My Lady Lipstick

by Karin Kallmaker

  “Heather will be along and we’ll order a meal then,” he added.

  So they were going to sit there at noon and drink with no food? She caught the server’s eye. “I’m told you have amazing mushrooms at the moment.”

  “We do!” The stooped and swarthy waiter was either from the old country or an actor doing a very good job of pretending to be. “Zizak in the nude. Roasted with only a touch of olive oil and fresh herbs and served with traditional sheepherder’s bread. They are so beautiful, they need nothing more.”

  “I’m a vegetarian and that sounds delicious. For the table. While we wait for our remaining guest,” she added. She saw a flare of amusement in Paris’s face.

  “I like a woman who knows what she likes,” Reynard announced.

  “You always say that, Father, but you and I both know it’s not true.”

  Startled, Diana automatically rose from her seat to greet the newcomer. She’d seen Heather Reynard’s photos online, and they had accurately captured the physical traits she’d inherited from her father: very tall, broad-shouldered, round-faced. Unlike her father, she gave an impression of fast-moving sleekness. Her stature made her a person you would always know was in the room. And possibly not turn your back on, Diana mused. Burnished reddish-gold hair cut asymmetrically framed a face made expressive by dark brows and eyes. She envied Heather’s light jacket of soft blue chambray—the restaurant was a bit chilly.

  All in all, Heather Reynard was confidently casual and exactly what Diana had expected. The big surprise was the light, musical voice and a smile that had a natural, easy charisma. Her mother’s genes had blended some swan into the bull.

  “Anita Topaz,” Diana said, extending her hand.

  “A pleasure.” The handshake was firm and brief. But the oddest expression crossed her face when she turned to Paris, who had also risen to extend her hand.

  “I’m Ellis. The amanuensis.”

  Their handshake continued as Heather asked, “Have we met?”

  “I’d remember,” Paris said.

  “Were you at Stanford?”

  Paris mock growled, “Berkeley.”

  Heather laughed. “Well, we’re off to a rocky start.”

  Diana resumed her seat, unable to say what it was she found disquieting about a completely appropriate exchange. She was relieved at the return of the waiter bearing the pitcher of sangria and a tray of cut-glass tumblers rimmed with sugar.

  “Forgive me,” Heather said, finally releasing Paris’s hand, “for turning into a daughter for a moment. Father, it’s scarcely past noon.”

  “It’s mostly fruit juice,” Reynard protested, gesturing at the waiter to pour him a glass.

  Diana gave in to a flash of contrariness. “I’d love to taste it.”

  Heather’s smile of acceptance had enough edge for Diana to know she’d displeased her. No, she wouldn’t turn her back on this woman. She was happily leveraging all the benefits of being the daughter of this pig of a man and would not succeed in making Diana feel small. It was no time to feel upstaged and petulant, like when the big teams with medal prospects marched into the competition arena, lithe and strong and wearing much cooler gear.

  She firmly told herself that her chaos of feelings—all of them—had no bearing whatsoever on the business at hand. A reaction to a fleeting touch or wondering why Paris was smiling so much all of a sudden had nothing to do with bringing up movie deals. She was Anita Topaz for a few more hours only, and then only for Paris’s sake. All her other plans were dead. And why? Because she felt sorry for Paris.

  The lie rang in her ears.

  Pity? Her body felt like she’d been in the sun too long—dizzy, slightly fevered, skin on fire. It wasn’t pity.

  Paris and Heather had launched into a lively conversation about New York. Well, she would envy Heather Reynard one thing: she could talk to Paris without measuring the lie in every word. Diana didn’t see how she could ever have that with Paris. She hadn’t given Paris a single reason not to eagerly say goodbye forever.

  Reynard was also watching Heather and Paris as he chatted with Diana about how doctors really didn’t know what was good for anyone. He didn’t care for being told to cut down on drinking and to get some exercise, but she didn’t think the narrowed gaze was about his health. His eyes never left the other two women. On the one hand it was a relief not to have him fawning all over her. On the other she didn’t know what he saw that bothered him.

