by Liz Talley
Or rather, he’d kissed her.
Either way, her world had tilted and spun a little faster.
“Mary,” Mitzi called with another frantic wave of her hand.
With a longing glance at her front door—she really wanted to put on comfy clothes and process all that had occurred—Mary Paige turned and smiled.
“Oh, my God, why didn’t you tell me? This is huge. Huge!” Mitzi squealed, shuffling forward wearing a ragged-looking sweatshirt and big pink piggy slippers. Her grin was bigger than the St. Bernard at her knee. “Heel, Elvis.”
The dog sat with a groan and Mitzi pulled Mary Paige into a hug. “You’re rich, bitch!”
Mary Paige broke the hug with a laugh. “Hey, Mitzi. Elvis.”
Elvis chuffed a hello since he was a sensitive dog and liked to greet and be greeted. Mary Paige had never known such a canine gentleman.
“You didn’t tell me. How could you not tell me? This is crazy big, M.P. Crazy big.” Mitzi’s words got louder and louder.
“You’re talking about this whole Henry Department Stores thing, right?”
“No, I’m talking about the Christmas tree in your window,” her friend said, taking her elbow. “Come over and tell me about this money, this man and your new gig as a Spirit. Ma made red sauce and meatballs.”
“Ah, you know I love your mama’s cooking, but I’m so tired. I want to get into my pajamas and watch TV. Plus, I need to feed the cat. How about tomorrow?”
“You know Ma makes the best red sauce this side of the river. I told her I’d invite you, but I forgot. Then I saw you on TV and remembered, so…”
How could she refuse and not be consumed by guilt the whole night?
“Sure,” Mary Paige said, giving Elvis a pat and allowing Mitzi to link an arm through hers and maneuver her toward the big blue house across the street. So she was a marshmallow and couldn’t say no to her friend. At least she’d get a meal out of it, and Mitzi’s mother rocked anything she put on a stove.
Mitzi was nearly forty but dressed like she was ten, choosing Hello Kitty and Strawberry Shortcake vintage T-shirts to wear to the music store she ran with her uncle Rup. She also wore bold wigs. Today she wore platinum curls that brushed her shoulders.
“You like?” Mitzi twirled a curl at her ear.
“Very Hollywood starlet,” Mary Paige said, already feeling happier. Mitzi was that kind of person. She insisted on equal parts sarcasm and sunshine no matter what the heavens spat her way.
“That’s what I was going for. I’ll be glad when my own hair grows in.”
“But then you won’t be able to assume different personas. I loved the black bob you had last week.” Mary Paige climbed the fifteen steep stairs that led to the wide porch, with its spidering paint and cheerful poinsettias sitting outside the oval-paned door. “Very Veronica Lake to counteract the Jane Mansfield look.”
Mitzi had been undergoing chemotherapy since September. In August she’d found a lump in her breast, had a double mastectomy and was on her last round of chemo. It had been a long painful journey, but Mitzi had made the best of it—which was a constant inspiration for Mary Paige. She felt blessed to live this close—it was like a slice of home in the midst of midtown New Orleans.
“Ma,” Mitzi hollered as she opened the door, letting Elvis bound in first. “Mary Paige’s here.”
“Okay,” Cecily called from the kitchen. The Cascio house was an elevated shotgun house like most of the ones in this neighborhood, a few blocks off North Carrolton Avenue. The front parlor/dining room melted into the living room, which led to the kitchen and finally to the three bedrooms, fulfilling the suggestion that one could fire a gun from the front door of the house and hit someone coming in the back door. Straight shot.
She came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel. Her smile matched her daughter’s earlier one. But that was all that matched. Mama Cascio was as wide as she was tall, with dark hair knotted at her nape…just like a grandma on a commercial for Italian sauces. “Welcome, Mary. Hope you’re hungry, darlin’.”
Mary Paige barely had time to nod before Mama Cascio enveloped her in a bear hug, laying a fat kiss on her cheek.
“It smells like heaven in here, Mama Cascio.”
“Yeah, it does,” she nodded. “Been cooking my sauce all afternoon. That’s the secret—you can’t rush a good red sauce.”
