by Arlene James
“Yes, yes,” Cassidy interrupted, “I completely agree. Did you want something specific?”
“I left you a note,” Anna pointed out.
Cassidy sighed. “Fine, fine. Purify away, just not this morning, all right?”
“I’ll ask Kai Phong for a horoscope reading and make an auspicious appointment. You’d best not be here. Your negative energy would screw up his readings.”
“Just let me know when you want me to be absent from my own home,” Cassidy grumbled.
“Ah, there’s my grandcat,” Anna said, clapping her hands happily as Sunshine swayed into the room. She bent over and made kissing sounds at the cat, who made her way regally to Cassidy and rubbed against her legs before leading her plumed tail in Anna’s direction. “Come here, shweetheart, and wet Gwanny hold wou.”
Sunshine deigned to be fawned over. Anna closed her eyes, the cat tucked up under her chin. “We have such a strong connection,” she said to no one in particular. Cassidy smiled, her back to her mother. Anna was always hinting that Sunshine should have been her cat instead of Cassidy’s, and Cassidy always pretended not to understand. The fact was that the cat had shown up on Cassidy’s doorstep one day. Cassidy had taken it in and run ads in the Dallas paper in case someone was looking for it, but no one had claimed the cat, and she had adopted it. Anna believed that the cat had actually come in search of her, as some sort of benevolent earth spirit seeking its human equivalent.
The buzzer on the oven and the doorbell rang at the same time. Cassidy turned off the burner under the gravy and started to the door, then turned back and switched off the oven. She started for the door a second time, but she was undecided about the biscuits, whether they should be left in the oven to keep warm or taken out before they could overbake. She went back and yanked the biscuits out of the oven. Anna was at the door before she got halfway across the living room.
“How do you do, young man. I’m Anna, Cassidy’s mother, and this is her cat, Sunshine.”
Paul leaned sideways slightly and looked over Anna’s shoulder to Cassidy. She lifted a hand in a limp hello and smiled apologetically. His own smile was warm and welcoming. He switched his attention back to Anna and the cat. The cat got a little scratching behind the ears. “I’m Paul Spencer. Ah, may I assume that you are William’s mother, as well?”
Anna rocked back on her heels. “You know my son, William?”
“Yes, um, we work together.”
Anna turned sideways and looked at Cassidy in surprise. “Did you know that he works with your brother?”
“Yes. Actually, in a way, William introduced us.”
Anna shook her head. “This is very strange, very strange.” She swung a narrowed gaze in Paul’s direction. “When is your birthday, young man?”
Paul seemed taken aback, but he answered politely, “January seventh.”
Anna tapped herself on the chin, muttering, “January seventh, January seventh, hmm. I’ll have to check this out.” She put down the cat, cooed to it and swept past Cassidy into the kitchen. She reappeared a second later with her grass bag in tow and pointed at Paul Spencer. “If you eat dead things, you’ll die,” she pronounced sagely, and then she was gone.
Cassidy heard the back door click shut behind her. She looked at Paul and knew at a glance that he was trying desperately not to laugh. Her own laughter sputtered out, and then the two of them met in the center of the room, howling, their arms thrown around each other.
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally pulling away to close the door and take his coat, “she’s very...very...”
“Unique?” Paul suggested.
Cassidy giggled. “New Age.” She sobered again and sighed, adding, “She means well.”
Paul followed her into the kitchen, nodding. “Has anyone told her that we’ll die no matter what we eat?”
Cassidy grinned, then abruptly felt guilty about it. “She’s right, though,” she said, “some things just aren’t good for you.”
Paul walked over to the stove, sniffing appreciatively. “Like bacon and eggs and biscuits and—” he smiled unrepentantly “—gravy? Real homemade gravy?”
Cassidy couldn’t help smiling with pleasure. “My grandmother taught me.”
He picked up a plate from the kitchen countertop and began filling it. “My blessings on dear old Grandma.”
She went to the cabinet, took down a cup and poured it full of coffee for him, placing it on the table. “Um, you don’t eat like this all the time, do you?”
“Hardly ever,” he said over his shoulder.
She sighed with relief. “Good. That’s pretty much what I thought.”
“Did you? Why?”
“You’re so fit,” she said baldly.
He turned away from the stove then, his plate piled high. “I try. Thanks for noticing.”
She blushed. Of course she’d noticed. Every time he put those strong arms around her and pulled her against his hard body, she noticed. Noticing kept her awake nights. He ate off his plate as he walked toward the table, saying between bites, “What kind of workout do you do?”
“Workout?”
He set down the plate and let his eyes slide over her. “Don’t tell me that body’s a gift of nature.”
Her blush intensified. Her fingertips fluttered over her black leggings and sweater. “I, uh, well, I power walk three or four times a week.”
“Oh, that’s good. You don’t play racquetball or anything like that, do you?”
“No.”
“Want to learn?”
Was he asking to teach her to play racquetball? “Sure.”
He smiled and pulled out his chair. “Great. Now are you going to join me?”
She filled her own plate judiciously and joined him at the table. Later, on his way back to the stove for a refill, he said, “Has your mother always been, well...”