  She followed his line of sight again, imagining herself a Lear-esque monarch watching the heir to the throne with paranoid speculations of disaffection and disloyalty. His mind preoccupied with territory, prestige and his own pleasures, he sat in his counting house, thinking about his property, where Anita Topaz and all the other young, pretty women in his life were bought and discarded.

  “I’ve never been to the Hamptons,” Paris was saying. “I grew up in California and worked there for several years. San Francisco has a different heartbeat than New York.”

  “What an interesting way to describe it.” Heather rested back in her chair, shoulders relaxed, arms casually resting on the table. “I’ve lived in the Hamptons now for several years. It has similarities to Napa Valley, but, as you say, the heartbeat is very different. What did you do in California?”

  A trill of alarm sounded in Diana’s head. They hadn’t discussed any kind of backstory for “Ellis.”

  “I followed my passion for gaming into design for a while.” Paris’s shrug wasn’t completely natural.

  “What’s your poison? I’m working on beating the latest Dark Souls.”

  “I’m a bit behind the times. Zelda—”

  “Who doesn’t love Zelda?” With an arch look at her father, Heather said, “It’s nice to meet someone who appreciates gaming as a pastime.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” Reynard began. “It has no ultimate reward.”

  “Except for falling into and becoming part of a story full of self-challenge,” Paris said.

  “Exactly,” Heather agreed. “And how did you meet the amazing Anita Topaz?”

  Diana’s heart stopped. It was belatedly occurring to her that all she knew about Paris’s life was that she wrote novels under a pen name. She hadn’t known about California and gaming design. That Paris had had a life before Anita Topaz. Which of course she had, you stupid fool.

  With a lifted eyebrow glance at Diana, Paris said, “We met in a bar. And that’s all I’m saying.”

  Both Reynards looked slightly taken aback until Paris added, “And whatever it is you’re thinking, trust me, you’re wrong.”

  Relief and irony sent Diana into a fit of giggles.

  Eyebrow raised, Heather said, “This is a story I think I have to hear.”

  “It won’t be from me. It’s Anita’s story to tell.” In spite of Paris’s ease with the words, Diana noticed that her fingers were flexing and tapping lightly on the table the way they had at Mona Lisa’s, just before Paris had bolted out the door.

  “And millions will pay to read it some day I’m sure.” Reynard added smoothly. “Well, we’d like it to be millions.”

  Diana seized on the opening Reynard had provided. “Wouldn’t a movie reach that kind of audience? Or a miniseries?”

  Heather’s smile tightened. “It would. Reynard Television has a reliable working production network and a vast affiliate base, as you know.”

  “Vast,” Reynard echoed.

  “Hands Off the Merchandise is a natural for that. I’m very excited that you’re interested in making it into a movie. It’s a great story,” Diana said honestly. Then added hastily, “If I say so myself.”

  Heather’s expression was now carefully impassive, but Diana noted the short glance at her father. If she wasn’t mistaken, this was the first that Heather was hearing of such a possibility. Which meant the offer might have been bait and nothing more. Bloody hell.

  Heather admitted, “I haven’t read it, I’m sorry to say.”

  R
eynard finished his first glass of the sangria. “Too busy with video games and that school.”

  The faint wince in Heather’s eyes told Diana that her father’s offhand criticism was not new. The gold-plated life had a cost, of that Diana had no doubt. “My leisure time is quickly booked.”

  “Understandable,” Diana assured her. She cast about for a way to build a rapport with her. “I’m glad you were able to enjoy a tennis match this morning—a beautiful day for it.”

  Heather’s eyes narrowed as if she suspected Diana of sarcasm. “It was an old friend at a Pro-Am charity event. She was paired with Navratilova—not something I wanted to miss.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t have missed it,” Paris said.

  A long look passed between the two women. Reynard was scowling.

  Oh, Diana thought.

  Oh.

