by Jill Winters
"Is that all you're taking?" Dana asked, surprised. "Yeah, why? You think I need more?"
"Well, either more... or less—of that," she said, pointing down at the thick olive-green sweater folded beside a nearly identical blue one.
"What? I love that sweater," Gretchen said, patting it gently. "It's snuggly. Like me," she added with a lighthearted grin.
"You are snuggly, I'll give you that. But where are the cute little ski outfits?" Dana asked.
"I can't ski, remember?"
"You can still wear the cute outfits, can't you?" Dana said. With a grimace, she picked up one of the undergarments folded and wedged in the side of the suitcase and waved it like a battered flag. "What is this savagery? Please tell me this is an accident."
"What?" Gretchen said, covering a giggle, and snatched the garment back.
Dana didn't appear amused. "Granny bra central," she said, clearly dismayed, and shook her head, as if to add, Lose the orthopedic undies, will you?
"You're so kind," Gretchen said," to think of me and my underwear like that. But really, nobody's gonna see them anyway."
"G, you never know—"
"Trust me, I know. I can promise that the granny bras are in no danger of being torn in passion." Then a random thing happened. She thought about Brett's moody brother, Rick. Suddenly an image of him tearing her granny bra flashed into her mind. It didn't flash out nearly as quickly. Instead, she actually stopped to contemplate it.
Not that it made any difference, but she still had to wonder: Would Rick be there this weekend?
* * *
Icy wind shuddered through Gretchen's chest, and snow crystals scattered through the air like silvery tacks. Standing on her front stoop, she ran her hands feverishly over her arms, trying to rub some heat into her bones as she waited for Susanna to pick her up and drive them both to Brett's house upstate. The sidewalk ahead had a pinkish glow from the streetlamp, and from this distance, the snow appeared to settle softly on the asphalt, like baby powder. When Gretchen stepped forward and turned to glance up at her own building, she looked at the windows to Marcia Rabe's apartment on the fifth floor, at the gauzy yellow light dappling against the curtains.
Suddenly her attention was diverted by a stretch limousine that came peeling down her street. When it slid to a stop next to the curb, a puddle of slush splashed up onto the sidewalk, reminding Gretchen that whether snow looked like sugar crystals or baby powder, it eventually turned to cold wet slop. Then it hit her: this was her ride!
Susanna had said she would have a car drive them both, but "a car" could mean many things; Gretchen ought to know. In her life "a car" had meant things like hatchback, Chevy Nova, and at one point, used-Honda-from-Mom, but never once had it been equated with such fabulous opulence.
The backseat door facing her building flew open. Susanna ducked her head out just a fraction and called out, "Gretchen, hi! Sorry we're late. Get in!"
So to repeat: a stretch limo? Gretchen was still taking it in.
But she acted casual about it, waving hello as she darted down the front stoop and crossed the slippery sidewalk to the sleek, black car with tinted windows. "You look great," Susanna said, as Gretchen crouched down to climb inside.
"Thanks," she said brightly. "So do you." Susanna's blond hair was tucked up into a French twist, and she wore shiny green earrings and a matching green-glass necklace with circular crystals. Underneath her open wool coat, she wore dress pants and a long brocade vest, which sparkled with green and gold embroidery and went past her knees.
Meanwhile Gretchen hoped she wasn't too underdressed. She'd opted for a simple red sweater, black pants, and black boots to add a couple of inches to her height. Over it she wore a caramel-colored acrylic coat that looked like super-shiny fur. With its soft, snuggly texture and its fluffy collar, wearing the coat itself was like wearing one big hug.
Once Gretchen slid across the bench seat, she saw there was someone else inside the car. It was Susanna's niece, Shawnee, the intern from the show who apparently brought her signature scowl along with her after hours. From what Gretchen had learned that week from some of the other crew members, Shawnee was visiting New York for a while and staying with Susanna for an unspecified amount of time. She'd taken a "break" from community college in Boston, where she lived with her mother, Susanna's younger sister, Wendy. It was hardly a secret that Shawnee had an attitude—and copped it often—but Susanna sucked it up for the most part. Everyone figured it was because Shawnee was family.
"Hi, Shawnee," Gretchen said, smiling.
