MISTLETOE OVER MANHATTAN

by Barbara Daly

  "Would you ladies like tea, or did you come here merely to break up the furniture?" A haughty waiter stared down at them with the purest disgust.

  As Maybelle sent a similar look back up at him, her eyes widened. "Dee-wayne, is that you?"

  The man took another look at her and his face lit up. "Maybelle, as I live and breathe. Yes, indeed, it is I. And how are you, dear lady?"

  "Doin' real good," Maybelle said, then added with a brief glower, "most days, anyways." Her face cleared, became all sunshine again. "And look at y'all!" she said conspiratorially. "All spiffied up and workin' in this ritzy place."

  "Thanks to you." He practically genuflected. "Incidentally, Maybelle, it's been a year now and you still haven't sent me a bill I was wondering…"

  Maybelle did that diamond-crusted wave of the hand that was her signature mannerism. "Yeah, I gotta get around to that one of these days. But we can't tawk bidness now. We're ready for tea. Bring us everything, and heavy on that there Devonshire cream."

  Mallory held up a hand to signal a cab to take her back to the St. Regis. Maybelle had a way of leaving her with sound bites instead of actual advice. And the sound bite sticking with her now was "This is a real good book, but it's not a real good life for anybody but yore sainted mother."

  Hadn't the last week told her that? That the happiest moment of her life was waking up in chaos with Carter this morning? That the best Christmas tree she'd ever had was the tiny tree in the suite that was even now dropping needles all over the table? That the best man she'd ever known was Carter Compton, who waited there for her now with his possessions scattered over every flat surface? And that she'd had to give up a lot of herself to get to this point in her life? She hadn't merely veered, she'd spun and twisted and thrashed and…

  "Taxi!" Waving wildly, she shouted the word so vehemently that a cab half a block away, a cab which, furthermore, had an Off Duty sign flashing on its roof, changed its trajectory and screeched to a halt with the door handle directly ahead of her outstretched hand.

  She found Carter hunched in front of the sitting room television set, his shoulders moving along with the Northwestern quarterback's, shouting words of encouragement to his favorite team. He was wearing black jeans with a black turtleneck and looked absolutely heavenly. The jeans hugged his thighs and the heavy muscles there flexed as his shoulders moved, his biceps rose and fell, his teeth clenched and relaxed. Scattered around him were the sofa pillows, a newspaper, a soft drink can, an open bag of microwave-popcorn, the remote control, his shoes, his overshoes, his scarf, gloves, overcoat—

  There was some hope for him. He'd apparently brought just one coat with him to New York. She smiled.

  "Hey," he said when he caught sight of her. "We're only behind fourteen points. It's a moral victory!"

  Football hadn't been on her family's weekend schedule. Her father preferred war movies. Her mother wouldn't attend or watch anything she didn't consider to be culturally uplifting and therefore worth an efficient woman's time. Macon played football on the computer occasionally. Stepping toward Carter, intending to join him, perhaps attack and distract him, even learn about football if that was what it took, she saw that the tiny Christmas tree was circled with a string of old-fashioned bubble lights. Her heart pounded with something that went deeper than desire—honest affection.

  She slid onto the sofa beside him, dropping her Saks bag to the floor. "Come on, baby, light my tree," she sang.

  "Just a minute, just a minute… Defense!" he shouted, nearly sending her sailing off the cushion. "Sorry," he said immediately. "What did you say?"

  "It can wait," she said, snuggling back in beside him and wishing she knew how to purr.

  He'd had a haircut. He'd bought shaving cream and lights for their Christmas tree. She was in love.

  They celebrated Northwestern's moral victory with a bottle of champagne. They made love on the sofa, sitting up, Mallory straddling him, enveloping him, her body and her heart zinging with lust and love and an overwhelming desire to be with him forever. Her clothes, she observed later, were scattered from the kitchen, where the lovemaking had begun, to the front door, where Carter's football-throwing arm had propelled her new red lace bra. The new black suit from Bergdorf's was mainly wool with a smidgen of Lycra and the wrinkles steamed out beautifully while they lay together in a bubble bath.

