the fireplace.
“There are only seven POIs?” I ask, as we watch them go up in smoke.
“You got your wish. It makes our job a lot easier,” Jack points out. “Let’s see…Todd Courtland. That’s a no-brainer. And Eileen.”
I shrug. “She’s unlikely.”
“I agree, but she’s an obvious POI, based on her long affiliation with Lee, and her access to his personal effects, which include his cell.” His gaze shifts back to the list. “The head agent in Lee’s Secret Service detail is also on the list: Gerald Muldoon.”
“You mean Lurch—the tall, solid guy who stayed in the Oval Office during our meeting with Lee.”
Jack chuckles. “A colorful nickname, but yes. And on the flip side, there is Babette’s chief of staff, and the head of her Secret Service detail as well.”
“Narcissa Belmont, and Zeb Dunne. I’m more likely to believe it could be Narcissa. But, from what I could see, Zeb isn’t all that fond of her.”
“Whether he likes her or not isn’t important. All that counts is whether or not he sent the texts to Xia.”
He has a point—but I’ve got a great idea. “Hey, listen—Babette is expecting our friends and family list for the engagement party. I’d already decided to include the names of Ryan and our Acme team. While the whole mission team has access to Lion’s Lair, why don’t we put them to work? Arnie can get in early with the catering crew, so that he can fake out the security cameras and hack the computer system in order to monitor anything that reeks of Quorum. Later, he’ll enter the party as a guest, along with Emma. During the party, you and I will snatch the cell phones while Abu, Dominic, and Ryan stand guard as Emma and Arnie pull off brush passes in order to scan them quickly, then pass them back to us to replace.”
Jack kisses the top of my head. “That’s a brilliant idea. Between the seven of us, we’ll have a better chance of scrubbing Lion’s Lair for intel. If we have to abort during the engagement party, we’ll get a second chance during the wedding. But, how do we get the message to Ryan?”
“Easy,” I declare.
I log on to Hilldale Library’s website, through a member account I’ve established under the name P. Lindstrom. From there, I click onto the email account of the circulation librarian, Marion, who happens to be an Acme operative.
My note to her reads:
Which book has this quote? I’d like to reserve it, if you please, but I won’t be able to pick it up until Saturday. Thank you! –P Lindstrom
“When you look at me, when you think of me, I am in paradise.”
—William Makepeace Thackeray
Seeing this, Jack honors me with a thumbs-up. He’s just remembered that Emma also accesses this account, and is alerted whenever correspondence goes between P Lindstrom and Marion.
Emma will decode the quote as follows:
When: known event, indicated in correspondence above, and via code word in this quote.
You: Acme
Look: Be on the lookout for
Think: assistance needed
At me/of me: involving me, your field agent
In Paradise: at the Party
Jack’s grin melts into a frown as he looks down at his watch. “Let’s grab Trisha and our workout clothes, then head to Lion’s Lair.”
Ah, back to reality. Hopefully, our sweat equity will pay off in successful spycraft.
“Twelve more lunges, and we’ll call it a day,” Walton says.
“Let’s go for twenty-four,” I counter, despite my huffing and puffing.
“A glutton for punishment, eh?” He grins wickedly. “I see we have that in common.”
My sudden burst of energy has nothing to do with the fact that I’m bound and determined to prove Babette wrong about bulging out of my wedding dress, and everything to do with getting him to open up about his first client.
So far, nothing I’ve done has worked.
Yes, he was seething when he discovered that she has a new workout partner. To make up for the fact that his replacement is my betrothed, I’m being put through my paces. He hopes my pain will gain him something as well: Babette’s jealousy.
I’m not complaining. I’ll do everything in my power to prove Babette wrong. Not only will the dress fit beautifully on the day of my wedding, every eye will be on me, as opposed to her.
As a last resort to loosen his tongue, I turn around and fold at the waist into a wide-legged forward bend.
This at least earns me his appreciative gaze. Although my head is upside down, I can still watch him as he tilts his head, better to admire me from behind.
“Nice…” he murmurs. “But you’ll get more out of it if you widen your legs a couple more inches”—he bends so that one hand can nudge my foot even further out. Why he feels he’s got to cup my ass with the other is beyond me.
“Feel what I mean?” he whispers in my ear.
He is not expecting to feel my hand on his nutsack. I twist it so hard that he drops to his knees onto the gym mat.
I could kick myself for losing my cool until he whispers, “I…love you.”
I put my hand around his throat. “What’s that you say?”
“I needed to be…”—he blushes—“disciplined.”