Old Bulbous Nose absently grunted a hello while she cracked her knuckles and looked out the window. Briefly, Gretchen wondered how much of her social awkwardness was true misanthropy and how much was insecurity.
The three of them rode in silence for about thirty seconds before Susanna turned toward Gretchen and said, "Now let me give you the rundown on some of the people who'll be there this weekend. Just for your own information."
"Okay, great," Gretchen said.
"First off, whatever you do, don't bring up Ray Jarian's restaurant or his show. Both are defunct. I'm not sure if I mentioned it." Several times, in fact. It seemed that Susanna was just one of those people who went around prefacing things with, "I feel so bad—but have you heard about so-and-so's latest brush with ignominious decline?"
Also, the subject of Ray's show being cancelled had been raised but glossed over quickly at Wednesday's meeting, when Joel Green had cleared his perpetually congested throat, rattled some of the marbles around in there, and explained that Ray was moving on to "other opportunities." Sure, if you could call bankruptcy and the lack of a book deal opportunities.
"Right, Ray Jarian," Gretchen said, nodding. "What happened there anyway?" she asked, genuinely curious. It seemed like southwestern cuisine had been everywhere for the last five years, so why had Ray's show and restaurant become a flop?
Susanna shrugged. "I think people just wised up. Look, Ray's a nice enough guy, but he's no rocket scientist." True, Gretchen supposed, but why should he be? "I mean, look at what he's doing. The same old tired recipes, the same old tired twists on these same old tired recipes." Counting on her fingers, she rattled off some of the old and tired. "Tomatillos, chipotle, guac, pepper jelly, mango salsa, we've seen it all a hundred times. And if I have to watch him make margaritas one more time." She shook her head with blatant impatience, mild disgust. "My one-year-old nephew could make margaritas, for God's sake."
Shawnee grunted at that, which drew Gretchen's attention. Rolling her eyes with annoyance, she started biting her nails. Gretchen didn't know if it was the mention of her young half brother that bothered Shawnee, or just Susanna's penchant for exaggeration.
"The fact is, any of the other chefs at the network could do what Ray does," Susanna continued, "but unfortunately for him, he can't say the same." Gretchen nodded, but noncommittally, because she'd seen Ray's show, Tex Mex Teddy, only twice in her life. "And don't get me started on the heavy-handed cowpoke speak," Susanna added derisively. "It's outdated, desperate, and pathetic—kind of like his restaurant." Boy, was there anything this guy could do right? "Who knows which bombed first, the show or the restaurant; it's kind of one of those chicken or egg things, you know?" She shrugged. "All I know is that one day Ray thinks he's a real big shot, having lunch with Misty and me, acting like he's Wyatt Earp, then—poof. Suddenly he's a laughingstock and Misty won't return his calls.
"Misty?" Gretchen said, then remembered. The black-haired, violet-eyed girl Gretchen had met in Susanna's dressing room—the one who'd given Gretchen no more than an appraising look before brushing her aside. "Oh, that's right, your agent."
"Ray's, too," Susanna qualified. "Or was, anyway. Now, to hear him tell it, she's dropped him cold. He makes it sound like she's an unfeeling bitch, but really... Misty's a sweetheart." There was a certain artifice to Susanna's voice, as though the sentiment were contrived. "Ray actually came to me about it a couple of weeks ago, wanted m
e to find out what was going on with her—to find out why she wasn't calling him back and what she thought of him. Can you believe that? Well, I'm not about to stick my nose in where it doesn't belong. Although... between you and me, if Misty's guilty of anything here it's good judgment. Ray's a dead-end loser—financially speaking. Why should she waste her time? Especially when she's the agent to have right now. She represents Brett, too, in fact."
"Really?" Gretchen asked, impressed. Personality aside, Misty Allbright seemed pretty young to be this successful in her field. She was probably a real shark, which in the agenting world, was surely a compliment.
"Are we almost there already?" Shawnee interrupted, her voice laden with impatience. "You know, I'm only going to this for the free booze."
"You're not old enough to drink," Susanna replied simply.
Shawnee snorted. "Whatever."
"And no one twisted your arm to come," Susanna added.
"Oh, like you wanted me alone in your apartment for the weekend? Right."
