Wombat indeed! I zeroed in on the hand in question.
“Hello, Mavis.”
Chapter 7
It’s a good thing, Mavis Beaumont had a lot of money and that so many men had low standards. Even with all the cosmetic pickling she’d shelled out for over the years, she was still no prize. She was an aging bleach blonde pixy. A bit stubby and a lot nosey. Suddenly I was grateful Drew had forced me into a pair of her sky-high pumps as I now enjoyed a narrow height advantage. I’m not sure if I had ever been happier that my feet are oddly large for my height and Drew’s so small for hers. Round one: Becca Morris.
“There you are, Sugar.” Mavis clapped her hands together like a trained seal. And she called me Sugar. Oh, she can sprinkle in what’s left of her phony southern charm all she wants. That doesn’t make it any less irritating. Sugar was strike three in my book.
“Here I am.” I stated the obvious and stuffed a cheese cube in my mouth. It seemed to make more sense to keep eating than try to actually bite my tongue.
“I just can’t say again how surprised I am to be seeing H.R. again after all this time.” She plucked up a baby carrot and waved it like a wand before her teeth descended on it with a crunch. “Hmm. Hmm. I swear. ’Tis the season for Christmas miracles.”
I don’t know what pissed me off more. The fact that Mavis just used the word ’Tis in a sentence in this century? Or, that she had some kind of relationship with Harris where she was privy to a special form address? H.R. Really?
I’m thinking ’Tis probably all of the above. I grunted and reached for another cube of cheese to keep my mouth placated. Mavis took this a sign to keep talking.
“Whew.” She faux fanned herself and leaned close as if to share some great secret. “I don’t mind telling ya, that one there? He is grade ‘A’–I mean, certified, bonafide, prime cut male.”
My blood boiled upon hearing this perpetual puma compare Harris to a cut of steak. I can’t believe it. I’m about to assault a senior citizen. I’m about to strike an old lady for eye guzzling a man I don’t even know.
What the hell was wrong with me? And why was I so incensed that this husband-hopping hussy was enjoying the view that is Harris Redmond?
I don’t know why her appraisal of his assets bothered me so much. I just know that it did. However, given that I already avoided an assault charge once this evening, I opted to use my words instead of my fists. It was time to put down the cheese and engage the target.
“Mavis, if you’re grading men on the same scale as a slab of beef perhaps you’re just hungry. Not horny.”
“Honey child, I could be the only woman in line at an all meat buffet, and I would still want that man to ‘clean my plate.’ I mean look at him! Only a dead woman wouldn’t want to take a bite out of that. Hell…I bet even then.”
“Wow! It’s official. Absolutely no one in this industry has any sort of filter.” I gestured toward my mouth. “Like, not even a little bit. Whatever thoughts are rolling around in there just come flying right out don’t they?”
“When you get to be my age and this many husbands into your golden years, you learn to just let your freak flag fly.” Mavis raised her glass of white wine proudly to illustrate the point. “Life is too short, the nights too cold, and the scenery just too damn good to spend it trying to tip toe around the dirty words.”
I hated that she had a point. Still, I had a hard time getting past her barefaced hankering for Harris.
“You are never (and I do mean never) too old to look at the menu. Even if you can’t order everything on it. Besides, when you write books that lean to the scandalous side, it helps if your thoughts run parallel. If you catch my meaning.” She wagged her eyebrows suggestively as she sipped her wine.
“So, you and Harris–I mean Mr. Redmond. You seem…chummy. You two go back awhile then?” I hoped the question didn’t sound as desperate out loud as it did in my head.
“Oh, sure. H.R. entered the picture just after husband number three.” I tried to keep my face in check as she continued. “I had just switched agencies, and he was just expanding his little empire to include the romance realm.”
I couldn’t squash the twinge of happiness that rose in me. Hearing that their relationship was (and hopefully has only ever been) purely professional delighted me. I shouldn’t care. It’s not like I have a right to be jealous. Still, I was pleased.