I let go, then ease down beside him. “You’re right. Someone should take you in hand. Especially for gossiping about my bestie.”
His eyes light up when he realizes what he must pay for me to play. “I can be more indiscreet.”
I circle his right nipple with my index finger and thumb before twisting it hard. “Prove it.”
He groans ecstatically. When, finally, he opens his eyes, he has a new reason to whine: Jack and Babette have just come into view. T
hey are walking arm-in-arm to the sixth hole.
If Jack hasn’t placed that damn microdot by now, I’m going to be pissed.
Or maybe not, since it may have meant getting even more up close and personal with her than he is already.
“Since when has Babette taken up golf?”
Walton shrugs. “It gives her an excuse to hang with some dude from the Middle East.” He sneers at the thought. “He gets a woody whenever she’s around.”
“Oh, really?” Salem is already on my radar, so no news there. My hand moves to the other nipple. As my fingers do their magic, I hiss, “You’re gossiping again, you very bad boy.”
“That’s just…the tip…of the iceberg.” He gazes down, where his own iceberg is growing. “Until the Sheik of Araby hits town, she amuses herself with Lucky Lee’s chief of staff—that creepy Todd dude.”
Hmmm. Jealous much? Again, he hasn’t told me anything I don’t already know. I slap his face, hard. “Of course, she’d be flattered. He’s a man-ho. Still, it’s no reason for you to be telling tales out of school,” I purr. “If there was a desk in this room, I’d make you bend over it for twelve lashes.”
“Just twelve?” He moans at the thought. “Wait…listen! There’s more—like the head honcho with her Secret Service detail.” He frowns at the thought.
I pause too, only because I know this dude is so off base. “But it’s the man’s job to spend time with her, isn’t it?”
“Honey, he ain’t hoppin’ in the front of her Lincoln town car.” Walton’s leer is accompanied with a wink. “And if the limo is a’rockin,’ no one should come a’knockin.’”
“You don’t say?” Has the ol’ Donna-o-Meter missed something? Walton may be wrong about Zeb, but it would be interesting to have an extra pair of eyes on Babette, and he certainly has no qualms playing the Peeping Tom.
Which gives me a great idea…
I notice he’s wearing a chain around his neck, holding a fob of some sort. “What’s this?” I wrap it around my hand so that it chokes him.
“My…Saint Christopher’s medal,” he gasps.
Walton may not be on our POI list, but he’s close enough to Babette to be our eyes and ears on her. I finger the medal lovingly. He assumes I’m mesmerized by it. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve attached a microdot. As far as Walton is concerned, it covers the bases.
I let the chain fall to his chest. “A good Catholic boy, eh? I used to want to be a nun. I bet the abbess would have called me Sister Donatella.”
Walton grins. “The nuns at school called me naughty as they rapped my knuckles.”
“Do you always wear your medal?”
“No.”
“The right answer is yes.” So that he remembers, I twist his fingers straight back, almost to the breaking point. “If you forget, I’ll take it as a sign that you don’t really want me to be your friend.”
“I’ll always wear it! I promise!” He flinches through the pain, but he’s certainly got a smile on his face.
I pat his cheek gently before slapping it again. “And leave it exposed, so that everyone can admire it.”
“Yes, of course”—he hesitates, then whispers, “Sister Donatella.”
“That’s a good boy. And so that my best friend in the world looks her best for my wedding, do everything in your power to stay by her side. She needs you to remind her that she’s got a few sags, that she’s carrying a few extra pounds.”
He nods vigorously.
As an incentive, I step hard on his toes.
He shows his pleasure with a howl.
“Yes, I know you’ll look after her. And because of that, I’ll look after you,” I promise. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
I pick up my gym bag and head out the door.
Chapter 9
Picking Out Your Wedding Dress
One mistake a bride must never make is in the choice of her wedding dress. So many choices, but only one body:
Yours, with all its assets and flaws.
So that your dress is all you’ve dreamed about for that very important day, avoid the following:
No-No Number One: Don’t be afraid to go over your budget. If there’s one dress you’ll remember for the rest of your life, this is it. If there’s one dress in which you’ll be photographed more than any other, this is it. If there is one dress that will make you look like a million dollars, this is it. That being said, if there’s one dress choice that you don’t want to screw up, this is it, so please don’t give a damn if you go over your budget by a buck or two (or ten...or a hundred).
No-No Number Two: Don’t follow any trends. Yes, the micro-mini, or granny gown, or puffy pirate shirtdress may have seemed like a good idea at the time, but let’s face it: it’s not a keeper for anything other than a Halloween costume.
