by Nancy Martin
“Hold on, hold on,” Emma snapped with mock irritation. She towered over the children. “Who let all the elves out of the Keebler factory?”
“Emma, Emma, we want the pony!”
“Can we let Brickle out of the van?”
“You said we could take turns riding him!”
“Not if you’re all acting like a bunch of ninnies,” she said. “What did I say about staying out of the way of the polo players?”
“But we have, Emma! We’ve been perfect, just like you said.”
“Not one person has yelled at us.”
“Except you,” one brave little girl piped up.
“We want to ride Brickle!”
“We’ll keep him away from the other horses, we promise.”
“We promise!”
“All right, all right,” Emma said gruffly. “I’ll come down and unload him.”
“We can do it! We know how!”
“Forget it.” Emma was firm. “The last thing I need is for one of you princesses to get her front teeth kicked out in a horse trailer. Go get the tack out of my truck. And make sure it’s clean or somebody’s head’s gonna roll!”
They took off in a pack, running downhill toward the cluster of horse trailers and vans parked below all the tailgaters.
“I’ll be there in a minute!” she shouted after them.
“Cute,” I said. “Since when did you go back to teaching pony classes?”
She shrugged. “Paddy Horgan needed an instructor, so I took him up on it.”
“Sounds promising. The kids obviously love you.”
“What little girl doesn’t love the person who lets her ride ponies every day?” Emma shook her head. “I’m a glorified babysitter most of the time. But it pays the bills.”
“Paddy paid you to bring them here today?”
“Hell, no, I just let them tag along.” A slight blush of pink colored her cheekbones, but she wasn’t going to admit how much those little girls must have reminded her of herself not too many years ago. She said briskly, “I bought a new pony in case I decide to freelance. Brickle needs some exercise, so I figured I’d take advantage of the free labor. After today, I’ll be boarding him in your barn. Hope you don’t mind.”
Now and then, Emma brought her various rescue projects to Blackbird Farm, where she cured their ills and nursed them back to usefulness. I hadn’t heard about her latest patient, but I wasn’t surprised. The really good news was that my little sister seemed to be getting her life together since her husband’s death. She’d been on a two-year bender. The thought of her teaching little girls to ride made me smile.
I said, “I’m glad you have a steady job again.”
“For the moment.” Emma raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What about you? Did you put on your party hat today to cover the social set for the Intelligencer? Or have you been fired like half the other reporters in town?”
“I’m still on the payroll. The publisher used to be a shopping buddy of Penny Devine, so I’m here to make her memorial—well, memorable in my column.”
A few years ago, I might have come to an event like the polo match as a guest of wealthy friends, or even hosted my own small group of pals for drinks and a picnic. But in the last couple of years I had been reduced—thanks to my parents setting out on a mission to blow every last cent of the Blackbird family fortune on a worldwide spending spree—to attending such festivities in my role as the society reporter for a Philadelphia rag.
“So it’s officially your column?” Emma asked. “The publisher gave Kitty Keough’s job to you at last?”
“Not officially,” I conceded. “I still have to prove myself, try not to make mistakes. I’m not a trained journalist, after all.”
“What are you going to write about today? The whole concept is kinda tacky, don’t you think? A party instead of a suitably weepy funeral service for Philadelphia’s most famous kiddie star?”
“Penny loved parties. Almost as much as she loved polo, so I think this was a good solution. And she would have adored the clothes. Besides, there’s a charitable angle to the whole thing, so I’ll play that up.”
The newspaper’s owner had insisted I devote serious space to the life and memory of film star and Philadelphia native Sweet Penny Devine. The world-famous actress—best known for her role as Molly, the plucky parlormaid in the Civil War blockbuster Suffer the Storm—was an American film icon. She’d been rushed to Hollywood at an early age to begin her career as a tap-dancing child star. After a short awkward period in her adolescence, she’d grown into a decent character actress—often playing the wholesome best friend or the jilted lover of a cad. But she finally received an Oscar nomination (lost to Meryl Streep the year she played Benazir Bhutto) as the maid who looked after Charlton Heston’s version of Abe Lincoln.