  The waiter delivered the zizak mushrooms with a flourish, and not a moment too soon. The chef personally came out to wish them a pleasant meal with an attentiveness that Reynard hardly noticed. The platter was passed around and the conversation turned to safe, easy topics of favorite foods. Diana agreed that the roasted mushrooms were unusually savory and rich in flavor, but she barely tasted them. Her mind was in a whirl.

  Heather was a lesbian, like Paris.

  So, apparently, was she.

  More than a decade of living behind a game face saved her. She stayed in character and said all the right things while absorbing the fact that Heather was gay and Reynard didn’t like it. Hence his hostility toward Paris, who, in her man-cut clothes, was telling the world that she was a different kind of woman. A kind of woman that Heather clearly found interesting.

  The observing voice that guided her through gymnastic routines and acting performances, that unceasingly coached her on everything from the voice and accent she used, to the set of her shoulders and the extension of her fingers, was urgently telling her that she was staring at Paris. Studying too closely her eyes, her mouth, her hands. If she didn’t stop the hunger would show in her face.

  “My father isn’t quite right when he calls it a school,” Heather said in response to Paris’s question. “It’s a literacy program available to any house of worship. We’ve found that inability to read English is a significant barrier to any kind of success in life, and if the church or synagogue or mosque will provide the space, we’ll provide the teacher and materials.”

  “Why churches?” Paris seemed genuinely interested.

  “Churches, especially in poor communities, know who needs help. They’re also trusted by those who attend, making a teacher’s acceptance by the students easier. Most of the people we’re reaching are girls and women desperate to learn English as a second or even third language. But too many are native English speakers who still don’t know how to read beyond See Spot Run.” Heather seemed almost shy. “I provide the money, mostly. It’s an amazing team of people who make it happen, and across many cultures. If there’s one thing New York has a lot of, it’s diversity.”

  Paris asked Heather another question while Diana politely listened to Reynard explain everything he knew about Spanish wine. What else could she do? She was adrift with no script. It was like a nightmare of realizing that she hadn’t memorized her lines and didn’t even know what play she was performing as the curtain went up.

  It was easiest to accept the waiter’s recommendation of the chef’s vegetarian breakfast, and once ordered Diana preempted Reynard’s return to the topic of wine he had loved by rising. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  She took as long in the restroom stall as she dared, glad of the quiet. Finally emerging to wash her hands she was startled by her face in the mirror.

  It looked exactly the way it had when she’d left the hotel.

  The thought of touching Paris’s skin with her fingertips, with her lips, turned everything south of her belly button into molten jelly, and yet she didn’t look even one bleeding bit different? Rather than being relieved, she found it unfair. Surely something so monumental ought to show.

  Maybe, when she got out of the wig, took out the contacts, scrubbed off the concealer, maybe then she would see it. A stranger’s life in her own eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Paris prayed that Diana came back soon. She was enjoying the conversation with Heather Reynard, much to her surprise, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t stressful to act naturally while watching every word. She had to be careful not to commit to anything that Diana wouldn’t then know as well. The caution, layered on top of the already tense setting of deception, was ratcheting up her internal alarm bells.

  I’m the one who is going to screw up. This is not what I’m good at.

  When Reynard’s expression brightened she was flooded with relief. Diana must be returning.

  Heather’s gaze also slid to Diana, but her expression remained passively pleasant. What was she thinking? This was the sort of situation where Paris knew she had blind spots. There was one surprise she had sorted out, though: her gaydar was actually pinging for once.

  Breakfast was delivered, which turned the topic back to food. Her nerves stopped jangling quite as hard.

  “This shepherd’s bread is fantastic,” she offered into the conversation. The aromas of the potatoes and peppers underneath her baked eggs was making her faint, but the dish was still too hot from the oven to eat. “It reminds me of Irish oat cakes, but with yeast instead of soda.”

  “It sounds as if you bake,” Heather said. “Or do you watch a lot of food TV?”