No-No Number Three: Don’t take the advice of others. Here’s the bottom line: as much as you’d hope that your (a) mother, (b) sister, (c) best friend, (d) fiancé will know immediately which dress looks best on you, they have their own reasons for choosing one that may not be your ideal princess dress. Trust your own judgment!
Think of it this way: twenty years hence, when you look at your wedding pictures, you don’t need this to be yet another issue to blame on your mother. It’ll be no one’s fault but your own.
“It sounded as if you had quite a workout,” Chantal is leaning against the wall opposite the workout room.
The hall is broad, but Walton’s howl was loud enough to shake the birds from the trees. I’m not surprised someone walked over to check it out.
I just wish it weren’t her. The smirk on her face comes with a presumption that what went on in there is exactly what Babette had counted on.
“That shriek?” I shrug. “Walton dropped a barbell on his foot.”
“Then I guess the first lady will have to get her exercise elsewhere.” I follow Chantal’s gaze out the window toward the golf course, where Babette is set to tee off.
Jack positions himself behind her. When he puts his hands on her hips to position them, she deliberately takes a step back in order to rub up against him.
Grrrrr…
I bend down to tie my sneaker, so that Chantal can’t see my grimace. Unfortunately, she’s still standing there when I look up. So that she takes the hint, I say, “Don’t let me take you away from your coffee break.”
“In fact, I came to find you.”
I sigh. “What now?”
“Now we’re getting into the fun stuff! I’ve got a room full of wedding dresses for you to try on.”
“Oh! Well, in that case—”
“I’ve set them up in Babette’s dressing suite, since it has wall-to-wall mirrors—as well as a bathroom with a shower stall.” She leans in close in order to take a whiff, and wrinkles her nose. “Smells like it was quite a workout.”
Bitch. “It takes sweat equity to have a body like this,” I remind her coolly.
“You don’t say.” To get a full assessment, she circles me, then shrugs. “Sad isn’t it? Look, seriously, so that you’re not disappointed on your wedding day, I’ll book you for double sessions with Walton every day between now and then.” She writes something in her iPad. “There, done…Well, well, well, he must have enjoyed himself too. See? He sent a string of emojis.”
She holds out the iPad so that I can see the smiley faces.
No wonder they’re smiling. Each is demonstrating an X-rated sex act.
Now I really need that shower.
“That one is perfect, don’t you think?” I won’t be fooled by Chantal’s cheery chirp. This dress is just as fug-ugly as the last four.
I shake my head. “Nope, sorry. Not exactly what I had in mind.”
“Seriously? What’s wrong with this one?” By this point, she no longer attempts to smile. She just bares her teeth.
I stare at my body in the mirror. “You mean, besides the fact that it has a turtleneck? Isn’t that enough?” Not to mention an endless train, and i
s wrapped so tightly around me that I could pass for a mummy.
“No, not really. Look, I’m just trying to protect you from the cruel whispers that bring most older brides to tears.” She touches her throat and hisses, “Turkey neck.”
I close my eyes and count to ten. Yes, I’m disappointed to see that she’s still here when they open.
“Donna, admit it: you’ve become a bridezilla.” She shakes her head in mock terror.
“I beg your pardon? How can you say that?”
“Easily! I mean, look at all the dresses you’ve vetoed!” She picks up one of the discards off the bed. “This one was perfectly fine, but you have a problem with the waistline.”
“You mean, I had a problem with the fact that there was no waistline. I looked like an Oompa Loompa!” I hold up the dress, which could pass for a silk pillowcase stuffed and puffed with tulle, allowing strategically cut holes for the release of the bride’s head and appendages.
Chantal shrugs. “You should reconsider. It covers a lot of sins.”
Ah, sins. Would, say, strangling your bossy wedding planner with the ugly wedding gown she insists you accept count as one? I’m sure most brides would vote no.
“And what was wrong with this one?” She holds up another abomination. “The lacework is one of a kind, and the raw silk comes all the way from Italy.”
“It looks as if it was designed by a Trappist monk!” I shake my head in wonder. “My God, I can wrap it twice around my body! I guess that’s why it comes with a sash. By the way, did you notice that the sleeves were three inches longer than my arms?”
She rolls her eyes. “And all this time I thought you’d appreciate an opportunity to cover up your batwings.”
I hold up my left arm. “I don’t have any flab! ...Okay, maybe just a little.” If I wasn’t trussed up in three pairs of Boostie-Yay Spanx bodysuits, I might be able to sidekick that smirk off her face. As it is, I can barely move a muscle.