As her weight grew increasingly out of control, though, Penny had played a few adorably quirky oldsters in romantic comedies. Before her death, she specialized in playing Sandra Bullock’s grandmother, and her popularity soared again.
So today, a few hundred Philadelphia aristocrats and film lovers had come out to celebrate the life of one of their own—a local girl who made it big in the movies. My job was to make the event sound lovely despite the mud.
Emma smirked. “Oh, yeah, the charitable angle.”
“Yes.” I pulled my invitation from my handbag to double-check. “Proceeds from today’s tickets go to—here it is—a foundation that helps treat eating disorders.”
Emma grinned broadly. “You know what everybody’s calling this thing, right? Chukkers for Chuckers.”
“Emma!”
From several yards away, a musical voice hailed us. “Darlings!”
Out of the crowd burst a vision of excess estrogen in a leopard-print suit cut down to reveal her bountiful bosom as blatantly as imported cantaloupe in a Whole Foods display. Our older sister, Libby, waved a champagne flute overhead as she waded toward us with what were clearly her son’s hiking boots on her feet. On her head she sported a wide-brimmed yellow hat festooned with daffodils—one of which was already trying to curl around her nose.
Emma said, “What are you doing? Getting ready for a mammogram?”
Libby ignored her and cried, “Lucy! My stars, what have you done to your tutu? And who in the world let you have that weapon?”
“Aunt Nora did!” Lucy nearly stabbed her mother through the heart as she flung herself into Libby’s open arms. “She let me have ice cream for breakfast, too!”
“Blabbermouth,” I said.
“Nice going,” Emma muttered to me. “What’s next? Showing them how to rob banks?”
“It was all the food I had in the house! How was I to know I’d have to feed the horde, not to mention store lab specimens in my refrigerator?”
Libby chose not to hear me. Bending at the waist, an act that nearly spilled her breasts like a truckload of warm marshmallow fluff, she used a lace handkerchief to wipe a smudge from her daughter’s less-than-pristine cheek. “Did you brush your teeth after the ice cream, sweetheart?”
“Aunt Nora ran out of toothpaste.”
“Heavens. Well, you won’t have to stay there ever again, Lucy.”
“You’re welcome,” I said tartly. “No charge for the babysitting.”
Libby straightened and adjusted her hat to dislodge the pesky flower once and for all. “Don’t apologize, Nora. I’m sure your mind is scattered after such a long vacation. We began to worry you’d run off permanently with That Man.”
“He has a name, you know.”
Blandly, Emma said, “You’ll notice she’s wearing the Rock of Gibraltar again.”
Libby seized my left hand and goggled at the giant, emerald-cut diamond ring that flashed on my finger. “Oh, sweet heaven, what have you done?”
“Be careful,” Emma warned. “You could endanger the Hubble telescope with that sparkler.”
“It’s huge!” Libby cried. “It’s not stolen, is it?”
“No,” I
said, “I think he won it in Vegas.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding!
“Of course I’m kidding.”
She peered more closely. “A diamond that size can’t possibly be real.”
“You actually gonna marry Mick this time, Nora?” Emma asked.
I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Libby dropped my hand and cried out in anguish. “Nora, think of your family! You can’t besmirch our good name this way!”
“Hell, think of Mick,” Emma said. “You realize this is his death sentence?”
The Blackbird women all shared such genetic traits as auburn hair, an allergy to cats, and well-documented widowhood at a young age. Emma and I had lost our husbands before we turned thirty, and Libby’s marriages—three so far—had all ended in disaster. The joke around our social circle was that the only men interested in marrying us must be suicidal.
I had fallen hard for Michael Abruzzo, however, and he insisted he was strong enough to withstand a little family curse—even one that dated back more than 150 years. I had refused to endanger his life, of course. But after months of holding out, I was finally weakened by too much champagne and a glorious Caribbean sunset. When he’d asked me again, I said yes.
