Stayin' Alive

by Julie Mulhern

  Mother’s face pinched with the effort of holding her tongue.

  Max scratched on the back door and without thinking, I opened it.

  He trotted inside with the Labrador at his side, sat, and waited for a biscuit.

  I took two from their hiding place atop the fridge and gave one to each dog.

  Max grinned. The lab’s tail thumped the floor.

  Aunt Sis’s face lit. “You caught the dog!”

  “Anarchy did.”

  She nodded her approval. “And Max is in love.”

  It looked that way to me too. “I need to find her owner.”

  “What does her tag say?” asked Mother.

  “Her name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Pansy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The restaurant was filled with people I knew.

  I nodded at Billy Powers who held what was probably only the second martini of his three-martini lunch. He smiled and beckoned to me, but I pointed to Libba then my watch.

  He responded with a good-natured shrug and returned his attention to his companion. The poor girl looked like a deer caught in headlights. Lunch with her boss. Should she drink? Should she flirt? Should she order a steak or a hamburger?

  I almost stopped at Nan Roddingham’s table, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses, and without them she might not recognize me.

  I smiled vaguely at Victoria Ladbroke—if she got her hooks into me, I’d never escape.

  “Ellison!”

  I turned. Oh, dear Lord. Again I smiled (apologetically) and tapped my watch. I didn’t have time for Jane Addison and her questions.

  Feeling as if I’d run a gauntlet, I slipped into the booth where Libba waited. She wore a form-fitting Missoni dress and a Cheshire grin.

  “Why are you so happy?” I groused.

  “Me?” She clasped her hands and held them against her heart. The picture of innocence. I didn’t point out the irony.

  “You.”

  “Jimmy spent the night.”

  “So you kept Jimmy.”

  She sighed—a luxuriant, cat-stretching-in-the-sunshine sigh. “Of course I kept him. It’s nice having the power.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The power. In our relationship. I hold the reins.” Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed, and she looked ten years younger than I did. “It’s marvelous.”

  I picked up the waiting menu and focused on the salad options.

  “I don’t need his money or his status or his name,” she continued. “I don’t want marriage. Heck, I don’t want a long-term commitment. This might be perfect for me. A few nights a week with a gorgeous man who knows how to—”

  “Good afternoon.”

  I offered the waitress a grateful smile.

  “We’ll take a bottle of Blue Nun,” said Libba.

  “I shouldn’t.” She might have discovered the fountain of youth, but I looked as tired and worn as an old shoe. Wine with lunch would not help the bags under my eyes or the lines creasing my forehead.

  “Yes, you should. You’ve had a week that would send most people diving to the bottom of a vodka bottle.” Libba’s drawn brows told me I’d best not argue.

  “Fine.” I shifted my gaze away from the salads. Drinking over lunch meant I’d need something more substantial than lettuce.

  “I’ll have the wine right out.” The waitress left us.

  “How long can you keep it up?” I asked.

  Libba raised her brows. “What do you mean?”

  “If you grow attached, doesn’t Jimmy become more powerful?”

  “Jimmy is a lovely diversion.” She’d avoided my question.

  “Humor me.”

  “The division of power is never equal. I won’t be sharing.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “One person in a relationship always has the upper hand. Usually the man. Jimmy makes for a nice change. Think about it.” She tapped the table with the rounded tip of her copper-hued nail. “The women we know, their husbands provide. He who earns the money makes the decisions. Usually the man has most of the power.” She abandoned the table and pointed her finger at me. “Look what happens when they don’t. You and Henry are a case study.” Libba studied men like John Maynard Keynes studied free-market economies. “As soon as you out-earned him, your marriage withered.”

  I gazed at the table. The cutlery sparkled. The linen was near-blinding white. The napkin in my lap had near-perfect creases. “I’ll always have more money than Anarchy.”

  Libba reached across the table and gave my hand a brief squeeze. “Anarchy is different. He doesn’t use money as a yardstick. You two might achieve—oh, good. Here’s the waitress.”