“So, you’ve seen each other…I mean you’ve worked together professionally now for some time then?”
“Oh, our boy H.R. has grown into quite a consummate professional. He wasn’t always so confident, though. Believe it or not, he used to get so nervous. Why, I can still remember two years ago at his first conference as a…” She paused for a moment. Then a look crept across her face like she had just solved some grand puzzle.
Wait. Oh crap…she’s smiling. Why is Mavis “Wombat-Hands” Beaumont smiling at me like a mental patient?
“Why, jingle my bells and call me Rudolph! You like him.” Again, with the seal clapping. This time with more gusto, which attracted some attention from party-goers.
“Mavis, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Sugar, please. I put the ‘dick’ in ridiculous. Just read my bio. Speaking of which…you want to get ri-dick-ulous with H.R., huh?”
“Could you be more crass?”
“Shhhhut the ffff… French door! You like him, like him.”
“Ok. Now you’re acting like a twelve-year-old girl.”
“Oh, Doll Face. You got it bad.” Mavis’s face was one of supreme elation as she watched me try to convince us both that I had no interest in Harris. The more miserably I failed, the more ecstatic she became. And now I had been upgraded from ‘Sugar,’ ‘Honey,’ and ‘Sweetie,’ to, ‘Doll Face.’
Awesome.
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I was just making conversation. Honestly, I’ve only worked at R&R for a couple of years. I just don’t yet know how all the pieces fit together is all.”
“But, I bet you’d like to find out how y’alls pieces fit together?” It was getting harder and harder to be mad at this dirty old broad. She was awesomely outrageous. I was determined to keep trying, though.
“Seriously, Mavis? Do you think about anything other than sex?” I shot back.
“I write sex for a living. What do you think, Sugar?”
“I think this conversation is terminated,” I deadpanned as best I could.
“And I think you want a certain someone to deck your halls.” She hit me with yet another Christmas sexual innuendo.
“You’re really enjoying the holiday wordplay tonight aren’t you?”
“I am, Sweetie. I really am.” She was practically in tears as she tried to hold back her laughter long enough to take another pull at her wine glass.
This conversation had quickly turned into an interrogation. I needed to leave before I rolled over and gave everything away. And I needed to stop talking. I overloaded a cracker with cheese and some sort of deli meat and shoveled it into my mouth.
There! That ought to keep me busy for a while.
I set my jaw and went to work on the cracker and cheese construction I had just crammed in my traitorous pie hole as I began clocking the exits. My mind whirled as I tried to devise a plan to smuggle myself and the rest of this cheese tray out of the party like a Mexican drug lord.
Still forging my strategy, I once again felt the play of masculine fingertips on my backside. The warm baritone of the man who was quickly becoming my Christmas kryptonite followed.
“I hope you’re saving room for dessert,” Harris mumbled low and slow for my ears only.
“That’s a great idea,” I said garbling my words. “Where is the dessert table?” I looked around desperate to find both the table and an excuse to leave before Mavis could embarrass me.
“H.R!”sShe exclaimed.
Too late.
Oh, Christ…this is going to be painful.
“Darling, your ears
must have been positively on fire. Becca and I were just talking about you.”
Why the hell does he get called “Darling” and I get “Honey?” Oh, right. Because he has a penis, that’s why.
“Were you now? All good things I trust,” he spoke playfully, reaching out to commandeer a slice of my cheese.
“I was just about to tell her about the first conference you attended as a writer and not as a publisher. When was it? About two years ago now?” Mavis spoke excitedly. She also had my full attention now.
“Wait...what?” At first, I looked at Mavis confused and then turned my attention to Harris and asked, “You…you’re a…you? Write romance novels?”
I did not see that coming. I mean I had heard of male romance authors. Still, I couldn’t hide my surprise that someone as successful as Harris Redmond would have the time or the interest. As I stared at Harris in disbelief I could see something that looked an awful lot like panic wash over him. Paying no attention, Mavis answered the question now hanging in the air.