"Ed's away on business," Susanna said to Gretchen, obviously feeling compelled to explain why her husband wouldn't be home.
"Again," Shawnee muttered with deliberate insinuation. Susanna just ignored her.
"So who else will be there?" Gretchen asked, anxious to cut the tension before it could develop. She watched the city lights disappear from view as the car careened into the darkness of the night beyond the invisible walls of New York City.
Susanna rattled off some names, most of which sounded familiar—people Gretchen had met briefly around the building or heard mentioned in passing. Included among them were Lila Mendal from HR and the main receptionist, Denise, both of whom Gretchen hadn't seen since her first day. "Oh, and Gretchen, perhaps you could ask Brett about that little thing we discussed the other day. You know, since you still haven't done it, sweetie..."
Please, what a martyr. Gretchen had already explained that she hadn't seen Brett since Wednesday and hadn't gotten a chance yet to "spontaneously" suggest he invite Susanna for a guest appearance on his show. Jeez, if it weren't for Susanna's fragile ego, she could simply bring up the idea herself—if not to Brett, then to Abe. She could always ask Abe to suggest it to Brett or his producer. But no. Gretchen didn't know Susanna that well yet, but she could tell this much: She did not want anyone important at the network to know that she cared or ever worried about her ratings, her fan base, or the success of her upcoming prime-time show, Dining Elegance. That was reserved for peons like her set supervisor.
"Let's see, who else?" Susanna mused before her eyes popped wide open. "Oh, I just realized! Misty and Abe will both be there. Together—but not together. Hmm, now that should be interesting..."
"What do you mean?"
"Misty and Abe were a hot item till a month or two ago," Susanna explained, eyes gleaming. Gretchen recognized it as the conspiratorial glint that came with good gossip. "I introduced them. He's a good ten years older. Divorced. But they seemed to hit it off right away. They dated for, oh, I'd say three or four months."
"What happened?" Gretchen asked curiously. Honestly, it was hard to picture someone as charming and polite as Abe Santasierra with the snotty cold woman Gretchen had met. Suddenly she wondered, God, are looks all that really matter to any of us?
"Well, according to what I heard... and I feel really bad repeating it, but..." She paused as if contemplating whether or not to share other people's misfortunes; it was easy to guess which way she'd lean. "Abe broke it off with her," she said finally. "I really don't know why specifically, since Abe's not the type to speak badly about anyone or to spread gossip, and Misty... well, Misty's certainly not the type to volunteer the fact that she got dumped." With a short but gleeful little laugh—one that betrayed just how "bad" Susanna felt about all this—she added, "It's probably the first time it's ever even happened to her."
"What, you mean being dumped?" Gretchen asked incredulously.
"But discreet as they might have tried to be about it," Susanna went on, "people talk. And I know that Abe did feel bad about hurting her. He indicated as much, without saying it expressly, of course..."
"Hey, is that fat chick gonna be there?" Shawnee asked, sounding tomboyish at best.
"Who? You mean Cady?" Susanna said.
"Yeah," Shawnee replied brashly, "the dessert lady."
"She's not fat," Gretchen blurted, not sure why she felt compelled to speak up in Cady's defense, except for the fact that Shawnee's comment seemed unfair—it also threatened to descend the whole conversation into even lower depths of catty gossip.
Besides the fact, Shawnee, like Susanna and Gretchen herself, was hardly waifish.
"I'm sure Cady will come," Susanna said, clicking open her compact. Quickly, she touched up her face with a powder puff, then snapped the compact shut. "Poor Cady," she added, sliding Gretchen a sympathetic glance, as a distasteful grimace played at her lips. "I so wish she'd do something with herself."
Well, so much for Gretchen's attempts at deflection earlier; the conversation was a sinking ship.
"Her whole look—it's just depressing," Susanna continued. "Those dowdy clothes, that helmet hair, the pudgy, bloated face... I'm sorry. I feel so bad saying it. It's just... honestly, in this business, people expect a certain look. If you're going to tell people how to cook, you're also telling them how to entertain. Nobody wants to entertain looking like that—or looking at that. But if you ask me, what Cady could use more than anything is a man. Or a woman, if that's what she's into," Susanna said, putting her palms up. "Hey, I don't judge." Gretchen had to force herself not to laugh at that one. "But she needs something. Her show's called Sinful Temptations, for God's sake. The title's practically selling sex, and let's face it: Cady's not getting any. I'm not trying to be mean, of course..."