  I waited till the waitress filled our glasses, jotted our orders, and stepped away before I raised my gaze. “Anarchy and I might achieve?”

  Libba frowned. “What?”

  “I don’t know. You were about to tell me.”

  “Was I? Oh, right. That. For some couples, power is a teeter-totter.”

  I stared at her.

  “What? Is my lipstick smeared? Is it on my teeth?”

  “A teeter-totter?”

  She took out a compact and checked her makeup. Assured she looked ravishing, she raised her left hand shoulder high, lowered her right hand to the table, then switched their positions. “He has the power. She has the power. It switches. Look at your parents’ marriage.”

  I’d rather not. I wrinkled my nose.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “Look at Jinx and George.”

  “I don’t want to gossip about our friends’ marriages.”

  “It’s not gossip. I’m making a point. And what I’m trying to tell you is that in the best marriages, the power shifts back and forth.” She brought her hands even. “The power’s never even, but there’s balance. You and Anarchy would be like that.”

  I wanted her to be right. Desperately. I sipped my wine and considered a response.

  “Ellison, Libba! How are you?” Jane Addison’s curious gaze fixed on the scarf at my neck.

  “Fine, thank you,” I murmured.

  Jane, who wore a jaunty spring suit and a silk blouse with a bow tie, ignored our less-than-enthusiastic response to her interruption. “I hear you’re reading at Phyllis’s funeral.”

  “Yes.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “I didn’t realize you and Phyllis were close.”

  “We weren’t. But Stan asked me, and I couldn’t tell him no.”

  “That poor man.” Jane shook her head in mock sadness.

  “Such a tragedy,” murmured Libba.

  “Although…” Jane’s tone promised something juicy.

  Libba granted Jane’s dearest wish and asked, “What have you heard?”

  “Stan and—” Jane glanced over her shoulder as if she suspected eavesdroppers “—Joan.”

  “No!” The word escaped my lips.

  Jane nodded gleefully. “I have it on good authority.”

  “Does Joan’s husband know?” asked Libba.

  Jane’s face clouded. “I don’t know.” But she’d make sure he found out. As a real estate agent, divorce was good for business.

  “Jane, I have a question for you.”

  I had her full attention.

  “Anyone new in my neighborhood?”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a Labrador wandering—well, she was wandering. Now she’s in my backyard. I need to send her home, but she’s not wearing tags.”

  “Is this the dog who dug up Margaret Hamilton’s annuals?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure anyone will claim the beast, not if it means Margaret’s ire.”

  A sentiment I understood well. “She’s a sweet dog, but she needs a better fence.”

  “You have her with Max?” asked Libba.

  I nodded. “He’s enamored.”

  “That’s one powerful Labrador,” Libba observed.

  Jane frowned and smoothed her skirt over he
r hips. “I’ll ask around the office.”

  “I’d be grateful. Thank you.”

  “We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other,” said Jane.

  “Oh?”

  “I signed the listing for the house next to yours.”

  “Find a nice, boring couple, please.”

  “Easier said than done,” Jane replied. “You’re developing quite the reputation.”

  “Are you saying Ellison is affecting real estate values?” Libba’s mouth spread into an obnoxious grin.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but—” Jane glanced my way (unlike Libba, I was not grinning) “—life on your block is exciting. A boring couple may not appreciate the bodies.”

  Libba flipped her hair over her shoulders. “It’s not as if Ellison finds one every day.”

  “Most people never find a body.” Jane’s point was a good one.

  “I’ll do my best not to find any more.”

  “Thank you.” Jane, who was apparently immune to sarcasm, stepped out of the waitress’s way and eyed our lunches. “I’ll let you eat.”

  “Lovely seeing you, Jane.” If she’d tried, Libba couldn’t have sounded less sincere.

  Jane smiled brightly and returned to her table with a story about the terrifying bruises I hid beneath my Hermès scarf and my promise not to find bodies.