“Why H.R. is one the best and brightest in recent years, Honey. Of course, I’d like to think that as his mentor, I might have had a little something to do with that.”
“Mavis.” Harris said her name with a calmness that sounded one-part warning, two-parts plea.
“Harris,” she shot back, unfazed. “Come on, now. I can be a bit proud can’t I? Especially since you seem so God-awful determined to be so damn bashful about the whole thing.” She then addressed me directly. “It’s been two years and I don’t even know how many copies sold and he’s still using a surname. Like it’s some dirty secret or something. Shoot, he rarely makes the circuit anymore. Just holes up in that palace of his whiling away the hours writing books and responding to fan emails.”
“Mavis, please.” He spoke more softly this time.
“Oh please, yourself.” She swirled her wine with a flourish before speaking again. “I keep telling ya, you got to put those fingers to use for something else from time to time. Like maybe try using them on a real live woman.”
Mavis directed her next comments to me. “Why, I swear that if it wasn’t for email, I’d never hear from our boy anymore. He’s always too busy with ‘The One.’ Says he’s found his muse. Spends all his time either writing books for her or writing e-mails to her. Meanwhile, all this,” she waved her hands over him like Vanna White, “all this man…just going to waste.” She finished with a giant gulp of her wine. “Damn shame, I tell ya.”
Harris Redmond: Romance Novelist? But, why had I never heard of any author by that name? I had designed covers for most of the R&R writers over my two years with the company. I thought I knew who most of the authors were. At least by name anyway.
It was Harris’s turn to be frozen in place. From the look on his face and the stiffness in his hold on my back, it was evident that he was terrified of some revelation yet to come.
Harris may have clammed up, but Mavis had unleashed the information floodgates. I decided to aim my quandary at her.
“I didn’t realize Mr. Redmond was a writer, as well. I thought at this point I had worked with most of the authors at R&R. I think I would have remembered designing a book cover for its owner.”
“Like I told you, he writes under a different name.” The wine was acting as some sort of truth serum. She took another long sip, and Harris attempted to quash my inquiry before I could dig further.
“Becca, let’s go look for the dessert table shall we?” Though he said it as a question, it felt more like a command. Especially when he added the light tug on my arm. I resisted his pull and remained firmly in front of Mavis.
“Oh, that’s right.” I tried to sound as if I had genuinely forgotten. “Right, you were saying that. What was it again?”
“Becca.” Now he spoke my name like a plea.
“Harris.” I shot back. “What? I just want to know the name. Maybe I’ve designed some of your covers and didn’t even know it.” Mavis was still oblivious to everything playing out between us.
What was he so afraid of?
“I didn’t tell you? Ha. I thought I mentioned it.” She shook her head. “Well, he uses his middle name as his last name, then throws his initials in front of it. Pretty standard really.”
“Please, Becca. I really need to talk to you.” He was determined this time to maneuver us away from the truth bomb exploding right before our eyes. His face was serious and his grip firm as he began to shuffle me away from both my cheese plate and Mavis. Being a southern belle, however, Ms. Mavis Beaumont did not take too kindly to any male manhandling a woman. Regardless of who they were or how gently they were trying to do it.
“Harris Scott Redmond!” she admonished. “You be a gentleman now and ask the lady nicely. You know better than to go gettin’ all grabby.”
I froze.
Scott. His middle name is Scott. My back went completely rigid as I re-arranged the letters in my head for what felt like an impossibly long period of time. H.R. Scott! Harris Scott Redmond is H.R. Scott, the famous romance novelist. The writer that I had designed my best covers for. The same writer that I have had countless email exchanges with. Now as a cover designer. But first as a fan and later a friend. The same author I jokingly accused Harris of talking like earlier. Of course he talks like the men in those books. He writes the damn things!
Oh! My! God! The H.R. files!
He wasn’t referring to Human Resources. He was referring to the H.R. Scott account. His account. HIM! To our two years of correspondence. Two years of what I thought had developed into a cyber friendship of sorts.