The fact that he was the son of New Jersey’s most notorious mob kingpin didn’t matter to me anymore. Not much, at least. But our love match was going to turn Philadelphia society upside down. The Blackbird family had been welcomed into sedate drawing rooms since the days of the Continental Congress, and a union with the Abruzzos—known for racketeering, not racquet club memberships—was going to be the scandal of the season.
Libby groaned. “We’ll never live this down!”
Emma patted her shoulder. “Take it easy. Maybe the mayor will get caught with a hooker or something.”
Libby nodded. “Let’s hope there’s a catastrophe, so we won’t suffer the glare of the spotlight.”
“Let’s hope,” I agreed, only half joking.
“Anyway, where the hell have you been?” Emma asked Libby. “Lucy said you were going to seduce your accountant.”
Libby was prim. “We met to review my tax situation, which stretched into the dinner hour, so we—”
“Spent the night getting each other’s numbers straight?” I asked.
“Wait a minute,” Emma said. “Wasn’t your accountant sent to jail for embezzling?”
Libby waved her hand. “Oh, that was a simple misunderstanding. He explained it all to me. What a miscarriage of justice! A man with a soul like Malcolm’s is hardly going to cheat people.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway.” She sneaked a look to make sure her daughter wasn’t listening, then lowered her voice just in case. “Last night was a one—well, a brief encounter, that’s all. I can’t be tied down right now, you know, and I’ve learned Malcolm is a strictly by-the-book kind of person who—well, he’s better suited to dealing with the IRS than tending to my more esoteric needs.”
“He was lousy in the sack,” Emma guessed.
“No,” Libby said sharply. “We are simply not suited for an intimate relationship. So I’m at loose ends. Ready for a new challenge! I need a creative project to focus all my energy. It gets pent up, you know, and then I’m all jittery. I need an outlet!”
“Maybe getting reacquainted with your children could be an outlet for all your energy,” I said. “You could save yourself the jitters by cooking their dinner tonight, as a matter of fact.”
“What kind of creative outlet is that? No, I need something really exciting—something that will engage my mind while making the best use of my social skills and boundless creativity. I want a real challenge! Look around at this wonderful party. Every single hostess here has indulged her fantasies and—” Libby’s face lit up. “Why, I have just the idea! It’s a brainstorm!”
“Just make sure the rain doesn’t start falling on me,” Emma muttered.
But Libby was already in raptures and didn’t hear.
“I know what I’ll do!” she cried. “It’s perfect! Nora! I’ll plan your wedding!”
I choked.
Emma burst out laughing.
“It will be wonderful!” Libby crowed. “We’ll have a tent and beautiful clothes and—oh!—I know just the cleric to conduct the ceremony! She’s a Wiccan with absolutely the best karma of any person I’ve ever known.”
“Libby—”
“And flowers! We could construct a Maypole with braided flowers! With the right music, a pagan fertility dance might break out!”
Emma doubled over laughing.
“The Druid tradition of marriage is unlike any other. Nora, you’ll simply adore the radiance circle. And the procession to the fire where the man unfastens his flowing white poet shirt as a symbolic opening of his heart to—”
“Libby, Michael won’t go for the whole Druid thing.”
Emma said, “I want to see him in the flowing white shirt!”
“No,” I said. “No flowing shirts.”
“I’ll talk to him!” Libby cried.
“That won’t help. Michael doesn’t want a wedding.”
“How can you marry without a wedding?”
“He doesn’t want a big fuss. It will only create a lot of publicity.”
“What kind of man is afraid to declare his love in public? We’ll keep everything secret from the press, I promise. Look, I’ll come up with a few ideas and make a little presentation. Maybe some sketches to go with my ideas. No pressure, no commitment—just brainstorming. Oh, it will be such fun! We’ll bond—the whole family! Can’t you see the twins acting as dual ring bearers?”