  Mallory felt it was pure good luck that her bathroom was equipped with a bathtub and a separate shower, European-style. Carter had resisted the notion of bathing in the tub, insisting that real men didn't take bubble baths, that he'd never had a bubble bath and wasn't about to start now, but once she was ensconced in the tub, hidden by bubbles except for her toes, which she wriggled enticingly at him, he changed his mind. They could call it her bubble bath, he said. He was just visiting.

  He rinsed her hair with the leftover champagne. The bath led them inevitably back to bed. Dinner was pâté, cheese, crusty Italian bread, fruit and Napoleons from room service. While they ate, they watched the Christmas episode of Carter's favorite network series, a police drama.

  It was a heartwarming story about a passerby finding a young couple and their new baby huddled in a Dumpster under a streetlamp near the police station. Three top-ranked mounted police rode their horses to the scene, bearing an envelope filled with cash contributed by the guys at the station, a basket of baby powders, oils and diapers and a gift certificate for a week's stay in a motel in New Jersey. The plot was a timeworn one, but the emotional level was high and Mallory couldn't help shedding a tear or two.

  They were cuddled together on the sofa, Mallory in a short black nightgown, Carter in preppy plaid boxers, when he said, "As you were saying…"

  She raised her head from his shoulder. "When?"

  He held her a little tighter. "Last night when you bopped into my room. You said you'd had an idea that might work with Phoebe and her plaintiffs."

  She sighed, sinking down on his chest. "I can't imagine I ever had an idea. Oh, wait, it's coming back."

  It had been a crazy, pop-psychology idea she'd dreamed up as an excuse to seduce Carter in her new pink gown and robe, but she could hardly tell him that. "I was just thinking that everybody wants something really badly. Like, for example, we know from his testimony that Kevin Knightson wants to break into show business, and McGregor Ross wants her daughter to be a child model."

  "She ought to be prepping the kid for college," Carter said.

  "I know," Mallory said, "but she doesn't want what you and I would want." She paused, feeling somewhat embarrassed. "I mean what you would want or I would want."

  "I get your point."

  "Once upon a time," Mallory went on, relieved that he hadn't read anything possessive into her words, "the plaintiffs seemed satisfied to have themselves and their bathrooms back to normal. Phoebe convinced them they wanted more."

  "Money."

  "Yes, and everybody wants money, but I'm suggesting we try to find out what they want more than money."

  "Hmm," Carter said.

  Mallory persisted. "There's probably something you want more than money, right?"

  Right. I want to settle this case just to hear you tell me I'm a brilliant lawyer.

  And that you'd like nothing more than to add a brilliant lawyer to your life, maybe even have a brilliant kid or two.

  Okay, I know I'm not brilliant, but I am smarter than people imagine, and I really hope I never get another call like that call from Bill Decker, because I want to lose the Casanova image and settle down with…

  A jolt of electricity ran through Carter's body, but it was more like a security alarm than the electricity Mallory generated in him. These were serious thoughts. Maybe too serious for a man who'd seen a woman change from good old Mallory to the object of his desire in the course of an extremely tense week.

  "It's not a bad idea," Mallory was saying, "but I don't have the faintest idea how to implement it. We can't get Kevin a role on Broadway. I don't know any Broadway producers
or directors. Do you?" She yawned.

  He smiled into her hair. Even without the yawn he would have known she was getting sleepy. She wasn't usually such a chatterbox. "We take it one step at a time," he said. "First we find out what they want."

  "How?"

  "Ask them."

  "What a great idea." Her eyes drooped, and then she said, "Our tree needs more ornaments."

  "We'll buy some tomorrow."

  "I'll buy some. You bought the lights."

  "You don't think we can charge it all to our expense accounts?"

  "No."

  "I was afraid you'd feel that way," Carter said.

