May the Best Man Die

by Deborah Donnelly

  “It's part of Joe Solveto's catering business,” I said mechanically. “He uses—oh, for heaven's sake, what does it matter? Why are you here?”

  But I knew why, and Aaron confirmed it. He drew a heavy oak banker's chair from its place at the worktable and straddled it, folding his arms across the chair back and dropping his chin onto them as if his head was too much trouble to carry.

  He sighed. “Carnegie, why won't you talk to me? I keep calling—”

  “And I wish you'd stop!” I said, louder than I meant to. I felt awkward and off-balance, under siege here in this building that wasn't even my own territory.

  “Did you read my E-mail?”

  “No, I didn't. I just want you to leave me alone.”

  “But I can't. I won't.” He lifted his head. “You have to listen to me, Slim.”

  “I don't have to do anything. And quit calling me those stupid names!” I turned away to finish repacking Eddie's box and set it back beneath the table. I was trying not to cry. Redheads look hideous when they cry. “I did listen to you, and you lied to me. End of story.”

  “It doesn't have to be the end of anything,” he said stubbornly. “Don't you see, I was trying to give you some time to get over that son of a bitch, what's his name—Walters.”

  “Walker.”

  Over the summer I had fallen hard for Holt Walker, a good-looking attorney whose every word, every action, was false from the very beginning. After that fiasco, Aaron had been a breath of fresh air.

  Scratch that. Aaron had pretended to be. He wasn't a criminal like Holt, but something much more hackneyed: the married man from out of town, with no one to give him away. The brash, fast-talking operator. The manipulator. And I was the patsy. I wasn't sure which was worse, the broken heart or the wounded pride.

  “Right—Walker,” he was saying now, trying to enunciate, but slurring a little. “You were upset about him, underrstambably upset.”

  I retreated farther, to lean against one of the windows overlooking the Ship Canal. We both fell silent for a long moment. The canal water looked icy cold. Beyond the bare trees lining the bicycle path, the windows of the Hot Spot were dark, the deck and shrubbery deserted. The party's over.

  I raised my gaze to my own reflection, and to Aaron's. Our eyes met in the glass, and he tried again. “I was just giving you some time to get your balance back, you know? Before I told you about this situation I'm in.”

  “That's all marriage is to you? A situation?”

  “Aw, Carnegie, don't be this way.”

  I closed my eyes. I wanted to retreat from the building altogether, but I couldn't very well leave an intruder here, late at night in Joe's sanctum. What if he fell over in a stupor and broke something? I had a confused vision of splintered crystal and shards of pottery—anything to distract me from the plain fact that I'd made a fool of myself over Aaron Gold.

  “What a sensitive guy you turned out to be,” I said at last, keeping my back turned. “Lying to me for my own good, that was big of you.”

  “Would you stop talking about lying?” he protested. “I didn't lie to you, not really—”

  “Not really?!”

  This was more like it. Righteous anger felt so much better than humiliation and regret. I whirled to confront him and raised my voice, letting the anger flare up, goading myself into fury.

  “You spent weeks sweet-talking me, acting like a lighthearted bachelor, trying to persuade me to sleep with you, and all the time you were married! That's not lying?”

  “OK, technically, yes, I was married, I mean, I am married, but there's going to be a divorce. I just don't know when—”

  “Oh, spare me!” I snapped. “What kind of naïve idiot do you think I am?”

  Aaron rubbed his eyes with both hands, and blew out an exasperated breath. “This is all my fault.”

  “You're damn right it is!”

  “I should never have said anything on Thanksgiving,” he continued, as if to himself. “I should have waited, I shouldn't have blurted it out like that.”

  “So, it's just that your timing is off, is that what you're saying? Cheating's only a problem when you confess on the wrong schedule?”

  “Would you please calm down? You're making this sound like a soap opera.”

  “It's worse than that! It's disgusting and m-mortifying.” Hot tears brimmed in my eyes, ready to spill over, but I refused to let them. I had my pride. Maybe too much of it, but Aaron had hurt me badly. “I trusted you! All through Thanksgiving dinner at Lily's, I couldn't wait to get home and make love to you. And then you told me . . . you told me . . . Just go away.”