“Weird?” Cassidy supplied.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. And no, she’s hasn’t always been this way. I mean, she was always opinionated and outspoken, but she didn’t get into the other stuff until after she and Dad divorced.”
“I see. That explains how you turned out so normal.”
“Me? Normal?”
“You don’t think you’re a healthy adult female?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Not according to my family.”
“No? Well, you have to consider the source. Take your mother. She is a little, um...”
“Weird.”
“Left of center, I was going to say.”
“Way left.”
“I don’t know your father,” he went on, “but William’s a stuffed shirt, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”
“Uptight, you mean.”
“Majorly.”
She shook her fork at him as he sat down again. “Let me tell you about dear old Dad. He’s into fun. That’s why he divorced my mother, she wasn’t any fun, and she didn’t want him to retire early so he could have his own fun.”
He chuckled and shook his head at that. “Dad sounds like my favorite already.”
“Um, he’s very worried about me.”
“Oh? How come?”
“Because I’m a twenty-five-year-old virgin.”
He went perfectly still, and then he laid down his fork and templed his fingers over his plate. “What’s wrong with that?”
“According to my father it shows a marked inability to loosen up and have a little fun, which—again, according to my father—should be one of life’s priorities.”
“There are more important things than having fun,” he told her solemnly.
“Yes, I know. My mother tells me so constantly.”
“I believe in making things count,” he went on. “Whether it’s fun or work—”
“Or sacrifice?” she said.
He lowered his hands, curled them into fists, relaxed them again. “Yes, even sacrifice.”
“Tell me about Betina,” she said, and su
rprisingly he did.
After telling the story, he ended with, “I could almost be flattered she’s gone to such great lengths, if I thought for a moment that it was anything on her part but greed and pique and wounded pride.”
Cassidy said, “I’d never have enough nerve to do any of that.”
He shrugged. “Who can say what any of us could do if we had to? I think you’re pretty brave, sitting here with me, knowing what you know.”
“Brave or stupid,” she quipped.
He frowned. “Not stupid, definitely not stupid.”
“No, not that,” she said softly, “just too late or something.”
He took her hand in his, squeezing it. “I’d change it all if I could.”
“I know.”
“Listen,” he said, dropping his gaze, “I’ll go away and never come back again if that’s what you want.”
“It isn’t.”
He looked up at that, his grip on her hand almost painful. “I’m so glad. I don’t know how to explain it, except to say that I need you as my friend right now.”
“We’re not friends, Paul,” she told him gently. “None of my friends ever kissed me like you do.”
He let go of her hand. “And that has to stop,” he said grimly.
“It won’t,” she told him, and to prove it, she leaned forward and put her mouth to his.
Chapter Four
He didn’t feel nearly as ridiculous as he should have, and he knew that he had Cassidy to thank for that—and so much else. Tony Curtis he was not, but he made a credible Cossack or some such thing and, unlike the spaceman in the corner and the headless half of a horse sitting on Betina’s spotless white sofa, his costume was as comfortable as his usual clothing. He wet his lips with the tepid champagne in his glass and smiled obediently as Betina signaled him from across the room.
Gritting his teeth, he made his way carefully through the chatting, laughing crowd, holding his drink aloft as he jostled past Marie Antoinettes and clowns, wolves and shepherdesses, vampires and pumpkins. Betina was dressed as a fairy princess. She was going to need real magic to clean her absurd white carpet and upholstery after this. Well, that was her problem. She would have another if she thought she was going to replace the warm colors in his Park Cities home with her cold whites. Aside from the costumes, most of which were downright garish, the only color in the well-lit room came from the pot plants and the tinges of yellow in the walls and pink in the draperies. He reached her side, elbowing past a roaring-drunk George Washington to smile benignly at the scantily clad prehistoric couple to whom she introduced him.
“Macie and Marc Gladsden, this is Paul Barclay Spencer of Barclay Bakeries.”
He was always Paul Barclay Spencer of Barclay Bakeries to Betina. Were he plain Paul Spencer, he wouldn’t be standing here playing the whipped puppy for her. “Hello.”
The Gladsdens looked him over as if he were a piece of meat. He kept his face impassive and sipped champagne, while Betina pretended that Macie wasn’t staring at his crotch. He knew exactly what was going on here. The Gladsdens were part of a wild crowd. He’d heard tales of wife swapping and orgies. A lot of Betina’s friends visited the wild side, the wild side of high society, mind, but the wild side, nonetheless. Whenever anyone told her about one of those friends of hers, she always pretended shock, but he never noticed that she dropped anyone. Then again, she wouldn’t. It simply wasn’t politic. He, on the other hand, generally refused to mix socially with the wild crowd, and in her book that made him the greatest hypocrite. All things considered, maybe she was correct about that, but he still reserved the right to pick his own friends—and always would. At the moment, however, he had little choice but to endure.
Conversation was desultory, but Betina was apparently satisfied with civility on his part. After several minutes—not too quickly, of course—she rescued him by slipping her arm through his and steering him off in another direction, saying, “Oh, there’s Samantha Bishop in a perfectly awful Indian getup. If I know her, she won’t stay ten minutes and will go home offended if I don’t say hello.”