  “I wonder who told her about Stan and Joan.” I cut into my petit filet.

  “Do you suppose it’s true?”

  For one awful moment I contemplated sex with Stan. I put down my loaded fork and drank.

  “It can’t be true.” Libba shook her head.

  “There’s one way to find out,” I replied.

  “Ask Jinx.” Jane Addison’s gossip wasn’t always accurate. Jinx’s was. Libba stared at someone over my shoulder.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Gordon Thayer.”

  I resisted turning. “Who’s he with?”

  “I don’t recognize him.”

  “Aunt Sis jumped in with both feet.”

  “I wouldn’t expect any less from her. What does Frances say?”

  “She approves.” I leaned closer to Libba. “She’d love an invitation to Key West, but she’s worried about free milk and cows.”

  Libba choked on her wine. She pressed her napkin to her lips, and her eyes watered. When she could speak, she said, “We’re back to power.”

  “We are?”

  Libba nodded. “A woman who holds out, says no, retains some power. As soon as she gives in, she gives up the power.”

  “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

  “I have.”

  “You’re very cynical.”

  “I’ve dated lots of men.”

  I stared at my plate. The filet, the asparagus, the scalloped potatoes—they might as well have been sawdust.

  “What’s wrong?” Libba asked. “Sis is old enough that she doesn’t need to worry about free milk.”

  “It’s not that. Everything is so complex. Why can’t love be simple?”

  “People like power.”

  “I don’t care about power—”

  Libba snorted. “Keeping Anarchy hanging isn’t about power?”

  “No.” It was about fear. “I want honesty and respect and—”

  Libba held up her hand. “Why aren’t you moving forward?”

  I shifted my gaze from my plate to the brass light fixture about the table. “What if it ends like my marriage?”

  “Look at me.”

  I lowered my gaze.

  Libba’s expression softened from are-you-kidding-me to concerned friend. “What’s life without risk?”

  “Safe.”

  “Lonely. You’ll never know if it will work with Anarchy till you try.”

  “Would you excuse me, please?” I slid out of the booth and stumbled toward the powder room.

  “Ellison?”

  I’d forgotten about Gordon. He’d already risen from his chair. “Sit. I insist.”

  Gordon ignored my request, and his friend stood.

  “Ellison, this is Jerry Sopkin.”

  I blinked. The man who’d made an offer on Phyllis’s company.

  Jerry Sopkin’s bald head gleamed in Plaza III’s low light, and his intelligent eyes were topped with bushy eyebrows.

  “Jerry, this is Sis’s niece, Ellison Russell.”

  “What brings you to Kansas City, Mr. Sopkin?”

  “Jerry, please.” His eyes clouded. “I flew in for Phyllis Goddard’s funeral. Such a loss. She was poised to be the next Lilly Pulitzer.”

  Any country club woman worth her salt knew Lilly’s story. She opened a juice stand in Palm Beach and designed her own dresses because bright colors and patterns hid spills. Shifts because she hid a waistline thickened by childbearing. “An accidental entrepreneur?”

  “Phyllis would have been huge. She was a deliberate entrepreneur.”

  “You should design a fabric.” Gordon smiled at me.

  “I don’t know the first thing about fabric or repeats or what sells.”

  “You’d be great. Jerry, you should see her paintings.” Gordon rubbed his hands together. “I’m taking Sis to dinner. Come with us. You can see some of Ellison’s work when I pick up Sis.”

  A kid-on-Christmas-morning grin brightened Jerry’s face. “I’d be honored.”

  Gordon was amazing. He’d arranged a showing of my work, at my home, without my consent. “That okay with you, Ellison?”

  I was so shocked I nodded.

  “Excellent. Say, Sis told me you caught the digger.”

  “The digger?” Jerry’s brows inched up his forehead.

  “A loose dog. I spent my morning calling veterinary offices looking for her owner.”

  “No luck?” Gordon sounded as if he cared.