  "And so do you."

  She was right. He'd never cheat on an expense account. But how did she know that?

  "We should call Bill before we leave this morning," Mallory said on Monday. She was wearing one of those longish skirts with the jacket that matched her eyes, and Carter got hot all over remembering the sheer tank she'd worn underneath the week before. Tonight when they got home, he'd get her out of the jacket fast, explore her through that tank top. He growled. "What?"

  "Ah. Right. Call Bill. We can run your idea by him, see if he thinks we can do something with it."

  But a half hour later, Mallory said, "He didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, did he?"

  "He doesn't have your imagination. I'm still adding that question to my spiel—'What do you really want?' We can see if a pattern emerges, something we can work with."

  What he couldn't tell Mallory was that Bill had his own idea about settling the case, that Carter take Phoebe up on one of her none-too-subtle suggestions that they have dinner, catch a show, watch a television special. At her place.

  That second week of depositions, she intensified her pursuit. All Mallory had to do was take a break to powder her nose between sessions with the witnesses and Phoebe was on his case in a flash.

  "Just because we're professional opponents," she usually ended up saying, "doesn't mean we can't be personal friends."

  He pled busyness, prior engagements, tiredness, which was the truth. Because he lived for the nights, when he and Mallory could drop their cool daytime exteriors and give in to the consuming heat of their love-making.

  Friday night, after another long week of deposing witnesses, Mallory produced a copy of the court reporter's transcript and suggested they start weeding through it for clues to the special desires of the witnesses.

  Carter had other ideas as to how they might spend their time, which he freely shared with her.

  "We can work in bed," she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  "Oh, okay," he said, giving in.

  He brushed his teeth, did a touch-up shave and went to her room, where she'd begun setting things up for the job they were going to do. He found her wearing a Santa Claus hat. Just a Santa Claus hat, he was pretty sure, although she'd drawn the covers up modestly beneath her chin.

  "Ho, ho, ho," he said, and climbed into the other side. He'd hoped his flipping up the covers would answer his question about what she was or was not wearing, but was foiled by the computer on her lap and the stacks of papers that surrounded her.

  "I thought we'd get into the spirit," she said, and smashed an identical hat down on his head. "I'm calling this the All-I-Want-for-Christmas project."

  "I feel like an idiot," Carter muttered.

  "You look like one, too," Mallory said, "but those of us on the inside track know you're not." She turned to face him directly, and she smiled. "You are masterful at interrogating those witnesses. You're pleasant and polite, but you don't give an inch. And you always seem to have the right question at your fingertips. I am so impressed. It's a special talent."

  The words sang in his ears. This was what he'd wanted most to hear from her. It made everything all right where Mallory was concerned. He still had to convince Bill, but Mallory's opinion was the only one that really mattered. His heart zinging with joy, he scaled the stack of printout and the laptop and gave her a thorough kiss.

  "There, we got that out of the way," he said after he was able to talk himself into letting her go. "Now I can return to my favorite activity, which is working on Friday night. Straighten your hat," he ordered her. "It looks too sexy tilted like that."

  "Yes, dear." She tugged the hat down over her hair. He loved the breathless sound of her voice.

  But she buckled right down to work. Methodically they read through the transcript and highlighted the responses from the witnesses that might indicate their deepest wishes. On the laptop, Mallory listed the witness's name, the page on which the response appeared and a brief summary of the response.

  "Do you have to be so organized?" he complained.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Okay." He shrugged. Whatever it took to make her happy, he felt he could handle it. He went back to work with his green highlighter.

  An hour later, they'd already assembled this much information:

  Kevin Knightson: One good part in a production, stage or screen.

  Tammy Sue Teezer: I want to be in a commercial and make tons of money and buy a house in the country and a great big dog.

  McGregor Ross: I want everybody in the world to know I have the most beautiful baby ever born. Trent: I'm sure she is. Compton: I'm sure she is.