Yet somehow she'd nailed it.
Minutes ticked by; Gretchen let the silence fall over the backseat. Her gaze moved to the window. As the car climbed the curve of the narrow mountain road, Gretchen's body tilted into the door and her fingers flexed on the door handle. Snow—capped evergreens seemed to move, as though on a conveyor belt, rushing past her in smooth, rapid succession.
Susanna pressed a button on the door panel and the tinted glass between them and the driver slid down, revealing the back of the driver's head. "Marshall," Susanna said, "turn up here; we're almost there." In a weird way, Gretchen felt overprepared.
* * *
They pulled into a semicircle drive that wrapped around a tall indecipherable statue covered with heaping piles of snow. Two tall columns ran parallel to the imposing front doors. "Stop here," Susanna said to her driver, who was in the process of doing that anyway. They all got out and took their bags.
Instantly, Susanna took Gretchen's arm, like she did at work; Gretchen still hadn't figured who was leading whom.
Once they'd crossed the stone driveway to the doors, which were shielded by an overhang, they rang the bell and waited. Brett answered the door himself, which was refreshingly unpretentious, and then he said, "Welcome to my little dimora umile," and Gretchen thought, Well, there goes that.
He had them leave their bags in the entry foyer for his housekeeper and began leading them up the stairs.
It was then that Gretchen saw Rick. Something had drawn her gaze to the far depths of the entry foyer, and there he was. Near the stairs, but in the shadows. She sucked in a sharp breath, but tried to cover. It felt as though the bottom of her stomach had just dropped out. God, he had a maddening effect on her nerves.
She couldn't tell if he was watching her because his eyes were hooded by the dark, but still, she knew by the outline of his body that it was Rick.
With her breath coming up shorter, she forced herself to look away and follow Brett and Susanna as they continued up the stairs, making small talk.
"Gretchen, glad you could come," Brett remarked affably, glancing back just long enough to wink at her. Then he nodded at Shawnee, who was next to Gretchen, and said, "You, too." But
no wink for her.
Suddenly she felt the prickling unease of self-consciousness. Had Rick told Brett about the night they'd met—the night of the fire? Well, why not? If he was as codependent as Brett had indicated, then surely he'd told his "idol" about meeting Gretchen before. Had he also mentioned what an overly defensive fool she'd made of herself?
Every time she thought back to their first meeting, she replayed that moment when Rick's eyes had dropped down. It had lasted only a moment, but it was long enough; his expression had changed. His gaze had been focused and intense.
Intense... For some reason the word fit him too well.
And why was he downstairs alone, instead of enjoying the party with everyone else? Boy, was he strange or what?
Then she recalled what Brett had said about him. That lately he'd been having a tough time, that he "needed" Brett, that he didn't like to be social, he liked it to be just the two of them, and Gretchen decided whatever Rick's deal was, it was best not to bother trying to make sense of it. It was best not to dwell on him, period. Instead, she should try to enjoy the party. Susanna might have coerced her into coming, but now that she was here, she would make the most of it.
"I'm gonna find the booze," Shawnee informed Gretchen, as if she cared about her itinerary for the evening.
"Um, okay," Gretchen said with a nod when they reached the second floor. Hey, the girl was twenty; Gretchen wasn't about to monitor her liquor consumption—especially if her aunt wasn't bothering. As Shawnee veered off, Brett said a friendly "See ya later" because he was being summoned by someone, and Susanna reached back to link her arm through Gretchen's.
"Come on, we'll go mingle," she said and used her elbow to tug at Gretchen, who would have been kind of irritated by all the clinging, but she was preoccupied at the moment, struck by her surroundings. The second floor was huge and open with high ceilings and decorative white beams. The shiny hardwood floor stretched on endlessly and fantastically—like lacquered caramel. The party was in full swing. People sat on or meandered around the various pieces of bright white furniture, eating and drinking. Tall, skeletal plants stretched up each corner like freestanding vines, and on the far left side of the room was a wraparound wet bar lined with lights.