  “But, sweetheart—”

  “Don't call me that! Don't say another word. I'm busy, I've got to be on TV in the morning.”

  He looked dazed. “TV?”

  “Never mind, just go.”

  Aaron scowled at me, silent at last. Then he set his jaw and walked out the storeroom doorway with the too-careful gait of a man trying to act sober. I waited till I heard the elevator descend, then I found the staff rest room and threw cold water on my cheeks until the bones ached.

  As I drove through the frosty, empty streets to Lily's house, I stared out dully at the Christmas lights floating by. On almost every block, chimneys and porches were outlined in twinkling stars of white and red and green, with the occasional illuminated sleigh or Mickey Mouse in a Santa hat, standing guard on a lawn. In some windows Christmas trees stood dark, their bulbs unplugged for the night, their glitter and garlands catching stray gleams from the streetlamps.

  I like Christmas. It's a little hard sometimes, being single at the holidays, but I like the decorations and the special recipes and hunting out just the right gifts for my family and friends. Last year I had woven strings of tiny blue lights through the railings around my houseboat, charmed by their firefly reflections in the water. This year, I helped Lily's boys decorate their tree, which was fun but not the same.

  I'm homesick, that's all, I told myself as I drove. Sleazy men are a dime a dozen; you have to shrug them off and keep going. I'm just homesick. And besides, Aaron hates Christmas. Why would I want a man who hates Christmas?

  At Lily's boxy little bungalow near Woodland Park, I climbed the steep concrete steps, slick with rime, and let myself stealthily through the front door. Ethan and Marcus loved having Aunt Carrie come over to play, but right now they needed their deep, innocent sleep.

  I dropped my tote bag on the easy chair by the Christmas tree, smiling a little to see that Lily had unfolded the couch and made up my bed for me. She'd put out an extra quilt against the chill, and perched one of Ethan's innumerable plastic dinosaurs on the pillow, to make me laugh.

  What a peach. Thank God for the people you can actually depend on.

  Yawning, I grimaced at my watch. No deep sleep for me, not tonight. I patted the stegosaurus on the tail and tiptoed down the hallway past the boys' room, to brush my teeth. But a narrow band of light slipped out beneath Lily's door, accompanied by a throaty whisper.

  “Hey, girl!”

  I pushed the door open. My hostess lay propped against her pillows in a long-sleeved, low-cut velour gown of royal purple, her favorite shade. The glow of the bedside lamp illuminated her large, lively eyes, so much like her brother's, and gilded her coffee-colored skin. Lily was, as Eddie put it, “quite a tomato.”

  Just now, the tomato was hanging up the phone, and looking as high up as I felt low down.

  “He called me to say good night, again!”

  Lily giggled like a girl, a girl in love. She hadn't been clobbered by romantic calamities recently, as I had, but she'd been deeply lonely ever since her divorce.

  “I knew it was him,” she went on. “I just picked up the phone and started laughing! I swear, we were laughing all evening.”

  No need to ask who “he” was. I sat on the edge of the bed and folded my arms, still cold from the drive. Though I half-expected Lily to ask why I'd been crying—we can read each other like b
ooks, favorite old books—she was too busy singing the praises of the wise, the witty, the altogether wonderful Michael Graham.

  I wasn't all that much in the mood to listen, but she is my best friend.

  “Fran Lewis took my kids along with hers to that new Disney thing, bless her heart, so I made dinner here—Cornish game hens with a chestnut stuffing—and it all got very sexy, gnawing on the bones. What was that movie with the great eating scene?”

  “Tom Jones.”

  “That was it.” She grinned. “We got très Tom Jones. Finally Mike swept me off to bed and the chocolate soufflé burned to a crisp before we smelled the smoke! Can you imagine?”

  “I sure can.”

  “So we opened all the windows, and then we were freezing, so we climbed in bed again and just talked and laughed. We had to watch the time, of course, because of the boys, but when they got home, Mike tucked them in and read them a story . . .” She drifted to a dreamy pause, then shook her head. “Am I crazy, Carnegie? Is this really going to work?”

  I thought about it: a mixed-race marriage, a hard-pressed detective taking on stepchildren, a strong-minded woman taking a new path in life. But I only thought for a moment.