Mary Paige nodded as though she knew what Mama Cascio talked about. The closest Mary Paige came to making a homemade sauce was melting butter.
“So big news, huh? Simon got the boot, Brennan Henry’s giving you tongue action and you’re two million smackers richer. Like a dream, huh?” Mitzi sank onto the sofa, curling her legs beneath her. One pink pig dropped to the floor while the other hovered over Elvis’s head.
A timer dinged and Mama Cascio clapped her hands. “That’s the bread. You girls talk.” Then she toddled into the space she loved, muttering about Parmesan cheese.
Mary Paige sat in the armchair that had a piece of plastic covering the area where a person’s head rested. “I’m not seeing Brennan Henry.”
“Looked like a really friendly kiss on TV,” Mitzi said, stroking the big dog’s head absentmindedly.
“Publicity stunt.” Mary Paige resisted the urge to raise her hand to her lips. It had been a hell of a kiss. One she’d felt all the way down to her white Reeboks.
“Sign me up for those kinds of publicity stunts. He’s smokin’ hot and rich. It’s like you won the lottery, Mar.”
Mary Paige didn’t want to talk about the money. For some reason it felt surreal, which is why the check still sat in her jewelry box. And she darn sure didn’t want to talk about Brennan. “He’s not my type.”
“Baby, he’s every girl’s type.”
On the surface.
“Actually, he’s sort of sad. Hates Christmas. Hates people. Loves money.”
“Well, there’s that,” Mitzi said.
“Besides, I don’t want to feel like every man I meet is a potential candidate for love of my life. My main goal for this next year is passing the CPA exam. And all this publicity stuff for the Face of Christmas is—”
“Spirit,” Mitzi said.
“Huh?”
“I thought it was the Spirit of Christmas. That’s what they said on WNOE. I remember because it made me think of ghosts and things that go bump in the night.”
“Yeah, Spirit. Anyway, I don’t have time for a man, good-looking, rich or otherwise.”
“That’s a bad attitude for a twentysomething single gal. I get the whole career thing, but why wouldn’t you be open to tall, dark and wealthy if the opportunity showed up? Think I’d pass that up? Even if I have cancer and could be dead in a few months?”
“Don’t you dare say that, Mitzi Cascio.” Mary Paige stiffened, her inane problems fading at her friend’s words. Cancer did that. Made a gal feel silly for fretting over men, work and having to attend functions. Mitzi had been positive about her diagnosis and recovery, but still tossed out morbid zingers Mary Paige struggled with. “You’re getting well. I refuse to believe any differently.”
Mitzi smiled. “Me, too, but I’m just saying. Brennan Henry might be exactly what you need—a sexy rebound. God, he has to be good in bed.”
“Yeah, being rich and handsome makes you a good lover. Probably the opposite. He probably lies back with his hands behind his head and lets the girl do all the work.”
The image of her rising above a naked Brennan Henry while he looked on with gray eyes no longer hard as steel, but molten and stormy, while she moved her hands all over his taut abs made her mouth water.
Great. Now she was having fantasies about doing Brennan. And she didn’t even know if he had taut abs or not.
“That would be a travesty.” Mitzi’s expression had taken on a faraway look that told Mary Paige she might be having her own Brennan fantasies. “So tell me about this money. Two million? Really?”
“Yeah. Two million, but here’s the t
hing. I don’t know what to do with it. I haven’t even told my mom about this whole campaign because I wasn’t sure if I could go through with it.”
“Why wouldn’t you do it?”
“Because it’s invasive and it puts me out in the spotlight. I’m not comfortable with that. Look at me.” Mary Paige indicated her sweater, skirt and pristine white Reeboks. Realizing she still wore the stupid elf hat, she jerked it off her head and growled, “I’m no show pony.”
“Mare,” Mitzi corrected. “M.P., this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You can’t pass it up.”
“I haven’t because it’s not a totally bad idea. Maybe a few people will look at Christmas as an opportunity to show love to their fellow man. That’s Mr. Henry’s goal—to make people think about what is really important, who they should value.”
Mitzi laughed. “I swear you’re like an insurance commercial.”