“Why not?” Emma said. “Just frisk them for weapons first.”
“And Lucy in a perfect little pink dress!”
“It’ll look great with her sword,” Emma said.
“And what about me?” Libby suddenly clapped both hands to her bosom. “I’ll need to find an outfit for the occasion! Something beautiful. Something that says I’m adventurous! And available! Do you know what percentage of couples actually meet at weddings? I might meet the perfect mate!”
“If you can’t get laid at a wedding,” Emma said, “you might as well throw yourself naked into a baseball stadium.”
“Don’t give her any more ideas,” I said.
Emma’s cell phone rang, and still laughing, she pulled it out of her shirt pocket. “Yeah?”
Libby said, “Nora, I’ve had three weddings already, so I know all the pitfalls. It’s important to focus on a theme as soon as possible.”
“Michael and I aren’t exactly the theme-wedding types, Lib.”
“Okay,” Emma said into her phone. “I’ve got an opening at midnight. You want me to pencil you in, big boy?”
Libby and I forgot about weddings and turned our stares onto Emma.
“Sure, baby,” she said to her caller. “A thousand bucks. In cash, of course. See you then.”
She terminated her call, and Libby said, “Lord above, now what are you doing?”
“None of your beeswax.”
I said, “You told me you had a couple of jobs. I thought you meant teaching children to ride ponies!”
“That’s what I do in the daylight hours. But a girl’s got to entertain herself after dark, too, right?”
Our little sister had recently freelanced at a dungeon that specialized in S and M. Heaven only knew what she was doing now. “Em—”
“Hey,” Emma said. “Where’s Luceifer?”
The three of us glanced around.
Sure enough, my niece had disappeared, foil and all.
Looking around, Libby cried, “Nora, you should have kept an eye on her!”
“Do I look like her mother?”
“You were in charge of her today!”
“Why—oh, never mind.” Once again, being with my sisters felt like being strapped to a speeding train headed for an exploded trestle. “Lucy’s not going to be kidnapped in this crowd. Everybody knows she can mak
e Linda Blair look like a Girl Scout.”
Libby’s eyes began to tear up. “That’s my only daughter you’re talking about!”
Emma said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, let’s split up. We’ll find Lucy faster that way, and the two of you can stop bickering.”
It was a bad day when Emma was the voice of reason.
Chapter Two
Emma headed for the horse vans, and Libby marched unerringly off to the refreshment tent. Perhaps the only one who truly felt Lucy should be found—before she injured an unsuspecting bystander—I steamed in the opposite direction in search of my niece.
Naturally, I was waylaid at every vehicle and entreated to join one tailgate party after another. A twenty-something woman wore a hat that looked like the Flying Nun had swooped through a flower garden. It was Betsy Berkin, daughter of the paper-cup magnate and the city’s most famous “celebutante.” The single girl seen at parties all over the city, Betsy had the swanlike grace and burnished glow of a young lady who’d been given every advantage—and expected even more to fall her way.
She waved me over to join her friends from her clique—all young women who reportedly aspired to be wives of professional athletes who could provide glamorous futures. I had heard via the grapevine that they hung around day spas for beauty treatments and spent their evenings in search of prey in bars near the city stadiums.
Betsy made a production of begging me to step into their Ascot-themed party for a glass of champagne. Her young friends were dressed in a flutter of nearly identical chiffon minidresses, all jamming their nearly identical picture hats down over their nearly identical highlighted hair. A king’s ransom in ostrich handbags swung from their toned, tanned arms, and each one of them stood posed to entice any passing jock who might throw her over his shoulder and run for a touchdown. The conversation was rapid-fire fashionspeak, however, with a chorus of “Eeeeww!” when someone mentioned ballet flats.
Betsy grabbed my arm and drew me to the table. Her buffet included bangers and mash, which nobody was eating. Betsy obviously didn’t mind—the food was all for show anyway. She had used a Union Jack for a tablecloth.