  “Not yet.”

  “Sis says Max is in love. Maybe you should keep her.”

  “I’m sure her owner wants her back.”

  Gordon chuckled. “Sis says the Lab looks at Max like he’s a doggy David Cassidy.”

  Dogs were lucky. They had uncomplicated relationships.

  “I’ll let you get back to your lunches.” I smiled and backed away from their table before Gordon decided I should keep Pansy.

  Aggie made rumaki and picked up a variety of meat, cheese, and crackers from Mac’s deli.

  I checked the level of scotch, bourbon, and rye and filled the ice bucket.

  Grace put Max and Pansy in the backyard.

  Aunt Sis checked her lipstick.

  When Gordon and Jerry Sopkin arrived, we were ready. I opened the front door and smiled a welcome.

  Gordon stepped inside, kissed my cheek, and pulled Aunt Sis into an it’s-been-almost-twenty-four-hours-since-I-saw-you hug.

  Jerry handed me a box from André’s. “Thank you for welcoming me to your home.”

  Since we were pretending I’d invited him, I replied, “I’m glad you could come.” I held up the box. “Obviously someone’s been telling you my secrets. André’s is my favorite.”

  “I hope you enjoy them.”

  “I will. Aunt Sis, why don’t you fix Gordon and Jerry a drink? I’ll drop these in the kitchen.”

  They entered the living room where Miles Davis played on the stereo and three of my paintings hung on the walls.

  I carried the chocolates to the kitchen. “Aggie, the hot hors d’oeuvres in about five minutes?”

  “No problem.”

  “Do you need anything carried to the living room now?”

  “The dip?” She’d carved a hole in a round bread loaf, filled it with dill dip, and surrounded it with crudité.

  I picked up the tray.

  Her forehead wrinkled. “You okay?”

  “Tired.”

  “At least you can have a quiet weekend.”

  From her lips to God’s ears.

  I breezed into the living room, put the bread and crudité on a coffee table, and made sure my guests held drinks.

  Jerry,
Gordon, and Aunt Sis stood in front of a still life. Jerry held his drink with both hands and stared at the painting as if its brushstrokes held the secret to the universe. Gordon had wrapped his arm around Aunt Sis’s shoulders. I took a few seconds to look at my aunt and her beau.

  They fit together like peas and carrots, like Captain and Tennille, like Gene Wilder and Mel Brooks.

  Aunt Sis leaned her head into Gordon’s chest.

  Gordon and Aunt Sis made love look easy.

  I cleared my throat, and they turned. “Please—” I gestured to the seating area “—have a seat. I’ll join you as soon as I have wine.”

  By the time I’d splashed liebfraumilch into a glass, Gordon and Sis cozied on the couch—their couch—and Jerry sat in a club chair.

  “You’re incredibly talented,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated.

  “Why haven’t I heard of you?”

  An impossible-to-answer question. I smiled and shrugged. “Now you have.”

  “Have you considered design?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “No.”

  “You might love it.”

  “I love being a painter.”

  “Your use of color—I can’t help but imagine how that might translate to fabric.”

  Grace stepped into the living room. Her hair hung in a straight sheet, blush pinked her cheeks, and lip gloss shined on her lips.

  I introduced her to Jerry, and the two shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sopkin.” She turned to me. “I’ll be home by midnight.”

  “Remind me where you’re going?”

  The roses on her cheeks turned rosier. “I have a date.”

  Did I know that? “Oh?”

  “With Hodge James.”

  Jonathan Hodge James. Since his father bounced between Jonathan and Jon, his parents called him Hodge.

  And I had not known Grace had a date with him. “Where are you going?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Dinner and a movie.”

  “What movie?”

  “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.”

  I nodded. “Bring him in to say hello when he arrives.”

  “Mooom.” What was I thinking inflicting myself and my guests on poor, unsuspecting Hodge?

  “You can always stay home.”

  “Fine. I’ll go help Aggie in the kitchen till he gets—”