“So I wear rose-colored glasses. Not a crime to care.”
“Nope. Not a crime at all.”
“Let’s eat,” Mama Cascio cried, her New Orleans yat accent no doubt as thick as her marinara sauce. “And I heard you fussing at her, Mitz. Let Mary Paige decide things for herself.”
“Mary Paige needs wild, hot sex and a man who lavishes stuff on her. After that prick Simon sucked her dry, she needs—”
“Spaghetti and Italian gravy,” Mama Cascio said, shooting her daughter the Sicilian stink eye. “She said she’s not interested in the Henry boy, so let it die already.”
Mary Paige knew deep inside she was interested in Brennan, but where would that desire lead? Brennan Henry was a dead-end street for a girl like Mary Paige. It wasn’t only that she wasn’t his type, it was also the man’s nature. If the gossips were to be believed, he was adverse to commitment. She’d spent the past year struggling with Simon the Leech, and she swore the next man she even thought about in a romantic capacity would have integrity, heart and generosity of spirit. From what she’d seen so far, Brennan Henry had none of those qualities.
More like selfish, damaged and intolerant.
“Come in the kitchen,” Mama Cascio said. “We’re family and we’ll eat like family.”
The woman’s words washed over Mary Paige like warm bathwater. She appreciated Mitzi, and her mother saw her as family, even though they’d first met a little over two years ago. Going through cancer, bad boyfriends and the launch of Mama Cascio’s catering business had knit them tightly together and had solidified in her heart that moving to New Orleans had been the right decision for her.
From that perspective, working to bring the Spirit of Christmas to her city seemed the right thing to do.
* * *
BRENNAN LOOKED AT his piquant sauce and grimaced. Clarice’s Bistro had superb cuisine, but tonight nothing sat right on his stomach. Probably thanks to the fish he’d had for lunch.
Or the fact all of New Orleans had seen him kiss the crazy accountant wearing ridiculous tennis shoes.
And, Christ, it had been soul-stirring.
He shoved the still-steaming dish aside and contemplated the man who’d raised him. Malcolm was extraordinarily cheerful tonight, as was Ellen, who also seemed pleased with the tree-lighting festivities. After sending Mary Paige home in a private car, Malcolm had insisted on a celebratory dinner at his favorite uptown restaurant. Clarice’s had occupied an unassuming wooden house on Prytania Street for the past forty years, and Malcolm had dined there at least twice a month since it had opened.
“I’d say tonight was a resounding success,” his grandfather crowed, sipping a dry pinot and spearing another smoked oyster from the plate in the center of the table.
“Absolutely. And the mistletoe kiss was the icing. Nothing better than the public falling in love with a couple—gets people engaged. The heir to the Henry throne and his charming country mouse has love story written all over it,” Ellen said, nodding like a good dog. Izzy waited in the car with Gator so Brennan assumed Ellen took the weenie dog’s place. Though, he supposed it wasn’t fair to his cousin to compare her to a canine. At the moment, Brennan wished she’d show some resolve, some sense, some damned fortitude against the assumption he and Mary Paige should act like a couple.
“I’m not pretending to be in love.” Brennan folded his napkin and set it beside his plate.
“I would never ask you to fabricate something as important as love,” Malcolm said.
“It’s not that I don’t like Mary Paige—she’s a nice girl—but I draw a hard line at creating a false relationship.”
“You don’t have to kiss her again, just be considerate,” Ellen said. “Pretend she’s Great-Aunt Vergie.”
“When last I saw Great-Aunt Vergie she didn’t have a tooth in her mouth and she hit me with her walker.”
“Well, don’t do anything to make her hit you. Merely summon the charm from your arsenal,” his grandfather said.
Ellen nodded again. “Yeah, just allow some speculation. The promise of romance builds interest and goodwill for our name. It builds—”
“Customers.” Brennan didn’t like the way his older cousin manipulated him with the promise of a healthier bottom line. Because even he wasn’t so hardened that he’d fake affection for Mary Paige to manipulate the public into buying more sweaters. “So, Grandfather, you think I should dupe the public? What of your newfound integrity?”