  McGregor Ross: And I want her to win the Wiggles Diapers Poster Baby contest. Compton: (Inaudible) Trent: (Inaudible)

  "You didn't have to type the whole conversation," Carter said, complaining again, because he really felt like moving on to Phases Two, Three, Four and perhaps Five of the evening.

  "It was too funny not to," Mallory said, pursing her pretty pink lips.

  They worked awhile longer. "There's a strong showbiz theme here, Carter," she observed.

  "And it's a pretty logical assumption," Carter said. "People who dye their hair this carroty-red color, or try to," he added with a wince, "are making a statement."

  "Trying to get noticed," Mallory agreed.

  "Doing something so different that it catches the eye."

  Mallory sighed. "Sounds like we're going to have to put on a show in daddy's barn."

  "What are you talking about?"

  She turned to him. "Didn't you ever watch those old black-and-white movies with Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney?"

  "You mean the ones about putting on a show?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Judy and Mickey were going to put on a show to raise money for the school or the band or a field trip?"

  "Yes, those."

  "No, I never watched them."

  She punched him gently in the arm. He caught her fist and brought it to his lips, unclenched it, put her index finger in his mouth and circled it with his tongue.

  "Let's sleep on it," she said in a dreamy voice.

  "Or not." He zeroed in on her. "Will you puh-leez get rid of that laptop?"

  "Will you puh-leez get rid of that hat," she said.

  "Delighted to." He tossed it off. "Do you keep a shopping list?"

  "Of course." She was folding her hat, laying it out on the nightstand.

  "Put condoms on it."

  * * *

  12

  « ^ »

  Carter stalked into Maybelle's office Tuesday night and caught her going through what appeared to be a college catalog and wearing a speculative expression.

  "Hey, Jack," she said, hastily stuffing the catalog into a drawer.

  He glanced at the array of diplomas, took a second to wonder if she could possibly be thinking of an additional educational experience, then sat down and started talking. The first thing he talked about was Mallory's idea to determine what each plaintiff wanted and try to get it for them as a way of settling the case.

  "She does sound like a real bright woman," Maybelle said.

  She had that odd look on her face he'd noticed several times before. He'd given up trying to figure out what it meant. "She is," he said. "And I think she's starting to think I'm pretty bright, too." He ducked his head.
>
  "What'd she say?" Maybelle sounded thrilled.

  Carter paraphrased the compliment Mallory had given him about handling the witnesses well. He didn't want to sound like he was bragging.

  "Hooray!" Maybelle shrieked when he'd finished. "Y'all wanted to make that little shift in your image and you jes' did it!" A relieved look crossed her face. "You don't need me no more."

  "Actually, I still do."

  Her face fell. Were his problems that boring? He frowned at her.

  "My boss is still a problem." From the first, he'd been careful not to mention names. "He as much as asked me to cozy up to our opponent if I wanted to settle this case."

  "Man or woman?"

  "Woman."

  "That's a plus, anyhoo." When Carter glared at her, she said, "Do you want to cozy up to the lady?"

  "No."

  "Then don't."

  "I don't intend to."

  "Good. We got that settled," Maybelle said, looking satisfied.

  "We haven't got anything settled," Carter felt himself go red in the face. "The point is that the man as much as asked me to make love to the opposition. It's unethical. Unprofessional."

  "Unlikely," Maybelle said.

  "Very."

  "'Count of you're hooked on this other girl."

  "No, because it's unprofessional and unethical."

  Maybelle snorted.

  Carter folded his arms across his chest. "Sounds to me like you're more interested in her than you are in me."

  "Which her?"

  "The woman I … have some feelings for—to call it 'hooked' is going too far. I think you're looking for an easy answer to my problem."

  She folded her arms across her chest to match his pose. "Mebbe that's because yore problem has an easy answer. Jes' open yore eyes, and mouth, while you're at it. Y'all go home and think about that for a while."

  In short, from Carter's point of view, it was not a satisfactory session. Maybe it was time for Maybelle to go back to college.