I was a genuine fan of her work. I had told her how her books gave me hope after my betrayal. I told her that I loved the way she depicted strong female characters. How she told of women who drank whiskey instead of Cosmo’s. She penned intelligent women with sharp brains and smart mouths. We talked about everything. She knew about my ex. About my loneliness. About my hopes. About my hatred of holidays, the Titanic soundtrack, and cheap bourbon.
I trusted her. I trusted…him.
Slowly, I turned to face him as every single e-mail I had sent–every detail I had unwittingly shared with this man – came surging back to me. Facing him, I looked up at him, seeking the truth. The look on his face said everything. I could still hear Mavis prattling on about something, but in that moment, nothing registered. Nothing but Harris. He had given me my answer. But I still had to say the words out loud. It didn’t seem real otherwise.
“You’re H.R. Scott.” The words were soft in the air but tasted bitter in my mouth.
“I’m so sorry, Becca.”
“Wow. You really are a good liar,” I hissed at him. “Seriously. That apology actually sounded sincere.”
“I am sorry.”
“And I’m leaving.” Chin raised and firm, I stepped back and rounded quickly.
“Becca, wait! Please! Just let me explain.” his desperate hand pleaded with my elbow to stay.
“Just let me go.” I gave a yank. Freeing myself, I kept walking.
This has got to be, hands down, the WORST Christmas party ever!
Chapter 8
There are only three things in this world that tell the truth. Small children, leggings, and drunk people. Lucky for me, Mavis Beaumont can’t hold her liquor any better than she can hang on to a husband.
Speaking of booze. Where did I leave my glass of bourbon? Forget it. There was no time to go hunting for it and there were plenty of other bottles at the bar. I planned to get cozy with an entire bottle of bourbon just as soon as I gathered up my jacket and purse.
I was just about to the coat check when I heard someone call my name from behind. Again.
This was like what? The millionth time tonight?
The voice behind me was about to get an ear-ful because I was fresh out of patience and down to my last nerve.
“Oh for shit’s sake! Will people stop sneaking up on me? It’s rude you know?” I sounded off as I turned in a huff.
�
�For the record, I wasn’t sneaking up on you,” Harris stated with his hands raised in defense. “I was chasing after you.”
“And I was trying to get away from you.” I harrumphed and stormed into the coat closet. It was a complete disaster.
The room looked like a swarm of drunken elves had blown through the joint and thrown a raging kegger while Santa was away. Or more likely, a few of my intoxicated co-workers had already had their drunken way with each other in here and forgotten to hide the evidence. Any semblance of order was destroyed.
In the wake of the multiple coat racks now tipped over on the floor was a sea of laundry. Winter outerwear, purses, and more. All strewn about like a college dorm room. An emptied bottle of champagne and two red keg cups shared the limited counter space with a bowl of mixed nuts and one empty condom wrapper.
Nasty!
It’s official. I have left the R&R holiday party and have now arrived at my final destination…Hell.
If it wasn’t so cold outside, I would have abandoned the search for my belongings and just made due with my wallet. But the purse had all the keys, and the jacket was the only barrier between the winter storm outside and my overly exposed backside. Even though I planned to take off with my friend’s car (what I now considered just punishment for dragging me to this wretched party) doing so sans some form of protection was not an option.
Just find your shit, and get out of here Becca!
“Becca, I need to talk to you.” With Harris now sharing the same space, the room seemed suddenly smaller.
“Send me an e-mail, Harris. You’re good at those.” I continued my hurried search through the piles of clothes.
“Can we talk? Please?”
“I don’t know? Can you wipe your mouth first? You still have a bit of bullshit around it.”
“I said I was sorry, Becca. I meant it. But, I’m not sorry for the way I feel about you. I haven’t lied about that tonight, and I won’t apologize for it.”
I paused my search to look at him. “I’m sorry H.R. But, I’m having kind of a hard time believing you. Given your sparkling track record of being a lying liar who has spent the last two years spewing lies out of you lying liar hole!”
Mistletoe Over Missoula Page 4