So began a promenade around the perimeter of the room, Betina calling all the shots, him demonstrating that he’d been brought firmly to heel. He was actually glad to see William Penno dressed as Daniel Boone, complete with flintlock rifle. Betina left him in William’s care, saying, “Entertain your boss, Penno. The hostess can’t afford to be monopolized.”
Penno actually replied, “Yes, ma’am,” in a tone that implied he’d been greatly honored. Penno’s obsequiousness amused Paul more often than not, and he was good at his job, even if he was an absolute bore.
“If I may say so, Paul,” William commented lightly, “you look just fine.” It had taken Paul eight months to convince Penno that he really didn’t want to be called sir, but William always let him know that he would never presume that first names made them friends. Poor William never could understand that being a genuine friend would make him many more points with Paul than constantly demonstrating his willingness to forever be a subordinate. How was it that William’s sister could so naturally be his opposite? A hand extended in friendship to Cassidy Penno was a hand received in friendship. Somehow he knew that about her without having to be told.
He smiled at William. “Why, thank you, Will, and thanks, by the way, for sending me to your sister.”
“Oh, no,” William said, protesting gently, “thank you for allowing us to be of service.”
Paul made a conscious effort not to roll his eyes and asked, “Did she choose your costume for you?”
“What? Oh, actually, no,” William said. “She supplied it, of course.”
“Of course.”
Paul couldn’t help wondering if Cassidy might not have chosen something a little more, well, William, like a court page or a butler. He chuckled at the notion, thinking he’d have to run it by Cassidy to see if her reaction was the same.
Conversation waned, but Paul didn’t really mind. He hated the canned small talk that so many people seemed to think was required of them in a social situation. He much preferred silence if honest discourse was impossible, and too often it seemed that it was.
All too soon, Betina returned to claim him again, this time with an older couple in tow. The husband quickly announced that he’d thought this costume stuff was a bunch of hooey, but it had turned out to be a lot of fun. The wife gushed on and on until Paul thought he was going to have to locate a pair of hip boots. He knew it was all a test of his willingness to prostrate himself at her feet when Betina announced baldly that she had a marvelous idea.
“A costume ball! It will be the business coup of the year!”
Those words business coup set off fire alarms in his head, but he stayed calm while she elaborated.
“Think of it, we can invite the local and national distributors and our wholesale customer reps. We could do it New Year’s Eve, so it can be like the kickoff for our new distribution plan!”
Very thoughtfully Paul said, “A party that size will be expensive.”
“But think of the publicity!” Betina exclaimed, obviously already having done so. “Not to mention the good will and the face-to-face contact. We could block out a couple days before and after for our guests to book appointments with you personally.”
He had to admit that there was some merit in that part of the plan. Finding time and opportunity to meet with everyone with whom Barclay did business was very difficult. How much more difficult would it be once they went national? A lot. But why a costume ball? Why not just a big party? Suddenly he knew the answer to that, and it was strictly personal. He tried to keep his enthusiasm in check, knowing that Betina would pounce on it as quickly as his reluctance.
“Actually,” he said, “William can help us with this.”
William got that caught-in-the-headlights look. “Me?”
Paul shrugged. “Someone will have to supply the costumes, and it seems to me that it would be asking a lot of our guests to expect
them to fly in from all over the country with costumes in tow. Some of these things require crates for storage.”
A look of understanding lit William’s face, then doubt set in. Before he could wonder aloud whether or not his sister could handle something of this size, Paul said, “William’s family owns the largest costume shop in the city. Isn’t that right, Will?”
“Uh, well, technically, it’s my sister’s—”
“Great place!” Paul went on, careful to praise the shop and not Cassidy. “They do it all, designing, sewing, fitting. They’ve got thousands of costumes in stock. I wonder if there’s any kind of master list, you know, what they’ve got in what sizes.”
“Oh, yes, actually, there is. I advised Cassidy on the sort of computer setup necessary for just such records.”
“Well, you’d be the man for it,” Paul said, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make the stock of the long rifle clasped upright in his hands hit the floor. “Tell you what, let’s you and I talk to your sister about it first thing Monday morning...unless you think that won’t be possible.”
“Oh, no! I’m sure Cassidy will be glad to talk to us. In fact, I’ll arrange it myself.”
“You do that,” Paul said, sipping his champagne again to hide the smile quirking at the corners of his mouth.
“Well,” Betina said, crossing her arms and waving her wand above her head, “I’m pleased to see that you’re not going to fight me on this, Paul. You see, I do have good ideas.”
Paul nodded, smiling, all too aware that the older couple were hanging on every word and gesture. Betina went off to report her latest victory to anyone who might conceivably be interested, while Paul watched William begin to sweat. After a bit, William leaned to one side and whispered into Paul’s ear, “Sir, er, Paul, are you quite certain my sister’s little shop can handle this? Maybe we ought to investigate a national chain. There are a few, you know.”
“Think a national chain will be interested in accommodating us on such short notice, Will?” Paul asked softly. “After all, we’ve less than two months to pull this off. I don’t suppose Betina thought of that, do you?”