His grandfather stared at him hard for a moment before shaking his head. “I’d consider that an insult from anyone other than you.”
Brennan held his grandfather’s gaze, refusing to flinch under the stare of the man who had taught him to guard his emotions. Never let ’em see you sweat…or drink cheap whiskey.
“I don’t give a fig about what develops, or doesn’t, between you and Miss Gentry. I do give a fig about you being courteous. You’re a Henry. It’s expected,” Malcolm said, focusing his attention on his filet.
Ellen took a sip of her drink. “I still think allowing folks to think it’s a romance is brilliant. What’s the harm?”
Brennan didn’t answer. If Ellen couldn’t figure out the harm, he could see good reason her marriage hadn’t lasted more than a few years. Dishonesty bred harm. Lots of harm. Even he knew that.
“I won’t deny the idea of Brennan settling with a nice girl appeals to me,” his grandfather said, regarding him again with intensity. It was as if his grandfather was testing him, which pissed him off.
“As I recall, you considered Creighton a nice girl from a good family with a U.S. senator in her back pocket. You introduced us and gave me use of your lodge in Park City, remember?” If his relatives were going to mess around in his personal life, Brennan thought it only fair they be reminded of their earlier interference. “So now, what? She’s not pure enough for the Henry family? She has to go around buying bums coffee to make the grade?”
He didn’t know why he felt so defensive. Not so long ago he would have agreed with Ellen’s plan. And he’d certainly been of the opinion that Creighton wasn’t well-suited to him. Could it be that one simple kiss had not been quite so simple? That little kiss had made him feel something more complicated than lust…something scarier than the company books dipping into the red.
Malcolm sighed. “As with much in my life, I regret encouraging that particular relationship. Creighton knows only one life, and she eats, breathes and sucks it down. She’s not a bad girl, no, but she’s not a good one for you, either. She wouldn’t inspire you to want to be a better man.”
His grandfather’s judgment was harsh, but laced with truth. Creighton looked good on the arm, and she had excellent social standing right down to the crumbling mansion on St. Charles, Creole bloodlines and a sizable bank account. Still, their relationship had always been based on convenience rather than affection.
“Even so, Creighton deserves some consideration. We’ve been dating off and on for the past year. Not fair to splash a fake relationship all over the city for the express purpose to make this ridiculous campaign a success,” said Brennan
, knowing his words were hollow. He’d tried to break it off with Creighton several times and, had he wanted to pursue another woman, he would have had no qualms about doing so. “Besides, this campaign will succeed because you offer rewards for being decent to one’s fellow man. People will be looking over their shoulders to see if they might get something for dropping a nickel in the Salvation Army’s kettle.”
“True,” his grandfather said, stroking his gray goatee. “But if it results in someone being relieved of a burden, or five cents richer, because of what we’re doing, then I can live with that. Generosity doesn’t come cheaply.”
Brennan lifted his coffee cup and waved a hand when Ernesto brought the dessert menu. This day had been long and exhausting, and the trip down memory lane triggered by Mary Paige’s questions still echoed in his soul. He kept remembering his mother smiling at him, his father tossing him into the air and Brielle playing silly games involving cracks and breaking their mother’s back—all fuzzy warm memories that left him a little lonelier than before.
Just ghosts knocking about inside his head.
“Strange. You never seemed serious about Creighton. More annoyed than anything.” Ellen took the dessert menu and pointed to the Creole bread pudding she got every time she came to Clarice’s. “And that kiss tonight looked friendly enough.”
“I kissed Mary Paige because everyone chanted ‘kiss her’ and that was the only reason.”
“Could have kissed her cheek,” Ellen said, arching an eyebrow.
“Now that would have been anticlimactic, wouldn’t it? It meant very little to me,” he said, offering his empty cup to the waiter as he paused beside Brennan with a silver carafe in hand.
His grandfather’s gaze never left him, and Brennan suspected the man saw through him. He knew Brennan had enjoyed every second of that kiss. Something about that knowledge squirmed inside him.
“What?” he asked his grandfather.
“Nothing,” Malcolm said, nodding to Ernesto as he sat a fat piece of pecan pie in front of him.
“You think I’m lying?”