  “He's a wonderful man, Lily.”

  “He is, isn't he?” She leaned back into the pillows. “He said the cleverest thing—”

  “Look, I'm sorry, but I'd better get to bed.”

  “Oh, right! You need your beauty sleep for the camera. Just tell me, before you go—”

  I rose, bracing myself for a question about Aaron. But of course Lily didn't know that he had appeared at Joe's. And I didn't plan to tell her.

  “Tell me,” said Lily. “Did Darwin honestly look sober? I don't mean to spy on him, but a bachelor party! It's such a temptation. And Dar said Jason Kraye has been kidding him at work about not drinking.”

  Impulsively, I leaned down to give her a hug. No need to mention the scuffle I'd seen.

  “Cross my heart, big sister. He was sipping orange juice and looking tall, dark, and handsome like he always does. Sweet dreams, now.”

  “You, too, Carnegie. You're going to knock 'em dead tomorrow, I just know it.”

  Chapter Five

  I DROPPED A SOUP TUREEN AND SCREAMED. NO, SOMEONE ELSE was screaming, a high stuttering scream . . .

  The alarm clock. It wasn't screaming, just sounding its tiny metallic stutter on the arm of Lily's couch where I'd put it a few—painfully few—hours ago. I fumbled a hand from under the afghan to silence it and hauled myself upright, feeling sick and hollow with fatigue. And nerves: live television! What was I thinking?

  I should have said no, I thought now. Or else given up on that photo and gone to sleep right after dinner. I could still call it off, call the station and say . . . what? That I have the flu? Would they believe that?

  Throughout this cowardly monologue, I was showering, dressing, and painting my face. Then, in my grim determination not to think about Aaron, I began to review all the on-camera advice I'd gotten from Sally Tyler's mother. I liked her vastly more than the bride herself, and she had drawn on her own experience to coach me for this morning.

  “Wear something simple, in a soft color. No crooked collar points or busy stripes. You want them to look at your eyes. If your mouth goes dry, bite the tip of your tongue to get the saliva flowing. And remember, the interviewer's job is to make you look good. Trust her.”

  One hour to the minute after the alarm had sounded, I was tapping on the intercom doorbell at the side entrance of KCBR. The air was still cold, but damper than last night, under a low and starless predawn sky. I wondered briefly if it would snow. Between the steep hills and the inexperienced drivers, Seattle's rare snowstorms always bring the city to a halt. Too bad it hadn't dumped a couple of feet while I was asleep.

  A frazzled young man with a clipboard opened the door, checked off my name, and hustled me down a narrow hallway taped with Christmas cards, nodding like a bobble-head doll and talking nonstop all the way. I trotted along, trying to answer his questions and wondering if my lipstick was smeared.

  “Hi, I'm Doug, you want coffee? I'll get you some. Is it Car-negie or Car-nay-gie? Car-negie, great, I'll tell Mandy. You brought some photos? Great, give 'em here and I'll get them propped up to scan. Great. I'll have you wait just a minute while we set up, then I'll get you miked. OK, great, the rest room's right there, I'll be back in a sec.”

  We had arrived at the end of the hallway, near a maze of empty cubicles. A tall pegboard held tight, tidy loops of variously-sized computer cords and cables, along with a ferocious notice that read: “We use the over-under method of winding. If you don't know it, ASK SOMEONE WHO DOES; don't just dump cords here!!!”

  Past the pegboard I could see a large open area, ringed with equipment, where preoccupied individuals moved busily under the glaring lights. Doug dashed off like the White Rabbit, muttering my oddball first name under his breath.

  I was used to the pronunciation question. My late father was a self-educated man, schooled in the legion of small libraries that Andrew Carnegie endowed across the country. So Dad named me after the dear old robber baron, conveniently forgetting his less noble acts—and also how he pronounced his name. My mother still called me Carrie, but I liked it unabridged.

  Abandoned by Doug and feeling rattled, I took shelter in the ladies' room, to fool with my makeup. A motley collection of hairsprays and gels was ranged along the countertop, but my long hair is stubbornly curly by nature, so I don't do much with it. I just fixed my lipstick and stared morosely into the mirror, wishing I was elsewhere. Then I took a deep breath, did a couple of shoulder rolls, to loosen up, and went out to meet Beautiful Beau Paliere.