  “Mostly the former. Brownies are my specialty, but I like most everything that has butter and sugar and goes in the oven.”

  Heather gave Diana an amused look. “She bakes too? Lucky you.”

  Paris lost what Diana said, but it made Reynard laugh as well. She finally got it—Heather thought she and “Anita” were possibly sleeping together. Or, she was trying to rule it out. Were they giving off that vibe? Diana wouldn’t ping anyone’s gaydar, Paris thought. But then again, Lisa at the bar wouldn’t either. It was that she talked openly of her wife and sometimes donned rainbow-decorated apparel that made it obvious.

  “If we have any business to discuss it has to be before I eat all this food. My brain will go to mush,” Diana said. “It’s all delicious. And Ellis is right about the bread. Purely addictive. Thank you for selecting this restaurant for our meeting.”

  “I’ve been thinking over what you said about public speaking,” Reynard said. “How are you with crowds, in general?”

  Diana didn’t look at Paris. “I, uh, it depends how loud and how long. It can be exhausting, as you saw last night.”

  “A cocktail party, in your honor. It could even be a fundraiser for your favorite cause.”

  Paris saw Diana hesitate. “Do you mean—”

  “At RonCon of course. We could perhaps announce a book/movie tie-in project.”

  Heather asked her father to pass the bread and said, “I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, but aren’t the speakers all lined up at this point? Squeezing in another event won’t be easy.”

  “For Anita I think it could be done,” Reynard answered smoothly.

  “Frankly,” Diana said, “while I am happy to have a fundraiser, I am far more interested in learning the next steps to making that book-to-movie project happen. Though my agent should be involved before I commit myself.”

  “Of course,” Heather said quickly. “That’s just good business.”

  Diana’s smile held charm, yet Paris saw steel in it. “It’ll take some time to work out details, but I’m confident an agreement could be reached.”

  Reynard pronounced, “Anita Topaz has never been more popular. I believe in striking while the iron’s red-hot.”

  It was news to Paris that Anita was “red-hot.” She knew her numbers were strong, but she wasn’t burning up the bestseller lists with her own version of 50 Shades of Lots of Sex Play. Heather also seemed reluctant to do anything quickly. Which of them really ran the business? Or the par
t of the business that would make this particular decision?

  “I know that, Father, but RonCon is only eight weeks away. You know these things take time.”

  “A standard contract with a signing bonus could be executed in a week.” He sliced off another large piece of his rib eye, pushed it into his mouth and chewed only a couple of times before swallowing and replacing it with another bite.

  Even Hobbit paced himself, Paris thought. Her meal was cool enough to thoroughly enjoy and every bite was sharp with spice and sweet with tomato. Diana seemed to like her food as well, but she was picking around chunks of artichoke. Perhaps she didn’t like them—something to remember.

  Mental brakes slammed on. There was no need to remember Diana’s likes and dislikes. They were parting ways. There was no reason for them not to, after all. All her anxiety faded for a moment, overshadowed by a wave of regret. How could she feel so drawn to someone who was essentially a stranger? Who lied so glibly?

  Lost in unfamiliar emotional territory, and trying desperately not to stare at Diana for too long, she missed the import of Reynard’s strangled gasp.

  Diana dropped her fork. Then Heather said loudly, “Dad! Are you okay?”

  He didn’t respond. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. Another gasp.

  “Somebody call 911!” Heather was on her feet, trying to pull Reynard’s chair away from the table. A nearby couple leapt up to help. The man helped Heather pull her father down onto the floor while the woman peppered Heather with questions in a clipped Middle Eastern accent.

  “Does he have a history of heart disease? Is he taking medication? How recently has he seen his physician?” The woman was kneeling next to Reynard now, feeling his throat.

  “He’s had several heart attacks. Bypass several years ago.” Heather’s voice was shaking. “He always recovers. Can you help?”

  “I’m a doctor. This is quite serious.” To her companion she said, “Cardiac arrest. Find their AED.”