  And boy, was he beautiful. I beheld him in the cubicle area, lounging elegantly against a desk: an exquisite man in his late thirties, with a body like a gymnast and a face like a dangerous angel.

  Like many men, Beau was a touch shorter than me. But unlike most of them, he was dressed entirely in snug, stylish black. His hair was black as well, almost blue-black, like a comic-strip Superman, and rising in thick, glossy waves from a tanned forehead. Together, dark hair and dark clothes made a wonderful foil for his eyes, which were long, lazy, and intensely blue, fringed with lush black lashes. Bedroom eyes.

  “Ah, you're the local person,” he said, with just a shade of a French accent. He shook my hand and favored me with the smile that had graced so many magazine covers.

  How do you get tan fingers? I thought inanely, as he held my hand just a moment too long. That was all the thinking I could manage, because the butterflies in my stomach were drowning in a tidal surge of lust. The man was one big magnet. I could feel myself being sucked into his orbit like a wandering asteroid trying to edge past Jupiter.

  Within minutes, Beautiful Beau and I were seated up on a platform, being fussed over by young Doug. The furnishings were faux living room, with an empty chair between us. A low coffee table held a water pitcher, glasses, and a bowl of red carnations mixed with holly—all very cozy and seasonal.

  Beau and I kept mum, because the guy-and-gal morning team was just a few yards away, wrapping up a segment at the long, logo'd news desk. They spoke smoothly and warmly to their invisible audience as the cameras wheeled before them.

  “And I'll be back in just a moment,” said the gal, “to talk with the gentleman from Paris who you've all been waiting for, Beau Paliere!”

  No mention of me, but I was too busy to notice, because Doug had his hand down my cleavage—what there was of it. My simple, soft-colored knit top was apparently too simple; there was nowhere to clip the tiny black microphone. It ended up dangling near my collarbone like a big black insect, while Beau's simply disappeared against his silky shirt. Then Mandy took the chair between us, and we were on the air, up close and personal.

  Mandy was a wire-thin blonde with the kind of exaggerated features that work so well on television: super-sized brown eyes, cheekbones sharp as my shoulder blades, and a dentist's
dream of wide white teeth. Her nose was an adorable little button, though, and her chin was small and pointed, giving her an altogether kittenish look.

  A perky kitten, with a silvery laugh and a high-pitched voice full of exclamation points.

  “Weddings!” she perked at the camera. “What a fun, crazy time for brides! And who better to tell us how to handle the craziness than today's guests: Beau Paliere and Car-nay-gie Kincaid!”

  She gave Beau a long, glowing introduction, and as he responded to her compliments, you could see his charm ratcheting up a notch, from Delicious to Devastating. The two of them leaned closer and closer together, and the silvery laugh got a little giddy, until finally Mandy tore her gaze away, to glance at me.

  “Car-nay-gie, you're based right here in Seattle, aren't you?”

  “It's Car-negie,” I said with what I hoped was a friendly smile. “I know Andrew Carnegie is pronounced the other way, but my father—”

  “Whatever!” Mandy ground her glorious teeth a little at the wasted airtime. “Have you ever planned a really big wedding, like the ones Beau is famous for?”

  “Nothing quite on that scale,” I admitted. Beau's scale included fleets of limos, acres of flowers, and guest lists full of pop stars, European royalty, and the occasional president of the United States. “But I have put together some unique events here in town. For example—”

  “Tell us, Beau, are you going to do a wedding while you're here in Seattle?”

  “Alas, non,” he said, the bedroom eyes working overtime and the accent deepening, “but if I were invited to a wedding here, I would, of course, attend. Or if I meet someone magnifique, who knows? I might end up planning my own!”

  Mandy squealed, in a silvery way, and conducted the rest of the segment almost in Beau's lap. She tossed me the odd question over her shoulder, but mostly she was intent on asking about “Beau's Girls,” the bright and beautiful young women who conducted Paliere events in L.A., New York, and points in between. Beau's Girls were all slim and blonde, and I swear Mandy was considering a career change.

  “They say you have a Girl in every major city,” she said slyly, loving the innuendo. “Is that true?”